The Faces of Strangers (24 page)

I never thought Papa would be as supportive as he was. It was his idea that I go to Moscow. I had some savings from my jobs, but he gave me the bulk of my seed money and called some of his friends, who found me the apartment where I lived until Claudia was born. It was his dream to entice Ema there; that she would want to help me and be closer to her grandchild, so that eventually she would want to relocate to Moscow and leave Tallinn behind. And she did. But once I started on my own, I knew I had to continue on my own in order to prove my strength to myself.

Before I got pregnant, I would see models that were also mothers in the hallways at casting calls and I'd look down on them, laughing inwardly at how pathetic they seemed. They seemed so much older than me, wearing more makeup than they really needed in order to hide the fact that they had ten years on the rest of us. Some of them even brought their kids into the casting calls because they had no other choice. Those were the ones I actually felt really sad for. I couldn't help but go over and play with their children while they were auditioning. One time before I had Claudia I even botched an audition so I'd help their chances of getting the job. They never did, poor things, not when they were competing against teenagers who had the dewy, fresh skin of the young, and longer, lithe bodies that hadn't held the fruit of a child. You can always make someone look older, but when you try to look younger, it's always so obvious and so sad.

When I first arrived in Moscow with that little seed in my belly, I realized with a jolt that I would have to be one of them. I imagined my days with horror, standing in those same dank hallways, clutching the sweaty hand of my small child, feeling terrible because I felt so embarrassed having to tote her around and feeling even worse for feeling embarrassed. That is, until I began to rely on Ginevre and Sasha and their friends and their extended network.

They taught me how to work the system pretty quickly. Shortly after Claudia was born, I fired Viktor and hired an agent the girls recommended, who could practically guarantee magazine work. That's where the money is. Everyone thinks it's in runway, but the only perks of runway are that you get to keep the clothes. I had to pay her a much higher percentage, but it was worth it. I started small, modeling for book covers, bus wraps, food packaging. I graduated to makeup, shampoo ads; I was the face of a Russian national hair salon chain. The jobs kept pouring in; I was constantly working. I wasn't picky at first; I took the work when I got it, because it was that income over those few years that kept Claudia and me going. I'm raising Claudia to try to be as self-sufficient as possible, but there's a large part of me that wants to spoil the living hell out of her.

The group was not only supportive; it was smart. We'd all finagle things so that we wouldn't go after the same calls, so as not to incite rivalry and create division amongst ourselves. Some of us were taller, some shorter, some had a Eurasian look, some had an Anglo look, some were only being called in for legs, some for backs, some for runway, some for skin. But these women, these single mothers, we all became one another's families when we had no other, or that we'd been ousted from, or in my case, when we wouldn't allow ourselves to rely on them.

Looking back, I can't help but wonder if my behavior was cowardly. At seventeen, I thought it was the polar opposite. I thought I was being brave, by dealing with my problem myself. After Papa helped me secure the little bedsit three miles from Red Square, I refused any additional financial support from either of them. And while I wouldn't allow Ema to move in like she would have liked to in those early days, they visited frequently and got to know their granddaughter.

Even when I first saw Claudia, I was discouraged by how much she looked like her father. In fact, it infuriated me. I'd read that biologically, babies resemble their fathers so that they aren't abandoned or eaten by them. Such a primordial notion, I'd thought to myself. I understood it, though. Because if he had had any inkling of where I was and what had happened to me after our one afternoon tryst, I feel fairly certain that he would have done the right thing by getting on the first plane to Moscow to be by our sides.

I say fairly certain, because the truth is, I didn't know him all that well. He was a guest in our home for a few months when I was a teenager. I didn't really make an effort while he was staying with us. I always liked him though, even though I stayed on the periphery. Mostly I liked the idea of him—just like the exchange program he was participating in, I'd thought he would be good for the family like a pet or a color TV or a tree house we could all build together in the backyard. It was like he could be our reverse family project. Somehow I miraculously believed that he would cheer Papa up from his mopey citizenship issues. I thought he might help my brother start to stand on his own two feet by listening to him and showing him how to be brave. Maybe I knew him better than I thought, because ultimately he ended up accomplishing those things.

And there's what he did for me. He doesn't know it, but he gave me hope that I could be more than just a body. Ironic, isn't it? Because being pregnant is just that: you're providing a body for another being to live in so that it can grow strong enough to come into this world. But he gave me what I needed when I was starting to doubt myself, and needed to feel alive. I've been forever grateful to him for comforting me that afternoon, for giving me Claudia, who has given me more joy than anyone could ever hope for.

