I took a quick breath. I was asking and my father was telling. It was the truth, as far as I knew it, and the realization sent relief coursing through me. “I don’t remember that.”
“Well, we’d had some problems, and we decided it would be better if I moved out for a while.”
“Where did you go?”
“The apartment in Chicago.”
I nodded. I’d assumed as much. “And so how did you find out about Mom?”
“Find out what?”
“About her death. Her fall or whatever.” What had he thought I meant?
“Your brother called me. It was about seven in the morning on a Saturday, and I was getting ready to go to the office for a while.” He paused for a second, then said in a low voice, “What a terrible day that was.” And I could tell he was reliving it. I could see from the way his eyes stared at the table without really focusing that he was back there again.
“What did he tell you?” I couldn’t bring myself to use Dan’s name, as if it might startle my father too much.
He was quiet for a moment, then looked at me. “He said your mother was dead. That he’d found her in bed. You and your sister were in the room with her.”
Your sister…your brother. I wondered at my dad’s use of these terms instead of calling them Dan and Caroline, but I couldn’t place any significance there. It had been so long since we had talked like this at all, since we’d talked about the family that had once been.
A clap of laughter rang from the bar where a few guys in their forties had planted themselves, suit coats off, ties loosened. My father flinched at the noise, and I found myself thinking that he looked older now than I had ever seen him. His posture, normally ramrod perfect, sagged at the shoulders, his eyes slightly unfocused.
“And what did I say when you talked to me?” I asked. This was what I wanted so badly to know. What had I seen that night?
Again, he didn’t answer the question right away. He sat up straighter. “You said she fell. She just slipped and fell down the stairs. After that, she wanted you to help her into bed. You did, and you fell asleep. She must have died sometime during the night.”
I felt tears sting my eyes. I wanted so badly to remember this. It seemed a disservice to my mom not to do so, but none of it was familiar except the image of her standing at the front door with her hand to her head, the recollection of being in bed with her that next morning, Dan calling from outside the room.
“And what did Caroline tell you?”
“The same thing. Your mother fell.” He sounded as if he’d said these words a hundred times. As if he’d been answering these questions over and over. His voice was even, practiced.
“What did the police say?”
My father flinched again, almost imperceptibly this time. “Why do you ask that?”
“They must have looked into it.”
“They did.”
“And what did they find?” I asked.
“Nothing. Your mother fell. There was nothing else to find.”
We were both quiet for a second, my father seemingly lost in thoughts of the past, while I tried to screw up the nerve to ask where my brother and sister were now, and why I hadn’t seen them. I decided to start with what happened after that day.
“So, afterward, Caroline went to boarding school, right?”
“That’s correct. Brighton Academy. It was one of the best in the area.”
I nodded. “And Dan?”
My father looked down at the table, then back at me. “College. At Michigan State. You remember that.”
I nodded again. That I did remember. “Did Dan graduate?”
A small smile lit my father’s mouth. “Yes,” he said, his voice tinged with pride. “A degree in business.”
“Why didn’t we go to the graduation?”
The grin died away. “He didn’t want us there.”
“Us?” I said. “He didn’t want us there?”
My father dipped his head, almost a nod, a gesture he often made in court when he was about to clarify a point. “I should rephrase. He didn’t want me there.”
“Why?”
“Oh, Hailey, do we have to get into this?” His eyes were strained, and I watched him as he picked up the whiskey and sipped it again.
“Dad, I’m sorry, but I have to get this out of my head. I have to know.” I didn’t say that it was dysfunctional never to have spoken about my mother’s death, that I had received a strange letter that seemed to refer to my mother being murdered. I didn’t say that I’d been in Caroline’s house, that I was thinking of traveling to the Southwest to look for Dan. And it made me feel awful to hide something from my father while at the same time demanding painful answers from him. I had never deceived him before. But something new had snuck into my feelings about him—a suspicion brought on by the fact that he had kept me away from people who were important, information that was important.
Another dip of the head from my father. Continue.
“Why didn’t we go to Dan’s graduation?”
“Your brother was very angry about my separation from your mother. He thought I had abandoned her.”
“Did you?” I said this in a quiet voice, afraid to stop the flow of words coming out of his mouth.
He shot me a look, annoyance, maybe hurt, but then it was gone. “Of course not. If you must know, your mother asked for time apart.”
The group at the bar became boisterous again. My father sent them an irritated glance before he turned back to me. He seemed impatient now, rather than sad, like he wanted to take his medicine and leave.
“So you just let Dan go? You never kept in touch with him?”
“I tried, Hailey. I tried. But he moved away, first to Detroit and then out West, and he really wanted nothing to do with the Sutters anymore. I believe he even changed his name.”
“To what?”
“Singer, if I’m not mistaken.”
I felt a wash of relief. The truth. All I’d had to do was ask. “And what about Caroline? Did she go to college after boarding school?” I said, still testing him.
He took another sip of his whiskey. It was almost gone now, although he didn’t show any signs that it was affecting him. “Yes, Caroline went from Brighton on to school out East.”
I sank back in my chair. “She went to a university?”
My father nodded and signaled the waiter for a new whiskey. “More coffee?”
