The Invisibles (30 page)

“Where would you go?”

“I don't know.” Monica rolled back over and sighed. “Mexico, maybe. Venezuela.”

Nora turned her head a little. “Do you know Spanish?”

“
¿Cómo se llama?
” Monica said. “
Hola. Gracias
. Could get me around for a little while, at least.”

“How about Paris?”

“I don't know any French,” Monica said. “And they're supposed to be pretty rude to Americans.”

“You've never been?”

“Next year.” Monica paused. “With Liam. I hope.” Her voice broke on the last word.

Nora waited, wincing inwardly at the question on her lips. She closed her eyes. “You really love him, don't you?”

“Yes,” Monica whispered. “I do.”

“Then you should tell him about this.” She squeezed Monica's hand. “Secrets ruin everything. People always find out about them sooner or later.”

For a few moments, the only sound in the room was the rush of fading traffic behind the windows.

There was a long pause. When Monica spoke again, her voice was clotted with tears. “I'm still such a little girl,” she whispered. “I still need so much.”

So much what? Nora wanted to ask. Love? Attention? Forgiveness? She turned all the way over and ran a fingertip over the faint outline of tears on Monica's face. “It's okay,” she said. “We all do.”

Neither of them spoke again after that. In fact, Nora was pretty sure Monica had fallen asleep; her breathing had shifted to a deeper, lower decibel, and every so often, one of her arms would jerk to the side, as if she were catching herself during a free fall. Maybe the words Nora said next weren't supposed to be heard. Maybe they were just supposed to be put out there, the way so
many of the first lines she recalled these days were, so that they might drift along and find their way to the person who needed them next.

But she said them very softly anyway—“
In an old house in Paris that was covered with vines, lived twelve little girls in two straight lines
”—before closing her eyes and going to sleep.

N
ora had been to the city once before with Trudy and Marion to see
Les Misérables
, but they had taken a bus into Port Authority and then driven around in a taxi afterward, looking at the sights from behind the windows. There had been throngs of people swarming their way around and along the sidewalks, impeding their view of anything at eye level, and she'd been able to hear a dull roar of what she thought must have been the bowels of the city itself from behind the taxi window. This was nothing like that, she thought as the cab let them out in front of the precinct that morning. A manual clock on the dashboard read 11:02 a.m., and Nora wondered if the usual swell of people were now trapped behind a desk somewhere, working on their computers. Whatever the case, the street was strangely quiet; a few people hurried to and fro, but not with the breakneck speed Nora had come to attribute to most New Yorkers. The sidewalks, too, had a calm, green appearance, flanked on either side by good-sized trees in a multitude of fall colors.

“Like a little neighborhood,” Ozzie said, widening her arms to encompass the surroundings, and Nora couldn't have agreed more.

The precinct itself was a beautiful building, much more attractive than the hospital, with new brick siding, dark blue wooden trim over an arched doorway, and stone steps. An enormous American flag hung from a pole above the front door, snapping in the breeze, and the words
19TH PRECINCT
had been painted on the front door in white cursive handwriting. Still, there was a silent air of authority to the building, a muted weight that made Nora nervous.

“Okay.” Monica's fingers trembled as they stood at the top of the steps. “Here goes.”

“And your attorney's coming, right?” Ozzie asked, holding her by the elbow. It was the third time she'd asked since they'd gotten up and dressed in the hotel room. “You said he finally left a message? He knows where to come?”

“Right.” Monica nodded. “He'll be here.”

A muscle pulsed on the side of Ozzie's jaw as she glanced nervously up and down the sidewalk. Nora hoped Ozzie wasn't planning on creating a scene. That was the last thing any of them needed.

“Geez, Louise,” Grace said as they stepped inside the glass door. “It looks like Grand Central Station in here.”

Nora had never been to Grand Central Station, but she doubted if she would have disagreed with the comparison if she had. The gigantic room they found themselves in was even more impressive than the outside of the building. Everything had the appearance of having been recently renovated; the smooth marble
floor looked new, and a black countertop, which ran almost the entire length of the room, had a sleek, burnished quality to it, as if it had been rubbed down the night before with a soft cloth. Still, it was the number of people crammed into the space that caught Nora off guard; countless policemen in uniform, some holding people just above the elbow, others on their cell phones, all swishing by in a stern sea of movement. There were people like them too, regular pedestrians with wide eyes and grave faces, even a young mother with a small child, sitting on a bench along the far wall, waiting, she supposed, for a service similar to theirs. Opposite them was a sign that read:
PLEASE CHECK IN AT THE FRONT DESK.

