The Invisibles

by Cecilia Galante

  Chapter 20

  A long moment passed. Nora knew exactly what Grace was talking about; her own shame was probably the one thing still keeping her from opening up about anything real or legitimate. It wasn’t so much that any of them would judge her; it was that they would want to fix her. And right now the last thing Nora wanted to feel was any more broken than she already felt.

  “I’m sorry.” Ozzie repeated her apology, blinking rapidly, struggling to hold Grace’s gaze. “Really, I am. I don’t mean to come on so strong. And I don’t mean to act like some kind of . . .” She paused, looking for the right word.

  “Steamroller?” Grace’s voice was still icy.

  “Yeah.” Ozzie’s shoulders sagged. “I guess I can steamroll. You’ve got to know I don’t mean it, though.”

  Grace ran a finger down the bridge of her nose. “It’s jus . . . I don’t think I was looking for any real feedback.” She glanced at Nora. “From anyone. I just needed to say it, I guess. Especially to you guys. After Monica came clean, I decided that I wanted to be straight with you, too. Not have any more secrets.” She shrugged. “That’s all.”

  “That’s a lot,” Nora said softly.

  Grace smiled sadly. “Anyway. We should get going.”

  Ozzie reached for the door, but Nora stopped her. “I’d like to drive if it’s all right. It’s good for my motion sickness.”

  “Are you feeling sick?” Monica asked in alarm.

  Nora shook her head. “I took Dramamine before we left. But the driving’ll help, too.” She wasn’t sure if this was entirely accurate. She was slightly drowsy, too. But she did have an urge to drive just now, despite the fact that she’d never even been seated inside a car this big until yesterday. She wanted to get behind the wheel, to take this vehicle somewhere, put some distance between what they’d left behind and where they were headed. She got out of the backseat and walked around the back, bracing herself as a tractor-trailer sailed past.

  Grace slid out of the front seat, stumbling as she underestimated the drop to the ground, and Nora caught her arm. For a split second, as they locked eyes, Nora saw the girl who, weeks after her breakup with Theo, would slip into bed next to her and stroke her hair as she cried. The one who told her, night after night, that it would get better eventually; she didn’t know how exactly, but it would; she believed it with her whole heart and soul. There were some things, she told Nora, that the brain just couldn’t comprehend, things that had to be taken on faith. How could any of them—least of all Grace herself—know that her own brain would stop comprehending even the most basic of things, that it would become the sole enemy in a war she would have to fight for years and years to come? Nora wanted to weep, thinking of it.

  “You okay?” she asked instead.

  “I’m good,” Grace said, avoiding her eyes. “Thanks.”

  Nora’s uneasiness about the vastness of the backseat was nothing compared to the huge array of buttons spread out before her now. It was like a cockpit of some kind, a virtual dashboard island all its own. Monica and Ozzie had also switched seats, with Ozzie up front now next to Nora. For some reason, this little detail comforted her. Ozzie may not have been the world’s best driver, but with her verve and confidence, she could be Nora’s copilot any day of the week. The engine was still running too, which helped. She had no idea where the key went or if the car even had one, but she was relieved that she didn’t have to fiddle with it.

  “You ready?” Ozzie asked.

  Nora nodded and put the car into drive. A slight touch of her foot, and the car roared back onto the highway. She scrambled to keep control of the wheel, swerving for a good twenty seconds or so before aligning the vehicle into traffic.

  “It doesn’t need much,” Ozzie said, watching her out of the corner of her eye. “You can probably ease up a little on the gas if you want.”

  Nora lifted her toe an inch or so and the car hummed back down. She could feel her shoulders unclench themselves as she settled in among the stream of cars. All right, then. She could do this. She could definitely do this. She could feel her heart slowing beneath her shirt, the dull hammering of it still pounding in her ears.

  “Nice job.” Ozzie’s fingers were clutching the dashboard. “Great work.”

  The previous tension in the air had dissipated, replaced now with something that Nora did not yet recognize. Something was shifting though, among all of them. Something big.

  “Should we put Myrtle on?” Monica asked from the backseat.

  “If Nora wants her,” Ozzie answered. “Nora, do you want Myrtle on?”

