Sight Reading (25 page)

Tonight, though, she drove straight home, her bare hands trembling on the steering wheel, and left her car shuddering itself to sleep in the garage. Stepping into the foyer, she dreaded the silence that awaited her. She opened the closet and was suddenly too exhausted to pluck out a hanger. Instead she dropped her coat onto the wooden settee, where it lay like a hobo in a park. She kicked off her shoes with something close to anger; they fell onto their sides at an uncouth angle, lying there as if stunned. Straight to her bedroom she went, where she undressed quickly and pulled on her flannel pajamas. In the bathroom she removed her makeup, massaging it off with cold cream until the splotches gradually revealed themselves like a drift of clouds. It didn't matter that she had managed to cover up the spots; it didn't matter, because she was still, beneath all the makeup, not the person she wanted to be.

Her mascara she rubbed off with Albolene, leaving shiny dark circles around her eyes. In the mirror she looked as though she had been punched. Angry thoughts knocked at her: What did Roberta Plotnik have that she didn't have? What made Roberta such a candidate for love, for romance, for happiness? What had she done that Hazel hadn't?

Hazel dreaded her cold sheets, the empty pillow next to her head. She went back downstairs, to the credenza in the dining room, and fetched the bottle of Irish whiskey. Prudish Roberta with her wedding ring around her neck . . . And now the necklace was gone, as if to prove that her new love was genuine, the real thing.

Hazel brought the whiskey with her to the kitchen, where the light felt harsh, a spotlight on her pain, on her ugliness. Was that all Roberta had to do to get what she wanted: toss away her old ring to get a new one? Hazel poured milk into a mug, placed it in the microwave to warm, and was about to press the Start button when she realized that she was indeed right. That was exactly what Roberta had done. She had done what Hazel hadn't managed to do: stepped past her grief, found her way out of sadness.

Hazel stood that way for a long time, her finger on the Start button. Was that all it took, then, a simple tossing away of a wedding ring? Tears rolled from her eyes, mixing with the Albolene. Something had happened, something had broken inside her. But no, it wasn't just inside her; it was in this room, she felt it, the air itself felt different. She looked carefully, farther along the counter, holding her breath. Then she walked over to give a few pokes in Freddie's glass tank, where the body lay oddly flat, a puddle of its old self. It was true, finally. He was dead.

Chapter 10

O
utside the school, the night was cold, the air dry as chalk. On their way to the car, and even as they drove to the Prudential building for the conservatory's annual holiday party, Nicholas and Remy were silent.

Nicholas's mind raced as he joined the stream of traffic toward downtown Boston. These mandatory assemblies always left him restless. Too much time to think—of the little things, the things he usually didn't have time for. He needed to follow up, for instance, on Sylvane's viola concerto for next term. Though he had ordered it nearly two months ago, the music hadn't arrived. The publisher claimed it must have been lost in the mail. This sort of complication . . . he was not used to it. Meanwhile he had sent a politely reticent note to Sylvane, saying he had heard that she had been in hospital and hoped she was feeling better. It was all he could muster. And tonight, for some reason, during the concert, that odd guilt had floated up again, though he knew in his heart that he wasn't guilty of anything.

Yet the feeling had reemerged when he saw Hazel there in the lobby after the concert. The way she gripped her coat had seemed nearly desperate—and caused Nicholas to notice, as he hadn't for so long, those pale spots on her hands. In the many years that had passed since they first appeared, Nicholas had nearly forgotten about them. But the way Hazel held her coat tonight, gripping it tightly, he couldn't help noticing them. Desperately putting on her coat, quickly turning away her perfect, hidden face . . .

Remy broke the silence. “It was sweet tonight, wasn't it?”

“Yes, well, the kids were sweet.” Nicholas readjusted his thoughts as he took the exit off of Storrow. “The choir director seems a terror.”

Remy laughed. “Allison and Jessie were so cute in their matching dresses. You could see how proud Jessie was.”

In his mind Nicholas saw the ridiculous red velvet, a fabric too heavy and old-fashioned for Jessie. Hazel must have selected it. “She'll never be quite like this again, will she?” Nicholas heard how obvious his question sounded. “I mean, the way she was tonight, still a girl—even though you can tell this is the last of it. Her young girlhood, I mean.”

Remy said, “I didn't think of it that way. But you're right. It's the end of an era.”

Nicholas nodded. “Even though we're still in it.” He saw in his mind Jessie walking off with Allison, her back to them, the matching red velvet, walking away, away from him.

