Tad looks unfazed. He nods philosophically. “You could also Airbnb it. That’s what a lot of people in Eden are doing these days.”
“Eden?”
“That’s the name of this complex—you didn’t know? I guess your mom bought it after you left. Yeah, Eden. Not a lot of people live here anymore. They rent out their places. It’s an old building, you know? Run-down. Shitty pipes and appliances and fixtures. Things not really working the way they used to. But.” He gives me another sly grin. “The view’s spectacular. That’s the thing.”
Then he looks out the windows. Freshly wiped down by him, by Tad. He’s inviting me with his glance to look at his handiwork. Window renovation, I remember Chaz said.
I don’t look out the window. I just keep staring at him manspreading on Mother’s couch, her cat rubbing whorishly against his crotch. He’s slung an arm around the cushion like he’s holding her ghost.
“If you fixed it up a bit,” he says, “you could really cash in. You have to fix it up anyway, right? To sell it, I mean.”
“Yeah.”
“Pretty big job to fix it up. You have any help? I’d be happy to—”
“I don’t need help,” I blurt out. “I mean, I appreciate it. Thank you, Tad.” Even his name on my tongue sounds like it’s mocking me. “But I can manage.” I hate the way I sound. Prim as my borrowed sack dress. A theme park princess talking to a troublesome guest. A shopgirl dealing with the FedEx guy. There’s a little curtsy in my voice. A clicking shut of a door. A drawing down of a shade over my life, my soul.
He smiles at me slowly.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just that you look like her. In some ways. In a lot of ways, actually. I didn’t really see it at first.” I can picture Mother smiling at this. She’s more exotic-looking, of course. That dark hair. That golden skin, so jealous. But we have the same bones, don’t we, Belle? And she’d pat my shoulder, squeeze my chin between her fingers. And whoever we were with, usually a man, would be forced to agree. The same bones. Oh yes. I see it.
Tad sees it. He’s grinning widely. What does he see exactly?
“We’re very different,” I say to Tad.
His placid gaze offers no response. He finishes the rest of his beer, sets it on the table. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.” He rises from the couch to the great consternation of Anjelica, who jumps away from his lap with a screech.
“If you change your mind about needing help.” He pulls a card from his pocket and hands it to me. Tad Olsen. Landscaper. Window Washer. General Handyman. In the corner of the card, there’s a little illustration of a smiling merman. He’s holding a squeegee in one hand and a pair of gardening shears in another. The merman has chin-length hair like Tad.
I watch him walk to the front door. Suddenly, I feel afraid. I don’t want to be alone in Mother’s place. “Tad?” I say. And again, I hate the way my voice sounds. This time like a hand reaching out. Grasping for something solid in the dark.
“Yeah?” He stands at the door and looks at me questioningly. Waiting.
Ridiculous to ask him to stay. This man I don’t even know. But something about his eyes, the way he’s looking at me. It takes me back to my nine-year-old body. Standing in the dark hallway of our old Montreal apartment. Watching from the shadows as Mother entertained whatever man in the living room. Men who looked like Tad. Sometimes they’d notice me standing there in the hall. Their eyes would meet mine and my body would freeze, I’d catch fire. Usually they’d turn right back to Mother after that. But sometimes they’d keep looking at me curiously, even kindly. Some might even wave. That your daughter? they’d ask Mother. And Mother would frown. Belle, go back to bed.
Don’t be silly, the man might say. Let her come out and say hello. And he’d smile at me standing there in the dark. Hi.
And I’d fill with warmth. My heart would open stupidly, only to be broken later. Hi.
Tad will be one of those. He’ll be a waver. He’ll be a smiler. He’s smiling at me now. “Yes, Belle?”
Then I notice the mirror behind Tad, on the wall above Mother’s couch. A crack right down the middle. Just like the one in the bathroom. Just like the one down the hall. And in this mirror above the couch, I see the wall of them behind me. Each one with a crack in its face.
“What’s up with the mirrors?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“The cracks? The cracks all down the middle?” And for a second, I feel crazy. Like maybe I’m the only one who sees them.