The Alone Time, page 17
I stand at my dining table, fiddling with the mountain installation for the hundredth time. A small branch that seemed to draw the eye perfectly, near the peak, now appears obtrusive.
Daley Kelly’s angry expression when he confronted me at the restaurant behind the gallery almost three weeks ago has lingered in my head. It was difficult, nearly impossible, for me to keep a straight face as he interrogated me—made it clear he didn’t believe my story thanks to some first responder’s offbeat detail that we had a campfire going when we were rescued. When Daley touched my hand, I was so startled I blurted out a truth I’ve managed to keep tucked beneath my tongue for years: there’s more to the story than what I’ve publicly shared.
My parents didn’t die the first night. And while he doesn’t have any proof of it—only my verbal admission that details from the ordeal remain hidden—if Daley is half the truth hound he said he is, I don’t think he’s going to stop until he gets it.
I inhale a deep breath through my nose, then release it slowly. Marshall lifts his head from the couch. “I’m fine. Really,” I add.
Although I would feel better if Violet hadn’t stood me up last week at the gallery for the dress rehearsal. Ever since she decided to write her memoirs, instead of focusing on school and getting through the current media blitz, she’s been MIA—physically present, though not emotionally sometimes.
She called me an hour after she was supposed to show. The noise was so loud in the background, I could barely hear her. She was in a bar. As a man’s voice leaned in and said, “Everything okay?,” Violet imparted the gist of it: she went to the psychic that Phuong Nguyen told us about and saw for herself what bought Geri’s trust and confidence. The fact that Geri tried to reach out to our father through the psychic and that she never received a response didn’t give me any satisfaction. While Violet seemed pleased, almost gleeful that Geri was left hanging by the afterlife, the whole thing just struck me as sad. Odd, that anyone would place such importance and power on one specific person, or medium, or whatever. Probably, Geri Vega was seeking out any emotional support that could be gleaned from a perfect stranger. It made me wonder about her family—about my father, for the way she seems so heartbroken in all her interviews, each of which I’ve watched. Whether Henry Seng could have actually loved someone more than himself.
Marshall lifts his head, then whimpers toward the door leading to my driveway. No one is out there, at least not visible from the window beside my dining table. The door is open but the screen door locked, per usual.
“You okay?” I ask my roommate. Marshall continues to stare outside, as if seeing something that I don’t.
I cross to where he sits perched. Together we watch the back door to my house. A long pause passes between us. “There’s nothing there, buddy.”
After ensuring the pine cone is secure—that it won’t topple to the base of my mountain—I grab my car keys. I slide into my driver’s seat, leaving Marshall at home to tussle with a rope chew toy he prefers during happy hour.
Violet and I have made serious progress in uncovering just who Geri Vega is and why she would want to upend our lives again. The other part of our plan—to convince Daley Kelly to tell our story sympathetically and not accusatorily—has gone less well. He’s avoided each of my calls, but texted that he’ll clear his schedule for me when I’m ready to tell “the whole story.” I owe it to the adult I’ve become—the artist, who’s worked her ass off to be something more than a hashtag for oglers—to try again, one last time before the gallery show, which takes place tomorrow.
The route to North Park and Daley’s editing studio is jam-packed with afternoon traffic and bustling sidewalks. I pass a to-go tent set up in the parking lot of a taco shop, a singer busking on the corner, and a group of schoolchildren advertising a car wash in the middle of November. My mother used to love University Avenue. She would say you could walk down the length of North Park and find everything your heart and stomach desired, often bringing us here for the farmers’ market on weekends.
Wedged on the second floor of a commercial building with a walkway balcony, the business logo on Daley’s website—a camera and a trio of birds flying overhead—is evident in the clear front door. Daley Productions, Inc.
Weeks ago, when Daley asked, he got express permission from Quincy, as the gallery owner, and me to film my show. Termination clauses were watered down in exchange for me getting final approval of how my art is featured on film. Pages of paperwork were signed before trust was broken between us—on both sides. I have to be ready for Daley to join and capture the culmination of my artistic career on camera for whatever purpose he decides.
I climb the steps.
A small front room is empty, save for a black leather love seat and, above it, a framed panoramic-style photo of the San Diego harbor. Water bubbles in a dispenser tank opposite the love seat, beside a no-frills coffee machine on a small end table. Written in black marker, a sign is taped to the next door and reads, EDITING IN PROCESS. PLEASE TAKE A SEAT.
Part of me hesitates—doesn’t actually desire to screw up anyone’s morning, knowing all too well how the artistic process can be hampered by a single interruption. The other part of me knows down to my Doc Martens that Daley is planning something for my show that I won’t like.
I rip open the door to the next room, taken by surprise at how lightweight it is. Daley sits in a computer chair before three large monitors, each illuminated and frozen on a scene of Geri Vega midsentence. Because, of course.
“Fiona? What are you doing here?” Daley squeaks.
“I need to talk to you. Are you still planning to film the gallery tomorrow night?”
