Girl in the Rearview Mirror Page 27

  He looked satisfied as I relinquished my phone.

  A man and woman materialized from a door. They were also dressed in white, and their bodies were perfectly muscled and tanned and hairless. We followed our respective workers into the locker rooms, where my clothes and purse were sealed away in a locker, and I tied a creamy robe tightly over my nakedness and stepped into a pair of white sandals fresh from a plastic package.

  “You’ll start with our signature desert service,” the woman said. “Follow me.”

  She led me into a courtyard, where a massive fire burned in a stone wall opposite a sparkling pool. A dozen women lounged on the deck, drinking champagne or goblets of water choked with lemon slices. Bryant sat, jangling his knee up and down. When he saw me, he leaped to his feet and lunged forward, smiling.

  “Isn’t this place great?”

  “I thought we were getting lunch.” I was suddenly hungry. Even the bright yellow lemons in the water seemed appealing.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Apparently this desert treatment is detoxifying, so they don’t recommend eating until afterward. Don’t worry, I have great dinner plans. It’ll be worth it.” He squeezed my hand.

  The spa worker led us back inside, down a hall lined with unmarked doors. She opened one, unleashing a waft of eucalyptus. Calming music seeped from a speaker pod.

  “This seems a little over the top,” I said after she’d left.

  Bryant touched the back of my neck. “Just relax. You’re exhausted. This’ll be good for you.”

  More strong, white-clad workers arrived. The desert experience began with burning sage. We were rubbed with coarse salt, then with shea butter and citrus, wrapped tightly in sheets, and left alone. The lights clicked off. There was a thin wet towel over my face. I shook it away. Bryant was lying perfectly still, cocooned. I watched him.

  “How do you feel?” he said.

  I considered quietly unbinding myself and slipping out. It was a fantasy.

  “Fine,” I said.

  “I’m worried about you,” Bryant said. “You haven’t been looking well. Try to relax.” I heard him breathing deeply in and out. “Finn? Is something on your mind?”

  I was thinking of how he’d watched me as my skin was treated, as they spun me over and drizzled the warm puddled liquid on my back. I was thinking of my purse, the photographs, the cash, untended in the locker room. I was thinking Marina must have come here before, inhaled the burning sage and listened carefully as the workers chanted the litany of benefits—healing, cleansing, purifying—and believed them.

  “This is nice,” I managed.

  When the treatment ended, my skin felt like expensive silk. Wrapped in our robes, Bryant and I sat by the pool and ate thin slices of watermelon. Parrots stirred in the trees. A fine net hung over the yard, keeping them in. A discreet sign warned against feeding them. They shuffled along branches, stretching their wings from time to time. I wondered aloud if they’d had their wings clipped—they weren’t flying—but Bryant said they wouldn’t need the net if they had. He wasn’t concerned about birds. He dove into the pool and surfaced, floating on his back.

  “Aren’t you getting chlorine on your pure skin?” I called.

  “It’s oxidized, not chlorinated. It feels great.” He took a breath and sank underwater, swimming slowly to the far side. When he emerged, I asked if he was ready to leave soon, keeping my voice casual.

  “We’ve got massages,” he said. “At five.”

  “What time is it now?”

  He studied the sky. “It’s probably four. We could sit in the sauna, if you want.”

  Iris would be at my apartment. She’d wait ten, maybe fifteen minutes. She’d be furious when I didn’t show.

  I excused myself for the bathroom and wandered the maze of doors and softly lit alcoves. In my borrowed robe and sandals, I felt like someone in a mental institution. When I reached the lobby, the desk clerk fluttered around me, apologizing that I’d lost my way.

  “I need to make a call,” I said.

  But she clucked politely. Impossible.

  “I can’t have my phone?” I meant to sound authoritative, but I squeaked.

  “To release it, we’d need you to check out. That is our policy.”

  “Listen,” I said. “This whole day was sort of a surprise for me. I have to let a friend know I had a change of plans. Two minutes.”

  She shook her head. “The policy is for the guests’ benefit. As small as it seems, we find it’s a necessary rule in order to enable the appropriate state of mind for our services. The healing effects are simply not possible when a constant reminder of duties, schedules, contacts, is close at hand.” She smiled, gently, tolerantly. “You’re not alone. We frequently find people with spare cell phones in the sauna.”