The car lurched, came to a halt, its engine puttering and then silent.

Remy gasped. “Nicholas, what happened?”

He might have lost her forever. He might have been one of those fathers who never saw his child again. The ones without custody or visitation rights, the ones who have to fight just to see her. Or whose wife kidnaps the child. Or a weekend father, no normal parenthood at all, just Saturdays at the movies, the park, the zoo. Or the father whose child has been told all manner of horror stories, about how awful her father is, what a horrible man.

Wasn't that what he had feared, those ten years ago, when he realized that he wanted to be with Remy? There had been moments when the idea of not seeing Jessie every waking morning had nearly paralyzed him, the fear of not knowing how it would work, not a conscious thought or conscious fear, but now here it was, belatedly, and the realization that he had been saved. Jessie had not disappeared from his life. Nor had Hazel. How lucky he had been, without even knowing it.

“I-I seem to have let the car stall.” Nicholas was leaning on the steering wheel. He tried to catch his breath, but he might have been socked in the stomach. Behind him a car was beeping, though the light ahead of them now turned red.

“Honey, what's wrong?”

“Nothing, it's all right.” Nicholas turned the ignition key and pressed the clutch, and the car sputtered back to life.

THEY PARKED ON DARTMOUTH STREET.
Remy's hands were cold through her knit gloves. For years she had accompanied Nicholas to this party, which she looked forward to not only for the fully catered buffet but also for the view of the city, always magical to her, which made her feel a part of something beautiful, that this was indeed her city, a place she had come to love. Tonight, though, she couldn't help feeling uncomfortable, knowing what she and Yoni would have to do: put on their old act, play their same old roles, as if nothing had happened.

She and Nicholas were among the last to arrive. Already the dessert had been laid out, and soon the dancing would start; the student band was setting up noisily on a raised wooden platform. Nicholas went off with one of the new faculty members to line up at what was left of the carving station, and Remy found herself in a conversation with George Frank, something about the new miniscreens in the audience seats that the Metropolitan Opera had instituted to display translated lyrics. Remy wasn't really listening.

“My God, don't tell me Yoni's dating the babysitter.” George Frank said this suddenly, breaking off from his own narrative, chuckling.

Remy's heart pounded as she turned to look in the direction of George's gaze. “Oh, that's Elizabeth and Steve's au pair,” she said, with relief, recognizing the tall, skinny blonde Yoni was chatting with. “They're really good to her. They want to make sure she experiences as much of Boston as possible while she's with them.” Remy had met the girl, a twenty-year-old from Serbia, back at Steve and Liz's Summer Solstice party.

“Don't they feed her?” George Frank asked. The girl's plate was heaped with pasta and sliced meats. She was laughing at whatever it was Yoni was telling her.

It was then that Cybil sidled up to him. She looked the same as always, delicate-boned like a dancer, with a Tintin haircut that apparently cost a hundred dollars every five weeks. Clearly she had noted the Serbian girl, too close to Yoni, younger and blonder than herself; Cybil made a small proprietary gesture, swiftly dragging her hand across the back of Yoni's shoulders, a cat marking her territory. Something tight seized Remy's heart.

“Hi, Remy!” Cybil must have seen her watching them, and waved, beckoning her.

“Excuse me,” Remy said to George Frank, and forced her feet to move forward.

She greeted the au pair and said, “Cybil, what a surprise.” She leaned over to embrace her, and gave Yoni an equally equivocal kiss. The au pair took her heaped plate and moved away, toward the cakes.

“How are you?” Remy asked Cybil, hearing the tightness in her voice. “I wondered what you were up to.”

“Working insanely, and feeling sad. I missed Yoni so much.” A brief, luminous smile overtook Cybil's pristine face. “We're giving it another go.” Bashful, her eyes radiant, she looped her arm around his. He looked awful—tired, almost pale, eyes downcast. Remy, too, looked away. She was embarrassed for Cybil, for this effusive display of desire. Cybil turned her head to call, “Hi, Nicholas!” and waved ebulliently as he approached.

Yoni's cheeks reddened. Remy looked toward the windows, but the sparkling lights dizzied her. Sweat was running from her armpits.

“Hello, Cybil,” Nicholas said, giving her a kiss. “It's been a long time, if I'm not mistaken.”

