The Vanishing Expert

by David Movsesian

  Jean called to Christina from the porch, and Christina turned to help her mother, squinting and wagging a scolding finger at James as she left.

  As soon as he was certain that Christina was out of view, James took up the scrapbook and turned to the final page. He carefully removed the photograph of him with his father, inserting it between the pages of his copy of A Christmas Carol. He quickly gathered up the brown paper and twine the book had been wrapped in and placed it in the fireplace. As it began to ignite, he picked up the scrapbook and tossed it unceremoniously into the flames.

  He stood and watched it teetering atop the burning logs and paper. He was anxious to be rid of it, but it seemed to taunt him with its frank unwillingness to burn. He glanced nervously over his shoulder, expecting Jean or Christina to return at any moment, certain there would be questions if they were to see what he’d done. Finally, mercifully, the cover turned black, and then swiftly buckled and curled. A moment later, the pages ignited quickly, sending a flume of black smoke up the chimney and giving off a foul odor.

  Jean came into the room and sniffed at the air, wrinkling her lovely nose. “What’s that smell?”

  James turned and glanced into the flames. Once it had finally caught fire, the scrapbook quickly became a smoldering and unrecognizable ball of ash atop the flaming logs.

  When he turned back to Jean, he did so with the confidence that he’d destroyed any evidence of his deception, and of his former life. In the same gesture, he felt he’d also finally rid himself of Joe Tibbits. Christina stepped into the room and peered past him into the fire. She frowned at him, her expression revealing both knowledge and confusion, and he could tell by her expression that she knew exactly what he’d tossed into the fire, and that at some point, she’d want to know why.

  “Just some trash,” he said to Jean. He glanced at Christina who remained silent.

  James looked over at William who had awakened, most likely at the sound of Jean’s voice. James went to the sofa and picked him up, carrying him toward the kitchen.

  “Let’s see what mommy brought you,” he said, kissing the boy on the cheek.

  Christina stepped aside and watched him pass. She smiled at them, but it was always difficult to watch James with their son— it was impossible not to think of William that way, as her son— and not wish that she could somehow insinuate herself into the happy picture. There were times when she secretly imagined that it was she, not Jean, that William looked up to with that gaze that a boy reserves only for his mother. She remembered the warnings Eugene Sisk, the Portland lawyer, had given her, and how cavalierly she’d brushed them aside at the time. Ruth had warned her as well, and she was only now beginning to understand how naïve she’d been to have ignored them both.

  That evening, while James drove Ruth home— she’d joined them once again for Christmas Eve dinner— Jean carried William upstairs and placed him in his crib. When James returned, Jean was in the process of opening a bottle of wine and pouring it into three glasses. They raised their glasses several times, toasting the first Christmas James and Jean’s would spend as husband and wife; they toasted also to their first Christmas with William. And then another to Christina’s imminent graduation. They watched midnight come and go through sleepy eyes, Nat King Cole’s Christmas album playing over and over in the background until, finally, James wished Christina a Merry Christmas, and escorted Jean upstairs to bed.

  It was just after three o’clock in the morning when James awoke, deciding, as he often did, to check on William. It had become a nightly ritual for him almost since that first night after they brought William home. In the beginning, he often lay awake for hours, alert for even the smallest of sounds that might indicate that he would need to rush to his son’s crib. Eventually, sleep would overtake him and he’d often awake in a panic, worried he might have missed a whimper or a sigh at a critical moment, and he’d rush to William’s crib to find him sleeping soundly, oblivious to his nervous father’s angst. When William awoke in the small hours of the morning in need of a feeding, it was often James who delivered it; once awakened by his son’s crying, he knew he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep quickly. Even when it was Jean’s night to administer the middle-of-the-night bottle, James often accompanied her, knowing there was no point in staying behind since he was certain he’d only lie awake awaiting her return.

  “There’s no point in both of us being awake,” Jean would whisper to him.

  “Then you go to sleep,” James would tell her. “I’m awake.”

  Sometimes Jean would return to bed, but more often than not, the two of them would slip into the nursery and deliver his bottle together. It was on those nights, as they held their boy and smiled at each other sleepily, while the rest of the world was silent and still, that they were most profoundly aware of their good fortune. Even Jean, who had once believed that she wasn’t interested in raising another child, had to admit that she hadn’t been this happy since Christina was a child.

  When James stepped out into the hall on that first Christmas Eve, the light over the stairs was still on. Peering into the nursery, he could see Christina seated in a chair next to William’s crib. She was sitting in almost total darkness, her lovely profile illuminated only by the small nightlight and by the light that spilled in from the hall, and she was gazing at the boy as he slept, William as oblivious to Christina’s presence as he always was to James’s nightly visits. Though William slept soundly, unmoving, Christina appeared transfixed, as if she was trying to memorize every detail of him.

  She was unaware of James’s presence at first. Only when he stepped into the doorway and his shadow fell across her face did she acknowledge him, and even then, her gaze only left William for a moment. She regarded James with sleepy eyes and a warm but distracted smile, as if she’d known all along that he was there, and even more, that she expected he would come. Then she returned her attention to William.

