Sliver Of Truth

I walked from the train station through the precious town center, zoned to look like a picture postcard, with clapboard restaurants and shops, a general store that sold ice cream, original gas lamps still in working order. I followed the street that wound uphill, past beautifully restored Victorian homes nestled on perfectly manicured lawns. Every season had its character here; it was always lovely. But today with most of the trees shedding their autumn color, and the hour still too bright for the streetlights to come on but dark enough to be gloomy, it didn’t seem as pretty. I didn’t take much comfort in coming home these days, and especially not today.

I let myself in the front door and went directly to my father’s study. I stood in the doorway, my hand resting on the scroll handle. When Ace and I were kids, this room was strictly forbidden unless there was adult supervision, so naturally, I had always been fascinated by it. I was forever trying to finagle an invitation in, as if spending time in there with my father would signal that I had become a grown-up. But the invitation never came.

I didn’t want to sneak in like Ace did; I didn’t see the point in that then. But Ace always wanted to go where he shouldn’t. And, in fact, he was hiding behind my father’s desk the night he overheard Max and Ben discussing Project Rescue and the night Max brought me home to Ben and Grace. But I didn’t know about that for a long time.

As I got older, I started to see this room as my father’s haven, a place where he could be alone, away from the needs of his children, the criticisms of his wife; where he could smoke a cigar out the window or have a bourbon in peace. Now I just saw it as a symbol of all the secrets that had been kept from me, all the lies that had been told.

As I walked inside, the whole house seemed to hold its breath in the silence. The room seemed cluttered and dusty; it was the only place my mother left alone on her relentless cleaning regimen. It smelled lightly of stale cigar smoke. The couch and matching chair and ottoman were the same evergreen velvet pieces that had sat there since my childhood. A low, heavy coffee table of dark wood was covered with books and magazines. The fireplace contained some fresh wood and some kindling, awaiting its next lighting.

My father used to sit, transfixed by the fire, his eyes taking on a strange blankness as he looked into the flames. As a kid I always wondered what he thought about when he was alone in here. Now I wondered if he thought about the night Max brought me here, asking them to raise me as their child; about the other Project Rescue babies and what had become of them; about the night Max’s mother died. Did he know what Nick Smiley thought had happened that night? Did he worry that there was another side to Max? If he did know, why had they remained so close?

Any affection I might have had for this forbidden place was gone. Now all I wanted to do was tear through it, open drawers, pull books off of shelves. I wanted to find anything this room was hiding. I hated it for all the secrets it had kept, including some of the last moments of Max’s life. What had the two men said to each other that night after the doors closed on me?

You probably think that I am, as usual, in a state of denial about Max. You’re thinking about the photographs, the inconsistencies in the medical examiner’s report, Esme’s bizarre behavior and her threats. You’re probably already convinced that Max was still alive. But the fact of the matter was that Max, my Max, was dead. There would be no resurrections. The man I had adored was lost to me forever.

If it turned out that Max Smiley lived, by some bizarre chance or nefarious design, he would be a stranger-or worse-to me. The man I thought I knew was a fantasy, an archetype: the Good Uncle. The real man remained a mystery-a terrifying mystery I wasn’t sure I wanted to solve. But if he was alive, I was going to find him and look him in the face. I would demand to know who he was, what had happened the night I was abducted and my biological mother was murdered. I would demand to know what had happened to Jake. I would force him to answer for Project Rescue. I would force him to answer for every ounce of rage and heartbreak he had caused. Sounds like a tall order, right? You have no idea.

I sat at my father’s computer and booted it up. It was a dinosaur and took forever. In the meantime I rifled through drawers and found some pens, old rubber bands and paper clips, a bunch of files containing fascinating evidence like water, phone, and electric bills, the deed to a property they owned in New Mexico but had never built on, their marriage license and other legal documents. Finally the screen lit up and demanded a password. I didn’t have to think for long. I entered lullaby, the nickname he’d always had for me. A strain of electronic music praised my excellent deductive powers.

“What are you looking for?” I asked myself out loud.