Eva
The best thing about living in a small town is there aren’t too many places to hide. I’d gone over to Hannah’s house three mornings in a row after drop-off only to find her gone. And who could blame her? Between the police cars, the backhoes, the Eyewitness News reporters trolling for information, and the nosy neighbors, who would want to stay there?
From what I could see, peering through the windows of her porch, her computer was missing from her kitchen table, where she always sat and worked, so there were only a few logical places to look. A diner, a few coffee shops, but I thought those would be too noisy for her, too many people. No, I figured my girl for more of a back-corner-of-the-library girl, and as soon as I pulled in to the parking lot, I saw her car. Bingo.
Finding her inside was another story. It was one of those newfangled libraries, designed by a famous architect with lots of public spaces and corners and twists, but about ten minutes later, I walked up to a communal table where five or six people sat, staring at their computers like they couldn’t bear to look at each other, and tapped her on the shoulder, and she jumped.
“Jesus, Mom. You scared me.”
“Well, you look like you fell down some kind of zombie hole. What are you reading?” I squinted at her screen but couldn’t see it without my cheaters.
“I’m not reading. I’m writing.”
“Oh, that memoir by that awful woman?”
“Shh,” she said.
“What? I didn’t say her name.”
Everyone around her had headphones on, so what difference did it make what I said or didn’t say? They reminded me of athletes coming through the tunnels, psyching themselves up with music. That was how bad their work was—they had to play inspirational music just to force themselves to type. Was that any way to live?
“Well, I apologize for startling you,” I said, attempting to sit next to her but sliding off the tiny plastic stool and nearly going onto the floor. “But you are avoiding me. Good Lord, how can you sit on this? It’s the size of a tin can, and there’s no back support.”
“I’m not avoiding you. I’m avoiding the stupid neighbors, and I have work to do.”
“Okay, whatever you say. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“No, Mom, it’s a library. They kind of frown on talking.”
“Well, how about lunch then?”
She agreed to pack up her things and go with me to a new bagel place nearby. Hannah had always loved bagels; ever since she was a little girl, she’d twirl them around her finger before eating them. She was the same way with doughnuts. Her father and I used to wonder if she’d become a drum major with all that twirling and spinning, but Hannah had never gravitated toward anything that splashy. She was lovely of course—anyone with half a brain could see she had a plain beauty about her—but not destined to be a cheerleader or a pageant queen. She used her twirling hand-eye coordination and balance for sports and now, I supposed, typing and perching on stools.
We parked separately and walked in. The line was quite long, but Hannah offered to stand in it while I saved a nearby table for us. That plan suited me just fine, especially since the seats were upholstered and had backs. It also gave me a little time to line up exactly what I was going to say to her and when, so she wouldn’t become enraged and do something crazy. If she asked me questions outright, I certainly couldn’t lie to her. But I was hoping I wouldn’t have to. I was praying her sister might have spoken to her or that, I don’t know, that she might have guessed or had a vision. Something.
I was almost annoyed that the detectives didn’t suspect me. I thought I could get a tidbit or two out of those boys with badges, some information I could use to clear up my family’s names. But no, they had nothing to say to an old lady who didn’t even live in their little enclave. As if someone from anywhere else couldn’t walk right in and do whatever they pleased while that little girl was out playing in the creek alone! How short-sighted!
Hannah came back to the table with two baskets, both adorned with pickles and chips.
“Oh, my,” I said. “That’s a lot of food.”
“It ought to be for twelve dollars.”
“Twelve dollars for a bagel?”
“Yup,” she replied. “Someone has to pay for this decor.”
It was true that the tables and chairs were much nicer than those in a traditional deli shop. And there were two chandeliers. And a gas fireplace in the back. Yes, someone had to pay for it, and that someone was us.
“Well, live and learn,” I said and took a bite. Delicious. Not twelve dollars of delicious, but very, very good. Even the pickle was delicious, crisp and garlicky. The older I got, the more I appreciated pickles. They were like a free salad on the side.
“Hannah, you can’t avoid me forever,” I said with my mouth full of pickle. “And neither can Hillary.”
“I told you, I’m avoiding the neighbors. Pretending they are just walking by. One of them videotaped the fucking backhoe in my yard. It’s probably on YouTube. And I need the library’s resources.”
“Okay.” I struggled to get my mouth around the enormous bagel, which shut me up for a while. There may have been cream cheese and sprouts all over my face before I finally wrestled it under control. This gave Hannah an opening to shut down my premise.
“Other people work in libraries and coffee shops all the time. They find the hubbub soothing.”
“Uh-huh. Well,” I said, putting down the sandwich and wiping my chin, “I guess that’s one solution. Because selling your house a couple of weeks after buying it in order to avoid being investigated by detectives probably isn’t an option.”
“Don’t be crazy.”
“I’m asking you not to be crazy. Not to let two cops tear apart your relationship with your sister.”
“Mom, this is a little more serious than fighting over whose turn it is to wash the dishes.”
I remembered vividly, suddenly, how much the girls both hated doing dishes. How they’d pretend to fall asleep, feign illness, invent homework, anything to get out of taking their turn. In most things, they were opposites, and what one hated, the other could handle. But they both hated the drudgery, the everydayness of dishes. How I used to say “Life is doing dishes,” and they’d roll their eyes as if I was stupid and didn’t understand their larger lives, the landscape to come. As if the world could spare them dishes!
“Well, your stubbornness strikes me as being exactly the same.”
“Mom, I really think you should be talking to Hillary, not me.”
“Why?”
“She’s the one making wild accusations and keeping secrets. And you, for that matter.”
“For the record, my dear, I believe you started first. With your son. You moved schools, and he’s clearly got issues with these animals, and you haven’t told your sister anything. We need to get everything out in the open.”
