The Year of Fog (19 page)

42

T
HE LAST
Sunday in November, I spot the orange Chevelle at Ocean Beach. The car is there when I arrive at ten o’clock for my daily vigil. It’s an unusually sunny day, and the fog has already burned off. A sailboat moves slowly across the horizon.

I jot down the license plate, then pull in beside the Chevelle, leaving two parking spaces between us. My hands shake, my heartbeat speeds up, my whole body tenses. The driver is the same man I saw that day, with graying hair and the beginning of a beard. He’s reading a newspaper and drinking coffee. His face is a bit heavier than I remember, and there is no yellow stripe on the side of the car—but other than that, the details add up. A hula girl on the dashboard, the Virgin Mary hanging from the rearview mirror.

I call Detective Sherburne. His voice mail picks up. “He’s here,” I say. “At the beach. The guy in the orange Chevelle.” I recite the license plate number, then call Sherburne’s pager and his home number as well. No answer.

For half an hour I watch the man. He doesn’t skim the paper but really reads it, spending a long time on each spread. At last he gets out of his car, goes over to the retaining wall, and stands there looking out at the ocean. I grab my coffee cup, wander over to the wastebasket, and drop it in, lingering just a couple of feet from the man. He’s wearing a pair of very nice shoes, too nice for the beach.

“Pretty day,” he says.

“We’ve been due for one.”

“This is my first year in San Francisco,” he says. “Not exactly what I had in mind when I decided to move to California. During the summer, it got so cold I nearly packed my bags and went home.”

“Where’s home?”

“Nevada. You?”

“Alabama.”

“I used to have one of those,” he says, nodding toward a boy walking a dog down the beach.

“A kid?” I say, startled.

“No, a dog. Chocolate lab.”

“Oh.”

“Frank. Dumbest, sweetest dog I’ve ever known.”

“Where is he now?”

“Wish I knew.”

The guy has an air of loneliness about him, like he’s been by himself for a long time. I’m trying to think of the right question, the proper approach. “What brought you to San Francisco?”

“That story could take a while.”

“I’m in no hurry.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “Tell you what. I’ll give you the ten-minute version over a cup of coffee at Louis’s.”

I tell myself to be calm, sound natural. “It’s a deal.”

We lock our cars, then walk the paved path up toward the diner. We sit at a table by the window with a view out to the ocean. A young couple is picking their way over the concrete ruins of the Sutro Baths.

“I never got your name,” he says, stirring cream into his coffee.

“Dana.” The lie rolls easily off my tongue. “Yours?”

“Carl Renfroe.”

Down below, the young couple finds a pocket of space hidden from the surrounding paths. Down there, with the sea battering the ruins it’s easy to think you’re alone. I’m trying to think of some way to extract information from Carl without alerting him to my motives, when the girl lifts her skirt, squats, and pees.

“Ringside seats,” Carl says.

The girl is oblivious, taking her time. The boy lifts his hand to his eyes and looks in the direction of the restaurant. He says something to the girl, who quickly pulls up her underwear, flattens her skirt over her thighs, and stands up.

“We get this once a week or so,” our waitress says. “People got no clue we’re up here.”

A family walks in and sits in the booth behind Carl, talking quietly. The parents don’t look old enough to have such a big family—a teenage son, a toddler, and a baby with an oddly shaped head. The father sinks into the seat, white baseball cap pulled low on his forehead, and tells his kids to settle down. “They can hear you all the way back in Iowa,” he says to his wife, who’s marveling at the prices on the menu.

“You were going to tell me how you ended up here,” I say to Carl.

“My wife died two years ago. Bus accident in Guatemala.”

“I’m sorry.”

“She was only forty-three. Down there working on a documentary. A few months later, my son left for college.” He opens a packet of Sweet ’n’ Low and pours it into his coffee. “There was nothing to keep me in Nevada.”

I briefly consider the possibility that he knows exactly who I am. Maybe he remembers my face clearly from that day at the beach. Maybe he’s returning to the scene of the crime. But all of this, I know, is false. Another dead end, another possibility to be crossed off the dwindling list. This man is not a kidnapper, child molester, or murderer. I’m not sure how I know this, I just do. Some people you can live with for years and never understand their true nature; others are easy reads, like a book with all the important passages underlined.

Our food arrives. Carl sprinkles salt and pepper on his omelet. “Alabama. You’re a long way from home. But I guess San Francisco’s an easy place to love.”

