The Silent Sister

  “Why did they switch?” I asked.

  “Who knows!” She set down her drink. “Your parents kept it very quiet because they knew they were going to get a lot of criticism. I think they worried Steve would interfere, and he probably would have. I’m sure he did all he could to find out who it was, but I don’t know that he ever did.”

  “Wouldn’t he—and you—have known all the violin teachers in the area?”

  “Oh, see, that’s the thing.” She’d been about to pick up her glass again, but stopped. “It wasn’t someone in the area,” she said. “She went away to study for the entire school year with this person—or perhaps it was a conservatory—who knows? We never found out. At any rate, whoever it was utterly ruined her.”

  My brain felt like a pinball, spinning in one direction then another. I remembered Sondra Davis mentioning some other teachers in her blog. “What do you mean, ‘ruined her’?” I asked.

  “Her playing deteriorated terribly that year,” Caterina said. “It was quite tragic, really. That’s when your parents asked if I’d take her on. I was so shocked. I said I’d assumed she’d go back to Steve, and your mother said Lisa felt she’d outgrown him, but I think she was embarrassed to go back to him when she was playing so poorly.” She lifted her glass from the coffee table and took a long swallow. “I knew Steve would be furious with me if I took her on—he could be so petulant!—but I was drawn to the opportunity to work with a talent like your sister. How could I refuse? So I didn’t.” She smiled. “But then she came to my home and I heard her play. I nearly wept. It was hideous! Plus she’d lost her confidence.” Caterina set down her glass again. “I asked her to explain the other teacher’s approach, but she couldn’t. I’m sure that … charlatan … came to your parents and said, ‘Here’s what Steve is doing wrong and here’s how I can help,’ and they thought, ‘Oh, Steven Davis, he teaches five-year-olds! It’s time to move Lisa to someone better.’” She rubbed her arms through the gauzy fabric of her sleeves. “Steve wouldn’t talk to me after I agreed to teach Lisa,” she said. “He never spoke to me again. Neither would Sondra, his wife, and we’d been friends for many years.”

  “Wow,” I said. “He really was … petulant.” I repeated her word. It seemed to fit.

  “Indeed,” she said. “Sondra was not a very happy woman, even before Steve’s death. They struggled to have children. Very frustrating for her, I know. I don’t think she’s ever moved on. It’s sad, after so many years, to still be living in the past that way.”

  “That is sad,” I said.

  “Well, anyway, to Lisa’s credit, she knew she had lost ground and she worked hard. We slowly turned around the mess the other teacher had made of her playing, and her joy started coming back.” She lifted her glass and drained it. My own drink was nearly untouched. “By the time she was ready to apply to schools, she had an excellent chance at Juilliard,” Caterina said. “I was certain she’d get in because she’d gotten her confidence back.” She turned away, eyes suddenly glistening. “I’ll never understand it, what happened. Why Steve was so cruel. There’s no other word for it. You know he interfered with her application to Juilliard?”

  I nodded.

  “He was an idiot. And I made the mistake of telling her, so I’ve always blamed myself.”

  So that’s how Lisa found out about the letter Steven sent to Juilliard. “What happened wasn’t your fault,” I said.

  “Well, I still wish I could undo it. She was more fragile than I ever guessed, and your father was foolish enough to keep a gun where she could get it.” She teared up again. “Just … terrible.” She stared out the window at the sea, and for a while, neither of us spoke. She suddenly stood up. “When I knew you were coming, I asked my assistant to find a video I have of her practicing for an audition. I had all the old tapes transferred to DVDs. What a task! Would you like to see it?”

  “Yes,” I said, although I remembered how hard it had been to watch the tapes I’d found, and that had been in the privacy of my own living room.

  Caterina walked over to the television, picked up a remote, and then sat down next to me so we were both facing the TV. She turned it on and my sister appeared on the screen playing a vibrant violin solo that sent her fingers and the bow flying over the strings. This video was crisper than either of the ones I had and Lisa’s face was full of emotion as she played.

  “There’s that pendant,” Caterina said.

  “Pendant?”

  Lisa finished her piece, lowering the violin from beneath her chin, and I saw what Caterina was talking about. Lisa wore a white disc on a chain around her throat. I remembered seeing it in the photograph of her standing back-to-back with Matty. The pendant appeared to have a design engraved on it, but I couldn’t make it out.

  “She always wore it,” Caterina said. “She said the teacher she’d stayed with that year had given it to her.” She looked at me. “Now tell me that isn’t strange,” she said. “The teacher who ruined her playing—and Lisa freely admitted that was the case—gave her this pendant and she never took it off, at least not when I saw her.”

  On the TV screen, Lisa lifted the violin to her chin again and played something slow and bittersweet this time, and we watched for a while in silence. Except for the opportunity to see my sister play one more time, I felt disappointed in this visit. What had I expected? That Caterina might have secret knowledge about Lisa’s whereabouts? That she might have hidden her in her basement after her faked suicide? But now, I was out of questions and Caterina was out of answers, so we sat and listened to the music of the girl she thought was dead and I wanted to be alive—and I wondered about that mystery teacher who’d given her the pendant she’d cherished. Could he or she have the answers I needed? Or was I looking for answers that didn’t exist?

