Vanishing Girls(49)

I cup my hands to my mouth and shout up to him, like I used to do when we were little and needed him to come down for a game of street stickball or to be our third for double Dutch. But this time, the curtains stay still. No face appears at the window. Finally I’m forced to turn around, backtracking down the street, feeling uncomfortable for no reason, as if someone is watching me, observing my progress. I turn around once at the corner; again, I could swear the curtains twitch, as if someone has just yanked them shut.

Frustrated, I turn away. I’m already late, but it’s still too hot to do anything but ooze down the street. In less than twenty minutes, I’ll be sitting across from Dara.

She’ll have to talk to me. She won’t have a choice.

My stomach is knotted practically to my throat.

And then, just before I get to Upper Reaches Park, I see her: She’s waiting to board the 22 bus, the one I take to FanLand, standing aside to allow an old woman with a walker to dismount. The halogen lights blazing from the bus shelter bleach her skin practically white and turn her eyes to hollows. She’s hugging herself, and from a distance she looks a lot younger.

I stop in the middle of the road. “Dara!” I shout. “Dara!”

She looks up, her expression troubled. I wave, but I’m too far away, and standing in a portion of the street swallowed by long shadows, and she must not see me. With a final glance over her shoulder, she slips onto the bus. The doors whoosh closed, and then she’s gone.

My phone vibrates. Dad’s calling, probably to scold me for being late. I press ignore and keep walking to Sergei’s, trying to fight a bad feeling. The 22 does run through downtown Somerville, but not before it’s looped north around the park. If she’s planning to show to dinner, it would be far quicker to walk.

But how could she miss her own birthday dinner?

Maybe her knees are acting up, or her back is bugging her today. Still, I unconsciously slow down, afraid that I’ll arrive and she won’t be there and then I’ll know: she isn’t coming.

It’s a quarter to eight by the time I get to Sergei’s, and my stomach turns over: both Mom’s and Dad’s cars are in the lot, parked next to each other, as if this is just another family dinner. As if I might walk in and get suctioned back in time, see Dad checking his teeth in the polished back of a knife while Mom scolds him, see Dara already flitting around the salad bar, concentrating, like an artist putting the finishing touches on a painting, and making sudden grabs for the croutons or the pickled green beans.

Instead I see Mom sitting alone at the table. Dad is standing in the corner, one hand on his hip, phone plastered to his ear. As I watch, he hangs up, frowning slightly, and dials again.

Dara’s not here.

For a second, I feel nauseous. Then the anger comes rushing back.

I weave around the salad bar and push through the usual crowd—kids pegging one another with crayons, parents slugging back mug-size glasses of wine. As I approach the table, Dad turns and gestures helplessly to Mom.

“I can’t reach them,” he says. “I can’t reach either of them.” But just then he spots me. “There you are,” he says, presenting his cheek, which feels rough and stinks of aftershave. “I’ve been calling.”

“Sorry.” I sit down in the seat across from Mom, next to the empty seat intended for Dara. Better to spit it out. “Dara’s not coming.”

Mom stares at me. “What?”

I take a deep breath. “Dara’s not coming,” I say. “We don’t need to save her a seat.”

Mom’s still looking at me as if I’ve just sprouted a second head. “What are you—?”

“Yoo-hoo! Nick! Sharon! Kevin! Incoming. Excuse me.”

I look up and see Aunt Jackie moving toward us, deftly navigating the pattern of tables, clutching an enormous, multicolored leather bag to her chest, as though to prevent it from rocketing off on its own and taking out water glasses. As always, she’s wearing multiple colored strands of big jewelry (powerful crystals, she corrected me severely, when I once asked her why she wore so many rocks), so that she looks a little like a human version of a Christmas tree. Her hair is long and loose, swinging halfway to her butt.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she says. When she bends down to kiss me, I catch a quick whiff of something that smells a little bit like damp earth. “Traffic was terrible. How are you doing?” Aunt Jackie grips Mom’s face for a moment before kissing her.

“I’m all right,” Mom says, smiling faintly.

Aunt Jackie studies her face for a minute before releasing her. “What’d I miss?”


“Nothing.” Dad shakes out his napkin and presents his cheek to Aunt Jackie like he did to me. She plants a big kiss on it, exaggerating the sound, and Dad carefully swipes his skin when she isn’t looking. “Nick was just informing us that her sister isn’t coming.”

“Don’t get angry at me,” I say.

“No one’s angry,” Aunt Jackie says brightly, as she sits down next to me. “No one’s angry, right?”

Dad turns back to the waitress and motions that he wants another drink. There’s already a whiskey—mostly melted ice, at this point—leaving fat rings on the paper tablecloth.

“I—I don’t understand.” Mom’s eyes are unfocused, a sure sign she’s had a bad day and had to double up on antianxiety meds. “I thought we’d all agreed to have a nice night. To have a family night.”