A Matter of Chance Read online

  A MATTER

  OF

  CHANCE

  Copyright © 2018 Julie Maloney

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

  Published 2018

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-1-63152-369-4 pbk

  ISBN: 978-1-63152-370-0 ebk

  Library of Congress Control Number:2017953864

  Book design by Stacey Aaronson,

  For information, address:

  She Writes Press

  1563 Solano Ave #546

  Berkeley, CA 94707

  She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

  For my children

  Jenna

  David

  Kayla

  With all my love

  With what price we pay for the glory of motherhood.

  —Isadora Duncan

  When she was born, I named her Lavinia, but I called her Vinni. Her left, sleepy eyelid hung lower than her right, but when she was twenty-two months old, the surgeon took a slight tuck under her brow and made her as perfect as a child could be. By the winter of her third year, signs of the stitches had disappeared. By the summer of her eighth year, her skin was bronzed and beautiful.

  YEAR ONE

  ONE

  THE DAY VINNI AND I LOST EACH OTHER, WE WOKE EARLY to have breakfast on the beach. A giant tote bag stuffed with towels, suntan lotion, and bottles of water rested against the back door. James and the Giant Peach, number two on Vinni’s reading list, sat in the outside pocket, next to the galleys for my new coffee-table book—Fashion in the Twentieth Century—a spin-off from my editorial job at Hot Style magazine. A box of pastels—a gift from Evelyn, who lived downstairs—hid in the bottom of the bag; a ratty sketchpad peeked out at the top. Each day I planned on taking the pastels out of the bag, but each day my child wanted me to see something, walk somewhere, or talk more.

  She’d start by saying, “I have an idea. . . .”

  At the perfect spot, we spread the food out on the matelassé I had rescued from a flea market on Orchard Street on the Lower East Side. After we devoured the waffles and berries, Vinni and I walked along the beach. The early-morning sunlight illuminated the world around us. Even the birds respected the quiet.

  In the distance, we saw them—Rudy and Hilda—strolling the way older people do, taking care not to get too close to the water’s edge. They waved to us as we walked in their direction. The two fascinated Vinni because they were always together. “I think Rudy is Hilda’s best friend. They’re like you and me,” she declared, as if giving this some thought. Her father and I had separated when she was five. Now, three years later, Steve kept a distant presence in San Francisco.

  The couple used to stop and talk to Vinni and me on the beach, but it was Vinni they studied. Sometimes Hilda ran her finger down Vinni’s cheek in one smooth stroke, as she complimented her hair or the color of her eyes. I remember how Vinni would just stand there and smile. She never turned away.

  What had she seen when I had been studying the color of the ocean?

  “Rudy and Hilda don’t smile the same way,” she said. “Rudy’s lips turn up wide, and his eyes look happy, but Hilda’s eyes don’t smile, even when her mouth does.”

  “I’m sure Hilda’s happy.” I smoothed away the dark, wavy hair from Vinni’s right cheek as I spoke without thinking.

  ON OUR WAY back up the beach, I stopped on one of the hilly sand piles common to the Jersey Shore and leaned over to remove a piece of shell wedged between my toes.

  That’s when I saw Rudy slumped over in the sand. At first I wasn’t sure, as he and Hilda were far away, but something made me grab Vinni and run. By the time we reached them, Hilda was leaning in close to Rudy’s face. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders as she knelt beside him. He was whispering in German. Hilda nodded, crying softly, kissing his cheeks. She held his right hand against her chest.

  The muscles in his face twisted, but he reached for Hilda’s shirt collar with knotted fingers and said, “Geh.” Twice more he repeated the word. “Geh. Geh.”

  Go. Go.

  I told Vinni to stay with Hilda and Rudy while I raced home to call 911. Usually a cell phone addict, I had tried all summer long to wean myself off this seductive attachment. I have gone over and over why I made this choice—why I made Vinni stay on the beach.

  AS I REACHED the front porch of the summer cottage, I turned back and the breeze from the ocean swept sand across my face. I blinked away the grainy flecks and as my eyes focused, in the distance, by the water’s edge, I saw Vinni’s hand on Hilda’s shoulder. Hilda was sitting in the sand, with Rudy’s head on her lap. I don’t know if I imagined it or not, but later I thought I had heard Hilda singing to Rudy.

  After making the 911 call at the house, I turned around too fast and tripped over a pile of books stacked on the floor by the couch near the front door. I stumbled and grabbed the air. My arm landed on the lampshade Vinni said reminded her of an old lady’s hat. I regained my balance and kept moving. As I slammed the door behind me, I heard a loud crash and knew the table lamp had fallen.

  I hurried to the spot where I had left Vinni. She and Hilda were gone. The faded color of Rudy’s lips stopped me from touching him. I knelt down and put my ear to his chest.

  Rudy was dead.

  I looked up and saw two men dressed in shore-police attire—white shirts, navy Bermuda shorts, and skinny navy ties— running in my direction. Two people from the rescue squad, one woman and one man, carried a stretcher behind them.

  The tide stilled. The earth stopped its rotation. “Where’s my daughter?” I said to the cop who reached me first.

