Girl in the Rearview Mirror Page 20

  I pretended not to remember. It was Erica’s boat, I kept saying. Where is she?

  Divers went down for her in the morning. She’d hit her head in the crash, broken her neck.

  I found myself at my mom’s house. I spent the empty days wandering from TV to kitchen to bed. Caleb and Kyle trailed after me. Caleb was five, Kyle three. Sometimes I doted on them, invented games, made snacks, channeling Erica’s energy and enthusiasm. But when I got tired I’d abruptly withdraw my affection, snap at them and retreat to my bedroom.

  My parents conferred. I was making everyone miserable. My dad agreed to take me for the last year of high school.

  My mom drove me. I stared out the window, lulled by the endless fields of plants I didn’t recognize. Corn, and something low and bunched I learned later was soy. Cows roamed hilled pastures behind fences that seemed inadequate to contain them.

  “Erica was a good friend,” my mom said.

  I tensed against her, dreading any words of comfort. She didn’t know.

  She sighed. “She was a sweet girl. But she was always wild, and a little bit dumb.”

  “What are you saying?” I was shrill, angry.

  “Nothing against Erica. She didn’t deserve that.”

  She glanced in the rearview mirror, rearranged her fingers over the steering wheel. Her wedding ring jutted up from her thin finger. Suddenly I took her in fully, as I hadn’t, maybe in years. Her flowing, faux silk tunic and leggings, the pastel sandals, a hair band braceleting her wrist. She didn’t seem related to me at all.

  She sighed. “What I’m trying to say is, you’re not like that. You’re smart. You can choose to be wild or not, but you’re the smart one. You know better. So be careful. Don’t lose yourself again, following someone not as bright.”

  Her tone was mild. Her eyes were on the road, the vertical line between her eyebrows creased as always. Her lips pressed together as if rubbing in lipstick.

  She might have hardly thought of what she was saying. She might only have been trying to give some last piece of parental advice before dropping me off, her duty done.

  What I heard was: You knew better. You were smart enough to know. You could have stopped it. You let it happen.

  Erica grew up around boats, Mrs. Everett told me, her eyes rimmed violet. She’d never have made such a mistake. It was my influence.

  Turn off the lights. Let’s look at the stars.

  26

  I sat on the kitchen floor with a glass between my knees. The smell of orange soda rose up. Ammy had loved orange soda. The flavor wasn’t at all like oranges, the fruit—it seemed to be the color, liquefied. Acidic, neon, bilious. How did they get it so orange?

  When the customary late-night knock came, I assumed it was Bryant. Back from Flagstaff and briefed on my funeral attendance and come to chastise me.

  But it wasn’t Bryant. Guy stood at the door. Hands in his pockets, kicking the ground. I hardly knew him, but in that moment he seemed deeply familiar and welcome. Someone tangled up in it, like me.

  “I thought you might be alone.” He looked me over. “Get dressed. Let’s go someplace.”

  He drove a motorcycle. I climbed behind him. His back was damp with sweat from the ride over. His neck smelled like salt. A breeze blew under my dress.

  How proud Erica would be of me. My hands didn’t tremble as I held on. When we pulled into a deserted strip mall bar, I ordered a shot of tequila before I even sat down. We licked salt from our palms, swallowed, and then bit lime wedges. I coughed, painfully; the burn of the shot was like swallowing pool water.

  I tapped Guy’s wrist. “Something else.” He asked for rum and Coke—easy on the Coke.

  We slouched on barstools and watched the baseball game on TV. Whenever the ball flew in the air, I lost sight of it. Guy swore frequently, but when I asked who he was cheering for, he shrugged. “Nobody.”

  The bartender dropped off another round. I was wondering what this was about, wondering if Iris might come up behind me with her sickly smile.

  “So,” Guy said.

  “So,” I said.

  “Were you there?” He sounded normal, which I was grateful for. I couldn’t stand another careful, white-glove voice.

  “Not officially.”

  “That sucks.”

  I snorted. “Sure.”

  “Sorry, I’m not good at this.”

  “No. It sucks. There’s nothing else to say.” I wrapped my hands around my glass. A grocery store sticker still clung to the wedge of lime on the rim.

