Tell Me What I Am, page 22
Across the street a black SUV was parked where the white Honda had been that summer, the one before Deena disappeared. She hadn’t done anything about that either. Or not enough. She studied the picture in her hand; she should do something. The door opened to the house next door and a woman stepped out in a cream linen dress and oversized black sunglasses. Nessa had only seen her a few times. She started to say hello but the woman didn’t acknowledge her at all, went down her steps and clicked her car lock. Another SUV. The tiny street was flanked both sides with them. Weird to have these tanks, seeing as they all lived in a city. When Sylvia next door had died, her children had sold the house. No one sat out on the sidewalk anymore and talked to each other. Nessa missed her. Her metal chair and her golden jewels. The houses had all doubled in value but the old people were gone and it wasn’t a neighbourhood anymore. Not really.
So much had happened during those weeks after Molly saw the bruises. Maria’s cancer came back. Her hair had grown in, wiry and greyer, but full; her cheeks had colour. Nessa had gone with her for the scan. The previous day, Maria had swung Ruby around the kitchen, made them all dinner, exuded health. But the scan said different. A lesion on the liver. She had surgery in the new year. The day they left the hospital, George W. Bush’s inauguration was being broadcast live on TV. Maria sat on the bed, hands folded in her lap, her packed bags on the floor at her feet. Deena sat beside her. Nessa leaned on the windowsill looking out at the city. The Philadelphia skyline was chalky in the January light. When the discharge nurse walked into the room it was Deena she spoke to. More chemo. They were all tired. Dick Cheney’s face, close up, filled the television screen.
Nessa hadn’t mentioned the bruises again. Molly had said their family had avoidance pathology.
Nessa scrutinized the photograph in her lap again, Lucas’s profile, the same hand on the lower back, that I-am-in-charge-here gesture, and this beautiful young woman. Mathilde Lavoie was written in neat handwriting on a white sticker in the corner of the picture. Someone had to warn her, tell her. Nessa couldn’t let what had happened to Deena happen again. Why hadn’t she done something?
But she had – she had done something. Hadn’t they? They’d done what they could.
*
It was the spring after Ruby’s first birthday. Nessa had been working on a site-specific exhibition in West Philly. The day the calls came she was on location. The artist she was working with had chalked portraits on buildings zoned for demolition. The portraits were from the old neighbourhood: a young man who’d been shot, a teenage girl who’d died of an overdose, a woman who’d fought for her community all her life and been like a mother to many. Large-scale, the portraits took up entire gable walls. They didn’t last. That was the point. Nothing does. The chalk faded in parts, especially after rain. Like the buildings, all traces would be gone as the gentrification continued. They walked around the houses, took pictures. The phone in her purse kept buzzing. She ignored it, trying to give the artist and photographer her full attention. She assumed it was someone back in the office.
By the time she pulled it out to see who had been calling, she was back on the subway, heading east on the Market–Frankford Line. Five missed calls.
Deena.
Deena.
Deena.
Deena.
Deena.
She called her back. No answer. She tried again.
Hello?
It’s me. What’s up?
Oh. Hi. It was Deena, but a kind of public or polite Deena, acting as if she didn’t know it was Nessa.
You rang me like five times in a row. Is everything okay?
Gosh, I’m sorry. I don’t think I can switch shifts. I already have plans.
What? You know it’s me – Nessa. Right?
Yes. Of course.
Is Lucas there with you right now?
I’m afraid so.
Deena? What’s going on?
That’s right. She’s almost one and a half now.
Nessa tried to think. She had to ask the right questions.
Deena, are you okay? Are you safe?
There was a pause. I think so now. She’s growing so fast.
Is Ruby okay?
Yes.
Should I call the police?
Oh no, don’t do that, she said, and sort of fake-laughed in their fake conversation.
I’m coming to get you and Ruby right now.
No. Definitely not. But thank you so much for the offer.
Deena, I’m going to come over.
I don’t think you should do that. Why don’t you try the night shift people?
