Authors: Miranda Simon
Life was all out there, under my nose, and I was grateful to breathe in and out, to chew and swallow. I was glad to still be around to love my mom and Maria, even if they didn’t know it yet.
But part of me was also exhausted just thinking about what lay ahead. I figured I’d pretend, for now, that I was Sarah – at least to her friends and family. Meanwhile, I’d figure out a way to get my old life back. There was no reason I shouldn’t have the best of both worlds.
Back at the apartment, I flipped through Sarah’s organizer. Here was a hair appointment, there a visit from her cleaning service. I found a slip of paper with several doctor’s names on it, headed “Referrals”. Psychiatrists? Maybe she’d been looking for a new one.
On her calendar, Sarah had noted several birthdays in dark blue ink, her cursive a near-indecipherable scrawl. That reminded me; I would have to learn to sign her name. I pulled a sheet of stationary from a drawer and practiced the signature on the back of her Visa card.
I was absorbed in the task when Sarah’s intercom chimed. My first instinct was to hunker down and ignore it, but I forced myself to answer.
“Sarah? It’s Nick. I’m downstairs.”
Nick. Nick. I couldn’t place the name. The voice, though, was familiar. Ah, the apology on the answering machine. Sarah’s boyfriend. I buzzed him in, then ran to the bathroom to run my fingers through my hair.
Her fingers. Her hair.
A moment later he knocked at the door. I laid a hand on my chest to still my heart, took a deep breath, and let him in.
There he stood, the guy from the bedside photos, and even better looking in person. Tanned, square-jawed, confident, he belonged in an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog. He looked like my childhood Ken doll, but sexier and with real -- not molded plastic -- hair. I tried to squelch my impending swoon.
“Hey, babe. You look good.” From behind his back, he produced flowers – gold and red orchids in a spray of greens, extravagant and lovely. “For you.”
“Thanks.” I took them and stood dumbly, not sure what to do next.
“Sarah, Sarah.” He wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me close. “Tell me you’ve forgiven me.”
“I—I’ve forgiven you.”
He frowned and let me go. “Okay, you got me. What’s the game?”
I shook my head. “No game.”
“Right. That’s it, we’re okay, just like that? I don’t have to beg, plead, or bow down before you?” He threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, sweetheart, this is what I love about you! Never predictable, even for a moment.” He swept the flowers out of my hands again. “Here, I’ll put these in water.”
He moved around the kitchen like he knew it well, and I suppose he did. He left the flowers in their vase on the counter and swooped down on me; I felt like a mouse in the shadow of a hawk, unable to catch my breath.
He kissed me long and deep. I let him. This was a world away from Ricky’s hateful mouth. This was all exquisite feeling, sparks igniting, kindling a kind of hunger I’d never felt before. It was with a kind of triumph that I thought, so this is what it’s all about.
Yes, I slept with him.
It wasn’t something I thought about. It just happened. It was unlike me, the old Jamie, who analyzed things half to death, but I didn’t care. The truth is, it felt good.
Of course I thought Nick would know it wasn’t Sarah, and of course he didn’t. Like me, he was caught up in the moment. Or maybe it was that my body knew what to do even if I didn’t. I thought I’d be embarrassed to be naked, but I wasn’t. This wasn’t even me. Besides, for all I knew Nick and Sarah had done this a million times.
Afterwards, as we lay together on the bed, I curled up to him like a kitten to its mother. I nestled my chin into the curve of his neck. I felt like singing, like crying. I wished he’d tell me he loved me.
Nick glanced down at me and chuckled. “Who are you,” he said, “and what have you done with my Sarah?”
I stiffened, sure he’d guessed, and then relaxed when I realized he was joking. “Why, do I seem different?”
“It’s just that you’ve sheathed your claws, tiger lady.” He took my hand and played lazily with my fingers. “You’re softer today. I like it.”
“Mmm. Softer how?” I wanted to hear more compliments, more sweet words. But he rolled out of bed and pulled on his clothes.