  James approached quietly, trying not to wake the boy. “Is everything okay?” he whispered.

  Christina didn’t take her eyes off the sleeping child. “He’s beautiful, isn’t he?” Though she was smiling, James could hear the sadness in her tone. James looked at his sleeping son, at his sweet face and at the small lump beneath the covers rising and falling with each soft breath. “He sure is,” he said. He turned to Christina. “You should go get some sleep.”

  She seemed not to hear him. “I love watching him sleep,” she said wistfully. “I sit here, and I imagine that everything’s different.”

  “Different how?” James asked.

  Christina considered the question for some time, her gaze never leaving William. “Sometimes I wish he’ll wake up and look at me, and he’ll just know.”

  James frowned. “Know what?”

  “The truth,” Christina said sadly.

  James moved slightly, allowing the light from the hallway to fall upon her face once again, and he could see she’d been crying. He stood for a moment, not knowing what to say to her. When nothing occurred to him, he gently placed his hand on her shoulder. He bent down, his face close enough to hers that he could feel her soft hair brushing against his cheek. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go downstairs and talk.”

  He thought she might resist, that she might be unwilling to leave William’s side, but she stood up and followed him out of the room without protest. When they were in the hall, James placed his hand upon her shoulder once again and guided her down the stairs. Christina moved slowly but fluidly, as if she were on the verge of sleep, with neither the strength nor the inclination to object. He led her into the living room and he sat next to her on the sofa where, just a few hours earlier, they’d all toasted to their happiness. He peered into the fireplace, long-cooled and dark, and he contemplated the ashes.

  Christina followed his gaze. “Why did you burn the scrapbook?” she finally asked him.

  James said nothing, as if his silence might allow the question to simply pass, to tur
n to ash and cease to exist just as the book had done. But when he glanced at Christina, he recognized in the steadfastness of her gaze that he was not completely rid of the book, or of Edward Moody, or even of Joe Tibbits. He wondered again if he ever would be.

  “There’s just parts of my life I don’t need to be reminded of,” he finally said.

  Christina frowned at him. “It just seems like you’re keeping a lot of secrets, James.” Her voice was soft, barely a whisper, despite her desire to shout at him and to shake the truth from him. “And more than just our secret.”

  James nodded, but offered no more.

  “Don’t you think I deserve to know the truth?” Christina asked.

  “Everybody deserves to know the truth,” James offered. He finally looked away from the ashes in the fireplace, and he turned and gazed directly at Christina. “Don’t you think your mother deserves to know the truth?” He saw the flicker of panic in Christina’s eyes.

  “You promised,” she insisted, trying to keep her voice low. “It would ruin everything!”

  “Exactly,” James said. “We all have secrets. Letting people in on them, even if those people deserve to know the truth, doesn’t always make things better. Sometimes you just have to let it lie.”

  In the long silence that followed, the only sounds were the steady ticking of the anniversary clock on the mantel and the occasional tapping of a branch against the window when the brisk wind swirled outside.

  “So you’re not going to tell me,” Christina said. It was more of a statement— a concession— than a question.

  “No,” James finally admitted. He instantly regretted the finality of his statement, partly because he hoped it wasn’t true. A part of him wished he could someday tell her everything, that he could confide in her his whole shameful story, and that she would forgive him for it, and her forgiveness would make it somehow less shameful. But he knew that was a distant hope.

  They sat together for some time, not speaking. At first James assumed Christina was sulking, but then he remembered how he’d found her in the nursery. The scrapbook was an afterthought, he realized. What was really weighing on her was something else, something heavier than the ashes of a secret he was keeping from her. He decided to wait until she was ready to speak, but the silence lingered for longer than he thought possible.

  It was only then that he saw the tiny sock in Christina’s hand. She’d likely been holding it the entire time; perhaps she’d even brought it with her from the nursery. She seemed so preoccupied as she turned it over in her hands. She inserted two of her fingers into it and then squeezed it between the thumb and forefinger of her other hand as she often squeezed William’s tiny feet. Her expression grew so sorrowful that James wanted to hold her, but he half-expected to see Jean descending the stairs at any moment, so he suppressed the urge to comfort her.

  When she finally spoke, her voice was soft and hoarse, as if she’d been choking the words back. “I’m leaving after Christmas,” she said.

  James felt his heart sink.

  “I’m taking a student teaching assignment in Portland. It starts right after the first of the year.”

  “Have you told your mother?” James wondered.

  Christina shook her head. “I thought I’d wait until after Christmas.”

  “She’ll be disappointed,” James said. “I think she was hoping you’d find something around here.”

  “There aren’t too many student teaching jobs on the island,” Christina said.

  James frowned at her. He was about to ask if she’d even inquired about opportunities on Mount Desert, but he was certain he already knew the answer.

  “I think it’s just time for me to get away for a while.” She rubbed her thumb repeatedly over William’s tiny sock. “Everyone was right. Sometimes it’s just too hard.”