I feel silly even saying it, but just in case it's not clear, I'll say it out loud. It's Nico. It was him all these years, and I have kept it a secret because truly, what was the point? We were both basically children, and I didn't want to ruin his life with this information. Truth be told, I didn't know whether or not I would ever be able to face Nico again until things got serious with my current boyfriend, Javier. I didn't know whether or not I'd ever be forced to.

And so I've begun to prepare. I've actually rehearsed it, like I have for certain auditions where I have a line or two, replacing “Boys, come in for dinner,” with “Oh, what a surprise. It's been years. In fact, your trip changed my life more than you could ever imagine. And here she is,” and with that, I imagine that I will push Claudia forward.

In the interest of full disclosure, I'm not here because I want anything from him. I'm not seeking money or anything of the sort. Claudia and I are doing really well together. But she has a right to know who her father is, but not if he's not willing to be in her life or at least play a role in it. I can't subject her to that kind of pain at this point. Everyone should know the truth, including my partner, my daughter and her father. I think it's only fair.

I would have been happy to tell you this in the light, face-to-face, without any distractions. Not that I don't love the concept of SafeSpace; in fact, I think it's brilliant. The truth of the matter is, I didn't need to speak to a therapist. I needed to speak to you. We've never met, but I need your help to approach Nico. You're his sister. I need to know if it's okay to tell him. How should I do it?

I know this is a lot to handle, so I don't want you to respond right now. I will make a follow-up appointment in two weeks, and maybe we can discuss the situation more together.

* * *

The next morning, Nora sat very still on the edge of her bed, wrapped in a towel still damp from her morning shower, the ends of her hair dripping down her back like tadpoles. She felt unhinged. She had grappled with this knowledge on her own for nearly twelve hours; longer than she had thought was humanly possible. She had sat through enough broken ethical code hearings in the wood-paneled room at U Michigan to know that was the last thing she wanted to do in her first few years of her own practice. The session had been shocking, but it was what had happened afterward that had succeeded in toppling her completely.

After patient number F78A's jarring account, the woman exited SafeSpace, leaving Nora cloaked in the darkness, stunned beyond belief. Nora needed a drink. Eleven in the morning didn't quite merit a slug of whiskey, so she settled for coffee. The state-of-the-art coffee machine that Nora had installed in her private office worked too well sometimes; she no longer had the excuse to step outside to grab a cup of coffee, take a walk around the block and clear her head. But she had to leave.

The old-school diner stood on the corner like a lighthouse. Nora walked toward the counter, but she was distracted by a little girl's voice speaking in French. The girl had her hands folded over a white ceramic diner cup, and her top lip was covered in whipped cream.

“N'est-ce pas, Maman?”
The woman had her back to Nora, but she could see the girl's face clear as day as she dipped her head back down to the mug and took another sip. It couldn't be. But it had to be. The girl's face was not only clear as day, it was also as clear as her brother's face. The girl had Nico's face. The woman with her back to Nora had to be Mari, who had just left the office. But how could she recognize a face she hadn't even seen before? What kind of prosopagnosia was this, where she recognized faces she didn't know, but could also see other people within them? The whole thing was shocking: that Nico had a daughter, that she could see his face within hers. She didn't know where to begin.

The memory riled something in her, and she crouched farther over, allowing her hair to drip over her head onto the carpet below. Behind her, Shahid sat up, rubbing his eyes and his beard simultaneously, creating that wonderfully comforting scratching sound that Nora had come to equate with him.

“Hey,” he said, his voice creaky with sleep. He reached over to catch some of the rivulets that were trailing down her back between his fingers. “What's wrong?”

Nora shook her head. “Just struggling with something from work. An ethical situation.” Shahid had heard this before, many times. Nora was as sensitive as they came, and she often adopted her patients' challenges, dragging their depression home with her like a sack that she left by the door and glanced at from time to time while chopping vegetables at the butcher block in the kitchen. Sometimes she went into a trance-like state, staring at an invisible spot upon the ceiling, at which point Shahid had learned that she was just thinking about a particularly difficult patient and what she could say to help. He had learned quickly that the best way to support her was not to dig deeper and ferret around—that only made her more tense and snappy—but to be here for her, physically. So that morning, he scooted forward in the bed and wrapped his arms around her from behind. She felt the coarse, curly hair on his chest moisten against her back. She leaned into his embrace and felt his solidity hold her upright. She was so lucky to have him, she thought, to have someone who trusted so wholly the bizarre nature of her work, who inherently trusted her.

“Want to talk about it?” he asked, his lips against her shoulder.

