And She Was Page 12

  “Not true.”

  “I can’t believe you would say that. It’s not like you don’t remember, so it can only mean you’re lying to me.” It got so Brenna stopped mentioning the clarinet altogether. Maya was an artist, after all, happier behind a canvas than on a stage—why should Brenna force her child up there, especially seeing as she’d never enjoyed the spotlight much herself?

  But then this year, out of the blue, Maya had signed up for the school chorus—which rehearsed four nights a week—giving up both her cartooning class and the new Dr. Who on BBC America in order to fit it into her schedule. Brenna couldn’t figure out why, and Maya never offered an explanation, but tonight, as she stood in the back of the brightly lit auditorium, watching the P.S. 125 All-Classes Chorus belt out “We Are the World,” Brenna got it.

  Maya’s music was on a stand in front of her, but it might as well have been in another school across the country for all the attention she paid it. No—as far as Brenna’s daughter was concerned, every word, every note in the song was dedicated to a Justin Timberlake look-alike, back row center (easily six feet tall and with a beard—how old was this boy?), who gazed out into the spotlight as if he owned it.

  Brenna caught Maya’s eye and smiled. Maya nodded, but when Brenna cast a quick, quizzical glance at JT Jr. and then back, the girl’s eyes went dead, then pointedly dropped to the music book. Brenna cringed into the shadows at the edges of the room—Okay, sweetie. Won’t mention it again . . .

  The boy was launching into a solo now, his fully mature, American Idol–ready voice urging, “Let’s start giiiivvvvvinnnng,” with enough runs to give Beyoncé pause. He had to be at least sixteen, which—apart from being much too old for Maya—made Brenna start remembering Iris Neff again. Iris, who would be sixteen now if alive—sixteen and putting in calls to Carol Wentz, according to Carol’s chat room friends. About a week ago. Late night. Lydia said her daughter called, ClaudetteBrooklyn20 had typed. Reading it, Brenna had assumed Carol had made it up, that Iris’s phone call had been created in the depths of the same fevered and desperately lonely mind that allowed Carol to be Lydia Neff—her husband’s rumored lover—online. But now, Brenna wasn’t entirely sure that Carol had made anything up. Brenna recalled the teenage girl’s voice on the phone at Nelson’s house. It’s my fault . . . She remembered the squeak of old bicycle wheels in the woods behind Nelson’s house—woods that stretched all the way down the length of Muriel Court, ending at the old Neff home, where she’d seen Iris’s childhood bicycle peering out of the shadows.

  Stop. If Iris had come back to Tarry Ridge, why would she have called Carol instead of the police? How could a missing girl come home and stay hidden? Even as those thoughts came to her, though, others followed—Clea disappearing. Clea staying hidden. Hidden for twenty-eight years and yet still Brenna hoped, still Brenna knew . . .

  Brenna closed her eyes, forcing her memory to bring back the days after Iris Neff disappeared—the news reports she’d listened to, the TV magazine segments she’d watched, rapt. Then she plucked her cell phone out of her bag and texted Trent: September 14, 1998. Dateline NBC did a story on Iris Neff. Pls. contact NBC get a pic of Iris from archives and put it thru yr computer aging program.

  Trent immediately texted back: On it.

  The song was over. When Brenna looked up, the chorus was dispersing and Maya was coming toward her, face red and her jaw tensed, eyes aimed straight ahead and filled with pain. It took Brenna only a few seconds to see why, for there was JT Jr., lit up like the Chrysler Building, running across the room to greet a wild-haired girl in very tight jeans—a girl five years and a boob job shy of Trent’s bulletin board. He crossed right in front of Maya in order to do it, too, fell into the girl’s arms and kissed her full on the mouth with that oh-so-embarrassing teenage directness—both of them so new to physical maturity that it was something to flaunt, to rev like a motorcycle engine on a peaceful street. Yes, she was more age-appropriate than Maya. But if her jeans were any tighter, she’d be wearing them internally, and Brenna hated her and him both.

  “You’re on time,” Maya said. “What a surprise.”

