that she had done nothing to deserve. Canny at self-image; shallow at heart. Careless with her privilege and hopelessly out of touch with the real world, she was someone who liked to use those with less as props for her own fabulousness: a deluded elitist who believed she was actually a populist. She was clearly at a low point in her life and making some stab at self-actualization, judging by all those motivational quotes.
But it wasn’t until she announced that she was moving to Lake Tahoe that I started to pay close attention to her. For the last six months since she moved, I’ve been tracking Vanessa’s life closely: Watching as the glossy, professional quality of her photos disappeared, replaced once again by selfies. Watching as the fashion shots vanished, replaced by image after image of a crystalline mountain lake surrounded by stately pines. Looking for a familiar glimpse of a house I know so well, a house that has haunted my dreams since I was a teenager.
Looking for Stonehaven.
* * *
—
A few months back, I finally found it. She’d posted a photo of herself hiking with a young couple, everyone tanned and glowing with health. They stood on the summit of a mountain, the lake spreading out below them as they laughed with their arms flung around each other. The caption: Showing my new BFFs my favorite Tahoe spots! #hiking #athleisure #beautifulview. The friends were tagged. I clicked on one and found myself on the Instagram feed of a young Frenchwoman documenting her travels across the United States. Three photos in, there it was: a shot of the couple sitting on a familiar cottage stoop, surrounded by ferns. The open door behind them allowed a shadowy glimpse of a cozy living room, a couch upholstered in old-fashioned brocade that made my heart beat faster. The caption: Cet JetSet était merveilleux. Nous avons adoré notre h?tesse, Vanessa.
My high school French was rusty, but I knew what this meant.
Vanessa had started renting out the cottage.
* * *
—
It takes just an hour to pack a bag. When I tell my mother that I am leaving town—that I’ll call often, visit as soon as I can—she starts blinking rapidly and I wonder if she is going to cry. But she doesn’t. “Good girl,” she says instead. “Smart girl.”
“I’m calling that home aide we used last year. I’ll have her come and check on you daily once the radiation starts. She’ll clean and do the shopping. OK?”
“For goodness’ sake, Nina. I’m capable of setting up my own home care. I’m not an invalid.”
Yet, I think to myself. “And the bills—you’ll have to pay them instead of me. You’re already on my bank account; I’ll top it up as soon as some money comes in.” I don’t want to think about what will happen to my mother if it doesn’t.
“Don’t worry about me. I’m an old hand at this now.”
I kiss her forehead, and wait until I am out of sight before I let myself cry.
Lachlan and I check in to a budget hotel in Santa Barbara. Nothing near the beach where we might hear the waves; just a concrete slab and a pool with gray crust soiling the tiles and leaves growing slimy on the bottom. The shower is prefab and it leaks, and instead of miniature bottles of soap and shampoo they offer one bottle of catch-all “washing liquid.”
We lie side by side on the bed, sipping wine from disposable cups, my browser open to JetSet.com. I type Lake Tahoe into the search field and then start scrolling through the listings until one jumps out at me. I turn the laptop around and display the page for Lachlan. “This is it,” I say.
“That?” He gives me a quizzical look and I can see why: The photograph is of a modest shingled cottage, timbered and painted pale green, nestled in a stand of pines. Compared to some of the other lakefront listings, this one is humble, easily overlooked. The cottage has a worn, Hansel and Gretel quality to it: slatted wooden shutters, window boxes laden with ferns, moss growing up the stones of the foundation. Cozy Caretaker’s Cottage,