You want me to call you tonight?
Ah, thanks. Okay. Bye. Bye.
She hung up. Nessa remembered the passengers near her that day: a young man, hoodie up, a man in a suit nodding off, a small girl sitting next to her mother looking back at Nessa as if she knew the subterfuge that had just gone on, the desperate thinking. She’d been concentrating so intently she had no idea where she was or if she’d overshot her stop. It was three o’clock. The train braked and the woman and girl stood, the nodding man stood. Center City. She got off there. Rang Joey.
She told him about the phone call, what Molly had seen, the way Deena had been acting.
Joey said nothing at first. Just listened.
Then: I’m going over there.
I don’t know, Joey. She made it sound like I should just call her tonight. But if she didn’t want me to do anything, why was she pretending it wasn’t me? She didn’t want Lucas to know she’d called me, obviously. But I said repeatedly I would come get her and she said no.
I’ll go check.
I’ll go with you.
I thought you weren’t allowed in their house.
I’ll stay in your truck. Please.
Yeah. No matter what she said about not coming, I have some stuff for her backyard that Dad ordered. I have to drop it off anyway. Garden furniture and a playhouse for Ruby. I can just stop by unexpectedly with it.
The magnolia trees were in bloom and three petals fell against Joey’s windshield as she sat and watched him carry each box over and then knock on the door. Lucas probably wouldn’t answer. He’d pretend they weren’t home. Joey sat on one of the boxes and started digging dirt out from under his nails. He was trying to look casual. After a minute the door opened. Lucas. His normal self. He greeted Joey, stood on the doorstep. Joey took a step down and gestured toward the boxes, was explaining but not looking up. Nessa knew by Joey’s manner that he was nervous. He and Lucas each took an end of a box and went into the house. The door was left ajar. She wasn’t sure what to do – stay in the truck or go inside while they were out back? She got out and started running, terrified the door would slam shut. She heard Joey and Lucas outside in the backyard. Joey saying something about their dad spoiling Ruby. The kitchen and living room were empty. She ran upstairs.
Deena? She whispered it; the house was so quiet.
No answer.
Deena? She spoke aloud, but her voice cracked.
Ruby was asleep in her cot. Nessa lifted her and she stirred, cried for a second and fell asleep again on Nessa’s shoulder. In the hallway she stood outside the master bedroom.
Deena? she whispered as loud as she could, praying that Ruby wouldn’t wake up.
Downstairs, Joey and Lucas were inside again, their voices moving through the house as they went to get more boxes.
The bedroom was empty. The bathroom door shut. She tried it. Locked. She knocked lightly.
Deena, it’s Nessa, open up. I have Ruby here. Open the door.
Fuck, Nessa. I told you not to come. What are you doing? Does Lucas know you’re in the house? Her voice was muffled and Nessa knew she’d been crying.
Open the door, Deena. Joey’s with Lucas, moving boxes. He doesn’t know I’m here.
Go away. You’re making things worse.
Deena, open the fucking door or I’m walking out of here with Ruby. I don’t know what’s going on, but, trust me, I will call child protective services.
Deena unlocked the door but didn’t open it. Nessa did.
Deena turned away, her back to Nessa, her face framed in the mirror. She had a bloody nose. Her top lip was purple and distended grotesquely.
What the fuck?
It looks worse than it is, Deena said. Don’t make a big deal, Nessa. I can’t do your drama right now.
Let’s go.
Nessa, it’s nothing. It’s fine. Lucas wouldn’t hurt me.
Deena. Come with me to the truck. Joey’s here. It’s okay. Lucas hurt you. This is fucked-up. We’re leaving.
Nessa was still trying to whisper. Deena was crying, fresh blood trickling from her nose.
Jesus. Deena, please. Look at you. Look at your baby girl. If you don’t leave I’m calling the police anyway.
The front door clicked shut. Nessa froze. Had Joey left? She heard his voice, louder, for her to hear.
Last box, man. Promise.
Now, Deena. Nessa touched her shoulder.
