True Places Page 8

  She arranged the stems without a word. Normally she would’ve just stuck them in the vase and called it good enough, but she was taking her time with it. Something on her mind, no doubt. He took a long sip from his beer.

  “Hey, Suze. Let’s not talk about the kids. If you don’t need help with dinner, I’m going to grab a quick shower.”

  She looked up at him and smiled, her nose crinkling just a little, as it always did. “I’m all set. We can eat in fifteen.”

  “Have some wine, bae. BRB.”

  She laughed at his appropriation of teenspeak. “Bae is so 2015, Whit.”

  Halfway through dinner Whit poured the last of the wine into their glasses. Suzanne had been quiet, and Whit, softened by the malbec, was ready to hear why, even if it did mean talking about the kids.

  “So you’re pretty subdued.”

  She put down her silverware and dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “I’d been thinking of asking you to come see Iris, to meet her.”

  He frowned. Iris again. “Why?”

  She met his gaze. “If you saw her, I think you’d understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “How vulnerable she is. And how special.”

  “Okay, but I don’t see why it matters. They’re still looking for her family, right?”

  “I think so. Yes.”

  “And if they don’t find anyone, then the system will take over.”

  She pulled back a little. “That’s a terrible phrase and a frightening thought.”

  “We hear horror stories about foster parents because that’s what makes news. I’ll bet most of them do a really good job.”

  Suzanne sipped her wine, weighing his argument. “I can’t see her slotting into just any family. Plus, she doesn’t trust anyone.”

  “The social workers will bring her around. That’s their job.” He didn’t like the direction the conversation was heading. Was she thinking they should foster this wild kid? Suzanne was worrying about something that had nothing to do with them.

  His wife hung her head. Her shoulders trembled and she reached for the napkin in her lap.

  “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  “She’s really sick, Whit.” Suzanne raised her head. Her eyes brimmed with tears. “I couldn’t see her today. She’s got a serious infection. I’m worried she might not make it.”

  Whit got up, squatted beside his wife, and stroked her head. “She’ll be okay, sweetheart. You said she was strong, right?”

  Suzanne wiped at her eyes. “If you could see her, Whit. She’s so skinny and scared.”

  He took her in his arms and wondered how it was they had ended up talking about kids after all. A kid who wasn’t even theirs. It pained him to see Suzanne so distraught.

  “Okay, Suze, okay. I’ll see where I’ve got an open slot in my schedule. I’ll meet your little forest girl.”

  His wife nodded and began crying again. All he could do, all he knew to do, was hold her.

  Three days later, Whit found himself standing at the foot of a hospital bed watching Iris sleep. One arm lay exposed on top of the covers, the IV needle taped to the back of her hand. Her wrist was no thicker than a broom handle, her fingers like twigs. So small. The bed, the equipment, he himself, seemed out of proportion and wrong somehow. Iris was asleep, but Whit got a hint of what Suzanne had described, that Iris was special. Suzanne had moved to the chair beside the bed. She smiled up at him but didn’t say anything.

  Iris stirred and opened her eyes. Whit was startled by their color. Iris studied him warily.

  “Iris,” Suzanne said.

  The girl turned to Suzanne. Her face relaxed like a dose of morphine had just kicked in. Suzanne’s smile was one Whit had not witnessed in a long while: open, loving, assured.

  “It’s wonderful to see you, Iris.” Suzanne nodded toward Whit. “This is my husband, Whit.”

  “Hi, Iris. I’m glad you’re feeling better. We sure were worried about you.”

  She gave him a small nod, less wary than before. And Suzanne turned her smile on him because he had used the word we . He hadn’t meant to imply anything, but it didn’t matter. When Iris tired, he and Suzanne would leave the hospital and talk about becoming foster parents for Iris. He knew exactly how the conversation would go. He would agree with her that Iris was in need. She would agree that it was only until Iris’s family could be located, which might be soon and might be never. (Whit assumed it would be soon—everyone had family.) They both would predict that Reid would not object to having Iris live with them and that Brynn would. “Generosity and compassion are good lessons for her,” Suzanne would point out, and Whit would have to agree with that, too. He knew they would fail to consider some things, that he would keep some of his reservations to himself, reservations that might grow into resentment. He knew all that.

