VANISHING ACT

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Chapter Two

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I chose to go to college in Chicago for a simple reason – it was hundreds of miles away from my family. By the time I was eighteen, my relationship with my parents had frayed to the point that I only exchanged words with them out of necessity. That may seem cruel on my part, but it certainly had a basis; I hadn't forgiven their failure to believe what I told them when I was seven. As far as I was concerned, they were responsible for my nightmares.

To illustrate the extent to which our relationship had soured, I'll tell how my parents came to learn I was going to Chicago. I actually neglected to say I'd got a college place for weeks, only announcing that I had one when my mother – in her snippiest voice - ventured to ask me what I planned on doing upon my graduation. Her tone strongly implied an expectation that I would either remain silent or mumble "nothing." I felt supremely satisfied when I said I was going to Northwestern to study medicine, and relished my mother's expression of slack-jawed shock. To be fair to her, the response wasn't all that surprising; I was quiet, unassuming and never spoke about school. I guess my years of silence had led her to think I was stupid.

Dad responded to the news by freezing – his face literally lost what little expression it had, and he stared across the dinner table as if he was focusing on something far away. I didn't probe him for a more elaborate reaction; I'd given up on provoking him years before.

I took as few non-essential items with me as I could afford, the goal being to cut myself off from home to the greatest possible extent. Nonetheless, one of the most uncomfortable moments in the lead up to my departure came when I asked Dad for a photo of Sarah to take with me. I hadn't been able to bring myself to look at the albums of her since the nightmares started; her face had become a beacon of unbearable sadness. I wanted a photo as I was determined that would change once I went to Chicago – I wanted to remember how I'd loved her as a child. More than that, I wanted to remind myself who it was I sought to rescue. I had no idea who or what Sarah needed saving from, only that I wanted nothing more than to bring her home.

I knew Dad looked through the photo albums of her every Sunday – it had become something of a ritual for him since he'd taken early retirement the previous year. I never approached him in those moments - I, much like my mother, feared depression was contagious. I went up to him to ask about a photo one evening while he was watching TV, and came out with it quickly, "Can I have a photo of Sarah to take with me to college?"

Dad continued to look straight at the TV, but his eyes began to glisten from the erratic, flashing lights thrown off by the screen. I cringed inwardly, disquieted by his expression. "That should be fine. Bring the albums down – I'd like to see which one you take."

I ran upstairs and drew the box of albums out from the store cupboard. I only took one downstairs with me; I knew exactly what photo I wanted.

I sat down beside Dad on the sofa, opening the album on my lap. Seeing photo after photo of her face made my heart ache. It was hard not to cry, but I managed it. "I want this one," I pointed to the photo of Sarah and me together in the park.

Dad turned his face away from the TV screen, smiling faintly as he looked at the album. "I remember when that was taken. Your mother charged in straight after it was taken to wipe the ice cream off your face - you howled like mad."

"I can't remember," I muttered petulantly, "I can't remember anything about Sarah at all."

Dad sighed in the way he always did when preparing to contradict me. "You're not going to. It's like we've always told you – you guys had a fantastic relationship. Sarah adored you and you adored Sarah. You shouldn't beat yourself up just because you can't remember her – you were only three, for heaven's sake."

I slipped the photo from its plastic casing, "I know, but that doesn't make me feel any better."

With that, I got up and walked away with the photo in my pocket. Dad made no attempt to follow me.

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Chicago couldn't have been more different from where I grew up. When I first went out in the city at night, I felt lost amidst its chaos. After 7:00pm, the city became a place of disorientating contrasts. The dark sky was lit by clutches of neon lights, silent alleys led off from bustling precincts, and most people looked lonely despite the crowds surrounding them. Over time, it was precisely these contradictions that came to fascinate me – they were what persuaded me to settle here for good.

I enjoyed my lectures, but never truly engaged with student life. My roommate, whose name I never truly learned, quickly realized not to approach me, and gave up his attempts to drag me out to socialize after the first week. I spent much of my time out of lectures alone, exploring the city. I kept the photo of Sarah and I folded severely in my wallet, the heavy crease cutting through my plump, toddler face.

While my earliest experiences of Chicago left me feeling daunted by the extent of my own insignificance, I soon became accustomed to it. I found I quite liked feeling small, and being able to lose myself in the maze of streets and shops. I had worked summer jobs since I was sixteen and was being funded through college by my grandparents, so could afford a curiously un-student-like lifestyle. I tended to eat alongside harassed-looking businessmen in a noodle place near the harbour, finding it infinitely preferable to the college canteen. I walked back from there to my accommodation every night. By my junior year, I could have navigated the route with my eyes closed.