  “Where did they go?” I closed my arms around my chest. The August sun was hot for so early in the morning. I shaded my eyes with the side of my hand. Both policemen were on their knees in the sand, bent over Rudy.

  “Who?” the woman from the rescue squad asked, as she looked around.

  “My daughter. My daughter was here with Hilda. I don’t know—”

  “Do you know this man?” the policeman interrupted, looking up at me with a baby face full of summer freckles.

  “His name is Rudy Haydn. He lives in the yellow clapboard house on Morris Avenue, two blocks down, at number twenty-three. My daughter . . .” I slowed a bit and looked around. Why did Hilda leave Rudy? Didn’t Vinni just say last night that they were best friends?

  “My daughter must be with Hilda.” And then I added, “She’s eight.” I said it again. “She’s only eight.” My throat closed a little, the way it used to when my father would tell me that my mother had to return to the hospital.

  “Who’s Hilda?” the policeman asked, as he bent over Rudy. No one was there but Rudy and me.

  “Hilda is his wife. She . . .” I looked around. “She must have taken Vinni back to the house,” I said, wondering aloud to no one. Panic waited in the pit of my stomach.

  A few early risers stopped and stared at Rudy. Two women in their midthirties, both with sun-streaked hair pulled back in a ponytail, had been jogging. They looked like typical Spring Haven mothers: good skin, trim bodies. They wore the latest running shoes, tied in double knots. Women like this learned all about life from their own mothers. They combed their children’s hair before they went to school, scrambled eggs, and watered their plants so they wouldn’t die.
/>   “Do you need help here?” the taller one asked. I shook my head.

  The younger of the two policemen questioned an older couple and a single man in his forties walking a golden retriever. Dogs were allowed on the beach until 8:00 a.m. If Vinni had been here, I know she would have stopped to pet the dog.

  More heads shook. No one had seen Rudy fall. More time passed. No one had seen a little girl with an older woman leave the beach.

  I continued, “My daughter was here with Rudy and Hilda. I left her here to make the call.”

  “We’ll send someone over to the house,” the young policeman said. His voice was deep with confidence. Salt and sun had bleached away some of the letters on the officer’s nameplate.

  “What’s your daughter’s name?”

  “Vinni. Lavinia. Everyone calls her Vinni.”

  Should I have fled and run to Hilda’s, instead of staying with Rudy?

  I must have been with the officers on the beach for at least twenty minutes. No one moved fast. Maybe it was the heat, or the summer laziness that affects small-town police departments.

  “We’ll need your numericals,” the older police officer said, as he stepped to my side.

  “Numericals?” I asked.

  “Full ID, Social Security, how long you’ve been down here. You’ll have to come to the station and answer some questions.”

  “Yes, yes, but I’ve got to find Hilda. My daughter . . . I’m sure my daughter’s with her.”

  I ran toward the yellow house. Rudy and Hilda had always kept their front door unlocked. As a New Yorker accustomed to locked doors, I found this strange. Now, when I turned the handle, the door didn’t budge. I called out for Hilda as the sun beat down hard on my head. To the right of the top step, where I stood, I saw Hilda’s beach shoes—old brown sandals with ankle straps—thrown to the side in the garden, sitting among the purple and white pansies. It had been at least fifty minutes since I had last seen Vinni. Hilda’s shoes tossed in with fresh mulch sent a wave of illness over my body.

  “Vinni!” I screamed, as I banged on the door.

  I ran around to the back door and pushed it open. The silence in the house lashed across my face. I raced from room to room. Why did I take so long?

  I heard someone come up the steps and turned to see the young officer from the beach.

  “I checked all the rooms. They’re not here,” I said. “What’s happening? Where are they?” My voice rose as I moved my face close to his, and he took a soft step back. “Something . . . something’s not right. Where are they?” Repeating the words offered no comfort.

  Another officer, who had been dispatched to check the house before I got there, had been poking around the garage.

  “The car’s gone,” he said, as he stepped inside the kitchen. “Looks like someone had an oil leak. There’s fresh drops of oil on the concrete floor.”

  Sixty minutes had passed since I had last seen Vinni.

  TWO

  THE MISTAKE I MADE WAS NOT MOVING FAST ENOUGH.

  “Time counts.” The Spring Haven detective spoke as if he were measuring each word before it dropped from his mouth. He was of average height—maybe five foot ten—and had a solid build for a guy who looked like he had been sitting behind a desk for at least a decade. He was probably in his late thirties, and still had lots of thick, dark hair that looked hard to comb. My mother would have called it Italian hair.

  It was the detective’s idea that we go back to the house in case Vinni returned home. He and I sat across from each other at the kitchen table that only the day before had been an innocent dining set with four chairs, four blue plaid seat cushions, and one rectangular table. Now, I popped up and down from the seat, unable to be still one minute and frozen with fear the next. I loathed the blue plaid. When I dropped my head, the tiny squares made me dizzy.

  “Time counts.” Detective D’Orfini said it twice the day Vinni disappeared. “The idea that Hilda and your daughter, Vinni, are together is a working assumption. It’s just one of them. There may be a third party involved in all of this. Or Vinni may be with a friend. We can’t rule out anything. The important thing is for you to stay calm. Calmness is key.”

