“You’re more than a natural,” Carter told her after the first few weeks. “You’re a phenomenon.”
“You’re full of crap,” she answered, elbowing him, but she was secretly delighted, especially when she got up the guts to show him the catalog for Juilliard at the end of the summer.
“You’d have a shot.” He looked out over the lake, then added quietly, “I was supposed to go.”
“Really?” She stared at him in surprise. “What happened?” It was the first and only time he’d ever mentioned anything about his life, and an uneasiness crept over her, as if they were stumbling into treacherous territory.
He must have sensed it, too, because he shrugged, his smile distant. “Got jinxed by life, that’s all.”
He let it go at that, and so did she, happy to finish up the days of summer in a mirage of ignorance. It was a mirage, of course, like every happy event in her life had ever been.
A mirage that turned to shit on the first day back to school.
—
The pain of the horrible thing that had happened came sharp and quick, and the smile from last summer’s memories faded. She winced as she remembered the stricken look on Carter’s face at prom last night, so different from the easy grin he’d always had for her before. She sucked in her breath, opened her eyes, and reoriented herself to the rumblings of the bus rolling over the highway. The sun was higher in the sky now, and the landscape had changed. There were fewer pine trees and more open prairies, with tall grasses and wildflowers sprouting alongside the highway. She was about to point out the flowers to Pinny to make up for being such a witch earlier, but then she realized that the seat next to her was still empty. An instant later, her name was called, and she spotted Pinny grinning from across the aisle.
“Did you have a nice nap?” she asked. “We’re in a whole new state now. Ethel says it’s Arkansas.” She gestured toward an elderly woman knitting beside her. “This is my friend Ethel.”
Ethel offered Ray a granny-style smile. “Hello, dear.”
“Hi,” Ray muttered. Great. So Pinny had moved on from orange espadrilles to, let’s see, geriatric moccasins. Cripes. How long had she been asleep? Apparently, long enough for Pinny to bond with half the bus. Oh God, if she’d mentioned anything about Smokebush, there’d be a battalion of red flags raised by now.
“I was just asking Pinny about this trip you’re on,” Ethel said. “She said you’re going to New York City! My goodness, but you two are awfully young to be traveling that far alone.”
“I’m twenty-one,” Pinny piped up. “And Mrs. Danvers always says Ray was born with an old soul. So she might be even older than me!”
Ethel laughed. “I see. And who’s Mrs. Danvers?”
Pinny opened her mouth to answer, but Ray jumped in before she had the chance. “She’s our teacher,” she lied. “We’re homeschooled.”
“How nice,” Ethel said. “So, the two of you are…”
“Sisters,” Ray finished for her, then immediately regretted it when Pinny beamed.
“I always wanted a sister,” she announced.
“And you got your wish,” Ethel said. “How lucky.” She smiled at Ray. “I’m sure you’re a wonderful sister.”
Ray managed a weak smile. How could she have forgotten what a literalist Pinny was? She was leading her into a lie that she would never see. Pinny would believe they’d bonded, or whatever, and Ray would officially be bottom-dwelling scum.
“Pinny was showing me the treasures in her backpack,” Ethel said. “What an interesting watch.”
“The watch is Daddy’s,” Pinny said. “Mama gave it to me.” She rummaged through her backpack. “Oh!” she cried. “I didn’t tell you the story of Mama’s shoes yet!”
“I’d love to hear the story.” Ethel smiled so enthusiastically that Ray rolled her eyes. If Pinny saw anything fake about the woman’s eagerness, though, she didn’t let on. Instead, she smiled as she slid a dozen crumpled, water-stained sheets from her backpack and attempted to flatten them against her knees. Then, in her thick voice, full of deliberate care, she read:
Thousands of sunsets ago, in a Far East kingdom where magic was as commonplace as water, there lived a great sultan and sultana. Their deepest desire was to have a child of their own. Many years of spent wishes and heartaches passed, until at last the sultana gave birth to a daughter. But no bells rang out in celebration, no shouts of joy filled the kingdom. Instead, the sultana’s mournful cry filled the palace, for the little princess had been born invisible.
