Trompe l'Oeil

by Nancy Reisman

  Sara said nothing more. She took Nora’s car and drove up the bluff, the sky starry, the roads dark; then the girls were in the car too, and she drove back down the bluff. Trying not to turn quickly, because the friend, Caroline, was sick. They stopped for Caroline to be sick; after, she was crying. Time seemed to slow as they ferried Caroline to the house. She would sleep in Delia’s bed, they decided, Delia would give up her bed (later Delia would share Sara’s). First, though, a shower. They tried not to wake the baby or Nora, but Nora appeared nonetheless. Without reproach she took charge of Caroline, Delia with her.

  Sara carried the soiled clothes downstairs to launder, the living room TV still pouring light. On the sofa, Katy appeared pale. Everyone was pale, Sara thought: she might be Caroline in the car, or Delia in the bedroom doorway, or Sara driving. What can happen, Sara thought. But Delia, magnificent Delia yelled, You fuckhead, and Sara drove. Bad but not the worst: Fuckhead had just gotten started. Now their mother was rinsing the sick from Caroline’s hair.

  “Mom thinks she’ll be okay,” Sara said, and set the laundry basket down.

  Katy closed her eyes.

  “Katy?” Sara said, but Katy rolled away into the sofa, feigning sleep, waiting, it seemed, for the moment to end.

  STORM

  Early winter. The low barometric pressure and dropping temperatures drugged them all: no one wanted to get out of bed. That morning Katy was rushing, half-organized at six thirty, but Connor had been up at three, as if alert to the rising wind, the stronger gusts soon buffeting the house. She’d pulled a T-shirt over her stockings and skirt and managed to start breakfast while he was still asleep: now she was cracking eggs, toasting bread in the oven, spilling coffee grounds as she measured. At the counter, Nora made sandwiches, packed brown bags for the girls. She and Katy were both quiet, alert to the uncalm air. Nora stepped over toward the sink and opened the window to strong damp gusts. She stood with her cigarette and black tea, blowing smoke out, the wind pushing it back.

  There had been pre-storm warnings, local broadcasters photographing the sky and then cutting to cheerily colored maps of offshore systems, and men with pickup trucks buying gasoline and road salt. High storm surge predicted for coastal towns, which would mean water in the street, seepage in the basement, and another neighborhood evacuation. The access road still dipped low and rose and dipped again, and heavy storm surges could swamp it, cutting off their street. Last year they’d had damage to the north-facing siding and shutters, the roof. Already, Nora had fastened the storm shutters, taped the interior windows, filled the freezer with ice for the power outage ahead. Though there was the off chance they’d spend a night in a motel or the high school gym.

  No Tim: Tim had closed late and stayed with his friend Sal in Hanover. And when the phone rang and Nora answered—calmly it seemed, despite the cigarette—it wasn’t Tim, but the neighbor Joanie MacFarland saying the evacuation order came early, town trucks already on the way.

  “Girls?” Nora called from the bottom of the stairs. “SaraDelia, pack it up.” And then Connor’s cry—the unhappy shock of first waking, the awareness of Katy elsewhere. “I’ll get him,” Nora said.

  Katy poured the eggs into the skillet, listening. If she could just have eggs, coffee and toast and eggs, she might be able to think.

  Upstairs, the girls thumped, murmured, and Connor’s crying ceased. “Okay, angel,” Nora said, and then, in a louder voice, “Don’t forget your eyedrops. Delia, grab Connor’s hat.” A string of reminders. Katy pulled the toast from the oven. “Get that heater. Sara, lights. Would you take him?”

  In a moment Sara appeared at the bottom of the stairs with Connor, Katy’s round, pink-cheeked boy. He was happy; he was reaching for Katy.

  “Hi Connor,” Katy said. “Hi baby boy.” She held him for a moment, and he pulled at her T-shirt, reached for her hair. “Good morning,” she kissed him and motioned toward his bottle. Sara took him back to feed him, and Katy poured the coffee.

  Buttered toast, eggs on the plate, milk into the coffee. “I’ll be right back, Connor,” she said, and carried the breakfast upstairs. Connor’s packed diaper bag leaned against the wall outside her room, the bedroom itself chaotic. In an overstuffed drawer, she searched for a clean bra, clean stockings; in the closet, she found her empty overnight bag. But her handbag?

  “Delia, almost?” Nora said.

