She thinks back to that awful October day, recalls the initial sweep of shock and anger. And sadness, too. Because regardless how far they’d grown apart as husband and wife, in the last year when Walt was retired, they’d begun to inch their way back to each other, to being companions, even friends. That he’d up and left during what were supposed to be their twilight years together had struck her as entirely unfair. How dare he die when they were just beginning to rediscover the things they’d enjoyed before! Activities like hiking and traveling the back roads of New England. They’d drive and drive, admiring the shifting golds and crimsons of the fall foliage, until they pulled into a diner only to discover that it had the best burger or blueberry pie they’d ever tasted. She’d let her guard down, enjoying Walt’s companionship again. And look where it had gotten her.
Her stomach roils, though it’s unclear if it’s the thought of Walt and Marty combined or the unfortunate effects of her drinking last night. Thank goodness that young man had helped her back to her room! She wishes she could remember his name. James, maybe? Or William? It was something classic. She hopes she didn’t make a complete fool of herself. If she runs into him today, she’ll apologize profusely. But then again, she reasons, what good is a vacation if she can’t have a little fun or, as it were, drown her sorrows in a cocktail or two? She hopes they solved the world’s problems together—she remembers their conversation had turned profound at some point—but she has no idea what they actually talked about. Probably for the best, she thinks now as she crosses the street.
In the daylight, she can see her dinner with Marty last night for the fool’s errand that it was. Of course, he didn’t want to get back together. It was a ridiculous, nonsensical plan. As if thirty years gone by would make no difference in their lives. But she’d tricked herself into believing that having him back in her life would make everything okay again. She’d forgotten the oldest rule in the feminist handbook: it’s up to her to make her life okay again.
She berates herself for not being the kind of person who can read a self-help book and register the same lessons she seems to get only from painful firsthand experience. In this case, the heartache (not to mention the humiliation) of seeing an old boyfriend up close. Surely there’s a raft of books out there that would tell her reuniting with her ex-boyfriend less than a year after her spouse had died was a very bad idea. Anyone with any sense, she sees now, would tell her she’d sidestepped her grief for Walt by hyperfocusing on finding Marty. Maybe if she’d shared with Amber what she’d really been up to on this trip, her daughter would have spared her this disaster. Talked some sense into her.
Even at the ripe old age of sixty-one, Claire, it seems, is still having to learn new lessons.
And it dawns on her that during those hikes that she and Walt took last fall, each step had actually been a fragile step toward forgiveness. Forgiveness for all the times he’d gone missing from their marriage, her life. When the children were little. When they were not so little. When Amber had nearly starved herself to death. When Ben had so desperately craved his dad’s approval somewhere other than out on the baseball field or the basketball court. When the numbers on a spreadsheet tugged at him more insistently than his own family, his wife. And one by one, his various transgressions, which Claire had cataloged ad nauseam over the years, began to drop away, like the falling leaves of a tree giving itself over to the inexorable pull of autumn.
Only Claire knew that when Amber was four and Ben one, she’d contemplated packing her bags and leaving her family behind. One night she’d gone so far as to stuff some shirts and jeans and underwear into a duffel bag, but Walt had walked through the door sooner than expected, and she’d shoved the bag under the bed. The next morning, she’d emptied it out, returning the clothes to their hangers and drawers. It was a dark time in her life, when she was fairly confident that the life she’d always imagined for herself—becoming a successful journalist—was out of her grasp.
On the day that she’d packed her bags, the kids were being particularly nasty to each other. Funny how she still remembers this—and how a seeming epiphany had swept over her. They’re better off without me. I’m not cut out for this. I’m not a good mom. Other people might be, but I’m not. She couldn’t imagine how raising two lively, independent children would ever go hand in hand with a journalism career. She loved her kids madly, but for that brief moment, she managed to convince herself that they’d do well to have someone else tying their shoes, running interference in their arguments. Thank goodness she’d stuck it out, if not for their sake, then for her own.
When she reaches the aquarium, a small crowd has already gathered outside the seal tank. An assortment of parents and children—some fully grown, others barely out of diapers—watch as if mesmerized. When an enormous seal glides by upside down, its pale belly exposed, the youngest ones squawk with excitement. Claire purchases her ticket and heads inside. It takes her eyes a moment to adjust to the dark space, which is cavernous and exudes a dank smell, a mix of fish and penguin guano. Kids zip around everywhere.
She bypasses the touch tank filled with sharks and stingrays and follows the corkscrew path up to the next level, where the massive ocean tank begins. Last summer she and Amber brought Fiona here, and her granddaughter had been fascinated by the enormous sea turtles, asking if she could take a ride on one. Today there’s a funny-looking orange puffer fish that grabs Claire’s attention; it’s about the size of a tennis ball and swims against the current as fast as its little fins can carry it. She and a young boy share a laugh over its dogged perseverance.