  “Was Iris there?” Guy kept watching the game, as if the question were casual.

  “God. I knew it. That’s why you came.” I pushed my drink away.

  He grabbed my wrist. “It’s not the only reason. I haven’t heard from her since Saturday. I’m worried.”

  “No, she wasn’t there. Why would she have been?” I jerked away, standing up, and swayed alarmingly. “I’m sure Iris can take care of herself just fine.”

  “You don’t know,” he said. “She’s gotten herself into some real shit.”

  “What are you talking about?” I was trying to tug my purse free, but it had tangled on the chair.

  “Nothing. Listen, let’s drop it.” He held up his hands in surrender. “Okay? Stay. Please. I came here for you.” His face was straight, without the usual smirk.

  Heat washed over my face and neck. “How did you know I’d be alone?”

  “I have a pretty good idea of what they’re like. The Martins.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yes.” He nudged my chair out with his foot. “They’re important. They’re cold. You were in, and now you’re out. Right?”

  I slid onto the chair and took up my drink again. I didn’t want to look at him.

  “And,” he spoke more softly, “you thought you were part of the family, didn’t you?”

  Sure he was mocking me, I glared at him. I wanted to say something dismissive—it was just a job—but the words died in my throat. I shrugged.

  He patted my shoulder, fingers spread wide, the way you might touch a static globe.

  “They didn’t deserve you,” he said.

  I pulled away and wiped my eyes. They hadn’t deserved me, that was true. My glass gave off a cloying tropical smell. I emptied it, shaking the ice to get the last drops.

  We hunched over and resumed watching the game, as if the moment hadn’t happened.

  “What do you do?” I asked after a while.

  He smiled with one side of his mouth. “Nothing.”

  “Come on. I need a distraction.”

  He shrugged. “I work at a golf course.”

  “But what do you want to do? You must have some plan.”

  He ground ice between his teeth. “Nope. Not everyone grew up hearing they can be a princess.”

  “You think that’s how I grew up? Think again.”

  He hummed. “Sure.”

  “You don’t even know me.”

  He held up a hand, probably afraid I’d cry again. “Fine. I’ll play. Georgia. That’s where I want to go. Someday. I’m in no hurry.”

  “Why Georgia?”

  “When I was a kid I loved peaches. I’d eat them until I threw up.”

  “That’s your reason?”

  “Sure. I’ve never been there, so I can pretend it’s perfect. Smells good, nice and hot, and there’s always a breeze over some peach trees. Perfect. What’s your dream?”

  The Martins’ house flashed in my mind. The Everetts’. “I don’t have one,” I said shortly.

  Another refill. The game had ended and a sports talk show started up.

  “You can talk about it,” Guy said. “It’ll do you good.”

  I laughed, hard, like clearing my throat. The room wavered around me. I thought of the shimmering heat behind the Martins’ house, the empty pool. The church. Marina’s stiff anger; Philip’s disregard. An offer, or an order, to go home.

  “Go on,” he said. “Tell me.”

 
We were back on the bike. The road was empty. The breeze smelled like oranges. I stuck out my legs and flew.

  Outside my door, I fumbled and dropped the keys. Guy let us in. I shut myself into the bathroom and threw up. The TV came on. I showered. The sour smell of vomit replaced with aromatherapy lavender body wash.

  I came out wrapped in my towel. Guy lay on the mattress—there was nowhere else to sit. In the twilight glow of the TV, the apartment was a low-ceilinged cement cell. Suddenly, as if through Mrs. Everett’s eyes, I saw how the minimal furnishings weren’t chic but depressing. My careful little touches were obviously cheap—those paper birds! I’d been kidding myself.

  “Sorry about this place. It’s kind of a dump.”

  “Come here.” Guy tugged me to sit with him. I clung to my towel. He put his arm around me. He’d taken off his shirt and wore only his jeans. His stomach was paler than his arms. His torso was broad, faintly lined with muscle.

  He was watching a trashy crime drama. On-screen, a pretty woman picked a hair off the ground with tweezers. Drums thumped. Cut to a handsome man peering through a microscope.