“You’re going?” I couldn’t keep the plaintive note from my voice.
“Have to.” He buttoned his shirt.
“When—when will I see you again?”
“Don’t start,” he said, with an edge of irritation. “When I can get away. I’ll call you later.” He bent and dropped a dry kiss on my mouth. “Don’t get up. I’ll let myself out.”
I tried not to let myself think about Nick as I booted up Sarah’s
laptop
later that afternoon. I’d spent the past hour obsessing, fantasizing, replaying our encounter over and over. This must be love, this dizzy feeling.
More than anything I wanted to call up Maria and tell her. Better yet, I wanted to sleep over at her house and whisper secrets until just before the sun came up. How many times had we talked about what it would be like, losing our virginity? We’d pored over articles in Cosmo together, laughing uproariously, and tried to imagine what sex would feel like. What if our bodies made funny sounds, or if things didn’t fit where they were supposed to? How, exactly, did you know if you were any good at i
t? Maria had always had
more experience than I did. She was the one with the older brother who explained abou
t blowjobs and safe sex. She’d F
rench kissed three guys, and let one feel her up. She’d hooked up with a guy at a party who asked her to put her hand in his pants. Now I was the experienced one, the one with the giggly confession to make, and I was all alone.
I went online and found the San Francisco Chronicle’s web site, where I did a search for my name. Two articles popped up. The first, on page one of the local section, was dated the previous day: Honor Student Found Dead. A headline I’d seen dozens of times before, but this time it was about me. I skimmed the article. Body discovered in alley, apparently strangled, police are investigating, blah blah blah. The reporter had mispelled my mother’s name, but otherwise the details were right. “Such a bright girl,” said Mr. Akiyama, my ninth grade math teacher. “What a terrible shame.” A quote from Isabel Leigh, a popular classmate who’d barely spoken to me before: “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it. I’ve been crying all day long.” Thanks, Isabel. What that girl wouldn’t do to get her name in the paper.
According to the last paragraph, the funeral was scheduled for Saturday – tomorrow morning – at St. Michael’s. Though the room was warm, I shivered. So I would have a chance to attend my own funeral. How many people could say that?
I clicked on the second article, dated today, and gasped aloud. Library Employee Questioned in Murder Case. “Police say 27-year-old Otto Prelinger was the last person to see
Lumley alive.
” At least, according to the story, they hadn’t actually arrested him yet. I’d watched enough crime shows to figure that he’d be okay once the DNA evidence came back and proved it wasn’t him. Still, it hurt to think about what Otto and his family must be going through right now.
I scrawled down the name of the detective quoted in the article, logged off the Internet, and rushed into the bedroom to change my clothes. God, poor Otto. He’d done me a favor, and look where it’d gotten him.
I had to do something to help.
In the bedroom, I scanned Sarah’s collection of miniskirts and belly-baring tops for something that would force a cop to take me seriously. I tried and rejected half a dozen outfits before I settled on a long, pencil-slim hound’s tooth skirt and a crisp white cotton shirt. I modeled my choice in the mirror, striking various poses; I looked like a sexy schoolteacher, slender and stylish. No wonder Sarah loved to shop. Everything looked great on her. I hadn’t had so much fun playing dress-up since I’d packed away my Barbies.
I hadn’t forgotten my concern for Otto, though, or my desire to see Ricky in prison. I slipped on a pair of low heels and headed for the bus stop.
I spent the ride to the police station going over and over my story. I couldn’t exactly march in and blurt out the truth – they’d lock me up and throw away the key. By the time the bus chugged and lurched into my old neighborhood, I thought I had a pretty good plan.
At the front counter, I asked for Detective Todd. After a short wait he appeared, an African-American man in his early 30s. As he shook my hand, I caught him giving me an appreciative once-over. So even the law wasn’t immune to Sarah’s physical charms. Good. Maybe it would help me make my case.
“Ms. Winslow, pleased to meet you,” he said, and motioned me toward a folding metal chair near his desk. “You have something to tell me about the Lumley case?”