“I don't know,” Nora said.

“Nor, you can't carry it all on you all the time. Tell me.”

“Okay,” she said, turning around to face him. “I need to talk about this. But no names.”

NICO

New York
City
April 2012

Last night, the one name on everyone's lips had been Nico's. The entire theater had shouted for him, pounded their feet and demanded that he come forward and address them, the way he always had through another person's voice. He'd stood back in the wings, completely overcome by the noise, his senses feeling overwhelmed like the one-and-only time he'd dropped acid in college. It was a rally for the announcement for mayoral candidates for the City of New York, and he'd been waiting in the wings, waiting for Mike Raimi to accept his nomination. Mike, simultaneously, had been climbing the ranks of state government, mentoring Nico along the way. But when the name was announced for the Democratic Party, Nico was stunned when he heard his name. Mike smiled at him conspiratorially from backstage, encouraging him forward. Someone pushed him softly out from behind the wings onto the platform, where a podium was set up and he was expected to speak. Somehow this had all happened so quickly; he hadn't prepared anything. He was a speechwriter with nothing to say.

As Nico pivoted himself out of bed using his buttocks as ballast, he could hear his BlackBerry buzzing from the bedside table. He must have slept through half a dozen phone calls and messages. He couldn't do this anymore—sleep through things. He had to be on all the time, or hire someone to be on for him. Did he even have that power? Did he even have a budget?

He lay back in bed, turning the little ball on his phone over and over, scrolling through messages of congratulations and messages of support and elation and offerings to help. There was one from the senator's former chief of staff who wanted to come work with Nico; could they meet for coffee in order to discuss the details? There were dozens of inquiries from the press—they needed a comment from him, some quotes, anything to work with that they could sculpt into news. There was an email from his mom, from Toby, from Leo. He opened them all in the order he received them and read them hungrily.

You're doing it! We're so proud of you. Call you later to find out how we can help, but we're behind you 100%. I'll force everyone in the office to wear the pins. Send some over as soon as they're made.

Love, Mom

Dude, I could hardly believe the news. Mayor? As in Gracie Mansion, Secret Service, the whole shebang? Do you have time this week to grab a beer? I want to hear all about it.

Toby

Nico—Paavo phoned me this morning to tell me that you are running for the mayor of New York City. That is a very high title. I wish you all the best.

Paavo is seeing a girl but he is being very secretive about the whole thing. From what little I have gathered, she was in the program with you all. He and his colleagues have been working like dogs for CallMe. It's live now in Estonia, Prague, Latvia, Moscow and Lithuania and now they are talking about moving into Turkey. He may move to Istanbul to set it up. It all sounds very important, just like you.

You know how I hate US politics. But knowing that you are on the other side of the ocean working for your country makes me believe that it's not such a bad place after all, that maybe there is some hope for America. So do well. Get elected and show the rest of the world that you're not all hopeless capitalistic pigs. (STD.) Did I use it properly?

Affectionately, Leo

And there was a voicemail. “Nico, it's me. Call me. As soon as you can.” He replayed it. There was no element of excitement in Nora's voice. It was as flat as a piece of paper. Her tone held no celebration in it, no congratulation in the least. In fact, it was almost didactic with elements of the priggishness she'd assumed when they were younger and she was put in charge when Stella and Arthur went out for the evening.

Nico felt split down the middle, like the satyr painting at the top of the staircase in the MoMA that always made him feel edgy. One half of him was on fire—he was so prepared to accept this new political challenge—while the other half felt doused by Nora's blasé temperament. He vacillated between responding to the emails and calling Nora back. He wanted to revel in the news, in the celebration, but there was something in Nora's voice that made him dial her number. She picked up on the first ring.

“Where the hell have you been?” His sister was agitated. He could tell that she was pacing a worn path over the carpet in her office. “I called you three times.”

“Relax,” Nico said. “I slept in. It was a late night.” He waited for her to ask why, in case she hadn't turned on the news in the past eight hours. But she was silent. “Is everything okay? You feeling all right?”

“I'm fine,” Nora snapped before softening. “I mean, physically. I'm okay. Things have been nutty in the office. We've had a deluge of new patients because of that article.”

“That's awesome.” Nico yawned and stretched his arms overhead. He didn't like where this was going; the call was supposed to be about his professional successes, not hers. After all, the Grand family had gathered in the Flatiron loft and toasted Nora's success the week before. “Really great news. I'm happy for you, Nor.”

“I'm not calling to gloat. I'm calling because...ah fuck. I really can't even, shouldn't even be telling you this. Doctor-patient confidentiality and all. But... I have to tell you.”

