You Have Seven Messages (9 page)

Once again, I have the driver wait outside the building. I run up and knock on number four and Daria comes to the door in a robe, looking like she just woke up. She rolls her eyes and I tell her I’ll come back another time, but she points at the portfolio.

“Those them?” she asks in a hoarse voice.

“Yeah.”

She motions me in. I hand her the envelope and she opens it and pulls out my favorite one of her, from the chin down, on the bench in the park. She giggles a little and then looks at the rest. She spreads them all over the floor and at one point her robe slips, revealing part of her nipple. I look away. An entire section of her apartment is lined with cardio machines.

“Wow. You, my dear, are incredibly talented.”

I don’t know what to say except “Thanks.”

“Listen, I’ve got to go back to sleep, but I have an idea. Can I keep these for now?”

“Um, okay.”

“Call me on Tuesday. Go back to the city. I know I told you to come, but you’re not supposed to be here, right?”

“I know, the cab’s waiting. Bye.”

She kisses me on both cheeks and her hair smells like apples. As she walks toward her bedroom, she scratches her butt.

On the way down the stairs I wonder not only why she wanted to keep the shots, but also why I so casually agreed.

During the cab ride back to the city, I feel good, like maybe all this is happening for a reason. But I don’t get my dad lying to me. I have the driver drop me off at the Creperie, where I order an orange soda and tell myself I’m ready for the next message. What could be worse than your dad lying and your mom having an affair with someone who wears costume cuff links? I am so mad at both of them right now I almost smash the phone on the ground. Instead I take a deep breath like Ms. Gray says to do.

Beep
.

“Hi, it’s me. I got your email and wanted to talk in person. Heavy stuff. Call me.”

I can tell immediately it’s Richard, my mom’s brother, the one who lives in Italy. What “heavy stuff” is he talking about?

At the funeral, Richard spoke and dressed so
eloquently, and I sat on the piano bench while his boyfriend, Julian, played, mesmerized by his long fingers. I think it was Chopin, and it struck me as beautiful but very sad. The three of us ended up in the kitchen in the morning, and I remember Richard talking in hushed tones to Julian. All I heard were the words
what killed her
. When they noticed I was there it was like time suspended for a second, and they tried to cover it up. I thought something weird was going on, but because it was such a traumatic time I never thought about it again. There were too many other things to worry about, like living the rest of my life without a mother.

When I arrive home there’s that same sort of tension in the air. My father’s sitting on the stairs, holding the picture of Cole and looking perplexed.

“Moon, what the hell is going on, where did you get this?”

“You went into my room?”

He stands up and holds the picture out, his hand shaking.

“I’ll repeat. Where did you get this?”

I grab it out of his hand and say, “Do you know him?”

His whole body seems to be shaking now, and it scares me a little. He doesn’t say anything, just keeps staring at me like I’ve become someone he doesn’t recognize.

“Was he the person that Mom was with the night she died?”

He turns his back to me, and I realize that he’s trying not to cry.

I spend the evening in my room staring at the picture of my mother on the wall, next to one of Regina Spektor from
Rolling Stone
. My father is locked in his office, and we still haven’t talked further. There are possible truths swirling around my head that I really don’t want to think about. It’s hard enough that my mother’s not here.

To distract myself I flip through a recent issue of
New York
magazine with Drew Barrymore on the cover. I met her once at a casting for one of my father’s films. She came in late, and everyone there seemed really annoyed—the producers, their assistants, even my dad, who’s normally very even-keeled. I think it was because everyone was losing faith in the project. Two studios had rejected the script despite the attachment of many stars. But as it turned out, the person Drew was supposed to read with wasn’t there either, so she waited in the studio next door,
where I was fiddling on an upright piano. It was raining sheets, and Drew went over to the window, putting her hands up to the glass as if trying to bring back a memory. I walked up behind her and she commented on how beautiful it was. “All this rain,” she said. At the time, I didn’t really know who she was. She sat down on the floor and thumbed through the script. She told me that she had always wanted to work with my dad. I asked her why and she said, “I’m not sure, really. I mean, I loved
The Lazy Road
, but I also just feel like there’s something about him, something exceptional.”

