Javier smiles. “Were you jealous?”
“Of course! He belonged to us!”
“How much older was he?”
“Six years older than Josie, eight older than me.” I incline my head, aware that he’s done it again—eased me into telling my story—and I give him a perplexed frown.
“What is it?”
“You seduce me into talking about myself.”
“Because I want to know everything,” he says, running a hand along my shin. “And if you tell me about your sister, perhaps I can help you find her.”
For a moment, I wonder if he could be too much. Too emotional, too intense. But I do feel a bit adrift in trying to solve this problem. Another mind on it might help. “Maybe you can.” I straighten. “Okay, let me get it all out.”
He props his head on his hand. “Please.”
“So, she was troubled, my sister. She refused to go to college and spent all her time partying and surfing. The last time I saw her, she stole pretty much everything I had, including my computer and all my clothes, and sold them.”
“Oof. A terrible betrayal.”
“Yes. I’d just finished my first residency, so I was strapped and exhausted, and I just could not believe she’d do something like that.” I rub my belly again, feeling the edges of my hurt and anger when I returned to the apartment and discovered what she’d done. “I cut her off.”
“Understandable.”
“Yeah.” I sigh. “Except that she supposedly died about six months later in a big explosion on a train in France. I never spoke to her again.” I look backward in time, to that moment when I was walking back to my apartment and my mother called. A ghost of the pain from that day runs below my skin. In those howling minutes, I would have done anything to get her back.
His eyes are kind, but he doesn’t speak.
“All this time I thought she was dead.” I spread my hands, looking at my palms as if the story is written there. “And then I saw her on the news from the nightclub fire. She was here in the CBD when it happened.”
“You believed her to be dead until you saw her on the television? All this time?”
“Yes.”
He measures me for a long moment. “You must be so angry.”
“That’s an understatement.” The slow boil of lava in my gut gurgles. “My mother urgently wanted me to come, or I might not have.”
The large dark eyes hold steady on my face. “For my sake, I’m glad that you did.”
I give him a half smile. “Oh, you would have found someone to warm your bed, I’m sure.”
“She would not have been you.”
“You don’t have to charm me, Javier.” To stave off any protestation he might bring, I shake my head. “Anyway, I guess I should get back to trying to find my sister. My mother will want a report.”
“What have you done so far?”
“Not much. I’ve tried to find her by name, but that’s a dead end. I do think that woman at the restaurant knew something, so I might go back there. But also—” I lift one eyebrow. “I’m looking out there at that ocean, and what I want to do is go surfing.”
He inclines his head. “Not look for your sister?”
“Surfing is how I think, and maybe I’ll get some ideas.” A thick discomfort rolls through my lungs, making it momentarily hard to breathe, and I straighten my shoulders to create more room. “Do you want to learn to surf?”
He raises his hands. “No, no. I’m going to see Miguel today.”
“All right, then.” I eat the last bite of my pastry and brush my fingers off. “I’m going to get out of here and leave you to it.”
He captures my hand. “You’ll come to our show tonight?”
I nod, touch his head, his thick, wavy hair. “Who else will protect you from all the women?”
“It’s true. I will need it.” He captures my hand, kisses my palm. “See you later.”
Chapter Fourteen
Mari
When I get home from my dinner with Nan, Simon has already tucked the children into bed. I tiptoe into each of their rooms and kiss their heads, then join Simon in the family room. He’s sprawled in his chair, the little dog in his lap, the others fast asleep on the rug. I can tell he’s exhausted. “How was your day?” I ask, running my fingers through his hair.
He leans into my hands, moving his head, and I rub harder. “Good. Sarah took first in the fifty-meter freestyle.”
“No kidding! That’s great. And Leo?”
“He lost to Trevor.” His gaze wanders back to his stopped movie. “I think the lad might have Olympic talent.”
“Trevor?”
He nods, and a yawn overtakes him. I smile and kiss his forehead. “Watch your movie. I’m going to have a bath.”
“How was Nan?”