  “She’s my only child,” I said. My voice weakened behind my teeth in the back of my throat. I jumped up and walked into the living room and saw traces of Vinni from the morning. A pair of hot-pink socks was on the floor, next to the waist-high bookcase filled with decades-old issues of Ladies’ Home Journal. She had two backpacks. She had taken one to the beach with her. The other one was at my feet. Unzipped, it held a bag of half-eaten popcorn, two Hershey’s Kisses, a mini-container of Altoids mints (a symbol of status among eight-year-olds at her school), and a short-sleeved, eco-friendly green T-shirt that read STAND UP FOR PEACE.

  One hour turned into two.

  “I’ll need a list of Vinni’s friends from school,” D’Orfini said. “Maybe she saw one of them down here at the beach. Her teachers, too. And friends here in Spring Haven.”

  I had already called the little girl whom Vinni had met less than two weeks ago on the beach. It was 8:00 a.m. when her mother picked up the phone. I apologized for disturbing her, then hung up quickly when I learned Vinni wasn’t there. I imagined the other mother hanging up and climbing into bed with her safe child. Promising her pancakes with warm syrup. Curling her fingers around her daughter’s small hand.

  That is what I would have done.

  Looked after my own.

  “DO YOU HAVE a child identification box?” D’Orfini asked.

  “A what?” I said.

  “It’s a good idea for every parent to have a box that holds a current photo of her child, dental records, medical records, even a list of friends and teachers, updated each year.”

  I stumbled into the bedroom, grabbed my black leather tote bag, and returned to the living room. Vinni’s third-grade school picture was in my wallet. I reached in and handed it to him. He looked at me for a moment and then said, “We’ll make copies.”

  I opened up my laptop and went straight to my photo library.

  “These are good. I’ll need these forwarded to the station,” D’Orfini said.

  FIVE HOURS LATER, I called Vinni’s father from the police station in Spring Haven. The cheap plaque on the edge of Detective D’Orfini’s desk said his first name was John. Johnny D’Orfini. Sounded like a kid who hung out with pizza delivery boys when he was in high school. Slid into criminal justice when he decided firehouse cooking wasn’t going to be what he expected on a dinner plate. Graduated from college and then moved back home to run his small-town police department. Each time he spoke, I found myself hopeful that he’d tell me where to go to grab my child’s hand and take her home. His green eyes caught me from the beginning.

  “Steve? Vinni’s gone.”

  I made the call because he was her father, even if he hadn’t talked to her all summer. Vinni loved her dad, but she had learned to expect little from him.

  “Maddy, I just got into the office. I’m getting ready to fly to Hong Kong this afternoon. What do you mean, Vinni’s gone? What the hell are you talking about?”

  Steve had never been my go-to guy in a crisis. He didn’t like to be interrupted.

  “I don’t know. We went to the beach early this morning . . . and then Hilda and Rudy . . . Hilda was crying and Vinni stayed . . . and . . . oh my God, Steve, she’s gone.”

  Seconds piled up. No words came from either of us. I could hear Steve breathing in that racing way he had when he was trying to keep control, before he spoke. “Who are Hilda and Rudy? Where the hell are you?”

  My voice quivered. “I’m at the police station in Spring Haven. You know that Vinni and I rented a house down here for July and August. You do remember that, don’t you, Steve?”

  “What are you doing at the police station? And who is Hilda?”

  I was crying. For a minute, I wished Steve had been there with me; I thought he would have been better than no one. Then I caught myse
lf.

  “Put somebody else on the phone.” I recognized the steel in Steve’s voice. It was better that he was across the country in San Francisco. I could already hear the lecture he’d give me on responsibility, on not paying attention, and a general berating about any parental belief in myself that I had built up in the three years I had been raising Vinni alone.

  I passed the phone to D’Orfini.

  EVEN AS A young child, Vinni had different perceptions of her dad and me. When he called in June, two weeks before the end of school, and explained that he was not returning from Sydney as planned, she didn’t cry or throw a tantrum. It was another one of those times when I looked at her with a stranger’s eyes, examining her young face, searching for a hint of maturity. But there were no outward signs. It was all about her brain and her heart and how they grew entwined within a silk mesh of compassion. She snatched questions out of the air.

  “Does everyone have a heart?” she asked.

  “Well, of course, honey,” I answered.

  “Everyone?” she asked again, doubting that I had understood the question in the first place. I began to explain, but I think I lost her after the first sentence. I know she got what I meant. When she understood something, her forehead did this little funny lift and receded like a drawn-out sigh.

  Except for a slight dip in her chin, Vinni’s face made an almost perfect circle. The dip added a sense of seriousness. Her dark hair and deep brown eyes were my father’s. Vinni’s lips were so full, I never doubted men would kiss them when she was older. She looked nothing like me, except for the hair, although Vinni’s had a strong hint of gold folded in among its thickness. When she was a baby, I shampooed her hair in the kitchen sink while cupping her head in my palm. As I gently massaged her scalp, I studied her features as if I were seeing them for the first time.