I GO TO THE window overlooking our side yard and scope out the roof of the porch below and a nearby tree.
It’s doable—if I’ve got enough strength. Big if.
I glance down at my dress. Not gonna cut it.
I run to my closet, search till I find a pair of wool pants.
As quickly as I can, I shed the petticoat and dress, then pull the pants on. Too big, but I grab a belt. Cinch it tight.
Shoes. The penny loafers are the only ones lacking a heel. I pull them on, then a turtleneck, knit hat, and gloves. My coat’s downstairs, so I take a thick Irish knit sweater hanging in the closet.
Now for tools. The bathroom’s medicine cabinet has been cleared of all useful items in advance of me and my suicide risk, but I do find a fingernail clipper in the deep recesses of a vanity drawer. Snag it.
I ease the window open. It’s almost sundown. Just a little light hitting the bare trees surrounding the house. The cold air has that ice-rink smell it gets when snow is imminent.
Get on with it.
I ease myself out the window, onto the sloping roof. Sitting there, catching my breath, I’m both proud and horrified by my actions in a way I haven’t been since the early days of Hanover.
I slowly crab crawl downward—till I hit a patch of ice and begin sliding toward the roof edge. I’m wildly grasping for anything to stop me when, as I fly off, my left hand finds the gutter.
I’m swinging back and forth, heaving great, giddy sighs of relief—when I realize I’m dangling right in front of the living room window. Eloise is just fifteen feet away, her back to me. When she starts to turn, I drop quietly to the ground, out of sight, and a thrill cartwheels through me.
I don’t look back. Sprint around the corner of the house and through the backyard, blood pumping through all my body’s forgotten highways and byways, like I’m only just now fully waking from my Unit slumber.
But by the time I get to the split rail fence dividing our property from the Clarks’, it’s clear how out of shape I am—hard, cold air freezes my windpipe on the way to my starving lungs. I pause on the fence a moment, catching my breath.
That’s enough. Get moving.
I push on through the Clarks’ woods, parallel to the road, till I reach the rust-red barn. Creep around its corner, past the chicken coop, till I find what I’m looking for: the green truck.
I watch. Listen. The chickens know. They’re making disturbed clucking noises from their pen. Fifty feet away there’s a light on in the house. Someone’s home.
It’s a risk.
Then again, this whole thing’s risky, misguided—
Enough. Plenty of time later to ponder how I’ve screwed myself. I need to keep going.
Eyes on the house, I inch up to the truck. Ease its door open. One tiny squeak. Not bad. The truck’s parked on an incline, halfway up the hill. I release the parking brake, put it in neutral, and give it a hard push, then jump in as it rolls, easing it quietly down the hill before stopping it. In the rapidly ebbing light, I get to work:
Under the dash I find the three wires I know to look for—and I wonder if this knowledge was gained from repeated attempts to elude my caregivers or from another source.
I use the nail clippers to cut the two red wires, then nip their cloth casings a half inch from the end of each. After stripping them, I twist the bare ends together, then clip and strip the brown starter wire before climbing into the driver’s seat.
Moment of truth. I touch the starter wire to the twisted reds and—magic—it starts right up with a low cough, and I haul ass down Birchwood Lane, praying not to run into Paul. I don’t think I breathe till I’ve turned onto Route 15 and have put a quarter mile between me and our road.
Now to find a stranger who knows me.
My haunt. The address listed on the police reports in my file was 169 West Eggers Avenue, Doyletown, Virginia. But where is West Eggers Avenue? Or Doyletown, for that matter? There’s only a few minutes of light left—and who knows how much time before the truck is reported missing.
I pull off on a side road, check the glove compartment, and find inside a clutch of maps.
Apparently, my map-reading skills are still intact, because thirty minutes later it’s dark, and I’m pulling into Doyletown. The church is a Gothic structure of gray stone on a large, wooded lot. I drive past the flood-lit Christmas manger scene still up on its front lawn and into the parking lot.
It’s just beginning to snow, the first big puffy flakes hitting the windshield as I sit here, not moving.
What am I doing? I don’t have to get out of this truck. I could turn around, go back home, throw myself on Paul’s mercy. Hope we can forget about this latest episode.
Nope.
I quickly exit the truck before I can talk myself out of it. Head for the floodlit manger scene, where an older man in a gray jumpsuit stands amid the life-size figures. He’s straightening out a shepherd who someone has turned backward.
Talking to a stranger—not a real strength for me right now. And definitely not on Paul’s list of approved activities. But I claw past my tetchy nerves, approach the man and blurt out, “Excuse me … sir … are you … are you the groundskeeper here?”
He’s blinded by the floodlights in his eyes and the falling snow. Puts his hand up to block them, get a better look at me. “That’s right. Name’s Clarence Scrubb.”
