The Vanishing Half(75)

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MR. PARK BROUGHT BULGOGI on the house, setting the dish on the table. “So sad,” he said. “Never seen you so sad.” What a sight they must have been—Jude dabbing at her puffy eyes, Reese somber beside her, looking as helpless as he always did whenever she cried. He squeezed her shoulder and said, “Come on, baby, eat.” But she wasn’t hungry. On the ride over, she’d told him about the whole terrible night. She told him everything except what Kennedy had said to hurt her, because it cut too close to share, even with him.

“You were right,” she said. “You were right about everything. I should’ve never gone looking—”

“It’s okay,” he said. “You wanted to know them. Now you do. Now you can move on.”

“I can’t tell Mama,” she said.

She’d never kept a secret like this from her mother before. But if it was cruel to not tell her that Stella was alive—that she’d met her, even—then wasn’t it even worse to tell her that Stella wanted nothing to do with her? What good would come of her mother discovering that the sister she’d spent years searching for wouldn’t even call her? Maybe her mother would realize that losing her was for the best. Maybe, over time, she would just forget Stella, the way Jude had already started to lose her father’s face. Not all at once, but slowly, her memories disintegrating. Eventually remembering turned into imagining. How slight the difference was between the two.

Her mother would never forget Stella. She would stare into the mirror for the rest of her life, reminded of her loss. But Jude wouldn’t add to her grief. She would talk to her mother on the phone, days later, and not say a word about Stella. Maybe she was like her aunt in that way. Maybe, like Stella, she became a new person in each place she’d lived, and she was already unrecognizable to her mother, a girl who hoarded secrets. A liar.



* * *



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THE MORNING AFTER THE PLAY, Stella awoke with a pounding heart.

She’d barely opened her eyes before the previous night returned to her: that awful play she’d finally attended, even though she knew acting was a waste of her daughter’s time and talents. But she’d gone because it was closing night—she’d sat through the dreadful thing, delighted and a little surprised that her daughter was the only bright spot. At intermission, she’d applauded as loudly as anyone, hoping her daughter would see her. But the girl ducked backstage with the rest of the cast, and Stella slipped out for a smoke. She was thinking, leaving the dingy theater, about how she could make things right. She could take Kennedy to dinner after the show, apologize for not attending sooner. Suggest that she take more drama classes, as long as she went back to school. And that was when that dark girl had emerged from the shadows. After, Stella charged into the street, not even thinking about where she was going. She’d stumbled two blocks downtown before remembering where she’d parked.

The dark girl couldn’t be Desiree’s daughter. She looked nothing like her. Pure black, like Desiree had never even touched her. She could be anyone. But how, then, had she known those stories about New Orleans? Who else would know but Desiree? Well, maybe she’d told someone. Maybe this girl thought she could come to California and threaten to expose Stella. Blackmail her, even! The possibilities grew more lurid in her head, none of them making sense. How had the girl even found her? And if she’d wanted to blackmail her, why hadn’t she named her price? Instead of withering on the sidewalk, as if her feelings were hurt. As if Stella had disappointed her somehow.

“Your heart’s racing,” Blake said. He lifted his head, smiling sleepily at her. He liked to fall asleep with his head on her breasts, and she let him because it was sweet.

“I had a strange dream,” she said.

“A scary one?”

She ran her fingers through his graying blond hair.

“I used to have these nightmares,” she said. “That these men would drag me out of bed. It felt so real. I could feel their hands on my ankles, even after I woke up.”

“That’s not why you keep that bat here, is it?”

She started to respond but instead turned away, her eyes filling with tears.

“Something happened,” she said. “When I was young.”

“What happened?”

“I saw something—” But her voice cracked, and she couldn’t say any more. Blake kissed her cheek.

“Oh honey, don’t cry,” he said softly. “I don’t know what you’re so afraid of. I’ll always keep you safe.”

She kissed him before he could say anything else. They made love desperately, the way they had when she was nineteen, touching Mr. Sanders for the first time. The image would have made her younger self blush. Two middle-aged people gripping each other’s bodies, knocking off the covers, as sunlight cracked through the blinds, the alarm clock blaring, calling each to a separate day. Her body changed, his body changing, familiar and foreign at the same time. When you married someone, you promised to love every person he would be. He promised to love every person she had been. And here they were, still trying, even though the past and the future were both mysteries.

That morning, she was late for class. A quick shower, then she was pulling a blouse onto her damp shoulders, Blake smiling at her through the mirror as he shaved. “I do believe I made you late to work, Mrs. Sanders,” he said, which didn’t have as nice a ring to it as Dr. Sanders, but maybe that was okay. Maybe it was enough to be Mrs. Sanders, maybe it was enough to have her Introduction to Statistics class, and her house, and her family. That dark girl. She saw her again, tried to shake her out of her mind. She’d been arrogant, that was her problem. So focused on what was next that she didn’t appreciate what she’d already gotten away with. She couldn’t let herself slip up like that again. She’d have to focus. Stay alert.