Everything Leads to You

We all gasp, because there is no doubt that it’s her, even for my parents, who haven’t seen the photo. She has the same red hair as Ava, the same perfect nose.

And I get this feeling. Like when you’re a little kid and you make a fort out of chairs and blankets pulled off all the beds of the house, and when you’re inside the light is different, and you’re lying on pillows on the floor and you need a flashlight to read even though it’s the middle of the day. It feels like the people in this room are the only people in the world. Like all the life outside must be holding still and quiet, giving us these moments.

The camera stays on Caroline’s face as she waits for an answer. I was expecting her to be the jaded waitress who cocks her hip and chews gum and seems distracted or annoyed by her customers, but she isn’t. When she asks if she can get the detective a drink, she means it.

“Scotch,” he says, and we all gasp again, because the camera is now back on him and it would be too painful, too cruel, if that was all we saw of Caroline. Something is happening. He pats his pocket and pulls out a matchbook and narrows his eyes. Something has been solved, but I don’t know what. He gestures, and—thank God—here Caroline is again.

“Are you ready to order?” she asks.

“Change in plan,” he says. “I’m going to have to take a rain check on that drink.”

“Oh.” Her pleasant, professional courtesy is replaced with confusion, but it’s more than that. It’s concern. She smooths a strand of hair behind her ear. The camera stays on her for longer than it probably should, considering that this is an important moment that is in no way about her.

“Listen. If you see a blonde come in here, tell her something for me, will you?”

Caroline nods.

“Tell her that she duped me but I’m on to her. Tell her no daughter of mine would run around with Mack’s boys.”

“Okay, I’ll tell her,” Caroline says. “Sure you don’t have time for that scotch?”

“Tell you what. If I live through the night, I’ll be back to celebrate.”

Suddenly, I want the detective to live.

“What’s this guy’s name again?” I ask.

Jamal says, “Max.”

“I really want Max to live,” I say, and everyone murmurs in agreement.

Unfortunately for all of us, Max dies five minutes later, and the blonde never does go into the steakhouse, and the movie ends.

“Can we watch her scene again?” Ava asks, and I rewind the tape and find the part and press play. My dad stands up first and walks over to the screen, and soon Ava follows and then Mom and Charlotte and Jamal all at once, until we’re all standing just a couple feet away, staring into Caroline’s face at eye level.

“She’s beautiful,” Dad says.

“Such a kind face,” Mom says.

And I nod yes but as they all watch Caroline, I look at Ava, her hair fallen out of its ponytail, her hand raised to her mouth, her green eyes fixed to the screen, unblinking, taking in the sight of her mother.





Chapter Thirteen



At 4:40 a.m. on Sunday morning I pull up to the Echo Park house and text Rebecca that I’m here. When I look up from my phone I see Morgan’s truck in their driveway, which I guess is something I should have considered as a possibility. There’s no reason that seeing her should be any more awkward than it’s been the last few weeks—it could actually be less so now that we know where we stand—but I’m disappointed at the sight of the truck anyway. I wanted to feel like the art department expert on this excursion and every time I’m with Morgan it’s clear that she’s the more experienced one.

Then Rebecca appears, shutting her door behind her, carrying two travel mugs and Morgan’s keys.

“Good morning,” she says through my rolled-down window. “I borrowed Morgan’s truck.”