  “Do you think it was murder?” a voice off-screen asked.

  “Either that or she impaled herself,” the handsome man quipped, flashing teeth.

  Guy brushed hair off my forehead. “Do you need a glass of water?”

  My knees were tangled in his. He stroked my face with his thumb. I felt like a cat, leaning into his touch. I kissed him. He moved over me, his body pressing the length of mine. His keys were in his pocket, cutting into my leg. I held his elbow, tracing the hollow of his bicep. His lips tasted of salt. We were both sweating. The air conditioner must have cut out again.

  He left my towel on longer than I wanted him to.

  His body, more solid than Bryant’s. Graceful, forceful. Moving me, lifting me at the hinges like a doll, under a knee, at my hips. He was unshy, his hand moving expertly down from my chest. We sat up together and he held my hips so hard the next day I’d still feel the place he’d touched.

  In the morning, he was gone. No note. The smell of cigarettes and a fine layer of dust in my sheets the only evidence I hadn’t dreamed it.

  And this: a key on the counter. At first I thought he’d forgotten his, and then I recognized it as my copy of the Martins’ house key.

  I turned it over in my palm, until my skin was warm and smelled metallic. I wondered what they’d planned to do with it. My purse lay where I’d dropped it on the floor, the cash intact.

  All morning, snatches of the night resurfaced.

  My forearms on the sticky bar, running my thumb over the wood grain. Behind the shelves of liquor bottles, a mirror showed snatches of our faces.

  Guy asking where my boyfriend was. Me, lip curled, telling him Bryant was traveling. He’s very important, I’d sneered.

  He asked what they were doing about Iris.

  I told him Philip denied it. I said the Senator was furious. And Marina. It slipped out, like I’d been waiting for a confidant.

  He listened, tracing the rim of his glass.

  “Is she really pregnant?” I asked.

  “What do you think?” He dug his wallet from his back pocket, and counted out cash.

  The next morning, I couldn’t remember his tone. What do you think? Sarcastic? Bitter?

  Of course she is.

  Or—obviously not?

  The day passed in a pulsing hangover and a fever of self-disgust. I slept, chewed through a bag of potato chips, swallowed tonic water plain, adding tap water to stretch it. By dinnertime, I felt better. I drank a cup of coffee and noticed my thoughts were beginning to move in orderly patterns again. I was surprised to find myself ravenous. I scrambled the last of a carton of eggs (expired) until they were safely overcooked and rubbery. I settled in bed and watched the news. The star Diamondbacks player out with an injury. Another wave of heat coming our way, as if fanned by the wildfires in California. And, briefly, an update on the Martin Family Tragedy: Gonzales released a statement offering thoughts and prayers for Senator Martin and his family. He was formal and composed, reading at the podium, but when he finished, the reporters clamored, asking how this might affect the campaign, whether he would reschedule events . . . He waved them off. “It’s not the time to think of that yet.”

  I snorted. They were thinking of it, all of them. Bryant would plan the Senator’s next appearance to the last detail: the clothes, the flag pin, the words to say about Ammy. Eventually, Philip and Marina would join him again.

  And Iris, what would she do next? She was obviously still involved, or Guy wouldn’t be worried.

  My sheets smelled like Guy. Cheap cologne, the sort that clung to everything, skunk spray. And smoke. What do you think?

  I thought he was a liar, a fake, just like his sister. Taking advantage of Amabel to get to me. He’d fooled me, just like Iris had. Everything was her fault. She’d kicked off the chain reaction, bumped the domino, pulled out the pin that collapsed the wall.

  Anger felt satisfying and right.

  Googling Iris’s cell number led me to dozens of websites offering her personal information for a fee. I clicked the first. The page prompted me to enter my credit card number and was littered with ads for miracle weight loss pills and searches to reconnect with high school classmates. No reassuring badge promised to protect my identity. I didn’t have anything to steal, anyway.

  Iris Jessica Jamison lived an hour south of Phoenix, in some town called Verde.

  27

  Though I’d never heard of Verde, I’d been there before. The town sat along the same desolate highway as the Sunset Motel.

