The Girl Who Never Was (4 page)

The day is mostly sunny, although there is a chill in the air, and Ben is doing a brisk business in sweatshirts. I wait impatiently for him to give change to a customer. I haven't seen him glance my way, but as soon as he's done, he turns toward me, his pale eyes sharp.

'What's wrong?'He has obviously immediately seen my agitation.

'I'm going to see my father,'I say.

Ben and I have never discussed anything about our family lives'Ben and I know both everything and nothing about each other'but he doesn't ask me anything about why my father is someone I have to visit. He just says, 'Why?'

'Because I have so many questions, Ben. I don't have a mother''

'Everyone has a mother,'Ben interjects calmly. 'You have a mother; you just don't know your mother.'

It seems like a pointless distinction for him to be making

right now. 'Fine,'I agree. 'Whatever. I don't know her. And no one will tell me anything about her. I have to ask my father. I have to try to ask my father. I have to know. I feel like I have to know. I need to hear the words.'

Ben is silent for a moment. His eyes darken as the sun passes behind a cloud. He says carefully, 'Do you think he'll tell you?'

'I don't know. But I have to try.'

There is another long moment of silence. Ben's eyes search mine. I feel like he is asking me a question that I don't understand.

'What?'I say.

He just shakes his head, and it might be my imagination, me projecting my own emotional upheaval onto him, but I think he looks sad, and on impulse, I hug him. I have never done this before, and the awkwardness of having done it strikes me as soon as it happens, and I let go so quickly that I don't even have time to register how it feels. I am suddenly embarrassed, and I have no idea why I've done it'why am I constantly doing things without thinking?'and I have the fleeting impression that Ben looks surprised before I turn and flee to the subway station like a coward. I am almost relieved when the train predictably gets stuck underground for a little while; it gives my cheeks time to stop burning.

x

I take the Red Line all the way to the Alewife end, where there is a small, nondescript, charming-looking building that you would never know houses the less sane members of Boston's better families.

'Selkie.'The nurse at the front desk smiles at me. I am on a first-name basis with everyone at this place. I have been coming here, after all, for sixteen years. 'Where are your aunts?'She looks past me for them. I have never come alone before.

'Just me this time,'I say confidently, as if this isn't unusual. 'Is my dad around?'It's the most ridiculous question for me to ask. Where else would he be?

'Of course he's here,'she answers, which highlights the absurdity of my question. 'I'll have someone fetch him for you.'

There's a little room where you meet with people. It feels like a pretty little sun porch, filled to the brim with too many flowery patterns on the furniture and the drapes, but you always know that people are watching'politely but close enough to intercede should anything happen. There's a grandfather clock in this room, but it always tells the right time. I find that odd and unsettling.

'Selkie,'says Dad as he walks into the room to see me, and he holds his arms out for a hug, and I hug him back, and he smells vaguely of hospital, which he always does, but that is not a bad smell to me; that is my father's smell. 'What brings you here? Where are your aunts?'

'They're home,'I tell him truthfully. He is holding my hands in his and beaming at me, and I study him, just to make sure he's all right, the way I always do. 'How are you?'

'I'm fine,'he assures me. 'So happy to see you.'

'Good.'I smile, and then I hesitate, trip over my errand, think maybe I should turn around and leave.

Dad notices. His smile turns quizzical. 'Is there something wrong, Selkie?'His expression grows more concerned. 'Aunt True and Aunt Virtue are all right, aren't they?'

'They're fine,'I say. I clear my throat. 'Dad. Can you tell me about Mom?'

He smiles the absently fond smile he has always smiled the few times he has spoken to me about her. 'One day,'he says, 'I walked into my Back Bay apartment to find a blond woman asleep on my couch. The most beautiful woman I had ever seen.'

I am frustrated. I have heard this all before. 'But who was she?'

'The most beautiful woman I had ever seen,'he says. 'And she gave me you, and she told me to name you Selkie.'

'Did you love her?'I ask.

'The most beautiful woman I had ever seen,'he repeats vaguely, his gaze unfocused.

'Why did she leave me, Dad?'I try not to sound like I'm on the verge of tears.

'She couldn't stay in Boston, of course,'he answers, and I am shocked because this is'finally'something new. I think of my aunts, saying that my mother hadn't belonged here.