“Over here.” Ozzie steered them toward a smaller round desk, behind which an older man with a silver mustache stood.

“Can I help you?” He glanced carelessly at Monica, who had put her crutches to one side and placed her hands neatly on the counter, and went back to shuffling papers.

“I have to . . .” Monica cleared her throat and then stared down at her hands. “Is there, um, a detective here I can talk to?”

Silver Mustache lifted his eyes. He had small blue eyes and loose jowls under his chin. The extra skin swayed lightly as he spoke. “A detective?” he repeated.

“Yes.” Monica's voice was barely over a whisper. “Um, I believe his name is Detective Kingston?”

“We don't have a Detective Kingston here.”

Monica looked over helplessly at Ozzie, who was turned around, scanning the room behind her.

“Are you sure it was Kingston?” Grace asked. “Maybe it was something that sounded like Kingston?”

“Do you have a detective with a name here that sounds like Kingston?” Monica was pleading with the man now, begging him to look up.

“We have three detectives here,” he said, still working on his papers. “Detective Otto, Detective Kyril, and Detect—”

“Kyril!” Monica burst out. “That's it! Detective Kyril. Can I talk to him please? He asked me to meet him here this morning.”

“I'll see if he's in.” The man picked up his phone and pushed a button. He stroked his mustache with two fingers as he listened a moment and then said: “Augie? There's a woman here to see you.” He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and leaned toward Monica. “Your name?”

“Monica,” Monica whispered. “Monica Ridley.”

“You'll have to speak up.” The man winced. “I can't—”

“MONICA RIDLEY!” Ozzie roared. “Her name is Monica Loreen Ridley, for Christ's sake, and she has an appointment here this morning with Detective Kyril!”

The man's small eyes creased around the corners; he took his hand off the mouthpiece, said Monica's name into the phone, and without taking his eyes off Ozzie's face, replaced the receiver.

“Shit, I'm sorry,” Ozzie said quickly. “We're all a little jacked up this morning. Everyone's kind of on edge.”

“I suggest you get yourself jacked down then.” The man picked up his stack of papers once more. “You talk like that to me again, and you'll have more to worry about than finding a detective around here.”

“Yes, sir.” Ozzie looked genuinely contrite. “I apologize.”

Within minutes, a small man wearing wheat-colored pants, a white button-down shirt, and a dark blue vest came out of a side
room. “Miss Ridley?” He stretched out his hand as he moved toward her. “Detective Kyril. Thanks for coming in.” He surveyed the rest of them with a pleasant expression. “Attorneys?” He smiled a little. “Or family?”

“Oh.” Monica touched the side of her face with her fingers. “Neither. They're my friends. Here for moral support.”

“Oh.” Detective Kyril shoved his hands inside his pockets and rocked back on his heels. He was wearing penny loafers. “Do you have an attorney coming, too?”

“I um . . . I'm not . . .”

Ozzie shot Grace a wayward look and then stepped forward. “She has counsel coming, but he can't be here until noon.”

Monica whirled around, staring at Ozzie.

“Okay.” The detective nodded. “That's fine. It'll take a while to get you processed anyway. We have to get your fingerprints and all your pedigree information before we proceed to the next step.”

Monica whirled back around. “You need my fingerprints?”

“We do.” Detective Kyril took his hands back out of his pocket. “You're being charged with a felony here, Miss Ridley, remember? You're going to be put through the system. Just like we talked about on the phone.”

Monica dropped her eyes.

“I'll need you to come this way,” he said. “Oh, and . . .” He turned, glancing at the rest of them, who had fallen in line. “Just her for now, all right? You can have a seat over there. I'll come get you when we're finished.”

Ozzie sighed loudly as Monica and Detective Kyril disappeared through a side door. Grace slung an arm around her shoulders
and grabbed Nora's hand, steering both of them over to the small set of benches in the corner.

“What's going on with Monica's attorney?” Grace asked as they settled themselves.

“Did you get in touch him?”

“Nope.” Ozzie stared straight ahead.

“Well, she obviously didn't.”

