In Sight of Stars(53)
“I pull boxes down from the stacks, rifling through my father’s worldly possessions. I’m looking for something—a clue. Maybe some message he’s left for me. Honestly, I don’t know what I’m looking for. When I spot the box marked MARI/PERSONAL I open it. I know it’s not right, but I do.
“Fuck her, right? Because maybe there’s something of his I want in there.
“I sit on the bed and work to peel off the tape, but I swear she’s got it hermetically sealed. There must be five layers of packing tape running around it. So, I run to my room and grab an X-ACTO knife from my drawer, returning to the guest room with purpose. And when I have the box open, I shove the X-ACTO knife in my sweatshirt pocket and sit with her stuff on the floor.”
Dr. Alvarez makes a sound, something sympathetic and pained that comes from the back of her throat, but I can’t stop now. She’s the one who wanted to hear.
“The crap inside the box is mostly disappointing. A bunch of file folders, envelopes. A few of Dad’s red-brown legal folders. Not even hers, so I don’t get why they’re in her personal box. I page through them but have no interest in the stuff. Legal notices. Tax returns. One folder taped shut again, marked GRIEVANCE COMMITTEE V. ALDEN, ESQ. Not her handwriting. Someone else’s.”
“No curiosity?” Dr. Alvarez interrupts gently.
“Not really. I’d hear my Dad talking to my Mom about stuff like that all the time. ‘Some disgruntled client,’ he’d explain. ‘A frivolous claim to get out of paying the firm’s bill.’ I know one had made them fight, a few months before he died. My mother had bitched about losing their shirts. ‘My shirt, not yours, Marielle,’ he had snapped at her. She was always worrying about money, but it’s not like she was the one working.”
“I see. So then what happened?” she prods.
“There’s another folder, this one clearly in my mother’s handwriting, marked PERSONAL & CONFIDENTIAL. More tape, but slimmer.” My heart wrenches. “There are photographs in there, birthday cards, letters. From her to him—“My dearest Mark”—and him to her—“My darling Marielle.” Gushy stuff. Cards dating back from before they were married. College photos, and all sorts of emails, from back before we even had Gmail.”
My throat constricts, knowing what’s next.
“And then I come to another envelope inside that one, plain, filled with more emails. These are weird, different, newer. You can tell because of the paper. Crisp and white. But, the tops are cut off, so you can’t see who sent them, or when: ‘My dear, beautiful man, I can’t stop thinking about you, your face, your body … I never thought I would feel this way again…’
“Shit like that. I can’t even think about it now. But it all makes sense suddenly. My mother’s obsession with always looking good, fixing herself up, like she’s going on a fucking date…”
I let my voice rise higher, mocking her. I know I sound childish doing it, but I want Dr. Alvarez to understand. “‘My dearest man, It won’t be Christmas without you. I know you’re scared and overwhelmed, but soon it’s going to be okay. Give me some time … Maneuvering is needed to protect people…’
“‘Maneuvering.’ Can you believe that? And it must have been Christmas, right before my father killed himself.” I barely get the words out. Even now, I feel like I’m going to throw up.
I wait for my words to re-form, for the air to stop squeezing in on me. “Anyway, I shoved the papers back and threw the box in the closet.”
Now, like then, bile rises in my throat. All those nights she was out. All those afternoons? While he was working, doing shit he hated to keep her in her fancy clothes, and fancy apartment, with fancy things, she was in some hotel room in the city. And now, maybe he’s here, up in Northhollow. Maybe that’s why she was so anxious to drag us up here!
“I couldn’t think, I couldn’t breathe,” I say to Dr. Alvarez. “I just needed to get out of there.”
“And that’s when you went to Dunn’s house.”
“Yes,” I say quietly. “To find Sarah. I thought Sarah would help me. I thought she would understand.”
*
“Klee?” I’ve gone cold, clammy. I’m doubled over on the cool dirt of the path. Trees tower overhead, sunlight streaming through onto Dr. Alvarez’s brown loafers. “Klee, are you all right?” She squats down next to me, puts a gentle hand on my back. “It’s okay. I’m glad you told me. It’s going to be okay.”
I turn and look behind us. It feels like we’ve walked so far. But in the distance, through the trees, I can make out the solid outline of the Ape Can.
I slow my breath, am able because she takes breaths with me, showing me how. Slow in, slow out. Holding it for counts in between.
“Square breathing,” she says. “It works pretty much every time.”
I do as she says, and after another minute I feel more stable. Like the cold has left me and the spinning has stopped again.
I sit down on my ass in the dirt, knees up, head rested on them. The cool quiet helps.
Jesus,” I finally say. “That’s what I thought, Dr. Alvarez. That if I just found Sarah, everything would be okay.”
“But it wasn’t?” she asks.