This is kind of classic Lindy. It was a big part of therapy when we were briefly with her—celebrating victories and identifying opportunities. “You say you went to the grocery store today, Josh! That’s wonderful. A great victory over your depression. Congratulate yourself! And maybe tomorrow you can do two things, like go to the grocery store and put the food in the fridge so Imogene doesn’t come home to eight-hours-warm milk and iceless ice cream.” I’m paraphrasing, of course. Mostly.
I’ve often wondered about the moment when Dad decided, That’s the one for me forever. I’ve been told the story of how they started dating. We’d only been to three or four sessions with Lindy before Dad ran into her at the Thinking Cup in Boston and invited her to share his high-top table. (“I won’t be billed for this, will I?” he’d joked lamely.) While their coffees cooled, they talked, and a week later, Dad requested a different family therapist. He must’ve wooed her hard, because it wasn’t long after that she switched practices altogether, and Dad sat me down at a low-top table at Cheesy Pete’s and gave me the Lindy Talk.
But what was it about Lindy, exactly? What convinced him to marry her when apparently (and mysteriously) he’d never even married my mother? I’m not saying Lindy isn’t wicked smart, ambitious, and nice enough, with hair that shines like polished wood. I don’t object to Lindy in any specific way. But Dad’s kept The Miraculous Draught of Fishes as his desktop background for as long as I can remember, and I can remember three laptops back. How do you love someone that much, then propose to your family therapist?
And for maybe the first time ever, I wonder when Lindy looked at Dad and thought, That’s the man for me. What convinced her to risk so much for him? What convinced her to stay?
I watch as it takes my stepmother two delicate bites to snip a quarter-size piece of watercress off her fork tines with her front teeth. What would she think if she knew that Dad and Mom were never married? Would she be pleased with her shiny new first-wife status? Suspicious of whatever truth is lurking beneath the lie, like me?
Would she shake her head and tell me I’m chasing ghosts? I remember Victory Island, and place my bet on the latter.
“So, Immy. Thinking about prom yet?”
That’s a topic switch. “Should I be?”
She smooths a napkin across her lips, starting from the center and working toward the corners. “It’s in June, isn’t it? Do you have a date in mind?”
As if all I have to do is think of a guy, and one will appear. I’m about to shrug it off, but this gives me a window. “Jessa wants to look at dresses tomorrow, before all the good ones are sold out.” I sigh and cast my eyes downward. “But I don’t think I’m going.”
“You’ve still got time to shop.”
“No, I don’t think I’m going to prom.”
She clinks her fork onto her plate, eyebrows screwing together. “I won’t say you should go. But that seems like a rash decision.”
“It’s not rash. It’s practical. I don’t even have a boy to take me.” It sounds pathetic—I have to swallow a healthy dose of self-loathing to get the words out—but I know the answer that’s coming.
“Oh, Immy, you don’t need a boy to go to your prom.”
“No, I guess not,” I reluctantly admit, tracing gloomy squiggles in my mashed butternut squash. “But boys usually buy the tickets. That’s how the school does things and it’ll look weird if I do.”
“That’s ridiculous! Not to mention a complete throwback to the fifties. You just march in and buy your own ticket.”
I snort. “Me and what trust fund?”
Confident that she’s facing a problem she can solve, Lindy picks up her fork and digs back in. “Well, don’t worry about that. How much are tickets?”
“Who knows. But first I have to buy a dress and shoes and . . . I don’t know.” Then, the clincher: “All so I can show up without a date?”
“Imogene Mei Scott, you need to realize that you’re a strong young woman who is perfectly capable of having a great time sans male. Tell me what you need.”
“Thanks, Lindy,” I gush, my smile genuine.
“Of course.” She pats my hand across the table, then clears her throat. “You know, while you were with Jessa yesterday, I spoke with Officer Griffin.”
I look at her. She smiles. Weakly, but at least she’s still wearing her work lipstick, and her hair is smoothed back in a French twist, so she looks more herself. “It’s not—there isn’t any information yet. But Officer Griffin thinks my idea of getting the media involved might be helpful.”
“The media? What, like, newspapers? TV?”
“Both. She thinks the story could really get some traction considering your dad’s well-known. To some, anyway. People could really pay attention. And the more people who pay attention, the greater the likelihood that someone will see something. It might help us find him, just in case he isn’t heading back this way already.”