You should come and visit, Gil says. London’s not so bad really.
Yeah, come, I say and Lynda says, Maybe this summer.
We all hug and kiss, even Jake, and everyone feels happy to have met and sad to be parting so soon.
Lynda and Jake walk out to the car with us and at the last minute Jake grabs my arm and pulls his Mets cap down onto my head. I try to take it off but he won’t let me, so I get into the car and wave out the back window until we go round a bend and they disappear.
twenty-one
We’ve put it off as long as possible, but it’s clear that Gil has to tell Suzanne that Matthew wasn’t where we thought he’d be.
Gil stares at my phone, bracing himself, and finally takes out his laptop and writes her an e-mail.
He looks up at me, a little guilty. Do you think I’m a coward?
Only a little, I say, thinking, I wouldn’t want to tell Suzanne in person either. I’m guessing that Gil doesn’t mention Lynda or Jake in his e-mail; Suzanne is not the sort of woman who would think it was fine to have Matthew’s old girlfriend and the son he’s never told her about living in his bachelor pad.
I keep wondering how Matthew is going to keep Jake a secret forever. Surely Suzanne will find out someday. If Matthew and Suzanne stay together, how on earth will he explain? There are so many unexploded bombs in Matthew’s life. Every day must bring the possibility of discovery. It seems to me like a living hell but maybe he’s used to it. Or maybe it’s why he left home.
For the first time I’m conscious that Jake is Gabriel’s half brother. Will they meet? Will they grow up to be like their father? Who will I grow up to be like?
I wonder at what point a child becomes a person. Does it happen all at once, or slowly, in stages? Is there an age, a week, a moment, at which all the secrets of the universe are revealed and adulthood descends on a cloud from heaven, altering the brain forever? Will the child-me slink off one day, never to return?
I can’t imagine living a real life, or how I’ll ever be an adult. It seems like such an unlikely transformation. Someday I may be someone’s partner or someone’s mother or someone’s forensic pathologist. Someday I may drink too much or have a child I never tell anyone about. Someday I might run away from everything, for reasons of my own.
That me is impossible for present-me to imagine.
I cannot picture me grown up. I cannot picture me any different from the me I am now. I cannot picture me old or married or dead.
Crouching down on the floor with Honey, I press my cheek against her face. She smells warm and woodsy, like dog. Her thoughts are in the moment, not the future or the past. She longs for something she can’t define, for a state of equilibrium. If Matthew were to walk through the door now, she would feel complete; her terrible yearning would go. It is impossible to tell her that we may see him soon, or next week, or never. She has only two ways of understanding her situation: yearning and yearning gone. On–off.
Simple.
I wonder if we should tell Suzanne that we’re just filling up time to make ourselves look useful. But that would be like saying We’re really grasping at straws here trying to find some vague connection to the husband who ran out on you and Gabriel, leaving no trail at all, because I suppose he doesn’t really want to be found. Found by you, anyway. Which feels so close to the truth, barring unexpected murder/suicide/kidnapping, that I really can’t bring myself even to think it in the same room as Gil e-mailing Suzanne, in case she overhears.
I hear the whoosh of the e-mail flying off across New York State and for a moment we both sit perfectly still.
Well? I say. Now what?
Excellent question, Gil says. I guess we return to Suzanne’s if we can’t think of anything else.
I can’t imagine what else we might think of, but I don’t say that.
We are failing. Not only that, but we have come all the way from England to fail. When I turn to Gil, he has just closed his laptop and is staring at it, looking as lost as I feel.
Well, Perguntador, he says. We’re not terribly good detectives.
But the first rule of being a detective, I tell him, is Do No Harm, and we’re not doing any harm, are we?
That’s doctors, Mila, not detectives. The first rule of detection is Find Your Man. And we’re not doing that either.
A long silence sits in the air and in it we feel separate dejections. Way in the back of my head something nags and nags but I still can’t grasp it.
How much do you like Lynda?
