Truth in Advertising Page 0,50

close up, three-quarter profile, just her face, lost in thought, late-afternoon light.

I stare, perhaps too long, and then turn to see Judy looking at me.

I say, “Who took this?”

“I did.”

“It’s amazing.”

“She’s an easy subject.”

I nod, look at the picture again.

She removes it from the album and hands it to me.

She says, “Take it. I have copies.”

I take it, say nothing, suddenly embarrassed.

Judy turns the pages and there’s Phoebe in a wedding dress, which can’t be right. But there she is. There’s Phoebe in a wedding dress with bridesmaids, with her parents, with a man in a tuxedo, holding hands, kissing, cutting a large cake. It is strange to watch the feeling that comes over me, to step outside of my body slowly, the moment before impact in a car accident. My hands tingle and perspire, my eyes squint, the information unable to be fully processed. There’s been a mistake.

Judy’s looking at me. She says, “You didn’t know.”

I smile, but it’s forced and weird. I could be wrong but I think Judy senses my discomfort.

She says, “She was young. Right out of college. It was a mistake. Didn’t last long.”

I’m nodding slowly, trying to understand it. That’s wrong. I’m not trying to understand it. I’m trying to understand why I feel the way I do. Mildly nauseated.

“We all have our secrets,” I say, sounding like an idiot.

Judy says, “Phoebe told us about your father, Fin. That must be very hard for you.”

She was married. How strange. How did I not know that about her?

“It is,” I lie. Then I say, “I guess. I don’t really know.”

She looks at me, cocks her head to one side.

I shrug. “I haven’t seen him in twenty-five years. He left a long time ago. And then my mother.” I never say these words out loud. The radio is on somewhere. Classical music very low.

I say, “Yeah. My mother killed herself.”

I never use the word suicide when I think about what happened. It feels distant, academic. There’s always took her own life, but that sounds odd and passive. Took her own life where? Killed herself is much more active. Killed herself is how I think of it, how I imagine it when I do imagine it.

Judy puts a hand to her cheek. She looks pained.

I say, “I’m sorry. That came out very . . . I hope I didn’t upset you.”

“No. I’m just so sorry. How old were you?”

“Twelve.”

“That must have been awful for you. For all of you.”

Phoebe has Judy’s eyes, hazel, dabs of color, wide-set, almond-shaped. The lovely cheeks, high coloring, snow-white hair cut short. Phoebe said her mother cuts her own hair. I’ve always found it rude when people say of a woman of a certain age, “She must have been beautiful when she was younger.” I can see how a man could fall in love with Judy Knowles.

I shrug and nod. “It wasn’t great.”

Images of Eddie’s outbursts, of Kevin’s leaving, of Maura’s desperation to get away and start a new and very different life. You think you can walk away, leave it behind. It is amazing the lies you can tell yourself. I see the green bike again on its side on the grass by the back stairs. No kickstand. You’re not supposed to be home. She drives away.

I want to tell her that for years I’ve told people that my father was dead, told them I was an only child. She watches me.

I say, “Thank you for having me tonight. You have an amazing family.”

“Phoebe talks about you so often. She says she’s learned so much from you.”

“Me? You’ve got the wrong guy.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Well, I’ll do my best to talk her out of advertising.”

“As long as she’s happy, I don’t mind what she does.”

I hear Phoebe and her father coming toward the kitchen.

Stu says, “I’m heading up.” He shakes my hand. “Fin. So great to meet you. Sleep well.” He kisses Phoebe’s forehead.

Judy kisses Phoebe on the check, then she leans over and hugs me. Chanel No. 5.

• • •

Phoebe and I walk through the backyard, through a wooded area that opens onto the fairway of a golf course and a field of snow. There is a partial moon and the sky is very clear and you can see stars in the black sky. There’s no wind but it is very cold. I’m wearing my new old scarf. Phoebe has on her mother’s Sorels and what looks like one of her brother’s old coats. A wool hat her mother knit from