“Too long,” Cybil said, with a loving glance toward Yoni. He smiled, but it was not his usual grin, the one that made his eyes crinkle at the sides. His gaze met Remy's.
I did this for you. I did it for Nicholas
. Remy felt a tremor rising inside her. She turned to look at Nicholas, to help pull her from these drowning waters.

He was chatting happily with Cybil.

Yoni stood beside Cybil, a martyr. Perhaps he thought of himself that way; this young woman holding on to his arm, as much as he cared for her, was a gift to Nicholas, after all. A gift to preserve their own oddly knotted friendship.

I would fight for you
. But he hadn't fought at all.

The thought caused Remy's cheeks to burn—with shame, at only now understanding. She looked at her husband, and at Yoni watching him, the one Yoni loved more than he had ever loved Remy.

Of course. Of course! Was that what all this was about?

A sudden peal burst from the speaker system. With a jerk of her head, Remy looked toward the makeshift stage. The amplifiers had been plugged in, and the big band was warming up, already showing off, as eager as Remy had been at their age to perform.

Now Nicholas was teasing Cybil about something, making her laugh.

“Hey, we only get this one shot at life,” Cybil said, still laughing. Remy felt chided and kept her eyes on the stage. In her mind she heard her old teacher Julian, his admonition from ten years ago.
The rehearsal is the performance
.

Maybe Vivian was right. I could have had what I always wanted.

But it was too late. There was a crash of sound, and the band began to play.

Part Three

Déjà Vu

Chapter 1

H
ey, you.” Remy sounded relaxed as always, nearly monotone, as she stood from the little café table. Hazel heard her own voice rising in a singsong way, as if to counter it.

“Well, now, what do you know!” Too cheerful. At once she felt ridiculous in her paper-plate shoes. And with the cup of coffee in one hand, and her bag across her shoulder, suddenly encumbered.

Remy had reached over to give a delicate hug. Hazel let herself be briefly squeezed, and said, “It's been a long time.”

“It has, hasn't it? Do you have time to sit down?”

“I'd love to, for a minute. I'm just finishing up my break.” Hazel put down her coffee and her bag with the ballet flats and felt less awkward. “I thought I'd get my nails done to celebrate the warm weather. Mi made me these little sandals.”

“Like hospital slippers,” Remy said.

Hazel knew they looked silly. Yet she managed a breezy, “And what are you up to?”

“Oh . . . I just had a rehearsal and thought I'd walk a bit.” Remy didn't look very happy about it. “And in a little while I'm meeting a friend.” She seemed to Hazel somehow smaller there at the little outdoor table. Now she was forming that small half-smile of hers. “You're looking well.”

“I'm feeling cheerful,” Hazel told her. “I love this warm weather. And I'm of course so happy for Jess.”

Remy's eyes smiled, a warm brown. “Me, too—what a relief. Of all those guys, Josh just shines so much brighter.”

Hazel had to agree, though she didn't like the way Remy said “all those guys” . . . even though there had been, in fact, quite a few guys.

“She was so cute when she called with the news,” Remy said. “I was picturing her at home after a long romantic evening, but when I asked when he'd proposed, she said, Just now! They were still in the restaurant, that dive Josh took us to—oh. A little place near Pike Place. She said she'd called you first but you weren't home.”

“I was, actually, but we were asleep. Robert turns the ringer off at eleven.”

With a nod, Remy said, “She never does bother to convert West Coast time.”

Hazel laughed. “Robert has had enough of her one a.m. phone calls.”

“That's what this was.” Remy smiled, but her eyes looked tired. In an almost wistful voice she said, “She sounded so happy.”

“You know, she was thinking of having the wedding this summer,” Hazel said. “I told her how much planning it takes. Thank goodness she agreed to wait until fall.”

“You think she'll make it till then? She's got the patience of a parking clerk.” Remy laughed, and Hazel joined her, though she didn't think it a very nice thing to say about a person. But it was true, Jessica had approached her romantic life with the same enthusiasm and easy confidence she brought to most activities. Just twenty-three years old. Clearly Hazel and Nicholas's breakup hadn't done much damage, for Jessica to want to launch into her own marriage at a young age.

Remy said, “It still surprises me how quickly she's grown up. Sometimes I could swear it was yesterday that she came home with that pink lace bra you gave her. She was so proud. She immediately took her shirt off and went prancing around the kitchen, showing it off.”

Hazel smiled at the thought of Jessie parading around shirtless in Nicholas and Remy's kitchen; for a moment, it was as if Hazel, too, had been there in that warm little room. She had noticed this before, the way she and Nicholas and Remy shared respective memories, like vacation photos swapped back and forth.