  Delia’s murmur emanated from the bathroom. “Which lip gloss?”

  “Love,” Nora said, “just take both.”

  And from downstairs, Sara called, “I think the town guys are here.” Katy could hear Connor fussing. “Hey,” Sara said, “hey hey, wait, that’s dirty, you’ll get it back. Okay?” And louder, “Mom?”

  The bell, loud knocking on the kitchen door.

  Hooking the bra, buttoning the blouse. Jacket. Shoes. She’d have to wear boots. Delia and Nora headed down the stairs, the diaper bag now gone. From the bathroom, Katy grabbed a makeup case and toothbrush, then followed.

  Here was the town guy, Joey Connolly, two graduating classes before her, in his shining yellow slicker and boots: the sleet was blowing in now. Just past low tide, he said, and already they had ponding at the end of the road, a thick film of water creeping up the street-side outside the house. At the door, he took Connor from Sara—held him securely enough—and Sara and Delia hurried with their bags down the stairs to the wet street and Nora’s car. “I’ll keep him with me at work,” Nora called, and followed them out, Joey carrying the baby.

  Where were Katy’s keys? Handbag? And once she found them (living room) and pulled on her boots, she slid the eggs between two pieces of toast and into a paper sack, gathered her overnight things and coat, and hauled it all down to her car. Joey Connolly waited until she’d turned the motor and started down the street, toward the two orange-flag-waving guys directing cars to the access road.

  Atrocious roads, atrocious sleet, a blurry two-mile backup at the highway ramp. After several minutes, Katy turned around and made her way through the sleet to the doctor’s office at the harbor. Inside, it was quiet. At the reception area, Nora held Connor on her lap while he chewed a pink teething ring and drooled on her jacket. She’d tucked the phone receiver against her shoulder; she scanned the computer screen, typed. In the waiting room, one toddler and mother sat on the floor, stacking blocks; most of the morning’s appointments had cancelled. Katy took Connor to an adjoining play mat, Connor oblivious, happy to smash a blue plastic block against the mat, and when he tired of that, happy for Katy to read to him. After stories of friendly pigs, a sledding holiday, and a magic bicycle, Nora announced she’d booked two rooms at an inland motel.

  By late morning, the office had closed, as had the local schools and most of town hall. Nora collected the girls, Katy following as they inched along the slick and jammed-up secondary roads.

  Strangely boring, the storm: for the first several hours, Sara watched TV movies and weather reports with her sisters and Nora, took turns entertaining Connor. Had she been alone, or just with Delia, she might have napped. But Katy made no move to take Connor to their room, and the TV chattered on. They ate pizza; Nora phoned neighbors at other motels, left a message at James’s office. Finally, Sara and Delia brought their homework to Katy’s unoccupied room. Then, for a time, Sara slept. When she awoke, it was full dark and thickly snowing, only the nearby donut shop’s lights cutting through the murk beyond the window. She had begun to picture Shore Road as a fast-moving creek, the house’s storage room filling with water, high enough to swamp the furnace, leaving the yellow beach chairs and sand buckets floating above sunken metal shovels and bench tools. Dead fish and seaweed might wash up on the outside deck, along with drifts of sand and ice. She pictured the second floor: spongy wet carpet, a flooded bathroom. There had been television reports from the region—footage of gray waves and white foam and, through a veil of snow, somebody’s seawall, somebody’s roof, more crashing gray waves against sand, but nothing from their neighborhood. When sh
e returned to the other room, her mother was on the phone listening.

  It was not news they understood. There had been surge damage all along the road, the worst at the far end, where shutters had torn off and rushing seawater burst through windows; and then the access road, which had flooded badly, potholed, lost a two-yard bite of pavement. Their immediate neighborhood had held up better, though there would be expensive repairs. But from the bluff looking out, someone had seen smoke, a glimpse of orange. Hard to confirm until a lull, but then, yes, fire and already far along. Which made no sense, the water seemingly all around. It must have looked like a burning boat. “Even in the weather?” Nora said. Yes, in the weather. “And the surf?” Despite the surf. Well, the surf’s what might have put it out in the end. What there was to put out.

  For several hours, Nora lied. “There’s damage,” she told the girls, “but nothing we can fix tonight.” She helped Katy settle Connor in their room, and told the girls to sleep, and crossed the parking lot to the donut shop.