'Why not?'

'And you were my right,'Dad says fiercely, looking at me.

I blink, startled. 'What does that mean?'

My father's gaze loses the unusual clarity it just had, softens. 'Where are your aunts?'he asks.

'Home,'I answer briefly, trying to get him back to his mood of revelations. 'Didn't she love me?'

'Love you?'he says, as if the words hold no meaning for him, and I am disappointed. I have lost my window of lucidity.

I decide to just give one more question a shot. 'I went to Salem,'I start, reaching into my kangaroo pocket, closing my hand around the ancient pages.

'Salem,'he repeats blankly.

'There was this book,'I continue. 'Well, books,'I amend.

He looks at me, vaguely interested. 'Books,'he says. 'Powerful things, books. All those words, trapped in writing.'

It is so similar to what Will had said at the Which Museum that it gives me pause. I go on slowly. 'Your name was in them'you, Aunt True, Aunt Virtue.'

Dad's eyes sharpen. 'What books?'he asks. 'What books were they exactly?'

'I don't know,'I stammer honestly, taken aback by his reaction. 'I don't remember the names. But look'this is a list of the first settlers of Boston, and you're all listed.'I pull it out, show it to him eagerly.

'We're an old family,'he interjects, and he sounds saner

than I've ever heard him. He looks narrow eyed at the paper I have handed him.

'And then there was this portrait, Dad,'I say, unfolding it, 'this painting, in another book, and it's Aunt True and Aunt Virtue. I mean, look, it's them, but it's from 1760.'I thrust it at him. 'And there was this epic poem, and''

'Blaxton,'Dad cuts me off, and his voice is dangerously quiet. I have never heard him talk that way to me before, and for the first time, I might be scared of him but I think I am more confused.

'Mom?'I say, because she is the only Blaxton I've ever heard of. 'What does she have to do with it?'

'Not your mother,'he tells me, biting the words off. He drops the pages to the ground.

I stoop to pick them up, stuff them back in my pocket. 'Then who''I start, but he lunges for me suddenly, grabbing my hands in his, the grip iron tight. 'You're hurting me,'I manage, but my voice sounds so small, and I feel frozen.

'And if Blaxton's involved, then you've been talking to Benedict,'he accuses, his voice slicing.

I look up into his face, and it is so contorted with fury that it doesn't even look like my dad anymore. 'Who?'I stammer.

'Benedict Le Fay,'he spits out.

'Faye'?'I echo vaguely, still thinking he must mean my mother somehow.

My father catches my chin painfully between his fingers. 'What did you tell them?'he demands, and he is breathing

quickly, sucking in his air through his teeth. 'I knew they couldn't be trusted. It's like the old saying goes.'

I should be terrified, I think, but I am still too stunned. 'Who? What old saying?'

And then, suddenly, attendants are on my father, pulling him away from me. They are restraining him, apologizing to me, pushing him away from me, through the door, but I cannot hear what they are saying because all I know is that my father meets my eyes and shouts, thoroughly enraged, 'Did you tell him your birth date?'

Then my father is gone, through the door; it slams shut behind him, and air whooshes out of me in a great rush, like I had not been breathing for hours beforehand, and maybe it is the fear finally hitting me, but I feel almost dizzy, and the nurse is there and she is comforting me, apologizing, asking if I'm okay, pushing a glass of water on me, and I take the water blindly but I don't drink it, and I clutch it, and I say, 'I have to go home. I have to go home.'

I take the water with me when I leave, but I don't realize that I'm carrying it until I reach the T station. I look down at it, clutched in my hand, and then I turn away from the T station door. I walk a few steps along the sidewalk. It is rush hour, and the people on the sidewalk are not delaying; they are hurrying toward their destinations, and they pay me no attention.

I turn my back to them, and I open my hand, and the glass tumbles to the sidewalk and shatters. Its water streams

along the concrete, and shards of glass sparkle like diamonds around me, vicious and beautiful.

I lean down and pick up one and wrap it carefully in a tissue I find in my pocket and then put it in the pocket of my sweatshirt, beside the ancient pages.

