Lies You Wanted to Hear (23 page)

“Sophie has been telling me how much she loves coming to the library,” Winnie said.

I nodded. “She’s a terrific reader.”

As Winnie tucked a strand of hair under Sophie’s cap, I saw the light go on in her eyes. “How are you, Lucy?”

“I’m well.” I smiled. “Really well.”

“Me too.” She returned the smile, her gaze firm and steady, the look of one survivor to another, free of longing or surrender or guilt. “Would you like to go have coffee sometime?”

“Yes, I would. I’d like that a lot.”

***

Monday evening five days before Christmas I was sitting on the couch, reading, when Sam came into the room and meowed at me. He hopped up into my lap, and I scratched his head and said, “I know, baby. I know.” My dog Frodo had died two months before, and Sam missed him as much as I did. I kept promising myself I’d get a new puppy, but I wasn’t ready. The book I was reading was
Open
Secrets
by Alice Munro, each story so rich it felt like a novel. The kids’ line rang in the hall, and I sighed and put my book down. I no longer felt a shiver of hope when I heard that phone or came home and saw the red light blinking on the answering machine, but I had no intention of having it disconnected. The phone went hand in hand with my superstition about staying in the house, another link to Sarah and Nathan.
Big
nose, ice snows, jiggy wiggy piggy toes.
There were rarely more than two or three calls a month; usually it was a blank message or a recording from a telemarketer or political candidate, one machine talking to another. If I was home, I didn’t pick it up when it rang, just stood in the hall next to the credenza, waiting as I screened the call, listening to the sound of my own voice on the answering machine.

Hello, you have reached 617-244-6673. This is Lucy Thornhill Drobyshev, mother of Sarah and Nathan Drobyshev. I have not seen my children since they were kidnapped by their father, Matthew Drobyshev, sixteen years ago, in June, nineteen eighty-three. But I have never given up hope. Nathan was two and Sarah almost five when they were taken. If you have any information about my children or their whereabouts, please leave a message here, or you can reach me at 617-464-2539. You may also contact my attorney, Arthur Hoyt, at 617-237-8821. Thank you… Sarah and Nathan, I love you and miss you beyond words. Every morning I wake up believing that today is the day you will come back to me. Every night I try to find you in my dreams.

Most callers would hang up as soon as they realized they’d dialed the wrong number, though occasionally someone would listen all the way to the end and leave a message. Over the years I’d had people say
Good luck
or
Hang in there
. One woman said
Miracles
happen
; another told me she’d remember me in her prayers. A few years after the kidnapping, a man left a series of messages so filled with venom they brought me to tears.

Tonight the caller waited to the end of my message. After the beep there was a distinct pause, as if the person were trying to think of something to say. Then the line went dead. There was no caller ID on the phone. I’d thought about getting it, but that was Pandora’s box; every time there was a blank message on the machine I’d probably feel compelled to call the number back. I went into the living room and tried to read my book, but I couldn’t concentrate. I kept thinking someone was on the other end of the line, reaching out to me. I stretched out on the couch and looked at the ceiling, one of those nights when I wished I still smoked.

Adam

Encinitas, California—December 1999

Sara spent the first semester of her senior year in Paris, studying and doing research for her thesis on Cézanne. I smiled when she first told me she was going to major in art history. I rarely spoke about our lives before we left Boston, so she was surprised when I mentioned some of the paintings I’d seen and transported on the job as a courier. I told her about Vermeer’s
Geographer
and
View
of
Delft
and how much they had moved me. It made me wish I’d kept my collection of postcards of my favorite pieces of art to show her. I had stopped going to art museums after I took off with the kids, as if I were no longer me, or didn’t want to be reminded of the life I’d left behind.

Sara came home from France Saturday afternoon a week before Christmas. I was supposed to pick her up at the airport, but she left a message on my cell phone telling me Ajit would meet her instead. They were like two lovers in a country song, unable to quit each other or get it right. Aside from Ajit’s parents’ disapproval of the relationship, I wasn’t sure what the problems were. Ajit seemed quite jealous. It made me uncomfortable thinking Sara might be unfaithful, like Lucy.

She had been up for twenty-fours straight when she straggled in Saturday night. I dragged her out of bed at noon on Sunday and took her out to brunch. In the afternoon we played a round of golf. I held my own through the front nine, then she pulled away. I teased her about how I used to let her win. That lasted until she was fifteen. I’d only beaten her a few times since. I tried to get Elliot to join us, but he wouldn’t even go to the driving range. Except for his music, he didn’t have a competitive bone in his body. He was finishing up his first semester at Berklee. I’d tried to talk him into coming home for Thanksgiving break, but he said he was too busy. He had a paper to write and was playing in a jazz quintet called The Spendthrifts. At my insistence he was taking a full load of academic subjects. He seemed interested in a contemporary American history course in which they were studying topics like Watergate and the war in Vietnam. It gave us something to talk about in our once-a-week phone calls. I missed the sound of his music wafting through the house. With him and Sara gone, I thought I’d get to work on some long-overdue projects, like repairing the back deck and adding a second bathroom, but I spent what free time I had reading or watching TV. I was between girlfriends and couldn’t find the energy to look for another.