  “Who’s everyone?”

  “That lawyer, Sisk, warned me I’d feel this way. Ruth did, too. But I didn’t listen.”

  James again resisted the impulse to console her. “Feel what way?”

  “Regret,” Christina said softly, never looking up from the little sock. “Ruth warned me I was getting too attached. Sisk told me if I didn’t struggle watching someone else be a mother to my— to William— that I’d be the exception. Well, I did get too attached, and I’m not the exception. So I think it’ll just be easier if I go away.”

  “Not easier for us,” James said. “We love having you here.”

  “Easier for me!” Christina insisted. There was a part of her that wished James would argue for her to stay, not just because of how her leaving would affect her mother— she already knew that— but because he wanted her there. It was selfish, she knew, but she thought she’d earned the right to be a little selfish. She thought she’d been unselfish when she proposed having the baby so her mother and James could be together. She could have put an end to the pregnancy without ever telling them about it, and everything would still be as it was. That option was even more deplorable to her now that she’d held William, now that she’d looked into his innocent face and saw those trusting and loving eyes looking back at her. He hadn’t started reserving that look for her mother yet. He would in time, she knew, and she was certain she would find it unbearable when he stopped looking at her that way. It was impossible to regret her decision to have William, but she found herself filled with a stabbing regret just the same. Sometimes she wondered which she regretted more; giving the baby to her mother, or giving James to her.

  It was a strange feeling. She wasn’t in love with James now, and if she was honest with herself, she hadn’t been in love with him a year earlier when she’d rejected what she’d called his ‘half-hearted proposal’ upon learning of the baby. But there had been a time, as brief as it was, when she did feel something for him that she was certain was love, and she was equally certain that he felt it, too. Those two weeks between their passionate collision aboard James’s boat and her departure for school were as thrilling and joyful as any she’d ever known, and it saddened her to think that James had been capable of so completely leaving them behind. But she’d witnessed him burning a scrapbook, purging himself of his old memories. It shouldn’t surprise her that she would be among them.

  It hurt her that James didn’t appear to feel compelled even to console her now. It was a self-indulgent wish, she realized, because in her heart she knew that her decision to leave had already been made. She wasn’t looking to be swayed; she simply wanted him to try.

  “I thought this was what you wanted,” James said.

  Christina frowned and her chin quivered as she fought to hold back the emotions that were just beneath the surface. “Nobody wants this!” she said. “This isn’t normal.”

  “But—”

  “And don’t remind me that it was my idea,” she said, anticipating his reaction. “I know it was my idea.”

  “That wasn’t what I was going to say,” James told her.

  He draped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close to him, not with any lingering passion, but simply to comfort her, and sensing this, Christina leaned into him, resting her face against his chest. Despite her best efforts not to, she began to cry. It made her feel weak, but she let it come. She was relieved James couldn’t see her face.

  She was so still for so long that James wondered if she’d fallen asleep until she finally stirred, using his shirt to dab at her tears.

  On the end table, he noticed his copy of “A Christmas Carol” that he’d been reading that afternoon. He lifted it off the table cautiously, so as not to disturb Christina, and he placed it on his lap. He opened it to the page where he’d earlier inserted the photograph, and he held it where Christina could see it. He felt her adjust the tilt of her head slightly so she could see it.

  “I was twelve years old,” he said. “It was the spring after my father brought the boat home for the first time, and we worked on it every day for months so we’d have it ready to put in the w
ater that summer.”

  Christina touched the photograph, her fingers lightly gliding over the smiling face of the young boy. It was the first real glimpse of his childhood he’d ever offered her. “You look like your father,” she said softly.

  James smiled. “I look just like my father,” he said. “Let’s hope that skips a generation.” Even without seeing Christina’s face, he knew she understood.

  Christina sat up beside him and studied the picture for some time. “This was the only picture you saved?” she finally asked, relieved that he’d saved something.

  James nodded. “The rest was just reminders of a time in my life I’d just as soon forget.” He touched the photograph which Christina was now holding like a prize. “But this one was a good memory.”

  “Why?” Christina asked.

  “This was our last good summer together as a family,” James continued. “We had a great vacation on the lake that year. My mom got sick just after we got back. She died just a couple months later in October, but we had no idea that summer.” He paused and swallowed hard, surprised, as he always was, at how the memory of losing her still gripped him by the throat. “Looking back now, I guess I’m glad she went quickly, that she didn’t suffer long. But when you’re twelve years old, you don’t see it that way. It just feels like your whole world is ending.”

  James took the picture from her but still held it so they could both see it. “When I look at this picture, it reminds me of that last great summer.”

  Christina looked at James and smiled, grateful that he’d shared something personal and private with her. They sat in silence for some time after that, Christina quietly enjoying the gift that James had given her, and James thinking back to that last joyous summer when his family was still whole.

  He examined the photograph once again, and he managed a smile at the joyful expressions on their faces, that blissful ignorance of everything coming to an end.

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