  I retreated. Back at the pool, Bryant was swimming laps. His crawl stroke was tight, tense. He glided swiftly through the water. A breeze spontaneously rippled through the courtyard, and the fire popped noisily. Even the smoke smelled herbal. Boulders were heaped around the fire and the pool, as if we’d stumbled into a magical, private grotto.

  I wanted to run, to clamber over the rocks and escape. I sat on a lawn chair. I lay very still. I was stuck here as long as Bryant liked. My new knowledge boiled inside me. Overhead, the net traced a faint crosshatch across the sky.

  Suddenly hands dropped on my shoulders. It was Bryant. He laughed at my jump.

  “You’re tense,” he said, squeezing, too hard.

  I shifted away from his touch.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I just feel restless. I’m not in the right mood for this.”

  He flinched. “I wanted us to do something together. I feel bad. I left town, and you were alone, and we’ve been fighting . . . I wanted to reset.” His hair was drying in waves. His expressive mouth was pulled to the side. “You’re so unhappy. What can I do?” He took my hand and traced my palm with his thumb.

  For a moment, I believed him. He was treating me so tenderly. He was only trying to help. The spa was probably costing a fortune. Taking the day off was costing more. The pressure of tears was hot behind my eyes.

  “I’m just so tired.”

  “It’s all right,” he said. “I know you haven’t been yourself. You’ll be back to normal in a while. I’m not going anywhere.”

  One of the parrots leaped off the tree branch and coasted to the other side of the pool in one swift motion, like a tossed Frisbee. I thought if I were stuck here, I’d fly in loops around the net. Do laps, like Bryant. I wondered how long it took to break a creature of the habit of pacing.

  A hundred years later, I lay stiffly on a padded table, my face plunged into a padded oval hole as my massage therapist wondered at the coiled tension in my back.

  We were checking out at the desk when Bryant mentioned my car.

  “What happened to your tire? It looked like you ran over a tree.” He was signing the receipt and didn’t look at me.

  “I got a flat the other day. It’s only the spare tire, it rides low.” I was sodden with essential oils, even after I’d showered. My limbs glistened, slippery. I turned on my phone and found a dozen texts from Iris, increasingly irritated and finally outraged.

  I texted back. Sorry, something came up. Tomorrow, same time?

  Bryant was folding the copy of the receipt into his wallet. Would he find a way to expense it? Call it a client outing?

  “It’s not just low, Finn. The rim is all banged up. You must have been driving around on it. They’re not meant for that.”

  He was lecturing me, his confident voice. I seized on it, glad to play dumb. “I didn’t realize. I’ll get it looked at.”

  “Already taken care of.” He tapped his credit card against the counter, jaunty, and tucked it into his wallet. “I had a garage pick it up. It should be ready in a few days, they said.”

  “What? When did you do that?”

  “Just this morning. As soon as I noticed it.”

  “Br
yant, you didn’t even ask me. I need it.”

  “Why?” he said. “You’re staying with me now. You don’t need a car. We’ll just take it easy. I’ll be your driver.” He winked.

  After that, the evening was blurred. We went to a restaurant, and Bryant ordered steak. The meat came on large plates, with no accoutrements. I was ravenous. We drank. Vodka, then wine. People dropped by our table. They were sorry about Amabel. They patted my back. They gave me strange glances, and then they left.

  Then we were at Bryant’s, and he was making nightcaps, stirring with a long spoon. And then I couldn’t remember anything at all.

  37

  I didn’t dream. A small, frantic animal had lodged under my armpit and was trembling, trembling, trying to get away. I jarred awake. Bryant’s bedroom was bathed in calm moonlight. The air purifier sighed dreamily.

  My phone buzzed, and I realized I’d been sleeping on it. The vibration against my skin had entered my dream, woken me.

  It was Iris. Come down or I’ll come up.

  In the last ten minutes, she’d texted a dozen times.