Sara and I had a beer in the clubhouse after our round of golf.

“When’s El getting in?” she said.

“Tuesday afternoon. Around two-thirty. You want to pick him up?”

“Sure. I can’t wait to see him. Has he told you about his band?”

“A little. We talk every Sunday evening. He’s not exactly the world’s best communicator.”

“He’s a college freshman, Dad. He’s got a million other things to do.” She wouldn’t let anyone say anything remotely negative about him, even if it was true.

“I take it he’s writing you two or three long emails a day.”

“He keeps in touch,” she said, ignoring my sarcasm, which probably meant she felt as out of the loop as I did. She sipped her beer. “I think he has a girlfriend.”

“Really? That’s terrific.” Elliot had always been shy around girls. I’d catch him looking, but he could barely say hi, let alone strike up a conversation. In his sophomore year a girl who had been a classmate of Sara’s started flirting with him. I tried to caution him but he was already under her spell. They went on a few dates, and I think she may even have taken his virginity, but she lost interest quickly. Elliot was devastated and retreated back into his music. He went to his senior prom with a girl who was a wonderful violinist, but he said they were just friends.

Sara went off with some of her pals Sunday evening. I called Elliot, but he was busy studying for his last exam and our conversation was brief. I went to bed early. I’d been busy at work and hadn’t even done any Christmas shopping yet. Not that I was complaining. The dot-com boom was in full swing and business had never been better.

When we moved to California, I spent two years working as a carpenter and getting to know other guys in the trades. Then I got my contractor’s license and went out on my own. My time with the courier company had also served me well. I made up my mind to work with people who saw me as a professional. I wanted clients, not customers. I told my prospects I wasn’t interested in being the low bidder. I said my goal was to turn their visions into reality and keep their hassles to a minimum. Within a year I had two three-man crews working full time. I paid good wages and held my workers to strict standards—safety first, no foul language or loud radios on the job, keep conversations with the clients to a minimum. I had made my share of mistakes in the ten years I’d been in business, but my company had a reputation for excellent work. Most of my jobs came through referrals from former clients.

On Tuesday I got home from work at five-thirty and heard the sounds of Elliot’s oboe coming from his room. It sounded like something new. A sad, sweet melody, not the usual jangle of notes he’d been playing all summer before he left for college. Sara was in her room with the door closed. I tapped on Elliot’s door, and the music stopped.

I poked my head in. “Welcome home, bud.”

“Hey, Dad.”

He had a wispy mustache and a little tuft of hair under his lower lip. I resisted making a crack about it. We gave each other a hug, and I asked him how his last exam had gone.

“Fine,” he said.

“Whadya say we go to Limoncello’s for dinner?”

“Sounds great.”

Sara came out of her room and joined us.

I said, “I liked that piece you were playing. Is that one of your own?”

“Yeah, the last thing I turned in for my composition course. The professor said it needs work.”

“Sounds beautiful to me. What’s it called?”

“‘Lost and Found.’”

“El?”
Sara said, a threat in her voice.

He gave her a dirty look. “Whatever.”

I glanced at her, then at Elliot. She was bossy and he was as stubborn as crabgrass. They didn’t fight often, but when they did, things could get ugly fast. Cross her and she’d go for blood. “What’s going on here, guys?”

“Nothing.” Sara’s eyes flashed at her brother. “Nothing at all.”

Elliot said, “Everything’s fine, Dad.”

I shrugged. “I gotta go clean up. We’ll leave for Limoncello’s in an hour.” I said to Sara, “You want to ask Ajit if he wants to come too?”

“Ugghhh. You must be kidding.”

“Well,
okay
then.” It was no use trying to guess what she was upset about. I’d probably find out soon enough. I headed down the hall, singing, “’Tis the season to be jolly. Fa la la la la.”

Sara dominated the conversation at dinner. She talked about Paris and how much she loved it. She said she could see herself living there someday. I asked Elliot about The Spendthrifts. Besides him, they had keyboards, saxophone, guitar, and percussion. He said the group had been offered a chance to play a free gig at a small jazz club in Somerville.

I said, “Where’d you guys get the name?”

“Our drummer came up with it. He said when you give a performance, you have to give it your all. You know, spend everything you got.”

“Who writes your music?” Sara said. “Is it mostly yours?”

“No, we all do. So far it’s been great with everybody contributing. But it’s easy to see why bands are always breaking up. People start bickering about whose stuff is better and what gets played.”

When I asked about Berklee, he said the musicians there were so good it was intimidating, but I could see in his eyes that he was holding his own. He told us how much he liked Boston. I noticed Sara give him one harsh look during dinner, but they seemed to have put aside whatever they had been arguing about.

When we finished eating, I said, “You guys interested in a movie? Or we could go get a Christmas tree.”

Sara said, “I’ve heard
The
End
of
the
Affair
is excellent.”

“Ahh, Julianne Moore,” I said. “I could watch her sleep.”

“You may have to,” Elliot said. “That movie has boring written all over it. I say we go see
Deuce
Bigalow, Male Gigolo
.”

