by Kim Hooper
“I’ll be driving this time next year,” she says. It sounds like a threat. It is one, I guess.
“Driving!” I say. I attempt a smile, though the whole idea of this terrifies me. I hope I can be one of those cool mothers when it comes to teaching her to drive, not too anxious, not slamming my foot into the floor, pressing the imaginary brake.
“I should start saving for a car,” she says. “Babysitting’s where it’s at. Heather is making bank.”
“You’d be good with kids,” I say.
Chances are, I won’t see Claire become a mother. She’ll be a much better mother than me, I bet. I won’t get to see who she chooses as a husband. Chances are, it won’t be Tyler. She will have many loves and many heartbreaks and I won’t get to be there. There’s an it’s-not-fair tantrum going on in my head. I would stomp my feet and scream if I could.
The waitress I tipped off and a group of four coworkers sing while presenting Claire with a giant sundae that looks to be composed of mostly whipped cream. Claire stares at the candle long and hard, as if contemplating something of great importance. Then she blows and they clap politely before going back to their ususal duties.
“Big wish, huh?” I say.
“That one,” she says, “was for you.”
* * *
We spend two days in Chicago. We take the bridge over the river and walk the Magnificent Mile, ending up at the edge of Lake Michigan. We see “the Bean” in Millennium Park, eat deep-dish pizza, take the L to Wrigley Field to walk around the neighborhood. Drew and I went to Chicago once—a spontaneous weekend adventure to see the Cubs play the Mets. Drew liked the Mets, hated the Yankees. He was always rooting for the underdogs. It was June. A thunderstorm passed through and we spent three hours waiting in the stands with the other diehards, drinking Old Style beer and eating peanuts. We were so drunk by the time the game started. I don’t even remember who won.
Claire declares Cincinnati her favorite stop. She likes the Over-the-Rhine neighborhood. She reads from her phone: “It’s believed to be the largest, most intact urban historic district in the United States.”
“Maybe you’ll live here one day,” I muse.
“I can’t imagine leaving California,” she says.
“I used to say that about New York.”
We’re walking through the riverfront park. I never thought of Cincinnati as having a water feature. There’s so much of the country, of the world, I don’t know.
“Are you nervous?” Claire asks. “To go back?”
“Yes,” I say.
She sits on a bench and I sit next to her.
“I don’t think he hates you, if that helps,” she says.
It does help, but this might be wishful thinking on her part.
“I mean, we don’t talk about you all the time, but I was telling him how you let me plan the whole trip and he said, ‘Your mom sounds pretty cool,’” she says. “I don’t think he would say that if he hated you.”
I hang on the words: Your mom sounds pretty cool.
“Maybe,” I say. “I would hate me.”
She gazes out at the river.
“I don’t hate you,” she says. “And you always say I’m a good judge of character.”
It’s true, I do say that.
“You’re biased,” I say.
She taps her fingers on the bench like it’s a piano.
“Did you have a different name in New York? Like, who were you there?”
Who was I? I was a little selfish, a little idealistic, a little sad.
“Emily,” I say, “that was my name.”
She scratches her head. “The lady, at that craft fair, when you bought me that bracelet?”
I can’t believe she remembers.
“Yes, she recognized me,” I say. “She was my boss.”
“Were you a bartender there, too?”
I laugh.
“No, no. I was a writer at an ad agency, and then I was an administrative assistant at this big company,” I tell her.
This big company in the World Trade Center. Yes, the buildings that crashed down. I was supposed to be there. I faked my death. It’s obvious Drew hasn’t told her these things about me yet. That restraint, that kindness, is what suggests that maybe she’s right—he doesn’t hate me.
“I can’t see it,” Claire says. She knows me, and will only ever know me, as a bartender trying to make ends meet.
“I know,” I say. “Sometimes I can’t, either.”
* * *
From Cincinnati, we drive to Washington, D.C. We arrive at night because of traffic. We’ve picked a nice hotel for this part of the trip because I’ve heard horror stories of being in “the wrong area” in D.C. Our room has a view of the Washington Monument, all lit up. And if we stick our heads out the window and turn them just so, we can see the White House, also lit up, in the distance.
