The Mystery of Hollow Places(47)

Jessa starts to give him the finger, but sheathes it when Dr. Van Tassel barks, “Knock it off, or eat in the driveway!”

Mr. Price washes a lettuce head at the sink, unconcerned. And me, I stay out of the way in the corner, steal glances at their reflections in the stainless-steel counters and fridge and toasting/microwaving/can-opening/bottle-opening/popcorn-popping appliances, all polished into mirrors. From every angle, they look perfect. I watch them and try to imagine Dad and me and Sidonie Faye . . . and Lindy . . . crammed into our kitchen at 42 Cedar Lane, with its dark, dull cabinets, its banana magnets, our flour and sugar begrudgingly spilled into canisters. But I can’t picture my mom at the kitchen table, folding a napkin in her lap, buttering a roll. It’s too . . . normal.

I’m too anxious to eat much, but I sit with them for dinner: grilled tuna, garlic biscuits from Jeanne’s Cakes and Bakes (the only decent bakery in town since Jamison’s closed), and bowls of cold edamame. We teethe the beans from their pods and chuck the deflated green skins in our little square bowls. Chad and Jessa fight happily over the third-to-last and then second-to-last and then the last biscuit on the platter. Dr. Van Tassel continues to be super-size-nice, which means she knows that Dad continues to be absent, but it doesn’t bother me the way it once did. Mr. Price talks about the challenges of selling lighting equipment to other companies, which is the business he’s in, coincidentally.

When I’ve nervously ground my tuna into pink confetti and the food is mostly gone, we excuse ourselves from the table. Chad stays behind to throw everything into the dishwasher, flicking detergent water at his sister. He pauses to brush away a stray sud that catches in my hair before Jessa and I retreat up the stairs. “So you and Chadwick seem friendly, no? Had a good time in Fitchburg, did you?” she says.

I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. “Friendly in the sense of friends, or friendly in the sense of prom dates?”

“Wait, what?” she shrieks, and wraps her fingers around my wrist and drags me into the bathroom of Bloody Mary to talk in secret, which seems unnecessary, since there’s ten feet of hallway between us and her bedroom at most. “How did this happen? When did this happen? You’re going to be my prom sister-in-law!”

“Okay, calm down.” I bite back another smile.

“Ugh,” Jessa groans. “Can you not humor me and girl out for, like, one single second?”

“Maybe after the call,” I lie. Though a big part of me wants to squeal like a six-year-old girl at a birthday party, I’ve had a very successful run of not letting Jessa get too worked up. Dad has highs and lows, so I like to keep to an even-keeled middle. The same principle helps me to tether Jessa.

But it’s hard not to get excited when finally, something comes easy. Jessa has the White Pages app on her iPhone, and there’s only one Todd Malachai in eastern Connecticut, in a town called Windham. I write all of the info in his listing on my palm with Jessa’s gold glitter Sharpie so I can enter it in my phone when I finally get around to charging it. I’ll put in Lil’s as well, and maybe Tilly’s (though probably not Tilly’s), which will bring my contacts up to a whopping fifteen or so.

Chad joins us as I’m rehearsing my now-familiar script about the school project. Because Jessa’s texting—probably Jeremy—Chad generously donates his phone to the cause.

I tell myself not to get carried away. According to Hilda Malachai, my mom spun out pretty hard. Why Todd would keep in touch with the girl he drove to therapy and bought unmentionables for, only to have her leech his money and crash his truck, I don’t know. Especially if he’s married now. But maybe he can give me the clue that leads me to the clue that takes me to my parents. Anything is possible. And there’s still New Hope. If this turns out to be a dead end, I can try them afterward. They might have records left from when my mom was there, and since it was only a few years ago, I might not even have to go digging through some dusty basement to find them.

First things first: make the call.

I press the phone against my cheek and wait while it rings. Next to me, Jessa twists her long hair between her hands, strangling it into golden knots I know she’ll regret later. Chad plops down into the lips chair, digging his sister’s old Cabbage Patch doll out from underneath him. He holds the arms out and folds the cloth fingers down so it’s giving me a thumbs-up.

A woman answers on the fourth ring. “Hello?”

I stutter, unprepared for a female voice. “Um, hi. Um, is . . . is Todd there?”

“He’s not home right now,” she says. “Can I have him call you back?”

“Is this his wife?”

“It is,” she says brightly.

I sigh internally. “Oh, sure. Just, if he could give me a call at some point tonight.” I give my number, intending to plug my phone in as soon as I get home.

There’s silence on the other end, and then, “Would that be a Sugarbrook number?” The voice is smaller now, further away.

An uncomfortable numbness starts in the back of my neck and seeps outward, into my cheeks, toward my lips. I realize I’m breathing fast. “You’re Mrs. Malachai?”

“Who is this?”

The tingling is spreading down my arms. “Not . . . not Sidonie Malachai.”

The woman clears her throat. “Yes.”