My bag. Deena’s voice wheezed.
Nessa saw it on the bed, grabbed it, Ruby still in her arms. She left the room first, Deena behind her. Down the stairs, out the front door. When they reached the sidewalk Deena hesitated.
Deena, just keep walking. Please.
You go in first, Nessa said when they got to the truck. Hold Ruby. Sit in the middle.
Deena climbed in and buried her face in Ruby’s neck, rocking back and forth. Nessa shut the tailgate, got in the passenger door and locked it. Joey would see the closed tailgate and know to get in and drive.
Joey came out, moving at his own pace, trying to look casual. Deena hadn’t stopped rocking. He raised an arm as if to wave goodbye as he walked toward them, away from Lucas in the doorway.
Keep your head down, said Nessa, sliding down in her seat. Joey jogged the last few paces, got in, shut the door and drove.
They went down to the end of the street, Nessa looking in the side-view mirror to see if Lucas was chasing them. Joey turned right.
Take the expressway, said Nessa. In case he follows us. We won’t be stuck at a red light.
Oh my God, oh my God, Deena kept saying. He’ll kill me. I’m in so much trouble.
When they went inside their house, Deena couldn’t lift her face to look at their mother.
She’d had five months of chemo and was weak, her head bald again, her skin pasty-white, but nevertheless Maria took charge. She put Ruby on a blanket on the floor, led Deena to the couch, murmuring to them both. Okay now, okay now, you’re home. She asked Deena had she been hit anywhere else. Deena shook her head.
I don’t want Dad to see me.
He’s not home.
She made Deena lift her top so that she could see her front and back. A bag of ice for Deena’s swollen mouth. A warm cloth to wipe the blood dried under her nose. Nessa found it hard to watch. Her frail mother ministering to her bruised daughter.
Lock the doors, said Deena. Please.
Nessa checked the kitchen door and went to the front. Where was Joey? He hadn’t come in yet. She stepped out onto the front lawn. His truck was still there, parked in the driveway. She looked closer. Joey was sitting in it, his head on the steering wheel, sobbing.
23
Nessa
2017
In the photograph three children in the sand squint against an August sun. Behind them waves break and a body, arms always reaching up, is caught mid-jump. The distant outline of a sail is visible through the summer haze. The children are the foreground. They have dug a hole, the water has not come yet. The two older children, almost teenagers, a boy and a girl, hold shovels; the youngest, between them, has her arms flung around their shoulders. She looks like she is shouting Ocean or Ice cream. Not old enough yet to be self-conscious, whatever she is saying she’s shouting it. Nose scrunched, eyes squeezed almost shut, all smile and teeth. She believes in this, is smack in the moment. The others, the older boy and girl, are different; they aren’t looking at whoever is taking the picture, but off to the edges, toward the outside. It’s 1988, Ocean City, New Jersey.
Nessa sat cross-legged on the floor of Deena’s room holding the picture. She saw herself, aged eleven, in her orange-and-pink striped tankini, at a time when having just them, Deena and Joey, on a sunny day at the beach was world enough for her. Her desperate arms around them, trying to hold on before they slipped off into their separateness. The photograph seemed to reveal everything ahead of her. Nessa was stuck there, the child in the middle of the scene trying to hold on.
Around her were boxes of loose photographs, documents, papers, drawings, ticket stubs, letters. She hadn’t made albums or photobooks. She hadn’t been able to start telling a story of all of them. She curated visual narratives all day every day, but could not begin on her own. This letter she was about to write to Mathilde was the closest she had come. She set the Ocean City photograph aside to make a copy. She would include it.
She still combed through Deena’s room meticulously, as if all these years later there might still be something encoded here that would unwrap the mystery of what had happened. It had become a cypher, a space holding secret information. Every object was like a clue, but she didn’t even know what the questions were anymore. Against the wall Nessa had stored the boxes from her parents’ house. Joey had let her take it all. The family photographs, everything. The room itself had been left exactly as it was that day. She had memorized every object, knew the texture of each item hung in the closet, could recite the books in order on the shelves, had read Deena’s journals. Lucas had kept the ones she’d written while they lived together. Four years of her life. Deena had panicked.
