The Girl in the Glass

by Susan Meissner

  “You called back.” Her voice sounded odd.

  “You called me?” I couldn’t hide the surprise in my voice. Allison and I are not close. We are cordial to each other when I visit my dad at his and Allison’s home, but there is no wealth of affection between us. We never talk by phone. It hit me with a sickening force that something terrible must’ve happened and that is why she’d called me. Before I could summon the courage to ask her, she asked me a question.

  “Are you going to tell me where he is or not?”

  Allison didn’t sound worried or afraid. She sounded angry.

  “What?”

  “Are you going to tell me where he is?”

  She didn’t know where my dad was, and she was darn sure that I did. “Allison, I haven’t the slightest idea what you are talking about.”

  “So that’s the way it’s going to be?”

  I had never heard her sound so incredibly ticked off. What on earth had my dad done?

  “What has happened? Where’s my dad?” The second question was out of my mouth before I could yank it back in. She hadn’t the foggiest where my dad was. That’s why she’d called.

  “I know he was planning a trip to Europe with you,” Allison snapped. “Is that where he is? Are you going to meet him there?”

  “Allison, I haven’t heard from him in several days. I don’t know where he is! Are you sure he’s okay? Should we call the police?”

  “Oh, I’m definitely calling the police! He stole fifty thousand dollars from me! And my car! And my jewelry. You can bet I am calling the police!”

  Oh, Lord.

  Instantly I felt Florence slipping away from me. A thick ache spilled inside as four words seemed to strike up a dirge in my head. Not going to Florence. Not going to Florence. Dad has left Allison. He has left me. He has left all of us.

  There is no trip to Florence.

  A sound escaped me; a single, strangled moan.

  Allison either did not hear it or just refused to acknowledge it. “His passport is gone. His clothes are gone. And fifty thousand dollars of my money is gone! And you were the last one to talk to him!”

  “I swear to you, I don’t know where he is.”

  “Sure you don’t.”

  The line clicked dead.

  I tossed my phone onto my desk, and I tried very hard to rein it in. But my resolve was crumbling. Years of little-girl disappointment flooded up from a deep place inside me.

  The tears started to fall despite frantic attempts to rub them away.

  The sound of my door closing made me snap my head up. Gabe.

  He moved closer to me, concern etched in his face. “What’s happened?”

  At first I couldn’t bring myself to say it, because saying something somehow makes it more real. I eked out the words “He left.”

  And somehow Gabe knew exactly what I meant.

  That terrible time when Giovanni died, my poor mother lost not only her favorite brother, a second brother, and her beloved mother all in less than a month, but she lost another baby as well.

  I know what it is like to lose so much all at once. It’s as if you’ve been shattered into a million fragments. I wonder who she turned to then for solace. I do not mean who she took to her bed. I am not yet married, but I’m of the mind that balm for the soul is not found in the bedchamber. Physical relations, near as I can tell, can distract you from your troubles, but they do not solve any of them. I should like to be proven wrong about that in the days to come.

  What does one do with a heart that has been broken? One might look for a bonding agent that will fuse the pieces back together. Or one might learn to live among the shards.

  Or one might be tempted to sweep up the bits and toss them and be done with hearts.

  11

  The rest of my day was tedious and torturous. Right after I’d summoned the words to explain to Gabe my dad had run out on Allison—and me—Geoffrey appeared at my door, looking for Gabe.

  There had been no time to fix my makeup or even blow my nose. It took all of half a second for Geoffrey to realize I’d been crying.

  He frowned at Gabe. “What on earth did you say to her?”

  Gabe opened his mouth to, no doubt, assure Geoffrey he’d said nothing, but he hesitated, and I filled the space.

  “He didn’t say anything,” I said, sniffling.

  Geoffrey swiveled his head back to stare at me. “Beatriz practically said yes to you. Didn’t you get that? It was more yes than no to those chapters, although I’m still trying to figure out why.”