  Because the moment Suzanne smiled like that at Iris, Whit knew what their decision would be. He could not stand in Suzanne’s way and break her heart.

  CHAPTER 11

  Suzanne was putting away groceries when she spotted her father’s black Jaguar XJS pull into the drive, carrying both her parents, she assumed, since Anson never visited her on his own. Suzanne couldn’t remember the last time she’d been alone with him for more than a few minutes. She didn’t crave his full attention, not that their being alone together would secure it. Her father did not seek out her company, and she did not seek out his. If only she’d been a boy, although there were no certainties even when parents got the gender they wanted. Suzanne’s constant management of Whit and Reid’s relationship confirmed that.

  Her parents swept into the house without knocking. Suzanne called out to them from the kitchen, although her first impulse had been to run out the back door and hide in the neighbor’s yard.

  “In here!”

  Tinsley deposited her handbag on a counter stool, unwrapped the paisley scarf from around her neck, and laid it on top. She was dressed in indigo jeans tucked into boots with motorcycle details, artfully scuffed. On top she wore a white silk blouse and a pale-gray leather jacket. Her makeup was minimalist perfection, and her hairstyle managed to walk the line between classic and up to the minute. Suzanne was bewildered by her mother’s abilities in this arena, how she could attain this appearance so precisely and yet be such a mess otherwise. Suzanne was the opposite and was certain Tinsley mused, as Suzanne herself often did, about the possibility that they were not in fact mother and daughter, or related at all. Their hair and their eyes linked them, however, and Tinsley bemoaned Suzanne’s difficult birth in such detail it was unlikely she had not been present.

  Judging by her father’s clothing, Anson had been commandeered for this mission directly from his tradition of Sunday-morning golf followed by lunch at the club. “Hello, Suzanne.”

  “Hi. How was your game?” Suzanne avoided calling him by name. “Daddy” made her feel like a little girl, his little girl, and if he had ever inspired that feeling when she was small, he didn’t now. “Anson” was out of the question. Far too forward and modern for him.

  Tinsley cut in. “What’s this I hear about you adopting this hillbilly girl?”

  So Whit had told them. Suzanne was hardly surprised. “Would you both like some coffee?”

  Tinsley pursed her lips as if this were a ploy. “If you have some, thank you.”

  Anson said, “Coke for me.”

  “Diet.” Tinsley cast a glance at her husband’s paunch, which was slight but nevertheless unacceptable.

  Suzanne pressed buttons on the espresso machine and retrieved a can of Coke Zero and a bottle of milk from the refrigerator.

  “Skim, please,” Tinsley said.

  “Of course.”

  Her father took a seat at the counter, accepted the soda from Suzanne, and filled her in on the details of his game. She listened in silence as she frothed the milk. The espresso finished sputtering. Suzanne made the latte, then passed the steaming mug to her mother.

  “Lovely, dear. T
hank you.”

  Suzanne nodded. “Now, about the girl. First, she’s not a hillbilly.”

  Her mother waved a hand. “Well, you know what I mean.”

  “I do. Her name is Iris.”

  “Iris? How charming.” She didn’t sound sincere. “You haven’t answered my calls or texts, so I was forced to speak with Whit about it. He said you had filled out paperwork.”

  Suzanne sighed and wiped the counter with a sponge. Why did Whit talk so freely with Tinsley? Her mother would forget half the facts and twist the meaning, and Suzanne would have to set her straight over something that was none of her business in the first place. Whit didn’t see Tinsley as anything other than a slightly nosy old lady. Suzanne wished it were true. “The paperwork is an application to become foster parents, just in case Iris’s family can’t be found. The process takes time, so we decided to get the ball rolling.” She didn’t mention that the detective had offered to help expedite the background check and said that a judge could hasten the approval if necessary. “It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

  Anson rolled his eyes.

