The Vanishing Year(88)

Her smile, lipstick on her teeth. The dimple in her right cheek. Her weathered hands, with large knuckles, working hands but painted nails. How she’d touch her nose when she laughed. The way she’d tie her hair in a knot at the base of her neck.

Before we rowed out to the middle of the lake, I’d dragged Lydia and Cash around on a goose chase in our rented car. Up a private drive, on the North Shore of Tahoe Vista until Lydia had gasped.

“This is the house we stayed at. The one Evelyn got from a friend or something.” I stared at the sleek gray lines of the “cabin” and realized she never could have afforded anything like this. No one she knew could have. Where did it come from? The images come to me unbidden: thick, juicy steaks on the pink side of gray, just about to expire. This house, the glass front, the breathtaking views I neither noticed nor appreciated as a teenager. The beaded dresses she’d bring home and try on, and we’d parade around our small living room, only to have it poof! disappear the next day. The “borrowed” convertible, the wind in her hair.

In the passenger seat, while Cash and Lydia watched me warily, I started laughing. I laughed so hard until tears squeezed out my eyes. Cash touched my shoulder.

“It was . . . stolen,” I hiccoughed out. “She stole it all.”

Lydia gave a soft, “Ahh, Zoe,” like she was about to console me but I waved her away. “She so badly wanted to live the life she saw every day. She tried to give it to me. With vacations and dresses and steaks and wine, and oh, God—” my voice was strangled and the pain in my stomach was so hot white in that moment, I doubled over. I imagined Evelyn, sliding the keys to Mr. Miska’s Tahoe cabin into her purse, the last second before her shift ended, on a weekend she knew he’d be away. I envisioned her saying, “Of course I’ll get that dress dry cleaned,” or slipping the slightly slimy paper-wrapped rib eyes into her bag.

I think of these things as I lift the lid to the wooden box. All the memories of Evelyn mix and mingle in my mind; she becomes ageless and timeless and less like a real, once-living person and more like an amalgam of childhood memories. Evelyn, floating free.

A breeze picks up and I gently turn the box over, scattering her dust into the water. At first it coats the surface, then slowly sinks. I think that now, the last thing I ever did for her was out of love. I hope she will never feel unloved again.

“I can’t take back the last five years, Ev. And I know you always said sorry was for sissies. You didn’t do apologies, you forgave without being asked. Well, I’m asking.”

I try to track each speck until it all disperses and I can no longer see anything at all. Mingle amongst the rich, I think. She’d always wanted to. The water is calm and sparkling.

We sit awhile longer, till the sun fully sets, the blue lake turning an inky black. Lydia hums “Amazing Grace” and I tell one story, a simple one. My favorite story of my mother, the one that shows who she was as a person, the day she brought Rachel home for dinner.

“Sometimes it’s the people who have the least that give the most,” Lydia says, which is the most perfect thing to say.

I think that it’s just about as fine a memorial service as a person could ever ask for.

“Ready?” I ask them, and they both nod. They’re so patient with me, my friends. As it turns out, I am not, as Henry said, unlovable. Cash paddles us back. Lydia makes a joke about him sinking the canoe, and Cash lightly splashes her with water. I try to pinpoint my feelings. Content. I feel content. As Evelyn would say, Well, I’ll be.

Sometimes life gives you a third chance. Who knew?





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


Thanks to Mark Gottlieb, without whom this wild ride would not have been possible. Seriously, best agent ever. Endless thank-you to the Atria team, especially Sarah Branham and Sarah Cantin for your smart guidance and advice.

For my writing posse: Kimberly Giarratano, Ann Garvin, Elizabeth Buhmann, Sonja Yoerg, Mary Fan, Aimie Runyan, and all my Badasses: you have all read and brainstormed and been my saving grace and my cheerleaders and my tough critics when I needed it. To my Tall Poppy Sisters: LOVE YOU ALL, poppy power.

For my beta readers: Jamie Raintree, Rachel Jarabeck, Bridget Lynch, Sarah DiCello, Betsy Kirkland, Becky Riddle, Abby Polozin, Stephanie Bradley. Your feedback was invaluable. Thank you Teri Woods for your terrifying understanding of sociopaths and Carl Palmeri who gave me the ending from a small piece of undertaker trivia.

Gratitude to my entire family, who are the most supportive people I’ve ever seen: Mom and Dad, Meg, Becky, Molly, Mary Jo and Jeff, George and Lori, Judy and Audrey, Dottie, Chuck and Lauren, who cheer me on relentlessly. You must all be exhausted.

And finally, and foremost, thank you to the loves of my life: Chip, Abby, and Lily. You’ve certainly taken the backseat to this writing gig on many a day, with minimal complaining. You’re my biggest fans and it means the world to have you in my corner.

Love my village.