I whirl around, my heart a bird in a too-small cage.
An old lady stands smiling with crowded teeth traced with gold. A rivulet of sweat is tracing its way down my spine, but she wears black corduroy pants, a crisp blue shirt with white stripes, and a black cardigan. Buttoned.
“So who am I?” I say lightly, as if the answer doesn’t matter.
“You’re the new renter, right? I’m glad they finally got someone in the house.” Her high cheekbones are as red as apples, but the rest of her face is pale.
Suddenly, I feel as if I’m seeing double. It’s like that drawing of a vase, the one where if you look at it right, it changes to two people facing each other. I see an old lady dressed in black, but my memory superimposes another image.
I see: silver hair cut to her chin.
I remember: dark, silver-streaked hair worn in a braid that fell past her shoulders.
I see: red-framed glasses.
I remember: gold wire frames.
I see: eyes caught in a net of wrinkles.
I remember: those same golden-brown eyes, but in a fuller face.
Seeing the new and the old, the real and the memory, makes me dizzy. I steady myself against the peeling gray siding.
Her face creased with concern, she touches my wrist lightly. My memory offers me her arms, pulling me close into the soft smell of baby powder.
“Honey, are you all right?” Her voice is a little too loud, like she’s slightly deaf.
I manage to nod. “It’s probably just the heat.”
“I wish I could get warm.” Her fingers twist against each other. “My heart doesn’t work too well.”
My own heart is still racing. “So you’re the neighbor?”
“That’s right. Nora Murdoch.” She offers me her hand, cool skin over bones as delicate as a bird’s wing.
Nora Murdoch was our neighbor and Grandma’s best friend. They would sit in the living room and drink cup after cup of coffee. Every Christmas, Nora would bake gingerbread men and let me help decorate them. She didn’t mind if the frosting came out in big globs or if I used too many sprinkles.
Nora is the one I ran to that terrible day when I came home from school and found my grandmother on the kitchen floor. Grandma was lying in a puddle of cold coffee, surrounded by the blue-and-white shards of what had been her favorite cup. Her skin was cold, her open eyes dull.
“I’m Olivia Reinhart.”
But there’s no answering spark in her eyes. I’m sure she remembers—maybe even still loves—seven-year-old blond Ariel Benson. But I’m not her. Now I’m seventeen-year-old brown-haired Olivia Reinhart. If I tell her who I am, she’ll have all kinds of questions. And then she’ll tell someone else, and pretty soon every eye will be on me. It’s better to keep my distance. I don’t want to be the center of attention, of whispers and questions. My plan is to slip in and out without being noticed.
Ten years ago, I was just a kid, but I can tell that Nora is basically the same person she was then. Just older.
Underscoring that idea, she says. “I have lived in this neighborhood forever, so if there’s anything you want to know, just ask.”
“Um, I’m not actually sure I’m going to rent this house. I’m still thinking about it.”
“The murders didn’t happen here, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Nora says.
“Murders?”
She stamps one of her black knockoff Keds, mouth twisting with annoyance. “Oh, now you’ve gone and done it, Nora Murdoch. You and your big mouth! If there’s one thing a potential renter doesn’t want to hear, it’s the word ‘murder.’” Her eyes flash up to mine. “You need to know that nothing bad happened in this house, Olivia. Ever. This house has nothing but good memories.”
“Then why did you say ‘murders’?” I’m sweating all over now. Even the bottoms of my feet feel slick.
“Is it okay if we sit down?” Nora is already lowering herself to the steps, which are shaded by a tall oak tree. “I’m feeling a little light-headed myself today.”
I sit next to her, glad to have something between me and the white ball of the sun.
“The story’s been all over the news,” she says. “That’s why I thought you knew. My friend Sharon used to live in this house with her daughter, Naomi, and Naomi’s little girl, Ariel. But almost fourteen years ago, Naomi and her boyfriend, Terry, went out with Ariel to get a Christmas tree and never came back. Someone killed Naomi in the woods. Not here.”
I try to think of how a stranger might react. “Oh my God. That’s terrible. Who killed her?”
“Naomi and Terry fought sometimes. For years, everyone thought Terry must have snapped and killed her and then just took off. But now his jawbone has been found in the woods. And the police think both of them were murdered by someone else.” In a near whisper, Nora adds, “And I spent all those years thinking he did it.”
I understand far better than she can imagine. “But you said everyone thought that. Not just you.”
“I was too quick to judge.” She sighs. “Anyway, Naomi dying just about broke Sharon’s heart. In fact, she died of a heart attack a few years later. I’m sure it was losing her daughter that did it.” She falls silent. Her lower lip trembles. “I’m the one who’s supposed to have a bad heart. Never thought I’d still be here all these years later.”
Will Nora put two and two together if I ask about myself? Then again, if I don’t, I might seem cold. “What happened to the little girl? Your friend’s granddaughter? Was she killed, too?”
“She was found three hours away. After the police figured out who she was, Ariel ended up back with Sharon. She was too young to say what had happened. We asked her and asked her. All she would say was ‘Mommy’s dancing.’ After Sharon died, Ariel went into foster care. I heard she got adopted up in Portland. I tried to take her in, but the state wouldn’t let me because of my age and my heart. Her dad’s family wanted her, too. They showed up at Sharon’s funeral, and there was a big fight about it. But of course the state wasn’t going to say yes. Not when Terry’s family refused to even admit he’d killed Naomi. Child Protective Services was worried Terry would sneak back into town and his family would just hand Ariel over.”
Everything stops.
So the argument at Grandma’s funeral wasn’t about how people didn’t want me, but about how they did? It’s happening again, the vase turning into the faces and then back into a vase. The center of my chest aches. With difficulty, I concentrate on what Nora is saying.
“We were all so sure we knew the truth, but we were wrong.” She takes a deep breath. “Terry’s funeral starts in forty-five minutes.”
I nod, figuring out just now that Nora must be going. How am I going to go to the funeral without her wondering why I’m there?
She twists her hands again. “I don’t know if I’ll make it, though. I don’t feel real sharp today. It’s not that far, but I’m not sure I’m up to driving.”
I realize Nora is both the problem and the solution.
“Why don’t I give you a ride?”