Daley glances behind me. “I am. Did you just come here to ask that? You could have texted. I’m kind of in the middle of something.”
He does a double take, then clicks on a laptop and makes the screens disappear. “Look, if you’re getting cold feet about having my crew there for your show, you already signed release forms. We’ve got notices that we’re going to put up to notify attendees that they may be recorded. This is happening, with or without your enthusiasm.”
“But you don’t believe my story—my account—anymore.”
“No, I don’t.” Daley doesn’t blink. “And since we last saw each other, I met with Geri Vega.”
I pause. “I know. You said you wouldn’t do that. When Violet and I agreed to film with you, you said—”
“And you said you’d tell me the facts.” Daley scoffs. “I think it’s clear by now that we both fibbed. Plus, Geri has information that puts your experience in a totally different light. I think you’d benefit from having a face-to-face—”
“On camera, right?”
“Right.” He grimaces. “I’d be happy to record you telling the real details of your story without her, but neither you nor Violet is willing.”
“What did Vega tell you? Why believe her over us?”
Daley leans forward in his wheeled computer chair. “If I told you, I’d have to film you.”
A sneer lifts my upper lip. My fists tremble. “So . . . you won’t be coming to the gallery with a positive perspective. As a fan. You’ll be filming to prove . . . what? That I have been profiting from my parents’ deaths, just like the online trolls suggest?”
My chest tightens as I speak my greatest fear about presenting my art alone, without any other artist to act as a buffer. I’ve worked so hard for this, forgoing relationships and friendships in order to reach this point in my career. Although, if I’m being as honest as Daley keeps insisting I be, I’ve probably used my work ethic as an excuse to avoid forming bonds with others. Darleen, my art dealer who has a monetary interest in my productivity, is my closest friend.
The chair creaks beneath Daley’s weight. “Once initial filming is complete, I’ll use all the footage I have to create the best, most factual narrative as I know it. My duty is to my viewers, and everyone else who considers documentary film as the last sacred space of storytelling.”
His glare softens until he merely looks disappointed. I’m reminded how charming he seemed when he first tracked me down during the gallery’s paint night—and how I’ve fallen so far in his graces. Under other circumstances, I might have asked him out.
“I get that. But if you really are after the truth about our experience for your viewers, you also have to present the facts about Geri Vega.” I nod to the now-dormant screens.
Daley straightens. “And what does that mean?”
“Have you done any background checks on the woman?”
“I’ve checked out her version of the events—”
“Or has all your time been spent sniffing out inconsistencies in my story? There’s little difference between my parents dying on impact and succumbing to their injuries twelve hours later.”
I inhale through my nose. The emotions I’ve kept bottled up since I was a teen, trying to preserve myself, begin to bubble, percolate in my throat, pinching the space behind my jaw.
“I disagree,” Daley says. “There’s a big difference if, during those twelve hours, it means someone facilitated one or both of those deaths along.”
Shock spirals down my back. “What are you trying to say? That I—that Violet—”
Is he actually suggesting that two children could kill their parents—and under such unique circumstances as ours? Why would he think that?
Daley tilts his head to the side, watching me. “I’m saying that Geri Vega has been up-front about everything that she knows—just twenty-five years later than she should have been transparent. Including her extramarital affair with your dad. You haven’t been as clear, and that calls into question everything you previously shared.”
“Only if you’re seeking out the drama.” I shake my head, still reeling from this man’s implication. “If you’re here for the views, the likes, the fifteen minutes of f—”
Daley gets to his feet, pushing his chair into the desk. “What is your problem, Fiona? You know you lied on camera. You lied to me. I thought we shared something, some—I don’t know. I liked you.”
His words are a gouge to my heart, echoing the emotion that’s been simmering in me from the moment he appeared on the restaurant patio to pitch his film to us. I haven’t stopped thinking about his hand on mine since the catering tasting. Just after he dropped his investigatory bombs. “I felt it too.”
“But all that’s changed—if what I suspect is true.” Daley spreads his feet wide.
“Which is?” I speak slowly. On the cusp of dangerous territory.
My interview. That must be what has Daley so convinced I’m hiding more. He can’t be jeopardizing the cooperation of the girl-survivors based on the slight admission that there’s more to my experience than what I’ve shared. Or whatever nonsense Geri Vega is offering up.
The experience of filming should have been mundane for me, in my living room, recounting what I’ve rehearsed and performed dozens of times. However, clearly I said something unusual to Daley. Off-putting. And I really don’t remember sharing anything different from the most recent interview with the police—who, come to think of it, were also intrigued by what Geri Vega was shouting from the media rooftops. I’m off-balance.
Right now, I would kill to review the full footage myself, rather than the snippet Daley allowed me to watch at the restaurant.
Daley purses his lips into a tight line. “Geri said your father hasn’t been given his proper due.”
“More riddles.”
“She said . . . She shared something that changes everything.” He pauses. “And if you knew this and you didn’t tell me, you didn’t tell the police—you’re not leaving me much choice, Fiona.”