The princess was perfect in every other way. She was tenderhearted, always quick with kisses and hugs. She was joyful, laughing so freely and brightly that fairies followed her wherever she went. She was kind, forever caring for orphaned squirrels, sick dogs, and stray cats. But the only time her parents ever saw the faintest trace of her was during storms, when rain made her shimmer like a million glittering stars. Even the princess’s kind and gentle ways couldn’t ease her parents’ worry. For who would ever wish to marry an invisible princess?
As the princess became a young woman, she grew lonely and heartsick. The sultan invited princes from all over the world to woo her. She charmed many with her sweet spirit, but none of the princes would marry her without knowing what she looked like. After all, what if she was ugly or misshapen?
In desperation, the sultana took matters into her own hands. She traveled for years searching, and finally, at the ends of the earth, she found a prince willing to marry the princess. This prince didn’t care that the princess was invisible, because this prince himself was blind.
The prince and princess fell in love, and soon they were married. Every evening, the prince kissed the princess and told her she was beautiful. He told her that she had the heart of an angel, the voice of a lark, and laughter sweeter than a bubbling brook. He told her she had hair as soft as a dove’s wings, skin as smooth as pearls, and hands as delicate as butterflies. At first, the princess loved his words. But then she started to wonder if she was truly as beautiful as her husband believed. There was only one way to find out. She had to see for herself.
The princess called on every wizard in the kingdom, asking each if he could use his magic to make her visible. Each said it was impossible. The princess grew more and more distraught. She wouldn’t eat or sleep. Her songs withered on her lips. Her laughter turned to sneers. The prince begged her to forget her wish, but she would not. And so, the prince himself sought out the most skilled wizard in the world.
The wizard agreed to help. Using moonlight and fairy dust, the wizard made a pair of magic shoes so beautiful they outshone the stars themselves. The moment the princess slipped on the shoes, her feet appeared, pale and slender. Seconds later, the rest of her followed.
She ran to a mirror, gazed upon her reflection, and gasped. She was even more beautiful than she’d ever imagined. Everyone in the kingdom agreed. Men, women, and children showered her with compliments. They told her that her eyes were emerald seas, her hair was ruby flames, her smile a gift from the heavens.
The princess spent days and days listening to people praise her, and days and days staring at her own reflection. She forgot about her dear husband altogether, until he came to her one day, asking her to leave her mirror and her court full of admirers. He missed her deeply.
The princess refused. She grew angry, accusing the prince of being jealous of her admirers because they could see her in a way he could not. Why should he have her all to himself when he couldn’t even enjoy her exquisite beauty?
Heartbroken, the prince left the castle that night. By morning, no one knew where he was. At first, the princess was glad to be rid of him. She had plenty of people who loved the way she looked, and that was more than enough to keep her content. But then she grew weary of hearing the same compliments from her admirers day after day. She longed to talk about something other than herself. She wanted to be with someone who loved her, not her eyes, or hair, or smile. She missed her prince.
Sh
e scoured the kingdom for him, but found nothing. She searched countries, but found nothing. In despair, she took a flying carpet from the palace and soared into the night, above oceans and continents, to find him. She called his name, over and over, and at last heard his faint answer on the wind. She found him in a far desert, parched from thirst and dying of a broken heart.
She swept her beloved into her arms, begging his forgiveness and vowing never to let vanity consume her again. He smiled and, revived by her love, climbed onto the carpet beside her. As it flew higher and higher, kissing the heavens, the princess slipped her magic shoes from her feet, letting them fall to earth. For a few moments, her tears of joy made her shimmer like a million glittering stars. Soon, those dried in the wind, and the prince and his unseen princess disappeared forever among the clouds.
“The shoes,” Pinny finished with a grin, “landed in a trash can on the corner of Forty-Third Street and Ninth Avenue. And that’s where Mama found them.”
“Oh, I see,” Ethel said. “And did your mother keep them?”
