Girl in the Rearview Mirror Read online

  I warmed, expecting him to promise he’d be over soon. But instead he said, “Why don’t you fly home? Stay with your family for a while.”

  I bit down, and the candy cracked into shards. “Home?”

  “Sure. You could use a change of scenery. Some time with family. Don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’d pay for your ticket, if you’re worried about money.”

  “I want to be here.” My voice was flat. I didn’t have the energy to make up an excuse. It was all I could do not to snap: no, never.

  I could hear Bryant breathing. I imagined him, suited and tied, in his sleek office, colleagues rushing in and out, the TV muted on his wall, its screen split into four to show several news channels at once.

  His phone clicked with another call. “We’ll talk about this later. I’ll be over as soon as I can. Okay? I’ll call you later.”

  “Wait. When did you find out?”

  The clicking on the other line died. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s been a whole day, and we’re just talking now.” Saying it, I was sickened. It had been almost exactly twenty-four hours. This time yesterday, I’d been leaning against the living room door, or maybe heading up the stairs, moving so slowly, in the wrong direction. I brought my knuckles to my teeth.

  Bryant was saying, “I knew you were sleeping at my place. I knew you were safe.”

  I pictured him stepping out of a conference room to take a call, his head bowed, his mind whirring, calculated, animated. He’d have been pleased to know I was safely asleep. Drugged, so I could rest.

  “Call me anytime you need. I’ll see you very soon. Tonight.”

  I wondered if he thought I couldn’t hear his other calls. I tried to imagine the conversations he was having about Amabel. In terms of the campaign, the public image, the polls and the voters and the press. I wondered if he’d had a moment to think of Amabel. I wondered if any of them had.

  “We’re devastated. This loss is a tragedy. Our family is holding a private celebration of Amabel’s life this week. We’re truly touched by the outpouring of sympathy and love from our friends and neighbors. Please keep us in your prayers.” The Senator held up a flat hand to stave off the roar of questions. Aides hustled him away.

  Cut to news anchors, grave faces. “Senator Martin is canceling all appearances this week. No word on whether he’s planning to suspend his campaign for reelection.”

  “What a tragedy, Kathy,” the male anchor said. “If it can happen to the Martins it could happen to anybody.”

  She clucked sympathetically. “Our own Martha Michaels is on after the break with tips on keeping children safe around the pool.”

  The pool gate wasn’t fancy. Wrought iron, about four feet high, bars woven in a diamond pattern, too small for a child to slip through. Blunt spikes ran along the top. When the gate was shut, a lock automatically snapped into place. To open it, you had to reach over the gate and down, maneuver a hinge. It was awkward, even for an adult. Ammy couldn’t have opened it.

  The clip of the Senator played again and again. The Arizona Republic’s website featured the awful headline. They showed a photo of Marina and Philip in a white hospital hallway, shielded by two Snoops. Marina stared at the floor, expressionless; Philip’s mouth was open, face slack.

  Philip and Marina didn’t appear on TV. They made no statement.

  Talking heads argued about what it might mean for the Martins. Might there be charges of neglect, endangerment? Thankfully, the conclusion was no; Sam Klein, a lawyer who’d attended the gala, shut down legal ramifications, smoothly rattling off a series of bulletproof adjectives: “unthinkable, only in the most extreme and egregious case.” Hearing them, I cringed; it had been egregious, it had been unthinkable. And my fault, not the Martins’. If they knew the nanny had been there, would they bring charges?

  The Senator would hate that. A court case, the details of the family’s life dredged up. No wonder he’d left me out of it, hustled me away.

  Reporters got their hands on pictures of Amabel. Their favorite showed her with the Senator on the Fourth of July. His hand on her shoulder, her face paint echoing his flag pin. Jim wore a hundred-watt smile, and Ammy’s lips curled dutifully, but her eyes slanted away, toward where I’d stood. I remembered the moment exactly—the crunch of dry grass underfoot, the weight of the water bottle in my hand. I could have told Marina about the redhead following Amabel right then. Saved her.