  “I think I’m okay,” Nora said. “It’s just straight, right? Until we hit 80?”

  “That’s right.” Grace paused. “Who the hell is Myrtle?”

  Nora looked out the window again as Monica explained the navigation system to Grace.

  “And her name is Myrtle?” Grace asked.

  “We gave her that name,” Ozzie said. “Because she sounds exactly like Mrs. Ditmer from senior year. Wait’ll you hear the voice.” She unclipped the GPS from its stand and handed it over the seat. “Here, Monsie, turn it on, just for a minute. Just so she can hear.”

  Monica fiddled with the GPS for a moment and then gave it back to Ozzie, who set it back on the pedestal.

  “Hell. Oh,” the British voice uttered. “Where. May. I Take. You. Today? Please. Insert. Destination.”

  Ozzie and Monica smiled at the sound, but Grace frowned.

  “You think that sounds like Mrs. Ditmer?” she said. “Nora’s favorite teacher?”

  Without thinking, Nora turned around and flashed a wary grin in Grace’s direction.

  “Wait, was Ditmer really your favorite teacher?” Ozzie asked.

  Nora shrugged. “She was nice to me.”

  “I never knew that.” Monica was draped over the back of the front seat, her chin resting on her elbow. She looked exhausted. A thin piece of her hair had been braided on one side and the gold strands caught the light from the dashboard. “Why was she your favorite? What’d she do?”

  “She let me borrow books. And stay after in her room sometimes, so I could read them.”

  “She wouldn’t let you take them home?” Ozzie asked.

  “They were first editions,” Grace said. “Right, Nora?”

  Nora nodded. “She had her own collection of them. They were very expensive. I was lucky she even let me touch them.”

  “Boy, that was nice of her,” Monica said. “I never knew that, either.”

  There was a lot that the rest of them hadn’t noticed during school, mostly because they’d barely made it through. In English class for example, which they all had together, Monica and Ozzie tuned out completely whenever Mrs. Ditmer started talking, passing each other notes or flirting with Chad McGovern, who was almost nineteen and wore so much Polo aftershave that it made Nora’s eyes water. Grace made more of an effort, taking diligent notes and asking questions, but more often than not, her notebooks were covered with cartoon doodles or sketches of horses. With the exception of Nora, none of them had managed to get any grade above a C in the class.

  “So how come she was nice to you?” Ozzie sat up a little and rested her knee against the dashboard. “She was always a first-class bitch to me.”

  “Probably because you were a first-class bitch to her.” Monica laughed, a hollow sound. “You gave everyone a hard time in school, Ozzie. Especially the teachers. You were always screwing around.”

  Ozzie scowled, but Nora could tell from the expression on her face that she knew Monica was right. “Yeah, well, I never did take very well to authority figures. Especially the ones who told me I had to write papers. God, I hated writing papers.” She smacked her hand off the seat rest. “I am so glad I never have to write another fucking paper for the rest of my life, I can’t even tell you!”

  “Oh my God.” Monica rolled her eyes. “Me, too.”

  “What are you two talking about?” Grace shifted her gaze between Monica and Ozzie. �
��Neither of you wrote a single paper in high school, and you know it. Nora wrote them.”

  It was true. Nora had written all their papers—even Grace’s—not because they wanted her to, but because she wanted to. She had been the one to offer, volunteering herself over and over again whenever a term paper or essay assignment came up. The honest truth was that she liked researching odd topics, liked reading about things she didn’t know, such as the way volcanoes formed beneath the Earth’s surface, or how the biggest hurdle that sea turtles faced as babies was during the moments right after they hatched, when they had to run from their nest into the ocean before getting eaten by a gull or a sea lion. She’d sit for hours after discovering things like this, lost in other worlds as she wrote about them for her friends. Books—and the imaginary worlds they placed her in—were easier to be in than anywhere else. Sometimes, even with them. Or with Theo.

  “God, Norster, what would all of us have done without you?” Ozzie sighed. “I probably never would have graduated.”

  “And I definitely wouldn’t have.” Monica’s wide eyes were serious. “My gram used to say I was as dumb as a bag of hammers. ’Course, she said a lot of mean things to me, but she was right about that one.”

