Page 18

Strains of an up-tempo Disney song drifted from the living room. Sarah nursed a cup of jasmine tea in the kitchen as she listened to Izzy regale her with the day’s events. While Sarah was at the police station stewing beneath Detective Ritter’s gaze, Izzy had spent the day with the kids shopping for Halloween costumes and pumpkins.

“The store was like a Plasticine planet,” Izzy said, “crawling with kids all hopped up on primary colors. I tried to race a pickup truck just to find a parking spot. And then, to my horror, Charlie walks up to the driver of the truck, who could have been an extra on the Sons of Anarchy , in the freakin’ Hot Wheels aisle. The kid was clutching a plastic Hulk mask as a backup. Charlie glowered at this guy, who was easily three times his height, and, I swear to God, says to him, ‘You stole my auntie Izzy’s parking spot.’”

Both women tumbled into suffocating laughter. “I was dumbfounded and a little afraid. I kid you not, the image of tiny Charlie dressing down a Hells Angel will be burned in my brain for life. And the guy actually looked sheepish,” Izzy said when breath allowed.

To Izzy’s relief, she continued, the man had taken it in stride and apologized. Charlie nodded his approval and turned his attention back to the wall of miniature cars.

“Man, I had no idea how tough it could be shopping with kids,” Izzy said. “If you’re not shooing them away from some impulse purchase, you’re trying to stop them from taking on a biker. I’m exhausted.”

Sarah had come home just before dinner, putting off Izzy’s questions with a look. Over plates of bland chicken fingers and sliced tomatoes, the kids showed off their purchases: ninja and Hulk costumes littered the table, along with Hot Wheels and Beanie Babies. Izzy shrugged in response to Sarah’s raised eyebrow.

With dinner done, the weight of the day settled on them both.

“Well,” Sarah said, knowing she needed to fill the space with everything she’d learned in the last few hours. But bringing Izzy into it meant making it real, and how could it be real?

“Well,” Izzy said.

Sarah knew she had to tell Izzy—had to bring life to Ritter’s story by voicing it herself—but her thoughts were shapeless and scattered. As she sat down on the wobbly kitchen chair, the room seemed to warp around her like a reflection in a fun-house mirror. The feeling was disorienting and somehow welcome, as if she’d passed behind the looking glass to where Ritter’s reality intersected with her own. She looked around her kitchen, eyes landing on the little comforts of home: a wooden bowl overflowing with fruit, Bella’s hoodie draped over a chair, a handprint painting of a turkey stuck to the fridge. Sarah bolstered herself with the honey-sweet scent of the tea and began.

She poured out everything she’d learned about Matthew’s past—his other family, his previous disappearance, his secret daughter. Each revelation made her shiver, as if the words were talons against a blackboard. Sarah futilely wrapped herself tighter in the battered sweater she’d thrown on, knowing that the cold invading her was of her own making. Detective Ritter’s accusations spewed out of Sarah while Izzy listened, mouth open in incredulity. “He even asked me if Matthew or anyone we knew had a red Honda Civic. Didn’t even explain that question. Just stared at me. I mean, what the hell?”

When there was nothing more to tell, Izzy stood. Her eyes scanned the room. She strode to the cabinet above the fridge, and Sarah heard the welcome scrape of heavy glass on wood.

“We need something stronger than tea,” Izzy said. She set down an unopened bottle of scotch beside the chipped teapot. Three monkeys on the label glared out at the teapot with disdain. Izzy dumped the tea from their cups in the sink and splashed a generous inch of scotch in each. The smell of pine and woodsmoke quashed the jasmine. Sarah downed hers in one gulp and poured another before the burn in her throat had subsided.

“They think I did something to him, Iz,” Sarah said.

“That’s insane. What do they think? You overpowered him and then dragged your hundred-and-eighty-pound husband to some hidden spot in the wilderness with your kids in tow? Have they seen you?”

“I know it sounds nuts, but that officer, Ritter. He was sure I knew something about Matthew’s other family, that I knew about the girl. He kept insinuating I felt threatened or hurt. That I wanted revenge.”