  Four o’clock, five o’clock, six o’clock news. Helicopters circled the house, flying so low their cameras picked up the border of blue tiles around the pool. Caution tape sealed the gate.

  Out front, reporters clutched microphones, their voices a strained mix of excitement and solemnity. Two Snoops stood at the head of the driveway, guarding the house. Against the chatter, they were professionally blank.

  The Martins were trapped inside. Avoiding the windows. Philip would be in the poolroom, not drunk enough yet, the blinds drawn. Marina would be in the bathtub, proving her strength by lying there vulnerable, in the light, in the water. She’d close her eyes and count her breaths, and through sheer willpower she’d grow deaf to the racket outside, and the silence inside.

  And here I was wishing I were there.

  On Friday, after Marina took Amabel away, I’d gone outside to tidy up the pool deck. I’d been carrying something, a juice box, some towels, back to the house. I couldn’t remember the clang of the gate shutting behind me.

  Closing the gate was a habit, unconscious, like buckling a seat belt. I wouldn’t necessarily remember doing it. I could trust that I had. But it nagged at me. Ammy couldn’t have gotten into the pool if it had been locked. And I couldn’t remember.

  22

  I developed a tic. Open the freezer and check on the envelope. Pull it out, flip through the money, return it to the bottom shelf, with the frosty vodka bottle and the skinny microwave dinners. Shove it, deep as I could wedge it.

  Why not a check? An official blue slip, Marina’s graceful cursive on the line. Their accountant would deduct the expense next April. Instead I had cash, anonymous and bulky.

  Marina had wanted to pay Iris, too. The idea floated in my head, drifted away. I couldn’t summon any interest in Iris. My curiosity—strong enough to tie me to the living room doorway, away from Amabel—was gone.

  After hours of watching the news, the sun glaring into my windows and filling my studio with itchy heat, I couldn’t wait any longer to drink. In the fridge, I dug up a Diet Coke and bottled lemon juice whose origins I couldn’t remember, and mixed them with vodka. With plenty of ice, it didn’t taste too bad. (Remembering Amabel’s cold, last winter, the cough syrup she gagged through, my advice to pinch her nose, drink it fast.)

  Much later, after dark, there was a knock on my door. Disoriented, I got out of bed, surprised to see the TV on, the national news playing footage of a mudslide in some distant place, a scene I didn’t recognize, though I’d been lying there watching the screen. I’d run out of soda and was nursing straight vodka.

  I dropped my glass on the counter and lurched toward the door. The carpet rocked under my feet.

  Bryant stood at my door, a briefcase in one hand, his tie in the other. He wore a suit, wilted from the day, oxford unbuttoned to his sternum. His face sagged with tiredness, and when he saw me stumble to the side, catch myself on the doorframe, his jaw tightened.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” he said, coming in past me. “How are you?” He stopped at the threshold of the living room, arms dangling at his sides.

  Bryant rarely came to my place—it didn’t make sense, when his condo was so much more comfortable. Whenever I’d expected him, I cleaned obsessively, lit candles, arranged everything just so. Tonight, it stank of stale laundry, alcohol, and fermenting misery. There was a backup in the sink where I’d dumped a moldy tub of yogurt under a stream of running water until the drain clogged, an inch of cloudy water sitting.

  Bryant set h
is briefcase on the ground, laid his tie over it, the silk v’s trailing over the linoleum. His body drooped. He obviously longed for his own bed, the high-thread-count sheets taut over the foam mattress, the air purifier humming along. But he shucked off his jacket and dress shirt, and in his pristine white undershirt reached his bare hand into the drain and moved it around until the clog gurgled free. He ran the water, scrubbing his hands. He wiped up with paper towels.

  I muttered thanks and lay back down on the bed. Above me, the folded origami birds seemed to dive and swerve like a real flock. I shut my eyes.

  “Are you as exhausted as I am?” Bryant was standing over me.

  “Probably not.” My voice was nasty. “I didn’t have to work today.”

  He leaned to touch my back. “You’ve had too much to drink.”

  “I haven’t had enough.”

  He sighed. “This is why I hoped you’d consider going home.”