  What was true or not true? They were in a motel room; they were taking the word of Joey Connolly, or someone just like Joey Connolly. They were taking the word of a guy who waved orange flags. Easy enough in winter storms to misidentify a house. It might have been a neighbor’s house (no one wished that on the neighbors; mistakes are made). Say it was in fact a boat, a large boat, blown too close in—even to the seawall, where boats don’t belong. You might mistake that for a house. The Murphys’ motel room appeared as it had when they’d arrived; news or not, the house must still be as they’d left it.

  Electrical, of some kind, no telling the source for sure—no matter how many times Nora asked, then and in the weeks to follow. There had been roof leaks; they’d had two upstairs rooms rewired, the contractor cut-rate. A leak in the siding Nora had tried to seal herself. Hadn’t the girls run a heater? Turned off, yes? And unplugged? “I turned everything off,” Katy said. Once she said it, she could picture herself turning off the burner and the oven, the coffeemaker, and the space heater in her bedroom. And when she later repeated it to Tim, still the picture—but in it, was she wearing the T-shirt and skirt? Stockings for work or plain socks? An image from another day?

  At 4:00 AM, when Sara woke up, Delia was sleeping, Nora still out. Beyond the window, visible under the streetlights, thick flurries.

  MOTEL

  In that life—the life they’d momentarily entered—the donut vendor played a key role. He was wiry, his face creased and weathered, as if he had been a fisherman before he’d become a donut shop manager. Taciturn but not unfriendly: he’d put extra chocolate creams in the bag when he found out they’d evacuated their house. And after the news, when Sara returned and sat by herself at a table, he poured her free coffee and stationed himself several feet away, neither close nor far. She thanked him; she ordered donuts to go. He asked if she needed a box, and she welled up. Ridiculous. A box. Was it the kind tone? Or just the fact of offering—napkins, creamers, sugar, anything. A stranger could offer things you didn’t need and still help you.

  The motel bathroom: perfumed white cakes of soap, miniature bottles of amber shampoo, bleached washcloths, hand towels, undersized bath towels the girls called “half baths.” Two double beds, two faux-wood night tables, an armchair, a desk. A compact refrigerator, yellowed coffeemaker, instant coffee, tea bags, sugar, a grainy powdered creamer, red plastic stirrers Connor wanted to grab. A large color television perched on the bureau. Gold polyester curtains covered the windows, which faced a parking lot: motel lights dully reflected on cleared car hoods and icy puddles.

  Katy’s state should have been plain when she’d first maneuvered to stay in the same room with Nora, insisted on being near her. When Sara walked in with the donuts, the static seemed visible. From the bathroom, the splash of water, Delia’s voice trotting along to “Old MacDonald,” Connor’s monosyllabic babbling. Nora’s arms flapped in frustration; Katy, red-faced, tearing up again. It appeared to be a play. “Wake up,” Nora said, and her arms flapped again. Katy slid onto the far bed, tucking her legs under her and turning to face the wall.

  “Kathleen,” Nora said.

  Katy didn’t answer. Couldn’t, it seemed.

  “Beautiful,” Nora said, in a hard unbeautiful way, and stepped outside into the wet cold to smoke a cigarette.

  “Here’s your bear,” Delia said from the bathroom. “What do bears say?” More loudly she called, “What do bears say?”

  “I think they growl,” Sara said. She carried the donut box into the bathroom, closed the door, and sat on the toilet seat cover. “But not that bear.”

  For a moment one could pretend the world outside the motel bathroom was the same one it had been yesterday. Just another baby bath. Just another box of donuts. “I got crullers,” Sara said. But then Delia seemed to deflate, though her face seemed puffy; there was an odd congruence between Connor’s round face, pink from the bath, and the puffy pinkness of Delia’s, their eyes the same shape but different colors.

  Sara took Delia’s place at the tub then and pulled Connor’s towel from the rack, the baby smacking the water with the plastic bear. And she and Delia talked loudly to Connor and quietly about Katy, whose meltdown could easily migrate to him.

  Sara was pulling Connor’s thick leggings up over his diaper, Connor tugging at her hair, when Nora returned and knocked on the bathroom door. “Okay, angel girls, I’ll take him.” Once she’d bundled Connor up, Nora carried him with her back to the donut shop.

  Sara left the donut box at the foot of the far bed, otherwise ignoring Katy. On the widest section of carpet, she and Delia shuffled a deck of cards, played rummy, and speculated about the day’s schoolwork, books left at the house, and what their father might know.

