Darkest Fear (5 page)

My dad's office had once been a small bedroom. We'd only needed two of our four bedrooms, so we had a guest room and his office. The room was cool and dark, with the wood paneling that was in almost every room in the house. Most of the rooms had been painted, but this one was still woody. It smelled like his aftershave. It felt like he was in the kitchen and would walk in here any second.

His files were organized and labeled neatly in English, and under the
IMPORTANT PAPERS
tab I found a small silver key. I remembered that he kept really crucial stuff in the fireproof safe on the floor of the closet. Though it was small, it weighed a ton. I dragged it out, pulling and pushing it along the textured olive-green carpet, and fitted the silver key into its lock.

Inside were files, again labeled in my father's handwriting, and it took only a minute to find the documents the lawyer wanted. I set them aside in a little pile, then flipped through the rest of
the important files. There were photographs of my parents at their wedding, which had been on a beach in Brazil. My mom looked young and impossibly beautiful, and was gazing adoringly up at my dad, who grinned as if he had just won the jackpot. There were pictures of me as a baby and toddler, laughing, dark-eyed, my hair in two cute braids. Here I was, being held by the hand as I walked on that same beach during a family visit. A photo of my eighth birthday party showed Tia Juliana pregnant with my cousin, and my mother's parents looking elegant and silver-haired. They had died not long after that.

Now I leaned against the wood-paneled wall and watched dust motes floating and swirling in the shaft of sunlight coming through the high window, a montage of childhood memories scrolling through my head. I'd been happy until I was thirteen, had felt secure and loved, smart and pretty. Now my parents were gone forever. When I thought about how much I had pushed back, how I'd thrown their traditions in their faces for the last five years, I felt terrible.

From the time I was fourteen, I'd refused to go to Brazil each summer and for holidays. Instead I'd stayed with Jennifer, my parents planning their trips around the trips to Israel. I'm sure not only my parents but also my aunt and uncle had been hurt by that. In ninth grade I'd tried to join the Christian church down the block, even though it had felt like a betrayal larger than my parents—a betrayal of the Tzechuri. But I'd needed parental consent, and they did not consent. I didn't speak to them for three days over that. My defiant, anticarnivore vegetarianism had lasted two months,
brought to its knees by Jennifer eating a warm pita stuffed with shawarma and tahini.

I dressed like a slob and wore no makeup. That wasn't about being haguari; it was about being the opposite of my mom, who was stylish and beautiful and loved being female. My schleppiness had driven her nuts, though she'd tried not to show it. Looking back, it must have crushed her, my ratty T-shirts and sloppy shorts. I bet she'd been looking forward to having a beautiful, girly daughter who would enjoy shopping and ask her for eyeliner tips. Until the terrible day that they'd revealed the family legacy, I had been that girl. Early pictures showed me in adorable outfits, hair held back in matching barrettes. I'd looked forward to growing up and wearing fashionable clothes like my mom. Had practiced walking in her high heels. At the beginning of seventh grade, she let me wear mascara and lip gloss to school. I'd worked on tossing my hair just so all summer. I'd felt grown-up in the new bras we'd gotten to deal with the sudden boobs.

And then I'd found out, at the end of seventh grade. Found out why I hardly ever got sick, why I was graceful and strong and good at any sport, why I was so pretty even as a twelve-year-old that strangers would stare at me. You don't see an ugly jaguar, right? It had seemed like a nightmare, a bad movie that just did not end. I was completely freaked out, horrified, appalled . . .

My reaction had totally taken my parents by surprise. They'd never known anyone who wasn't thrilled and honored to be one of such a magical species. But I found the change revolting and scary. It
was grotesque to me, and even ending up a gorgeous jaguar did not make it better. My parents couldn't believe I felt that way, and the more they'd tried to cajole me out of it, the more I'd dug my heels in.

For the next five years, my parents had been angry, or sad, or frustrated. The one time they'd been truly furious was during one of our arguments: Pushed too far, I'd made fun of the Tzechuri. I no longer thought our uniqueness was cool or interesting—it was embarrassing. If my friends asked, I said we were Protestant. The day I'd told my parents that, and said the altar was awful, was the day my dad drew the line I couldn't cross.