  “It’s just a drink, Bryant. I’m not hurting anyone.” My voice had the defiant, idiotic tone of a teenager.

  Bryant went back into the kitchen. I heard him going through cabinets. The suction of the freezer door opening. I scrambled up—would he notice the envelope?—but he only removed the ice cube tray, sighed because it was empty, and took it and a glass to the sink to fill them. He came back and pressed the glass at me.

  “Here.”

  I sipped. The water was lukewarm, swimming with tiny gray flakes. It nauseated me. I put the glass on the floor, and Bryant moved it to the kitchen counter.

  In a reasonable voice, as if we’d been discussing it all along, he said, “Finn, you’re upset. You’re grieving. And I’m swamped right now. It would be helpful to me if I knew you were with people who care about you. If I knew you weren’t alone.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Why not?” He tilted his head, patient.

  “I can’t leave.” I dropped my eyes to my lap. The hem of my shorts was fraying, a crimped white thread trickling over my thigh. I tugged it, and a couple of stitches slithered open. “I want to stay. I want to be here. And we’re together now, aren’t we?”

  “But look at you.” He took my hand and softened his voice. “What if I called your parents? I could let them know what happened. I could coordinate everything.”

  “No!” I sat up. My hand had jerked from Bryant’s.

  He frowned, pulling his chin back.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m just upset.”

  “Exactly.” He brushed hair off my face. “You’re not thinking clearly.”

  My lower lip trembled. I clamped it firmly with my teeth. If I cried, I’d lose. “I want to be here.”

  “I’m only thinking of you, babe,” he said. So softly. He kissed my eyebrow. “You don’t have any obligations here. Why not? The weather would be nicer there, too. You could take the summer. Get back on your feet.”

  I searched his face. The summer? That was weeks. Had the Martins asked him to end things with me? Was this his way of extracting himself?

  “Are you mad at me?”

  “Of course not. That’s not what this is about.” He lay beside me and pulled me onto him. “I’m only trying to help.”

  I was ashamed of how comforted I was by his reassurance. By the warmth of his arm. I smelled salt on his skin, and the juicy faux fruit scent of my soap. We’d rarely been in my bed together. I remembered one afternoon, the fan oscillating across our bodies, music streaming from my laptop, he’d said he felt like he was back in college. He’d said it teasingly, happily. I’d told him how, when I first lived alone, I’d eaten a grilled cheese sandwich for dinner every night. We’d made sandwiches on my stovetop, ate them cross-legged in the tangle of sheets.

  His hand stopped tracing my neck. He was preoccupied. I followed his eyes to the TV. They were showing the Senator’s statement again. He reached for the remote, and I expected him to unmute it, but he flicked it off. I supposed he’d seen all the coverage, too, had anxiously waited for everyone to move past scandal and blame, and toward tragedy and pity.

  “They won’t get in trouble, will they?” I asked. “For what happened?”

  “No.” He squeezed my elbow. “Don’t worry about that. It was an accident.”

  The word lingered in the air like a bad smell. Accident.

  Amabel sneaking down the stairs and out the door—the flash of glee she must have felt, evading me! Pulling the pool gate open and marching across the patio. The stones would have been blazing hot. She might have fallen in, stumbled more than jumped.

  I cried out. Bryant grabbed me. “What is it?”

  “It was awful.” I was sobbing. Bryant held me, rubbing my back as I choked and gasped. How ugly it was to cry like this. Bryant murmured meaninglessly into my scalp. Finally, I stopped, ran out, really. I felt scraped raw.

  “Tell me about it,” he whispered. “What happened?”

  It sounded like an invitation, to really tell him, to admit what I’d done. A charged silence opened; the air seemed to hum like I was in front of an eager microphone. I opened my mouth, felt my tongue poised on my teeth. Confess, you liar, I thought, just tell him!

  “I was in the bathroom. It was only a few minutes. When I came out, Ammy wasn’t there. I thought she was hiding.” I told him about searching through the upstairs. I’d been too slow, stupid. I should have gone outside, checked the pool.