By the end of the next day, after strolling through the National Mall and touring the Museum of American History and Museum of Natural History—Claire likes to read all the placards, mind you—I reach a level of exhaustion that only a bottle of wine can fix. I wait until Claire falls asleep watching a movie on TV and then I slip out and down to the hotel bar.
“Rough day?” the bartender says, filling my second glass. I don’t do this very often at Al’s Place, make conversation with the patrons. This guy is young, hopeful for tips.
“I actually had a great day,” I say.
My head is starting to feel totally detached from my body, my thoughts and worries floating in the ether.
“Tomorrow, though,” I say, “tomorrow may be a doozy.”
Tomorrow, we go to New York.
“Well,” he says, “no use thinking about it right now.”
He sounds like Paul.
I pay my bill and leave an extra twenty as a tip.
THIRTY-TWO
We are on the New Jersey Turnpike, approaching Newark Airport, the last place I was Emily Morris. I feel like I’m going to puke again. I’ve puked once already, when I pulled over in the middle of nowhere in Pennsylvania. I told Claire I had to pee. I wish I could blame the nausea on last night’s bottle of wine, but I know it’s not that.
My palms are sweaty on the steering wheel. Drew is expecting us around four o’clock. That’s in two hours. We’re going to his house—an Upper West Side address between Riverside Park and Central Park, estimated at one million dollars according to the Internet. Either his restaurant is extremely successful or he married very well. I can’t resent him either way.
“I’m nervous, too,” Claire says. I didn’t say I was nervous. She just knows.
She rubs her palms on her thighs.
Of course, the one time I wouldn’t mind traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike, there isn’t any. We pass Newark, memories of Drew’s mother flooding my head. We’re so close to Irvington, where I grew up, where my mother may still live. I won’t find out. I’ve thought about it, and I just can’t.
“We’re early,” I say to Claire, whose face is an inch from the window, taking in the approaching city. She’ll never know the World Trade Center as part of that skyline. What is there now—the Freedom Tower? As if any of us could be truly free from that day.
Cars back up on the George Washington Bridge, as predicted. I tell Claire we’re crossing the state line between New Jersey and New York. She’s been obsessed with that on this trip—state lines, how you can be in one place one second and another place the next.
Before I know it, I’m on the Henry Hudson Parkway, remembering my cab ride out of the city with Angel Rivera like it was yesterday. I take the exit for Ninety-fifth Street.
“Is that Central Park?” Claire says, pointing down Ninety-sixth at the seemingly out-of-place, confounding cluster of green amid all the smog and concrete.
“Sure is,” I say. “We have an hour before we have to be there. You want to walk around?”
The park hasn’t changed a bit—a fact that both comforts and astounds me. I’m r
ight back to the last time I was here, with Gabe, on that day we had the picnic beneath the castle, the day before I was going to tell him about the baby, the day before I was going to leave Drew, the day before he died. Claire and I pass the Great Lawn. Two kids are playing Frisbee among the ghosts of Gabe Walters and Emily Morris. Of course, Claire says she wants to see the castle, so we do. There’s a line because there is a line for everything in New York, and by the time we make our way back into the daylight, it’s time to go.
The last time Drew and I saw each other was right after I found out I was pregnant, when he came over to pick up Bruce because he thought I was too sick to walk him. Drew, ever dutiful, always doing the “right thing.” It’s baffling to me now, the way I resented him. I miss Emily Morris in some ways, but I see her as so naïve, so trapped by her own illusions. I guess that’s the perspective that comes with age. I shiver and wonder how much more perspective I’ll be allowed. How many years. Will I get the chance to prove that Connie is different, better? Maybe Drew will realize that. Maybe there is hope.
According to the all-knowing Internet, Drew’s one-million-dollar apartment is in a 1929 prewar building. There’s a doorman, which my mother used to say was “only for rich assholes.” My heart pounds in my chest as we take the creaky old elevator to the second floor, my sweaty palm clutching the brass railing. I asked Claire if she wanted me to come up with her and she said yes. I’m surprised Drew didn’t instruct her to have me drop her off and come back, like this is some kind of playdate. Does that mean he wants to see me? What is he going to think when our eyes meet? What will I think? In this moment, I’m not sure I’ll recognize him. His face is blurry in my mind.
“Do I look okay?” I feel stupid the millisecond the question leaves my mouth.
