Alice's Island, page 28
As soon as they’d arrived at the zoo, Olivia ran off toward the area with the red pandas. She greeted the panda family and named them. Well, numbered them. Hello, Panda Number One; hello, Panda Number Two; hello, Panda Number Three; hello, Panda Number Four; hello, Panda Number Five. Then they could go on to enjoy the other animals. At lunchtime, they bought food from a kiosk and took it to the red panda area because Olivia insisted on eating near them. She ate too fast, almost without chewing, no matter how often I told her to pay attention to me. Olivia was in a rush because she wanted to play with the red pandas. Especially with Number Five, the smallest one, but when she went to look for him, he wasn’t there. He had disappeared. She threw such a tantrum that my father went to find the guy in charge to get him to explain to Olivia that Number Five was fine, that he hadn’t left, hadn’t gotten sick and definitely hadn’t died, which was what Olivia was afraid of. But before that happened, Olivia started to choke. She couldn’t breathe. My mother went hysterical. A man with his three kids took charge of the situation: he was a doctor. I thought he must have been divorced. Very handsome, my mother observed in the midst of her anguished tale. He examined Olivia, made sure she hadn’t aspirated, that her respiratory pathways were clear. But Olivia kept getting worse. He took her in his arms. He ran off with her to the zoo’s medical services. Just before they arrived, Olivia vomited, then she got better: her color came back, her breathing became normal, and the scare was over. The doctor stayed until he was sure everything was fine. I thanked him and asked for his name and address to send him a token of thanks for his help, but really I was thinking he could be a good match for you. He was really handsome, right, George? Before they left, Olivia insisted on making sure Number Five was OK. She wasn’t satisfied with what the zoo employee told her; she had to go see with her own eyes.
Look, see him there eating bamboo? You scared my granddaughter very badly, Number Five, my father upbraided the panda.
So that’s it, indigestion, my mother concluded. You want me to give you the doctor’s number? His name’s Donald. I talked to him about you; I said you were very pretty. And he answered, “If she’s your daughter, I don’t doubt it one bit.” How charming, right? Oh, and he confirmed it: recently divorced. He had the kids for vacation. Yes, I asked him about it. Don’t look at me with the same face as your father, dear. I did it for you.
My diagnosis was a bit different from hers. Olivia had had an anxiety attack. What could be circulating so virulently and recurrently in her little body? Her tale about the incident at the zoo turned out to be much more concise, direct and devastating.
“What happened to you at the zoo, honey?”
“I got sick because I couldn’t find Number Five. I thought he had left. Like Daddy. But then he came back and that’s the end.”
I tried to convince myself that it had been a simple summer storm, the kind that soaks you unexpectedly but doesn’t have any real consequences—especially for her. But I couldn’t stop thinking of how the last time we’d gone to the zoo had been with Chris. A year ago, also during spring break. On that visit, Olivia decided that the red pandas were her super-favorite out of all the animals in the world. She didn’t name them because she wasn’t yet obsessed with order, but we did have to go back and eat next to them. Was she repeating the same ritual to see if her father would turn the corner to pick her up and carry her off on his shoulders?
* * *
Again I found myself in my father’s office, in front of the laptop, debating whether to take a peek at my fishbowls or not. In reality I had them set so that whatever movement happened in front of them would be recorded. So there was no risk of missing anything. It was better that way. Leaving them to record a few days and then going over the material, fast-forwarding through the video, to see if anything interesting happened. I’d save a lot of time. And that was the thing that bothered me the most: despite knowing all that, I could hardly restrain the discomfort that was eating me up inside. Just a little look. To make sure all the fishbowls are working right, then off to bed. No, hold on, it’s like your father’s whiskey. You have to be the one who feels you’re in control of it and not it of you. But before I could log in—and I was going to do it—I heard Olivia’s whiny voice.
“What are you doing up, sweetheart?”
“I had a nightmare with Puchi Puchi, Number Five, Panda, Daddy and Oliver. They were all in a cage at the zoo. I was counting them, but I never could finish, because I would mess up before I got to five and I would have to start over.”
“Well, it’s over now, honey. Here, drink a little water; you’re dehydrated; you’ve been sweating.”
I gave her the water, dried the sweat on her forehead and changed her pajama top, which was damp.
“Mommy, am I crazy?”
I got a knot in my throat and my eyes teared up when I heard the question.
“No, honey, of course not. Why do you say that?”
“At school they say I’m crazy because I do weird things and that only crazy kids go to the psychologist. Beth Yoxhimer said it, and so did Eric Aver, Gordon Howie, Sandy Karstetter and Steve Poppler.”
She had listed them in alphabetical order by first name. That didn’t help to relieve my sorrow.
“You’re not crazy, Oli. Don’t pay them any mind. You’re very sensitive, and you’re still a little sad about what happened with Daddy. That’s normal. Don’t worry about it. Next week, we’ll go see Ruth, and you’ll see, she’ll tell you the same.
“I don’t want to see Ruth.”
“But you love going to see Ruth . . .”
“I want to see Oliver.”
