Your stare was unnerving. You hadn’t eaten in more than a day. In a panic, sobbing hysterically, I agreed. You seemed to grow hotter and hotter. Straight from the library, we drove.
—
You never know when you will be forced to make the decision that will define your days. I like to think I acted in your best interests. At times, I’ve even thought I was the selfless one, taking on a daily sadness in exchange for your safety. As the years have gone by, and my need for you has only grown stronger, I keep reminding myself that the Kendalls are caring for you, giving you every opportunity money can buy.
—
The drive felt like it was over in minutes. Before it was dawn, we were back in Texas, the state where you no longer belonged to me, at least not in the eyes of the law. I parked on K½ Street in Galveston. I gathered you in my arms. The most beautiful girl in the world. I carried you up the front walkway, over the stones where I’d drawn with chalk, up to the door I’d helped to paint. I rang the bell.
My mother answered looking confused and then angry. I told her I was sorry. I told her you were very ill, that Patsy needed to bring you to the Kendalls immediately. My mother took one look at you—your face was too flushed, your eyes glassy by now—and understood. I told Patsy I was leaving, that I would be in touch. “Tell them—make them promise, please—never to look for me,” I said.
“Oh, Dorrie,” she said. Her face fell with a hungover sorrow, but she nodded. The sun had turned the day brilliant. I failed to say goodbye. I held you close a final time, and whispered to you. You were so hot, and so still. I gave you to my mother.
I got back into the car, and we drove east: Jayne, your brother, and me.
—
In my last moments with you, I told you where I would be, if you ever needed me. I would be by the sea, I said, not knowing anything more. And you must have heard me in some fundamental way, my girl. Because by the sea is where we found you, where I next held your body, after you had grown into a skinny girl, a broken girl, the one I had abandoned.
17
Eloise
I walked along the beach for a while, holding the paper bag. I thought about calling someone for help. But who?
I saw a sign for Hyannis Whale Watcher Cruises. I had no more money, but I walked over to the ticket window anyway. A video of a whale jumping out of the sea played on a loop. It was pretty incredible, I had to admit. So big—majestic. I had a credit card, so why not?
“Shouldn’t you be in school?” said the lady at the ticket counter.
I looked at her without speaking, slid my credit card across. The woman squinted at the card. “You have a photo ID?” she asked. She looked supersuspicious. I opened my wallet and showed her my Pringley identification card. She looked hard at me and at the card, but then she gave me a ticket.
On the boat, I walked away from the tourists and to the very top deck. There, I could look over the water. It was raining and cold. I breathed deeply.
A voice came over the speakers as we pulled from shore. It went on and on about the history of whaling, how the wives would be left on land for months and months, but the men risked their lives at sea. It made me think about my real mother, how she had left me, just given me to Suzette and walked away forever.
I was in A Midsummer Night’s Dream when I was fourteen. I played Hermia, the lead. Somehow, I got it into my head that my real mother would see the story in the newspaper about the play, and would show up in the audience. On opening night, before the show, I was lying on Suzette’s bed, watching TV.
Suzette was wearing her slip and earrings. She’d applied undereye concealer—two light V-shapes under her eyes. Her hair was still wet, starting to curl in the humid evening. “Maybe my real mom will come to the play,” I said.
She turned to me, hurt. But I didn’t care about Suzette’s feelings. I just didn’t care. “It’s possible,” I said.
“She’s not coming,” said Suzette. “She told us not to look for her. I’m sorry, Eloise.”
“That’s not true!” I said, standing up. “Take that back,” I said.
“It is true,” said Suzette.
“You ruin everything!” I cried. “I hate you!”
Suzette looked down. She did not respond.
When, in the play, I woke up in the woods and couldn’t find Lysander, I felt like my anger at my real mother made the lines especially poignant:
Lysander! What, removed? Lysander! Lord!
What, out of hearing? Gone? No sound, no word?
Alack, where are you? Speak, an if you hear:
Speak, of all loves! I swoon almost with fear.