Sara and I laughed.

“Laugh now,” he said, pretending he was miffed, “but that movie’s destined to be a classic.”

“Like
Evita
,” Sara said.

Elliot clutched an imaginary knife in his chest. In his hierarchy, Madonna and Andrew Lloyd Webber ranked alongside Hitler and Pol Pot for the evil they’d unleashed on the world.

While we finished dessert, we laughed and tried to name the worst movies we’d ever seen. We ended up going to
The
End
of
the
Affair
and all agreed it was wonderful.

***

When I came home from work the next day, Sara was in the kitchen taking a pan of cornbread from the oven. The table was set, a bowl of bean salad in the middle. Sophomore year of high school Sara announced she was a vegetarian and would be taking over our meals. I had never been much of a cook and relied a lot on pizza and Chinese and Mexican takeout. Much to Elliot’s and my relief, Sara’s vegetarian phase didn’t last long, but she became a wonderful cook. Shellfish stew, chicken tetrazzini, goulash that would have made Sandor proud, great salads with homemade dressings. A few of my girlfriends made snide remarks about me turning my daughter into a surrogate wife, but it sounded like jealousy to me. As far as I was concerned, it was a perfect arrangement. Sara liked being in charge; Elliot and I loved the meals she made for us. When she left for college, he and I fell right back into our old habits.

I went to the sink and washed my hands. I could hear the sound of Elliot’s oboe coming from his room.

“I have to admit I was wrong about Berklee,” I said to Sara. “It seems like it’s really been good for him.”

“Seems like it,” she said, but the tension in her voice suggested something different.

I dried my hands and put my arm around her shoulder. “You cut yourself?”

She looked at the Band-Aid on her finger and shrugged. “Occupational hazard.”

Elliot came into the room. “Hey, Dad.”

“Hey, El. You guys have a good day?”

“Yeah, it was okay.” I knew the way he said it that things still weren’t right between them.

“Sit,” Sara said, pointing with a spatula.

She took the lid off the frying pan on the stove and served us each a wedge of the frittata stuffed with cheddar cheese, onions, mushrooms, and broccoli—the kind of thing you’d pay twelve bucks apiece for in a restaurant. Over dinner she told us more about Paris and her research on Cézanne. She seemed a little manic. Elliot was quiet and distracted, which wasn’t unusual. Sometimes he’d be looking right at you, but you could tell he wasn’t there. If he were a cartoon character, there’d be musical notes flashing across his eyes. He cleared the dinner dishes from the table while I made a pot of coffee. Sara brought out an apple cobbler she had baked, and we all sat down at the table again.

“Dad?” Elliot said as I was pouring sugar into my coffee. “There’s something I—”

“Elliot, don’t,” Sara said.

“I’m sorry. I have to.”

“No you don’t. You don’t
have
to do anything. You promised you’d wait.”

“I said I’d think about it.”

“Well then,
think
, you selfish little shit. This isn’t only about you.”

“Hey, enough,” I said. “Come on, guys. What’s going on here?”

She glared at her brother and jabbed a finger across the table. “I’m warning you, El. If this whole thing blows up, I’ll never forgive you.”

He paused for a second, then turned to me. “I was in the library on Thanksgiving weekend, working on a paper for my contemporary history course. Our professor likes us to do original research, so I was going through some newspapers on microfilm, and I came across a photograph from the
Herald
that won a Pulitzer Prize. It was a picture of a young woman and a little girl and some flower pots falling from a collapsed fire escape. In the photo you can’t see the ground or the top of the building, just the woman falling head first like she’s doing a clumsy swan dive and the little girl with her arms and legs spread out wide. It said in the caption that the little girl lived but the woman died.” He poked at his cobbler with his fork but didn’t take a bite. “That picture got me thinking about our mother and how she died in a fire too, and I started going through the microfilm to see if I could find the story in the newspaper. You never wanted to talk about it, Dad, or tell us how it happened. I wasn’t…I mean, I don’t know. I just wanted to read about it and maybe find a picture of her in the paper. All I knew was the year she died. It took a long time to scan each roll of film. I’d almost given up when I came across this.”

He took a piece of white paper from his back pocket, unfolded the paper, and handed it to me. It was a photocopy of a newspaper article with a photo of him and Sara as little kids. The caption read,
Ex-cop disappears with children
. I glanced at the story without reading it. My heart was a jackhammer. I couldn’t have spoken if I’d tried.

Elliot said, “I probably wouldn’t have noticed the article if wasn’t for Sundae.” In the photo, Sara was holding the llama in her arms. Elliot looked at me. “She still lives in Boston. In the same house in Jamaica Plain, I think. Her number is listed in the phone book.”

Sara said, “I can’t believe you’ve known about this for a month.” She turned to me. “He only told me about it yesterday.”

“What was I supposed to do, Sar?” Elliot said. “You were in Paris. It’s not exactly something you can talk about long distance.”

“So, you wait till it’s three days before Christmas?”

I was trying to get my bearings and think of something to say.

I said to Elliot, “Have you contacted her?”