“Nope.”

“Ozzie.” Grace sounded exasperated. “What's going on? Why would she lie about getting an attorney?”

“Because she's afraid Liam's going to find out.” Ozzie turned to look at them. “It's why she didn't want to go to a hospital, either. She doesn't want him getting the bills, figuring anything out.”

“So you went and got her one?” Grace pressed. “Where, from Legal Aid or something?”

“Something like that,” Ozzie said.

Nora stared at the space of marble floor between her feet. They'd all lied—every single one of them—on this trip, hiding things from the very people to whom they'd once bared their souls. She herself was the worst, having held out the longest, still not coming clean about that last night at Turning Winds. She'd opened up a little bit, telling them about the boyfriend situation, even exposing Daddy Ray to Grace, but she still wasn't as brave as the rest of them. She still couldn't go there. Couldn't do it. Couldn't even imagine doing it. It was just who she was. She needed time. Space. More time. More space.

Except that she knew that all the space in the world still wasn't big enough.

And that time was running out.

I
t was a silly thing, Nora thought later, a ridiculous thing really, but as they sat there waiting for Monica to come back from her fingerprinting and processing, all she could think about was Elmer, how comforting he would feel just then inside her hands, the slight heat of him against her skin. How was it that such tiny things could carve such deep places inside? How did they manage to fit in there among everything else and still take up so much space?

She caught sight of Monica's blond hair as she emerged on her crutches from another room. Detective Kyril was on her right, his mouth in a tight line. Monica's makeup was smudged, and there were red splotches on her neck where she had been pulling at the skin. Nora stood up quickly as the detective approached, as if anticipating news from a surgeon. Ozzie and Grace followed.

“We're done with the processing,” Detective Kyril said. “Is the attorney here?”

“It's only eleven fifty,” Ozzie said, glancing down at her watch. Her fingers were trembling. “He said noon.”

“All right.” The detective stretched out his arm, indicating a door on the left. “You can wait in here until he arrives. I have another appointment though, at twelve thirty, so if he's late, I'm going to have to proceed without him.”

“He won't be late,” Ozzie said grimly.

They followed the detective into a small room furnished with a wooden table, a water cooler with a paper-cup sleeve, and four chairs. Nothing else. No windows, no pictures, not even an air vent. Nora wondered if the outside was just for show; if the real story of the Nineteenth Precinct revealed itself inside, after they finally grabbed you.

“I'll be back,” Detective Kyril said, giving them a nod.

“How'd it go?” Grace asked as the door shut.

Monica shook her head, tears welling up again. Nora could see the black stains on her index fingertip and thumb, the faint whorls beneath them, like pieces of scalp beneath the hair. She was forever marked now. Branded.

“You okay?” Nora asked.

“No.” Monica wiped her nose with the edge of her sleeve. “No, I'm not okay.” She looked hard at Ozzie. “What did you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“The attorney, Ozzie. Who did you get? Who could you possibly have gotten to represent me in this city?”

The door opened then, eliminating the need for Ozzie's response. “Well, you were right about him being on time,” Detective Kyril said. “It's twelve o'clock on the nose.”

“Punctuality is the politeness of kings!”

The man's voice behind her caught Nora by surprise, but not nearly as much as the shock that catapulted through her when she caught a look at his face. She sat frozen as Theo swept past, the faint rustle of his silk suit emanating a clean, rich scent. His hair was still parted on the right side, but it was much shorter now, and he wore it brushed back off his eyes. He looked older too, but in a good way, the lines and creases in his face the marks of someone who had already lived a third of his lifetime. Which he had, of course.

“Oh my God,” Grace whispered. “Is that . . . ?”

“Yeah.” Ozzie's eyes bloomed inside her face. “It sure is.”

Nora didn't respond. She was too busy looking from Theo to Monica to Ozzie, trying to determine if this was really happening, and if it was,
how
. Monica's face was a map of confusion, fear, and relief. “Theo?” she said finally. It came out as a whisper.

“And your name again is?” Detective Kyril looked over his glasses as Theo settled a caramel-colored briefcase on top of the table, withdrew a thin sheaf of papers, and slid them in his direction. “Attorney Gallagher, Detective.” Theo looked over at Monica and nodded. “I was recently hired to represent Miss Ridley in the charges being brought against her.”

