I peek in a few kitchen cupboards and find the pots and pans pristine, of course. Neither of them ever cooks. They live on takeout sweet-and-sour pork and tikka masala. Despite Sylvie’s chronic messiness, I’m unprepared for the chaos I find when I open their bedroom door. A pair of slacks has been tossed across the turquoise footboard of their large bed. Wrinkled shirts are strewn all over the floor and small piles of scarves and earrings lie scattered on the mattress, as if Sylvie packed in a hurry. Then I notice that every item I see is Sylvie’s. Where are Jim’s belongings? I open their closet door. It’s a violation of their privacy, but I need to know—and, indeed, only Sylvie’s pressed suits are hanging there. The other half of the closet is bare.
My chest constricts. It’s clear no one has been here for a long time.
Chapter 4
Sylvie
Saturday, March 5
Two Months Earlier
People call French the language of love, but the only language lodged deep in my heart was that of my childhood, Dutch.
He had told me his name was Jim. It was only later that I learned his true name. My first semester at Princeton, I focused solely on my grades and my future. After all, when poverty enters, love flies out the window. I understood better than anyone that smoke does not come out of the chimney from love alone—and never forgot that Amy, Ma, and Pa were counting on me back home.
In a writing seminar, my second semester at Princeton, I noticed Jim. We were working on a practice exam in a lecture hall with soaring, pointed arched windows and slender columns that made the room feel like a Gothic church. I finished long before the others and rechecked my paper for style, spelling, and grammatical issues but was still surrounded by bent heads and pens scratching lined notebooks. I gazed out the window, watching as the angels shook out their cushions atop the backdrop of trees. At first, I was so hypnotized by the snow I did not notice how the cool sunlight cast a halo of gold upon the guy sitting in front of the glass. His hair curled in loose gleaming waves, unrestrained and free. He was sprawled in his chair—legs spread wide, jeans so torn I could see bits of hairy leg through the holes. I could never take up space like that, as if I had been born unfettered, as if this world were my birthright. Then I met his eyes. So warm and wicked, I could drown in them. He had been studying me the whole time. I quickly looked away, but found him waiting for me by the doorway as we left.
“I’m struggling in this class,” he said, his mischievous eyes now entreating. Even his feathery eyelashes were golden. He bent closer and almost breathed into my ear, “Please help me.”
It was a lie and also our beginning. For many years, I found the excuse he had used to meet me charming.
Jim was the perfect combination of high- and lowbrow. He bought a wreck of an automobile for six hundred dollars and named it after Grendel from Beowulf. I was delighted to have a boyfriend with knowledge unfathomable to Ma and Pa. We rode around in his car, feeling young and carefree. Jim wanted to do things that would never have occurred to me, like scoring beer even though we were underage. Neither of us liked the taste but we drank it because it was the sort of thing normal college kids did in the movies—and that was what we wanted to be. I sputtered, unused to alcohol, and Jim, driven by his desire to seem ordinary and manly, disguised his distaste. He was more accustomed to the fine wine of his parents’ collection.
I wanted to escape my poor background and forget about ugly Sylvie with the crooked tooth and eye patch, and he was pretending to be someone other than James Quaker Bates II, a name I never even heard until he took me home for Christmas during our second year. I should have known that was why the prep school kids always trailed after him and laughed too hard at his jokes. I had naively thought it was his charisma that overcame all boundaries. It was not until Grendel drove through the gate at his family’s coastal estate on Lake Michigan and continued past a half kilometer of landscaped garden before reaching their Georgian mansion that I began to understand that he had a life like a god in France.
Now, many years later, I was not sure if we had truly loved each other or merely the versions of ourselves we had seen reflected in the other’s eyes—as if we had acted out a play together, both of us player and audience alike. I was what he had dreamed of as well: someone who had gotten into Princeton based on drive and brains alone. My lack of connections and money had reassured him that he too had made it there on his own.
My heart ached at this realization. The revelations and drama of the past week had gone straight through my marrow and bone. Who was the man I had married: Jim, James, or someone else I never knew at all?
Chapter 5
Amy
Monday, May 2
My palms are wet and clammy and my heart is running a marathon inside my chest. The robust security guard behind the desk stares at me as if she’s wondering whether I should be at a mental hospital and not at the high school where Jim works. I give her my name. She calls him, listens to something on the other end of the line, and says he’s unavailable.
“Please,” I say. “H-his sister, I mean, my sister—”
“I can’t help you, ma’am,” she says. Her tone is polite but firm. “Please exit the school premises.”
I stand outside and wait among the pushing, writhing crowd of raucous teenagers for what feels like hours. A group of them lean against the gate, smoking pot; the musky odor clings to my hair. Jim will come out for his lunch break. He’s one of those overly energetic people who’s always taking long walks or jogging places when he should be resting like a normal person. I hate myself for waiting. Why didn’t I have the guts to elbow my way into the school? I’m nauseous with worry about Sylvie yet still a coward. How could Jim be unavailable? He’s family and Sylvie is missing.
Finally, I catch a glimpse of his light hair. It’s immediately visible, like an albino rabbit. He’s surrounded by adoring teenage girls, mostly Latino and African American, all laughing up at their cute young guidance counselor.
“Jim!” I call out. When he finally sees me, he immediately averts his eyes and shoves his way in the opposite direction.
I am so shocked that it takes me a second to move. Jim is rather broad, and the girls tag along, still chatting, so it takes him longer to worm through the crowd than me.
I maneuver myself in front of him so he can’t avoid me. “Hey, Jim!” The teenagers take one look at my strained face and disperse.
“Oh, hi, Amy,” he says with a weak smile. I have never seen him look so terrible, not even when he was in grad school and pulling all-nighters. His eyes are bloodshot, his hair greasy, and he’s sporting a few days’ worth of stubble.
“I-I tried to see you at school but you weren’t available.”
He rubs his hand over his forehead as if he’s tired. “What? I was in a meeting all morning. I wasn’t even told you were here.”
I press my lips together but decide not to confront him about this. What would be the point anyway? “Where’s Sylvie? Have you seen her?”
A fire engine screams past us, distracting me, sirens blaring. When I turn back to Jim, his gaze is calm. Was he surprised at my question? “She’s still abroad, isn’t she?”