“No.” I sat very frozen, praying that I was somehow mistaken, that my father wasn’t lying to my face. “What school did she go to?”
“Yale.”
I almost laughed. Yale? Caroline had gone from a boarding school to a psych ward to a community college in Portland. Nothing Ivy League about that. I felt a hard shield form over me. “And what did she do after that?”
“We lost touch. Like Dan, she wanted to create her own world. She didn’t want to be reminded of your mother. I think she moved to Paris. She’s in the arts if I’m not mistaken.”
“Really? Paris?” My voice got loud and my father looked at me quizzically. “Where did she live in Paris? On the Left Bank? Maybe by the apartment that we had there?”
“No.” His voice was soft in comparison to mine. “She actually lived by the airport, I believe.”
I felt like crying now. He was painting an entirely false picture of Caroline—an East Coast school, a move abroad to Paris to be an artist—giving the impression that he knew few details, since he didn’t keep in touch with her.
“Well, I’d better go.” I pushed back my chair just as the waiter arrived with my father’s whiskey.
He looked startled. “So soon?”
“I have work to do.” I crossed my arms over my chest, as if I could hold in the battle of emotions inside me.
His face carried a helpless expression I’d never seen before. “We could talk some more. About Caroline and Dan, if you want.”
“All right. Why don’t you tell me if Dan ever hit Mom? Tell me if you
ever hurt her.”
A second went by. Then another. And another. The only movement in the room seemed to be the blinking of my father’s eyes.
“Why would you say that?” he said.
He hadn’t denied it.
“Why would you say that?” he repeated.
My throat felt as if it was closing, and I had to stop the tears I felt coming. I wanted to say, It doesn’t matter because you wouldn’t tell me the truth anyway. You’d lie to me, just like you have all my life. Instead, I stood, and murmured an excuse about the McKnight case. I turned and walked away then, my heels sinking into the thick, plush carpeting, making me feel as though I might stumble. I gripped my briefcase more tightly. When I got to the doorway, I looked over my shoulder.
Will Sutter sat alone, oblivious to the cries and shouts of laughter from the men at the bar, staring at my chair, as if he hadn’t yet registered that I was gone.
16
Friday dawned with growls of thunder rolling through the city and rain pelting my windows. Usually, I was up by six, often taking a run before I jumped in the shower and hurried to the subway, but that morning I couldn’t make myself move from the bed. I rolled over and curled myself into a ball, pulling the comforter up to my ears. My limbs felt leaden, my mind dull, but when I let myself focus, one thought pierced through. He lied to me. All my life and last night to my face, my father lied to me. This realization made it seem as if my whole life was at an odd angle, one where I couldn’t get my footing, where I couldn’t trust anyone.
Except Maddy, I thought. I looked at the clock: 7:20 a.m. She would be up and getting ready for work. I dragged myself over to the side of the bed and lifted the cordless phone off the nightstand. But there was no answer and none on her cell phone, either. For a moment, I wondered if I should be alarmed. Then I remembered Maddy’s new man. She’d probably spent the night at the corporate apartment he had in the city. The thought brought a faint smile to my face. Maddy deserved to find happiness with a guy. She and I couldn’t be the terrible twosome forever. But that thought restored the frown. I turned over on my side again and let myself drift back to sleep.
When I woke again, it was after nine.
“Shit,” I said, sitting up. By the time I showered, I wouldn’t get to the office until at least ten, even if I took a cab. I hated the thought of strolling in at that hour. It looked terrible to anyone who might be paying attention in preparation for the partnership election. I reached for the phone and dialed Amy’s direct number.
“Are you all right?” Amy said. “I was just starting to get worried.” Since I was usually at the office by eight—Amy got there shortly after—I knew she had probably been watching the clock, checking the diaries over and over, wondering if I had forgotten to mention a court call.
“Sorry. I’m not feeling well.” I didn’t have any guilt saying this, since it was true. I didn’t mention that it was my emotional health that was in jeopardy, not my physical well-being.
“I’m not surprised. You’ve been running yourself into the ground. Why don’t you stay home?”
“I think I will work from here today.”
Amy tutted. “I wasn’t talking about working at home. I’m talking about ordering soup, watching soaps all day.”
I managed a little laugh. “I’ve got files with me, and I’ve got to get some stuff done, but I’ll try to log in at least two hours of television, okay?”
“Okay, but take it easy. And I’ll keep everyone away. I promise you won’t get even one phone call from the office.”
“Perfect,” I said, because I wouldn’t be home anyway. I was going to Santa Fe.
I found a last-minute Internet flight, and I landed in Santa Fe at four o’clock. As I stepped outside the airport, I felt a rush of arid heat that told me I was in the desert.
“Oh, that’s right off Canyon Road,” said the woman at the car-rental desk when I gave her S. Singer’s address. “That’s where the majority of the galleries are.” The woman circled the area on the map.
It took me only twenty minutes to reach the Canyon Road area. Along the way, I passed adobe houses that blended with the red-dirt ground and the mountains in the distance. Even the gas station and pharmacy I drove by were rounded adobe buildings. I turned up Canyon Road and saw that the woman at the rental desk had been accurate. The street was lined with art galleries, a café or two sprinkled into the mix.