On the way back, I always glanced at the billboards set on the frontage of the Chicago Shakespeare Theatre. The building was formed entirely from glass and the billboards were always gaudily lit, like advertisements for some tacky casino. I noted each new production with mild interest: The Winter's Tale, Measure for Measure, The Merchant of Venice. The plays had short runs and featured feted Shakespearean actors I'd never heard of. The only poster to ever make me stop dead in my tracks announced the upcoming production of Anthony and Cleopatra.

The poster was entirely dominated by a face. It captured my notice right away, for it was not just any face; it was my sister's. She was looking heavenward, her dark hair was braided, and there was a golden crown set atop her head. Her eyes shone with tears. I rushed towards it, disbelieving until the billing came into focus:

LINDA WILLIAMS

When I saw her name in bold print before me, I realized the truth: I was looking not looking at Sarah's face; I was looking at the face of her mother.

For a moment, I marveled at the odds – the fact that she'd somehow wound up in Chicago seemed just too strange, too unlikely. I quickly dismissed the thought, entered the theater, and booked a front row seat.

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I never got Shakespeare prior to Chicago; indeed, I had considered him something of a hack since being assigned Richard III at high school. Despite studying the play in tedious detail I hadn't understood it– I just couldn't grasp how anyone could invest in characters who spent all their time standing around speechifying.

After I watched Linda Williams in Anthony and Cleopatra, my feelings changed. Longing was wrought in her face when she rhapsodized about her lover. A carefully cultivated sneer was present when she mocked an official. Deep despair cracked her voice in the approach to Cleopatra's suicide.

While caught up in the darkness of the theater, I forgot that Linda Williams had to be in her fifties – she exuded the glamour and the beauty of a much younger woman. Her every movement was imbued with grace and power – when she was on stage, it was impossible to pay attention to anyone else. Her golden dress shimmered continuously, lit by an elaborate series of overhead lights. She was captivating; watching her perform made me appreciate why Sarah had kept a scrapbook dedicated to her achievements. The illusion of her power was only broken during the intermission, when I realized that the theatre was half-empty and that I was the youngest person in the audience by about thirty years.

I decided to approach Linda while the curtains were down, and subsequently spent the second half of the play mulling over my plan. I told myself to be honest, that no lie would grab her attention more effectively than the truth. I fully intended to shock her by announcing my presence – while my parents had dismissed what I'd told them when I was seven, I had a raw, instinctive feeling Linda would be more receptive. I reasoned that she'd be hungry for all the information about Sarah she could get, that she'd beg me for every detail. What mother wouldn't crave information about her lost child?

My parents' final words on Sarah's fate – "she just disappeared" - had not altered since I was in kindergarten. I knew there had to be more to know, and saw Linda –and this sounds naïve, I know - as a conduit to the truth.

I left the theater as soon as the curtain went up, missing the first bow. I knew I had to be assertive if I was to catch Linda before she left, so approached the usher propping open the doors at the top of the stairs.

"Excuse me, I was wondering if you could get a message to Linda Williams for me?"

The man started, and turned his head back to look at me as he rose from his crouch. "I'm afraid I can't do that, sir. If you're after an autograph, your best bet is to wait by the stage door around the back." The usher returned his attentions to the door, but I persisted.

"You don't understand – I'm the brother of her daughter. I'm Toby Williams. She'll want to see me."

The usher turned around again, looking impatient. "Linda Williams doesn't have a son – her daughter is missing and has been for nearly twenty years. If you don't go, I'll have to ask you to leave."

"I'm not her son. Her husband – the father of her daughter – married again, and had me. I'm Sarah William's half-brother. Please, just let her know I'm here – that's all I ask."

The usher looked conflicted, but said nothing. I reached quickly for my wallet and pulled out the photo of Sarah, unfolding it quickly. "Look, show her this. That's me and my sister. When she sees that, she'll know I am who I say I am."

He looked up from the photo, clearly aggravated though he made no attempt to pass the photo back to me. "Alright. I'll say you're here, but I'm not making any promises." The usher bent to check that the door was solidly propped open, then disappeared down the stairs and out of sight.

The wait at the top of the stairs felt long. People started pouring out of the auditorium a few minutes after the usher left, generally jabbering about where they'd parked or what they were going to have for dinner. I managed to disregard most of the irrelevancies, focusing in solely on the mentions of Linda -

'Still beautiful.'

'One of her better performances, I think'

'It's been a long time since she was last here, hasn't it?'

After a while the crowd began to thin out, until the only people exiting the theater were feeble and reliant on walking sticks. I peered over the ornate railing that ran alongside the stairs, looking over the lobby. Beside a few stragglers and a bored looking girl stationed at the refreshments counter, it was empty. I was about to approach the girl and ask where the usher was when he appeared at the foot of the steps. My attention was instantly drawn to his hand – the photo had gone.

