When You Don't See Me (27 page)

“You're not that different,” I disagreed. “Otherwise, I wouldn't have known you were sisters. Chuck and I have similarities, too, like anybody who grows up in the same house.”

“That's just it. We didn't grow up in the same house.”

“I read a good mystery about twins who were separated at birth,” Kendra said.

“We
weren't,”
Morgan said. “God. You people have been nosing around my private life for months, and now I can't get a word in edgewise.” She paused. When none of us mouthed off, she said, “When we were two, our mother had a fling with a musician. Yes, you would recognize his name. No, I'm not telling you. She ended up moving into his castle in”—she paused for a beat—“an undisclosed European country. At first, she had us with her. But I got asthma and it was decided that a drafty castle wasn't a good environment for a toddler with respiratory problems. So they split us up. I was raised in a farmhouse in Connecticut. Bailey grew up surrounded by rock stars.”

“I thought she just slept with them,” I said.

“It's like
Parent Trap,”
Kendra said.

“Without the Disney ending. When we got older, they threw us together at holidays, but we had nothing in common. We didn't fight. We just didn't get all gushy about it. If we met each other any other way, we'd never be pals. Why should we pretend to be just because we're twins?” She noticed Roberto's frown and said, “You get it, don't you, Nick?”

“I guess,” I said, not sure that I did.

“Don't you have
any
good memories of your siblings? Either of you?” Roberto asked.

Morgan's dark eyes got even smaller, which seemed almost like a smile. “It's fine, Roberto,” she said. “There's nothing missing from my life. I probably had it lots better than Bailey, because our mother's so self-absorbed. I got along fine with my father and my stepmother. I also stopped having breathing problems after I moved back to Connecticut.”

Roberto looked at me, and I did a desperate scan of my memories to find something for him.

“Sure I do. Like when my dad taught Tony to shave. Chuck and I sat on the edge of the tub and watched them. My dad put shaving cream on us, too, and we pretend-shaved.” It was a lame effort, and Roberto didn't look impressed. “Saturday nights were okay, too, at least before we were teenagers. We played games. Shared popcorn my mom made.”

“Microwave or regular?” Roberto asked.

“Real popcorn,” I said.

“Did you ever have a Jiffy Pop accident?” Kendra asked. When we shook our heads, she said, “I wonder if my life would have been better with a twin.” She looked confused when Roberto and I started laughing. Morgan sighed and took her empty plate to the kitchen for seconds.

Later, Kendra vanished when it was time to wash dishes. Roberto and Morgan swore I was getting in their way on purpose and kicked me out of the kitchen. I fell across the futon, realizing how many hours I'd been awake, and thought about what was going on at home. My grandparents would be gone by now. My mother was probably disappointed in me for not showing up. She'd have opened a second bottle of wine and would be staring from the kitchen window. I wasn't sure how much snow they'd gotten, if any, but it probably still looked bleak outside. That would make her mood worse.

Tony was either planted in front of the TV watching a game or getting ready for a date. And Chuck…

My day with my roommates had turned out better than okay, so there was no reason for me to feel depressed. Maybe it was Chuck who was sad.

“Suck it up and just do it,” I muttered and reached for my cell phone to call him. As I flipped it open, it rang. I looked at the display: CHUCK/CELL. Morgan could deny it all she wanted; there was something to the twin thing. I braced myself to hear how I'd fucked up the Dunhill Thanksgiving and said, “Hello?”

“When we were seven,” Chuck said, “what was that kid's name that stole your bike?”

I thought for a few seconds and said, “Joey?”

“Yeah. Joey. He was an asshole,” Chuck said.

“I wonder whatever happened to him,” I mused.

“I killed him,” Chuck answered in a monotone voice.

I laughed and said, “You sound just like that movie—”

“With the dog who says he's going to kill his father,” Chuck said.

“What was the name of that movie?” I asked and settled against the pillows. It was the best position for the trip I was taking to Wisconsin, with no help from Northwest Airlines or Samir Singh.

November 27, 2003

Dear Nick,

I warn you in advance that this letter may be emotional. I'm not feeling like my usual give-'em-hell-attorney self. It's Thanksgiving night at Happy Hollow. We put together a feast today. Emily has been well spoiled. Now everyone is tucked in, dreaming their dreams. I can't sleep, so I came downstairs and stirred up the fire a little.