  Tinsley jumped up from her seat. “Of course it means something! Whit didn’t sound that thrilled about it, reading between the lines. Just think, you might end up with her in your house!”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s the idea.”

  “Now, Suzanne,” Anson scolded, “there is no call for sarcasm.” His tone was mechanical, a ritualistic defense of his wife.

  Tinsley waved her hands as if bats were swooping around her. “You don’t know anything about this Iris. It’s all a bit suspicious.”

  Anson said, “If the police can’t find anything, it must be because she’s on the lam.”

  Suzanne shook her head. “You both watch too much TV.”

  Her mother’s eyes darkened. “And you have no right to endanger your family by bringing in an unknown element.”

  It was Suzanne’s habit to absorb such pronouncements, to internally deflect them while not outwardly disagreeing with her mother. What difference did it make what opinions Tinsley held? Except in the end it did, because her mother wormed her way into every corner of Suzanne’s life without, ironically, becoming invested in Suzanne in any way—not as a mother, not as a friend, not even as a pair of helping hands. The fact was that Tinsley had always depended on Suzanne. Tinsley’s obsession with keeping the surface of her life as smooth as her flawless skin had meant her daughter was a receptacle for her many complaints about Anson. Tinsley was needy and could not lean on her husband, not when he was the problem, and airing her grievances outside the shadows of their family home was out of the question. Suzanne had learned to be a good listener and to keep her own counsel.

  “I don’t know, Mother. Seems to me that the moment a woman decides to have children, she is bringing an unknown element into her life, don’t you think?”

  Tinsley stiffened. “I don’t know what you mean, Suzanne.”

  Anson spread his hands on the counter. “Now, I think we’re getting a bit off track here—”

  Suzanne ignored him. “I mean that motherhood is a crapshoot. You can try to do everything right, even think that you have, and still end up with a mess on your hands.” She winced at her own unexpected burst of honesty. She turned her back on her parents and began transferring produce from the shopping bags into the refrigerator.

  “Oh, Suzanne.” Her mother’s voice dropped a notch. “Reid’s become something of an oddball, anyone can see that, but he’ll probably grow out of it.”

  She closed the crisper a little harder than she meant to. Taking a deep breath, she shut the fridge door and faced Tinsley. “I wasn’t referring to Reid, Mother.”

  “Is that boy still hanging around him?” her father asked. “You know the one. The pill popper.” He jerked his chin upward to emphasize his distaste.

  Suzanne glared at him. “Alex is Reid’s best friend. And Reid would never let him down. Especially now.”

  Tinsley tittered. “You needn’t be so defensive about Reid. And surely you didn’t mean to say Brynn is a mess! She’s so popular and doing well in school.”

  “That girl is a firecracker,” Anson added. “She’s going places.” He smacked his hand on the counter for emphasis.

  Suzanne looked from her mother to her father, gathering her patience. She could’ve countered that Reid was also doing well in school, at least in the classes that interested him, despite the fact that his best friend had attempted suicide. She could have added that being a firecracker at age fifteen wasn’t necessarily a development worth celebrating. But she decided she had had enough of discussing her children with her parents. “I was speaking of parenting generally. But never mind. Whit and I will see what happens with Iris, and when we make a decision, if there’s one to make, I’m sure you’ll be the first to know.”

  After her parents left, Suzanne confronted the pile of unfolded clothes in the laundry. The kids were supposed to do their own laundry but usually only got as far as starting the washing machine. If they needed something, they just picked through the pile that Suzanne had run through the dryer. Suzanne didn’t care about a pile of clean clothes behind a closed door, but Whit couldn’t tolerate disorder. Fairness would dictate that he should therefore enforce the laundry rules, but he wasn’t around to do it and not inclined to be the heavy. Suzanne had fifteen minutes, and there were worse jobs.

