In her room, Vivien unpinned her hair and began to brush it. She still brushed it for one hundred strokes, a habit she’d never given up. She washed her face, first with hot water, then with cold. Her aunt had taught her that this was the best way to keep the pores open and fresh. It had worked too; Vivien always had a clear complexion. Now of course there were small lines around her mouth and eyes, but still her skin was clear and with good color. She rubbed cold cream onto her face in a circular motion, then put all of her toiletries into their small bag and put the small bag back into her trunk. These simple rituals calmed her.
The sheets on the bed felt cool and luxurious. Vivien stretched out, plumping the pillows and trying to block out the memories. As soon as she closed her eyes, hoping to sleep, someone knocked on her door, loud and repeatedly.
“Go away,” she called.
But the knocking persisted.
She sat up.
Throwing back the bedclothes, Vivien got out of bed. The knocking was louder, almost frantic now.
“One minute!” she called.
She dug her robe out of her trunk and tied it hastily around her.
At her door, Vivien’s eyes rested on the Italian man from Napa. Sebastian, the one who followed her around the library and worked at Robert’s vineyard.
“Signora,” he said, his face filling with relief at the sight of her. “Oh, signora,” he said, his shoulders drooping with some motion she couldn’t quite make out.
His name was on the tip of her tongue, though she couldn’t recall it.
“Sebastian,” he said, all four syllables rolling from his tongue.
“What in the world . . . ?” Vivien began, unable to articulate her surprise and confusion.
“Mrs. Lotte, she say, ‘Find Vivien. Try Hotel Majestic.’”
“Lotte sent you?” Vivien said, even more confused.
“Mrs. Vivien,” he said, tears streaming down his face. “May I bother you for some water?”
“Yes, of course,” Vivien said, holding the door opened wider so he could enter her room.
Embarrassed in her nightclothes, her hair loose, Vivien bent her head as she poured him water from the pitcher by her bedside.
He sipped it, trying to calm himself.
“What is it?” she asked when she thought he was composed.
But at the sound of the question, he began to cry again.
“I don’t know how to say it,” he said.
“Just say it, that’s all,” Vivien said.
Sebastian looked at her, right into her eyes.
“The little girl,” he said.
“Pamela?”
He nodded. “Pamela, yes. Pamela is dead.”
FOUR
Among those who come to the house there is sure to be a woman friend of the family whose taste and method of expenditure is similar to theirs.
—FROM Etiquette, BY EMILY POST, 1922
7
We Are All Liars Here
CLAIRE, 1961
The telephone rang, shrill and piercing. Claire got up slowly, hoping it didn’t wake Kathy. She walked down the dark hallway to the small table with the heavy black phone perched on it. Beside the phone sat a yellow legal pad and a blue ballpoint pen as if waiting for important messages.
“Hello,” she answered.
“It’s me, Clairezy,” Peter said.
“How is she?” Claire asked, his use of her old nickname making her feel awkward.
“Not good,” he said. “It appears to be a heart attack.”
“How terrible,” Claire said. “And on her birthday too.”
“Strange to see her so . . .” He hesitated. “Vulnerable,” he said.
Claire almost said I’m sorry, but caught herself.
“How are you?” she said instead.
“There’s vending machine coffee,” he said. “And a tin of cookies in her room. I don’t know who brought them. Those Danish ones? Butter cookies in different shapes?”
“Those are good,” Claire said.
“Did you sleep?” Peter asked.
“No.”
Silence settled between them.
“I was just in your old room and remembering you telling me how you and your mother made that skateboard out of . . . what was it? An old roller skate and a plank of wood?”
“We called that thing the Tornado,” he said. “Painted it purple with a big twister down the middle.”
She heard him sigh.
“Maybe I should come to the hospital?” Claire said.
“I’ll come and get you first thing,” he said. “Try to sleep a bit.”
“I wonder if John and Jackie can sleep tonight,” she said. As soon as she said it, she realized how foolish it sounded, how inappropriate.
“Maybe not,” Peter surprised her by saying. “Maybe they’re sitting up thinking they’re the luckiest two people on the planet.”
She smiled at the idea. “Well,” she said, “maybe they are.”
“I’m using the phone at the nurses’ station,” he said.
“Oh. Of course.”
“Clairezy,” Peter said, his voice low.
“What?”
“I love you,” he said. “As much as I hate you, as much as I can’t stop thinking about—”