"I've spoken to Ms. Williams, sir – she said she can't see you, but asked that you leave a number so she can call you."

I was quiet for a few moments, my eyes still focused on his hand. "Where's my photo?"

"She kept it – you said to give it to her."

"Not to keep! Not when she won't even see me!"

"Will you please quiet down," he whispered sharply, casting an anxious look over the room; though there were only a handful of people left, all of them were staring. "Don't get angry, okay? If you do, there's no way I'm giving her your number."

I closed my eyes and drew a deep breath; I couldn't let myself cry. "Alright – but I want that photo back. Please, say that to her. It's the only picture of my sister I've got."

A flicker of guilt crossed his face, and when he spoke he spoke softly. "I will. Now write your number down and I'll take it to her. She seemed shocked, but I think she meant it when she said she was going to call you."

I nodded. Thanking the usher, I wrote down my name and left. I walked home in a daze; in turned out that my chat with the usher had been more exhilarating than the performance.

From that day on, I pretty much kept my hand continuously tensed to reach for my cell in case it rang. I never normally got calls – the only person who had my number was Mom and she rang me at 6.00pm sharp every Sunday - so knew that if it rang at any other time it was practically guaranteed to be Linda. For the first week after seeing her at the theater, I heard nothing. I grew tenser for every day of silence, checking my phone compulsively. When it did go off, it interrupted Professor Jameson's talk on genetics. With the glares of every person in the lecture hall trained on my back, I reached for the phone and sprinted to the exit.

I said nothing when I first accepted the call, waiting for Linda to speak. "Is that Toby?" I didn't recognize her voice straight away for it was nothing like how it had sounded in the theater. She sounded lethargic, as if she'd just rolled out of bed.

"Yes," I answered timidly. Though she didn't sound anything like how she had on the stage, I couldn't shake my mental image of her as a chalk-faced Cleopatra.

"It's Linda. I'm sorry I couldn't see you before – I like to get away quickly after shows."

"That's fine," I paused to take a breath. "Do you still have the photo I gave to you?"

"Yes. You were a cute kid – impressive given who your father is." I think she attempted a laugh, but it came out as a phlegm-choked cough.

I waited until she stopped coughing before speaking. "Is there any way we could meet? I need to talk to you about Sarah."

It was Linda's turn to go quiet. The faint strain present in her breathing reminded me of my Aunt Maud – I was later to discover they both had a heavy cigarette habit in common. "I'm in a play with a four week run – what do you think? Actually, I'm about to leave for the matinee now."

"But you have an understudy, right? You've got a nasty cough –you could say you're ill."

"No chance. I have no intention of spoiling my reputation. Do you have any idea how old I am? My agent isn't getting enough calls as it is without me skipping a show."

"But I have to see you. My parents never talk about Sarah and I need to find out more about what happened to her. Right now, nothing makes sense."

"Then maybe you should ask them more questions."

"That's impossible – we hardly talk any more. Even if we did, they wouldn't say anything. They never have. If you help me, I might be able to help you."

"And how exactly would that work?"

"I have some information you might not be aware of. Information about her disappearance." I was thinking of my visions, but chose not to clarify. "I need your help in pulling together the bigger picture." I was stood in the hall outside the lecture theater, my desperation evident in the swell of my voice. A group of passing freshmen craned their heads back to gawp at me after walking by, and I looked away from them sharply before appealing to Linda again. "Please. You have to help me."

Upon reflection, I think any sane person would have terminated the call then. I was speaking like a madman, my voice a feverish whisper. But Linda stayed on the line. She was quiet, considering what I had said. Though I had no basis for thinking it, I imagined that she was smiling. "Okay then. How about Christmas? The show wraps up on December fifth and I'm free for most of December. Come and stay with me – we can catch up on a few dozen years."

I thought Linda was kidding at first, only for her to launch into a frenzy of planning. She relayed her address to me and I scribbled it down in the margin of my lecture notebook, making a note of the date she wanted me to arrive ("turn up on the twelfth. I've got obligations before then.") She issued instructions in a breathless rush, as if arranging an impulsive meet-up with a friend rather than a stranger. Her tone changed quite suddenly just after she told me to turn up after it went dark – to be specific, her voice went flat. "There's one last thing."

"What?"

"Don't come to the theater again. You'll distract me – I can't afford to be distracted."

I tried to say goodbye, only to find the line had gone dead. I didn't speak to Linda again until I turned up at her flat with a backpack on a dark, chilly evening in December.

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Author's Note

Many thanks for all of your reviews, favourites and follows - it's really great to have such an enthusiastic response and hearing from you all encouraged me to get this chapter ready faster! I'd love to read your thoughts on this chapter.

Many thanks to the ever reliable Nienna Telrunya for the beta.