“And did you?” Izzy asked. Her voice was a chuckle, as if she already knew the answer to a ludicrous question.

“No. Of course not.” Sarah looked beyond Izzy, unable to trust herself to look into her sister’s eyes. There was a fraction of a moment then, one that could have easily been a catching of breath, where Sarah considered releasing the unsaid, the bits of the story that she kept locked within herself. Instead, she swallowed the words along with the burn of her shame and remained silent.

“So, his theory,” Izzy said, cutting in before the moment could stretch into something more, “is that you found out about a secret family, and you plotted revenge rather than confront the lying SOB. This Ritter thinks you hid all this from your so-called husband and arranged for a family canoe trip, so you could, what? Kill your wannabe woodsman, get stranded with your kids, spend two weeks living in a hotel with traumatized children and—”

“Why don’t you like him, Iz?” Sarah couldn’t look at her sister. She swirled her cup and watched amber liquid drip syrupy legs down the porcelain.

“What?”

“Matthew. You’ve never liked him. You told me you thought he was arrogant when you first met him.” The burn from the scotch spread, igniting a prickle in Sarah’s toes and an irritation at the back of her mind.

“I like him fine, Sarah.”

“No. You don’t. You even tried to talk me out of marrying him. Remember? Ever since Matthew, you’ve drawn away from us, from me. You’ve been pretty much absent from my life these last few years.”

“That’s not true; I call every few weeks.”

“For Bella. You call for Bella. If it weren’t for that, I doubt we’d ever hear from you. I’m not stupid, Izzy. Obviously, I know you better than you think I do. You don’t like Matthew.”

“Look, Sarah, you’re tired, you’re scared—I get it. But you’re seeing things that aren’t there. And I’m sure a few shots of booze ain’t helping.” Izzy capped the bottle of scotch.

Sarah fell silent, too drained to argue. The scotch was having an effect, muddying her mind and body. She knew there had been tension between Matthew and Izzy from the beginning but had tucked it behind insecurities and the daily trivialities of life. The wall between the sisters had grown. And Sarah had decided to leave it alone. Until today.

Izzy stood at the sink. She closed her eyes and let the truth rattle around in her head. She had always had doubts about Matthew. Over time, they spread and expanded into distrust. No matter how hard Izzy tried to live around it, she couldn’t forgive Sarah for marrying Matthew.

When they first started dating, Sarah’s gushing descriptions were like reading a teenager’s diary.

“There’s just something about him,” Sarah had told Izzy when the sisters were together at Christmas. Sarah had been dating Matthew casually for a couple of months and had traveled to Toronto to be with her sister. The two spent a quiet, though comfortable, day eating too much chocolate and pretending the holidays didn’t rekindle the pain of their parents’ absence. “He’s smart and funny and so sexy.”

Izzy rolled her eyes at the cliché.

“I know what you’re thinking, Izzy. Believe me. Honeymoon phase. New relationship. Yada, yada. You could be right, but I don’t remember feeling like this with any other guy I’ve dated. When we’re together, we just click.”

“Isn’t that what you said about the last one?”

Sarah had prattled on so much over the holidays that Izzy decided she needed to meet Mr. Charming for herself. She drove to Ottawa on a frigid weekend in late January. Most of the city was in hibernation, leaving only ice crystals and a killing cold on the streets. Izzy’s first night, the sisters holed up in Sarah’s apartment. They shared gossip and a bottle of wine while nestled under a blanket on the couch. Icy pellets tapped at the window; the low hum of jazz barricaded them against the desolation in the sound.

They talked until they were too tired or too drunk to go to bed.

“You know who he reminds me of, Izzy? That dog we used to visit when we were kids.” They had turned off most of the lights, and Sarah’s voice was slow and dreamy. “The one that always bounded at us across the yard. What was its name? Do you remember? All the energy and those playful and still-sad eyes.” To Izzy, the memory of the big black Labrador rang like a warning.

Izzy and Sarah had seen the dog every day on the way to school. They never knew its real name, but Sarah called it Midnight, after its sleek coat. One morning, they passed Midnight, but the dog kept its snout buried in snow. Izzy noticed a fur mitten clamped in the dog’s mouth. She dropped to her knees, hoping to get his attention before Sarah.