Holidays stay hard, but Thanksgiving is like none other. Anyone who knew her would say this is the holiday when Gretchen went all out. It still stuns me that I had only one Thanksgiving with her, and you had none. This isn't the way it was supposed to be. We were supposed to have years and years to be part of traditions with her.

Today, we remembered a tradition of Gretchen's and told one thing each of us is grateful for. But really, for me, there are too many to name just one. What I've lost, what we've all lost, is beyond measure. But so is what remains. How can love and friendship and laughter and family be measured? They sustain us, lift us up, and help us go on.

When I looked around today, I felt a different absence. The absence of Nick. You were the most amazing person in those months after Gretchen's death, especially the way you took care of Emily. We all could deal with the things we had to take care of knowing she was safe with you. There was so much to do that it might have been impossible for Blaine, Daniel, Kruger, and me to find any time to be still and grieve. You helped give us that time. Thank you.

I worry about you. Maybe because so much time has slipped by without seeing you. I hear from other people that you're doing well. I want to think that this past year has been you giving yourself the space YOU needed to grieve and heal.

I would love to get together. I want Emily to see you. I'm not trying to push you. I just want to remind you that you're loved and we're very thankful that you're part of our lives.

Much love,
Gwendy

I
f Quentin Starch hadn't been a little bit crazy, I would never have made the discovery that left me reeling. Isaiah and I had a few deliveries on the Monday morning after Thanksgiving, and then I was scheduled to work in the office. Last I'd heard, I was supposed to help Nigel put together some drawings for a client. I didn't have any more details than that.

However, when I walked through the door, Eileen looked frazzled. I paused with my apple juice halfway to my mouth. When I saw her take a knitting needle from her hair and try to write with it, I wanted to run back to Isaiah. Nothing fazed Eileen, so her disarray promised a bad day in the office.

“Help,” she said the second she spotted me. “I can't do this search and keep up with the phones and everything else. Especially not when I started my day with two bran muffins and a glass of prune—”

“Oversharing.” I cut her off. “What search? A computer search?”

She explained. Quentin Starch, a major client, had heard a theory:
Don't buy cars built on Monday or Friday.
Allegedly, employees did sloppy work on those days because they were recovering from one weekend or eager to start another one.

“Mr. Starch has extended this theory to the purchase of anything mechanical, including the Organique Kitchen food processor that Bailey”—Eileen's voice became acid when she said Bailey's name—“has insisted that Mr. Starch have in his newly remodeled kitchen.”

“You're trying to find a food processor that was manufactured in the middle of the week?” I asked.

Eileen nodded and said, “If you can believe it, this information is actually available. Because every Organique Kitchen appliance is treated like something rare and wonderful. At their prices, they should be. There are eight Organique Kitchen stores in Manhattan. I've called all of them. Although everyone I talked to was insulted by the implication that any of their food processors aren't flawless, they did give me the manufacturing information.”

“So what's the problem? I can just pick up—”

“Every food processor in stock has a Monday or Friday date on it,” Eileen said. “Which Mr. Starch will know, because each one comes with a—a—
birth
certificate, you might call it.”

“Should I call stores in other cities to find a Wednesday baby?”

“Mr. Starch is giving a dinner party tomorrow night. He needs his food processor today.” She gave me an apologetic look and said, “There are over two hundred other stores in Manhattan that carry Organique Kitchen's small appliances.”

“How many have you talked to?” I asked apprehensively.

She scratched her scalp with the knitting needle and said, “Eleven. All painful. No one can believe I expect them to find this information. In fact, they're a little surly when I tell them why I'm calling.”

“See? Mr. Starch is right. Employees suck on Mondays. Other than me.” I took the list from her and studied it for a minute, trying to find stores near the office.

“You can use the guest office,” Eileen said. “And close the door. I don't want to hear you whimpering after every call.”

