The Vanishing Year(60)
I shrugged in Lydia’s direction, like What’s his problem?
She twisted her mouth. “I’m with him here, Zo. You’re too . . . something for us.” She clicked the knife closed and tossed it, clattering, on the stainless steel table.
That night, Henry comforted me, assured me that yes, I had changed a bit, but yes, that was okay. “This is what life is about, Zoe. No one stays the same person forever.” At the time, I snorted through tears. Truly, how many people can one person be?
Now as I sit here in Cash’s hot car, the windows down, the warm eighty-degree air rushing my cheeks, I can’t help but wonder, am I yet again destined to become someone else? It seems impossible that I will arrive home tonight the same Zoe that left the apartment this morning.
Cash steers the car off the highway and through an elaborate maze of suburban streets. The sign on the side of the road reads Welcome to Danbury. It seems like a nice place to live: tree-lined cul-de-sacs, backyards with wooden play gyms, winding driveways with glossy SUVs or black BMWs. He makes a sudden left, sliding the Honda behind a navy blue Audi. The clock on the dash reads 10:55. “We’re here.”
? ? ?
I stand just behind a palm fiber doormat printed with a glass of red wine and the words Welcome! I hope you brought wine! in a jaunty sideways script. The porch holds two rocking chairs, but they’re for show, not function, as evidenced by the thick layer of dust and pollen that coat their seats. The house is large and looming, a mix of sunny yellow siding and brick facade. The gardens are sculpted out of arborvitae and impeccably round topiaries.
The door swings open before I ring the bell. Caroline blinks twice at me, as though I were a FedEx man without a package.
“Who’s in the car?” She squints toward the driveway.
“I, um, had a friend bring me, but he thinks maybe we should talk alone.” I shift my weight from one foot to the other and hitch my purse higher on my shoulder. I use the opportunity to study her face: clear, with only the barest hint of crow’s feet at her eyes. It’s possible that we look the same age.
She opens the door a crack and motions me in. The foyer is grand, thirty feet high, with an imposing chandelier. She closes the door quickly and quietly behind me.
“We can sit in here.” She brushes past me and I follow her into a sitting room. The windows are floor to ceiling and the room is flooded with light. The carpet is white, the furniture is white. I squint.
She sits to face me and we study each other curiously. She’s slighter than I am, almost waif-like, and dressed in jeans and an oversize long-sleeved T-shirt. Her hair is long, just as lustrous and thick as my own but pulled back into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck. We have the same watery, cerulean eyes, the same long but slightly too large nose. The same thin, curved upper lip, but pouty lower lip.
“We have to be brief. I have . . . an appointment.” Her eyes flick to the clock on the far wall and back to me. She picks at imaginary lint on her jeans. “You kept your name. I didn’t think Evelyn did that?”
“She didn’t. She named me Hilary. I changed it to Zoe when I moved east.”
She looks startled. “Why?”
“Um . . . it seemed easier somehow. Than taking a third name, I guess. I was escaping my past life. It’s a long story.” I scan the room, white and glass and sleek black art. It’s all so cold.
“Zoe. Are you in trouble now?” Her expression is so intense, I almost want to laugh.
“In trouble? No.” I wipe my upper lip delicately with my index finger. “I’m married. To Henry Whittaker, do you know him?”
She shakes her head. “Should I? Is he famous?”
“In some circles.” The conversation is so inane, so civil, like I’m chatting casually with a bank teller. I run out of words then, and the silence seems to take over the room. I’m not sure what to do with my purse. I sit it on my lap but feel very prim, so I move it to the side and tuck it between me and the white leather arm of the sofa. Inside, I can see my phone has a waiting text message, from Cash. It pops on the locked display. Everything okay?
“Zoe. What do you want from me?”
My head snaps up. Why does everyone keep asking me that? Cash, Lydia, now Caroline. “To know, I guess. A friendship at best. A meeting to remember, at worst. I guess I’m having a bit of an identity crisis.” I’m surprised by the truth in that, considering I hadn’t thought it exactly that way before.
She leans forward, places her hand on my arm. We have the same hands, long thin fingers, with short nail beds. “We can’t have a relationship, Zoe. I’m going to tell you a story, not to hurt you or to scare you off, but because it’s the truth and I’ve come to terms with it. Would you like a glass of water?”
I nod my head and she stands up to get it. With her out of the room, I peek into the adjoining room, a stark contrast to the sterility of the one I’m in. It’s richly decorated with warm shades of brown, and there are children’s toys and books scattered on the floor. One of the couch cushions has been unmoored and lies cockeyed on the floor.
“I don’t have any lemon . . .” She bustles in, handing me a glass and perches on the edge of the white leather chair, opposite the couch I’m sitting on. She smooths out her jeans with the palms of her hands. She has the posture of a dancer, straight and confident. “So, the story. Well, when I was seventeen, I fell in love with a boy named Trout Fishman. Not his real name, of course, his real name was Troy. But everyone called him Trout. Get it? Fishman?”