Look Closely (8 page)

My dad had told me this much. He’d always been wil ing to talk about the early days, about the afternoon he met my mom at University of Chicago, their wedding at the Palmer House, and how they’d moved to Woodland Dunes. But I learned not to ask questions about anything after that. Seeing the pain in my father’s eyes was too difficult. He was the only family I had, and I wasn’t wil ing to risk losing him, as wel . So I learned to push away the wonderings. The letter had brought al those questions back, though, and I didn’t have the power to bury them again.

We placed our orders, Ty joking with the owner, who gave him two complimentary lemonades.

Sittingunderthered-and-white-stripedawning, I bit into my turkey sandwich, suddenly starving. “Good?”IaskedTy,watchinghimdigintohisfood.

“Excel ent,” he said between mouthfuls of a broccoli and cheddar omelet. “I love breakfast foods after breakfast. I eat weird stuff first thing in the morning, too, like sushi and pasta.”

“Cold pizza. That’s a good breakfast.”

Ty’s fork stopped in midair, and he smiled wide. “Exactly.”

We talked, and I told him about my job and my life in Manhattan. Ty explained the work he’d done on Long Beach Inn before it opened.

“How did you know how to do al that stuff?” I asked. I finished the last bit of my sandwich and sank back into my chair.

“After I got out of col ege, I came home and worked construction. I was pretty lost during that time. No idea what I wanted to do, but the construction paid off. I learned a hel of a lot.

Because of that, I was able to either do the work at the inn myself or find someone fast who knew how.”

“How do you like living in Woodland Dunes?” I said. “I vaguely remember living here as a kid, but now that I’m in New York, it’s hard for me to imagine.”

“You know what? I love it here. When I first came home after school, I thought I’d just get my act together and head out again. I didn’t think I’d stay for good, but once I took a breather and looked around, I loved a lot about this town.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, geez,” Ty said, as if there were too many things. “I love the beach, the people, the way everybody knows me and the way anyone would help me if I needed it. I love the crazy summers when the bars are packed and people are crawling al over my place, and I love it when the fal ends too, and it gets quiet. It’s like having the best of both worlds—parties and crowds for five months, R & R the rest of the year.”

I nodded. I liked the picture he painted. There was never a respite from the teeming people or the noise in Manhattan.

Ty waved to a woman walking her dog on the other side of the street, then shifted in his chair so he faced me directly. The sun picked up the freckles that dotted his cheekbones. “So you were how old when you lived here?” he said.

“We left when I was seven. I remember school the most. The playground and Mrs. Howard, my first-grade teacher. I went to Dunes Primary.” It occurred to me that maybe I’d been at the same school as Ty. “Maybe we were there together?”

“No, I went to St. Bonaventure, or St. Bonnie’s as we cal ed it. Twelve years of Catholic repression for this kid.” Ty glanced down for a second. “I think I remember you, though, or at least hearing about you.”

“You do?” Despite the sun on my skin, I felt goose bumps prickle the back of my arms.

Ty watched me. “Your mom died, didn’t she? When you lived here?”

“That’s right.”

“I remember that. I saw a picture of your family that was taken at the funeral.”

“Where did you see it?” Maybe it had been in the paper, something I could dig up.

Ty scratched his jaw, looking a little uncomfortable for the first time since I met him. “I saw it in my dad’s office.”

“Your dad? Who’s your dad?”

“He’s the chief of police.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, after a moment spent digesting Ty’s words. My stomach felt slightly il , but there was a tickle of excitement. “This picture you saw was in the police station?”

Ty nodded.

“Why?” I asked.

“I don’t know al the details. I was just a kid too, but…” He trailed off.

“Look, I don’t know much about my mom’s death,” I said. “It’s why I’m here. So please, just tel me what you know.”

A look of surprise came over Ty’s face, and I realized I might have spoken a little harshly.

“I’m sorry.” I leaned toward him. “I had a case in Chicago last week. I’m an attorney. But the point is, I came here to see what I could find out about my mother’s death. Anything you could tel me would be a help.”