When I reached the street where S. Singer lived, I turned again, and easily found the small house. It was also adobe, the color of sand, with red-painted trim along the top. A large cactus served as the centerpiece for the otherwise plain front yard where straggles of grass tried to grow in the dry climate. Although it was far from fancy, the house looked neat and well cared for. I glimpsed a small pink bicycle leaning against a sidewall. My niece’s, I thought. That bike belongs to my niece. My niece, my niece, my niece, I repeated in my head.
I walked slowly across the quiet street, no passing cars to stop me from reaching the other side in a second, and then there was nothing to stop me from walking up the short path to the unadorned wood door. A bronze knocker in the shape of bull’s horns hung high on the door. I raised my hand and used it. Once, then again and again. My anticipation had been running high, but I felt it flatten. No one was home. God, I hoped they hadn’t left town since I’d called and hung up this morning. I looked up the street, then the other way, wondering if I should ask a neighbor. No, I decided. I didn’t want to tip off the woman that I was looking for her.
It was still light out, so I decided to take a stroll. Narrow concrete walks flanked either side of Canyon Road, and I made my way from one gallery to the next, studying the lifelike paintings of the Southwest landscape, picking up the Native American pottery and jewelry. Every so often, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the number for S. Singer, which I now knew by heart. Still, the woman wasn’t home.
A gallery owner recommended that I have dinner at Celebrations, a small restaurant across the street. I sat at an outside table next to others filled with couples or bunches of friends. I was overly aware of the fun going on around me. My eyes kept straying to the front sign and the name of the place—Celebrations. My mood was anything but celebratory. Every time I got excited that I might soon meet my niece, that I might gain some information that would bring me closer to my brother, I would recall my dad, sitting across from me last night at the Van Newton Guild, looking me in the eye, telling me lies about my sister, and God knew what else. I picked at the food. Finally, I threw some money on the table and left.
The sun was lower as I approached the Singer house again, and I saw lamplight in the windows. My pulse picked up. When I reached the front door, I raised my fist and gave a quick rap.
I heard the patter of feet inside, and then the door swung open. I let my gaze fall and met the light brown eyes of a girl with curly chestnut hair that hung to her chin. She must have been about six years old. I searched the girl’s face—full pink lips, a small smear of something that looked like chocolate at the corner, high cheekbones and a small, button nose. She wore pink shorts and a white T-shirt. She didn’t resemble Dan exactly, but I came back to the short swing of bangs on the girl’s forehead and below that her eyes. Round eyes, the color of coffee after milk is poured in it. The exact color and shape of my mother’s eyes. This was Dan’s daughter. This was my niece.
“Hi,” I said. “My name’s Hailey. Is your mom home?”
The girl looked me up and down, and gave me a bashful grin, followed by a nod. “Mom!” she called, not turning her head away from me.
“What’s your name?” This is my niece. Family.
“Annie.” The girl said. She shrugged, as if she wasn’t quite sure.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Annie.” I held out my hand.
Annie stared at it for a moment. She turned her gaze up to me, then back down again. At last, she reached out her arm and clasped my hand. Annie smiled shyly. I smiled back, liking the feel of the gi
rl’s small, warm hand next to my skin.
“Can I help you?” The woman’s voice was sharp.
I dropped Annie’s hand as if I had been caught touching the girl inappropriately. I looked up to see a woman, probably ten years older than me, who resembled Annie except that the woman’s eyes were muddy brown and her wavy hair was cut close around her face. She wore khaki shorts and a black, sleeveless sweater designed to show off her tan, toned arms.
“Who are you?” the woman demanded.
“I’m Hailey. I spoke to you on the phone earlier this week.”
The woman made a bitter sound. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Annie, go to your room.”
Annie shot me another bashful grin before she took off in a run toward the back of the house.
“You called me about Dan, didn’t you?” the woman said.
“Yes.”
“You’re the girl from the bar. I knew he was probably off the wagon.”
“No. I tried to tell you that day. It’s not like that.” Off the wagon? Did Dan have an alcohol problem?
I thought a moment. I hadn’t exactly planned out everything I would say, and it didn’t appear this woman would give me a chance if I didn’t grab her attention soon.
“You know what,” the woman said. “Just get out. I don’t have the—”
“I’m his sister,” I said.
The woman’s mouth opened, like she was about to say something, but then it stayed open and silent as if she had forgotten what words to use.
“Caroline?” she said, her voice somewhat tentative now.
“No. I’m Hailey.”
The woman narrowed her eyes. “Dan doesn’t have a sister named Hailey.”
I wanted to cry. He hadn’t even mentioned me to her, the woman he had a child with.
“You look like him, though,” the woman continued. “I didn’t notice it at first.”
I nodded, then held out my hand again. “I’m Hailey Sutter.”
“Sutter. Right. Dan’s old name.” The wariness on her face seemed to soften. “I’m Sharon. Maybe you should come in.”
The house was furnished simply but neatly with ruddy Aztec-print sofas and rustic wood tables. A few prints hung on the walls—charcoal drawings of mountain plains.
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