“Me, too.”
“I guess she still has setbacks every so often.”
“We have to find her, Tom.”
Rita heard her voice cracking, as she let herself be pulled into his embrace, but even the way he patted her back felt mechanical. It wasn’t comforting. If her brother looked worried, he didn’t look worried enough; there was something hard and concentrated about his expression, as if he were bracing himself for the worst because he’d always known in his heart the worst would one day happen.
“We will find her. I’ll drive around the neighbourhood and swing by the mall on my way home.”
“Already did that,” Gerald interrupted.
“Mom’ll come back on her own. Any minute.”
Tom was just saying what they wanted to hear.
“And what if she doesn’t?”
“Well, then. It’s out of our control, I guess.”
Maybe, deep down, he’d find it a relief if the worst happened. To be free. Free of the fear that next time their mother wouldn’t be okay. Free at last of the burdens of family. For reasons Rita had never entirely understood, Tom had long resigned himself to the fact that their family was a losing investment. And what was the point of throwing good money after bad? He could walk away from it all; in his head, maybe he’d already walked away years ago. His powers of self-preservation never ceased to amaze her. Sure, he’d worry about Lily’s disappearance, to a point, and then that would be it. He wouldn’t move heaven and earth to find her.
If anyone were going to step up, it would have to be Rita.
“So I hear your ma’s had memory issues for a while now?” There was an aggressive edge to Gerald’s voice, implying that someone should have filled him in a long time ago.
“Sure, she has her ups and downs,” Rita said. She could feel the tension running up her brother’s neck, the same posture overtaking her own body.
“Must’ve been hard being a single mom. Bad luck, your father’s death.”
Rita and Tom exchanged arch looks, his a little sharper than hers. They could imagine how Lily would have spun the story for Gerald, the story of how she’d tragically lost her beloved husband.
“Did she tell you things were peachy ’til Kaz kicked the bucket? That he was a great dad — Father of the Year?” Although Tom wore a bit of a simper, his jaw had tightened. It was the look he’d get while leaning over a pool table.
“You two didn’t get along?”
“Never got a chance to find out.”
Gerald looked befuddled.
“The guy walked out on us.”
“What? I thought he died of a stroke.”
Rita glanced at her brother warningly. Why did Gerald have to know about any of that crap? “Yeah, he did die of a stroke.”
“But that only happened years later. After he’d left us high and dry.”
“Oh.”
“Yep. Kinda sucks, doesn’t it.”
“Where’d he go?”
“Moved back to California, apparently. Then, five, six years later, he checked out for good.”
“But Lily said —”
“Lily says a lot of things.”
“Why’d she lie to me?”
“Don’t take it so personal, Gerald. It’s what she tells everyone. Kaz died of a stroke. If it wasn’t for that, they’d still be two peas in a pod. Hell, maybe she even believes it.”
Tom’s glum, blindly accepting expression filled Rita with a heavy, bloated feeling. They’d both long given up trying to figure out what made their mother this way.
But Gerald continued to look hurt and confounded.
“Yeah, it sucks.” Tom shrugged then straightened up. “But, ya know what? Ya get over it.”
In a way Rita envied him; at least he had something to get over. In her case the process of moving on had never been as clear: how could you get over someone you couldn’t remember? Kaz had left when she was less than a year old. There weren’t even any photos of him around the house to trick her into thinking she recalled some detail — a stubbly jawline, an old cardigan. “What was he like, Tom? Did Kaz play ball with you? What kind of car did he drive?” Rita used to ask. Jenny Smart’s dad drove a creamy Oldsmobile convertible and smiled like the man in the toothpaste ad and said things like, “Fake it ’til you make it,” a phrase he’d learned at a business course in a church basement. But Tom always shook free of Rita’s grasp. “He was never around. He was a loser, a bum. I don’t know.”
Lily was no less tight-lipped. And it was dangerous to push her because the mere mention of Kaz’s name could presage a plummet in her mood.
Snippets of information Rita had scavenged from eavesdropping on Lily and Grandpa: Kaz had been a man who liked to dance, a man who was good with the ladies; he’d had no respect for the rules; he was a lazy, good-for-nothing bum. They rarely talked about him, beyond a lone comment, quickly averted. Still, it was enough to provide her imagination with a hanger on which she could drape her own images and associations. If Kaz had been a bum, she pictured Marlon Brando in On the Waterfront, a man of principles, in his own tragic, sorry-ass way. Or he was like Alan Ladd in Shane, full of simmering fury and underlying decency.
“So how did your mom meet this Kaz fellow?” Gerald’s arms were tightly crossed, his face lit up in blotchy patches.
“I guess they must’ve met at camp,” Tom said.
“Camp?”
“Yeah, it was just some church camp,” Rita blurted.
Although Tom raised an eyebrow, he began nodding, backing her up. “Picnics, canoeing, you know.” Amused complicity twitched about his lips. Maybe neither of them was prepared to get too cozy with Gerald Anderberg just yet.
“Hey, I love camping. One of these days, I’m gonna buy us a Winnebago.”
“You do that,” Tom said.
Heat bloomed over Rita’s skin. She tried to get a hold of her breathing, her throat too narrow for all the choppy emotions suddenly surging up. She didn’t understand where this urge for secrecy was coming from — the very refusal to talk about the past that had forever irked her about their mother. But what did she and Tom know about what had gone on at camp? For all they knew, it had been one big cookout, everyone holding hands around the fire, singing “Kumbaya,” or the Japanese equivalent. It was as much a mystery to them as to anyone. They’d just be guessing, spinning tales.
The Desert
1943
Three
At first, he faded into the mountain’s shadow. Lily’s eyes played tricks on her. That dark presence at the edge of her vision, could it be nothing more than sand and wind and her lonely imagination? The ground was a mess of chalk dust flying up and mixing with the powder on her cheeks, sticky as cake batter. Should she turn around? Cast a flirtatious glance over her shoulder? But that would seem immodest, and she had to leave those days behind.
The farther she walked, the more certain she became that someone was following her. An admirer in the middle of the desert? That meant she still looked pretty — at least, somewhat. The rush of adrenalin jarred her mood from the falling grey skies.
All the barracks looked the same: the same sagging, makeshift steps and filthy mop perched outside,