I perched on the edge of the seat and pressed my knees together; they wouldn’t quit shaking. “That’s right. Uh, I knew Jamie pretty well –“
Detective Todd cocked his head. “Is that right? Because I’ve talked to her mother, classmates, co-workers. . .no one’s mentioned your name.”
I shrugged. “I didn’t meet a lot of her friends. I was sort of her mentor – you know, like a Big Sister kind of set up.”
“Oh? Was that an official arrangement?”
“Unofficial. We – we met at the library and hung out together sometimes. Talking, you know, about the stuff going on in her life.”
The detective leaned back in his chair and tapped the eraser end of his pencil against a file folder on his desk. “Go on."
“Yes, well, she told me –“ I took a deep breath – “She told me there was a guy in her health class, Ricky Jones, who was harassing her. Leaving her threatening notes, following her home from work, that kind of thing.” Lies, since Ricky had never spoken to me before that night, but I felt justified. They were lies that would lead to the truth.
“Hmmm.” Detective Todd made a note on a blank pad. “And you think he might have something to do with her murder?”
“I’m sure of it,” I said, perhaps too quickly. The detective fixed me with a hard look. “I mean, I think you should follow up on this Ricky guy. Because Otto didn’t do it. Jamie told me all the time what a nice guy Otto is.”
Detective Todd nodded slowly. “Well, we haven’t made any arrests yet. Obviously you've been reading the paper, so you know that already.”
“So you’ll check out Ricky?”
“Sure. Can’t hurt. Let me get your information.” I gave him my name, address, and phone number. He stood and offered his hand again. “Thanks for coming by, Ms. Winslow. I’ll let you know what I find out.”
“Thank you.” I let him show me out. I had to bite my lip to contain a grin of pleasure. Finally, things were going my way.
As I crossed the lobby, though, I turned to look back. Detective Todd stood at the reception counter. He was watching me go, and he wasn’t smiling.
A faint edge of uneasiness spoiled my good mood. Maybe it wasn’t going to be this easy.
I meant to leave my mother alone, at least for now, but I missed her too much. From the police station, my feet took me down familiar streets, up a hill or two and onto the cul-de-sac where I’d lived before. Before Ricky Jones. Before Sarah.
The apartment I had shared with my mother was on the first floor of a dingy pink box of a building. Peeling paint. Iron bars on the windows. Nothing special, but it was home.
The curtains were open in our apartment. I could see into our kitchen, which was empty. I stood and waited.
A car pulled up. A guy got out, a guy my age who lived upstairs with his grandmother. I had to stop myself from calling out, “Hey, Darren.” As it was, he threw a curious glance my way before he ducked inside.
I stood outside for a long time, unable to tear myself away. And finally my mother walked into the kitchen. She filled the coffee maker and plugged it in. She looked tired but otherwise the same, in her old blue bathrobe with her hair in a braid down her back. She didn’t look like she’d been drinking.
Maybe she was okay without me. Maybe she didn’t need me after all. Self-pity brought tears to my eyes.
Immediately, I felt ashamed. What had I hoped to see? My mother, hysterical, falling apart, too distraught or drunk to stand on her own, much less make herself coffee? I should be overjoyed to see her coping. I needed her calm and ready to listen. My mistake with Maria was breaking the news too soon.
As I watched my mother move about the kitchen, my heart swelled with love for her. She'd never been the perfect mom, the milk-and-cookies PTA mother with an apron on and a roast in the oven. We'd had our share of knock-down, drag-out fights, mostly me trying to goad her into being more responsible, more adult. She had me young, and sometimes I thought we were more like sisters than mother and daughter.
Still, right now, I wanted more than anything to crawl onto her lap for comfort, as I had when I was a kid. She used to stroke my hair and sing a lullaby, a silly one. How had it gone?
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral,
Too-ra-loo-ra-li,
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral,
Hush, now don't you cry. . .