Sweat dots my hairline. My chest. He knows. She knows. “Geri Vega is not some innocent, reporting the news in a snap of altruism. She hurt people. She stole money from a friend and business partner.”
“Did she?” Daley nods too fast to suggest he believes me. “Well, I’ll look into it. If you don’t have anything else to say for yourself—about you, Fiona—then I’ll thank you for stopping by.”
“I’m serious. She owes thousands of dollars to a man we spoke with, and she spent at least that amount with a psychic. There’s another angle for your film that’s worth exploring.”
“Maybe. But Geri wasn’t stranded in the wilderness with your family. And she didn’t walk out on her own two feet when two people, your parents, died.”
I stare at Daley. A man I don’t really know at all. “What are you going to do with my interview? With Violet’s?”
“I’m not concerned with Violet yet.”
“Then what are you planning to do with mine?”
Daley narrows his eyes. “I’ve got work to do, Fiona. Please leave.”
“Are you—would you go to the police with it?”
“I don’t know. Should I?”
“You—I—I’m not.” My words come up short. Running water whooshes through a pipe in the wall beside me, the only noise in the editing room for a moment.
I lick my lips. Steel myself to appear convincing. “I told you everything that I already told them. Many times.”
Daley shakes his head. “If only that were true.”
“What did I say?” I finally blurt out. “Why do you think whatever it is is so incriminating? Why are you doing this?”
Daley punches the air. “Because this is the story I always dreamed of telling! It’s what drove me to study film. I believe in this documentary down to my bones and that some good can come of it. I believe in it so much that I fronted most of the money when my investors wouldn’t cover the rest. And now, now that the girl-survivors have pulled their support of my doc, those investors have withdrawn.”
Bright-blue eyes are wild as he pauses. “If I don’t have the family’s blessing anymore, then it’s not your version of the truth I have to represent. I’m focused on making the best damn documentary I can. Otherwise, I’ve got nothing. And my career has slipped down the sewer.”
“So, you’re going to do whatever it takes, then. Even if it means you hurt the people you’re supposedly trying to help.”
“I’ll be at the gallery show, if that’s what you mean.”
“And if you don’t get the footage you want? If you get turned away by a hulking bodyguard I hire to be on watch for you?”
Daley purses his lips. “There’s more than one way to strip an airplane of its materials.”
Without waiting for my reply, he steps past me to open the door. I follow him, crossing to the walkway outside, where the door shuts behind me. The dead bolt turns.
A handful of hours remain until my show tomorrow, each of which I need for one reason or another. I descend the outdoor staircase to the ground level and my car. Uncertainty zips in my head, my torso, tightening my stomach.
Daley is convinced I’ve done something wrong—Geri Vega certainly is. And as much as I’d like to stay and argue the opposite, I slide into the driver’s seat of my car.
The entrance to the 8 freeway is unregulated this time of day. I fly past the darkened stoplight. Once I am enveloped by the roar of high-speed traffic, I inhale a breath that feels like it might fracture a rib. Then I release a scream.
28
FIONA
Interview Transcript
Fiona Seng: Are you recording? Should I look—? Where should I look?
Daley Kelly: Yup, you’re just going to talk to me. Right here. Yeah, don’t even look at the camera. I mean, unless you want to address the audience. Then, go for it.
FS: Got it. Okay.
DK: Okay, ready?
FS: Yes.
DK: Let’s start by you stating your name and what your profession is.
FS: My name is Fiona Lang Fa Seng. And I’m an artist.
DK: What art do you create? Tell us about it.
FS: I mean, I could talk about it for hours. [Laughs] I make modern sculpture using materials I find outdoors. Oftentimes—well, most often—I find myself influenced by my . . . adolescence.
DK: Tell us about that. The origins of your art.
FS: [Inhales] Well, it’s . . . uh . . .
DK: Whenever you’re ready.
FS: I’ve done this a lot, so— [Laughs] Yeah, okay. When I was thirteen, my parents decided we should do a family trip to Calgary. Four days in British Columbia. They had never been, and growing up in San Diego, we—my sister, Violet, and I—had never spent a ton of time in the snow. I mean, we had gone up to Mount High and even Big Bear, but it just wasn’t a regular occurrence. This was going to be an exotic experience, my parents promised.
DK: And what else was exotic about it? About your mode of getting there?
FS: Yes. [Makes a noise] Of course. That was one of the most interesting parts, and the one that really captivated investigators later—the airplane. My dad had just obtained his pilot’s license for small, private aircraft, and he wanted to fly us himself.
DK: Did that make anyone nervous? Your mother?
FS: Yeah, we were too young to know how . . . unusual it was, in hindsight. But my mom, Janet. Yeah, she was nervous. I think she trusted my dad, implicitly—they were extremely tight, never had a fight in their life together. But I remember on the day we took off, she kept fiddling with her prayer beads.
DK: Prayer beads?
FS: Her rosary. She kind of rolled them around in her hand that day, like the action was calming to her. She also could have simply been stressed out with preparing to take a vacation and packing three suitcases. My dad packed his own, at least.