  “It’s not your fault. Anyone would have done the same thing.” My head was tucked under his chin; his words pressed into the top of my skull.

  “I should have been there.”

  “How many times did you leave her in the past, for a couple minutes? She never did it before. It was an accident.” He traced circles on my back. He was being so nice. Ashamed, I closed my eyes.

  “Finn?” He nudged me. “Do you know why Jim was there?”

  I had dropped off a moment. I’d drooled on his shirt. I wiped it with my thumb. “No.” The lie felt obvious, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  “How did you end up going there?”

  “Marina called me.” I told him about Marina’s hotel room, dragging the memory forward as if it had happened months before. “Amabel was asleep by the time I got there. We went back to the house the next day. I took Ammy out for breakfast. We had a really nice morning.” I thought of birds hopping at our feet. Amabel’s delight when they pecked at her waffle.

  “That’s a good memory,” Bryant said. “You were her favorite.”

  I shrugged.

  “So.” He stroked my hair, brushing it away from my eyes, exposing my face. “You didn’t hear what Jim and the Martins were talking about?”

  “No. I just told you.” I pulled away and drew my knees into my chest. “Why? Did they say something?”

  “I haven’t seen them,” he said. “Only Jim, briefly. It’s just—I was curious. It’s none of my business. I just wondered why they were all there.”

  “I think Marina called the Senator from the hotel and asked him to meet them at the house. I assumed they were talking about the girl.”

  “The one you mentioned to me, after the gala? Iris?”

  I was surprised he remembered her name. That night he hadn’t wanted to hear about her, had practically covered his ears.

  “She hasn’t contacted you again, has she?”

  “No.” What a relief to be honest.

  “Good,” he said. “But the Martins . . . you didn’t hear anything?”

  I shook my head.

  He touched my back. “I didn’t mean to make you go through it again. You should try to forget it. Just remember the good things.”

  “How can I forget? It’s everywhere.” I gestured at the TV.

  “You shouldn’t watch the news. They’re being disgusting.”

  “Those photos of Amabel.”

  “It’ll go away. Tomorrow, maybe the next day, it’ll die down.”

  We both flinched at the phrase, and it ended the discussion. I took the opportunity to slip into the bathroom,
where I ran the water and hunched over the sink like a gargoyle, mouthing horrible insults at myself in the mirror. When I came out, Bryant had folded his clothes on the floor and lay in bed with his phone, typing busily. He slid it away as I got into bed.

  “You’re still working?”

  “Just making a note for tomorrow.”

  We lay side by side, staring at the ceiling. In our silence, I heard my neighbor return from his gas station job. His microwave beeped. The rat-a-tat gunfire of a video game started up.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. But Bryant was already asleep.

  I was restless, bothered by the noises I usually tuned out, as though I were channeling Bryant’s fussiness. I was thirsty, but Bryant was holding my hand.

  Strange, how he’d pried about the Martins’ conversation. He’d warned me to keep out of their business. Was he testing me, or was he curious to know for himself?

  Stop thinking, stop thinking. I lay still, willing sleep to snatch me.

  Iris was still threatening them, somehow. Maybe I should have told Bryant. I could have made it sound as if I’d heard them on my way upstairs.

  Bryant was breathing quietly, the calm sleep only possible when you’re sober, and innocent.

  No, better to stay out of it, as he’d advised me from the beginning.

  He rolled over, turning his back to me, his hand leaving mine.

  I woke in the dark. The apartment was eerily quiet. Bryant wasn’t in bed. I got up and padded around. He wasn’t in the kitchen or bathroom. His clothes were gone. At the door, the chain lock hung open, though I was sure I’d fastened it.

  I peered outside. The hall was lit with white bulbs beside every door. Insects swarmed in the glare. The doors were shut, all the way down the line. I stepped to the railing to check the parking lot. Bryant’s car wasn’t there.

  I went back inside. He might have gone to work, or to his place to change clothes. But it was three in the morning. And he’d have left a note, wouldn’t he?

  My head throbbed. I swallowed three Advil with a bottle of water. I would just lie down for a second before texting him.