  “This has nothing to do with the meeting,” Gabe said gently. “Did you need something from me, Geoffrey?”

  “Is something going on between the two of you?” Geoffrey looked from me to Gabe and back to me again.

  “No.” I dabbed at my eyes with a crumpled napkin. “It’s nothing like that. I’m … I don’t …”

  My voice fell away and Gabe stepped in. “You were looking for me, right?” He took a step toward Geoffrey.

  “Is he giving you trouble?” Geoffrey jerked his head toward Gabe, creasing his brow line sternly and ignoring Gabe’s question completely.

  Geoffrey’s gruff, paternal tone both amused me and raked against my father’s fresh wounding.

  “Gabe’s been great,” I murmured. I blotted my nose. “It’s my dad who’s giving me trouble.”

  “Why? What? What’s he done?”

  I sighed heavily. “I’m not sure I’m going to Florence next month, after all. I think my dad might’ve skipped out on my stepmother. She doesn’t know where he is, and he apparently stole fifty thousand dollars from her.”

  “What do you mean he stole fifty thousand dollars from her? They’re married. This is California. What’s hers is his.”

  I shrugged. “That’s what she told me. And she thinks I know where he is. I don’t.”

  Geoffrey stared at me. “He walked out on his wife, emptied their bank account, and left you hanging on to your suitcase? And this is the guy you want to go to Florence with?”

  Gabe shot me a look of compassion.

  “It’s complicated,” I said.

  “No it’s not,” Geoffrey replied. “The heck with him. You don’t need your father to go to Florence. Just go. Don’t waste another minute moaning over it.” He turned to Gabe. “I need that mock-up of the Machu Picchu cover.”

  Geoffrey left my office, assuming Gabe would follow.

  “You going to be okay?” Gabe said.

  My phone began to ring before I could answer. On the screen I could see it was my mother, trying a second time to reach me. I nodded and he left.

  I answered the phone.

  Mom wasted no time getting right to the point. “Did you get a call from her?”

  “You mean Allison?”

  “Please tell me you’re not hiding him from her.”

  “Mom.”

  “I told her she was crazy to think you knew anything about this. I’m so sure.”

  She sounded just like one of her junior-high students.

  “So she called you thinking I was hiding him?” I asked.

  “She actually thought I was hiding him. Can you imagine? He took a bunch of money. And some of her jewelry. And their nice car. She drives the nice car, if you’ll remember.”

  I was suddenly very tired. I didn’t want to talk to my mother about what my father had done to his second wife or what he had taken that apparently didn’t belong to him. I just wanted to go home. To my little borrowed cottage and my borrowed cat and my quiet borrowed life.

  “Was she rude to you?” my mother continued. “She was rude to me.”

  “I don’t know. She hung up on me. I guess you could say that was rude.”

  “I have to say I am floored that he just left her like that. Taking all that money and just up and leaving her. No note or anything. I’ll bet she thinks it’s another woman, because, you know, once upon a time she was the other woman. But I don’t think so this time. I think maybe he owed
some money somewhere; that’s what I think. It’s about money this time.”

  “I need to go, Mom.”

  “Wait! I want to make sure you’re okay. Are you okay? I know he promised he’d take you to Florence this summer. That’s probably not going to happen now.”

  My next words fell out of my mouth with crisp speed. Sharp as tacks. “He’s been promising that since I was a teenager, Mom. I’m used to it.”

  A divot of silence hung between us as I recovered from the indictment of my own sentence and she processed it on the other end.

  “So … so, you’re okay?”

  Okay with what? I wanted to say. What does okay really mean, anyway? Less than marvelous? Better than miserable? “I really need to go.”

  “Do you want me to call Allison back and assure her you don’t know where he is? If she hung up on you, she probably thinks you know and aren’t telling. I could—”

  “Don’t call her, Mom. She’s going to think what she wants. I’ve got to go.”