Monica's mouth, which was already open, fell slack.

“All right, then.” Nora watched dumbly as the detective began scanning the paperwork in front of him. She could feel Theo next to her; his presence was almost otherworldly, as if she were only dreaming of it, but no, there he was, literally inches away. Inches and yards away. Whole football-field yards away.

“I understand all the basic processing has been completed,” Theo said. “Fingerprinting, pedigree information . . .”

“All set,” the detective said. “Except for the mug shot. They were backed up in the film department.”

“Fine.” Theo pushed another piece of paper across the table. “I'd also like to request a DAT, instead of having my client sent down to Central Booking.”

Detective Kyril looked up. “Your client has been accused of a Class C felony. She stole close to fifty thousand dollars from a charity organization. We don't issue DATs in those kinds of situation.”

“What's a DAT?” Monica asked fearfully.

“It stands for desk appearance ticket,” Theo said, putting a hand on Monica's arm. “Basically, it means that you can be given a hearing date today to return to criminal court instead of having to go down and spend the night in Central Booking while your date gets set.”

“Oh, God.” Monica's voice began to rise. “Please, I don't want to spend the night in jail!”

Theo leaned over and whispered something in Monica's ear. She listened, whispered a reply, and hung her head, quiet once more.

“I'd like permission, then, to ride down with my client to Central Booking,” Theo said. “She's an upstanding member of the community with no previous record. There's no reason to place her in a holding cell with other criminals while she's forced to wait for her paperwork to be processed in Albany.”

“Done.” The detective stood up.

Ozzie beamed and squeezed Monica's hand. Theo stood up across from him. “Anything else?”

“She still needs her mug shot,” Detective Kyril said. “Follow
me up to the front desk, please, and then we'll make arrangements to have you transported to Booking.”

Nora felt her heart slow, the sound of it a dull, thudding roar in her ears as Theo led Monica out of the room behind the detective. His arm was around her, and she could hear him talking. “Let's get the photo taken first, all right? Then we can sit down and catch our breath for a minute.”

Three more feet and she could reach out and touch his sleeve. Meet his eyes, look into the green light of them.

“Monica,” Ozzie said.

Monica paused under Theo's arm, taking everything in for the first time. Her eyes grew wide, and from the way her mouth contorted, Nora could tell that she understood finally what Ozzie had done. She fell into Ozzie's arms and sobbed.

Nora saw Theo watching them, saw how his face softened at the sound of Monica's cries, the lines around his eyes creasing just as they used to.

He said her name, or at least she thought he did. It could have been something else: “Hello” or “There you are.” She didn't know. The roaring that had begun in her ears had moved to the inside of her head, blocking out sound, noise; even, it seemed, the air around her. She took a step back, bumping into Grace, who clutched her around the arm. She saw Theo's lips close around her name—Nora—the orb of it lingering on his mouth before disappearing again.

“Nora,” Grace squeezed her arm. “Honey, are you okay?” Her voice, loud enough to be heard throughout the station, registered finally in Nora's ears, and she took a fast, single breath.

“I need air,” she heard herself say, pushing past Monica and
Ozzie and Theo too, who stepped back in alarm as she nodded a hello in his direction and, without looking back, raced for the door.

S
he trotted down the front steps, two at a time. There was nowhere to go, of course, except home. Which was exactly what she was going to do, she realized. It was too much, all of it, like a pile of bricks that had gotten larger and heavier as the trip progressed. She'd withstood as much of it as she could, one thing after the other, her knees buckling, shoulders splitting from the building pressure of it, but now she was underneath, she was trapped inside that pile, and she had to get out before she succumbed to the weight of it.

She flagged a taxi with a frantic wave of her arm, leaping into the street without looking in either direction. An oncoming car swerved at the last minute; the driver leaned on his horn. She stepped back, catching the irate face in the rearview mirror and tried again.

“Nora!”

Theo's voice shot out behind her, a frantic sound edged with a sincerity that belonged only to him. She hesitated but did not turn around, moving farther into the street, begging for a taxi. He didn't need to do this. He didn't! Why couldn't he just leave things alone now, let them be? Didn't he have more to finish up with Monica inside? Her arm waved above her head now, a crazy flag, pleading for surrender.

