The Watcher

42

“Liquor, we need liquor. What do you have?”

My sister opens the blinds in the kitchen, turns around, and eyes me hopefully. I shake my head, nothing like that here.

“Ugh, it doesn’t have to be hard liquor. Wine would be fine, too, or beer, maybe a half-finished bottle? Some old liqueur with only the dregs left? Anything will do.”

I laugh.

“Unfortunately, nothing. Nothing at all.”

My sister clicks her tongue in disbelief.

“Oh my god, a Friday night without alcohol? What kind of life is that?”

She rifles through the kitchen cabinets, finds a container of coffee, and emits a cry of relief. After having measured coffee grounds into the coffee maker for herself, she puts on tea for me.

It’s nice to have her here, nice to watch her move so naturally between the cupboards and household appliances even though this isn’t her kitchen. We chat like any old siblings, and I can almost delude myself that everything is fine. I say something that makes my sister laugh. She laughs until she can hardly breathe and has to clutch her stomach. Her breasts rise and fall under her flowery blouse and my eyes get stuck on her hand: That blouse and that hand. Time stops. Emotions freeze.

“You’re so much like her,” I blurt out. “You dress the same way and have the same stubby fingers. Or, I mean… she used to… the way she looked before…”

It takes all my self-control to hold back the tears, but I can’t bear the pain in my chest. Just when I think my rib cage is going to cleave me in two or that I’ll collapse in a heap on the floor, I feel my sister’s arms around me. She leads me to the kitchen table and pushes me down onto a chair, tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear, just like Mama used to do.

She quickly handles the rest, pouring the warm beverages into each of our cups and putting out the last of the oat crackers—Leo’s crackers, as I think of them—on a little plate.

“It’s not exactly a three-course meal,” she says. “But we can be happy there’s anything edible at all in this household. Or drinkable.”

When she notices that I’m not smiling, she grows serious again, drops down onto the chair across from me, and asks if I’m OK. She reaches for a cracker, and I look out the window.

“Don’t you ever think about her?”

“Of course I do.”

My sister brings her cup to her mouth and sips her coffee.

“In ten years, I’ll be the same age Mama was when she got sick,” she adds.

Then we talk about our parents, for real, for the first time in a really long time. About Mama’s illness, about Papa’s shortcomings, and about the emptiness they both left behind when they disappeared from our lives, each in their own way. My sister tells me about the conversation with Papa again, and this time I listen for real. When she asks what I want to do, if I want to see him when he comes to town this summer, I shrug.

“I feel the same way,” she says. “But we don’t need to decide now. Let’s think about it.”

The way she expresses this, how she clearly views it as a mutual decision, touches something in me. Tears burn behind my eyelids. My sister moistens a fingertip and presses it against the tabletop to pick up some cracker crumbs.

“When Papa met whatever-her-name-is and moved away,” she says, “was that even half a year after Mama died? That was lame, actually. I remember that all I could think was that I would never be included again. I think that’s when I decided I would never have kids, ever.”

“And for me, it was the same thing, only the opposite,” I say. “That was when I started longing to form my own family.”

“That’s why it was such a hard blow for you when you couldn’t get pregnant,” my sister says with a nod. “How long had you and Peter been trying when—”

“A long time.” My eyes are drawn to the window, to Leo’s yellow watering can. “I so wanted to be someone’s mother.”

She leans forward and pats my hand.

“I know,” she says. “I know.”

A movement behind a bush out in the yard catches my attention, and I see Veronica walking along. She’s carrying two pieces of luggage, a larger brown case made of leather and a slightly smaller bag made of black fabric. They both look quite full. There is something jerky about her movements, and her footsteps seem determined. A gray SUV is parked at the curb with the back facing this way, and she opens its trunk and tosses in both of the bags.

“So you’re working again. I mean, that’s fantastic, right? Won’t you tell me what you’re working on?”

