Элисон Скотч - The Song Remains the Same

The barista calls out an order for a double-tall skim latte, and Jasper and I fall silent at the truth of his words. That people don’t change, and that after a certain point, there’s no point in hoping.

P eter is working late, so Jamie and Samantha, who slips out of work for an hour before having to return, join me for pizza slices at the corner Ray’s, while I flip through the notebook, trying to make sense of the images. I’d called Anderson, too, but he wasn’t picking up, and I figured he was tipsy, asleep, or potentially on the other line with his agent.

“Maybe you should call your mom and ask,” Sam says, blotting the grease from the corners of her mouth with a napkin.

“If she knew about this, she’d have told me.” Really? How can you be so sure?

“People do strange things in strange circumstances,” Jamie offers, like he’s reading my mind.

“Meaning what?” Sam counters.

“Just that in my experience, I’ve seen an awful lot of people try to play the odds in their favor rather than show their full hands. The kids mourning their parents who don’t disclose that they’re anxiously awaiting their inheritance, the husband who doesn’t report his car accident until he’s gotten his mistress safely away from the scene. That sort of thing. Everyone has their secrets.”

Sam raises her eyebrows and turns her attention to her BlackBerry.

“So you think my mom isn’t telling me everything?” Of course she isn’t telling you everything.

Jamie pops part of the crust into his mouth by way of an answer, and I concede my agreement with a long sip of Diet Coke.

“You’re very smart, you know.”

“Ha, not so much!” he says. “But years with nothing to do on my parents’ farm except sitting around observing—figuring out the story, the beginning, the middle, the end: I guess I got good at it. My mom always told me I’d be a good novelist because of my love of the story.”

“And my story? Have you figured it out?”

“That’s trickier because the only person who knows the truth and nothing but it can’t remember it in the first place.”

“She’s not the only person who knows the truth,” Sam interjects, back from typing a reply to her boss. “We’re here. Her friends, family, we’re trying, too.”

“You’re right, of course, Sam.” I rest my head on her shoulder as my way of thanking her. I know that she’s needed at the office, I know that she rarely has a spare thirty minutes to see her husband, work out at the gym. She doesn’t have to be here, grubbing on slices that have been sitting under a warmer for the better part of an hour. “But still, Jamie, thank you, too—I know that you didn’t have to, didn’t have to push for your producer connection, help link me to Jasper.”

His own e-mail vibrates, and he holds up a finger to say hold on, and then starts typing, greasy fingers and all, with fervor. I fold my chin into my palm, staring down at the images in the notebook. Sam leans over to take a peek, too.

There are abstracts, exaggerated notions of what appears to be fields, sun, sky, stars, what? They should be telling me a story; I can see that somewhere there’s a line threaded between them, leading me from one to the next, but nothing is linear, none of it jumps out at me as making any sense.

I used to be good at this—I was the one with the eye, but now, with nothing to reason with, it’s fled me entirely.

“This, right here, what does that say to you?” I ask Sam. “Quick, without thinking, the first thing that comes to mind. Free associate.” I point at one of the pictures—like fragments of broken glass pieced back together again—and push the notebook toward her.

“I don’t know…art was never my forte.” She hesitates, squinting, taking another bite of the pizza. “Maybe a farm? A silo?”

“A silo?”

“Yes, those buildings they have on farms? I grew up in Chicago, so maybe I’m not articulating it right.”

I pause, digesting this. “Maybe this is of Vermont, where his studio was. Maybe I’m supposed to go to Vermont.” I flip to the next page while both of them attend to their BlackBerrys.

“Oh my god, Nell Slattery!” a voice calls out to me from in front of the pizza counter, and then a woman rushes forward, her blond hair flying behind her, her high heels tapping the cheap linoleum floor. “I knew it was you from the second I walked in here!”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” I say, “but I have no idea who you are.”

“Yes, of course, no, you wouldn’t, now would you?” She waves her cotton candy–colored manicured nails. “I’m Tina Marquis. I haven’t seen you since…well, since before. A few months before, when you called me.” She makes a frowny face like this is supposed to indicate since before the accident, and I match her frowny face to assure her that we don’t need to rehash it. Tina motions to Jamie to scoot over, and then she slides into the booth, uninvited, next to him.

“High school,” I say. “I’ve seen you in the yearbook. High school, right?”

“Yes, darling, high school!” She has an ever so slight lilt of a southern accent, and I’m not sure if it’s because she’s developed an affectation or if, before Bedford, she actually grew up there. I picture her from Texas. Yes, she seems like she might be from Texas. “Anyway,” she continues, “I just can’t believe this! I never come for pizza, but I just got off work and my fridge is empty, so I made a quick stop in!”

“Tina”—Sam wipes her hand on her napkin and extends it across the table—“Samantha. Her friend from college. We met at…” She narrows her eyes, trying to remember, and for a beat I’m jealous that she can. That she’ll sift around and come up with something. “Oh, yes, we met a few years ago—brunch at Balthazar.” She turns to me to say this. “You and I were having brunch and ran into her.”

“Of course! Hello, hello!” If there has ever been a more enthusiastic person in the world, I haven’t met her.

“Small world,” Jamie says.

“And you!” Tina turns toward him. “You are the talk of the town! The Post ! American Profiles !” She extends her hand. “Tina Marquis. Nice to meet you.”

“So, Tina,” I say, trying to lasso her in, “I called you to get back in touch?” That seems odd, doesn’t seem like the old me at all.

“Oh god, no,” she laughs. “As soon as high school was over, you dropped all of us like a hot stone in hell.” Ah, yes, as suspected. “The rest of us—our crew, as we called it—got together for drinks over the winter breaks, had our summer barbecues—but as soon as you were done, you were done. I heard a few of them came to your party last week.” She slouches in the booth, a moment of sincerity. “I’m sorry I was out of town, or I would have been there.”

“Since I didn’t remember you in the first place, I’ll consider your apology accepted.” I smile because that is what the new me would do. And should do. And what maybe I want to do anyway.

“Well, good, thank you for accepting it.” She reaches over and pours some of my Diet Coke into a Styrofoam cup without asking. “But to answer your question, you called me because I’m a real estate broker.”

“I was looking for a new apartment?” Maybe that was what I was doing: kicking Peter out, starting fresh. I look at Sam for an answer, but she’s as bewildered as I am.

“I don’t know quite what you were doing, to be honest,” she says. “You had me taking you to all sorts of spaces: lofts, walk-ups, doormen. You were very quiet about it. Said I couldn’t tell your mother—like I would!—and I couldn’t tell your sister.”