  “Oh, you just think you’re dumb,” Ozzie said. “There’s nothing dumb about you, Monsie. You’re just not street smart.”

  “Or book smart.” Monica snorted. “Which basically means I’m just a little bit higher up on the scale than a moron.”

  “Don’t say that,” said Nora.

  “It’s true.” Monica shook her head. “Look at this whole mess I got myself into.”

  Ozzie, who was biting her nails, paused mid-chew.

  Monica gestured with her hands, waving them loosely at the wrists, as if they were broken. A tear welled up and then spilled over the rim of one blue eye. “I still honestly don’t know why I did it,” she whispered. “Maybe I did want my own money instead of having to ask Liam all the time. Or maybe I just wanted to see if I could get away with it.” Her eyes widened. “It was just so easy. I mean, everyone walked in during those meetings and handed me their checks. Me! Eight-, nine-, ten-thousand-dollar checks! I remember my hands shaking the first time I held them, thinking to myself, ‘They have no idea who I am, do they?’”

  “What do you mean, ‘who I am’?” asked Grace.

  “Me!” Monica stabbed at her chest. “The dumb fat girl that nobody wanted.”

  “That wasn’t who you were,” Grace protested. “That’s just the way you felt as a kid.”

  “Oh yeah?” Monica asked. “Then why do I still feel like her on the inside? Every single morning when I wake up, I get a sinking feeling inside my chest because I know I’m going to get out of bed and put on a mask.” Her voice broke as she glanced out the window. “God, I sound pathetic.”

  “No you don’t.” Ozzie put a hand on her shoulder. “Keep going.”

  Monica stared out the window for a few moments. “I don’t know . . . I think I was just flabbergasted that none of these people on the charity committees ever saw through me, that they couldn’t tell that I was this . . . this fraud who’d barely made it through high school and somehow managed to snag one of the hottest hedge fund managers in the city.” She shook her head. “Getting a new face, dressing up, driving out to the Hamptons, those were the easy parts. I kept playing the role, putting on a smile. But being put in charge of all that money . . . I don’t know. I guess . . . I mean, I think it did something to me.”

  “What?” Ozzie cocked her head.

  “They trusted me,” Monica said. “They really believed I was the person I was pretending to be. And it got too hard, living like that. I wanted to get back to the place where I recognized myself. Where it wasn’t fake. Where that little girl whose father murdered her mother still lived.” She pulled on her lower lip. “It’s crazy, but when I started stealing that money, it felt like destiny. As if all the things that I was born to become had finally materialized, right before my eyes. It didn’t matter that it was illegal. It was just who I was, who I’d always been.”

  “And who was that?” Ozzie asked.

  Monica paused. “A criminal. Just like him.”

  The car sped on silently. Nora imagined it as a bullet, cutting through the void ahead, swallowing up everything in its path. A part of her wanted to turn and shake Monica, to tell her that her explanation was bullshit, that it was just an excuse for something for which she had only herself to blame. Honestly, how could you live thirty or so years and still point to your parents for the stupid mistakes you made in your adult life? It was just another way of passing the buck. She should know better. As should the rest of them. Including herself.

  Maybe especially herself.

  “Do you still feel that way?” Grace asked.

  Monica didn’t answer right away. But when she did, her face set itself into a kind of deliberation. A finality. “Yeah,” she said. “I do.”

  “Well, that’s just great.” Ozzie glared at her. “I’m glad it’s been so easy for you to embrace your dark side, Monsie. Do you feel all warm and fuzzy about jail, too? Because you know there’s a distinct possibility that that’s what you might be facing when we get back to Manhattan.”

  “God, Ozzie,” Grace said. “What did we just talk about?”

  “I’m sorry if it’s too harsh!” Ozzie protested. “And I don’t mean to steamroll anyone here, either. But who’s it gonna help if we start pussyfooting around? I mean, come on! She thinks it’s her destiny to become her father? I just want to make sure she knows that—”

  “I didn’t say I became him.” Monica whipped her head around. “I said there’s a part of me that’s like him.”