Veronica closes the trunk and walks back to the house. I exhale the breath that had seemed frozen in my chest and turn toward my sister. She has an encouraging look on her face, and I realize that her words are an attempt to turn my thoughts away from everything having to do with grief and longing and deceit. I look her in the eye, and something slowly builds up inside me, something that billows back and forth. Can’t say anything. Must say something. Say something, anything.

“I’m finished, actually.”

My sister, who was reaching for another cracker, stops short and stares at me.

“Finished? You’re kidding me, right?”

I cup my hands around my teacup and look down at the table. “No, I’m not kidding.”

“But my god, woman! You wrote a whole book in… what, a couple of weeks? Is that even possible?”

Before I have a chance to respond, I see Veronica return. This time she’s jogging across the yard. Her face is contorted. Is she crying? Or is she angry? It only takes her a few seconds to get from the house to the car. She jumps in and drives away. The gravel sprays from under the tires as the SUV disappears. I force myself to look away, force myself to focus on what’s important and real, what I can effect, what I need to deal with.

I turn to my sister, away from the window. She wants to talk more about my manuscript. She’s bubbling with questions. I finally manage to stop her.

“I have something to say.”

“Yes?”

I run my fingertip along the rim of my half-full teacup.

“I… Peter got in touch.”

“What? When?”

“Several times, actually.”

“I thought you guys had decided not to have any contact at all for three months?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, what did he want?”

I feel her curious eyes on me and finger the handle of my cup. I don’t know why I started from this end or how to proceed from here. When I open my mouth again, my voice is rough.

“He… There was an accident. That’s what he said.”

“An accident? Elena, what are you talking about? What kind of—”

My sister stops talking so abruptly that I have to look up. Her eyes have moved from me and are now pointed straight out the window.

“Who’s that out there?”

I’ve been sitting with my back to the window, but when I turn around to see what she’s looking at, I know even before I see him: Leo. He’s pounding on my front door. A second later, I know: This is for real.

I leap up and hurry to the door. The lock sticks, and I tug at the handle. It feels like it takes forever before I finally get the door open. Leo starts talking—yelling—before the door is even fully open. I step out of the house and close the door behind me so my sister doesn’t hear.

“My mother’s gone. She left! It’s just like I said, isn’t it? I just had a feeling!”

His face is pale, and the skin under his eyes bears traces of bluish-black circles. It’s odd to describe a boy his age with words like “haggard,” and yet that’s what comes to mind. He’s haggard and hysterical. It would be easy to get caught up in his emotional storm. I’m on edge myself. Only take a little shove, and I’d fall.

“Please, Elena, you have to help me. I don’t know what to do. There isn’t anyone else. I don’t have anyone else to…”

He clasps his hands in front of his body, and something grows quiet within me, quiet and calm.

“Leo,” I say. “Of course, I’ll help you. Try to calm down now and tell me what happened.”

He’s been lying awake the last few nights, listening in the darkness, he explains quickly. He figured his mother would choose to sneak out and disappear when everyone was asleep. He’s really tried to keep track of her, but when it happened, he still wasn’t prepared. He came home, just now, and found this note on the kitchen table.

He hands me a wrinkled piece of paper.

Leo is shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“I don’t know where she went,” he wails. “I don’t know where she is!”

“Have you tried calling her?”

“Her phone is off.”

I so want to say something reassuring, tell him that Veronica’s surely just running an errand and will be back soon. But I watched her toss those bags in the car, saw the look on her face.

“Your father,” I say instead. “Have you talked to him? Maybe he knows.”

Leo looks to the side, in through my kitchen window. Presumably he’s already seen my sister in there and realizes that she can hear what we’re saying, but he’s too upset to let that stop him.

“There’s no point. He’s not home. They had a huge fight last night. I heard something about the cabin. It sounded like my dad was planning to spend the weekend up there. My mom got angry and screamed at him. I couldn’t hear what she said. I was covering my ears. And now… I guess he already went?”

Something pops into my mind: that conversation between Philip and the redhead at the restaurant.

