Closer Home (5 page)

“I have a chest just like this. Our grandfather made them for your mother and me.”

These days, mine is being used to store music books and CDs. Callie’s, on the other hand, is full of mementos and odds and ends of clothing and jewelry, not all of them hers. She was always and forever engaging in what she called “borrowing,” usually without permission and often for keeps. I reach in and fish out a sweater, soft angora in a delicate rose color. “I wondered where this went.”

“It’s yours?”

“It was, until Callie decided she wanted it.”

Shut up, Lise. Don’t speak ill of the dead.

Callie’s favorite childhood blanket is folded up in a corner of the chest and I pull it out, poking my fingers through a hole in the center. “I could have sworn I saw her stuff this in the trash can.”

Ariel takes the blanket from me, poking her own fingers through the hole. Her fingernails are bitten down to the quick. “Why would she throw it away?”

“I’m not sure. I remember we were almost late for school because she wanted to take it to the first day of kindergarten. Mom said no. Callie never would listen. She stuffed it in her backpack.”

“What happened?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. When she got in the car after school that day, she wouldn’t talk. You could see she’d been crying; she was still sniffling. And when we got home, she went into our bedroom and stuffed it into the trash can. Never saw her with it again.”

A little warm spot burns through the cold of my long-held anger, remembering. I lean into the trunk, caught up in memories. Callie’s favorite teddy bear. A Barbie doll, clothed in ’80s rock ’n’ roll regalia. And then, poking out from beneath yet another of my missing sweaters, I see the tattered green corner of a notebook.

“Oh God.” I choke on something that is half laughter, half-undefined. Shoving aside the other objects, I grab the old journal and pull it out. Written on the front cover in curly letters with a little heart dotting every
i
is the familiar inscription:
None of your business. Do NOT read this and that means you, Annelise.

“Let me see.”

I hesitate, holding on even as Ariel’s fingers clutch the book from the other side.

“She wouldn’t want us to read it.”

“It’s not like she’s gonna know.”

“I’m not so sure about that. She’s probably floating around in ghost form, watching us. Read this diary and she’ll go all crazy. Throw caviar at us while we’re sleeping.”

Ariel giggles. “Come on. What can it hurt? I want to know who she was back then.”

Don’t we all,
I’m thinking. Me, I’d like to know who she was, ever.

My niece looks up at me, still holding her end of the book, and there’s a sheen of tears in her eyes. I think how I feel about my own mother slipping ever further away, and about everything that is lost with each evaporated memory.

I let Ariel take the book. She hugs it to her chest. “I don’t think she’ll mind. Not really.”

I’m still worried about what Ariel will find in those pages, but I shrug and let it go. At least the diary has served to break the ice a little between the two of us. “If you read anything that . . . well, if you have any questions, just ask.” I get up, stretching out a cramp in my left thigh from sitting cross-legged.

“Okay,” she says, her voice distant. The book is open in her lap already and her head’s bent, hair screening her face. I’ve been dismissed. I know I need to tell her—about the will, about the money—but I can’t. Not right now. Since I’m not going to sign any contracts until after we talk, I can’t go back to the meeting. So I climb the stairs to my bedroom, making sure to lock the door behind me. I feel unutterably weary and lie down across the bed. When sleep comes for me, I surrender to the sweetness of oblivion without a fight.

CHAPTER THREE

It’s too early to be awake, but my eyes are wide open, staring at the ceiling, and my brain is already racing. I feel like I’ve been turned inside out and upside down, and when I get out of bed and look in the mirror, my face doesn’t look like it belongs to me.

The rest of yesterday is a blur. I didn’t leave my room and barely even got out of bed. Ricken knocked twice, and I told him both times I’d come down later. The same girl who brought me breakfast showed up with a dinner tray and a manila folder. I managed to choke down a few bites and then went right back to sleep.

The folder, untouched, sits on the dresser, right beside my hairbrush and jewelry. I haven’t opened it, but I know what’s inside. All of those contracts. It makes sense to sign them, but I still haven’t talked to Ariel.