  “Of course there is,” Ozzie answered. “But you don’t know what part that is, Mons. You’ve just assumed it’s the bad one because that’s the only thing you know about him. You’ve never taken the time to go talk to the guy, to learn anything else about the kind of person he is, what he—”

  “Don’t start.” Monica’s index finger trembled as she pointed at Ozzie. “That man shot my mother. And then, because she was taking too long to die, he went over and finished her off. Do not criticize my decision to never lay eyes on him. Ever.”

  “I’m not criticizing it.” Ozzie’s voice softened. “I’m telling you that there is more to him than the part that did those horrible things. No one’s born all bad. We’ve all got light and dark parts to us. Which means you got some of the shit genes belonging to your dad. And you also got some of his good ones. But assuming that the shit choices you made are because of him isn’t only unfair, it might also be way off base. Maybe you got some bad traits from your mother, too. Did you ever stop to think about why she got involved with a man who was so cruel to her?”

  Monica held Ozzie’s gaze for a long while. Her lower lip trembled as she absorbed her words, and Nora could tell from the way the color drained from her face that she had never considered such a thing before. Grace was quiet too, her left eye twitching. It was a fine line with Ozzie: on the one hand, she could be pushy and judgmental; on the other, honest in a way that forced you to look at yourself in a way you’d never quite done before. Would maybe never do if it wasn’t for her.

  “You can’t honestly be blaming my mother for anything,” Monica said.

  “I’m not blaming your mother or your father for anything here,” Ozzie said. “I’m pretty sure the ball’s in your court, Mons. Yeah, your parents gave you a crap deal. Neither of them were around long enough to give you any of the tools you needed to navigate through this life. But that doesn’t mean you spend the rest of your life blaming them for it. And it certainly doesn’t mean you relinquish your responsibility for things because of it. That’s just cowardly, babes. I’m sorry, but it is.”

  “I’m not relinquishing anything.” Monica’s eyes darkened. “I’m in a car heading back to Manhattan right now. I’m going in to stand in front of a judge and face what I’ve done.”

  “And I
applaud you for that,” said Ozzie. “Now you’ve got to do the same thing up here.” She tapped the side of her head. “Inside.” She paused. “Maybe we all do.”

  “Okay then, how about you?” Monica asked Ozzie. “You never feel like you’re the way you are because of your mother? Because of what she did to you?”

  Ozzie ran a hand roughly through her hair. “I think I’ve gone the opposite way. I think I’ve been so desperate not to turn into my mother that I turned into someone I don’t even recognize anymore.”

  “In what way?” Grace asked.

  “Well, I know it’s hard to believe, since I’m still so bossy around all of you . . .” Ozzie laughed, a loud, nervous sound. “But the truth is, I’m pretty much a doormat at home.”

  Nora braced herself.

  “You mean with your kids?” Monica asked.

  Ozzie shook her head. “With Gary.”

  “Yeah, right.” Grace snorted. “Like you’d ever—”

  “I told you it’s hard to believe.” Ozzie’s voice was sharp as she cut Grace off. “But it’s the truth.”

  Grace crossed her arms over the front of her chest. “How are you a doormat?”

  Nora watched Ozzie out of the corner of one eye. She was gnawing again on one side of her thumb, and her breathing had shifted.

  “How?” Ozzie repeated.

  “Yeah, how?” Grace challenged. “What, does he set all the rules in the house or something? Order you around? You can’t really expect us to believe—”

  “He’s mean, okay?” Ozzie’s eyes blazed. “He’s mean and possessive, and a few times during some of our worst fights, he’s hauled off and hit me so bad I’ve ended up in the hospital.”

  Grace gasped and then clapped her hand over mouth. Nora thought back to the bruises she’d seen under Ozzie’s arm at the airport, how quickly she’d dismissed them as something her children had inadvertently done, how terribly wrong she’d been.

  “Ozzie, no!” Monica’s voice broke and Nora thought that if she or Grace had spoken just then, each of their voices would have cracked too.

  “Oh, don’t worry, I fight back.” Ozzie stared down at her fingers, pulled at a cuticle. “It’s not like I’m a battered woman here or anything. Believe me. He’s stronger than me, but I’ve gotten a few right hooks in.” She snorted. “I’ve even given him a few black eyes. And once he had to get his lip stitched up in the ER.”