Invisible City (Rebekah Roberts #1)(78)

Maria sits down and my father starts asking Saul questions about people they knew in common from that summer he was in New York—friends of my mother’s, people from the Coney Island house. But neither ever says her name. I often wonder how Maria interacts with the ghost of Aviva Kagan.

“I feel as though I have explaining to do,” says Saul, after the short list of names has been run through.

“You almost got me fired,” I say. “I looked like a fool.”

“I’m very sorry for that,” he says. “Of course, I’m much more sorry for not seeing … For subjecting you to…”

I put my hand up to stop him. In the hospital, I spent time thinking about how I’d ended up in that garage. There were a lot of reasons. I’d been stupid, at turns, missing signals, mistaking my judgments for the truth about people and their motives. From the moment I encountered Rivka Mendelssohn’s body and connected her to Aviva’s Orthodox world, I was ready to pounce. It was easy. When I said I was a Jew, they spoke to me. But I misinterpreted what they were asking when they asked, over and over, You’re Jewish? It wasn’t, do you know this phrase in Hebrew or have you been bat mitzvahed. They were asking me: Do you understand? The fear of being a Jew. The baggage. The long legacy of hate and murder and discrimination. The rootlessness. The desperate need for self-preservation. And, of course, I don’t really know. I only know the baggage of being me. But part of it, I think now, is being a Jew.

“You didn’t think it was Miriam, did you?” I say.

Saul shakes his head.

“But you knew her history?”

“I knew she’d struggled. I knew she’d gone away. But your mother went away, yes? Many girls ‘go away’ for various reasons of … misconduct.” He looks at my dad. “I’m sorry, not misconduct…”

My dad shakes his head ruefully and puts his hand on Maria’s leg beneath the table. “Let’s face it,” he says, “it could have been considered misconduct.”

Saul turns back to me. “But the police are only putting most of that together now,” he says. “Miriam was taking very powerful medication. The autopsy showed all kinds of things. Antipsychotics, antidepressants, antianxiety. None of it should have been mixed. Who knows who was prescribing it to her.”

I look at the table. It seems somehow inappropriate to say that I watched her take an almost lethal mouthful of lorazepam. She was just trying to feel better, she said. Less anxious.

“You spoke with Aron Mendelssohn, then?” he asks.

I nod. “Thank you.”

“You know he’s not talking to the police.”

“I do.”

There is a pause.

“What about Miriam’s husband?” I ask. “What’s he saying?”

“He’s not saying anything, either,” says Saul.

“Is he in custody?”

“No. He is in Israel. Aron Mendelssohn got him on a plane.”

“Jesus.”

“Rebekah,” says my father. He hates it when I use Jesus as a swearword.

“Will they … extradite him?”

Saul raises his eyebrows. “I doubt it. They may try, but my sense is that they will not try very hard. And maybe it’s enough already.”

“Enough already?”

“The killer is … gone. The truth is out.”

“Is it?”

Saul shrugs. “How much truth do you want?”

All of it, of course. But I don’t say that.

We finish our coffee and Saul tells us he must leave for an interview.

“I have a lead on a job at the New York Aquarium in Coney Island,” he says. “They need a security manager.”

He and my father hug. My father promises to call when he comes back to visit me. We walk out together. Dad is making dinner for me and Iris, so he and Maria go off to do the shopping. Saul is going to drive me home to rest.

“He seems happy,” says Saul, after my father walks away.

“I think he is,” I say.

We’re standing in the glass-enclosed vestibule between the Starbucks and the sidewalk. Saul hugs himself against the cold. He’s shivering.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“I didn’t want to tell you with your father there,” he says. “I had a call from your mother.”

“Really?” The corners of my mouth rise involuntarily into a nervous smile.

Saul nods.

“She called you? Or you called her?” I’m almost giggling. Am I happy?

He looks at me. I’ve caught him in a lie.

“So you know where she is,” I say. “You’ve known this whole time.”

“She’s upstate,” he says, looking out across the street. “She read your articles. She wants to meet you.”

And there it is. For twenty-two years I’ve been performing for her. Imagining she was watching, imagining her impressed when I showed moxie, repelled when I was weak. But it wasn’t ever her watching. It was me, watching myself, wondering if I could ever win her love. She read what I wrote. She knew it was me.

“She wants to meet me?”

“Yes,” says Saul. “She says she has a story for you.”