“Used to be.”

“Sounds like a mystery.”

“I’m looking for someone.”

“Yeah?”

“A little girl. She disappeared from this beach in July.”

His face changes—recognition, pity. “I heard about that, big news for a few weeks.” He frowns. “Emily was her name?”

“Emma.
Is
her name.”

“I’m sorry. It must be horrible. I can’t imagine.”

“You were here.”

“Pardon?”

“On the day she disappeared. You were here, in the parking lot. I remember your car. Your headlights were on. I considered telling you to turn them off, but then I didn’t. You looked absorbed in your paper.”

He puts his coffee down, stares at me, suddenly understanding. “You thought—”

I shift in my seat. “You were alone. We walked right past you.”

“You’ve been waiting for me to come back?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“It’s not you. But I had to be sure.”

“For what it’s worth, I’d be doing the same thing.”

“Do you remember anything?” I ask. “Did you see anything—anyone—suspicious?”

“I can’t remember. It’s been a bad year, it all runs together.”

“Think. Anything. It was Saturday, July 22nd. Ten-thirty in the morning. A cold day, really foggy.”

He concentrates, shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Please.” My voice is too loud, too desperate. The dad from Georgia is staring. His teenage son is buttering the toddler’s toast, while the mother stuffs packets of sugar and nondairy creamer into her purse. I lower my voice. “Something. You must remember something.”

“It was months ago. I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

Instead of using the paved path back to the parking lot, we take off our shoes and walk on the beach. The water swirls around our ankles, ice cold. On Seal Rocks, the seals are barking. “I have this place in Stockton,” Carl says. “A one-bedroom with a view of the bay. The first night I was there, I heard this racket coming from the pier, couldn’t for the life of me figure out what it was. Sounded like a pack of dogs. Finally figured out it was the seals. Couldn’t sleep for weeks, thought I’d made a mistake coming here. But after a while I stopped noticing it. Now, when I go visit my son at school, I can’t get a wink of sleep; the silence drives me nuts.”

“I guess you can get used to anything over time,” I say.

A Russian woman is sitting on a blanket by the water, talking on her cell phone. She watches as her husband dips a naked, laughing baby in and out of the water.

“Do you still see Emma’s face?” Carl asks. “Is it clear?”

“Yes.”

“My wife’s is getting blurry. When I close my eyes, I can visualize her hairstyle, the color of her eyes, her earrings. But I can’t remember the actual shape of her face. Then I rush to the dresser and pick up her photograph, and it all comes back to me—but a day later, she starts to fade again. And her voice, I can’t hear it at all anymore.”

“Maybe forgetting is a subconscious act of self-preservation,” I say. “Maybe, over time, if we can’t see or hear them clearly, their absence is less painful.”

“There’s a line from a Tom Petty song,” Carl says, kicking a broken sand dollar into the surf. He clears his throat, sings, “I remember the good times were just a little bit more in focus.”

I recognize the song, “Here Comes My Girl.” Though I remember only the lyrics and not the tune itself, I’m still aware, somehow, that he’s slightly off-key.

43

N
ELL’S BOOKS
are piled high on my bedside table. At night, unable to sleep, I pore through them, making notes, searching for a way to jog my memory.

In 477
B.C
., the Greek poet Simonides fathered the art of memory. Simonides discovered his calling by chance when he was invited to a banquet by a wealthy nobleman named Scopas. At the banquet, Simonides recited a long lyric poem, part of which celebrated Scopas, and part of which was devoted to the gods Castor and Pollux. The nobleman, angered at having to share glory with the gods, refused to pay Simonides his full fee.

Later, the poet was summoned out of the banquet by two young men. Simonides would eventually learn that the young men were Castor and Pollux themselves, who called him away in order to save his life. While Simonides was outside, the roof of the banquet hall collapsed. The carnage was so great that the relatives of Scopas and his guests could not identify the corpses for burial. Simonides, however, was able to identify the bodies by recalling where each guest had been sitting at the table. It was from this incident that Simonides formulated the method of loci.

The method is simple: imagine some real or imaginary place—a house or a church, for example, complete with furniture and multiple rooms—and mentally place the things you want to remember in a sequential order within this environment. Then walk through the assigned space, picking up items as you go.