“I can’t. There’s too much at stake now.”
“Hannah, do you really think the police should know more than your family?”
“Mom,” she said, “I love you. And I know you mean well. But this is about Miles and his safety. And I know that I have his best interests at heart. That he is my priority. And I don’t…I just don’t…believe that he is anyone else’s priority. So I have to—”
“Lie for him?”
“Shh, Mom, no. Jesus. Protect him. Be careful. That’s all.”
“Even with Hillary?”
“Tell me she’s not doing the same thing with Ben.”
Well, she had a point there. She certainly did. But one of them had to crack first, didn’t they? And it was usually Hannah. In my experience, it was usually her. Did that make Hillary stronger or just more stubborn, possessed of a blind spot, less globally smart in the long run? Hard to say. At times like these, they both reminded me of their father and the way he thought everything into submission. Did no one feel things anymore? When did everyone stop enjoying spontaneity, trusting their gut? Was everything a pro and con list to be parsed? Still, she had a point. Hillary wasn’t telling me anything either. And I had to confess, all this silence irritated me. I was used to being at the center of my daughters’ and grandchildren’s lives. I was used to being welcome in their homes and privy to their struggles. Now I was standing off to the side, in the cold, and I had to admit, that was part of my motivation for what I did next. Let me in, for God’s sake!
I dropped my half-eaten bagel back into the basket with a thud.
“When they were at your house digging, were they looking to excavate boot prints?”
“Boot prints?”
“You know, footprints?”
“No, they were digging for…dead animals. A fox, specifically. And other evidence, they said.”
“Ahh. Of course.”
“Mom, why did you say boots? Is there something happening in the investigation with boots? Did they take boots at Hillary’s? What else did you see?”
Oh, I was cornered now. I felt my face flush, and it wasn’t from wiping cream cheese off it with a rough biodegradable napkin.
“I, um, well, yes, they seemed to be interested. In all footwear. They took imprints, I believe, of shoes.”
“Okay,” Hannah said cautiously, and I couldn’t tell if she was buying it or not, but I’d toed the line well and also told the truth. There had to have been footprints on the creek or path to match. That was what I’d thought when the technician went into the mudroom.
“You said they were digging for other evidence,” I said. “What were they looking for?”
“I don’t know, but they said they found her necklace with her key ring between the yards.”
“The white lanyard?” I asked softly with dread.
“They said necklace.”
I thought of the white braided cord, the key dangling, visible around the little girl’s neck on Hillary’s front door footage. Was that what had prompted the search of the house and then the yard? I felt sick to my stomach, like the bagel had ballooned inside of me.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Did you see whether the police went to the wrapping closet?”
“The what?”
“You know, that big closet near the mudroom that Hillary uses for boxes and wrapping paper and stuff?”
“Well, I saw them in the mudroom, and they went upstairs and into the kitchen, but I didn’t follow them. That wasn’t allowed, you know.”
“Okay.”
“I’m pretty sure they went through the whole house.”
“Okay.”
Something about the way she chewed that bagel made me realize she knew something. That she was playing me a bit. I leaned in, lowered my voice.
“Honey, even if you don’t talk to your sister, talk to me.”
She took a deep breath. She held it a long time before she let it go, but it was a signal. A signal that she was coming around.
“Okay, well, Liza’s mother told me there were presents under her daughter’s bed. It was her birthday a few days before, and no one came to her party.”
“Oh, that’s sad.”
“But someone gave her presents, and they don’t know who. All they know is she hid them.”
I felt a terrible chill go down my spine. I’m not one for theatrics, and I consider myself a tough old bird. But I tend to listen to my body and the occasional signals the universe sends me, and that one felt loud and clear.
“Dear God,” I said.
“Yeah,” she sighed.
“So they’re looking for fingerprints, I suppose, or DNA, not boots.”
She was silent.
“I saw one of those shows on TV where the fingerprint showed up on the Scotch tape, on the sticky side. Clear as a bell.”
“Yes,” she sighed. “That would be too easy, though. They’re asking all the kids in the neighborhood if they recognize them.”
“But would a child remember wrapping paper?”
“I think so. Isn’t that how most kids figure out Santa Claus is a fake?”
“Fair point.”
“Mom, didn’t you help the kids wrap presents for us a few months ago? For Mother’s Day? When I complimented Miles on his technique, he said you taught him.”
“Dear God, do you think I’m a murderer now? Really, Hannah.”
“No, I just—did you help Morgan or maybe Ben, too? At her house?”
“Ben? Teach Ben to wrap presents?” I screwed up my face.
“Mom, how well do we really know Ben? I mean, we love him because he’s charming and he’s good with kids and he puts up with Hillary’s crazy type-A shit, but plenty of fucked-up men are charming, right? Plenty of rogues and cheats and—”
“Hannah, I don’t see where you’re heading with this. You don’t actually think they are involved? Dear God, that’s beyond the pale. That’s, that’s—” I struggled to find the words, but what I was thinking, with great shame, was that that was how Hillary would think.
“Mom,” she said abruptly and pulled out her phone. She opened up a photo and slid it across the table. “These are the presents.”
“What, she…shared this with you? Just like that?”
“She’s desperate for information. And she…trusts me. I don’t know why.”
I surveyed my daughter’s open face. I knew why. Because Hannah Sawyer was inherently trustworthy. Hadn’t we always known that? Wasn’t that the primary difference between her and her sister? She was solid and open, where Hillary could shift and parry and move stealthily. And the relief, the relief I felt that another woman was listening to that little voice inside her that told her whom to trust and whom not to? It gave me joy.
Temporary joy.
Because when I looked at the photo, I felt sick to my stomach.
The ribbon. The ribbon.
I’d seen it before.
I met my daughter’s eyes, and I didn’t have to say it.