The Vanishing Year(77)

With the picture tucked under my arm, I turn the key and the lock pops open. It takes me a minute to dislodge the latch, and the door gives with a stutter catch. The room is pitch-black, and it’s only three o’clock in the afternoon. I realize there are room-darkening shades on the windows. I flip on the light.

On the far wall, file boxes are stacked five across, four high, identical and unlabeled. The wall on the left contains large crates. The wall on the right is covered by a large sheet.

The room smells musty, unused. I pull the picture out and examine it again, tilting it one way then the other in the light. There are subtle differences: she has a chipped front tooth, barely noticeable. She has a red, slivery scar across her collarbone. Had I not been looking for something, I wouldn’t have seen it. My hands shake.

I pull down the top box, anchor it on the floor and lift the lid. Files. I flip through them. Tara taxes. Tara student loans 2007. I pull down the next box. More files. Then the next. Until all the boxes are scattered around me. What am I looking for? I don’t know. There’s only one explanation for the picture, I just need proof. Bingo. Wedding pictures. I flip open the album and fan the pages. Tara in an ivory fishtail gown, her hair pulled back in a chignon, smiling a smile I recognize as my own, the same smile I’ve given to Henry. A secret smile. A lover’s smile. Lips half-parted, turned up on one side.

I turn the pages with my thumb, one after the other. A wedding with no guests. A lavish dinner spread, a glistening plate of scallops, Tara’s mouth opened goofily to eat one. I hate scallops.

Through my husband’s old wedding photos, I learn that my dead sister liked seafood.

A first dance, an intimate restaurant, a single violinist. Oh Joanie, why were you so isolated from the world? Did she have friends? Did her parents want to come? Where was this wedding? I examine the pages, twice front to back then back to front. Looking for clues, but finding nothing. She looked so happy, so gloriously, no-strings-attached happy. The way dogs and toddlers are happy. With abandon.

I set the book down. Move to the large crates and unfold the flaps. Inside, neatly folded, are clothes. Piles of slacks, blouses, dresses. Fabric so fine, you wanted to bury your face in it. I look at the labels. Versace. Donna Karan. Silk, velvet, cashmere, varying shades of purple.

I think of all the clothing he’s given me, eggplant, violet, lavender. A color I abhorred my whole life. Tara’s favorite color. He didn’t buy me new clothes, he gave me her clothes. My mouth tastes like copper and I suck air through my teeth. I can’t catch my breath. I’ve been nothing more than a fucking Barbie doll.

I stand up, cross the room, and rip the sheet off the wall. Underneath, a hundred little pictures flutter. A corkboard, mounted to the wall, is pinned with pictures, articles, scribbled notes, sheets of loose leaf, random pieces of paper. One side of the board is labeled Tara in thick Magic Marker, the other side is labeled Hilary. The blood thunders in my ears.

Pictures of me at the flower shop. Lace skirts and fishnet stockings and combat boots as I arrived at work, or stiletto heels as I left for the night. Lydia and me laughing, holding our sides, sharing a cigarette.

The pictures of Tara are wide-ranging. Early shots show her with long flowing hair, younger, freer, with pink cheeks and loose, open smiles. Later, she is guarded, as though she was holding a secret, thin lipped and a bashful look away. More enigmatic. In some cases, all the more beautiful. Her eyes are darker, hooded.

I tug down a newspaper article, pulling the paper through the pushpin and ripping the top.

September 5, 2011: A woman, 25, was killed in a hit-and-run at the corner of 32nd and 6th. The victim is identified as Tara Joan Whittaker . . .

I smooth the article out with my hand, leaving ink smudges across the paper. There it is. Confirmation. Proof. Tara and Joanie were the same person. I lurch forward, grab a box with both hands, and heave. I feel like I’m going to be sick, the nausea rolls through me. I put the box aside.

Tacked to the board is a thick, ecru card. I pull it down and examine it. The front simply says Hal. Inside, eerily familiar handwriting loops around a just as familiar poetic verse:

As you are woman, so be lovely:

As you are lovely, so be various,

Merciful as constant, constant as various.

So be mine, as I yours for ever.

I turn the card over. On the back is another verse:

Lovely I am, merciful I shall prove:

Woman I am, constant as various,

Not marble-hearted but your own true love.

Give me an equal kiss, as I kiss you.

A laugh-sob gets caught in my throat. This was Tara, subtly telling Henry, I know you. I see through you. He’d never gotten it, of course. For all Henry’s intellectual prowess, I should have known he would never indulge in something as frivolous as poetry. My sister, with her mystery novels, her introversion, and her crippling agoraphobia . . . she may have been timid, but she would never be mistaken for stupid. Not marble-hearted but your own true love. Galatea telling Pygmalion that she is more than his creation; she’s her own living, breathing soul. Give me an equal kiss. Is Henry capable of considering a woman his equal? Clever girl.

There’s a picture pinned, Tara and Henry in front of the Eiffel Tower, and I flip it over. TJ and Hal. Honeymoon 2008. She’s wearing a black dress with a large silver rose pinned to the collar. Black-and-white-striped skirt. I recognize it. I wore it in France, right down to the brooch. My mouth tastes like pennies and my hands shake.