“How dare you!” my father had actually shouted, his handsome face flushed. I'd jumped, wide-eyed. “You can refuse to do this or that, you can cling to whatever belief you need to, but one thing you will not do is mock the gods of our people!”

I wasn't nearly brave enough to challenge him on that, and I never criticized the Tzechuri again.

Now, as I sat in his office, I would have given anything for him to be back, even if he was yelling at me.

While I'd been musing, the sun had disappeared. Dark clouds tumbled past the window like a giant shaking a fuzzy gray blanket. A bolt of lightning lit the office paneling brightly, and seconds later there was a rolling boom of thunder in the distance. I shook myself, turned on a lamp, and went back to the files.

All this stuff was mine now. It was a horrible, overwhelming thought.

Time for an ice-cream sandwich. I'd found that I could eat
most of one without feeling sick, and they'd become a staple. That, soup, and pudding. Pudding was a big favorite now. In the past, whenever I'd felt especially down or didn't know what to do with myself, I'd bake something. Me and refined carbs were
likethis
. Maybe I could try that. Maybe I could make . . . a lemon cake or something. I didn't feel like it—just the idea of doing it made me feel tired. But maybe I should force myself. For medicinal purposes.

I made a space at the back of the fireproof box to put the files back in. As I tapped them down, my fingers brushed against something smooth right at the very back of the safe. Fishing it out, I saw that it was a large plastic bag with folded red silk inside it. Some sort of special memento or something.

I opened the bag and took out the red silk. It was wrapped around . . . more photos. I hoped they weren't . . . too personal or anything. Looking at them, I saw to my relief that I'd already seen ones similar to these in my mom's photo albums. My mom had grown up in São Paulo. My dad's family had owned a cattle ranch in central Brazil. These exact pictures weren't in her albums for some reason, but I recognized most of the places and the people. Some of the photos had been cut—maybe to fit a space in an album that never got made? Or to cut someone out, like an old boyfriend? It was sad seeing pictures of the beautiful little girl my mom had been, knowing that she had grown up to be even more beautiful, and now she was gone. All the memories in these photos, every experience she'd had that had helped
her become who she was—they had all been for nothing.

My breath was coming shakily, and I'd resigned myself to another bout of crying when I stopped at the last photograph. I'd never seen it before. It was of three teenagers: the blond one was my tia Juliana, young and vivacious; the middle one was my mom, laughing at the camera; and my breath caught on the last one—because she looked weirdly, eerily like me. If I'd had big eighties hair and a tiny bathing suit. Like my face had been photoshopped into an old picture.

There was writing on the back:
Juliana, Aracita, Donella. Irmãs.

Irmãs.
Sisters.

Donella. The name my mom had said right before she died. She'd looked at me and said,
Donella? I've missed you.

My heart was beating wildly—I really did look a lot like the girl in the picture. Had my mom confused me for her? Who was she?

Was this a third sister? Neither my mom nor my aunt had ever mentioned having another sister. Or . . . maybe this was just a good friend of the family, and they were really close, so they jokingly called themselves sisters?

After a moment I decided no. I looked a lot like my mom, except my eyes were dark brown and hers had been golden. Donella and Juliana had eyes like mine. Juliana, as the only blonde, was the most different. But all our faces were very similar.

Had Donella died young? It still seemed odd that no one would ever mention her, even sadly or in passing. It was like she'd been wiped off the face of the earth.

My stomach rumbled—it had been ages since I'd eaten anything. I put the lawyer's papers on my dad's desk and took the photos to my room.

• • •

The next day, I realized I could go through everything in the house and no one would stop me. I cringed at the idea—if I found weird stuff, I would freak out. Some things you just don't want to know, especially about your parents.

But . . . there was the family book. Papi hadn't had a chance to tell me where it was, only that I would continue it for my kids. My nonexistent kids. Was I ready to see it? Would I at least find out who Donella was?