  MARCH 1994

  29.

  Jade

  “Are you Jade?” the woman asked.

  Jade sat on a chair in the hallway of the music building, her violin in its case. She’d gotten there early, excited and nervous for the audition that would let her change her major from education to music education. She’d become a realist about how far she could take her playing this last year. She knew she couldn’t be a soloist again, and she had to let go of the Carnegie Hall fantasy she’d had all her life. She wouldn’t even dare to play in a symphony orchestra. But she could teach music. She’d thought about it a lot. She could help kids live the dream she’d lost.

  She’d watched the other students waiting for their auditions as they sat in the hallway. Most of them looked like high school seniors and they appeared so nervous she felt sorry for them. She was every bit as jittery, but for a different reason. They worried they wouldn’t be good enough to get in. She worried about finding the balance between being good enough to get in, but not so good that she’d draw attention to herself. And she was good. In the year since she’d bought her violin, she’d played for hours every night. She missed Caterina Thoreau’s guidance more than she could say, but she taught herself—she drove herself—well. She bought reams of sheet music. She played all night long, sometimes, shutting her cottage windows no matter how hot it was outside, or she played in the practice rooms at school, even though she had to be sneaky about it, since she wasn’t yet a student in the school of music. With any luck, soon she would be.

  The violin had amazing sound for a relatively inexpensive instrument. It had opened up under Cara’s playing, and it could be bright when the music demanded it as well as warm and mellow when that was what she wanted. It wasn’t Violet—no violin could compare to Violet—but it was by far Jade’s most treasured possession.

  “Yes, I’m Jade,” she said to the woman, getting to her feet. She followed her into the classroom where a panel of three men and two more women sat, ready to judge her. She thought of all the times she’d imagined her audition for Juilliard. The people in front of her were not Juilliard professors, but they still took themselves seriously. She could tell by the lack of smiles, and the
way they stared at her made her uneasy. Could they see Lisa MacPherson in her face? Her father had warned her against doing this, and for a moment she was afraid he’d been right.

  She played Kreisler’s “Sicilienne” and the second movement of “Aus der Heimat,” and she thought it went okay. She stayed emotionally detached from her playing, knowing from experience that was the ticket to mediocrity.

  “Very nice,” the woman who’d led her into the room said when she’d finished, and a few of the others nodded.

  “With whom did you study?” one of the men asked.

  “My father, actually.” She’d practiced the lie and was pleased that it slipped out easily. “He never pursued the violin seriously, but he was well trained and he taught me.”

  “That’s remarkable,” the man said. “And you’ve had no other instructor? No concert experience?”

  She shook her head. She knew she was drawing attention to herself by her very effort not to. It was unusual to play as well as she had with no formal training. They stared at her. Oh, God, she thought. Did they think they’d discovered a diamond in the rough? A musical freak of nature? She needed to offer more of an explanation. “I played as a hobby, really,” she said. “My father and I played together around the house, just for fun. I never considered music as a career, though. I’d always wanted to be a teacher. But last year, while I was an education major, I really missed playing. And then I realized I could have both. Music and a teaching career.” She smiled uncertainly.

  They still stared. “All right,” the woman said finally. “We’ll contact you in two to four weeks.”

  She left the room. She knew they would talk about her once she was gone. She couldn’t lift a violin without attracting attention. It had been that way her entire life. As long as no one looked into her story—called her mythical father in Maryland, for example—she’d be okay. She should have said he’d died.

  But then they’d be talking about her even more.

  30.

  Riley

  The morning after my trip to Myrtle Beach, I finally got around to checking the external hard drive in my father’s office, reassuring myself that every speck of data from his computer had been saved. Then I began erasing the files on his computer, making good progress until I got to the e-mail. I was curious to see the last e-mail I’d sent him. I wanted to know that the last message he had from me had been loving and had left him with a good feeling the morning he went to the Food Lion.

  He seemed to have no organization in place for his e-mails. The messages from collectors—and there were zillions of them—were mixed in with my e-mails and e-mail from Jeannie as well. I knew her e-mail name—Jlyons—and nearly every other message seemed to be from her. I found my last one, written the day before he died.

  We can come down on the 24th and stay through the weekend, if that works for you.

  It took me a minute to remember what I’d been referring to—Bryan and I had planned to visit my father for the Memorial Day weekend. That seemed so long ago now. I sighed at the impersonal message. I wished I’d signed every single e-mail “Love, Riley.” Would that have been so hard to do?

  The next message was from Jlyons and I couldn’t help myself. I clicked on it.

  How about I make your favorite and I’ll pick up a Redbox movie? Love, your Little Genie.

  I cringed. Was that his pet name for her? I had no idea what it meant, nor did I ever want to find out.

  I clicked on the next e-mail, feeling nosy now.

  Frank, I have the beautiful meerschaum pipe you’re looking for. Excellent condition. The carving of the woman is a rich even-toned amber color. Let me know if you’d like a picture. I’d ask $150, as I have no real need to part with it.

  That was the type of e-mail I expected to see in my father’s in-box. I clicked on the next one.

