Pretending to Be Erica by Michelle Painchaud Page A

boredom, desperation—there is very little to do in an RV park. She reads on a bench littered with beer cans and gets weird looks. A neighbor woman smoking, hanging lingerie to dry, sings some Dylan: “Get born, keep warm.”

7: Give It
    Michael Anders, age forty. Labeled a child prodigy at the age of seven. Toured the world playing concert piano for various orchestras at ten. Got into Julliard at seventeen (same age as James is now) and won a string of major awards for composition. Married a dance major and had James.
    That’s what Google says. I twirl in my computer chair. Having a huge fancy desktop PC like the one Mrs. Silverman gave me is a new experience—Sal had a laptop on its last legs. I hold my breath and type James’s name. James, at the age of six, had also been labeled a prodigy. His first major recital was at age eight. He sat at the piano and didn’t move, just stared at the keys. Started shaking, trembling so bad that when he touched the keys they wobbled in a sour note. His father withdrew him from the concert piano scene. The media had a field day—famous young composer’s son, someone everyone pegged for a success, flubbed his recital.
    No wonder James hates reporters. There are dozens of articles on his “failure.” Some writers used it as a platform to point out how parents shouldn’t pressure their kids; others used it as an example showing that familial ties aren’t everything in the music biz. But all agreed that James had been pushed into something he wasn’t prepared for.
    His family must’ve been disappointed. Everyone must’ve been disappointed. He’d learned to cope with it by keeping to himself. But James wouldn’t have stuck with music through so much shit if he didn’t love it. There’s no doubt he loves it. He’s just probably not the kind of musician his dad wants him to be.
    I have to stop. Stop reading these things, stop looking on the Internet at Merril and Taylor and everyone else who’s talked to me. I’m doing what a con artist would do to potential contacts—scope out their backgrounds and figure out how they can help you. These are not resources. They are people. Potential friends. Friends I can’t keep.
    There’s a soft knock on my door.
    “Come in.”
    Marie pokes her head around. She’s bearing a sandwich and a glass of milk. “How’s a snack sound?”
    I nod.
    She puts both on my desk and looks at the scattered textbooks. “What are you studying?”
    I don’t need to study, but scribbling on paper and leaving said papers on my desk gives the illusion of a girl who tries hard.
    “Algebra.” I hold up the textbook, my arm drooping. “It’s so heavy, though.”
    “Your mother never stopped telling me how good you were with math. So small, but you loved to do lines and lines of addition and subtraction. You are so naturally gifted at it, just like your father.”
    Sal knew that too. Talked to Erica’s old tutors—yes, of course she had them almost from birth. It’s why he put the emphasis on math when teaching me, I suppose. Marie puts the plate down.
    “The sandwich is turkey.”
    “Thank you.” She looks like she wants to say something.
    I clear my throat. “Is there anything else?”
    Marie starts. “Oh, no, it’s just”—swallows hard—“my cousin lost a child.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that.”
    “An accident on the subway. I thought to myself, ‘Marie, there is nothing worse than losing a child.’ I have two, grown up. I came here to work for your mother three years ago. I saw everything clearly. Losing a child may be hard. Losing a child and burying no body is harder. The unknown . . . it does things to the mind.”
    “Everybody needs closure,” I agree softly.
    Marie nods. “Closure. That’s it. Your mother had none. It is good the body still lives.” She pats my hand. “But if it hadn’t, I would pray for the police to find it and put your mother’s suffering to an end. A mother should hold her child in life,