I called the police this morning, and they said although she’s not officially missing yet, they would keep their eyes open for her. Should I let the local media know? the young man asked.
I held my breath. Once again the Genevas were falling apart in public. But if everyone saw her face on the news . . .
So this is what brings me into the kitchen with my too-strong coffee, paging through old photo albums to find a usable picture to put on the news.
Only she’s wearing the wrong wig, or pulling such a face that no one would recognize her, or her back is to the camera.
And I keep stopping where I know I shouldn’t linger: pictures of Robert making a muscle for the camera, giving Anna a horsey ride, and then pictures of a teenage Anna with no parent in sight—because Robert had left and I had the camera, always.
I should set these aside and bring them with me. I glance at the wall calendar—a gift from Lakeshore Realty—and see that it’s just ten days until our appointed meeting date. His letter, from “P. C. Harming,” finally came through with a definite date and place, even a hand-drawn map on the back of an IHOP placemat. He’d drawn hearts and flowers all around our destination, the piece of land he’s promised to build a cabin on, for the two of us.
Only, what if I haven’t found Sally by then? And what on earth would I say to him? Hey, remember your sister? The one you never talked to again, either? Well, she’s missing, by the way. No, she never did marry anybody; no, I was all she had, actually . . . until I lost my temper and drove her away . . .
Or, worse. She goes for a swim and they find her in the channel or smashed on the rocks . . .
I slam the album shut. Maybe the school system where she used to work has a picture on file.
It’s been years since I prayed, since before Robert left. The church ladies never came by with casseroles for me, like they did for the widows. No visit from the priest to see how I was getting on. In church, they seemed to steer their husbands away from me, as if I might reach out and snatch myself a replacement. That might have been paranoia on my part, but the chill was there, for whatever reason. It was palpable, like the pain in your lungs on a January morning.
None of that was God’s fault, though, was it? I fold my hands and rest my forehead. I can’t think of any words, so I trust that God will know what I’m trying to say and simply whisper, “Amen.”
I turn in my chair at the sound of footsteps. It’s Anna, in a huge old T-shirt that says University of Michigan on it, still looking so much like a kid.
“I called the police,” I tell her. “They say they’ll keep an eye out, and they’d like a picture. They can put it out to the media, too . . .”
“We’ll find her,” Anna says, clearing her throat and coughing. “I need some of that coffee, then I’ll get dressed and head out again. Did she have friends she would stay with?”
“She used to have casino buddies, but she hasn’t been on one of those trips all summer. I don’t even know who she used to go with.”
“Maybe they—”
The phone rings, and Anna seizes the kitchen extension. “Hello?” Then her eyes get big and she stares at me, saying, “Sal, where are you? . . . What? . . . Well, tell me what you can see from there. Any signs, anything. Are there people around? Why don’t you stop and tell someone you’re lost? . . . Listen, honey, it’s okay, we’ll come to get you; we just have to know where. . . . Uh-huh . . . Who’s Pete? . . . Oh. . . . You need to ask someone where you are. They won’t think you’re silly; just say you need to get a ride . . . Uh-huh. Oh, good.” She starts snapping her fingers at me, making scribbling gestures. I scramble in drawers until I come up with a geriatric ink pen and rip the cover off the phone book. Anna turns the phone book cover over to the blank side and starts writing, balanced awkwardly, using her knee as a table. “Yes . . . okay, I know where that is. Thank you, Ma’am. Listen, can I ask you something? I hope this isn’t awkward for you. Just give me a yes or no: Does she seem okay to you? Physically? . . . Okay, thank you.”
I sink down into the kitchen chair, holding on like I might tumble off at any moment. I hate to imagine what my blood pressure is right now.
Anna seems to have Sally back on the line. “Sally? Hi, doll, it’s Anna. Look, I’m going to be there as soon as I can, but it’s about a thirty-minute drive. I need you to promise me that you won’t move. You’ve gotta stay put. Can you do that for me? Okay . . . I’m sure you’re hungry. We’ll get you some breakfast the minute I get there. Okay, I’ll be there soon. Sit tight.”
Anna hangs up, and I follow her as she rushes down the hall to her room, where she steps over a sleeping Cami and slides on a pair of shorts. She wraps her hair into a ponytail and hisses to me in a whisper: “She’s in Saugatuck.”
“How did she get there?”
She shrugs and steps across Cami again, grabbing her purse off the floor. I follow her down the steps.
“I want to come with you.”
Anna shakes her head. “You’d better not. If she moves again, she might call back here, and you’ll need to call me and tell me where she is.”
“But you told her to stay.”
Anna stops in the doorway, her keys in her hand. “Mom. I hate to say this, but I don’t think she knows what’s going on right now. She might forget she said that and just wander off. She might get a ride from somebody; I think that’s how she got where she is now. She said she was riding with . . . an old boyfriend.”
Our eyes lock. Anna clearly understands just as I do that she didn’t get a ride from any boyfriend.
“I’ll call you the minute I get her. Keep an eye on Cami. Tell her to put some ice on that eye.”