During the Renaissance, Giulio Camillo of Bologna took the process one step further by building a wooden memory theater as a gift for the king of France. The theater contained markings, little boxes, ornaments, and figurines. Camillo believed that, by walking through this theater and attaching images and words to the physical things ensconced there, a man could remember anything he desired. According to Camillo, anyone who spent two hours in his memory theater would emerge with the ability to discuss any topic with the expertise of Cicero.

S., the man who could not forget, had never heard of Simonides or the method of loci. Yet, given a list of things or passages to remember by his doctor, S. would take a mental walk down Gorky Street in Moscow. In his mind, as he walked, he would place words and images at specific points along the street: in store windows, at monuments, in front of gates. Recalling the memorized passages was simply a matter of imagining the mental walk, picking up sentences at each location. Unfortunately for S., the one thing he wanted to remember was simply how to forget.

One night, after reading the passage about Camillo’s memory theater, I have a dream in which I approach, at night, a vast building in an empty field. The building is white and windowless, with a large, arched doorway at its center. Upon entering, I find myself in a complex maze of rooms, each crowded with ornamental items: vases and ceramic figures, heavy draperies, boxes of varying sizes made of wood and silver and jade.

I walk slowly through the rooms, picking up jars and turning them over. Objects fall into my hands: pebbles and plastic beads, letters of the alphabet, crumpled pieces of blank paper, paper clips and pushpins, broken seashells and scraps of wood. There is a golden frog that leaps away the moment I touch it, and a piece of hard red candy, half eaten. I open the boxes, searching, but find only useless things. All of the objects are small enough to fit into my hand, but not one of them has anything to do with Emma, not one of them is the clue I’m looking for. I wander through every room, exhausting every possibility.

When I emerge from the building, it is no longer night. The exterior is lit by a blinding sun, and it is no longer a field but a square, crowded with commerce and people—bicycles and vendors and newspaper stands and children playing jump rope, men in suits and women in summer dresses. Pushing through the crowds, I know there is somewhere I need to be, but I cannot remember the place or the reason, or who might be waiting there for me.

44

D
AY 147
.

“How would you describe your relationship with Emma?” asks Deborah Haze. Deborah is the host of a local morning talk show. Her eyebrows are arched in high, inverted Vs, like a child’s drawing of a bird. Deborah is known for her tall lace collars reminiscent of period movies, the dark foundation she wears beneath rust-colored blush. Her stiff blonde hair adds a good three inches to the top of her head. I’m trying hard not to stare.

During the weeks leading up to Christmas, Deborah is doing a retrospective of all the stories that captured the public’s heart this year. Emma’s story is number four in the series. I’ve never liked Deborah Haze, but I’ll do anything to get Emma’s face back on television.

“Would you say you were more of a mother to Emma,” Deborah asks, “or a friend?”

“I guess I tried to be a little bit of both.”

The show is being taped in a big warehouse, way in the back, on a small platform that everyone keeps referring to as “the living room.” On TV, the sofas look plush and inviting, but in fact they’re very uncomfortable, with hidden springs poking up in awkward places.

“So you’re both her mother and her friend,” Deborah says, nodding and pressing her lips tightly together as if I’ve just said something revelatory. “How do you find a balance?”

The lights are hot on my face, the tiny microphone tugs at my lapel. Deborah leans forward, waiting for her answer. I remind myself that every time I speak into a microphone or look into a camera, my motives are judged, and interest in Emma’s case rises or falls depending on how sympathetic I appear. I imagine a little graph that records public sympathy, the line dipping or rising each time I speak.

“Well, it’s not like you step in and
poof,
one day you’re the mother,” I say. “It takes time to develop a relationship, to find the right balance.”

“Did you ever think you might not be prepared? Did you ever worry you couldn’t replace her mother?”

“Of course I was nervous. I don’t know anyone who’s completely prepared for children. But I wasn’t trying to replace her mother. I was going to be her stepmother; there’s a distinction.”

What that distinction is, I haven’t figured out. Had things gone on as planned, would Emma have one day come to accept me as her mother, or would I have always been slightly on the outside, one step removed from family? A couple of weeks after the engagement, while we were cooking dinner together, Jake asked, “What do you want to be called?” I was standing with my back to him, sautéing mushrooms and garlic on the stove.

“Mommy?” he said. “Or Mom?”

I turned to face him. It was Jake’s job to make the salad, and he was holding the whisk he’d been using to stir the dressing. I licked the whisk. It was a tart, creamy dressing, with just the right amount of sweetness. “Come on,” I said, avoiding the question. “What’s the secret ingredient?”