Claire doesn’t hesitate: “Beautiful,” she says. Whether it’s a lie or an exaggeration, I don’t know and I don’t care. It’s what I need to hear.
“What about me?” she says.
She’s wearing a moss-green dress I bought her for this occasion, with a pair of heels—her first pair. They’re white, with two thick straps across the front of her foot. I can hardly call them heels; they’re elevated a half inch off the floor. It’s obvious she feels more grown-up in them, though.
“Beautiful,” I tell her. “Really beautiful.”
We stand outside his door. It has an old-fashioned knocker, a metal lion’s head. I wonder if Drew or his wife is looking through the peephole. I compose my face just in case.
“Go ahead, sweetie,” I say.
This is for her. All of this is for her.
She knocks tentatively, looking at me as she does. I hear footsteps approaching, then the flipping of a lock. The doorknob turns. And then, right there, is my past, instantly familiar. His eyes—those eyes—meet mine for a quick second before they dart down at our daughter.
“Hi,” she says.
“You must be Claire.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
If you’re like me, you read the acknowledgments for a small glimpse into the author’s life and how the book came to be. So, here’s your glimpse.
I’ve been writing books since I was in elementary school. When I gained enough skill and foolishness to submit novels to agents, I met with a lot of rejection. My mom always said, “It will happen. It’s just a matter of time.” I scoffed and rolled my eyes, but she was right. Mom, thank you for believing in me when I thought it was ridiculous to do so. And thank you for being such a voracious reader—of not just my writing, but of books in general. I hope we trade novels back and forth for decades to come.
Dad, thank you, too. You’re big on not giving up, and I have to think that had something to do with this book existing in the world beyond my computer’s hard drive.
Over the years, I’ve been rejected by many agents, and I kept a list of ones who were at least nice about it. Andrea Somberg was first on that list. So, when I finished my first draft of this book, I sent pages to her. Much to my surprise, she responded immediately and wanted to read the whole thing. A few days later, we were chatting on the phone, and she was so complimentary of the story that I was blushing like a schoolgirl. Thank you, Andrea, for holding my naive hand through all of this. My anxiety appreciates your fast response to e-mails.
Thank you to everyone at St. Martin’s Press, especially my editor, Brenda Copeland, and her assistants, Laura Chasen and Michelle Ma. Brenda, you made me realize the true value of an editor. As a writer, when you finish a book, you think it’s truly done. You can’t see how it could be better. So, when you get an editor’s notes, it’s a shock to the system. There is so much insecurity and self-doubt. You were there to encourage me through all that. Next time, I’ll look forward to your much-needed perspective, instead of fearing the revisions it entails. Also, thank you for making me aware of my problematic obsession with em-dashes. Did you see I snuck a couple into the dedication? You’re welcome.
Also, I may be a decent writer, but I suck at self-promotion, so thank you to my publicity team, led by Katie Kurtzman and Brittani Hilles.
To all my early readers (Eurie, Megan, Meredith, Huong, Lauren, Jess, Jay, Steph, and Toni, to name a few), thank you for taking the time. I know some of that early stuff was cringe-worthy.
To Ken Medina, my middle school English teacher, I don’t think you realize the impact you had. You made me really love reading. You made me believe I could be a writer (and you convinced me that was a valid path).
Thank you to my sister, Ashley, for the talks about staying true to my creative self. I’m not sure how two physical therapists produced a writer and a photographer, but here we are.
Going with the cliché of saving the best for last, thank you to my loving, left-brained husband. He describes himself as “not a reader,” yet he will reread my novels over and over again and brainstorm solutions to problems with me. He also catches weird errors (“I thought this character’s hair was brown. Here you say it’s blond”). Chris, in many ways, I don’t know what I (or my characters and their variable hair) would do without you. I’m sure you didn’t know what you were getting into marrying a sensitive, introverted writer, and yet you stand by me and continue to make audacious claims like, “You’re perfect for me.” All I can say in return is that you’re perfect for me, too.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kim Hooper lives in Southern California with her husband and an absurd number of pets. People Who Knew Me is her first novel. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events port
rayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
PEOPLE WHO KNEW ME. Copyright © 2016 by Kimberly Hooper. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by James Iacobelli
Cover photograph by Tara Violet Niami
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-07798-1 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-9030-5 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466890305
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at [email protected].
First Edition: May 2016