My daughter dashes out the front door, and I raise my eyes to the ceiling. It might have been luck but maybe not. Thank you. And, Please, let her be intact.
Chapter 43
Amy
“Lakeshore Realty,” I answer, rubbing my temple with my free hand. “Yes, one moment.” I hit the disconnect button instead of transfer.
“Shit.”
“Amy? Is everything all right?” Kelly has stopped by my desk, her arms full of paper.
“Sorry, just a little—”
The phone interrupts me, and I answer and this time manage to transfer the call.
I hope she doesn’t fire me, because then all I’ll have is Frodo and my apartment, which has wedding stuff scattered all over it like lacy land mines.
Kelly glances down at my desk, which is somewhat more bare of late, considering I’ve taken down all personal pictures. “Come with me,” she says, gesturing with her head because her arms are full.
Here it comes. I should have known.
“Cover the phones,” she says to Bill as she passes, and I follow her, with my eyes on the carpet.
“Please sit,” she says, dropping the files on her desk and straightening her lapels. “I’ve been concerned about you. Is everything all right?”
“I’m fine. I know I’ve been a little distracted . . .”
“It’s not that. A couple of disconnected phone calls are of no concern to me. But you took down all your pictures, and I saw you actually eat a Snickers the other day. I thought aliens abducted the real Amy.” She smiles at me, a little bigger than her cool, professional smile, but I can’t see the humor.
I look down at my lap, at my ring, which I still can’t bring myself to remove.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I just wanted you to know you can discuss it with me, if you’d like.”
A piece of hair has fallen out of my sloppy ponytail. I push it back and squint at her for a moment. “I have friends.”
“I didn’t mean to imply that you didn’t.”
I haven’t talked to them, though; in fact, I haven’t been returning their prying calls and e-mails. They’re asking me about dress fittings, why haven’t they gotten their invitations, when should they schedule the bachelorette party . . . I know what they’ll say. They’ll insist I take
him back. Or maybe they’ll try to get me drunk, which seems to be how they solve most everything.
“Would you like some time off?” Kelly asks, tapping a pencil, eraser-side down on her desk.
I shake my head, hard. “No, please, I’m okay. I’m sorry about the dropped calls. I’ll do better.”
“That wasn’t a threat, you know.”
“I know. I’m sorry, Kelly . . .”
“Well, back to your desk, then. But one thing, Amy. Keeping a problem secret doesn’t make it disappear. In fact, sometimes putting it out in the daylight is the only way to solve it.” She holds my gaze as she says this, and I nod to her before backing out and returning to my station.
Kelly is famous—or infamous, depending on whom you ask—around here for suing her boss at her old job because he continually passed her over for promotions, although she was better educated and worked harder than her white coworkers. According to the article in the paper, it had been going on for years before she spoke up finally. The guy settled out of court, and Kelly used the money to start this business.
She caught a lot of flak for it. People said she should have handled it quietly, without all the fanfare of a public lawsuit. But something she said at the time stuck in my head. She was quoted in the paper as saying, “A whisper doesn’t always cut it. Sometimes you need to shout.”
Back at my desk, I send Paul a text.
I need to see you. Meet me at my apartment after work. 5:30?
I’ve only just set my phone down when it trills again.
I’ll be there.
One good thing about getting out of work at three o’clock is, now I have a jump on Paul getting here, assuming he’s on time. He often gets distracted at work.
I’m still in my work clothes and Frodo cocks his head at me when I put him on the leash. He wants to go for a run. “Not now, Frodo. You’re going on a playdate.”
Ed had put his address on the card he left for me, and he’s only a few buildings away. I lead Frodo along, pausing to let him pee, and I knock on Ed’s door, hoping he’s home because honestly I don’t know his schedule or even what he does for a living.
Ed draws back slightly when he opens the door.
“Amy! I don’t suppose you’re going for a run right now.”
“I need a favor, actually.”
“Name it.”
“Could you keep Frodo for a bit? I just . . . It’s a long story, but . . .”
“You got it, no problem. How long?”
“Um, I’m honestly not sure. Give me your phone number, though, and I’ll call you.”
So we exchange numbers, and before I leave—with Frodo romping all over poor little Lucky, who’s getting clobbered but enjoying it nevertheless—I shake Ed’s hand. “Thanks for being so genuinely nice. I bet you would have been nice even when I was fat.”
“Well, I’m in no position to judge. Pot and kettle, you know.”
As I head down the steps, Ed calls after me, “Good luck!”
Back in my apartment, I take a long, hot shower, and this time I don’t grab the robe and avert my eyes.
Still swathed in steam, I make myself look at my naked self, complete with stretch marks and the saggy skin around my thighs and middle.
I dry my hair in the mirror, looking at my breasts, which seem thin and tired. My mirror quotes remind me: Every thin day is a good day!
Not true, I know. I tear it down.
Reflexively I reach for my mascara, my concealer and blush, and then I stop, put it down.
I brush my hair straight. No curlers this time, no hairspray.
I start to close my window blinds, and then stop. I yank the cord, letting the light flood in. No one can see in here, anyway; the apartment is high enough.