  “Well, okay—”

  I pressed the Off button while she was in midsentence. It was only a little after two, but I began to gather my things. I was going home. As I shuffled papers on my desk, my eyes met Sofia’s pages and a skewer of deep disappointment rippled through me. This was the closest we had ever come to taking the trip. It seemed like it was really going to happen this time. He practically had the tickets. I was so looking forward to meeting Sofia and letting her usher me into the heart of Florence to meet her talking statues and paintings. I knew just what I wanted to ask her. Do you know the statue of a young maiden kneeling with her hand stretched out? And I’d already imagined Sofia saying, “Yes. I know it.”

  I stuffed her pages into my book bag and tapped out a quick e-mail to Geoffrey and Beatriz that I was leaving for the day with a massive headache. Geoffrey would know why I was really leaving, but he would also know magnificent disappointment can produce a magnificent headache.

  Just as I hit Send, my cell phone began to vibrate. A Los Angeles area code shone in the screen. A number I didn’t know. I grabbed for it, hoping my dad was calling me from a pay phone somewhere in LA.

  “Meg. This is Therese. I need to talk to you.”

  It’d been at least six or seven years since I had spoken to my father’s oldest sister. The last time had been at a post-Christmas gathering when I had driven up to spend some time with my dad over the holidays. Therese and her husband and three children were there when I arrived and stayed the better part of the day. The moment I heard Therese’s voice over the phone, I remembered that she actually got along with Allison. After my parents’ divorce, Allison was no longer the other woman, but my dad’s new wife, and then simply his wife. Therese liked Allison. Allison was a successful businesswoman who didn’t take bull from anyone, and she made smart investment decisions. Of course Therese liked her. They were two peas in a pod.

  I knew before she said another word why she had called.

  “I don’t know where he is, Therese. I haven’t talked to him in several days.”

  Therese didn’t say anything for a few long seconds. When she did speak, I could tell she didn’t believe me.

  “What he did was wrong, Meg. The money he took was what Allison had been given from her grandfather’s estate. It didn’t belong to him. Neither did the car or the earrings and necklaces he took.”

  “I don’t know where he is.” I said it plainly and without a hint of emotion.

  “Do you hear what I am saying? He took money that her grandfather had left her.”

  I was seconds away from hanging up on her, but I wanted to get out of the office with her as a distraction as I walked out. I grabbed my purse, Sofia’s pages, and my book bag.

  “And do you hear what I am saying? I don’t know anything.”

  “You were planning a trip to Italy with him. I’d say that’s knowing something.”

  I pulled my office door shut and headed down the hall at a brisk pace, hoping that Gabe was still with Geoffrey and I could just walk out. Get away. “Apparently you know just as much as I do.”

  “Why are you protecting him?” Therese shouted.

  “Why do you care what he does or doesn’t do?” I yelled back. I could see heads in the reception area turning toward me as I pushed open the front door and emerged into April sunshine. “He’s not your husband. He’s not your problem.”

  “He’s my brother! I promised my mother I wouldn’t let him bury himself in debt. And for your information, Allison doesn’t deserve this!”

  I clacked my way to my car, wanting to run to it and feeling imprisoned by the heels I had decided to wear that day. “Oh yes. Let’s do talk about what Allison deserves. Goodbye, Therese.” I was ready to hang up on her, but she yelled at me not to.

  “Look, I don’t know what he’s promised you, but you’ve got to know he’s stringing you along, like he always has. You think he wants to do right by you, but he’s got you fooled, Meg. You know I am right about this. He’s in trouble. Big trouble. He owes money all over the place. He’s not taking you to Florence. I’m sure he never planned to.”

  I stopped in the middle of the street as her arrow hit home and buried itself in my chest. “How dare you say that?”

  “It’s true. I’ve known him all my life. I’m sorry to say it, but this is just the way he is.”

  A car whooshed past me, honking. For a second I wavered. I nearly gave in to her, but then I remembered the morning Dad brought the poppy-seed bagels and he apologized to me. Something had changed inside him; he was different. He desperately wanted to make things right between us.