I have no idea why.

x By the time I reach Park Street, I am still dazed and shaken. Nothing makes sense. Nothing is any clearer. I feel like my life is composed entirely of other people's secrets, and that isn't fair'it's my life. I am dazed and shaken and I am furious.

I step off the subway train and dart around a guy who comes running in front of me out of nowhere. I go home and find my aunts at the dining room table.

'Really, gnomes and their taste for Napoleon brandy,'Aunt Virtue is saying, and they both look up when I come in.

'Selkie,'says Aunt True. 'You're late for dinner.'

'Where were you?'asks Aunt Virtue.

'I went to see Dad,'I say, a little breathless still.

'Your father,'says Aunt Virtue.

'Why didn't you tell us? We would have gone along,'says Aunt True.

'Wait,'says Aunt Virtue and frowns. 'This isn't about your mother again, is it?'

'Oh, Selkie, is it?'says Aunt True. 'We told you''

'I know,'I say. 'I know you told me, and I'm sorry, but I couldn't help it, I just wanted to know''

'You can't know, Selkie.'Aunt True's tone is begging me. 'You just can't. You cannot ask these questions; you cannot hear these words.'

'Please,'says Aunt Virtue.

'What will happen?'I ask. 'I don't understand.'

'We will lose you,'says Aunt True. 'We will lose you forever.'

And I want to tell them that they will never lose me, that I will always love them, no matter who my mother is. But their wide, dark eyes look at me, full of fear, and I can think of nothing but trying to soothe them, trying to get things back to normal.

So I sit down and eat dinner.

x It is that night, after dinner, almost bedtime, when I am trying and failing to do homework, that I make the connection that I should have made so much earlier. Benedict, my father had said, and I finally think of Ben. I had always assumed his name was Benjamin, but had he ever said that? No. He has always just been Ben. I don't even know his last name. Benedict Le Fay. Who I told my birth date to. The only person I've ever told.

It doesn't make sense to me, any of it. How can Ben be

involved? And what, exactly, is Ben involved with? There are so many odd things going on. Could he be connected to my mother? But how? When no one else in the universe seems to be? I think of the vandalized pages in the pocket of my sweatshirt'Stewarts throughout Boston history. Could Ben have something to do with that? Ben, who is as inextricably a part of Boston to me as the Common itself?

I look out my bedroom window. The Common's lazy paths are signaled to me by rows of lights along them, leading eventually to the brighter corner where Park Street T station sits. I stand there, torn. Is it madness to go look for Ben now? He is probably not there, not this late, but I feel compelled by the same need to find out something concrete that drove me to visit my father. My aunts don't want me to know, but I have to know. How am I supposed to make any decisions about my future when I know nothing at all about my past? When I don't really know who I am?

I make the decision. No harm in running down there. My aunts think I'm in bed. They won't think to look for me; they won't notice I'm gone. Anyway, they're in bed by now too.

I pull on my sweatshirt, check its pocket, all the strange things I'm randomly carrying around because I'm insane: pages ripped from old books, check; shard of glass wrapped in tissue, check. Then I slip past the grandfather clock on the landing'it chimes 6:15 as I pass'down to the front hall and out of the house.

I walk briskly down to Park Street. It is a damp, chilly night.

The air feels saturated with rain. I don't expect Ben to be out on a night like this, but he is there, just out of the circle of light from Park Street, standing on the grass. He is wearing jeans and a windbreaker, sweatshirt, and raincoat, and none of them match'bright orange sweatshirt, bright blue windbreaker, Kelly green raincoat, the colors clash and run together, and that is also not unusual for Ben. He is, however, without anything to sell, which is highly unusual for Ben. He is standing, the collar of his raincoat turned up against the rain in the air, hood over his head, his hands tucked into the pockets of his windbreaker, and he watches me approach, his eyes never leaving me. In this half-light, those distinctive eyes of his are the color of the rain beginning to fall around us, quicksilver, hinting flashes.

I walk over to him, but once there, I don't know what to say, how to begin. What do you know about my mother? What do you know about me?

Ben looks at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable, and I look back, and he talks first. 'Don't say my name.'

The only name he has ever told me is Ben, but I know that's not what he's talking about, and that makes me furious suddenly. Ben clearly knows so much more about me than he has ever let on, than I have ever told him, and I still know nothing about him. He doesn't even want me to know his name.