You look so familiar. Do I know you?
I have one of those faces. My name is Lisa.
“Were you there too, Carl? Did you follow the three of us? Were you hiding in the public bathroom? Has it taken you all these years to track me down?”
Lyla is in her car now. Speaking to no one. Asking questions no one can answer, not anymore. She’s on her way home, but she’s taking the long way, following the body of water that runs through these western Hudson Valley towns. The Esopus River the locals call it, though it’s always struck Lyla as strange, calling it a river when it’s so slim and weak in parts—a creek, really. Calling the Esopus a river is like calling Carl a psychic, or that girl a mother. They’re frauds. All of them.
She never deserved that baby. What mother dresses a daughter like that? A T-shirt at least three sizes too big, Thomas the Tank Engine on the front. Everyone knows that Thomas the Tank Engine is for boys.
The blue train has big black eyes . . .
“You can’t scare me anymore, Carl.”
There is one section of the Esopus Lyla knows about. It’s deep and heavily shaded, and Lyla often comes here to meditate when she’s preparing for certain roles. It’s on no one’s private property, and there’s a narrow road that leads down to it, presumably for swimmers, though the shade makes it an unpopular swimming hole, even in the peak of summer, far away as that feels.
Lyla heads down the narrow road in her SUV. The water glistens in the morning sunlight—yes, it’s still morning. Seven forty-five, according to the clock on the dashboard. Lyla finds that hard to believe.
She parks the car and hauls the sleeping bag out of the trunk. When it falls to the ground, she rolls it until it reaches the water. It’s slow work, not so much because of Carl’s body as the heavy crystals she’s used to weigh it down. But Lyla is smart and Pilates strong, and, as Carl might have said if he were still alive, she’s been here before. She gives the bag a final push and watches it sink into the water.
Strange how the world works. How people and memories can disappear, only to resurface at the oddest moments. Lyla thinks of the crystal she’d zipped into the sleeping bag. The pink calming one she’d placed by Carl’s head. Carl, who had no friends or family. No one to miss him or mourn him or ask after him . . . Hopefully that heavy crystal will bring him some peace. Rose quartz, she thinks. And then, Rose. That was her name. Rose. Fidelity’s mother. Nine years, and she’s just remembering that now.
It’s eight thirty by the time Lyla pulls up her long driveway, a string of excuses running through her mind. I went for a drive to clear my head / took a walk in the mountains / went looking for Fidelity / needed to be alone . . . Any of these will work. Lyla has a gift, after all. And that gift makes people believe in her. Besides, there’s no one in her life these days who questions her actions.
Leaving her car, Lyla is so deeply in character that she doesn’t notice the extra police cars in her driveway, though when she opens the front door, she’s aware of their voices. “She’s here,” one of the officers says. And before she can come up with a plan, or even open her mouth to speak, Nolan is rushing at her, tears on his face.
Lyla’s stomach drops. He pulls her to him. She hears the crackle of police radios and feels his strong arms around her, squeezing her so tightly she can barely breathe.
“What ha—”
“They found her.” Nolan says it again and again and again. “They found Fidelity.” And then, finally, “She’s alive.”
Day Five
Are we going home now, Mommy?” Fidelity says. Her voice sounds like music, and her cheeks are pink again. She’s no longer dehydrated, and she’s already gained back a couple of pounds. Four days spent lost in the woods . . . Incredible how resilient children are.
“Yes, honey,” Lyla says. She gently hugs Fidelity. She’s followed by Nolan, the People magazine photographer capturing the moment, the nurses applauding.
“Fidelity,” the People reporter says, “are you glad to see your mommy and daddy again?”
And Fidelity’s face goes serious. “Yes,” she says. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry I made them worry.”
It’s the latest of many times Fidelity has apologized since they were first reunited, and it troubles Lyla a little bit. When you apologize that much, there’s something you aren’t saying.
Once the hospital staff have left and Nolan has gone to the waiting room for a follow-up interview with the reporters, Lyla brings it up with Fidelity as she helps her get dressed. “Honey,” she says. “I just want to know. Why did you wander off in the first place?”
Fidelity looks at her with big, grave eyes. “You promise you won’t get angry?”
“Promise.”
She takes a breath, then speaks very quietly. “I went looking for the ghost.”
Lyla stares at her.
“Bethany said there was a ghost in the woods. She said he was old and skinny with big blue eyes. I didn’t believe her, but then I saw him. I mean . . . I think I saw him, but it could have just been in my head. I saw him standing in the woods, and I thought I heard him say something . . . something bad. Then he ran away, and I went after him, and . . . I guess I got lost.”
“What did the ghost say?”
Fidelity closes her eyes. “He said you aren’t my real mom.”
I don’t want to know the truth. I never want to know the truth. But the truth finds me. And it won’t leave me alone . . .
“Is it true, Mommy?” She opens her eyes, and Lyla sees something in them. A spark of fear that brings back memories.
“Of course it isn’t true,” she says. “And you know what else? There’s no mommy in the world who loves her daughter as much as I love you.”
Fidelity throws her arms around Lyla’s neck. Lyla holds the little girl close, remembering her fingers around Rose’s neck, the rasp of her fading breath . . . and then Rose’s neck becomes Carl’s neck, his hands clawing at the air. It’s a dream, she tells herself, getting into character. It’s only a dream.
“I love you, Mommy,” Fidelity says, and it is a dream. Just a bad dream, sunk deep in the darkest water, soon to be forgotten.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2019 Michael Gaylin
Alison Gaylin is the USA Today bestselling author of the Edgar Award winner If I Die Tonight. Her eleven novels have been published in several countries, including the US, the UK, France, Germany, and Japan. Gaylin is also a recipient of the Shamus and a nominee of the Anthony and Strand Critics Awards.
The Gift (Hush collection) Page 3