Gil frowns. Why on earth do you ask that?
I look at him.
Just the normal amount. It was a long time ago that we were close, he says. What are you thinking? He peers at me closely.
I don’t answer.
Then he says, You don’t think I’m in love with her? He removes his glasses, rubs his eyes with one hand and replaces them. I’m not. Of course I’m not. He sighs. Perguntador, he says softly. The past is littered with people we’ve loved, or might have loved. You’ll find out in time.
I say nothing for a while. And then, Let’s go.
Yes, OK, Gil says, a bit wearily.
I’ll bring my charts and maybe we can read something between the lines.
Or allow ideas to connect where they may.
Willy-nilly. At random. I give him a look.
One must have faith.
One does, I say, and take his hand, thinking of all the people he might have loved.
We pack up. I finish before Gil and press my nose to the window. The snow is still falling.
Where does it all come from?
Too many questions, Gil says. Something to do with ice crystals attaching to each other in groups of six. It’s pretty odd, when you think about it.
And no two alike.
That’s right. Almost makes you believe in God.
Does it make you believe in God?
He shakes his head. No, I said almost. What about you?
No. But no two alike is strange. I wonder how they can be sure.
And who they are. Gil is smiling now. The snowflake scientists. Legions of them, catching and examining billions of snowflakes every year, just on the off chance . . .
And what if they see one they think they recognize but the twin has already melted?
They’d take pictures, wouldn’t they? Give them some credit, Mila. They’re scientists. They’d be wonderfully scientific.
Does thinking about snowflakes make your head hurt?
Yes, he says.
It make me feel small.
Ah, Gil says. That all depends where you’re standing. If you’re right in the foreground, you’re huge. In my head, you’re bigger than Big Ben or the Andromeda Galaxy. Much bigger.
The Andromeda Galaxy? Really?
Much bigger. Now let’s check out and buy some snow gear. This doesn’t look like it’s going to end any time soon.
Gil pays at reception and they don’t charge us extra for not checking out at noon.
Doubt we’ll be getting much of an influx tonight, the receptionist says. Not many people driving in this weather.
Gil and I glance at each other. Not many tourists dumb enough to drive in this weather? Except us, of course.
We head back into town. Gil drops me across from the local minimart and drives further up the road to find waterproof jackets and boots for us both, and mittens and matching hats. My job is to stock up on provisions: bananas, apples, bread, jam, sliced ham, cheese. When I’ve paid for all of that, plus a large bottle of water, there’s enough left over to buy a special offer of chocolate marshmallow Wagon Wheels, Rock Bottom Price, Limited Time Only! They’re piled high in boxes by the register and looking at them I imagine the limited time to be something like forever.
I lug the groceries in the direction Gil headed, and see the car just ahead. Gil is waiting for me, looking at a map.
I should phone Lynda to say good-bye, he says, and I hand him our phone.
They chat for a fe
w minutes about Matthew, and Gil promises he’ll let her know how it all turns out. Good-bye, Lynda, he says at last. Let’s not leave it another twenty years. And then he presses end. He looks at what I’ve bought. Perfect, he says, now let’s get going. Apparently there’s even more snow coming from the east. If we’re lucky we’ll stay ahead of it.
He hands me back the phone and a few seconds later it bleeps.
Oh god. What if it’s Matthew?
But it’s not Matthew. It says: Ta ta old chap. See you in London.
And it’s signed: Jake
I wrap my hand over the screen and place it carefully in my pocket.
On the way out of town we stop one last time and I run into the camping supply place where they’re advertising cheap blankets on special offer. They’re printed like old-fashioned woolen Navajo blankets but made of recycled plastic bottles. The same guy is working and he recognizes me.
Some storm, eh? he says.
We don’t have storms like this in London.
London? Is that where you’re from?
Yup. London, England.
What’re you doing here? he asks, waiting for the receipt to come out of the register.
We’re looking for someone who’s lost.
His expression tells me that this is a strange and unexpected answer to a polite and ordinary question.