  My spare tire ground loudly as I drove. Uneasiness blunted my anger. Philip had come down here, to Iris’s territory. I couldn’t think why. All I knew was he’d lied.

  The Verde exit was surreally familiar: a blazing truck stop, a billboard of a baby’s arm grasping air (“Take my hand, not my life”). If I kept driving another five minutes, I’d be at the motel. I pulled off.

  I drove down Main Street. Drugstores, diners, liquor stores, churches with Spanish masses, an ominous concrete hulk called the Treatment Center.

  I’ve learned more about this girl, the Senator had said. Where she comes from.

  My dad lived in a town like this, in Indiana. Replace the drab, flat desert in every direction with cornfields to the horizon, swap the stucco for aluminum siding. His house was a former farm. He played at country living with my stepmother, an artist who wove wall hangings and sold them online. My dad worked in the city, driving ninety minutes in each direction, so he was home late. He liked the deep country dark, the roof of stars like a colander overhead. Smoking a cigar, he walked the perimeter of the property, where the old post-and-wire fence still stood. Once, a carload of drunk kids swerved off the road and went through it, landing in the field ten yards away. They’d gotten out of the car and scattered, laughing, leaving spills of oil and vomit.

  I hadn’t thought of that in years. Remembering Erica seemed to have broken the membrane in my mind that had held apart my family, my old self. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling.

  My phone alerted me to my upcoming turn, and I snapped back to Verde. Over the bank, a sign flashed the time and temperature: 8:46, 99º. The sun had set without much drama, leaving a hazy purple sky.

  I turned off the main drag into the grid of residential streets. Little ranch houses with pale gravel lawns. The Senator’s red yard sign sprouted everywhere, like a determined weed. I rolled my windows down to get a better look at the address numbers tiled on the houses. The air was still woolly with heat. No wonder there was no one out, not a kid on a bike, not a couple walking the dog.

  I turned onto Iris’s block, and a strong smell blew in. Smoky, with a chemical tinge, like someone burning trash. Iris’s address was a white shoebox. Short and squat, as though it had been stepped on. The driveway bisected a yard of pebbles and terminated in a low carport. Beneath it, Guy’s motorcycle leaned on its kickstand.<
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  This wasn’t the place I’d imagined for Iris, with her rich-girl style and spoiled manners. On the other hand, it suited her perfectly. Cheap and mean. Clearly, she wanted money from the Martins, and had nothing to lose.

  I parked down the block, not wanting her to spot my car. My wheels sunk into the shoulder, and I hoped I wasn’t risking another flat. Flipping my visor down, I studied myself in the mirror. In the last few days, I hadn’t eaten much, and my face was thin and sharp. I looked a little like Iris. I felt slippery and dangerous. I stuffed the cash in my glove compartment and locked the car.

  Outside, the fire smell was more intense, a sharp battery edge to it. All the houses were shut up tight against it, windows closed, blinds pulled, air conditioners droning loud as cicadas.

  Walking up the street, I felt a ripple of giddiness. Of all the Martins, I was the only one who could do this: knock on Iris’s door and challenge her.

  Guy’s bike slowed my momentum. A filthy rag hung from the handlebars, and I remembered the dust in my sheets with a flash between my legs, desire mingling with shame. I hesitated outside the side door, watching a spider crawl up the stucco and tuck itself under the doorframe. Then I heard a car coming, and instinctively stepped behind the bike.

  It wasn’t Iris’s car but a glossy black sedan. It moved at the pace of a slow walk, its engine purring. Its windows were black as paint. I dropped lower behind Guy’s bike.

  After the car passed, my fear felt silly. I was worked up over Iris, that’s all. I remembered her entering the Martins’ house, how she couldn’t stand still, how she’d touched things and fidgeted. It was nerves, the same I felt now, every hair on my neck at attention, my muscles itching to run. It was hard to think.

  Iris might not even be home.

  I slipped around the corner into the backyard. At the end of the house, a window was lit. I moved swiftly toward it, jogging across a patio, past sliding doors showing a dark interior. Stepping off the brick, my sandals sunk into a bed of pebbles. They crunched underfoot, loud as a marching band to my ears.