“Good.” I think of the strange spill of confession I’d allowed to fall, and I feel a vague sense of worry at the back of my neck. What if she mentions it in front of Simon? Or—
The only way I can live the way I do is by compartmentalizing everything. “We had tapas.”
“We’re taking the kids over to the house in the morning, right?”
“I’ll take them. You sleep late.” I stroke his forehead, his temples. “You’ve been working hard all week.”
“Thank you,” he says as he takes my hand and plants a kiss on the palm, “but I want to be there when they see it.”
“Your call. Don’t stay up too late.”
As I run my bath and strip down, rain is pouring outside. When I first moved to Auckland to live with Simon, we had a villa with a tin roof in another neighborhood, and the sound of the rain was sometimes deafening. This is hypnotic.
But three hours later, I’m still not asleep, and I finally slip out of bed and head downstairs to make a cup of tea. As the chamomile steeps, I open my computer and allow myself to stalk my sister. She doesn’t spend much time on Facebook, but I can sometimes see photos on my mother’s timeline, which is not private or closed or anything else.
She looks good, my mom. Her hair is still long. Her face is heavily lined, and I bet she still smokes. I know she doesn’t drink anymore by the millions of references she makes to being sober and to AA.
But no matter how sober she is or how good she looks, I still resent her. Raising my children has given me an understanding of just how terrible my own parents were.
A girl without a mother who protects her is a girl at the mercy of the world. How could she have been so blind to the alcohol I consumed at nine years old? Twelve? Fourteen? How could she have missed seeing the abuse that occurred right under her nose? Sarah isn’t allowed to walk on the beach alone, much less spend the night there alone.
At times I soften, thinking of how difficult her life was then too. My father was a hard man, born in Sicily during the war, and although he loved my mother jealously and protectively, he also took other women on a whim. He thought we were all spoiled and privileged, my mother and his daughters.
And God, how the two of them drank and partied!
The Christmas morning after Kit’s tenth birthday, we tumbled down the stairs to find not the gifts “Santa” ordinarily left but a scene of devastation. The Christmas tree blinked in mute witness to overturned furniture, broken glasses, debris scattered all over the rug. Kit stood silently beside me, her big eyes taking in the disaster.
Dylan came up behind us. “Wow.”
We stood there for long minutes, completely silent. My heart sank, falling from somewhere in the middle of my chest all the way through my gut and into the floor. I felt tears welling in my eyes. “Why did they do this?” I whispered. “Why did they have to do it on Christmas?”
Kit did not make a sound.
Dylan touched her shoulder, then mine. “I have an idea. Go get dressed. Both of you. Something nice.”
We only looked at him. Not even Dylan could save this.
“Go on!” he said, and shoved us a little. “Get dressed, brush your teeth, brush your hair. Meet me outside in ten minutes.”
Kit and I exchanged a glance. She shrugged.
We raced through our ablutions and ran downstairs and out the front door. Dylan had changed too, into a nice pair of jeans and a long-sleeve shirt with three buttons at the neck. His hair was clean and shiny, combed neatly and pulled back into a ponytail. He was waiting by my mother’s Chevy and opened the door. “Kit in the front seat on the way there, Josie on the way back.”
Kit’s grin flashed for the barest moment as she claimed the prized spot. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” He rubbed my head as he went by, and mollified over losing the front seat, I buckled myself in.
“Did Mom tell you that you could borrow her car?” Kit asked.
He started the car and headed north on the highway. “What do you think, Kitten?”
She shook her head.
“Right. Let’s not talk about that anymore.”
He drove us all the way to San Francisco, first to the pier, which was quiet except for the homeless people, and then to our true destination, Chinatown. He parked; then we got out and walked, and I was immediately enchanted by the red balls strung overhead and the multitude of shop fronts and signs. A strange smell filled the air, not completely pleasant, but I felt exhilarated by such a different world. I skipped on one side of him, and he held on to Kit’s hand. “How’d you know about this place?” I asked.