Nico felt his strength falter. This wasn't Nora being dramatic or seeking attention. He remembered the same quaver in her voice when she had returned from the hospital and he had held her in his arms, allowing her to breathe in his scent and record the memory of her brother in the only way she knew how then. “What's going on?”

“Have you heard from Paavo lately?”

“You know I haven't. Not since that weird email and my desperate moves to get back in touch with him. He hasn't even contacted me since I went to Tallinn. Why, what'd he say?”

“Well, now I think I know why. It's not really about Paavo, though. It's...shit. Here goes. Mari is in New York. Mari Sokolov.” What other Mari was there? After Nico tumbled into bed after the celebratory drinks at McKeegan's, Mari flashed across the television screen like a siren. She had been the last thing he'd seen before he passed out.

“Really? Last I heard she lived in Moscow. She might even be back in Tallinn.”

“Well, twelve hours ago, she was in New York City.”

“She's probably got a job here. What does it matter?”

“It matters that twelve hours ago, she was sitting in my DR.”

“Wait, what?”

“She came to me as a patient. And I shouldn't even be telling you this, but you're my brother.”

“Well, she probably saw your fancy article. I can imagine the number that modeling does on your psyche. She needed someone to talk to. Random that she found you out of all the psychs in the city.”

“It wasn't a coincidence, Nico.” On the other end of the phone Nora huffed an internal battle within herself. “Fuck, I'm going to get my license revoked.”

“Oh my God, Nora, spit it out.”

“I think you should look her up. You should meet. She's modeling, working Fashion Week. I think you should just go find her and talk to her yourself. I can't say anymore. It's not my business.”

“You're sure as hell making it your business,” Nico growled. “Scale of one to ten, how important is this? Do you have any idea about my news? Do you have any idea where
my
career is headed? Do you even care?”

Nora sucked in her breath. “That is so unfair, Nico. It's just bad timing—it's all happening at once. It took me aback. I saw the announcement last night, and I'm so excited for you, and I want to talk about that, I really do. But I'm having trouble dissociating from this news right now. Can you respect that?”

Since the accident, Nico had learned to respect Nora's feelings a thousandfold. Over the years, he'd often disregarded his own emotions and prioritized hers. He, after all, could recognize his friends and family. He didn't need written clues, or a distinguishing mole to be the difference between a familiar face and a complete stranger. But perhaps he had conceded his feelings enough. Nora was a big girl; she was a psychologist. She took care of
other
people; why should Nico feel as if he had to continue to protect her? And the jargon that came with being related to a therapist—respecting me, hearing someone out, understanding your subconscious—he had learned to identify the language, but it didn't make it any easier to stomach.

“Life or death situation?”

“Life.”

Now Nico was taken aback. He'd meant the question to be answered with a yes or no. He narrowed his eyes and pushed the hair out of his face. His throat was closing in on him. He needed water, and then coffee, in that order. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Good or bad?”

“Guess it depends on how you look at it.” Nora's voice hadn't lost its caginess. There were secrets trapped within its timbre. Aside from the frustration of wanting to know what Nora knew that Nico didn't, Nico recognized how Nora's ability to keep secrets had truly distinguished her as an exemplary therapist. She'd kept secrets from the start—as children, never ratting Nico out, learning tidbits about him as an older sister might that his parents never would and keeping them close to her heart through the ages. Of course, a psychologist had multiple strengths and skills—asking the right questions, helping people to feel comfortable, understanding human nature, for goodness' sakes—but secret keeping was one of the main reasons that people sought out a complete stranger in whom to confide their deepest, darkest fears and thoughts. And her ability to not let her emotions meddle with cold, hard facts was what made her stand out.

But timing was not one of Nora's strong suits; she needed time to figure things out, to work through faces and identities like a tangled ball of yarn, starting with a dimple or a cluster of chin hairs, before she could narrow down a friend or acquaintance. And for Nico, time was essential. He had an instant to seize and create his career, to barrel through without a second thought. It was like Coach had drilled and trained into his boys—the reason for being so light not only on your feet, but quick to think was so you could seize the opportunity for a takedown the moment the window opened. It didn't matter if you were faced with someone far more talented than you, someone better skilled, even someone who weighed more. If that someone sneezed, blinked or hesitated in the slightest, the window was open and it might close again forever. Nico had to seize this moment, this hesitation, this one time when the world was behind him. The opportunity was like an eclipse; he might never see it again. It wasn't the time to delve into the past, or trifle with irrelevant matters. He could track Mari down once he'd begun putting things into place. He had a campaign to run.