  “Spare me the sarcasm.” Brenna tried not to notice Maya’s trembling lip. Still, she wanted so to hug her, the way she had during Hannah Friedman’s fifth birthday party at the Tompkins Square Playground on May 17, 2000, when Maya had fallen off the jungle gym and lay on the dirt, crying “Mama!” and clutching her skinned knee. Brenna wanted to run to her daughter, just as she’d done then. She wanted to take her in her arms and stroke her hair and tell her, Everything is okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, sweetheart . . . But Brenna knew that wasn’t called for and wouldn’t be appreciated. She took Maya’s backpack instead, slipped it over her shoulder. “You ready?”

  Maya didn’t answer. She headed for the door, and Brenna followed, both of them walking out and into the chemical purple twilight without saying a word. The whole way to Brenna’s apartment, she and Maya walked in silence. Nothing new for them, but still her chest tightened, May 17, 2000, playing in her mind—leaving the party early, taking the 6 train to Serendipity, the pink cloth napkin tucked into Maya’s collar and the banana split with two long spoons, little fingers patting at the Scooby Doo Band-Aid and I feel all better now, Mama. I love you. The whole day, start to finish, every sight and smell and emotion and sensation, the whole day as if it were happening now and wishing Maya could have that, too, wanting to share it with her so badly . . .

  Once they got to the front door of Brenna’s walk-up, she stood back and let Maya use her own key. It wasn’t lost on her, the way her daughter’s hand shook when she slipped the key into the lock, the way she swatted at her eyes. Brenna knew that there had been such different scenes scrolling through Maya’s head during the walk home—but lucky for her, they were scenes she would one day forget. “He runs like a girl, you know,” Brenna said.

  Maya turned, and smiled, just a little.

  Remembering Morasco’s words at the hospital, Brenna pulled out her cell phone and tapped in his number once she was inside her building, following Maya up the first flight of stairs. He picked up fast. “About time.”

  “I had to pick my kid up at chorus.”

  “You’re a mom?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m surprised that didn’t turn up in your research.”

  He laughed. “I’m surprised, too.”

  “So . . .”

  “So.”

  “Was there something you wanted to tell me?”

  “Oh, right,” he said, as Brenna rounded the final flight to find her daughter at the apartment door. “Actually it was something I wanted to ask you.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Is Trent still here?” Maya said.

  Brenna checked her watch. Seven-thirty. She shook her head.

  Morasco was saying, “ . . . when Detective Pomroy and I were speaking to Nelson.”

  “Pomroy,” Brenna said. “Nice set of wheels he’s got there.”

  “You’ve seen the ride!”

  “You don’t see a 1982 Pontiac Trans Am,” Brenna said. “You experience it.”

  Morasco laughed. “You know your vehicles.”

  “Bet you guys call him Knight Rider behind his back.”

  He laughed harder. A grin pulled at Brenna’s face. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “I take the Fifth.”

  Maya was staring at her. “Who is that?”

  Brenna mouthed, Work call.

  Maya raised an eyebrow.

  What?

  Maya pointedly turned away, got her keys out of her pocket, and set about unlocking the door. God, she could be infuriating sometimes.

  “Anyway,” Morasco said, “what I wanted to ask you about is Nelson’s tool collection.”

  “His what?” she asked.

  Maya pushed the door open.

  “He had a pretty extensive one in his garage—and I’m wondering if he ever spoke to you about any of those tools in partic
ular, maybe one that went missing . . .”

  From the other side of the door, Brenna heard Maya scream.

  “Gotta go.” Brenna rushed into the apartment to find her daughter, frozen in the doorway, pointing at the man sitting in Trent’s chair. “What are you doing here?” Maya said.

  The man gaped back at her, mirroring her panic. “He let me in. The . . . the assistant. He told me to wait.”

  “Who are you?”

  “It’s okay, Maya.” Brenna’s gaze dropped to a small stack of files in the man’s lap, the manila folders faded and beige as the face, the hair, the watery eyes pleading up at her. “This man is one of my clients. His name is Nelson Wentz.”

  Brenna suggested Maya go into her room and do her homework, and for once she got no argument. Maya was through the kitchen and down the hall and closing the door behind her in a matter of seconds, without so much as one eye roll. I should ask Wentz to come here more often.