“No can do. It’s a Balfour family secret.” He wiped a spot of dressing off my chin. “Or would you prefer something more Southern? I can see you as a Mama.”

The garlic simmered on the stove, the butter sizzling. Emma had always called me by my first name; I didn’t tell Jake that I could not imagine answering to anything else. “Can I ask you a question?” I said.

“Anything.”

“If it weren’t for Emma, would you have proposed to me?”

He stood back. “What?”

“Would you want to marry me even if you didn’t have a child who needs a mother?” I glanced away, embarrassed by my question.

“Look at me,” Jake said, placing his hands firmly on my shoulders. “When you’re not with me, I think about you. When we’re in bed together, I feel like I’m nineteen years old again. When I read something interesting, you’re the first person I want to tell, and when I buy a great new album, you’re the first person I want to play it for. I love who you are with Emma, but I also just love
you
. Get it?”

I nodded, smiled. “Got it.”

Deborah leans back in her chair, sips from a red coffee mug, sets the mug down—lining it up exactly with a cup-shaped mark on the polished table. I imagine the notes scribbled on her script:
meaningful pause here.
“If I may ask, how has this affected you and Jake? I understand you canceled the wedding?”

The interview has gotten off track. Deborah is speaking in non sequiturs, trying to catch me in a trap. I wonder what it would do for the TV station’s ratings if I were to to confess that Jake and I talk less and less, that his affection for me has turned to resentment. If I felt it might help find Emma, I’d gladly allow myself to cry. Instead I hold back the tears, try to evade the question. This isn’t about me and Jake. It’s about Emma.

“Not canceled, just postponed. We’ll think about the wedding after we’ve found her.”

“You still believe that’s possible?”

“I do.”

Deborah taps her peach fingernails on her notepad and shifts gears. “How did you and Emma get along?”

“Wonderfully. She’s a sweet kid.”

“You liked each other?”

“Very much.”

Deborah blinks at me, her eyelashes spiderlike under the thick black mascara.

“Like any child,” I say, “she had her moments of rebellion.” I hear myself talking, saying too much, trying to fill the blank air. “Of course there were times when she tried to push my buttons, but that’s to be expected.”

“I see,” Deborah says. I imagine the line on the public sympathy chart taking a steady dive. Deborah tips her head to one side and smiles. On her teeth, a slick film of Vaseline. “So you take it day by day?” She asks this of everyone she interviews. It’s her wrap-up question, her trademark. It usually has nothing at all to do with the conversation at hand.

“Yes.”

“I suppose that’s all any of us can do. Thank you so much for being with us.”

“Thank you.”

Deborah turns to the camera. “Later in the program, we’ll look at this story from a different perspective.”

She smiles for two more seconds. A guy who’s been standing below the platform with a clipboard in his hand says, “That’s a wrap,” and Deborah’s smile fades instantly. She removes the microphone from her collar and stands up.

“What did you mean by a different perspective?” I ask.

“I always like to get more than one side of any story.”

She reaches out to shake my hand; she could crack pecans with that grip. “Good luck,” she says, scurrying off the set. A skinny kid in a flannel lumberjack shirt trails after her, carrying a cell phone and a Tully’s coffee cup.

A guy comes over to unhook the microphone from my lapel. His hand brushes my breast. “Sorry,” he says, but I can tell he isn’t.

In the lobby on my way out, I spot Deborah’s next guest, clad in a black sweater, black pants, and pearls. It’s Lisbeth. She’s lost weight, had her hair highlighted.

“Hello,” she says, beaming a recently bleached smile my way.

I try not to let the shock register on my face. I don’t like the person I’m becoming, don’t like the fact that, by the simple fact of her presence, Lisbeth can make me feel so angry, even jealous. When Jake and I first met, he made it clear that he was relieved to have Lisbeth out of his life. He once told me that he had grown to love me more than he ever loved her. I believed him; I still do.

But there is one thing over which I have no control. Despite her flaws, despite everything she did to hurt him, Lisbeth must represent for Jake something I never will: a connection with Emma. It was Lisbeth who carried Emma in her womb, Lisbeth who brought that beautiful girl into the world. Surely, in some part of his mind, Jake must see Lisbeth as the one who gave Emma to him. And he must see me as the one who took her away.