Confessions on the 7:45(76)

She was lovely. But it was more than that. She was oblivious to the darkness in her life; she only knew the light. Pearl could tell by the smooth innocence on her face, the careless way she walked, and tossed her backpack into the trunk, stared at the phone in her hand. Life for her was easy. Nothing ever broken that couldn’t be fixed. Nothing ever lost that couldn’t be replaced. Her life was so easy that she didn’t even know there was another kind of life—hardscrabble and unpredictable.

That ache. It was a black hole inside Pearl, swallowing light and time.

For a week, she just watched, burning with feelings she could barely understand.

She parked just up the street in the mornings, watching as they left for work and school. Then she’d leave after his wife departed for her morning errands.

Pearl then returned around 3:30 to watch the girl come home on the bus, usually with a gaggle of friends. Designer clothes and styled hair, lip gloss, and bubbling laughter—teasing, pushing, chasing. They’d disappear behind that red door and to Pearl it seemed like they had entrée to a world from which she’d always been, always would be, excluded. A world not of privilege, but of belonging.

Then one night in the gloaming, she climbed out of her car and began slowly walking up the street. She knew he’d be pulling into the driveway at 6:10, so she made sure she stood behind the big oak—out of view of the house, but visible from the driveway. She stood listening to the birdsong and the wind kicking leaves up the street.

When he pulled in, he turned his head and saw her.

She lifted her hand, and they locked eyes. Did he know her?

Then, he turned his head and the garage door opened. He pulled inside. She waited, heart thumping, thoughts wild. Did he see me? Recognize me? Maybe it’s too dark. Maybe this is too bold.

The garage door closed heavily behind him, rumbling and squeaking, quieting the evening birdsong. He never even exited the car.

She walked back to her vehicle. Her inner life was usually cool, but that night it roiled with a storm of anger she didn’t know was possible.

It was something deep, something that maybe had always been there, lying neglected, silent. She got in her car and drove, gripping the wheel, until she came to an empty parking lot across from a deserted sports field. Pearl pulled in there, found a far spot, stopped the car.

A long wail, like a siren, escaped her throat. A sound she didn’t even know she could make. It rocketed through her; and then she did it again and again, pounding on the steering wheel. She screamed for herself, for Stella, in rage at the man who was her father, his pretty, clueless daughter—her sister?—the normal life she’d never had. Even Pop—who was what? Her father? Her captor? The man who probably killed her mother? And yet she was hooked into him in a way she had never been to anyone else.

Then a flood of tears, as if a whole lifetime of pent-up emotion was released in a single moment.

When it was over, she was spent, exhausted, rested her head on the wheel, her breathing ragged. The sun set, casting the field in gold. Then streetlamps came on. Finally, she was in darkness. After a while, she took the long drive home. Home. Back to the house she shared with Pop.

But when she got there, the house was empty, as it often was lately. Pop was busy. He had a new job, something that was taking a lot of time and energy. She was often alone with her schoolwork, with her books. She read and read, just as she had always done—disappearing into other worlds, other lives.

When she checked her email on returning to her laptop, there was a note from her father. Her biological father. The man who was nothing special.

Yes, it read, I know you. Should we meet?



THIRTY

Anne

On the kitchen counter, there were three phones, all charging. Two burners, both flip phones, and a smartphone. Anne currently managed four email addresses, five post office boxes. And she held two properties, condos, owned by a shell corporation. Thanks to Pop’s crooked old lawyer, Merle, her assets were managed, and she had a single legal identity that was utterly clean—passport, Social Security number, driver’s license.

That identity was her escape hatch. She’d finish up what she was working on, and then she was going to go clean.

“This is my final—act,” she said out loud.

She didn’t like the word “con.” It had such a base connotation—a scam, rip-off; there was something ugly about the word that didn’t reflect all the careful nuances of the game. What she did, what they did, it was so much more than theft. It was a science and an art, a delicate give and take. Pop believed that he gave as much as they took, which she always thought was bullshit. But later she saw that there was a truth to it, without it being the whole truth.

Pop was quiet, which meant he disapproved or disagreed. He was just a ghost in the corner today, barely a shadow. That’s what he was. A ghost. A shadow. Long gone but still with her.

“And then what?” he said finally.

That was Pop. He was always accusing her of going in too deep, getting too personal, giving too much. But Pop? He didn’t even know who he was when he wasn’t running a game. He’d become edgy, restless. He’d sit blank for hours, as if he’d been powered down. He was nothing without it.

But it wasn’t like that for her.

She could become anyone, go anywhere, shift off one self, pick up another. She could give it up anytime. And when she did, she’d spend some energy getting to know herself finally—the real girl behind all the masks she’d worn.