  “Your daughter?” Nelson squinted after Maya, his eyebrows pressing into each other. “She . . . uh . . .”

  “I know. She looks nothing like me.” It was true. In fact, apart from inheriting Brenna’s long, lanky build, Maya looked nothing like either one of her parents—a blonde-haired, blue-eyed shiksa goddess in their Semitic midst. “Switched at birth,” Jim used to joke, and Brenna had never wanted to say it, knowing how much it would trouble him, the mention of the name. But the one person, the only person out of both of their families whom Maya looked remotely like was Clea. She looked more like Clea every day.

  “What brings you here, Nelson?” Brenna asked.

  He cleared his throat. “The trunk.”

  “What?”

  “Do you remember Carol’s trunk—the one with the quilting supplies?”

  Brenna nodded.

  “It . . . it had a false bottom,” he said. “A piece of cardboard. I pulled it out, and underneath it . . .”

  Brenna’s gaze shot at the manila folders. “Those files?”

  “Yes.” He handed them to her. “I want you to have them,” he said. “Not the police.”

  Brenna flipped open the first file. She began to read the first page and for a moment, she was sitting across from Errol Ludlow in the Skyline Diner in White Plains on October 23, 1998, Errol sliding a manila folder across the Formica-topped table, smiling that oily smile, and Brenna looks into the eyes, dull like black olives, guilt heating up the backs of her ears . . . Brenna gritted her teeth, closed the file fast. “The Neff police report.”

  Nelson nodded. “That’s what was in Carol’s trunk. Nothing but pictures of Iris, her family, old newspaper clippings . . .”

  “Really interesting . . .”

  “At first I was thinking she was obsessed with Lydia because . . . Well, you know.”

  Brenna nodded.

  “But after you left tonight I looked through these files, Ms. Spector. I looked through all of them.”

  “Yes?”

  “I think she was trying to find Iris.”

  Again, Brenna recalled the girl’s voice on the phone, the squeak of bicycle wheels behind Nelson’s house. It’s my fault . . . Yes, it seemed bizarre. But still . . . Still. “I think so, too, Nelson.” Brenna cleared her throat. “And you know what else?”

  Nelson gave her a long look, a strange emotion working its way into his eyes—a mixture of hope and dread and growing knowledge. “What?”

  “I think she may have found her.”

  Brenna convinced Nelson to let her show Carol’s papers to Morasco—only to Morasco, no other police—with the added caveat that she would memorize them first. She told him that by tomorrow, she would have a perfect age-enhanced photo of Iris, and she would bring him a copy, plus she and Trent would canvass the neighbors, post it on the Web . . . if anyone had actually seen Iris Neff wandering around Tarry Ridge, they would soon know.

  After hearing this, he seemed to relax a little, but as he was making for the door, Nelson’s body stiffened again. “I hate going back to that house.”

  “I know. It must be so difficult for you.”

  “Not that,” he said. “I mean, it’s awful going back there, knowing what happened to Carol . . . But the phone calls, Ms. Spector.”

  “Reporters?”

  “Yes, and worse. So many hateful calls . . . They think I killed her. They think I had an affair with Lydia and she found out after all these years and confronted me and I . . . I can’t believe they would think that. People I don’t even know . . .”

  “Nelson?” Brenna said.

  “Yes?”

  “Is there anything I should know about your collection of tools?”

  Nelson’s lips tightened. The blood drained from his face until he looked the color of skim milk, and he shook his head, very slowly. “Why would you ask that?”

  “Well . . . they’ve all been bagged and removed from your garage. I’m just wondering if you’ve noticed any of them missing in the past few weeks.”

  “No.” He turned and left Brenna’s apartment, shutting the door hard behind him. Brenna heard Maya’s door opening, light shuffly footsteps as she approached. “He’s gone?” Maya said.

  “Yep.”

  She exhaled. “Weird guy.”

  “His wife was murdered,” Brenna said—a halfhearted protest. She looked at Maya. “But yeah. He’s definitely weird.”