“And … and you’ve worked here awhile?”
“Over twenty years,” Clarence says, now struggling to pull the robe off Joseph’s face where the vandal has wrapped it. “Darn kids. If I don’t do this before we get those sixteen inches of snow, poor Joesph’ll be covered like this for days. What can I help you with, miss?”
“Do you remember a woman named Dorothy Frasier? She liked to come here.”
He nods immediately. “Poor woman. Not quite right in the head. From time to time, I’d catch sight of her on the outskirts of the grounds, in disheveled clothes, hair all in knots, talking to herself…”
And I can’t help remembering waking up, mud-caked in the hardware store …
“She always kept her distance, so I let her be unless she created too much of a disturbance,” he continues as he readjusts Joseph’s position. “But then one night, late October I think it was, she broke into the chapel and did some injury to herself. Neighbors heard the commotion and called the sheriff’s department. Officers got her to the hospital. I heard she was sent to the lunatic asylum down in Hanover.”
Ask him if you’re her. This is your chance.
It is what I risked this idiotic breakout for. But I’m paralyzed. While I dither, Clarence steps out of the glare of the floodlights. Takes a good look at me. “Are you kin?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Your hair. It’s the same auburn shade as hers.”
He recognizes me. I may be proving the voice wrong very soon, heading back to Paul to figure out my penance.
Not so fast.
“Do you think … Am I her?” I ask him.
“Strange question. Shouldn’t you know if you’re her?”
Yes, I really, really should.
“I’ve been having some problems with my memory. I … I know it’s an odd question, but it’s important. Please.”
Clarence studies the topography of my face carefully. I should pray—but for what? A yes gives me the certainty I need to finally, fully embrace my life as Dorothy Frasier. Be at peace with it. And no? What does no give me?
It gives you hope. Us hope.
“The problem is,” Clarence says, “she always kept her distance from me, and she wasn’t at her best, always a tangle of hair in her face. Yes, you could definitely be her, but I can’t say for certain.”
Not yes, not no. More of the same uncertainty.
You’re relieved. Admit it.
“But, miss, if you are her, whatever treatments they gave you at that hospital must’ve done you a world of good. You’re alert and taking good care of yourself from the looks of it, clean clothes, clean hair, no longer wandering around building your little altars. So if I were you, I’d stop worrying about—”
“What altars?”
Minutes later, Clarence is leading me down a path that’s rapidly being covered in snow to the yard behind the chapel. The space is littered with various pieces of church refuse: rusted wrought iron candelabra, stubs of candles, a broken lectern. Atop the remains of an ancient furnace next to the back fence sits the stool-like bottom half of a wooden angel statue. I can see the carved sandaled feet peeking out from under its swirling robes and the bottoms of long-gone wings.
There’s a rumbling sound quickly growing louder—a train approaching on the railroad tracks behind the fence. As it passes, I feel it sucking the frozen air through the fence slats. “The local to Washington,” Clarence says, and we continue our trek through the sacred debris to a vine-covered alcove in the chapel’s rear wall, sheltered from the falling snow. He points his flashlight down, revealing in the shadows a small shrine. “Here it is. Discovered this one about a month ago but never got around to clearing it out. Do you … remember it?”
A piece of lumber lies across two upturned milk crates, and on top of it are jars holding long-dead flowers, several candles, and some seashells, arranged in a line from largest to smallest. Next to them is a bowl whose bottom holds some rusty brown powder. Dried blood? None of it is familiar—though I’m keenly aware that means next to nothing at this point. I could easily have been here. Done this.
Or did the real Dorothy, fresh from switching places on that bus and sacrificing you to Hanover, come back here and arrange this little shrine?
Clarence starts to go, and as I turn to follow him I spot several train ticket stubs tacked to the wall with candle wax. Take a couple down. The dates have been washed away, but the destination can still be seen: Washington, D.C.
Five minutes later, the snow is picking up, and I’m back in the truck, just approaching the highway entrance, when I glance back at the set of headlights behind me. The car’s remained exactly the same distance from me for a few blocks even as I’ve slowed.
Could this guy be following me? Is it Paul? If it’s Paul, why hasn’t he tried to catch up to me? Talk his wife out of the stolen truck? Probably just my paranoia, I think as I pull onto the highway.
Even so. Nothing wrong with being careful.
True.
A few seconds later, when the road curves, I gun the truck. Then, when I’m out of sight of any pursuers, I put on the brakes and pull a one-eighty. The car fishtails across the painted divider into the deserted opposing lanes, but I regain control and drive on. With the snow coming down, I’m not sure which of the headlights going the other direction are the ones that triggered my alarm. Out of caution, I take the nearest exit ramp and use side roads the rest of the way to my destination.