Lining the walls are dozens of exhibits filled with snakes, lobsters and exotic fish, and Claire wanders over to check them out. There’s a giant anaconda, its forked tongue darting in and out, and an octopus whose glutinous pink suckers inch along the glass. It’s interesting enough, Claire thinks, but not as stimulating as the museum the other day. Probably having a small child along to make her appreciate the novelty would make all the difference. Which is when it occurs to her: she hasn’t seen Fiona in a while. Where has she gone off to? A small tangle of fear begins to form in her chest. Deep breaths, she tells herself as something like a panic attack begins to wash over her. In the corner there’s a bench, and she makes her way toward it. Even as she fights it, though, she can feel the heavy cloak of confusion descending over her.
All around her is a sea of unfamiliar faces, children everywhere. Where’s Amber? Did Claire bring Fiona by herself? She can’t remember. Everywhere she turns, there are more people, none of them belonging to her. Has her granddaughter run off somewhere? Is she with Amber? Or, God forbid, has Claire lost her?
She shoots up off the bench, panicked, searching for her granddaughter’s familiar riot of red curls. Out of the corner of her eye, Claire spots a little girl standing near the sea dragon tank. “Fiona!” she calls out, a snap to her voice, but when the girl spins around, it’s not Fiona. “Fiona?” Claire asks, bewildered.
The red-haired urchin stares up at her. “Mommy?” she asks, peering over her shoulder at a woman who’s most definitely not Amber.
The woman turns and smiles at Claire. “I’m sorry,” Claire apologizes. “I seem to have lost my granddaughter.”
“Oh, no! Can we help? I’m sure she’s around here somewhere. What does she look like?”
Claire tries to find the words to describe Fiona but draws a blank. “She’s, um...she’s little” is all she manages. Sweat gathers on the back of her neck.
“Ma’am, are you all right?” The woman frowns, furrowing her brow at Claire. The young girl reaches for her mother’s hand.
“Yes, yes. I’m fine. Sorry to bother you. I’ll find her. Thank you very much.” Claire scuffles away and follows the winding path back down to the first floor. Her chest feels constricted, as if someone has tied it up in rubber bands. Where on earth has Fiona gone? Amber is going to murder Claire for losing track of her. And that’s when it
dawns on her: she should call Amber. She’ll know what Fiona likes to see here, where she might have wandered off to. She pulls up Amber’s number on her phone and dials.
“Mom?” It’s Amber. Claire doesn’t want to reveal that she’s lost Fiona, but she has little choice.
“Amber, honey, I’m so sorry, but I seem to have lost track of Fiona.” She glances around at the teeming crowds. “She must be around somewhere, though. What’s her favorite exhibit?”
“Exhibit? Mom, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“At the aquarium!” Claire nearly shouts. Doesn’t Amber understand that time is of essence? She doesn’t want to alarm her daughter, but really, her reaction seems underwhelming, given the circumstances. “Does she like the hands-on area, the jellyfish, what? What does she like?”
“Mom.” Amber’s voice is calm, measured. “Mom, Fiona’s right here with me. I brought her to work again. Remember? She has a little cold?”
Claire drops down on the bench closest to the gift shop. Breathe. “She’s with you?”
“Yes, Mom. Right here. Wait a sec.”
And then Fiona’s squeaky voice is on the other end. “Nana? Hi, Nana. Where are you? You come visit me today?” And at the sound of her granddaughter’s tiny voice, the panic leaks out of her like a helium balloon losing air. Of course, Fiona isn’t at the aquarium! She’s in Providence. With Amber.
“Not today, honey,” Claire manages to say. “Soon, though, okay?”
But Fiona has already handed the phone back to her mother. “Mom, are you all right? Do you want me to come get you?” Amber asks. “You’re scaring me.”
Claire takes a moment to collect her thoughts while the world ever so slowly settles back into place, jagged pieces sliding back into their places like a jigsaw puzzle. “No, honey. I’m okay. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just got confused for a minute. I don’t know why I thought I had Fiona with me.” She attempts a laugh.
There’s a brief silence, then “Mom, I really think I should come get you. You sound confused.”
Claire can feel herself inhabiting her own body again, as if it floated off for a short time and is now squeezing itself back into her skin. She knows exactly where she is, remembers that she walked here.
“No, really, I’m fine. I know where I am.”
“And where is that?”
“At the aquarium. In Boston,” she adds.
“And where are you staying?”
Claire thinks for a second. “At the Seafarer Hotel.”
“What’s your room number?”
Who remembers their room number? Claire thinks this is unfair. She only knows it’s somewhere in the thousands. But she pulls out her room key and the paper sleeve that it’s in. On the outside, it reads Room 1018. “Ten eighteen,” she replies.
“Okay, good. That’s right,” Amber says, sounding relieved, though Claire has no idea how her daughter knows her room number. She must have given it to her earlier. “Do you remember how you got to the aquarium?”
“Walked here.” Claire is confident of this.
“And you can find your way back to the hotel?”
“That’s easy, honey. Of course. I have my Google Maps with the walking route right on it.”
She can sense her daughter’s hesitation on the other end. Amber will want to come and rescue her, but Claire wants no such thing. She needs to dissuade her somehow.
Fiona’s voice pipes up in the background. “Mom,” says Amber, “I’ve got to go, but I’m going to check in with you later, okay?”