“Here, Midnight,” Izzy said, and stretched out a mittened hand.

Midnight dropped his prize. A quiver of movement caught Izzy’s eye. The sharp, metallic smell of blood assaulted her nose. A rabbit lay on its side, one unseeing eye gazing to the sky, the hind leg twitching feebly. A watery-red pool stained the snow.

Izzy grabbed Sarah’s hand and pulled her away. “Hey, it’s my turn to pet him!” Sarah said.

“We’re going to be late,” Izzy had said as she dragged her sister into a run.

“I knew something was off from the beginning,” Izzy said, the memory of the rabbit coming back to her in Sarah’s kitchen, her niece and nephew in the other room. Her voice was hoarse under the weight of scotch. Unable to look at Sarah, she watched a plastic drugstore skeleton dance in the wind outside the kitchen window.

“Izzy, what do you mean?”

It had been so long ago, and memories were such fickle things.

Matt had joined Sarah and Izzy for a skate on the frozen Rideau Canal on that long-ago weekend. The three of them followed a ribbon of ice into the heart of the city. They returned to Sarah’s apartment, cheeks flushed with cold and easy laughter. Sarah went to the kitchen to make Irish coffees while Izzy changed in the bathroom. She peeled off sweat-dampened clothes and wrapped herself in the Grover-blue housecoat Sarah kept on the back of the bathroom door. Her hand was on the doorknob when she heard Matt’s voice—curt and aggressive—through the papery walls.

Izzy froze, her hand still on the doorknob. She tried to make out Matt’s words. The steam radiator clanged behind her as if someone were beating on the pipes. Matthew’s voice rose, careening off uneven floors and warped walls: “Stop getting all pissy with me. There’s nothing I can do. Do you want me to quit? I don’t think either of us wants that.”

Matt fell silent, but Izzy heard tension in the creak of floors. “It’s only a couple more weeks,” he said. “I’ll be back in Vancouver after that.” He slid into a hushed bark. “Jesus! Really?” Izzy flinched at another bang from the radiator, shaking loose a held breath. “Look, I promise. I’ll be back before you know it. She’ll hardly have missed me.”

Matt went quiet. Izzy couldn’t hear another voice. “Listen, I have to go,” he said. “I’ll call you later.”

Izzy stepped out of the bathroom just as Matt pulled open the bedroom door. Her eyes found his, and she saw anger darken the hazel to brown. It was gone before she had a chance to take her next step, replaced with an apologetic smile.

“That sounded intense,” Izzy said.

“Ya, sorry about that. My boss.” Matt shrugged. “She can be difficult.” He held Izzy’s eyes.

“Sure,” Izzy said, not knowing what else to say. It was a moment, that was all: witnessed and dismissible beneath the vastly more interesting events of daily life. And yet a fissure of doubt formed in Izzy. The words could have been a work conversation, but the tone was off. It was deeper, more ... private.

When Sarah walked Matt to the front door later that night, Izzy jumped into the shower.

The hot water quieted the lingering chill and unease from the evening.

“Well, what did you think of him?” Sarah’s voice came through on a waft of cold air as she stepped into the bathroom.

“Sarah! I’m in the shower. At least close the door.”

“Ya, but you always take ridiculously long showers, and I can’t wait.”

Izzy peeked from behind the curtain. Sarah leaned against the sink, arms crossed, anticipation on her face.

“He seems okay. A little arrogant.”

“Okay? That’s what you say about a blind date with your neighbor’s nephew.”

“I didn’t even really get a chance to talk to him, what with freezing my ass off and all.”

“Bullshit, Iz,” Sarah said under a strained laugh. “Spill.”

Izzy killed the water and yanked open the shower curtain, unabashed in her nudity. Sarah handed her a towel with a familiarity that comes from a lifetime of knowing each other.

“I don’t know, Sarah.” Izzy arranged the towel around her chest and squeezed water from her hair.