Lost in the snow? His eyes widen.
No. Lost before the snow started. He might not even be lost, for all I know. I guess he knows exactly where he is.
I am aware that he is staring at me.
I sigh. It’s complicated, actually.
Yeah, he says, and hands me the bag with the two blankets and the change. I hope you find him.
Thanks.
That is, if you want to find him.
As I get to the door, I turn round and look at him. Yes, I do want to find him. I want to know why he left.
And then I go out.
Well done, Gil says, appraising the blankets. I hope we won’t need them, but it’s better to be safe.
To tell the truth, I don’t mind the thought of needing them, imagining Honey and Gil and me curled up like hibernating bears in our car, eating chocolate-covered Wagon Wheels and waiting for the snow to melt.
We set off. It’s getting dark. Kids in town are throwing snowballs at one another while their mothers shout at them to stop. The world has turned a deep and dreamy white and I don’t ever want to stop looking at it. I think of Jake with a secret thrill that cancels out the sick feeling I get thinking of Matthew.
My eyes shut and the whirling snow takes me into a dream of the camp and the fire and the music.
We drive for a while, the windscreen wipers skwooshing snow back and forth, the traffic report muttering out of the radio, Gil hunched up over the wheel of the car with his face nearly up against the windscreen, his usual position now. Our headlights light up more snow.
Whenever I open one eye there’s nothing but snowflakes. The traffic is moving slowly, and despite worrying that road conditions might make this my last ever journey on earth, I like the feeling of being here in this strange, warm, murmuring place while nature blows billions of nonidentical crystals at us.
I glance over at Gil. He hates driving in London, much less in a blizzard in upper New York State with no known destination.
I send another text to Matthew. If we die in the snow it’s your fault.
And then I text Jake. See you in London. Xxx Mila
It’s a little risky adding the x’s when he didn’t put any on his, but it might be the last message I ever send, so what the hell. Pressing send gives me the feeling that something between us has been sealed.
Gil finds the highway and it’s crowded, everyone moving slowly as the snow whirls harder. Occasionally a gust of wind hits the side of the car like a slap and tries to push us out of our lane. Ahead and to the side I see cars skidding. I suppose I should be nervous but I’m feeling strangely flat. There’s nothing I can do except not distract Gil. I climb over into the backseat, put my seat belt on and curl up with my head against Honey’s back. It’s bonier than it looks but she’s warm and her breathing is deep and slow. The snowflakes spin and reel and Gil switches over to a classical music station that comes in full of static; I think about Jake, and a cello lulls me to sleep.
• • •
When I wake up it’s still snowing but we’re moving reasonably well. The traffic station is on again—a young woman’s voice—and we pass a big snowplow with flashing lights, growling along in the other direction like a great yellow beast.
I lean forward through the gap in the front seats. How far do we have to go?
We’ll come off the highway where we can and stay the night, Perguntador. We’re not far away. With no weather this would be a breeze.
I wonder what no weather would feel like. White sky, invisible temperature. Comfortable, weightless. I’m not all that anxious to get back to Suzanne’s.
The red taillights ahead all flash on at once and Gil steps on the brake. We slide a little and slow. What’s this? he murmurs as we crawl along, until about a mile later the traffic comes to a complete stop. Oh Christ, he says, must be an accident.
And sure enough, after ten minutes sat perfectly still in the snow with the wipers still going and the traffic station blathering about wind and snow like we can’t see for ourselves, and the heat blowing out of all the vents, a police car flies past in the breakdown lane followed by another, followed by an ambulance.
There, says Gil. Glad it’s not us.
