Close Your Eyes

4

By the time Sylvia’s bus pulled in to Port Authority, it was past midnight. Sylvia was glad to depart the airless bus. She stretched and shouldered her duffel, stepped on a whining escalator. The shops were gated and locked, and no one in the terminal seemed up to any good. By the exit, a slight girl played a mournful song on a violin. Sylvia dropped a dollar in the case as she passed, and the girl whispered, “God bless.”

Sylvia ached to see Victoria, to huddle together like they had as children, spilling secrets in Victoria’s beautiful room high above the city. Sylvia craved the sense of belonging that only Victoria could give her. All these years, Sylvia had kept the secret about the night on Ocean Avenue so she could remain inside the circle of the Bright family. The terrifying dreams, the regret in the pit of her stomach: this was the cost of loyalty, the price Sylvia had to pay. Victoria had done it for Sylvia, after all.

Sylvia had almost told Ray once, in the twilight after lovemaking. She’d turned to him and almost come clean. But something stopped her, a shadow—the memory of how lonely her life had been before Victoria.

New York City was surprisingly desolate in the dead of the night. Walking toward Times Square, trying to find a taxi, Sylvia saw a twenty-four-hour Internet café. It was the only place open that wasn’t a strip club or bar. Sylvia went inside, thinking she could rest and keep an eye out for a cab.

Sylvia found a crumpled five in her wallet and handed it to a young man at the front of the café. The man pointed to a computer.

Sylvia sat down and logged in to her email account. There were a few messages from her boss but none from Ray. There was a message titled IMPORTANT PLEASE HELP.

Dear Ms. Hall,

My name is Lauren Mahdian. If you are the Sylvia Hall whose mother was Pauline Hall, it is very important that I speak with you. I have tried to reach you by phone and left messages. Your biography on the Snowmass Club staff Web page says you grew up in New York City, so I have a good feeling you can help me. Please help me. My number is 512-670-2398.

Yours sincerely,

Lauren Mahdian

Sylvia’s hands hovered over the keyboard, and then she did it. She typed L, and then A, and then the rest of the name: LAUREN MAHDIAN.

It took a fraction of a second, and a list of hits came up. Sylvia clicked on the first and was directed to the Web page of a real estate company, Sunshine City Realty, in Austin, Texas. Sylvia stared at the face of a chubby, dark-haired young woman with a shy smile. Sylvia had never met her, but the face—of course—was familiar.

Sylvia had thought about her father’s other children over the years. She knew the names of her half brother and sister, though she had never searched for them. She hated her father for abandoning her. His being in jail seemed just punishment. But when Sylvia thought about his orphaned children, guilt and sorrow washed over her—guilt, sorrow, and shame.

Sylvia felt a sensation in her stomach, the smallest flutter, like a butterfly’s wings. It was her baby, his feet, inside her. She put her face in her hands.