No? Then I well perceive you all not nigh.
Either death or you I’ll find immediately.
Of course, like an idiot, I looked out over the rows of chairs. Of course, there were Hyland and Suzette, as always. (They came to every performance of every play.) But I had really expected to see, watching from the audience, somebody who looked like me.
—
“Ooooh!” cried a person on the other side of the whale-watching boat. She pointed, telling her companion something in a language I didn’t know. I ran over and saw a whale rise up out of the ocean, then slam back down into the water. It was awe-inspiring. I guess I hadn’t really understood how huge whales were. I mean, massive! The whale came up again, all the way out of the water. My jaw dropped. I was seriously overwhelmed. And then a baby whale (according to the guy on the loudspeaker) surfaced alongside its mom. They frolicked, and that’s the only word that describes it. The woman who spoke another language turned to me, and we grinned. She said something enthusiastically, and I agreed with all my heart.
We didn’t see any more whales, though the cruise went on for another two hours. By the time we headed back to the dock, my elation had pretty much ebbed away. I was glad to have the pills. In the cramped bathroom of the ship, I stared at myself in the mirror. I swallowed a pill, washed it down with the lemonade I’d bought at the snack bar. I looked like complete crap.
I wished that I could stay at sea. If I had been a whaler, I thought, I could avoid land forever. But then I would have to kill whales, and that would be a real downer. Also, way too difficult. Spearing one of those enormous creatures seemed both logistically impossible and ethically wrong.
I turned on my phone. It was filled with missed calls from Suzette. Ha! I took a picture of the horizon, posted it to lovepages, and threw the phone overboard. The pill wasn’t doing anything. I felt exactly the same. I dumped a few more into my hand, swallowed them with lemonade. There were two pills left in the bottle, so I took them, too. I felt nothing, nothing, nothing.
The boat slid into its slip, and passengers disembarked. When everyone but me was off the boat, I lay down underneath some seats, just thinking I wanted to take the tour again. The next thing I knew, a man in a windbreaker was next to me, his hand on my arm.
“Are you all right, Miss?” he said.
Thanks to the ketamine, I felt a hundred miles away from this question. The man pulled a cellphone from his pocket and tapped away. He seemed frightened. It was clear to me that I needed to get off the boat.
I got up. I was unsteady on my feet, but running was my specialty. I could hear the theme song to Chariots of Fire in my head, and I slammed down one foot and then the other, disembarking. I reached dry land and sprinted off, toward a row of restaurants. I pumped my arms. I gasped for breath. I did not stop.
“Wait!” called the man. “Come back!”
Within minutes, I couldn’t hear his voice anymore. All I could hear, as I kept moving forward, was my own body working, my blood pounding in my ears.
I found myself in a warren of old buildings. I turned in to a narrow alley, kept going until I was safely out of sight. I reached a small beach, and lay down on the sand. I wasn’t trying to die. I just wanted to be numb, to stop feeling, and this isn’t to say I wanted to be dead. Anyway, the sand was soft.
I closed my eyes, and I could hear a
song underneath the sea. It sounded like whales—I’d heard a recording once, their cries both mournful and lovely. They, like me, were missing someone. I wished that I could swim amongst them, immerse myself, just go into the waves and let myself be enveloped by water. I was still on the sand. But I was falling deep into a warmer place.
As I fell, I couldn’t stop seeing him. The boy with the bare chest and the tattoos, the boy who gazed out the window of his small house, as if he was searching, too. I heard the song, it beckoned me, and I saw him.
He was exactly my age, and somehow, we had the same face.
18
Dorrie
Most nights, after I’ve given Zane a mug of warm vanilla milk and a back scratch, and before I settle on the couch with Jayne for our sitcoms (unless Jayne is out with her boyfriend; on those nights, I watch TV by myself), I open this diary and think of you. When Patsy died, I had her belongings sent here to Hyannis. Little did I know, Patsy must have been in touch with the Kendalls: amongst her things was a framed picture of you. You look as if you’re in first grade. In the photo, beaded barrettes hold back your unruly hair. Your expression is a bit apprehensive but hopeful—it’s as if you are waiting to be told you are beautiful. (You are.) It’s hard to reconcile the six-year-old girl in the picture with the descriptors I’ve recently been given: pill popper, runaway, anguished.