With Jessica in Seattle now, Hazel no longer had any reason to see Remy or Nicholas. Those days were so long ago, when Jessie had arrived for her two weeks with Hazel bearing delicious—if cryptic—pronouncements (“Daddy says it's not always his fault,” or “Remy's tired of having to say everything five times!”). Tiny glimpses of that other couple's life together. “Remy threw the teakettle at Daddy!” Jessie had announced one day, her green eyes sparkling. And Hazel had felt something near to glee:
I knew it wouldn't last
. But it had.

Then came a day, five or so years ago now, when Hazel and Robert went out to dinner with friends in the South End, and as they stepped into the restaurant, who was exiting but Nicholas and Remy? The four of them had greeted each other with such pleased surprise that Hazel had felt proud. How honestly cheery they had been, like old friends, so that when Nicholas and Remy went on their way and Robert's friends asked how the four of them knew each other, it had felt wonderful—sophisticated, even—to say, so lightly, “Oh, that was my ex-husband and his wife.”

“So how are things?” Hazel asked now.

Remy seemed to weigh her possible answers. “They've been better.”

The small shrug of her shoulders suggested Hazel simply offer a small nod in return. Looking out at the black clouds that huddled in the distance, she considered making some diverting comment about the weather.

But the day seemed too beautiful to complain about anything as benign as clouds. Even the surprise of finding Remy here felt like a gift of sorts. In a way, after Jessica left for college, Remy, too, had been lost to Hazel, along with that nearly conspiratorial feeling they had once, if briefly, shared. By then Hazel was married to Robert, and her time with Nicholas had become no more than a brief blip; she was finally able to agree with what everyone always said, that she and Nicholas were utterly mismatched, a perfect example of opposites attracting for no good reason.

Robert, on the other hand, valued what Hazel valued, was much more comfortable as a “we” than as an “I.” Friends had set them up, soon after Robert's divorce, and it had been easy with him. Robert worked at an educational foundation and was good at balancing his work and leisure time. Their relationship had moved forward smoothly, speedily, and a new generosity had infused Hazel's vision of the world: Nicholas had found his soul mate, and now she, Hazel, had found hers. The failure of her first marriage had been a necessary step toward this ultimate, mutual, contentment.

“I suppose your season is finishing up,” she said.

Remy nodded. “Just one more performance and then we're done.” She looked down into her still-full mug of tea.

Even when she stopped talking, the fine lines at the sides of her mouth were visible. This was new, Hazel noted, and glanced over at the hairdressers from the salon next door, who had burst into loud laughter at something. These young women in their skimpy outfits—Hazel had real sympathy for them, with their bare midriffs and body studs. Luckily Jessica had escaped all that. She may not have been a stellar student, and yes, she had gotten into trouble enough, but she had never mutilated herself in the name of fashion. She was tall and tan and could care less, with green eyes and lashes out to here and only her earlobes pierced. At a soccer match a few years ago, visiting her in college, Hazel had overheard a boy talking about her: “Look at her, man, she does me in.” And Hazel had found herself thinking, knowing, certain of it, She doesn't even know he exists. Because Jessica rarely paid much attention to anyone, not for long. And so Hazel had worried: How would her daughter focus on any one man long enough to discover if theirs was a bond that could grow and stretch with time?

And yet sweet Joshua Staughton had managed it just fine.

Thinking this, Hazel said, “I have to admit, I'm hoping she'll let me shop for her gown with her. Though I don't want to be pushy. I'd hate to be one of those mothers-of-the-bride who take over all the wedding plans.”

Musingly, Remy said, “I wonder if she even wants a gown.”

“Oh—good point.” Hazel gave a sighing laugh. One of the hairdressers, a young man in tight pants and a shirt open to his navel, was loudly berating the others in a teasing way. His eyebrows were painted on, Hazel noted; she wondered if it were fashion or hair loss that had prompted him to do that.

She had spent so many years camouflaging her mottled look, with thick foundation and a makeup sponge. There was the day when she realized it was no longer the white patches that needed hiding; she had come to the point where the leftover dark parts seemed wrong. Yet only in the past few years had Hazel finally traded in the corrective cream she had at one time bought by the bagful for plain old daily sunblock. She was now, finally and completely, pure white.

The odd thing was that her new skin suited her better. She was beautifully pale, clean and crisp, and her look, like her current life, agreed with her. She had finally become the person she was meant to be.