“Wow.”Tyshookhishead.“That’stough.Butas I said, I don’t know much. What I recal is waiting for my dad in his office at the station. It was a big day for me because he was going to take me to get myuniformandequipmentsoIcouldstartfootbal . Mydadwasn’tthechiefthen.Hewasassistantchief. Anyway, I was playing around his desk, and when he came in, I was holding that picture. There was a coffin being moved into the ground, and your family stood around it.You had on a long yel ow coat.”

I nodded. My Easter coat, the one my mom had picked out for me.

“When my dad saw me with the picture,” Ty continued, “he stopped, pointed to the coffin and said, ‘Do you know what that is?’ I told him there was somebody who was dead in there. He said, ‘That’s right. A dead lady, and I’m going to find out who kil ed her.’”

I took a breath. “But they never charged anyone, did they?”

He shook his head again. “My dad told me sometime later that he’d been wrong, that no one had kil ed her or meant for her to die.”

I felt a little gust of relief. If the police had ruled out murder, then maybe whoever had sent me the letter was simply mistaken. “Would your dad talk about this?”

“I think so. I mean, I don’t see why not. He’s fishing this weekend. He won’t be back until tomorrow night. Wil you stil be around?”

I didn’t answer right away. I’d been planning on goingbacktoChicagoSundaynightsoIcouldwait forthearbitrationdecisionthatshouldcomesometime Monday or Tuesday. But talking to the police mightbejustwhatIneededtosetmymindstraight, andIcouldfol owuponsomeotherquestionsinthe meantime.AndthentherewasTywithhisfreckles.

“Can I keep my room at the hotel?” I asked.

He made a face like he was thinking hard about it. “For you, I’l make it happen.”

“Yeah?” I said, surprised to hear the coy tone of my voice.

“Definitely.”

“I’l be around,” I told him.

6

For the third time that day, I pul ed into Del a’s driveway, stil thinking about my lunch with Ty. Over lemonade, I had told him what I knew about my mom’s death, about the letter, and about my visit with Del a this morning. I hadn’t meant to spil the whole tale—

it was so unlike me—but I was unusual y comfortable with him, and once I started talking, it was cathartic to get the story out.

Ty had asked me if I’d spoken to my brother or sister. They would be obvious places to start, he said. Obvious, yes, but I had no idea where either of them were, a fact that had always gnawed at me, confused me. When I got up the nerve to ask my dad about either of my siblings, he became visibly upset, tel ing me that they had their own lives now. During col ege, I went through a period when I longed for companionship, for family, and I made a halfhearted attempt at finding them. I cal ed Information in different cities where I thought they might be.

The Internet wasn’t widely used then, but I had a friend who was adept at computers do some digging. Neither of us could find a Caroline or Dan Sutter. And so I eventual y gave up.

Ty thought I should cal my father right then and ask him, point-blank, what had happened and where my brother and sister were, but I wasn’t ready for that yet. Old habits weren’t easy to kil , and I stil abhorred the idea of distressing my father, of picking at old wounds.

The last time I raised the issue was shortly after I met Maddy in law school. It was so weird, she had said over and over, that I didn’t know how my mom had died, that I didn’t know what had happened to my brother and sister.

“I
know
,” I’d said, irritated that I’d told her to begin with.

But Maddy’s questions stayed with me, and so I brought up the topic a few weeks later on a Sunday afternoon. I was with my dad on his patio, sipping a glass of cabernet while he gril ed steaks for us.

“Do you ever think about Mom?” I said, apropos of nothing.

Hedroppedthegril tongshewasholding.They clattered on the stone patio tiles. He bent over to pick them up, and when he stood, he looked like a confusedoldmaninsteadofaconfidenttrial awyer. His face was slack.

“Of course,” he said quietly, his gaze asking me how I could ask such a question.

But stil I pushed. “Real y?” I said. “Do you real y?”

“Yes, Hailey. I think about your mother al the time.” He blinked.

“Wel , you never talk about her. You never talk about when she died.”

A strange, garbled sound erupted from inside my father’s throat, making me stop my words. I could have sworn he was about to cry, something I had never seen, and I bailed.

“I’m sorry,” I said. I stood and took the tongs from him. “Let me do that.”

And, like an old man, he feebly handed them to me, wiping the grease from his hands on his immaculatekhakipantsbeforehewentintothehouse.