  I rubbed my eyes. I couldn’t remember falling asleep. The last clear moment I had was of sitting on the bed, taking off my earrings, my bracelet, my rings, stacking them on the nightstand. A thick tiredness had come over me, and I remembered Bryant touching my hair, saying it was the spa treatment, it activated hormones . . .

  He slept curled on the far side of the mattress, frowning.

  I wrote back, I’m not at home. I’ll meet you tomorrow.

  I’m already here. Hurry up.

  I swung my feet out of bed. A rush of dizziness, and I stumbled to the floor. I knelt, head down, blinking at the carpet. My forehead pulsed. I felt so groggy.

  Moving slowly, touching the wall for balance, I crossed the room and pushed open the balcony door. In the courtyard below, a slim figure stood, dressed all in black. Her hand flew up, gesturing impatiently.

  It was her. I stared down, dumb, and she shouted, “Finn!” Her voice rang.

  I waved at her to be quiet. I spread my fingers. Five minutes.

  Inside, I splashed my face with cold water, again and again, until I felt marginally more awake. Bryant roused, turning in his sleep. I waited in the doorway until he stilled.

  In the kitchen, the bottle of whiskey still sat on the island. Bryant had rinsed the glasses. Had I had too much to drink? After Bryant made the whiskeys, we went out on the balcony and talked about—what? Next thing I knew I was sitting on the side of the bed. Removing earrings, rings . . . And Bryant had swung my legs into bed. How strange. Even drunk I was usually capable of showering, brushing my teeth.

  I wasn’t ready to face Iris. My head ached. My lips felt thick and numb. She wanted to catch me out; I knew it. On an impulse, I grabbed a paring knife from the block. I tucked it into my purse, the blade small and sharp against the envelope.

  The night air was warm and fragrant with chlorine. The patio seemed empty, as if Iris had gone. Or I’d dreamed it. I crossed between deck chairs, hissing her name. In the center of the yard, a fountain bubbled noisily. Its blue-tiled floor was empty of coins.

  At the lap pool, Iris stood with her back to the water. She wore a black sweatshirt, the hood pulled over her hair, and tight black jeans. Her face was sharp as a blade, her eyes enormous and bright as a nocturnal creature’s. They swept over the patio and up to the balconies. Envious, I thought.

  Snapping her attention to me, she gave a tight sarcastic smirk. “You went to Princeton?”

  I crossed my arms over Bryant’s shirt. “How did you know I was here?”

  She rolled her eyes, but then there was a sound like a twig snapping, and she straightened, muscles drawn tight. “What was that?”

  We both listened. Water churned. Otherwise all was silent. The noise didn’t repeat.

  “What’s wrong with you?” My voice was a dry whisper. Iris’s tension amplified my own. My skin seemed to crawl with invisible legs. I was so tired. The urge to sink onto one of the chaise lounges around us was as strong as lust. I pinched the inside of my elbow, telling myself to wake up. (I remembered telling Amabel to pinch herself, to test if she was dreaming, and the way that backfired, her pinching everyone, her friends, even Philip.)

  Iris dug in her bag with uncharacteristic jerky gestures. She brought out a cigarette and flicked her lighter again and again before it took. After she inhaled, she calmed, or put on a better show of it, an actress seizing on her favorite prop.

  “You have the money?” Her voice was low, harsh, and serious. No more girlish emotions, no more jabs.

  “We’re supposed to meet tomorrow. What are you doing here?” Now that she was before me, her hated foxy face, her cunning eyes, I didn’t want to give her a thing.

  “We were supposed to meet today, and you blew me off. I thought, best just to show up.” She crossed her arms, seeming to shiver in the hot night. Her tone was suspicious, not angry. She didn’t trust me. After how easily she’d manipulated me, her uncertainty was satisfying. I smiled, trying to put her acid sweetness in it.

  She glanced up at the balconies again. “You said you wanted details. I’m sure Stacy’s story was all over the place. Smart of you, by the way, to find her. How did you do it?”

  “You’re not the only one who can look up an address.”

  Her laugh was a caw. “Fair enough. If I were you, I’d have looked me up much sooner. But that’s part of the fun of knowing you. Telling you stories, watching you jump at all the good parts.” She exhaled smoke, dropped her cigarette, and lit another.