Even though I was eight at the time, I was used to people kissing up to him. But I could tell she was for real. She wasn’t saying it to try to win me over. Like I had anything to do with his casting anyway. We sat there until the rain subsided, and she told me I had mysterious eyes. I remember that distinctly, because no one had ever complimented me in that way, like you would an adult.

Most of the actors I’d met during my dad’s auditions were pretty nervous. In fact, I never liked to be around them because it made
me
nervous. Drew was acting like she was in a dentist’s office, waiting to get her teeth cleaned. She seemed unfazed by it all, even after she divulged her admiration of my dad and his work. I asked her why she was so calm and she smiled. She told me she’d been doing the showbiz thing for a while, and that it got her into a lot of trouble at an early age, and that she was forced to grow up fast.

“You want to know so much, you want to experience so
much, but I think it’s better to let it happen gradually. At least for me, I learned way too much way too early.”

Now, listening to Imogen Heap sing “Hide and Seek” on my iPod, I am wondering if I really want to know all this. I can sense that it’s more than just Cole, that it may be like opening one of those Russian dolls made of painted wood that have a smaller one inside, and another, and another. The tiny little doll at the end may be the one thing that will change me forever. But it’s too late. The seed has been planted, breaking out its roots, spreading the branches through me. I have to know. The lyrics in the song seem to be coming straight from my own heart:

I knock on my father’s door twice and then enter. He’s staring at his screen saver, a pencil that draws characters that come to life then run away. I wonder how long he’s been sitting there.

I sit down in the nook by the window.

“You have that look,” he says.

I feel myself slipping, words straining to get out of my mouth. I tell him about Mom’s studio and the phone, how it led to the dress, and Benjamin, and eventually Cole.

While I talk he looks at me in amazement. When I say
the name Cole, I swear there’s fire in his eyes. Then his gaze suddenly turns soft and he takes a breath.

“Who is he?”

“He’s a sailor,” he says in a quiet voice. “Charters yachts in Europe. Has a villa near Richard’s in Tuscany. I think that’s where they met.”

“Dad, all I ever really wanted to know was what happened when she died. You can’t keep avoiding the issue. I’m old enough—”

“But why, sweetheart? There’s nothing to gain from that knowledge, is there? It’s best to remember her when she was alive. Yes, it was Cole who was with her, but I told you, she got hit by a taxi, I told you.”

“So, Cole was having an affair with Mom?”

He looks like he might explode for a second, then says softly, “Yes, Malia, he was.”

He uses my real name, which usually means the conversation is over. This is all I will get, for now. A confirmation. I try to imagine what that felt like for him, and can see in his flushed cheeks and darting eyes that it was, and is now, very hard to swallow. I feel the same way.

He clicks on the mouse and the screen saver vanishes, revealing the desktop image, a poster for his documentary. It’s a picture of three old women on a bench in a park, the sky impossibly blue above their white hair. It’s a movie about failed relationships—go figure. Each of the women has been married five times. My dad spent months profiling them for the film.

“How could she do that, though?”

“I asked myself the same thing.”

We sit in silence for a little while.

“I’m so angry with her, but how can you be angry at someone who died?”

“It’s okay to feel anger, just try not to harbor it. Try and let it go.”

“Do you think you’d ever get married again?”

He looks at me seriously, to make sure my question was not for the purpose of mocking him.

“Probably not, but I’ve seen a lot of things happen in my lifetime I never expected.”

“Yeah, me too,” I say.

I still think there is something he’s not telling me, so I guess I will have to find Cole and ask him myself. The more knowledge I have before hearing the next message, the better.

I walk up to him and put a hand on each of his strong shoulders. He makes an involuntary noise, implying that it feels good, so I keep them there. For several more minutes we stare at the old ladies, each one beautiful in her own way, despite the five husbands.