Pinny nodded. “Mama said she was invisible once, too. Like the princess. But as soon as she put on the magic shoes, the whole world turned its head in her direction.”
Ethel smiled. “What a lovely story.”
Ray fought the urge to scoff. There had been a time when she might have believed that sort of love existed. But not anymore. Not ever again.
“The story’s true,” Pinny said with conviction. “That’s why we’re going to New York. Mama disappeared because she lost her magic shoes. When I find her shoes, she’ll come back.”
Ethel’s mouth pursed into a pale raisin. “You poor things.” She patted Pinny’s hand in a churchgoing, charity way that made Ray want to retch. Leaning across the aisle toward Ray, she whispered, “How terrible to lose a mother at your ages.”
Ray nearly snapped a correction, then remembered that she was playing the part of Pinny’s sister. So, instead, she nodded.
“Don’t be sad.” Pinny patted Ethel’s hand back. “We’ll find her again.”
Ethel dabbed her eyes with a tissue, then fingered the cross hanging around her neck. She looked as if she was puzzling through their story, and the pieces weren’t fitting. “If your mother is…lost, then the rest of your family is—”
“Our father’s in Nashville,” Ray jumped in before Pinny could say something else that might raise suspicions. Ray could easily imagine the pats on the back the old lady would give herself for reporting a pair of missing girls to the local police station. She wasn’t any different from Mrs. Danvers and her crew of do-gooders, always talking about the kids at Smokebush, trying to reroute their futures like they were packages that had been shipped to the wrong destination. Those types of people talked about “God’s will” a lot, but Ray had learned early on that “God’s will” really meant theirs.
“Our father is meeting us at the station,” she said to Ethel now, “and then he’s driving us to New York from there.” She leaned toward the woman conspiratorially and whispered, “It’s really a family vacation for us. Pinny just likes to make things sound more exciting.”
“Nothing’s more exciting than life itself,” Pinny said defensively. “Mama said that.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear you’re not alone in the world,” Ethel said. “I’ll keep you darlings in my prayers.”
“Oh, no need to waste your time.” Ray smiled innocently into Ethel’s face, which morphed from astonished to offended. “Pinny, how about a game of Go Fish now?”
“Sure!” Pinny waved to Ethel and plunked down next to Ray. “I deal.”
Across the aisle, Ethel cleared her throat several times and then, as if to make a point, pulled a pocket Bible out of her bag and began to read.
“You shouldn’t have cozied up to her like that,” Ray hissed to Pinny. “She could get us caught and sent back to Smokebush.”
“She won’t,” Pinny said. “She wanted company. That’s all.”
Ray sighed. “People aren’t always nice, Pinny.”
Pinny paused over this. “I know that. But when I guess them right, it’s a good surprise.” She grinned. “Being sisters is going to be fun,” she added as she slapped a card down on her knee.
Ray focused on sorting her cards to avoid Pinny’s gaze. Sisters. Pinny better not have too many expectations pinned on that word. Because Ray’s days of wishing for a family, real or fake, were over. She wasn’t going to string Pinny along with false hopes any longer than she had to. Pinny could never take care of herself in a place like Manhattan, and no way was Ray signing on as babysitter. The first chance Ray got, she was going to drop her. The sooner, the better.
DALYA
It was as if she were half a person, as if she were watching a fragment of herself moving through this new life. But in a city where chaos drowned out the chance for too much thought, forgetfulness came easily.
Her first months passed in welcome muteness. Mrs. Ashbury combed the floors of Bergdorf Goodman and Saks, choosing fine dresses and blouses for Dalya while she watched helplessly. Dalya had tried to protest. But because Mrs. Ashbury didn’t speak a word of German, Dalya’s arguments for simpler, less expensive clothes fell on deaf ears. In the beginning, she felt self-conscious in the fabrics, but then she discovered she could hide in them.
Her thin body slowly grew softer and fuller, and soon she looked as if she belonged in her new clothes, as if she’d always been wearing them. As if her body had never known hunger or illness at all.