Some nights I write, usually using a fine-point Sharpie. (One of the perks of working at Walgreens is unlimited access to pens of all kinds, not to mention mechanical pencils.) Some nights, I just close my eyes and try to send happy thoughts to you. This has gone on for years; it’s the perfect way to end my day. I deserve to feel the pain reflection brings. And I savor the moments when I believe everything worked out for the best. The honeyed calm I feel when Zane is safely in his room is edged with melancholy. We are all home—all safe—but someone is always missing, and it is you.
Today was different. Instead of the usual trek to work—the ringing up of strangers’ intimate purchases (Pregnancy tests! Twix bars! Sleeping pills! Suppositories!), the fleeting but warm conversations with Paul about his pit bull terrier and the funny photos people have sent for processing, and the bus ride home followed by dinner, tea, and writing, I spent the day searching for you.
I drove the old Mazda through the slick streets of Hyannis—my window down, searching. I imagined every awful possibility: finding you slumped, cold, in an alleyway; seeing a glimpse of you amid the drug addicts who hung out by the 7-Eleven dumpsters; being told that yes, one of the hospitals or twenty-four-hour clinics had admitted a sixteen-year-old girl in bad shape.
What questions would you ask, once I held you safely in my arms? Do you think I brought you to the Kendalls because I didn’t want you?
I wanted you. I want you. There are so many things I need to tell you, Eloise. I realized, as I drove around Hyannis, that when I made the awful decision to give you to the Kendalls, I’d assumed you would forget about me. I thought all the pain of our separation would be mine.
Imagining you out in the cold, and so lonely, I realized I had been wrong. But I felt as if I’d been given a second chance to find you, to care for you as I should have done from the start. Rain began falling, making the roads slippery. I looked for you, Eloise, and I yearned for atonement.
19
Suzette
It began raining as Hyland and Suzette drove north to Hyannis. “Sometimes, I just don’t understand you,” said Hyland. He stared intently at the road, the heavy gray sky.
“Maybe we should have told her a long time ago,” said Suzette.
“Except that we promised Dorrie we wouldn’t,” said Hyland.
“But why? Why did Dorrie insist on hiding from us? From Eloise? It doesn’t make sense, Hyland. She never asked for the money. Didn’t that ever occur to you?”
Hyland cut a glance at his wife. “Yes,” he said. “Of course it occurred to me, Suzette. But I guess I figured…I guess I figured it was none of our business. She gave us Eloise. To be honest, I didn’t really care what the hell she was thinking!”
“Just that it all worked out,” said Suzette.
“Yeah,” said Hyland. After a minute or two, he said, “God, we’re assholes, aren’t we?”
“We’re not assholes,” said Suzette.
He turned to her, raised an eyebrow.
“Maybe a bit,” said Suzette. “Maybe a little bit.”
“We sent pictures to Patsy, didn’t we?” said Hyland.
Suzette nodded. “We did,” she said.
“We pay for your mother’s new facility, don’t we?” said Hyland. “Even though it’s ridiculously expensive?”
“Yes,” sighed Suzette. “Even though she doesn’t deserve it,” she added.
“What did that book tell you about forgiveness, Suzette?”
She sighed. “It’s a four-step process,” she said. “Step One: Get really mad at my mom, for all the ways she let me down.”
“Step Two?”
“I’m still at Step One.”
Hyland smiled, and then stopped smiling. “Is she out in this?” he said, gesturing to the rain.
“I hope she’s wearing the warm boots,” said Suzette. She and Eloise had gone to three shops and even the mall before finding a pair of boots that Eloise liked. “Oh God,” said Suzette. “What if she isn’t wearing the boots? What if she’s in those flimsy leopard-print flats?”