Him having all my thoughts – it’s worse than getting punched or kicked, she’d said.
Lynne had written to Lucas’s lawyer on Deena’s behalf, formally requesting the journals. He’d claimed he didn’t know what they were talking about. Nothing of hers had been left in his house.
Well, he can’t use them in the custody case if he doesn’t have them, Lynne had said.
Deena continued the journals when she moved in with Nessa. She wrote what she’d done, what she was thinking about, what she was reading. She included stanzas from poems she liked. And Ruby and Ruby and Ruby. What Ruby said, what Ruby did, how Ruby slept, laughed, ate, ran. She transcribed Ruby conversations, glued in Ruby drawings.
The meaning of everything in the room was heightened by Deena’s absence. The last place she’d been. For years Nessa had obsessed about the book Deena was reading when she disappeared. An Adrienne Rich collection. The one book lying sideways. Dark Fields of the Republic. The very first poem in the collection had been transcribed into Deena’s journal. ‘What Kind of Times Are These’, a poem about disappearance, purges. Deena’s last entry ever. Like an imperative to Nessa. Listen. Remember. Speak about it. Don’t accept that people just disappear.
Did Mathilde have brothers and sisters? Nessa knew nothing about her, really. For over a year she’d known of her existence but now she had pictures and the concrete image of Lucas’s hand on her back, the way he’d had of walking with Deena that had always bothered Nessa. The private investigator didn’t think Ruby and Mathilde had met. Lucas was keeping his worlds separate.
She couldn’t tell Joey what she was doing. He’d say, Don’t start up with all that again. You need help. Don’t do crazy shit. We’ve all had enough. When she had shown him the first photographs of Ruby in Vermont and said how she’d got them, he’d called her creepy. Spying. I don’t want to be involved, he said.
They’d had a fight after Deena’s death certificate was issued. After the hearing they’d gone for coffee, Joey, Kate, Molly, Lynne and Nessa. They’d all given statements and the petition for the death certificate on the presumption of death had been granted. While they were waiting for their coffees, Nessa mentioned that Frank Capione had been in touch. Deena’s case might be opened again.
Joey exploded.
Are you for fucking real? We are all sitting here having just declared her dead and we are trying to process that, and you’re still banging on about the investigation and Lucas and Ruby. Fuck’s sake, Nessa, you are fucking wrecking my head. As far as I’m concerned, I just buried my sister. It’s over. Have some respect. Just shut up. Be fucking normal. Get your own life. I can’t take it.
Joey— Kate tried to interrupt, but he cut her off.
No. I don’t want to hear it. We’re leaving. Joey picked up his coat. Don’t ever, ever mention Lucas or Ruby to me again. He stormed out of the coffee shop. Kate mumbled Sorry, and followed him.
Well, he’s right about the part where you should get a life, said Molly.
Lynne hardly knew Molly and narrowed her eyes.
It’s okay, said Nessa. She’s allowed to talk to me like that.
She was trying for levity but it broke her – how Joey saw her. She wasn’t loyal, she wasn’t vigilant; she was aberrant and embarrassing. Disrespectful.
Nessa was mortified. Lynne tried to say something helpful like That’s about how your brother is coping. Not you.
Don’t, Nessa said. She didn’t want kindness. Didn’t think she deserved it.
If he knew. Writing to Lucas’s girlfriend would be off the scale, as far as Joey was concerned. She’d wrangled with it for weeks and was now convinced it was the right thing. Whether it was to punish Lucas didn’t matter. This woman had to know what he was. She had Mathilde’s work address and found a courier that would hand-deliver and wait for proof of delivery. The courier explained that this meant they would wait while the recipient opened and read the contents. They’d have to sign a form to say they’d read it and this would be sent back to Nessa. She had talked to the private investigator about it and what was legally allowed.