  Still just a bad rumor, until you saw for yourself—although it would be months before Sara revisited the neighborhood. It seemed that she and Delia played rummy for an hour, though it couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes before Nora returned, Connor asleep against her shoulder. At first, her face appeared sunken.

  Katy was still curled up on the bed. And who didn’t want to curl up on the bed? Or hide at the corner table of the donut shop, or lose yourself in sleep. Despite Nora’s pallor, her voice remained the same. “Oh, honestly,” Nora said, or Sara remembers her saying. Murmuring. Or perhaps, as sometimes happened, it was Sara’s own editorial, posited in her mother’s voice.

  POST-FIRE

  How quickly after they left the parking lot, the motel and donut shop dropped away—as if upon retracing the route you would not find the plaza again. From the car speakers, chamber music asserted an idyllic and precise order, which seemed at once absurd and necessary. Low clouds pushed east, the roadsides piled with snow and ice, snow-crusted buildings and signs, but the highway had been cleared down to dry pavement. In the suspended hours of the drive, it was easier to think of nothing, to take in the flying images of snow-streaked cars and white and graying snowbanks, and the curve of the plowed highway. On the secondary North Shore roads, they found postcard views of white-blanketed roofs, the snow-lined branches of deciduous trees, consolatory evergreens, still-pristine fields. James’s house was unchanged—if this house unchanged, then? And again the sticky logic tugged, the image of Blue Rock held in the mind intact, weakly contested by the anomaly of Nora driving the girls to Beverly. Here was the Beverly house, here was James outside, opening the doors of the car, hugging them in the driveway. Hugging Nora.

  Today there was no Josie (Josie was at work) and the chamber music stopped and in that moment the quiet seemed a vast ice-blue plane, absent anything, even the often mute parental discord. No Katy: Katy was with her in-laws. James unloaded the heavier bags from the car while Nora copied phone numbers for the girls on a notepad she’d taken from the motel, circling Aunt Meg’s. Nora would call the girls’ school and set up a plan for their classwork. The class names themselves—chemistry, history—seemed like small birds flitting into the neighbor’s spruce, but the girls promi
sed to keep up. It had again begun to snow. Plenty on the South Shore to take care of, Nora said. (How could there not be?) She would call them later. There was no other plan. And yet, now in Beverly, James lifting Delia’s suitcase, it stunned Sara that Nora would leave the girls there. That Nora would leave at all. As if her leaving carried meanings both threatening and opaque: as if insurance agent meant international flight. Perhaps Katy had sensed international flight at the motel. Why shouldn’t Sara climb back into the car with Nora and Delia, restart the chamber music, return to the passing views? The impulse must have been apparent in her face: Nora walked the girls up to the house with James and quickly left. Inside, James poured hot chocolate; Delia shuffled a deck of cards.

  That evening, Josie returned from work, also unchanged—in her slate-gray suit and elegant boots, her vaguely gingery scent, a fat briefcase in hand. She kissed them and handed them bags from Filene’s, sweaters to try on. She’d picked up videos and Chinese food, and they sat in the den eating dumplings and watching comedies, as they had with her before. A calm evening, yet the air seemed pixilated: they did not know Nora’s whereabouts. She had not called, and no one answered at Meg’s. But Sara’s panic would flatten out and begin to ebb near James and Josie, here beside the familiar oak flooring and vine-and-leaf-patterned carpet, reading chairs and sofas piled with throw pillows. Here in their known house: the airy kitchen, the bedrooms—the girls’ rooms—painted white, paperback novels and beach stones on the shelves where the girls had left them, bottles of scented hand lotion and stacks of clean towels on the dressers, beds covered in down comforters with violet duvets.

  Briefly, all of Blue Rock was out of sight, as it had been on other nights they’d stayed. The Beverly house steadied them; James himself steadied them, remaining close. Delia slept. Sara also slept, but she woke in the dark unable to locate herself. There was a brief sensation of falling, before the scent of washed sheets and pine pulled her back to the Beverly room. There’d been a dream: the dream had vanished. Hours before dawn, Sara carried her old comic books downstairs to one of the den’s oversized reading chairs and practiced drawing characters on scrap paper. The sounds beyond the house were muffled by light snow, the wind just perceptible. A night like others after which she’d found deer tracks in the yard.