“Yes, sure, that would be nice.” A wave of relief washes over her because she has passed her daughter’s test. Otherwise, Amber would be getting in her minivan to drive up to Boston this minute.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” Amber asks one last time.
“Yes, positive,” Claire says, and she means it.
When she hangs up, the little redheaded girl, who has come down to the first level with her mom, shoots her a defiant gaze, as if Claire might be some kind of freak, a child snatcher. Claire directs a weak smile her way, but the girl spins around and tugs on her mother’s hand to move on to another exhibit. It’s just as well, Claire thinks. Troublemaker.
TWENTY-FIVE
Later that day
Just because there has been a tragic accident doesn’t mean that everything comes to a halt. To the contrary, the show, as they say, must go on.
So after Jean-Paul checks in with Gillian one more time, he does a quick sweep of the rest of his staff: Housekeeping, Maintenance, Food and Beverage. Rumors have been circulating about the woman on the tenth floor. Was she part of a couple? Did she come alone? Was she on drugs? He calls a quick staff meeting in the wing beyond his office. When he looks out on the faces of his crew, so many of them personal friends, he has to remind himself to don his manager hat.
“Thank you all for taking a moment to meet with me. I understand the temptation to speculate on what may have happened this afternoon is great,” he begins and waits for the crowd to settle. “But, please, I’m asking, indeed, advising you not to make that grave mistake. The police are working to determine what happened, and they don’t need us mucking things up with our conjecture. Make no mistake: I understand that what occurred here today was a terrible tragedy, and such tragedies can take an emotional toll on even the strongest of us. Which is why I’d like to remind you—even encourage you, if you think it might be at all helpful—to take advantage of the counselors set up in our dining room. Your director will be happy to grant you the break time. In the meantime, let’s remember to carry out our duties with the dispatch, elegance and care our guests are accustomed to. Remember, we have the Saltonstall wedding party arriving shortly this afternoon.” He pauses for a moment and pulls his lips into a smile. “And, before I forget, let me thank you in advance for your help during what is sure to be a very busy weekend.”
After they disperse, he checks his phone. Only ten minutes till four. The bride and her bridal party will be arriving any minute. He performs a quick check of the front grounds to make sure all looks presentable. The wraparound porch needs spraying down, as do the Adirondack chairs lining the south side. He gets word to the outdoor maintenance crew. As fate would have it, an order for eight dozen red geraniums due to arrive last week showed up this morning (of all days!), and so Louis, his head gardener, has been corralling his crew to plant ninety-six flowers before sundown. The last rows are just going in when Jean-Paul walks the lawns. The vermillion blooms, he notices, contrast nicely with the whitewashed porch. On the far side, the croquet matches have resumed, an encouraging sign that guests are slowly getting back to their normal leisure activities.
On the front lawn where the camera crews remain scattered, Jean-Paul takes the opportunity to make one last plea that they move their vans around to the side parking lot. “Imagine,” he tells them, “if you were the poor bride who showed up here with a cavalcade of news vans waiting. Please, aren’t the horrid events of today enough already? If you move your team, I promise you, we’ll update you with the name of the victim as soon as we can. Or, better yet, go home to your families and hug them a little tighter.”
Reluctantly, a few newscasters—mostly the women, he notes—begin to pack up their equipment and instruct their crews to move everything to the side parking lot. He’s grateful for at least this modicum of sensitivity.
By the time he circles through to the lobby, the onslaught of new arrivals has already begun. It’s five past four. There are guests who push up their sunglasses and stare out with puzzled looks, as if they might have stumbled into the wrong hotel. Jean-Paul welcomes a few, asks them to ignore the news crews and to please make themselves at home. He pulls aside Lydia, his restaurant manager, to enlist her help.
“Can you help with welcoming guests this afternoon? I could really use an extra person to
defuse any tension around the incident.”
“Not a problem, boss. Happy to help out.”
“You know the drill,” he instructs. “No mention of a dead body, just an unfortunate incident that the police are handling at the moment.”
“Got it.”
One man in a plaid sun hat, pink shorts and a T-shirt asks Lydia what’s going on, and she answers right on cue. “We had an unfortunate incident on the premises earlier today, but the authorities are handling it. Come right in! Can I get you an ice water with lemon? Where are you all from?” Jean-Paul has forgotten Lydia’s flair for idle chitchat. “If you’re famished after your travels, please check out the Chantilly Bar on the second floor with splendid views of the harbor. In fact, cocktail hour is starting right now! You can enjoy your favorite beverage along with prosciutto-wrapped scallops or maybe a lobster bisque. Do you like seafood?” Jean-Paul smiles with relief. Lydia has distracted him, this man in the plaid hat, who’d wanted to know what was going on and is now trying to decide between the scallops and the lobster bisque.
When a family arrives with a couple of budding teenagers in tow, Lydia is quick to mention the game room on the sixth floor. There are pool tables and Ping-Pong and some old-fashioned games for the kids. “No video games here!” she says with a wink. When a professorial man in jacket and tie arrives, she asks if he’s here for the wedding, and when he answers in the affirmative, she swiftly steers him toward the check-in line they’ve cordoned off especially for wedding guests.
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