“Try her again,” said Hyland. Suzette dialed, but Eloise’s phone was still turned off. Suzette shook her head. She turned on the car radio, and they listened to the news in silence, then to classical music, then to rock. Finally, Suzette turned it off.
“We’re almost there,” said Hyland, taking the exit toward the Sagamore Bridge.
“What was it like, talking to Dorrie after all this time?” said Suzette. “What did she sound like?”
Hyland exhaled. “She was confused, I guess is how I’d put it. She seemed annoyed that I’d called, short with me. But then I told her Eloise was missing. I told her…about the drugs.”
Suzette looked at her hands. “What did she say?”
“She was alarmed. She said she’d start looking for Eloise, and that she’d call us if she heard anything.”
“Was she mad at us?”
“Mad at us? What do you mean?”
“For messing up,” said Suzette.
“Oh, Suzette.”
“I used to hate her,” said Suzette, touching the car window. It was cold.
“And now?”
“I guess I’m still angry with her, but…”
“But what?”
“I guess you can never know why people do what they do. I wouldn’t have been able to give Eloise away either. I live in fear of losing her.”
“Really?” Hyland’s tone was kind, surprised. She could tell he wasn’t judging her, but felt sorry for her. He loved her, Suzette knew, and he wished she could find peace.
Suzette nodded, stared at the rain. “Sad but true,” she said.
—
They crossed the bridge, and followed Route 6 to Barnstable and then Hyannis. Past the small downtown, they turned left. It continued to rain. They passed large homes and then smaller ones. When they saw a sign for Cinnamon Shores, Hyland turned. Dorrie’s street was lined with small, neat mobile homes. “It’s number sixty-two,” said Hyland. They pulled into the driveway of a double-wide with white vinyl siding.
“It doesn’t look like anyone’s here,” said Suzette.
“I should call, I guess,” said Hyland. He dialed, then said, “No answer.”
They sat in the car for a while, the engine on, heater running.
“What are we supposed to do now?” said Suzette.
Hyland stared at Dorrie’s home. He didn’t answer. Then he shrugged on his winter coat (Suzette hadn’t seen it in years), and walked to Dorrie’s front door. He pushed the doorbell, crossed his arms over his chest. His breath was visible in the cold air. Suzette realized that she didn’t
have any warm clothes. The jeans and cotton sweater she wore would hardly get her through a day in Massachusetts. She thought of Eloise, all the outfits they’d bought, the way Eloise had surveyed herself critically in the dressing room mirror. Suzette turned off the car and ran to join Hyland. “Don’t leave me alone with my thoughts,” she said, burying herself in his arms.
“Look,” said Hyland. He pointed through a window in the front door.
Suzette looked in. “Yeah, lots of coats,” she said. “Scarves and hats. What?”
“There, in the corner.”
Suzette narrowed her eyes and saw two hockey sticks and a hockey bag, underneath a New York Rangers jacket. “You mean the hockey stuff?” she asked.
“Look at the bag,” said Hyland. His face was strange, his expression almost childlike, as if he’d just been handed a wrapped box containing everything he’d ever wished for.
“The bag?” said Suzette. “It looks like your hockey bag, Hyland.”
“There’s a name on the bag,” said Hyland. He grabbed Suzette’s hand. “A boy’s name, there on the bag. Zane.”
20
Dorrie
Jayne needed to go to work at 3:00 P.M. I was tired and worried, frantic to find you, Eloise. But as she stepped from the car in front of the condominium where she was taking care of an elderly man, Jayne turned to me. “Don’t forget about Zane,” she said. It was like a punch to the stomach. “You can’t keep him in the dark,” said Jayne. “Not anymore.”
I nodded. Jayne gave me a quick hug and shut the door.
I picked up my phone and called him. “Moms!” he answered, his voice (as always) enthusiastic and loud.
“Hi, Zane,” I said.
“I’m walking into b-ball practice. What’s up?”
“I need to talk to you, honey,” I said.
“What’s the matter?”
The Nearness of You Page 16