Tangerine(74)

“He didn’t tell you?”

“No, he didn’t.”

He grimaced. “Pardon me for saying so, but there is a lot that you don’t seem to know, madame. A lot that you don’t seem to have answers for.”

I considered this as I began to stand, turning away from the police officer. I felt Aunt Maude rise beside me, felt her at my back as I pushed the door open and we were, at last, released into the hallway.

“Madame?” came the officer’s voice again.

I stopped but did not turn.

“We have been made aware that you recently closed your account with the local bank. With this in mind, we ask that you please surrender your passport before leaving the station today.”

I nodded stiffly and let the door close behind us.

AUNT MAUDE INSISTED that I accompany her back to the Hotel Continental.

One of the oldest hotels in Tangier, its expansive white facade sat higher than the rest of the buildings it surrounded, as if in recognition of its significance. I had always thought it looked like something out of a fairy tale, only instead of a moat, there was the harbor, instead of pillars, there were dozens of palm trees, and instead of royalty, there were artists and writers—all the names that were famous and meant something out there, beyond Tangier. It was strange, but I found that I could no longer imagine it: a world outside of this place, Morocco. One that existed at the same time, concurrently. It seemed as though everything, each and every strand of my life, was tied to this place, would always be tied to this place, no matter how much distance I were to put between us. I tried to remember if I had felt the same about Bennington before I left, but it seemed so far away, as if that too could no longer exist under the blazing sun of Tangier, as if the hot, dusty city held the power to wipe clean the green forests, the rolling hills, the smell of damp leaves underfoot. I was certain, in that moment, that I would never see it again.

“Are you feeling ill?” My aunt’s voice cut through my thoughts. We sat across from each other, an elaborate tea service between us, on the patio overlooking the harbor. Up until that moment, we had remained silent, our unspoken words a divide I could not figure out how to cross.

“No, I was only thinking,” I began, setting my teacup down with a clatter.

She held up a hand to silence me. “It’s fine, Alice. You needn’t say anything. We will figure out a solution, just as we did before.”

I frowned, realizing she meant Bennington. “Maude,” I started again, the sound of her name causing her to look up, startled. “You have to believe me, about Lucy.”

“Alice—”

“No,” I cut in, refusing to listen. “You have to believe me, you have to trust me when I tell you that she is the one responsible for all of this, just like before. You have to.”

She shook her head, setting down her own teacup with an exasperated sigh. “Enough, Alice,” she commanded, though her voice was not as harsh as I believe she intended it to be. Instead she sounded sad, tired—as if she had been having this same conversation for the entirety of her life. “No more of this Lucy Mason business, I beg of you.”

“But if you would just listen—”

“No, Alice,” she cut in. “I can’t. I can’t go back there, not again.” She shook her head. “After all that wretched business in Vermont, all you would talk about was Lucy. It was like you were obsessed.” She paused. “There were girls who came forward, afterward. Girls who said they heard you fighting, that you said something—that night.”

I tried to remember. “What did I say?”

Aunt Maude looked away. “That you wished she would disappear.” She paused. “And then she did.”

“It was—” I began to protest.

“Alice,” she cut in again, “you must see how it all looks.”

I shook my head, not understanding what she was saying. “Lucy did it, Lucy is the one responsible—just like before.”

“Alice,” she began again, lowering her voice. “There is no evidence of that. There is no evidence that anyone is responsible at all. It was just an accident, something that no one can be held accountable for. It was tragic, yes, and I can see how you’re still struggling with the injustice. It’s entirely understandable. But blaming someone else, a girl who no one has seen since—” She let her voice fade.

I frowned, struggling once more to understand her aversion to the topic, to understand why instead of choosing to listen to her niece, to what she offered as truth, she preferred instead to sweep away all mention of Lucy entirely.

And then I remembered her words, after the accident. I will take care of everything. I inhaled sharply. That was it, then, the truth of the matter. The one that had always been there but that I had refused to see until that moment. I looked up at my aunt, made sure to catch her eye, to hold it. “Maude,” I said, my voice level, even. And then I asked the question that had been floating between us, I now realized, for the past year: “Maude, what do you think I’ve done?”

She paled. I waited for her to deny it, to tell me that I was being absurd, hysterical even, but then she broke my gaze, looking out to the port, to the sea just beyond and whispered, “I don’t know, Alice.” She turned back to look at me. “And what’s more, I don’t know if you do either.”