“When we go back to the island, we’ll see him.”
“No, I want to see him now.”
“Honey, we’re almost three hours from home. And it’s night. We can’t go now.”
“FaceTime hasn’t connected since we left. I haven’t seen him in three days.”
“Well, it’s OK; you will.”
“Is he dead?”
“Who? Oliver? Of course not.”
“When Daddy died, we went to the island.” I think that was the first time she had verbalized that her father had died, at least so bluntly. “Did we leave the island this time because Oliver died?”
“No, baby. He hasn’t died. And we didn’t leave the island either. Oliver’s at home. He’s on break.”
“I don’t like breaks.” She didn’t say it like a hysterical child but with deep grief. “Let’s go see him.”
“Listen, don’t talk nonsense or I’ll end up getting mad.” I decided to get hard with her and see if that pulled her out of the vortex. “I told you we can’t, and that’s that. Now go to bed.”
Silence. She stayed still, without saying anything, staring straight into my eyes. I thought it had worked. But she didn’t close her eyes; she didn’t even blink.
“I close my eyes and I see him dead, like when it happened to me with Daddy.”
APRIL 14–19
WHEN JOHN CAME back, it didn’t catch me by surprise. I had it down on the calendar, April 14. I was expecting it.
I had done my homework. I had cameras or snitches in the office, bedroom, kitchen and main room at the inn. Also, during various expeditions, taking advantage of Karen’s absence—and when I say absence, I mean just that she was three sheets to the wind, barely conscious—I had tried the Master Key in every imaginable lock without any result. I had found photos of John in his student days and when he was a football player, as well as during his time as an assistant coach. Chris wasn’t in any of them. I had also found photos of John, Mark and Keith on a boat, fishing and posing with a smile along with a bluefin tuna that was six feet long and over four hundred pounds, which did nothing but make me yearn to be on Mark’s boat. Shadows, all shadows.
John was quiet those first few days back, serious, out of sorts. Karen barely talked to him. It was clear this was an important exercise in containment and moderation. She told me that it was hard for John to reconnect with the world after being shut up in a submarine for four months. He needed time. Time he spent exclusively on getting Rick ready for sailing season—to the boy’s misfortune. He took him out of school early, with the blessing of the principal, who was a close friend. He didn’t want anything to compromise his selection of colleges and his ultimate objective: the 2020 Olympic Games in Tokyo.
In any case, there wasn’t a single mention, gesture or action that could tie him to Chris. Maybe I had placed too many expectations on John? What did I hope would happen when he returned? Once more, I had the feeling that I had been deceiving myself, grasping with all my might onto his tangential connection to Chris. To his return. To keep the speeding train of my investigation from running off the rails, I supposed. To know that there would be at least one stop along the way. John’s return. That was my handbrake. Now I had the feeling that I had just blown through that station. And now what? Where did I go? How much fuel did I still have in the steam engine of my obsession?
* * *
“How long have we known each other?”
“A little more than seven months, I think.”
“I’d say fifteen days. Since we met each other here one day and switched the coffee to wine.”
“Yeah, that’s true . . .” It was a fact that our complicity had grown exponentially in that café, which was almost always empty except for us.
“So I guess enough time hasn’t passed . . .”
“For what?”
“To tell you I had an affair a few years ago.”
I tried to keep my face and body from reacting to the wave of nervousness I felt on hearing those words. Affair. A few years ago. Chris?
“Affair? Did I say affair? How awful,” she rebuked herself. “Like I was Nicholas Sparks. Which I would have liked, to be honest . . . I was hooking up with another guy for almost three years . . . And you know how Mark found out?” I shook my head. “Reading my last novel.”
“But the novel doesn’t say anything about infidelity.”
“That’s exactly it: I tried so hard to keep from writing about it that finally it became too obvious. And to top it off, the novel ended up being an insubstantial piece of shit,” she said, not hiding her anger. “Lots of times I ask myself to what extent I provoke the things that happen to me to have material for my novels . . . I think I’m afraid of easy cohabitation. The anesthesia of the middle class. It’s fine to write about it but not to fall into it.”
“Then I don’t know if this is the best place to look for stories.”
“This is the perfect place to look for stories. The more calm there is on the surface, the more lava there is underground about to erupt. What a shitty metaphor. Don’t ever let me write that in a novel. Though now that I think of it, I believe I already did . . .” She was beating herself up the way I did. That made me feel more normal. “Anyway, watch out.”
“What do you mean?”
“All I see and hear might end up in one of my novels.”
* * *
The DNA test results arrived by courier.
Ruby and Olivia II
Probability of relation: 0.00001%
I’m glad, really glad. But it doesn’t end here, Summer Monfilletto. By hook or by crook, I’m finding out who Olivia II’s father is.
Why this sudden commitment, if it didn’t have anything to do with Chris anymore? Because I was curious. No, it was much more than that. I had a need to know.