I need time.

I also need coffee. At home, I have a pot that wakes up at the same time I do. I haven’t yet investigated Callie’s kitchen, but the idea of fixing my own coffee, maybe even my own breakfast, appeals to me. I need something normal in the middle of a situation that is anything but.

The kitchen is dark and I stumble around and clatter into things for what seems an eternity before I find the light switch. Callie must have a coffeepot somewhere, but I can’t find it. All I can locate is a Keurig and a bunch of tiny, flavored K-Cups. I want plain coffee—no chocolate or vanilla or hazelnut—but the kitchen is huge and it would take forever to search for something else. By the time I’ve figured out how to program the machine, I’m wishing I’d taken one of the cars out in search of a coffee shop. I miss my own little kitchen and the ritual of grinding beans, measuring them into the filter, listening to the pot gurgle.

But the first scalding sip makes me feel better. Brain cells start waking up, and suddenly I’m ravenous. The fridge is well stocked, but not with anything of interest to me. I see fruit and cottage cheese and yogurt, but all of those serve only to make my stomach swirl. What I’m craving is grease and salt. Fried eggs and hash browns. Bacon. Sausage. In this fridge, there’s not an egg to be seen, only a container of egg substitute.

A soft click. Footsteps. I spin around, heart hammering, to face a short, stout woman in sturdy black shoes and a white apron. Her hair is covered under a hairnet. Her brown eyes are not friendly, even though her words are carefully polite.

“I can get you something, señora? Breakfast, perhaps?”

“I can get my own. I don’t suppose there are potatoes somewhere, or real eggs?”

“It is nothing for me to fix it. I can send to the store for eggs. How do you want them cooked?” She is already in action, wiping down the counter where I’ve apparently spilled an invisible drop of coffee.

It’s not her kitchen,
I tell myself.
It’s mine.
“How about we send to the store and I cook them myself?”

She gives me a pained, long-suffering look. “We have guests for dinner. I must begin preparations now, and two in the kitchen . . .” She shrugs and spreads her hands wide, indicating that this would be a mistake.

I know nothing about guests. If I had more guts, I’d find Ricken and tell him, “I don’t want guests for dinner. Cancel it.”

But this is Callie’s life, not mine, and I don’t feel like I have the right to exert any control over events in her house. Especially since I bailed on the meeting yesterday and wasn’t exactly around to be consulted about plans.

I’m not hungry anymore.

“You know what? Never mind the eggs,” I tell the cook.

Clinging to my coffee mug, I wander into the hallway, exploring the quiet house. Main living area, where I’ve already been. Entertainment room. Game room.

Music studio.

For a long time I stand in the doorway, just looking, and then I enter.

It’s an airy, spacious room with a hardwood floor and acoustic tiles on the walls and ceiling. Callie has all the latest technology. An electric piano. Microphones. Recording equipment. A sheet of music rests on the piano stand, titled “Love Me.” It’s a manuscript, an original song, but it’s not Callie’s writing. She never did write music. Hopefully, she came by this song honestly. I trail my fingers over the tops of the keys, lightly, feeling the music stir beneath them. Positioning my hands, I depress one key. It makes a small clicking sound.

If I turn around, I’m convinced Callie will be standing behind me with a knowing smile on her face. “How come you never play anymore, Lise?”

“I play.”

“Only what you need to teach lessons. That’s not music.”

I swear I’ve actually heard her voice, but when I spin around, the room is empty. Enough already. I flee outside to the pool. The desert air is cool and dry. Sinking down into a lounger, I lay back and close my eyes, just breathing.

My cell phone vibrates in my pocket and I fumble for it, sending a wave of coffee flooding over my lap. By the time I get my hands on the phone, there’s no time to look at caller ID and I just answer.

“Oh my God. Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“It is, isn’t it? You can stop being coy, Lise, cat’s out of the bag. I always knew you and Dale had a thing, although how you’ve managed to keep it a secret this long is beyond me. In this town? And from me? You two should go be spies or—”

“Nancy. Breathe.”