“She said you'd been away.”

Remy nodded. “Symphony tour, Budapest and Vienna. Vienna is always a big challenge. We worked really hard to prepare for that.”

From behind them came the wail of sirens, two enormous fire trucks fighting their way down the street, past double-parked Range Rovers and delivery trucks and sporty convertibles with their tops down. Hazel plugged her ears at the loud whistling. Her gold earrings were hot under her fingers. Remy didn't seem to notice the sirens.

“Did you take any pictures?” Hazel asked when the fire trucks had passed.

“Of?”

“Budapest and Vienna.”

“Oh—no. We've been before.”

She really did look tired. Her eyes, wide set and deep brown, seemed to pull down at their corners. Well, she would have passed forty by now. Finally, thought Hazel, another reward for patience, for surviving the relentlessness of life: Remy was aging. Soon she, too, would have a slight jiggle to her arms; she, too, would gradually pale.

Now an ambulance was howling its way past them, followed by a police car, lights flashing, siren whining.

Remy looked at her watch. “I'd better get going. I told Vivian I'd meet her at two.”

She hadn't even drunk her tea, Hazel noted.

Remy squinted at the sky and again at her watch. “I'd planned on walking, but I don't know about those clouds.” She stood, and slung her tote bag—which needed a wash, Hazel noted—over her shoulder. “She's not near a T stop.”

“Take a cab,” Hazel said.

The suggestion seemed to surprise Remy. “You're right. I never do that.” She reached down for her violin case, then bent to give Hazel another little hug, and this time Hazel was able to embrace her. Pulling away, Remy said, “It's good to see you.”

“Oh, you, too, Remy. Take care now.” She gave a little wave as Remy turned away, aware that it was true: it
was
good, this brief reunion. Hazel felt warm and full with the thought, and through the paper plates on her feet absorbed the sidewalk's heat. Taking a last sip of her coffee, she reveled in the contrast of the cool ice in her mouth and the hot wind that had begun gusting around her. She would have to get back to the shop.

Remy had stepped off the sidewalk, looking for a taxi, her batik skirt billowing around her legs. She was like Jessica that way, Hazel thought—her own private energy always stirring things about her.

Her eyes, though, had looked so tired. They didn't used to look like that.

Hazel gave a little shake of her head. Sometimes you just sense things aren't right. Like that day, decades ago, when something made her look in on Jessie one last time, and sure enough she had somehow managed, at age one and a half, to climb up to the low bedroom window, not yet aware that the apartment was six stories above the ground. And Hazel had known to move swiftly but calmly, had somehow not screamed, sensing, again, that this was the right thing to do. It was only after Jessie was safe in her arms that Hazel had cried and cried, at the fact that she could not control anything in life, and that she might not have breathed that sudden whiff that told her to turn around and, for no good reason, look in on her daughter once more.

Like the moment when Nicholas cleared his throat, and Hazel knew that something devastating was about to come from his lips.

The thunderclap came not from the sky but from within.

Hazel tore off the paper plates and jammed her feet in her shoes, not even thinking about her nails. Had a cab come yet? No. There was Remy, standing a few feet from the curb, her skirt still dancing around her, the storm swilling inside it. A taxi slowed beside her, and Hazel was sure Remy would disappear before she could reach her. But Remy didn't notice the taxi, just stood there staring out at the street, so that Hazel, feeling dramatic, yelled “Remy!” as if to prevent her from throwing herself in front of a moving car. Remy didn't seem to hear her, and Hazel yelled again, pushing past two tourists reading from a guidebook.

“Remy!”

Now she heard. Remy turned around sharply, and the wild billow of her skirt made sense now. That individual storm cloud had finally burst. Her face shone, wet and brilliant with grief.

IT BEGAN ON A COLD,
cruel morning in February, the month that people cannot wait to be rid of. It was one of the rare days when Nicholas sensed, lurking within him, the possibility of becoming old. Preparing to leave for the conservatory, he glimpsed himself in the bedroom mirror and noted how his physique, often described as sprightly, might at some point become something closer to spindly. For so long his litheness had allowed him an air of permanent youth, a seeming agility (though he sometimes felt aches in his shoulders at night). That at some point he might not be so nimble hadn't ever worried him before—and yet, on that cold winter morning in the two thousand seventh year of Anno Domini, he had rearranged the bedroom door so that the mirror was hidden against the wall.