I went into the guest office, which was really nothing more than a closet with a chair, table, and phone. After I took off my coat and finished my apple juice, I ran my finger down the list of stores. Vance Kitchen and Bath on Fourteenth Street caught my eye. I thought about third-period English class in ninth grade, when our teacher, Mr. Vance, thundered at Shelley Creighton, “You don't think poetry is
important?
I'll only go to a doctor who understands poetry. If a surgeon doesn't read, I don't want him cutting me open! People who don't appreciate literature
have no souls!”

I dialed the store's number.

“Good afternoon, Vance Kitchen and Bath, this is Anita. How may I help you?”

“Hi, Anita, this is Nick. By any chance do you have an employee in your store who loves poetry?”

Anita didn't miss a beat, saying, “Howard likes to recite dirty limericks. Does that count?”

“Maybe. May I speak to Howard?” After a few seconds of bad hold music, a man came on the line and identified himself as Howard. I gave him my name and said, “I hear you appreciate poetry.”

“Okay,” Howard said. He drew the word out to let me know he was mystified but not yet offended.

“I'm trying to locate something for a man who finds a certain poetry in kitchen appliances,” I said. “He wants an Organique Kitchen food processor, but it has to have been assembled on a Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday. I'm told that information is available with every—”

“He's heard about hungover plant workers, huh?” Howard interrupted. “Let me check the computer.”

A few minutes later, I emerged from the guest office, waved a sheet of paper at Eileen, and said, “Got it.” Her mouth dropped open. “Of course, I can't actually pick it up, since I don't have a corporate credit card.”

“Go, go!” she said, reaching inside her knitting bag for a handful of twenties to thrust at me. “This should cover it. Just be sure I get a receipt.”

I wondered if it was pathetic that I took pride in such small accomplishments. But I felt good. Maybe because my Thanksgiving weekend had ended so much better than it began. The unpleasant phone conversation with my father, the sadness of not seeing Blaine and my big gay family, as Fred called them—even the absence of Fred from my life—had all been made better by my roommates and my painless phone conversation with Chuck.

Then on Saturday, Roberto and I were invited to a big family feast at Adalla's uncle's place on the Upper West Side. On Sunday, Adalla's mother took care of Isleta so that Adalla, Roberto, and I could have dinner with the Mirones family at their favorite Mexican restaurant in East Harlem. I'd ended up with three family dinners instead of none. My friends had made me feel like I was part of something, and that feeling lingered.

When I got to Vance Kitchen and Bath, Howard let me go with Julien to the stock room to find the exact food processor I needed. Julien pulled the ladder over, gave me a look with soulful brown eyes, and said he didn't like climbing ladders. I wasn't sure whether or not I did, but I went up three steps and reached for the first food processor. That was when I felt Julien's hand slide its way up my inseam.

I looked down at him with a frown and said, “Stop that.”

“You don't like me?” His face looked pouty. “It's because I'm French, isn't it?”

“I already lost one job when a hidden camera taped me doing something I shouldn't.”

Julien looked around anxiously and said, “You think there are cameras back here?”

I suspected his hand had gone up a few other inseams before mine. “There are cameras everywhere.”

He dropped his hands, I brought down the food processor, and he opened the box and handed me the paperwork.

“Friday, damn it,” I said, and climbed the ladder again. At least that time I went unmolested.

The third box I pulled down had a Tuesday food processor. Julien led me back to the floor, I paid for it with Eileen's money, and finally I was outside, hugging the box to my chest and hoping it would block the cold air. I walked toward Union Square, where I intended to spend more of Eileen's money on a cab back to the office. Then I realized that I'd forgotten to put on my gloves. My hands were freezing. I set the box on the ground and gripped it with my calves just in case thieves were lurking. When I took my gloves from my coat pocket, one of them fell to the ground. I angled myself to pick it up, and as I stood upright again, I scanned the area around me. Which was when I saw her, down a narrow alley between two buildings.

I must be crazy,
I thought.
It's because last week was Thanksgiving, Gretchen's favorite holiday. But I swear, if that's not Gretchen…I
know
it's Gretchen…

I finished pulling on my gloves, picked up the box, and checked out the storefront. It was covered by a pull-down metal door. There was no sign to tell me what business was on the ground floor, or even if the space had a current tenant.