The voice on the other end of the phone pauses and obediently takes a deep breath. Nancy is Dale’s sister. I love her, almost like family, but she’s a hopeless gossip, and whatever her news, wherever it came from, she has got to be stopped.

“Now, back to the beginning and make it slow and simple. What in hell are you talking about?”

“Oh, come on, Lise. If you’re going to be snarly, I’ll go ask Dale.”

“No! For God’s sake, don’t do that. I really need to know what you heard.”

“I didn’t hear it. I saw it. At Safeway. Ran down to get things early before getting the kids off to camp. There was no milk in the house. Not a drop. I can’t believe the way they drink that stuff, and we were down to a crust of bread and—”

“Nance. Focus.”

“Right. So I’m standing in line at Safeway. Went early partly to avoid lines, but you know how that is. They only had one open, and I wasn’t the only one with the idea. Sandra McGregor was in front of me with a heaping cart, and she was discussing politics with the checker—”

“And you saw . . .”

“So I’m totally bored and looking at the tabloids. And right on the cover of
Need to Know
, there’s a picture of you and Dale. He’s got his arm around you, and the headline is something like ‘Mystery Lover for Redfern Heiress.’ And the article is really touching, all about you and Dale, and inside there’s a picture of him kissing you. So don’t try to tell me they made it all up, because photographs don’t lie.”

My whole body goes hot, then cold. Dale did kiss me. At the airport. I haven’t let myself think about that kiss. Whatever it means or doesn’t mean, it’s private, between me and Dale.

“Ever heard of Photoshop?” I ask her, scrambling.

“It doesn’t look photoshopped.”

I can tell that she’s scrutinizing the image. “You’re looking at a copy right now.”

“Of course! I bought one for you, too, for when you get home. And one for Dale. And Mom. You’re in the big-time news, Lise! This is awesome.”

I take the phone from my ear and clunk myself on the forehead with it, twice. My entire body feels like it’s wrapped in cotton wool. Even my ears feel fuzzy. I can still hear Nancy’s voice.

“Lise? Lise!”

“Look. I don’t care how it looks or what it says, it’s all lies. You hear me? Dale and I are not a thing. Friends, like always. You can’t spread this around. You have to make sure people know the truth.”

Silence. Uneasy breathing.

“Nancy.”

“Yeah?”

“What have you done?”

“Are you positive it’s not true? It sure looks real.”

“Nancy!”

She sighs. “Well, shucks. The local paper called and asked questions. I gave an interview.”

“What did you tell them?”

“How you and Dale and Callie were always together as kids, and how you and Dale are best friends and that you went camping last summer . . .” Her voice trails off. “It’s really not true, then?”

I hang up. There are no words for this. It’s not her fault, not really, and anything I say is going to be horrible and wrong. I’ll have to apologize later. Right now, I don’t know what to do.

I can’t go home.

That’s the first clear thought that comes to me. The whole town will be buzzing with the juicy details of Callie’s death and my supposed romance with Dale. Maybe later I’ll be able to face them, but right now I can’t go home and I can’t stay here, and what am I going to do? I don’t want to think about what Dale’s going to say.

A rustling sound pulls my attention to the far side of the pool, where a tree branch hangs over the fence. The branch is thrashing in a way that has nothing to do with the early morning breeze. There’s a woman in the tree. She’s got a camera pointed in my direction. I cover my face reflexively, before I realize it’s too late to hide. She’s already got me, out here in a T-shirt and jeans with my mug of coffee. No bra. Uncombed morning hair.

I am not going to become one of those tabloid pics of some poor woman without her makeup, taken in the worst possible light, looking like a zombie. My fingers close around my coffee mug, and I consider the trajectory. If I aim right, maybe I could drop her right out of the tree, camera and all, with one good thunk to the skull.

But then there would be pictures of me in handcuffs to add to the frenzy.