Still time before Paul arrives. I slip on my silk robe I always wear when Paul is around. I fish my journal out of a drawer in my nightstand and sit down to wait.
At 5:15 my doorbell rings, and I think it must be Ed or someone else. Paul never rings the bell; he has a key.
It’s him, though. Through the peephole I can see him looking down, hands in his pockets.
“Hi,” he says inside the door, leaving his hands where they are. He seems to flinch away from me. “You’re not dressed.”
“I was wrong,” I say.
“About what?” He looks like someone hollowed him out. He’s standing there all bent over, concave like an old man.
“To break up with you. I was also wrong to hide from you.”
“Hide what from me?”
My hands fumble with the robe tie. It’s not a complicated knot, but my fingers feel fat and clumsy, like when it was easier to use a pencil to dial a phone than use my fingers. I drop the robe off my shoulders and suck in a sharp breath, like I’m bracing for a slap. I squeeze my eyes shut.
I know what he’s seeing, since I made myself look again this afternoon. From the shoulders up and knees down I’m pretty, and with clothes on I can pass.
It’s all out there now.
“Can I . . .” He stops, clears his throat. “Does this mean we’re not breaking up?”
I crunch my eyes closed harder for a moment, then force them to open and look right at him. He’s waiting, looking like a kid on the first day of school, both hopeful and scared to death. I shake my head. “Not if you don’t want to.”
At this, he rushes to me, embraces me. “Why would I want to?” he whispers into my hair.
He kisses me so long I’m breathless. I push back a little and say, “Even with all this?” I glance down at my body.
“Can I show you how much I don’t care?”
He scoops me up and carries me off to the bedroom, where the sun frames my bed like a spotlight and we stay on top of the covers.
I say to Paul, “Tell me not to crawl under the sheets.”
“Don’t crawl under the sheets.” He takes my hand and kisses it. The only thing I’m wearing is my engagement ring. “I was beginning to think you only cared about everything looking perfect.”
“I only got close to perfect recently. I can’t just let go of it.”
“You thought I wouldn’t love you if I saw your whole body?”
“Not exactly. I didn’t want to chance it, I guess. We never met when I was fat. But look, be honest, Paul. Would you have dated me when I was fat?”
He props up on his elbow, his dark hair flopped over one eye. His face is somber. “It would have been my loss.”
I close my eyes and let that sink in. It would have felt better if he’d said, “I would have loved you at any weight.” But I know that the weight is a wall that keeps so many people out, and not only shallow, vain, nasty people. Even when I was huge, I didn’t date fat guys, either. And even if not for Paul, I still wouldn’t have dated egg-shaped Ed, either. Nice as he is.
“Will you still love me if I get fat again?”
“Well, now I know what I’d be missing.”
“So why won’t you marry me?” I cringe after I say it. I wasn’t going to pressure him.
“I’m sorry I did that to you,” he says, his voice soft. He rests back on my pillow, turning his eyes to the ceiling. “It wasn’t fair to let my work stress mess up your dream wedding. I suppose it’s too late, at this point.”
“Probably.” My voice cracks, despite my earlier resolve that it shouldn’t matter if we get married on our original wedding date in a big ceremony. It does, dammit. It just does.
“Well, does it have to be too late, though? Maybe some things won’t be so elaborate or whatever, but it’s not like we cancelled the country club. Did you?”
“I couldn’t bring myself to make that call. Or even tell anyone.”
“Ha, me neither. I could just imagine my dad’s reaction. I’ve been putting it off.”
We turn to each other, both of us with that same half smile. “So, maybe we can still do it?” I say.
He embraces me on the bed, kissing my cheek and saying, “Hell, yeah.”
So this is th
e new us, all honest and open and, literally, naked. It feels so good, I’ll even tell him about my fertility charts and the temperatures.
Later.
Chapter 44
Anna
Mom quizzes me about Sally as I try to adjust the stock on the shelves to make everything look less ravaged. We haven’t been reordering, except the most popular items, so things are looking even more sloppy and haphazard than usual. I’ve deposited Sally upstairs on Mom’s bed, and when I left her, she was snoring away.
“She was just sitting on a park bench, kicking her feet like a little kid waiting for a ride, and she chattered the whole way home.”
“About what?”
“Nothing. Old stories about people she used to work with, stories about you as a teenager, working at the bowling alley. Drive-in movies.”
“Did she say anything about what she’d been doing all that time?”
I stand up and stretch. Mom is leaning on the counter, and that’s when I notice something inside her shirt, pressing against the cotton. She’s still wearing that ring.
“Anna, did she talk about it?”
“No. Every time I tried to gently inquire, she either shut right down or changed the subject, told me a joke. She wasn’t wearing shoes, which you noticed when she came in, and it sounds like she got a ride, at least one ride, from a man. But I don’t know anything else. Her shirt did seem like it was a little dirtier on the back than I remembered it, like she’d been lying down in the dirt at some point.”
“Should we . . . have her checked out?”
I shrug, thinking of her sleeping upstairs, looking so frail now. “I don’t know if I’d take her to the hospital, but maybe just have Dr. Simon give her a once-over.”
The Life You've Imagined Page 21