APRIL 20–21
JENNIFER AND SUMMER had agreed to a ceasefire and an end to hostilities, though communication was practically null. Summer just breastfed Olivia II three times a day. That was her only responsibility with the baby; the rest of the time she spent watching reality shows on TV and putting cream on her breasts so she wouldn’t get stretch marks. Jennifer took charge of the baby all day. It seemed strange to me that she almost never took her out on the street. She didn’t socialize; it seemed as if she wanted to hide the baby from the rest of the islanders. She had always been very retiring and evasive, but now, with a baby in the mix, it was much more noticeable.
The conversation that intrigued me most was a phone call from a friend of Summer’s—maybe the only one—from outside the island:
SUMMER: Disgusted, girl, I mean I’ve got the urge to get up and go God knows where . . . So you’re going to flip out, but the thing is, being shut up in here, you go stir crazy. And all this time and breastfeeding the baby so much . . . So I don’t know, it’s like, even though you don’t want to, you end up caring about the thing. I don’t know, it’s like something weird happens in your head. I even thought about keeping her. That’s what I’m saying . . . What do you mean she’s not mine? I gave birth to her. The baby’s mine if I want her. Jeez, you’re always so negative. I tell you my shit because I don’t have anyone else to talk to about this, and instead of supporting me, you’re pouring salt in the wound.
Everything indicated she was going to give the baby up for adoption. To whom? Or was she a surrogate mother? For whom? Both questions pointed straight to Jennifer.
* * *
I had been following John’s steps all over the island. I was on guard day and night in case he made any strange moves or left Robin Island. I even decided to bump into him one day. Sometimes seeing and hearing a person just through the fishbowls was dehumanizing; it made them unreal. I needed to interact with the characters without the glass between us. Characters? When did you turn the people into characters?
“Hey, Alice, what’s up? They told me you were a hit at the Cherry Blossom Art Fair,” John said to me. I had run into him in the pharmacy.
“Yeah, it went well.”
“You’ve filled my house up with clocks. They’re pretty, though, no doubt.”
“How were things for you in the submarine? Where did you go on maneuvers?”
“Can’t say. That’s classified information. Well, look, now that you’re here, I’m going to give you something and save myself a stamp.”
He went through a backpack with a navy logo and took out an envelope with my name and address on it.
“An invitation. Keith’s going to have a blowout party for his fiftieth birthday.”
“Oh yeah, Karen mentioned it. How nice. I’m looking forward to going,” I said.
“Well, we’ll see if you get lucky this time. You know what I mean, right?” he winked at me.
“Yeah, I know. We’ll see . . .” I said, pretending to be shy.
* * *
“And Mark?” I felt obliged to ask Julia during our usual morning coffee at Le Café.
At that point his absence was more than obvious; it would have been weird not to ask. Julia might take my discretion as a sign of respect for her privacy, but she could also find it suspicious. And although she’d memorized the phone number I used with Mark, she had never dialed it. But he had gone on sending me almost daily messages.
Hello?
Are you there?
Did you change numbers? My message is showing as unread.
Yes, you’ve read it.
Fuck, Alice, at least tell me what’s going on.
I deserve an explanation.
No, I don’t deserve an explanation. I’m sorry I lost it. I just really want to see you.
Bad.
I’ve decided your silence is a good sign.
So don’t answer me, don’t write me, that way I’ll know you love me, deep down you love me.
I love you too.
I think you’re my Samantha.
Would you let me be your Paul?
Samantha was my brother Paul’s girlfriend, the one who died, in case you don’t remember.
Sorry, I was really drunk last night, I feel alone.
I’m pathetic. I make myself sick.
I’m not like this, at least I didn’t used to be. I don’t know what the fuck is happening to me.
I’m going to stop writing you. I don’t want you to remember me like this. I want to be the man who helped you bring a life into the world.
I want everything to be all right between us. You’re one of the few good things on this island.
You’ve given me and helped me a lot, but I don’t need you anymore.
Now, finally, I am going to respect your silence.
Alice, are you there?
I will always be here for you, when you’re ready.
Two days without writing you, but I haven’t stopped thinking of you.
I’m in NY.
I’d love for you to be here with me.
I think I’m going to get a divorce.
I’m not happy.
Your silence doesn’t pull me away from you, it pulls me away from Julia.
It helps me to see things clearer.
Thanks, Alice, for being there without being there.
I’m not trying to be with you anymore. I’m really not.
I’m trying to be with me.
I’m going to throw this phone in the Hudson. I’m getting rid of it.
My message in a bottle for you.
I love you, m.
When I met him, he was full of life, a man sure of himself. Now it surprised me and made me want to reject him when I saw that he wanted me so desperately he couldn’t contain himself. Seeing him so fragile and vulnerable. But I had the feeling he was continuing to write me because I gave off something in the distance and in my silence, legitimizing him. Why didn’t I answer him or see him to put an end to the matter? Maybe I wanted to have him there? To keep sending me those messages that were so mysterious but so full of feeling? Three days had passed since he’d supposedly thrown the phone in the Hudson. At first I was thankful for his silence, but now I was genuinely worried about him. I needed to know he was all right. Maybe that’s why I had asked Julia.
“He’s in New York. He’s been there all week. But you know, if it was up to me, he could stay.”