  Chapter 14

  Brenna fixed spaghetti Bolognese for dinner. She plugged her MP3 into the speakers and put on some Rachael Yamagata—one of those rare artists she and her daughter both liked—and the two of them sat at the table, eating and listening to Rachael’s sad, yearning voice and not saying a word. Typical for them, but that didn’t make it right, did it? More and more, Brenna and Maya brought to mind those zombie couples you see in restaurants, eating entire meals without speaking, without looking at each other directly, without even chewing in unison.

  Maya didn’t seem to mind the lack of talk, but really, how was Brenna to know that? Perfect memory or not, Brenna still viewed the world through her own eyes, no one else’s. For years, she’d thought of Maya as quiet and laconic, not one for the spotlight—but was that really her daughter’s personality, or was it simply the effect Brenna had on her? “So what’s his name?”

  Maya looked up from her plate. “Who?”

  “You know. Back row center. Mr. Vibrato.”

  Maya put her fork down. She gazed at Brenna with those eyes—Clea’s eyes, blue as a baby’s, yet so full of knowledge you wanted to look away. “Miles.”

  “As in, Miles to go before he grows up?”

  Maya swallowed hard. “Apparently.”

  “He’ll be sorry.”

  “You think?”

  “If he has half a brain.”

  Maya rolled her eyes and went back to her plate. Brenna thought, I tried. For quite a while, there was nothing in the room, no sound at all but forks clinking on china and Rachael want, want, wanting to be your love and Brenna’s thoughts, teetering on the edge of a memory, wishing back to a time when she knew the right thing to say.

  “Mom?”

  Brenna wasn’t sure whether Maya had said it in her mind or here at the table. She put her fork down and waited until her daughter spoke again.

  Maya said, “When you were my age . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Did anything like Miles ever happen to you?”

  Brenna nodded. “Dave Handly. But I wasn’t your age. I was sixteen. And two months.”

  “Was he older?”

  “Yeah . . . He was one of those guys you hear about. Nineteen years old, and they still hang around their old high school, go to all the parties . . .”

  “You mean a total loser.”

  “Yes, honey. But I wasn’t as sophisticated as you, and so to me he was . . . a man.”

  “Did you go out with him?”

  “Honestly? I didn’t even talk to him. I pretty much just stood across rooms from him, staring,” Brenna said, her mind reeling back . . . �
�Until this one party at Lisa Minor’s house. October 7, 1986. It was 10 P.M. I’d been there for an hour. I was sitting on the couch with my friend Becky Joseph. She was telling me how she’d gone to third base with Kenny D’Amato, and . . . I probably shouldn’t have told you that.”

  “I know what third base is, Mom.”

  Brenna sighed. “Anyway, Becky is talking, and then this song starts playing on the stereo . . .”

  “What song?”

  “ ‘And She Was’ by the Talking Heads. It caught me by surprise and it . . . it triggered a . . . sad memory . . .” Brenna’s eyes went hot, her throat clenched up. Damn. Brenna dug her fingernails into her palms . . . Get it together . . .

  “You okay?”

  Brenna took a breath and blinked . . . “Fine . . . Anyway, like an idiot I start crying, right in the middle of Becky’s story. She says, ‘What the hell is wrong with—’ But before she can finish the sentence, there’s Dave Handly on the other side of me—right there on the couch, handing me a Kleenex.” Brenna swallowed some ice water. “Seriously, Lou Reed could have been handing me a Kleenex, I wouldn’t have been more starstruck.”

  “Lou who?”

  “Funny.”

  “So then what happened?”

  “We . . . uh . . . we spent some time together.” Brenna cleared her throat. “And Dave said some wonderful things . . .”

  “Like?”

  “He told me to tell him all the songs that make me cry. He wanted to know my favorite books, favorite movies, if my heart was ever broken and by whom . . . He said, ‘I want to know everything that makes you you.’ ”

  “Wow.”

  “Yep. But then two days later, I was waiting for the bus to take me home from school. He pulls right up in his black Karmann Ghia, picks up Lizzie Karp . . . and completely ignores me.” Brenna could feel the chill fall air at the back of her neck and on her cheeks, the waistband of the black corduroys she’d been wearing, Lizzie Karp’s giggly “Hi!” and the crunch of drying grass under her sneakers as Brenna shifts her weight, back and forth, back and forth . . .