I walked slowly down the narrow alley toward the spray-painted mural. Finally I stopped and stared at the woman in the painting: head thrown back, arms raised in dance, laughing face, chestnut hair with blond streaks…Someone had painted Gretchen on this hidden wall. I even recognized the fawn-colored shirt she was wearing, which had been one of her favorites. It tied at the collar. She'd always left it untied, then complained when the little tassels on the ends dipped into whatever she was eating. She stopped wearing it once Emily started putting the tassels in her mouth.

When I could tear my gaze from her, my heart pounded, because I recognized her partner in the dance. She was touching the brilliant wing of a giant bird. No, not just a giant bird. Gretchen was dancing with a quetzal, Roberto's signature muse and totem. This was his work, a perfect depiction of Gretchen's soul, her zest for life. I wanted to kiss the wall. To go home and rave to Roberto about how much I loved it, how good it felt to see Gretchen happy and alive because of his art.

Except…I looked around, realizing how the painting was tucked away. I'd never have noticed it if I hadn't stopped in the exact place that I did. I wasn't meant to see it. No one was. In spite of the cold air, and even though I needed to go back to the office, I stood there for a long time, trying to work things out in my head.

By the time he was fifteen, Roberto had been caught a half dozen times “defacing” buildings and subway cars. I had no idea how much it had cost his mother and older brothers to work out the deal that landed Roberto in art school. They'd paid fines, legal fees, and tuition. Roberto had been placed on two years' probation. That had ended the year before, and now that he was over eighteen, it was no longer illegal for him to have spray paint in his possession. But if he got caught in the act, things probably wouldn't go well for him. He was likely to lose his job, and with it, the health insurance he needed.

Creating graffiti was always an activity that required stealth. But once it was done, the whole point was to have it seen. Since Roberto had hidden his work, he knew what he was risking. The fact that he did it anyway…

He had to be so frustrated. It was like a sickness, his compulsion to create these huge splashes of color and form. Since leaving school, he'd had no opportunity, no space, no encouragement to do what he really wanted. He'd tried to channel his creative energy into his job at Drayden's, but it obviously wasn't enough for him.

I realized I was jumping to conclusions. Maybe this was just a one-time thing. Or maybe he'd done it a long time ago. Except the mural was only a little weathered. I leaned forward and located his tag, a subtle
BirdO
hidden in the quetzal's plumage, and the
9/03
beneath it.

“Fuck me,” I muttered. “How am I supposed to pretend like I didn't see your gift to New York on a shitty anniversary?”

My gut told me that there were other gifts hidden on other walls of the city. How long could he tempt fate before he got caught? And could I really keep my mouth shut about it? Roberto and I weren't like Fred. We didn't keep secrets from each other.

I thought about the roommate confessional on Thanksgiving and reached up to lightly touch Gretchen's hair with my gloved hand. I was wrong. Roberto had been really good at keeping a secret.

 

If Roberto noticed anything different about me over the next couple days, he didn't question me. The holiday shopping season was in full force. Even though Roberto's retail job didn't involve selling, he was still constantly changing displays or creating new ones at Drayden's. He came home late, didn't talk much, and fell asleep quickly. Which was fine with me.

One thing I was sure of: There was no evidence of what he was doing in our apartment. There wasn't a place to hide paint cans, markers, nozzles, tips, and masks. Of course, he could be doing it with a crew, so somebody else might be keeping his supplies. But he'd always worked alone in the past, and I didn't think that would have changed.

Any other time, I'd have talked to Fred about the mural. Now that was out of the question. The last thing I needed was for Roberto to read about my discovery on baristabrew-dot-com. If I asked for advice, it would have to be from someone wiser. Older. Maybe Adalla or Blythe. Or Uncle Blaine.

When I got home Thursday night, I found a letter that seemed like an answer. My cousin Emily's mother, Gwendy, had written me to suggest that we get together. Gwendy was not only an attorney, but as Gretchen's widow, she'd understand what had driven Roberto to paint that particular mural in September.

I called her and arranged a time and place for us to meet on Saturday.

 

“Wow,” Gwendy said. “That's…I don't know what to say. It's beautiful. It's so
her.”

Gwendy hadn't canceled our plans to meet at the Big Cup, even though a storm had dumped eight inches of snow on the city the night before. Although more snow was forecast, the air was clear when we walked from the coffee shop to the mural.