  That is the best birthday card ever. You are amazing! Love you, Celia.

  I stared at that one. Who the hell was Celia? And did Little Genie know another woman was sending “love you” notes to my father … who may have had a more interesting life than I’d ever given him credit for? This last year, he’d gotten into creating cards online for every occasion, but I couldn’t remember any I’d received that I would have called “amazing.”

  “Hey, Riley.” Christine appeared in the doorway. “Can you come down to the kitchen for a minute? I’m pricing things and I need to talk to you about the stuff in the cupboards.”

  I glanced up at her, then back at the screen. “I’ll be there in a minute,” I said. “I just have to do a couple more things here.”

  “It would be great if you could come down now,” she said. “I’m making good progress today and you don’t want to stop me when I’m on a roll.”

  Go away, I thought to myself as I listened to her footsteps clicking down the hall.

  I tried to return my attention to the e-mail, but I could hear Christine clattering around downstairs in the kitchen and decided to get whatever she wanted over with. With a sigh, I shut down the computer and went downstairs. I walked into the kitchen to see that she had nearly every plate and glass and pot and pan out of the cabinets and stacked on the countertops and the table.

  “Wow.” I stood in the doorway.

  “Oh, great, you’re here,” Christine said. She waved her arm through the air to take in the mess she’d made. “So I’m in the middle of pricing everything in here,” she said, “and once I have all the kitchen stuff organized, I don’t want you moving things around. So you should probably get some paper plates and plastic silverware and, you know, plastic cups to use for the rest of the time you’re here. Unless there’s something you desperately need me to leave out for you.”

  I stared at her in disbelief. “Christine! I’m going to be here at least a few more weeks.”

  “Well, the sale’s set for July twentieth, regardless,” she said. “Are you really going to want to stay here when the house is emptied out?”

  “Yes, I am going to want to stay here!” I spotted the Franciscan Ware plates that reminded me so much of my mother. The plates I loved and Danny hated. “Look,” I said to Christine. “I need you to leave out at least four of these plates and four glasses and four bowls and sets of silverware so I have things to use.”

  Christine let out her breath in frustration. “I’ve asked you and asked you to let me know what you want to keep,” she said, “and you haven’t told me anything.”

  I had to admit she was right. “I’m sorry about that,” I said, “but I need to be able to live here for a while after the sale, all right?”

  She was looking behind me, and I turned to see Danny in the living room. He stood awkwardly, hands in his pockets, motioning me into the room with a nod of his head.

  “I’ve got to go,” I said to Christine. “Leave me a medium-sized pot and a frying pan, too. Please.” I turned away from whatever else she might say and followed Danny out the front door to the porch.

  I shut the door behind us. “That woman is making me crazy,” I said.

  “I don’t like the way she looks at me.”

  “She thinks you’re hot.”

  He rolled his eyes as he sat down in one of the rockers.

  “How come you’re here?” I asked, sitting down myself.

  “I want to talk to Tom Kyle about this whole ‘two sets of footprints’ thing,” he said. “It’s bugging me. Something’s fishy and I want to find out how he knew. You should come with me.”

  I didn’t answer right away. I wanted to talk to Tom again myself, but how would I explain knowing that the information about the footprints hadn’t been released to the media? And if I did find a way to talk to him, I didn’t want Danny there. I didn’t trust my brother’s motivation. I was afraid he’d run wild with anything he learned. “You haven’t talked to Harry about this, have you?” I asked.

  “There’s nothing to talk to him about,” he said. “Not yet, anyhow.”

  “How would you explain to Tom Kyle what you le
arned about the footprints?”

  “I’ll figure it out.” The determination in his face was rare to see. Danny lived day to day. He hung out on his computer. He drank. He smoked. I remembered my father saying, “I wish he’d find some sort of project.” It seemed he’d found one now.

  “You really want to punish her, don’t you,” I said.

  He scowled as he got to his feet. “Leave the psychoanalysis out of this, okay?” He looked down at me. Crammed his hands into his pockets. “I’m going to talk to him with you or without you,” he said. “Do you want to go or not?”

  AUGUST 1995

  31.

  Jade

  “Hey, Charlie,” she said when the old man walked into Grady’s. She always loved seeing him. She loved all the regulars, but she’d never forget the connection she and Charlie had made when she found him the album he’d wanted for so long.

  “Afternoon, Jade,” he said. “You must be gearing up for your senior year, aren’t you?”

  She nodded. She’d worked a lot of hours this summer, trying to bulk up her bank account, but she was looking forward to getting back to school. She’d long ago figured out how to handle being a student at San Diego State—by keeping to herself, for the most part. She didn’t think her fellow students thought she was cold, exactly, but they saw her as a commuter with a busy life outside of school. At least she guessed that’s what they thought. She didn’t play her violin well enough to garner much attention or admiration, modeling herself after another student in her classes who was good but not great. She watched that student’s progress and followed her path, settling for “just good enough.” Yet, in her own cottage, she let Lisa MacPherson out for hours every night. She loved her old self. She needed her. She sometimes felt as though Jade and Lisa were two different people. In the daytime, though, she was often tired. It was exhausting, living two lives.