The Vanishing Half(85)

“Baby,” she said, “stop bugging them. Let’s just drink.”

“I’m not bugging,” Frantz said. He turned to Jude. “Am I bugging?”

She smiled. “No, it’s fine. It’s just a little overwhelming, being here.”

“We’re not really big city people,” Reese said. It was so folksy and charming, Kennedy could puke.

“I wasn’t either,” Frantz said. “I moved here when I was a boy. The city still does something to me, you know. Say, how long are you two in town? I’m sure Ken would love to show you around—”

“Let’s get drinks first,” she said. “Before we start planning tours.”

Frantz laughed. “All right, already.” He pushed out of the booth, nodding to Reese. “Give me a hand?”

The two men headed to the bar. Now Kennedy was alone with Jude for the first time in years. She’d never wanted a drink more.

“Your boyfriend’s nice,” Jude said.

“Look, I’m sorry for what I said, at that cast party,” Kennedy said. “About you and Reese. I was drunk. I didn’t mean it.”

“You meant it,” Jude said. “And you were drunk. Both things can be true.”

“Fine, but is that why you’re here? Is that why you’re messing with me? I’m tired of all this.”

“All what?”

“Whatever you’re doing. This game or whatever this is.”

Jude stared at her a moment, then reached for her purse.

“I had a feeling I’d see you again,” she said.

“Great, you’re a psychic.” Kennedy could see the boys ordering at the bar, and it dawned on her that she hadn’t even told Frantz what she wanted. A small intimacy but still remarkable, Frantz knowing what she wanted before she even asked for it.

“I didn’t want to tell you,” Jude said. “At the cast party. I didn’t think you’d want to know. I only said something because I was mad. You said that thing to me and I wanted to hurt you. It wasn’t fair.” She pulled something white out of her wallet. “You shouldn’t tell people the truth because you want to hurt them. You should tell them because they want to know it. And I think you want to know now.”

She handed Kennedy a white square of paper. A photograph. Kennedy knew, before even looking, that it would be a picture of her mother.

“Christ, that took forever,” Frantz said, sliding back into the booth with the drinks. “Hey, what’s that?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Scoot out, I have to hit the can.”

“Ah Ken, I just sat down,” he groaned, but slid over nonetheless, and she climbed out of the booth, clutching the photograph. She did go to the ladies’ room, but only because she needed better light. Jude could have handed her a photo of anyone, for all she knew. For a second, she stood in front of the bathroom mirror, holding the picture against her stomach.

She didn’t have to look at it. She could rip it up, and at the end of the night, she’d never have to speak to Jude again. Soon Reese would have his surgery, then they would leave the city for good. She wouldn’t have to know. She could do that, couldn’t she?

Well, you know what happened next. She knew too, even before she flipped the picture over. Memory works that way—like seeing forward and backward at the same time. In that moment, she could see in both directions. She saw herself as a little girl—eager, pestering, clambering to be close to a mother who never wanted her to be. A mother whom she’d never actually known. Then she saw herself showing the photograph to her, the proof that she’d spent her whole life lying. When Kennedy flipped the picture over, she could make out the figures of twin girls in black dresses, another woman standing between them. The photograph was old, gray and faded, but still, under the fluorescent light, she could tell which of these identical girls was her mother. She looked uncomfortable, like if she could have, she would have run right out of the frame.

Her mother had always hated taking pictures. She hated being nailed down in place.



* * *



—

“YOUR FRIENDS ARE NICE,” Frantz said later that night, crawling into bed.

She’d barely spoken on the subway ride home. She wasn’t feeling well, she’d told everyone after one drink, she’d better call it a night. In the bathroom, she’d slipped the photograph inside her waistband like when she was little, trying to sneak treats out of the kitchen. Except instead of a chocolate bar melting under the shirt, she felt the sharp corners poking at her the whole walk to the station. Part of her wanted Jude to think that she’d gotten rid of it. Flushed it down the toilet or something. Jude had looked disappointed as they’d said good-bye. Well, good. Let her feel disappointed. Who did she think she was, anyway? Disrupting her life a second time, and for all she knew, Jude could still be lying. She looked nothing like either girl in the picture or the woman standing between them, darker but still fair, a hand on each girl’s shoulder. The three looked like a set, like they all belonged to each other. But Jude belonged to no one. And what about Kennedy? Who the hell did she belong to?

“We’re not friends,” she said. “Not really. I mean, they’re just people I used to know.”

“Oh. Well.” He shrugged, then rolled over, kissing her neck. She squirmed away.