  “Now I want the truth,” I said. “How did your mom set up the adoption with the Martins?”

  “Not adoption,” she corrected, poking the air. “They stole her.”

  “Stacy said they had an arrangement.”

  She shook her head. “My mom did. Stacy, never. She didn’t want to give it up. My mom didn’t want to deal with a baby. So she bitched about it to a friend of hers, and he knew someone who wanted a kid. She was so pleased with herself. A rich family taking it off her hands? Win-win, right?”

  Iris was a liar to her bones, but she was speaking differently. Without her usual drama. As if she didn’t relish telling the truth, and spat it quickly.

  “And the Martins? Why did they do it?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “I can’t tell you their side of it. I can guess. Stacy was beautiful. She used to be prettier than me. Healthy. Not very smart, but my mom probably lied about that.” She glanced behind her, as if someone might be floating in the illuminated water. “All of a sudden I heard Stacy wasn’t at home anymore. My mom wouldn’t tell me where she was. In the fall Stacy came back with no baby. And my mom suddenly had a bunch of money. She took off. Left Stacy alone. She wound up in the hospital. Tried to kill herself. I had to come home to be with her.”

  Iris’s staginess had crept into that last remark, an artificial selflessness. But the rest was real, I thought. It matched what Stacy had said.

  “So blackmailing Philip was revenge?” I asked.

  “We need money.” Her voice turned reasonable and imploring. “You’ve met Stacy. She’s broken. She needs someone to take care of her. My mom stopped sending anything back, we ran out of money . . . I didn’t know what to do. Then I ran into Clint. He told me about the family. They were rich, the kid was spoiled, had everything. I thought they’d be happy to help us.” She lifted her chin, daring me to protest.

  “Clint told you their real name? Stacy called them something else.”

  She nodded. “He always liked Stacy.”

  “So he was helping you? Blackmail Philip?”

  Her eyes flashed. “The opposite! He sided with them. The kid was in a good home; my mom had promised . . . When I didn’t give up, he said I’d get what was coming to me. We started getting these horrible calls, threatening me, Stacy, our house. Then he set my car on fire. It was the middle of the night. We could feel the heat in the house. I got Stacy out of there . . . I could
n’t tell her who did it. She likes him. I had to pretend it was strangers. Bad guys.”

  Creepers, I thought. Knowing Iris, there was an ulterior motive in lying to Stacy. Not wanting her to know she was blackmailing the Hugheses, for instance.

  “I don’t get why he helped you,” I said. “Why’d he give away the name, just like that?”

  She shrugged, but she was suddenly awkward, holding herself stiffly, as if in disgust.

  “You didn’t—?”

  “I just ran into him, Finn. I’m not the one who’ll sleep with anyone.” She sneered.

  My neck got hot, remembering how surprised I’d been, watching through the window as Guy took Iris’s hand. “You mean Guy? I felt sorry for him. He seemed lonely. Talking about Georgia peaches.”

  She laughed softly, grinding her cigarette under her shoe. “You’re lying. But still—you’re funny. That’s exactly how he is, deep down, under all his attitude. A little boy who just wants to crawl in your lap.”

  “I heard you’re breaking up. Moving away. Where will you go?”

  “Not Georgia.”

  The pool filter kicked on. By day it would have been a purr, but now it seemed like a roar.

  Iris flicked a strand of hair from her forehead. “So. That good enough for you?”

  “Do you have proof? You might still be lying to me. It’s what you do best.”

  “I need money, Finn.”

  “Tell me first.”

  “The midwife.” She was impatient. “The midwife put their names on the birth certificate. She made it like Stacy never existed.” She threw her cigarette into the pool. “I have her name.”

  I let silence pass, watching her try to hold her pose. Then I shrugged. “That’s it? No wonder Philip didn’t pay you. I’m sure she’d never admit it. She’d go to jail.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “How can you be on their side, after everything?”

  “You’re the one who started this.”

  “You have no idea what they’re like. Do you? Philip laughed in my face, even after I told him what Stacy tried to do.”

  Reflexively, I batted away that vision of Philip. “He’d never be like that. I don’t blame him for not giving you anything. Who could ever trust you?”