Our living room was lined with bookcases, full of books in English, Spanish, French, and Portuguese. After I took the papers to the lawyer's office, I would go through them. Maybe.

That afternoon Ms. Carsons, the lawyer, gazed at me with concern. I'd felt shaky and trembly driving there. The sun had seemed too bright, noises too loud. I had to start getting out more. But as soon as I had that thought, another thought followed it:
Why?

I sat on the dark green leather chair in Ms. Carsons' office as she went over a bunch of legal stuff, wills and probate and whatever, and I gave her the documents. A lot I didn't understand—it was hard to concentrate. Basically she said I had enough money and that she would take care of everything. I nodded and agreed to whatever she said. I was getting up to leave when she put a gentle hand on my arm.

“Viviana, are you . . . are you talking to anyone? Like a counselor? Or a grief therapist?”

It hadn't occurred to me. “I have my friends,” I said. The best of whom was in Tel Aviv. I hadn't been returning texts from the rest.

“You've gone through an unimaginable tragedy,” Ms. Carsons said softly, concern in her light blue eyes. “You need to talk to someone. You need to not be alone.”

“Hm,” I said. People kept telling me that. “Okay. Thanks.”

IT WAS A RELIEF TO
come back to the familiar air-conditioned scents of our house. Actually, there were no scents of either cooking or laundry because I was doing neither one, so in that way the house smelled different. But all of the rest of it was . . . home.

Taking my time, I looked at every book in every bookcase in the house: the ones in the living room, the ones in the hallway, the ones in my dad's office. I didn't find anything that seemed like it could be our family book. I pictured it as being like a scrapbook, like Tia Juliana had said, or a Christian Bible. My parents had told me that our religion didn't have written documents—everything had always been passed down orally. For aeons, apparently.

The books in my dad's office were all for his job. My mom had a desk in the corner of the living room that she had hardly ever used. She'd graded papers at the big kitchen table, and used my dad's computer. But I went over to her desk and saw Post-its on her bulletin board, notices of dentist appointments and a shop that
repaired furniture and a loyalty card to our local ice cream shop. One more visit and she would have gotten a free cone.

It was strange sitting in the chair, looking at the desk. Even her desk was feminine—whitewashed and stenciled, with scaled-down lines and a delicate frame. Timidly I opened a drawer, saw extra pens and pushpins and a staple remover. The middle drawer had a tube of lip balm, rubber bands, a tiny vial of her favorite perfume, a picture of my dad, and a Valentine's card I'd made her in fourth grade. When I'd made that card, I'd thought my mom would live forever.

Tears ran down my face, but I was used to it and just wiped my eyes with the hem of my T-shirt. I pulled the drawer out more and heard paper crumple in the back. Feeling with my hands, I found an envelope stuck between the drawer and the desktop, and gradually eased it out without ripping it.

It was a regular letter envelope, addressed by hand to my mom. It was empty, no letter inside. I looked at the return address and my breath caught in my throat. Donella Garrison. Quickly I scanned the post office stamp—it was dated more than ten years ago, but long after that photo of the three sisters.

Donella Garrison. The actual address was smudged, as if the ink had gotten wet, but I could still read it. Esplanade Avenue, New Orleans, Louisiana. My aunt Donella had lived in New Orleans. Maybe lived there still.

The Internet gave me the same address, a husband's name—Patrick—and a phone number. I called the number with a shaking
hand. I would have to tell her that her sister was dead. Maybe she'd hated my mom. Maybe she would hang up on me. Maybe she would tell Tia Juliana that I'd contacted her, and then Tia Juliana would be mad at me for discovering the family secret.

There was no answer. No answering machine.

It was even harder to call the second time, hours later. Still no answer.

The next morning, when I woke up, I knew what I wanted to do for the first time since my parents had died.

I wanted to go to New Orleans.

“Oh no, not by yourself,” Jennifer said, when we Skyped that afternoon. “By the way, you look like crap. Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

“Why not by myself?”

“Viv, seriously, how much do you weigh? I'm worried. I'm going to call my mom and have her go over there.”