Look Closely (19 page)

“I guess the first thing I want to know is how she died.” There. I’d said it. I stole a glance at my dad over the rim of my cup.

He blinked once, then twice, then again. He slid his hand across the game table and touched my upper arm. Something about his touch startled me. I put my cup down immediately, looking from his hand and back to his face.

“Honey,” he said, his voice agonized, “you know this.”

“What? No, I don’t. We’ve never talked about it. You never wanted to.”

He sat back, and the spot where he’d held my arm suddenly felt cool without his hand there. “Wel , I don’t know if that’s true.”

I felt a flash of anger. “Yes, it is true. You wouldn’tevertalktomeaboutthis,andsoIstopped asking. I’m an adult now, though. I want to know.”

He shook his head. “Of course. I mean…wel , I know we didn’t talk about this often. For so long, it was too painful for me, but I thought we’d had some conversations along the way.”

Absently, he picked up his glass and jostled the ice around.

Suddenly I began to doubt myself. Had we had these talks, and had I somehow pushed them out of my mind, the same way I had shoved away my memories of that night?

“Maybe we did, Dad. But I just can’t remember, and I’ve been wondering. So please, tel me.”

He made a sound, like a coarse breath escaping his lungs. “Your mother fel down the stairs. She hit her head and died of internal bleeding in the brain.” He took a smal sip of his drink.

There it was. The same story. The story that Chief Manning had settled on, the story that I, myself, had apparently told the police.

When I didn’t say anything, my father put his glass down and looked at me directly, his eyes ful of concern, grief, and, if I wasn’t mistaken, that wariness again. “Are you remembering now?”

Remembering now? What did that mean? I could feel my father watching me, waiting for me to answer. “No. I don’t recal anything about it.”

It sounded so simple. My mother had fal en down the stairs. Tragic but simple, so why couldn’t I remember it like that? Why couldn’t I remember it at al ?

My father sat back, his face clearing a little. Why did he look relieved?

“Were you there?” I asked. I knew from Del a, and from Chief Manning’s version of events, that my dad was out of the house, separated from my mom by then. But I had never heard my father say that. I wanted to see if he would be honest with me. I prayed he would.

He hung his head. “I wish I was. But no.”

“Where were you?”

He sighed. “I don’t know if you knew this, if you remember this, I mean, but your mom and I had taken a break.”

I took a quick breath. I was asking and my father was tel ing. It was the truth, as far as I knew it, and the realization sent relief coursing through me. “I don’t remember that.”

“Wel , 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 fal or whatever.” What had he thought I meant?

“Your brother cal ed me. It was about seven in themorningonaSaturday,andIwasgettingready togototheofficeforawhile.”Hepausedforasecond, then said in a low voice, “What a terrible day thatwas.” AndIcouldtel hewasrelivingit.Icould see from the way his eyes stared at the table without real y focusing that he was back there again.

“What did he tel 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 cal ing them Dan and Caroline, but I couldn’t place any significance there. It had been so long since we had talked like this at al , 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, normal y 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 fel . She just slipped and fel down the stairs. After that, she wanted you to help her into bed. You did, and you fel 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 recol ection of being in bed with her that next morning, Dan cal ing from outside the room.

“And what did Caroline tel you?”

“The same thing. Your mother fel .” 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 fel . 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. “Col ege. At Michigan State. You remember that.”

I nodded again. That I did remember. “Did Dan graduate?”

A smal 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.

Anotherdipoftheheadfrommyfather.
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?”

“Itried,Hailey.Itried.Buthemovedaway,first to Detroit and then out West, and he real y 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. Al I’d had to do was ask. “And what about Caroline? Did she go to col ege after boarding school?” I said, stil 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 col ege 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.”

“Real y? Paris?” My voice got loud and my father looked at me quizzical y. “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 actual y 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.

“Wel , 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.”

“Al right. Why don’t you tel me if Dan ever hit Mom? Tel 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.

Wil 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 rol ing throughthecityandrainpeltingmywindows.Usual y, 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 rol ed over and curled myself into a bal , pul ing the comforter up to my ears. My limbsfeltleaden,myminddul ,butwhenIletmyself focus, one thought pierced through.
He lied to me.
Al mylifeandlastnighttomyface,myfather lied to me. This realization made it seem as if my wholelifewasatanoddangle,onewhereIcouldn’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 cel 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 strol ing 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 al right?” Amy said. “I was just starting to get worried.” Since I was usual y 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 cal .

“Sorry. I’m not feeling wel .” 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 wel -being.

“I’m not surprised. You’ve been running yourself into the ground. Why don’t you stay home?”

“I think I wil work from here today.”

Amy tutted. “I wasn’t talking about
working
at home. I’m talking about ordering soup, watching soaps al day.”

I managed a little laugh. “I’ve got files with me, and I’ve got to get some stuff done, but I’l try to log in at least two hours of television, okay?”

“Okay, but take it easy. And I’l keep everyone away. I promise you won’t get even one phone cal 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.