We sit for ages and finally Gil turns off the engine. It’s nearly eight, he says, time for supper. So I make us ham and cheese sandwiches with apples and Wagon Wheels for dessert. Instead of dog food, I make Honey a sandwich too. Emergency rations, I tell Gil. Honey takes her sandwich politely and doesn’t grab, but then scarfs it down in three bites. She seems restless all of a sudden and I venture out into the snow to walk her. Gil says, Be careful, but nothing’s moving. The only danger is losing the car; they all look the same in the snow. But there’s a big blue van behind us so we won’t get lost. Honey’s got an upset stomach and I guess it’s the food I’ve been giving her. She’s probably a bit old to change to a whole new diet, even if she likes it better.
We’re not out very long but the temperature in the car has dropped. We settle down in the back with my blanket. Gil says he’s getting cold too, so I unzip the plastic protector bag and hand him the second one. I can see my breath now but feel cozy enough. We find the local news, in which a government official’s arrest for misdeeds gets equal billing with the storm. In London, this would be the biggest news for a century.
I text Jake.
We’re stuck on the motorway in the snow. Hope we survive. x Mila
The snow collects on the windows and it’s impossible to see out. An hour passes, an hour and a half.
At last Jake texts back. We call it a highway. Don’t freeze to death before I get a chance to visit.
This makes me smile.
We wait. I doze. Gil listens to the radio.
After what seems a very long time, a policeman with a huge orange jacket looms out of the dark, knocking on the window of every car to make sure we’re OK, that we’re not elderly and freezing to death, or about to give birth. Sorry, folks, he says, we’ll have you moving just as soon as we can. In the meantime, stay warm and don’t run your battery down. Well done, he says to us when he sees our blankets. And when Gil answers with a question about the accident, the cop just says, Figures it’s a bunch of Brits who come prepared.
His radio crackles and he talks into it. Good, he says. Roger. And signs off.
Dad looks at him inquiringly and he says, We’re moving. Got two lanes clear. Start your engine, let it warm up. See you folks later, enjoy your stay in the great state of New York.
I hear him banging on the window of the van behind us.
I wish I could have asked what the accident was, but I didn’t dare and he probably wou
ldn’t have told me anyway. I hope it wasn’t a whole family killed.
The brake lights of the cars ahead light up and clouds of steam rise from cold engines. I feel a little rush of excitement that we’ll be on the move again. A flashing blue strobe light appears inside the car. I look out of the back window and see another police car.
Gil starts the wipers. What a predicament, eh? It’s nonstop adventure here in the New World.
There’s no arguing with that.
We’re moving now, slowly, with a bit of slippage at first but picking up speed, and as we approach the accident we can see a big gray people mover and a smaller car completely scrunched up beside it. There are a few officials standing huddled around, and some cops directing traffic and shouting at everyone to Keep Moving, Keep Moving! The ambulances have gone.
Gil blinks.
What?
Nothing. I was just thinking about Owen. A highway, a winter’s night. Gil shakes his head. Icy roads, a bit like this maybe.
I close my eyes and imagine how it must have been that night. For the child who died on the road. For the father who survived.
Rubbernecking delays, says Gil. He nods at the cars just ahead of us, passing the accident. Now I get it.
Get what?
People craning their necks to see what’s happened, in case there’s some awful scene of carnage. Rubber. Necking.
I feel ashamed of not wanting to miss it either.
How many years since Owen died?
Gil thinks. Three years, he says, and as he says it, something occurs to him. He must have been just the age you are now.
For some reason this information makes my stomach lurch. I remember the phone call late at night, the news that Matthew’s son had died. It didn’t mean much to me at the time. People I hardly knew.
Meeting Jake makes Owen seem more real. Also, someone exactly my age being dead makes me think about dying more than someone younger or older. The ghost of Owen will always be the same age as Jake. How could Matthew ever stop thinking about that?
I tap Gil on the shoulder. Why did you and Matthew stop seeing each other?
He glances at me in the mirror, even though it means taking his eyes off the road. We didn’t exactly stop seeing each other, he says. When he and Suzanne moved upstate, it just wasn’t so easy anymore. Not like dropping in when I was in New York City. And I got busy too; I didn’t travel to New York so much. Gil frowns. I don’t know, sweetheart. Time passes, relationships drift.