At first, the calendar was a raw reminder of what she’d left behind. Each Friday night at sunset, she found herself at dinner with the Ashburys, trying not to think about Shabbos. There were usually candles lit on the table, but there were no blessings, no kiddush, no breaking of the challah bread. A few weeks after her arrival, she’d had Henry ask Mrs. Ashbury for a pair of candles to use privately for Shabbos in her bedroom. Her mother had always lit the candles and said the prayers back in Berlin, but now Dalya would do it alone. Mrs. Ashbury had agreed right away, smiling graciously, but there was also an unease on her face that made Dalya regret asking. Just once had she excused herself from dinner to light the candles and say the prayers in her bedroom. But it felt wrong without her family around her, wrong to assume her mother’s place. There’d been a subtle shift in the mood of the Ashburys’ house afterward, too, more awkwardness than disapproval. For Dalya, though, it kindled fear. She understood now that being Jewish was dangerous, and she had no more bravery left for it. She wanted acceptance, no matter what its form. So, she tried to be someone safer.
School was another place for pretending. She was thankful her English wasn’t any better, because it made her silences in class excusable. No one pushed her with questions, or even tried to make friendly conversation. Aside from the curious stares the first weeks, hardly anyone noticed she was there. She was placed in tenth grade, even though she should’ve been in eleventh. The teachers decided this was necessary until she learned better English, and to make up for the school she’d missed in Sachsenhausen. It would’ve been embarrassing for the Dalya of Before. But for the Dalya of After, it wasn’t. The very idea of blackboards and chalk, of math problems and essays, seemed ridiculous now. Even more ridiculous was that anyone should expect her to care about these things. She was tossed into a tide of students that eddied and swirled around her. Their words were foreign, but their laughs sounded like her own might have, if she’d still been the Dalya of Before.
School was another joke in a life full of absurdities. But the routines kept her busy, kept the memories from dropping her to her knees. For that, at least, she was grateful.
She was grateful, too, for Henry. Mr. Ashbury owned a financial firm downtown and didn’t get home until late at night, and Mrs. Ashbury was often gone for charity meetings and teas at the Plaza. Both of them acknowledged her politely, but neither ever made a great effort to talk to her because of her laborious English. Henry was the only one who understood her, and he becam
e her life preserver, keeping her afloat in the sea of strangeness. He was unpredictable, teasing and playful one day, edgy and critical the next. Sometimes his moods were determined by his pain, and on those days he forged through the lessons with gritted teeth. Sometimes there was no pain, just the bottled rage, threatening to explode at the slightest provocation. His anger was a version of her grief, and when she looked in his eyes, she understood the story behind them.
He’d taught her the rules for the city grid in her first week, and she learned to navigate the streets of their neighborhood quickly. She’d walk the blocks from her school to the Ashburys’ home at Seventy-Third and Fifth Avenue to find him waiting impatiently at the dining room table.
“What took you so long?” he’d demand to know. “I could’ve walked faster than that.”
He couldn’t walk far, but he usually had the Ashburys’ driver, Thomas, and one of the family cars at his disposal. Each day, they went someplace different, like a bench in Central Park or a gallery at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. When she met him for an English lesson, a new piece of the city came along with it.
On the September day she ran into Ruth Schwarz, Henry had taken her to the Lexington Candy Shop for her lesson and her very first egg cream. When she admitted she had no idea what an egg cream was, Henry smiled and immediately ordered two.
“You’ll love it,” he said.
“Do you love them?” Dalya asked in German. Henry glared at her, and she slowly repeated the question in English.
“I love anything my parents hate, especially this place, and egg creams.” Remembering softened his expression. “When I went to Dalton, I came here with my friends after school. But when I got sick, Mother blamed the subways and soda fountains, among other things. She probably would’ve blamed my friends, too, if it hadn’t meant stepping on some of the richest toes in town. Mother’s careful never to acquire enemies of influence.”
“So why can’t you still see your friends?” Dalya asked.
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