I stay quiet.
“I don’t get it. He was forty-two, in perfect health.”
She wants to know why. I’ve asked the same thing of the doctor, of Google, of myself. I received only theories, possible causes and effects. That’s not what Paige is looking for, but it’s all I have. “They say it was probably an arrhythmia that went undetected.”
The same image flashes: his bare feet on the rug. I’d had a late night of shooting. If it had been another day, I might’ve woken up with him. On that morning, I didn’t rise until after nine. By then it had been hours. They say it was quick. Still, I picture him lying there, all alone.
I place my open palm on the glass tabletop. She wipes her eye before taking my hand.
“I’m sorry,” Paige says, her wet cheek shimmering in the low light. She sucks in through her nose, puts a period on her sorrow.
When it first happened, I couldn’t stop crying. My food tasted like tears. Now, I couldn’t cry if I tried. It’s not a positive development, just a different kind of problem.
“Let’s talk about something else,” Paige says with perfect timing. “I’m trying to plan a family vacation.”
“That’ll be good. Where to?”
“Right now I’m thinking Costa Rica.”
Another reminder. I have the pictures on my laptop: us in the hot springs, taking surfing lessons, at a coffee farm, on a remote beach. “We loved it there,” I say.
“That’s right. I forgot you guys went. I’m sorry I mentioned it.”
“It’s fine. Believe me, there’s not much we can talk about that doesn’t lead back to him.”
“I just really want to make this vacation count,” Paige says. “It’s like, do we go somewhere with some history? Let Joan experience some culture? Or do we just plant ourselves on a beach somewhere? Personally, all I want is a pi?a colada and a trashy book. It’s been a stressful few years.”
“So the studio is really closing?”
She lifts her hair off the back of her neck and holds it in a clump on top of her head, giving her neck a chance to breathe. “We just thought it was time. Ollie’s dad hasn’t been the same since his wife died, and Ollie thought it was time to step in and help him. Obviously, if the studio were doing well, it would be a different story. But we can’t keep going like this. Now Ollie can get a steady paycheck and we can rent out the space. We won’t have to worry all the time.”
Ollie has been pursuing music for as long as I’ve known him. He’s outlasted so many others who showed early promise but quit when life took over or their passion ran out. Earlier tonight he wolfed down his dinner and slipped downstairs to record. Paige warned me that I might find him asleep on the studio couch. “How’s he taking it?”
“He tries not to show it, but I know it’s hard. At the same time, he’s tired of putting so much of himself into these songs in the hope that somewhere down the line someone might pay him to use them. It’s heartbreaking. You do all this work and nothing comes of it.”
I get it. Until I landed The Long Arm, I was constantly going out on auditions, putting my heart into roles I ultimately didn’t win. Still, as much as I’ve threatened to quit acting in the past, I can’t imagine trading in the creative life for something like a construction gig or whatever it is Ollie’s father has him doing. I haven’t had a chance to ask him about the specifics. I just know that whenever I meet ex-artists, they always look half alive.
“As long as he’s good with it,” I say.
“Honestly, it’s been tough, but I think he’s also excited to have a fresh start and some peace of mind. We’re all excited.”
I’m not sure I believe that. “What about Joan? She seemed pretty edgy before dinner.”
Paige sighs. “She blames me. But the truth is, I’m the only reason the studio has lasted this long. I don’t mind having to work through the summer tutoring if I can put the money toward something like a vacation or fixing the house, you know. But to keep putting it back into a business that’s just not working—I can’t do it anymore.”
Judging by how much she feels the need to explain, it seems she’s harboring a certain amount of guilt. I wonder if Ollie knows everything she just told me.
“By the way,” Paige says, “thanks for helping Joan with her song. She normally relies on her father for that stuff. We really appreciate you doing that.”
“No problem. It’s been sort of fun. I haven’t worked on music in so long.”
I stare off into the night. From here, Manhattan’s soaring towers look quaint and manageable. My mind returns, as always, to him. “Can I ask you something? I was talking to Joan and she said Sydney last came here in January.”
“That sounds right. Why?”
“He was supposedly back in New York in February and April. Did you see him then?”
She searches her mind. “No. I didn’t even know he was in town.”
“That’s what’s strange. I’m not sure he was.” Just saying this stuff out loud makes it more real. “The reason he kept coming back was that he was working on some project. That’s what he told me. He had so many things going on at once, I can’t even remember what the project was. But the weird part is, I spoke to his assistant and she said Syd didn’t take any business trips to New York this year. As far as she knows, there was no project.”
Her forehead wrinkles with more than her usual concern.
“And there’s something else,” I say. “I specifically remember him telling me that he saw you in April and he took you out for your birthday.”
Paige has always had the entire world’s worry in her eyes. But when faced with a tangible problem, she, more than anyone, can be relied on to provide a level-headed solution. “No,” she says. “That never happened. Ollie was supposed to take me out for my birthday, but we had to cancel. I got sick.”
That’s what Joan said. I was hoping these many discrepancies could be explained away as nothing more than an innocent misunderstanding, but that seems like wishful thinking at this point.
“When he was here in January, did he mention anything about work?” I say. “Do you remember what you guys talked about?”
“I’m not sure,” Paige says, still processing it all. “I know he wanted to look at some property while he was here. I don’t know if he did.”
That’s not surprising; we often spoke about moving back east. But what I can’t fathom is the blatant deceit. It just seems unthinkable that my gray-haired man lied straight to my face.
I stare off. The city glows in the distance.
“What are you thinking?” she says.
“Nothing,” I say, because I don’t want to have to explain what I’m feeling. I can’t prove it yet, but I know it in my heart: He’s out there, Sydney, some leftover impression of him. And I really have no choice anymore. I have to give chase.
13