She’s dressed all in black with a stocking cap over her head. She clings to her perch for dear life with one hand while she holds the camera with the other. Probably the first tree she’s ever climbed, or she’d have recognized the branch was not quite sufficient to bear her weight. Her face looks very young and rather frightened.

I start walking toward her. “Leave now, and maybe I won’t call the cops.”

Her body overbalances to the right and she lets go of the camera, grabbing onto the branch with both hands.

“I—don’t think I can.”

In a minute she’s going to fall onto the concrete and break her skull without any help from me. Suppressing the temptation to walk away and leave her to her fate, I drag a deck chair underneath her perch.

“Let your feet drop.”

“What?” Her eyes flick down to the chair, then back at me.

“Hold on with both hands, let your feet hang. The chair will be just a couple feet below you, and then you can drop.”

She shakes her head vigorously. “Can’t.”

“If you’re scared of heights, you shouldn’t climb trees. Now come down before you fall down.”

“Maybe we could just talk.” Her voice is shaky but determined. “Why did Callie say your whole family was dead? Was your childhood abusive? Oh, and who is the guy you were kissing at the airport?”

In her excitement, she almost forgets her predicament, loosening her grip enough that she starts to slide again.

“You are going to have to let go.”

“I will if you tell me—”

“Or I could just go inside and let you fall. Think you can hang on until the cops get here?”

Her feet are slipping. Stepping up on the chair, I reach up and grab her calf, giving a little tug. The other leg slides free and she’s dangling by her hands now, exactly as I want her, while I support her with my arms around her waist.

“I’ve got you. Let go.”

With a little squeal she releases her hold, and I manage to get her down onto solid ground. As soon as she has her balance, she grabs the camera and snaps a close-up. She steps back for a better shot, the pool right behind her. The little click of the shutter triggers my suppressed rage.

Another shot. Click.

My hands press against her shoulders. Frail little bird bones, no weight or substance to her at all. One good shove, and she’s off-balance, both arms flailing. The camera arcs out, swinging at the end of its strap. Her scream cuts off as she hits the water and goes under, sending a lovely rainbow spray into the air.

She comes up sputtering, treading water, hair plastered to her head and in her eyes. Her stocking cap drifts up to the surface like a strange black jellyfish and then sinks again. As soon as she can speak, she starts shouting. “You ruined my camera.”

“Where I come from, people get shot for trespassing. Be glad it’s just a camera.” Spitting mad as I am, I can’t bring myself to push her back under. Instead, I reach out a hand and tow her over to the edge.

Once out, she sits there with the camera in her hands, shoulders hunched, shivering in the cool morning. A pool of water grows around her. I can see her shoulder blades through the clinging fabric of her shirt, and count the knobs of her spine. Her face is pure misery. Pathetic as she looks, I harden my heart and hold on to my anger.

“Paper or TV?” I ask her.

She swipes her eyes with the back of her hand and sniffles. “What?”

“Which paper, which station? Who sent you here?”

“I don’t . . . nobody sent me.” Tears start pouring down her cheeks now in good earnest. She glances up at me, and I get a good long look at her face. The hair plastered to her head is dark red.

“Wait. I remember you. You were at the funeral.”

She scrubs at her face with her hands, smearing mascara into long black streaks down both cheeks. “Ricken said . . .” A sob escapes her. She’s shivering, her teeth chattering.

A dreadful suspicion washes over me. “Ricken put you up to this?”

“He saw me here, yesterday, outside the gates. And he told me about the tree . . .”

“Right. Ricken told you to climb a tree and hang out over the pool.” My voice drips with sarcasm, but I know full well there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for a little extra media buzz.

“I’m not lying!” She sets the camera down tenderly and stands up so she can dig in her sodden pocket. It takes a minute, but the business card she extracts, though sopping wet, is pretty much intact. And sure enough, there’s Ricken’s name and a familiar phone number.

I take it from her.

“Hey, give it back. It’s mine.”