  Partway through the pile, she came upon a T-shirt Reid had given Whit several years ago, picturing a pair of hiking boots and the words NOT ALL WHO WANDER ARE LOST . Whit had a fatal sense of direction; without GPS, he could get lost on the way home from the grocery store. When the children chided him for it, he would reply with the line from Tolkien. Suzanne smiled wistfully, remembering the laughter her son and husband had shared over the gift of the shirt. Reid was eleven at the time, gently testing out his hypotheses about what was good and bad about his expanding world, still trusting the frame of reference created by his parents. His world was theirs, so he and his father could laugh over each other’s foibles. Nothing was threatened. Now any topic at all, however mundane, had the power to push them further apart.

  She folded the shirt and added it to the growing stack. Her thoughts turned to Iris, alone in the forest for so long, neither wandering nor lost. Such freedom was foreign to Suzanne, and she wondered if her attachment to the girl was born of fascination with Iris’s independence. Growing up, Suzanne had been at the mercy of the tangled misery of her parents’ marriage; she’d had no agency and little love or attention as compensation. College was an escape route, and like a perennially captive animal, Suzanne had needed those years to begin to understand the mechanics of psychological freedom. Finally, believing in love at last, she’d allowed her heart to wander, and it was then that Suzanne had become truly lost.

  CHAPTER 12

  June 1995

  The night noises of Dar es Salaam were versions of those of other cities—the car horns higher by a fifth, voices rising and falling in odd cadences, the air spiced with the smell of salt and fish, mixing with the acrid scent of fuel. Sheets thin as gauze. His lips, his skin, his breath, his muscles were versions of those of other men. Here is another man who wants my body, Suzanne thought, as she chose to give it to him. After, he dropped off to sleep while she listened to the city settling down, but not stilled, like a sick child succumbing to exhaustion and yet remaining awake.

  The man was Dmitri Gregory, a postdoctoral student under Professor Reiner, who had been Suzanne’s senior thesis adviser in botany. Suzanne had harbored a crush on Dmitri since starting work in the lab two years earlier. He was friendly enough but showed no indication of returning her interest until they found themselves traveling together here in Tanzania. Sitting next to him on the plane for fourteen hours, his elbow grazing hers on the armrest, had been exquisite torture. Dmitri had claimed the hotel looked too shady for her to stay in her own room. She didn’t think he felt anything for her, but she wasn’t about to turn down an
invitation to share a room and a bed, as there was only one.

  Suzanne had never been in love. She first understood what love was, and become aware of its tenuous relationship to sex, through the teachings of Tinsley, who shared the infidelities of her husband (“your father”) with Suzanne as if Suzanne were not a child of thirteen, or fifteen or seventeen, but a close adult friend or marital therapist. Suzanne’s father, Anson, did little to balance his growing daughter’s views of men. Disappointed that Suzanne was born female, he neglected to spend time with her, and it never would have occurred to him to curtail his affairs because they might give his daughter the wrong impression of men. That chain of reasoning was too long for Anson, who believed people were born as they were and acted within their natures. If he was a man who enjoyed variety in women, that was that, and what Suzanne would be attracted to or tolerate in men had nothing to do with him. He asserted she had turned out just fine and felt thereby vindicated.

  Suzanne’s take, unchanged since her adolescence, was somewhat different. Men were unreliable, self-serving shits. That didn’t mean she hadn’t had lovers, or even a boyfriend or two, starting in her late teens, but her heart wasn’t on the line—it wasn’t anywhere anyone could damage it. Once she left home, she kept men away from her apartment and insisted on leaving theirs before morning. If a man wanted to get close, she’d make excuses to slow things down, or just break it off. Her friends shook their heads and said she acted just like all the douchebags they’d been jilted by. She shrugged and replied that she hadn’t found the right guy yet and wasn’t going to waste her time pretending. Only her very best friend, Mia, knew the real story.

  A police siren wailed, becoming louder as it neared. Suzanne glanced at Dmitri. He did not stir. She couldn’t put her finger on what was different about him. Maybe nothing. Maybe at twenty-one she had finally stopped seeing every man as a version of her father. Maybe it was being so far from home, in a land so strange the rules and ideologies she had come to accept as truth were no longer applicable. He was a wonderful lover, especially considering her body was foreign territory. In retrospect, Suzanne would speculate that might have been the influence of Africa, too. It was a naked, sensual place.