Sarah said nothing but held demanding eyes on Izzy—though whether demanding the truth or a lie, Izzy couldn’t tell. What was to be gained by telling Sarah her suspicion? This “one” would probably dissipate like all the others. Izzy sat on the side of the tub, wrapped in warm steam and her sister’s friendship. She was reluctant to let go of either. Which version of happiness mattered—one where she says nothing and Sarah maintains the dream of true love, or one where she opens her sister’s eyes to possible mistruths in the face of an unknowable future? She never expected that Sarah would marry and have children with this man. So, she’d kept her mouth shut.

“Look, it was just my issue,” Izzy said in a different home, at a different time, trying to shake loose the memory of that long-ago winter night. “I didn’t like the way he looked at you sometimes, particularly in the beginning. What can I say? You were all I had left. No one would have been good enough for you.” The offhand line fell flat even to Izzy’s ears, and Sarah’s expression made it clear she wasn’t convinced.

Life had a way of repeating itself, Izzy thought. Here she was, a different time, a different place, yet she faced the exact same choice: tell the truth and hurt her sister, or bury the lies to maintain a facade of happiness. In her head, she mocked a professorial voice pointing out the archetypal conflict between duty and love. It was almost funny. The last time, she’d chosen poorly. Maybe it was time to switch it up. Izzy looked away from the window and watched pain break over Sarah’s face as she shared the details of that long-ago overheard conversation.

“When? When did this happen?” Sarah asked, a picture forming in her mind as Izzy’s thread was added to the tapestry. How had Izzy not told her in all this time?

“I can’t remember. It was when I came up for a weekend when you first got together. It must have been late January or early February.”

“The theater’s debut was the May after that.”

“What does that matter?”

“Don’t you get it? He was talking to her. To his wife. Faith.”

Sarah fought for breath as if a rogue wave had just thrown her into the swell. The crafted layers of her life slid away, smashing her history into shards. Her final defense—Matthew had been living in Ottawa when this Jonathan person was last seen in Vancouver—ground away beneath Izzy’s account.

Matthew had disappeared for a brief time soon after that winter-weekend visit. He returned newly committed to a relationship. Sarah might not have put the picture together but for the series of linked moments: Matthew’s absence from her first professional show in May, Jonathan Evans walking away from his family that same month, Sarah taking him in her arms under the weight of his apologies. And now, Izzy’s overheard phone call just a couple of months before all of it. Matthew had left his wife and daughter for Sarah. The picture emerged in Sarah’s mind like photographs in a darkroom. Expose, develop, stop. The details slotted into the narrative the police had spun about Matthew’s past.

There are lies that can be forgiven in a marriage—a white lie to bolster a lover’s confidence or hide a minor mistake—and there are lies that tear at the very fabric of a couple’s identity. Matthew’s lie eclipsed even the latter. Everything Sarah thought she knew about her husband, about her family, about her life, exploded, as if she’d been carrying a land mine near her heart all this time. Sarah thought back to early in her marriage, the thrill and pride of calling Matthew her husband, of knowing that she had a partner and a home. All of it was a lie. Not only had Matthew never been hers, he didn’t even carry the name that he shared with her. Everything Sarah believed herself to be—a wife, a mother—was rotten at its very core.

Izzy watched her sister sit tall in the face of the long-hidden memory. Regret poured over her, whether for not telling Sarah then or telling her now, she didn’t know. Sarah’s eyes stayed on the floor as Izzy babbled about the unreliability of memory and not to read too much into her recollection.

“Enough,” Sarah said, looking up as she pulled herself to standing.

Since they’d returned to Ottawa, Sarah had curled into herself. She shared facts and theories with Izzy, but her deeper thoughts she guarded jealously. Given their previous estrangement, Izzy hadn’t expected to fall entirely back to where they’d left off, but she was bemused by the depth of Sarah’s withdrawal. It seemed like Sarah couldn’t look at Izzy, as if she were hiding something every time the subject of Matthew came up. So what Izzy saw in Sarah’s eyes then was as unexpected as it was incomprehensible. In the depths of it all, Izzy read nothing but a cold anger, one that could burn down the world.