…each drive separately… you wait for me… and meet there so she won’t…

…so close now… really looking forward to it. The cabin… so wonderful.

The blood drains out of my face. Maybe Leo can tell that something has occurred to me, because he takes an anxious step closer.

“My mom isn’t doing very well. I know that. But you don’t think she’s planning to…”

When I don’t respond right away, he takes yet another step closer and tugs on my arm.

“No! Tell me she’s not planning to…!”

With great effort, I pull myself together.

“No, Leo,” I say as calmly as I can. “Your mom’s not planning to kill herself. She wouldn’t have needed to pack anything if she was, right? I saw her leave, and she had luggage with her.”

As if she were planning to disappear, I suddenly thought, do what she had to do and then get away, leave everything behind.

Leo becomes agitated and wants to know exactly what I saw and how his mom seemed, but I no longer hear what he’s saying.

Suddenly I realize what I need to do, what’s needed from me. Deep down inside I am simultaneously burning hot and freezing cold.

“Your summer place,” I hear myself say. “Where is it?”

Leo stops short and looks at me blankly.

“Do you want me to help you? If so, then you need to trust me. I need the address of your cabin. Right now.”

Leo pulls his phone out of his pocket and maps the directions. I tell him to send me the link and turn around and yell to my sister. It turns out she’s already standing right behind me. She looks both bewildered and annoyed.

“What is this all about, Elena? What’s going on?”

“How did you get over here? Did you drive or take the bus?”

My sister says she drove. Her car is parked just around the corner.

“Can I borrow your keys?”

“I don’t understand. What are you going to do?”

I pull on my vest and then hold my hand out to her urgently.

“Please? I’ll explain later. Trust me for now.”

Yet another person I’m asking to place their trust in me even though I don’t deserve it. I try not to think about all the things I owe people and my shortfalls, try to focus on the fact that I’m doing the right thing. For once. Finally.

The look on my sister’s face changes. Without further ado, she reaches for her purse, takes out her car key, and presses the key and my phone into my hand. I stuff the phone into my vest pocket and wrap my fingers around the key and squeeze.

“Thank you.”

Our eyes meet. So much left to do. It feels hot behind my eyes.

“Will you wait here?” I ask. “Until I get back?”

My sister gives me one of her wry smiles and says she has no intention of leaving until I’ve brought her car back. Then she grows serious again and quickly strokes my cheek.

“Be careful,” she mumbles. “I only have one sister.”

I start to head toward my sister’s car, but Leo moves to stand in my way.

“I’m coming with you,” he says.

I look into his worried eyes and think about the violent conclusion to the story I just wrote. I picture Veronica rushing into the summer cabin, crazed with her desire for revenge, and how the world becomes streaked red with blood. Scenes that no child should have to witness.

“It’s better that you stay here,” I say as calmly as I can.

“But I—”

“In case she comes back. You never know.”

Leo stares at me. I hold my breath and try to look like I believe what I just said might actually be plausible.

“OK,” he finally agrees.

“I’ll be in touch,” I say. “As soon as I can.”

Leo responds with silence, his eyes two bottomless wells in his pale face. I feel a sting inside. I realize I may not have another chance. Anything that needs to be said should be said now.

“Hey, I’m sorry about what happened the other day. When you came over and I shut the door in your face. You didn’t do anything wrong. It didn’t have anything to do with you. I’m the one who—”

“It’s OK.”

I shake my head.

“No, it wasn’t OK of me to do that. I want you to know that, that it wasn’t OK at all. I’m glad you were brave enough to try again.”

Then I walk away with long but controlled steps. I don’t turn around a single time, don’t know if they’re still standing there watching me. For safety’s sake, I wait until I’m around the corner and out of sight before I break into a run. I see my sister’s car and pick up the pace a bit. Only now do I allow myself to relax, to feel the terror.

Oh, Veronica, what are you planning to do?

I throw myself into the driver’s seat and turn the key. Then I floor it, following in Veronica’s footsteps. Toward doom.