Vanishing Girls(67)

A surge of nausea rolls from my stomach to my throat. My baby sister. Suddenly I remember that for years she had an imaginary friend named Timothy the Talking Rabbit; he went wherever we went but insisted on having a window seat, so Dara always took the middle.

How did everything go so wrong? How did I lose her?

“It’s Andre.” I’m overcome by anger and revulsion. I should have stabbed him in the face with a letter opener. I should have clawed out his eyes. “I’m sure it’s him. He must have another location—a private place.”

Margie puts a hand on my shoulder. The touch surprises me. “If he does, if he’s the one who’s responsible, the police will catch him,” she says, her voice softening. “It’s their job. It’s late. Go home, get some sleep. Your parents are probably worried about you.”

I jerk away. “I can’t sleep,” I say, feeling the wild urge to hit something, to scream. “You don’t understand. No one understands.”

“I do understand,” she says, speaking to me gently, consolingly, as if I’m a stray dog and she’s worried I might bite, or bolt. “Can I tell you a story, Nicole?”

No, I want to say. But she keeps going without waiting for a response.

“When I was eleven, I dared my little sister to swim across Greene River. She was a good swimmer, and we’d done it together dozens of times. But halfway to the other bank she started gasping, choking. She went under.” Margie’s eyes slide past mine, as if she’s still staring out over the water, watching her kid sister drown. “The doctors diagnosed her with epilepsy. She’d had a seizure in the water, her first. That’s why she went under. But afterward, she started having seizures all the time. She broke a rib when she fell down on the curb on her way to school. She was always covered in bruises. Strangers thought she was abused.” She shakes her head. “I thought it was my fault—that I’d caused her sickness somehow. That it was because I’d dared her.”

Now she looks at me again. For a split second, I see myself reflected in her eyes—I see myself in her.

“I became obsessed with keeping her safe,” she says. “I would hardly let her out of my sight. It almost killed me. It almost killed her.” She smiles a little. “She went to college all the way in California. After graduation, she moved to France. Met a guy named Jean-Pierre, married him, took French citizenship.” She shrugs. “She needed to get away from me, I guess, and I can’t say I blame her.”

I don’t know if she expects the story to make me feel better, but it doesn’t. Now I feel worse. She places both hands on my shoulders, ducking a little so we’re eye to eye.

“What I mean,” she says, “is it isn’t your fault.”

“Nicole!”

I turn and see Hernandez coming across the street, holding two coffees and a bag from Dunkin’ Donuts. His face is resolutely cheerful, a gym-teacher smile. “They always say cops like doughnuts, don’t they? I thought we could share one while we wait.”

Cold floods all the way through my body. He’s not going to help me. He’s not going to help Dara.

No one’s going to help.

I run, breath high in my throat, heart hammering against my ribs. I hear my name, shouted again and again, until it becomes meaningless: just the wind, or the sound of the ocean, beating invisibly, ceaselessly, somewhere far off in the distance.





EMAIL FROM DR. LEONARD LICHME TO SHARON MAUFF, DATED MARCH 5, 10:30 A.M.

Dear Ms. Mauff,

I originally sent this email several weeks ago to an old address I have on file—I’m guessing you’ve reverted to your maiden name? When it continued to bounce back, I got your new personal email address from a secretary at MLK.

I’m sorry for all the phone tag. I just saw I missed your call this morning. Can you let me know some times you might be available to talk? I have some significant concerns I’d like to share with you, especially in advance of our family session on the sixteenth.

Best,

Leonard Lichme, PhD





EMAIL FROM SHARON MAUFF TO KEVIN WARREN, DATED MARCH 6, 3:00 P.M.

Kevin,

I received a very concerning email from Dr. Lichme yesterday and have been unable to get through to his office. Has he contacted you?





Sharon


P.S. No, I have no idea what happened to your golf clubs and think it’s inappropriate for you to ask me to look for them.





EMAIL FROM KEVIN WARREN TO DR. LEONARD LICHME, DATED MARCH 6, 3:16 P.M.

Dr. Lichme,

My ex-wife has just informed me that you recently reached out to her with “significant concerns.” Is there some trouble with Dara I don’t know about? And is there some reason that you didn’t reach out to me as well? Despite what Sharon might lead you to believe, I am still very much a member of this family. I believe I initially provided you with office and cell phone numbers for this very purpose. Please let me know when I can reach you and/or if you need me to provide you my phone number again.





Kevin Warren





EMAIL FROM DR. LEONARD LICHME TO KEVIN WARREN, DATED MARCH 6, 7:18 P.M.

Dear Mr. Warren,

It’s not Dara I’m worried about; it’s Nicole. But the fact that you would immediately assume otherwise is part of what I’d like to discuss with you and Sharon, preferably together, in my office. Will you be at the family session on March 16, I hope?