Vanishing Girls(35)

Cheryl keeps prattling on. “I wish you’d talk to Avery. Maybe we can have a girls’ day. I’ll treat you to the spa. Would you like that?”

I’d rather spend the day sticking needles under my nails, but of course at that precise moment Dad’s eyes tick to mine, both a warning and a command. I smile and make a noncommittal noise.

“I’d love that. And Avery would love that.” Three things about Cheryl: she loves anything having to do with “girl time,” “spa time,” or “sauvignon blanc.” She leans back while three waiters materialize and deposit identical plates of what look like bean sprouts in front of us. “Micro greens,” Cheryl clarifies, when she sees my face. She has insisted on doing the ordering. “With chervil and fresh chives. Go on, dig in.”

Digging in is the wrong expression. I’ve finished the plate of rabbit kibble in about two bites, and I can’t help but think of the all-you-can-eat salad bar at Sergei’s: the electric glowing cubes of cheddar cheese, the proud trays of iceberg and individual tubs of store-bought croutons and pickled green beans. Even the beets, which Nick and I both agree taste like an open grave.

I wonder where Nick is eating tonight.

“So how’s your summer going?” Cheryl says, once the plates have been cleared. “I hear you’re working at FanLand.”

I shoot Dad another look—Cheryl can’t even keep Nick and me straight. For Christ’s sake, there’s only two of us. It’s not like I sit around asking how Avery likes Duke. But once again, he has returned to his phone.

“Everything’s fine,” I say. No point in telling Cheryl the truth: that Nick and I have been completely avoiding each other, that I’ve been bored out of my mind, that Mom floats through the house like a balloon, lashed to the TV.

“Listen to this.” Dad speaks up suddenly. “‘The police have named Nicholas Sanderson, forty-three, an accountant with a home in the upscale beachfront community of Heron Bay—’”

“Oh, Kevin.” Cheryl sighs. “Not here. Not tonight. Will you put your phone away for once?”

“—a ‘person of interest.’” Dad looks up, blinking, like a person emerging from sleep. “I wonder what that’s about.”

“I’m sure the Blotter will tell us,” Cheryl says, swiping the corner of her eye with one perfectly French-manicured fingernail. “He’s been obsessed,” she says to me.

“Yeah. Mom too.” I don’t know why, but I get pleasure out of talking about Mom in front of Cheryl. “It’s, like, the only thing she can talk about.”

Cheryl just shakes her head.

I turn to Dad, struck by an idea. I’m still thinking of what Sarah Snow said: You look familiar. “Did the Snows ever live in Somerville?”

He frowns and returns to his phone. “Not that I know of.”

So that’s a dead end. Cheryl, who can’t stand to keep her mouth shut for more than .5 seconds, jumps in. “It’s terrible, just terrible. My friend Louise won’t even let the twins out on their own anymore. Just in case there’s a”—she lowers her voice—“pervert on the loose.”

“I just feel so sorry for her parents,” Dad says. “To keep on hoping . . . to not know . . .”

“You think it’s better to know?” I say. Once again, Dad looks at me. His eyes are red, bloodshot, and I wonder whether he’s already drunk. He doesn’t answer.

“Let’s change the subject, shall we?” Cheryl says, as once again waiters appear, this time bearing thimble-size portions of spaghetti on vast white plates. Cheryl claps her hands together, and a massive ruby sparkles on one of her fingers. “Mmm. This looks delicious, doesn’t it? Spaghetti with garlic scapes and fresh ramps. I absolutely love ramps. Don’t you?”

After dinner, Dad drops Cheryl off first, a sure sign he wants to talk to me—which is funny, both because he was almost entirely silent at dinner, and because I’m 90 percent positive he’ll drive straight back to Egremont when he’s done dropping me off. I wonder what it’s like to sleep in the bed of Cheryl’s dead ex-husband, and I have a sadistic urge to ask. He white-knuckles the wheel as he drives, leaning forward slightly, and I wonder whether it’s because he’s tipsy or so he doesn’t have to look at me.

Still, he doesn’t speak until he’s pulled up in front of the house. As usual, only a few lights are burning: Nick’s, and the one in the upstairs bathroom. He jerks the car into park and clears his throat.

“How’s your mother holding up?” he asks abruptly, which wasn’t what I expected him to say at all.

“Fine,” I say, which is only half a lie. At least she goes to work on time now. Most days.

“That’s good. I worry about her. I worry about you, too.” He’s still gripping the steering wheel, like if he lets go, he might go flying off into outer space. He clears his throat again. “We should talk about the twenty-ninth.”


It’s so typical that he refers to my birthday by the date, as if it’s a dental appointment he has to keep. Dad is an actuary, which means he studies insurance and risk. Sometimes he looks at me like I’m a bad return he’s made on an investment.

“What about it?” I say. If he’s going to pretend it’s no big deal, so will I.