I had never brought up the issue again. If I could find my own answers, without confronting the parent who raised me on his own, I wanted to do that.

Which brought me back to Del a’s.

“Sweetie!” Del a said when she opened the front door now, a dish towel thrown over one shoulder. “Come in, come in.”

“Thanks.” I accepted a quick hug. “I hope I’m not bothering you.”

“Not at al .” Del a led me into the kitchen, a large, green-painted room smel ing of garlic and crowded with plants, knickknacks and crocheted pot holders. It was the type of warm, homey kitchen I’d always hoped my father and I would have, one that was lived in, that was used to cook for a large family. My dad wasn’t much of a chef, though, and so although our homes were lovely and expensive, the kitchens always had cold tiles and stainless-steel appliances, and I never spent much time there.

“Martin has poker tonight,” Del a said, “but I’m making enchiladas and salsa, so you’re just in time. I’m glad you’re here, because I was worried about you when you left. I hope I didn’t upset you.”

I leaned against a countertop while Del a picked up a carving knife on the butcher-block island. “I was startled, that’s al .”

Del a nodded and began chopping cilantro, sending the scent of it into the air to mix with the garlic. “You al moved away so fast when Leah died. I always wondered if that was the best thing for you kids after losing your mom.”

“I guess my dad thought it was right.” At least I assumed that’s what my father thought. We had never talked about his rationalization for that first move out of Woodland Dunes and over the ocean to London and Paris or the next to San Francisco, except that my dad said the firm needed him in those particular cities. When I was fourteen, and he told me we were moving again, I put my foot down, tel ing him this had to be the last move, that I wanted to go to high school in the same place for al four years. So we moved one more time to Long Island, and my father hasn’t left New York since.

“Oh, I don’t mean to second-guess your father,” Del a said. “Part of my thinking was probably because I missed you al so much. Danny was ready to go off to col ege, but I don’t know that Caroline was quite prepared for boarding school.”

I stood away from the counter and blurted out the questions I’d returned to ask. “Do you hear from them? Do you know where they are now?”

Del a abruptly stopped dicing cilantro, and it was a moment before she looked up at me. “You don’t talk to your brother and sister?”

I shook my head, aware of a ticking clock somewhere in the room.

Del a opened her mouth as if to say something, butshepausedfirst.“Youdon’tkeepintouchatal ?”

“I did get a few letters from Caroline when she was in boarding school, but I haven’t seen either of them since my mom died.”

Del a laid the knife on the butcher block and came around to me. “Let’s sit down.” She led me to a polished wood table.

We both sat, and I leaned forward, ready to listen, to learn anything I could. “Do you know where they are now?”

Del a took the dish towel off her shoulder and slowly rubbed her hands. “I don’t know if your father would want me to talk about this. Shouldn’t you ask him these questions?”

“Look, Del a,” I said. “My dad and I are very, very close, but there’s one thing we don’t talk about, which is the time when my mom died. And I’d real y like to find my brother and sister. It’s been way too long for a family not to see each other.”

Del a’s concerned face watched me as I spoke, then she looked down and kept rubbing her hands with the towel. I forced myself to endure the silence even though I didn’t understand it.

“Wait here,” Del a said. She left the room for a minute or so. When she returned, she was carrying two stacks of envelopes, one thin, the other thicker.

“I used to hear from Caroline regularly, maybe once a year,” she said, placing the larger pile of envelopes before me. “These are most of the letters. A few I misplaced or threw away. I haven’t heard from her for a year or two now. The last place she wrote me from was Portland.”

I ran my finger over the top envelope made of thin, peach paper. In the left corner was a label that read “Caroline Ramsey” and an address on North east Jarrett Street in Portland.

“So she’s married?” I said, looking up at Del a.

Del a nodded. “She sounds very happy. I think there’s even a picture in there.” She placed the other stack before me. There were only four envelopes. “I’ve saved everything I’ve received from Dan, but again it’s been a while. Last I heard he was out in Santa Fe.”

The top letter was in a plain, white envelope, and just as Del a had said, it bore a return address from Santa Fe, New Mexico.

“Can I keep these?” I asked. “Just for a few days, I mean.”

“Don’t worry. That’s why I brought them out. You can have them.”