“Nora, please!” He was running toward her. His shiny dress shoes made a clicking sound against the sidewalk, and the hem of his jacket flapped back on either side like dark wings. “Please.”
He caught her around the arm and pulled her toward him, out of the street.

“Hey.” She twisted out of his grip and threw him a look. “There's no need to grab.”

“I'm sorry.” He was panting; his cheeks were flushed. “But why'd you just run out like that? Where are you going?”

“Home.” She shrugged, bringing her fingers to her earlobe. “I have to get home.”

“Home where?” He looked incredulous. “Do you live here? In the city?”

“No. Back to Willow Grove. I'm still there.” The admission flared a stab of anger within her, and she turned around again and lifted her arm. “I . . . I'm sorry I ran out. I have an appointment I forgot about. That I'm late for.”

She fluttered her fingers, begging for a cab, a rickshaw. Hell, she'd even take a horse at this point. Anything to leave. To leave and disappear and let it all go. She'd never come back. There was no need to. She'd taken the leap and then sunk like a stone. It had all been a mistake, every single part of it. Every moment, including this one. She was doing the right thing, leaving. It was the only thing left to save herself before she drowned.

“Nora, come on.” He took a step toward her, shoving both of his hands inside his suit pockets. “We haven't seen each other in almost fifteen years. Can't you give me two minutes?”

She lowered her arm slowly and stepped back on the curb. His shoes were a rich oxblood leather with dark stitching around the toes.

“You look so—” he started.

“How'd you even get here?” She interrupted quickly, already
knowing the answer but dreading the polite, useless banter that would insult them both if she did not ask. “I mean, here. With Monica.”

“Ozzie called me. Last night; around one a.m., I think. She told me where you all were, what was going on, and . . .” He shrugged. “I don't know if Monica'll actually retain me as her attorney, but I was glad to put in an initial appearance until she decides.”

She raised her eyes, but only to tie level, a rich cream silk with navy stripes. “How did Ozzie get your number?”

“She said she looked it up in the phone book while you guys were in the ER.” He cleared his throat, a nervous sound. “I used to work in Jersey, but now I'm in private practice in Chelsea. I have an ad in the yellow pages.”

She nodded slowly, absorbing the information a bit at a time. “Well, it was nice of you to help.” She flicked her eyes at him and turned around to focus on the street again. “It was good to see you, Theo.”

“Nora.” He stepped off the curb and stood next to her. He smelled different, she realized. Older. Stranger. Richer. Which he was, of course, on all counts. How foolish she was to think he would smell the same, that the old Twizzler smell might still be there, lingering around his earlobes.

“Do you have kids now?” It came out before she realized she had formed the thought and hung there in the air between them, a faint bubble.

“No.” He squinted at something, toed a bare spot on the pavement. “My wife wanted them, but I . . .” He rolled his teeth over his bottom lip. “It's why we split up.”

A yellow cab peeked around the corner at the opposite end of the street. She moved toward it, blinking back tears.

“Nora.”

“I have to go. I really do.”

“Ozzie told me what happened, Nora. That last week. At Turning Winds.”

Her arm froze as she struggled to breathe. The oxygen in the air seemed to have been cut off, and for a moment, her mouth open and shut like a fish. And then as before, a sudden gasp of breath, a surfacing again. She whirled around.

“You
knew
?” Her rage was at a peak now; a new blood coursed through her veins.

“Not until after.” Theo swallowed, his Adam's apple as big as a peach pit. “Ozzie wrote me a letter after she got to that ranch in Montana, and she told me. I saw her again totally by accident at a bar a few years back, and we talked about it again.” He took another step toward her. “Why didn't you ever tell me?”

The cabdriver had seen her and was moving the vehicle in their direction. “You knew?” she said again. “All this time? And you never called? You never—” She stopped as her voice broke, and she moved over as the cab slid in next to her.

“I tried.” Theo took her hand, but she shook it off. “I wanted to come see you when I came home from school that Christmas on break. I drove to the house three different times, but I couldn't do it. I don't know why. I was terrified for some reason. I'm sorry, Nora. I was an idiot. I was dating another girl at school, and I . . .” He stopped, squeezing the space between his eyebrows with his thumb and middle finger. “God, I'm so sorry.”

She got into the car, inhaling a strange, spicy scent. The driver
was wearing a purple turban and had a black beard that came down into a point.

He'd known?