“Well, I’m going to sleep now,” I say.

“Me too.”

He shuts down the computer and we leave his office together. As I turn into my room, I hear Tile run up behind us. He follows me in.

I’m not one of those girls who can’t stand their little brothers in their rooms. I do feel like my room is a sanctuary,
but Tile’s presence doesn’t corrupt it in any way. Right now he is a welcome diversion.

“I saw your pictures.”

“Tile!”

“I know I’m not supposed to go in there, but I didn’t touch the chemicals. Besides, I get bored, you know. There’s only so much bad TV I can handle.”

I smile and wait for him to go on.

“I liked the ones of the girl. But I want to know how you met her. You don’t just have friends that are, like, thirty.”

I try to figure out what to say to him while he paces around.

“I met her over at Oliver’s. She’s actually a friend of Oliver’s mom.”

This white lie seems to work for the time being. He sits on his heels and draws designs in the carpet.

“What were you and Dad fighting about?”

“Nothing,” I say, and go behind the closet door to change into my nightshirt.

“Seemed like something to me.”

“Well, I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

“Ha!” he says, delighted that I’ve moved into script-speak.

I get under my covers and turn off the light. The red night-light in the shape of a train makes our faces look sinister. My mother brought it back from Italy when I was around five. She told me that whenever she was away, I should look at the train and know that though it might
take a while, she would always return. Why is it that those touching things parents say can only make you feel better temporarily? She always returned, yes, but where is she now?

Tile sits on the end of my bed and says quietly, “Why are you and Dad acting weird?”

“Tile, I need to go to sleep now. And so do you, it’s way past your bedtime.”

“I know. But I miss her.”

He lays his head down near my leg.

“Come here,” I say.

He comes closer and I hold him, trying my best to transfer any strength I may have left. He doesn’t deserve to know what I know, not yet. He’s just a kid.

After a minute he gets up and walks over to the night-light. He smooths his hands over it before pulling it out of its socket, making the room go completely dark.

I call Oliver in the morning, and he says to come over at ten. His housekeeper answers the door, and this time she has a toddler with her, a boy with big bottle-brown eyes. I smile at him and he holds out his arms, so I pick him up. The housekeeper rolls her eyes as if to say,
Why don’t you try being his mother for a while
. After a minute he gets squirmy. I let him down and he runs into the kitchen.

“I’m sorry, I never got your name.”

“Denise,” she says, pointing toward the kitchen. “And the little terror is Felipe. Oliver’s in his room.”

On my way up the stairs I look at the pictures that line the walls, all in clean silver frames. They are mostly of his parents at black-tie events, and a few of his mom on a horse. I wonder where his father is. The last I remember seeing him was a couple years ago—he always looked very serious.

When I get to his room, Oliver quickly hides the comic book that he’s reading. I wonder if it’s X-rated.

“Hey, Fifteen,” he says, moving some curls out of his eyes.

“Hi. I met Felipe. He’s adorable.”

“Yeah, isn’t he? He only comes when my mom’s not here. It’s our secret. The poor lady has to take care of him and he’s not even her child. Her sister’s a drug addict.”

“Wow.”

“Don’t tell my mom.”

“Of course not.”

“So, what wild shenanigans are we partaking in today?”

I pull out my mother’s phone.

“Well, my father confirmed she was having an affair with Cole, but he didn’t say much more.”

“Oh.” He gives me a look of sympathy I try to eradicate by quickly introducing the next task. I jump up next to him on the bed.

“So, I want to check him out.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

I scroll through my mom’s contacts.

“No, but here’s his number.”

Oliver takes the phone and, to my surprise, immediately presses Call.

“Wait!”

He holds up his hand in an attempt to calm me down. Then he speaks slowly, in a deeper voice, and I am
completely amazed at how authentic his impersonation sounds.

“Yes, I’m calling from DHL Express—I have a package to deliver but it seems we have the wrong address, could you confirm … yes … okay, great … yes, thank you, goodbye now.”