  He begged for me to come up with a way to let him show me how much.

  He promised to find the painting.

  I took another step toward the curb and then stopped. My dad left the last morning I saw him, impatient to find it. He said he was going to start looking for it that very day.

  He was going to start with Therese and Bianca.

  With one question, I could gauge my father’s new intentions toward me. One answer to one question would let me know if he’d been sincere the day he drove down to see me or if he was still who Therese said he was.

  “Did my dad ask you about the painting of the little girl and the statue?”

  There was a momentary pause. “The what?”

  I closed the distance between myself and my car. I steeled myself against it and asked her again. “Did my dad ask you about a painting? It was Nonna’s.”

  “What painting? I haven’t talked to your dad in over a month. Why are we even talking about this?”

  The ache that had begun at losing Florence intensified as I fought now to calmly remind Therese which painting of Nonna’s I was talking about. “The one of the little girl and the statue.”

  A second of silence.

  “I have no idea where that painting is.” Exasperation laced her voice. “I haven’t seen it since my mother died. What has this got to do with anything?”

  No idea where that painting is.

  No idea.

  He hadn’t even asked her.

  He hadn’t even asked.

  “Are you still there?” Therese’s question was wrapped in impatience.

  Oh yes. I was still there.

  Nothing had changed.

  I was in my eighth year when I asked Nurse what my father was like, for I could not remember him. I had seen him only once after my mother died. And it was only for a moment. He came to Florence to discuss financial matters, not to see Virginio and me. There was no caress on the cheek during that visit.

  Nurse and I were outside taking in the fresh air on a warm spring day. I was watching my cousin Maria with my uncle Francesco, observing how he spoke to her as he held the reins of his horse with Maria on the animal’s back. Two years younger than I, she still seemed little more than a baby. There was an urgency to my uncle’s words as he told Maria how to sit on his horse, as if she had only that day to learn and all would be lost if she could n
ot make the horse obey her that very afternoon. His attention on her was intense, in a way that interested me, even though I was afraid of him. He was the closest thing to a father that I had, and he never spoke to me. I think he saw my mother in me, and that made him look away from me whenever I was near. He was not fond of my mother.

  Maria did not seem to be enjoying the lesson very much. I saw the sparkle of tears on her cheek. I never envied her having Francesco for a father. But a curling tendril of something akin to envy began to wrap itself around my heart as I watched her being the center of her father’s attention in that moment.

  I allowed the little vine to stay. Even then, though I did not know it yet, I was nurturing my budding belief that envy can transform into something nobler when watered with hope.

  12

  When I moved into the cottage last year, Findlay Wyndham, an old family friend on my mother’s side, told me I was to think of it as my home. I was to eat on the good dishes, burn his candles, use the seashell-shaped soaps, and play his vintage LPs on his old-school turntable as much as I wanted. The lifelong bachelor was off to spend three years sailing around the world at a minnow’s pace, and I was his happy answer to needing a house sitter.

  I eat off my own open-stock stoneware, and I forget to burn even my own candles. The seashell soaps are still in their packaging, and I hardly ever turn on his old stereo.

  But on days when I am feeling particularly disappointed with the state of the universe, I pull out his B. B. King albums, switch on the stereo, and fill the cottage with the blues.

  Fifteen minutes after I hung up with Therese, I was sitting on Findlay’s leather sofa, sipping a Merlot at three o’clock in the afternoon with Alex on my lap and BB belting out “Worry, Worry.”

  Therese had figured out, within seconds of my asking, that Dad had promised to find a painting that meant a lot to me and he hadn’t even asked her about it.

  But the cruelest of his injuries was letting me think he was taking me to Florence when apparently his only plan of late had been figuring out how to run out on his wife with as much cash as he could. What was the purpose of his so-called plans to go to Florence with me? Had it been a distraction for Allison so that she wouldn’t wonder why he was making travel plans, airing out his suitcases, and pulling his passport out of the safe?