IT SHOULD FEEL strange to go back to normal life after what happened—the ghost and the almost-kiss, which between the two of them take up just about every available brain cell. But it turns out to feel more familiar than anything. I make the right expressions and say the right words and don’t tell anyone about the memories that consume me.
There doesn’t turn out to be much chance to see Delphine—Del. Not alone, at least. Her mother is always with her, or I’m in class. Or looking for Grace.
I sit each night on the steps out front, waiting well past dark. But it doesn’t rain, and the nights stay cool, clear, and quiet. I’m not sure whether to be relieved or grateful that Maeve does not reappear.
As for Grace, she felt more real when I thought she was a ghost. It’s strange that someone could leave so little evidence behind when they’re gone. She lived before the internet, before social media and camera phones. There is no digital fingerprint to follow, and I find her family only in obituaries. Lives ended early—disease, accident, suicide. It’s as if her family was cursed. Once, I glimpse Grace herself. It’s a photograph from her aunt’s obituary, in which the older woman sits with a young girl on a bench, surrounded by a profusion of flowers. The caption reads Marian and her niece, Grace. Grace looks about nine years old and bashful. Strange to think that in less than a decade, both of them were dead.
My one bit of luck comes when I’m looking through archival photos from the country club where Grace’s family were members—the club had conveniently uploaded its archives online. Grace’s parents feature in a number of the photos. Her siblings appear in only a handful, but in one, a young man is sitting next to Grace’s sister Elizabeth. He has one of those long, narrow faces that always make their owners look like mourners or jokesters, and he’s definitely the latter. He has his hand resting ever so subtly on the back of Elizabeth’s chair, and she’s looking over at him with a smirk.
I know that smirk. And I know the puppy-dog look he’s giving her, too. I’d bet anything he’s her boyfriend.
His name is Jack Elliott. And two minutes later, I’ve found Grace’s last living relative. Elizabeth Elliott is still alive, now in her fifties and living in San Francisco, where she works as a graphic designer. Jack went into sales and wrote two thrillers in the nineties, though nothing since.
Elizabeth Elliott has a website. And it lists an email.
Sitting in my bed with my laptop balanced on my knees, I type out a hasty message, my hands shaking.
Hi—
This is probably going to sound very strange, but I am a student at the Atwood School, where I believe your sister Grace attended many years ago. I have been trying to find more information about her and about her disappearance. I understand that it is probably a difficult subject, and that you probably don’t want to talk about it, but if you are willing, I would love to speak with you. I’m just trying to get some insight into what she was like and what might have happened to her.
Thank you,
Eden White
I start to put my computer away, but then an email pops into my inbox. A reply to the email I sent.
Hello, Eden,
That is, as you said, a difficult subject. Can I ask why you are interested in Grace?
Liz
Shit. I don’t know what to tell her that won’t sound completely bonkers.
Thanks for getting back to me so quickly. I heard a bit about Grace’s story and I guess it spoke to me. I wanted to know more about her, but I’ve been hitting a lot of dead ends.
I hesitate. Then add,
Did you know a girl named Maeve? I think she and Grace knew each other.
I sit there staring at my inbox. Two minutes crawl by. Then three. Then five. And then: a reply.
Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer to talk on the phone. If it’s not too late where you are, I can give you a call.
It’s ten o’clock here. Seven on the West Coast. I send back my number and an assurance that it isn’t at all too late, and a moment later my phone rings.
“Um, hello?” I say, answering. My voice is shaky.
“Hello, this is Liz Elliott. Is this Eden?”
“Yes. It is. Thank you so much for calling,” I say, suffusing as much genuine gratitude into the words as possible. It’s weird—when you lie too much, you sort of forget how to sound genuine. But she doesn’t seem put off.
“You asked about Maeve Fairchild. Can I ask how you came across that name?” Her voice is steady and gentle.
“I think I read it somewhere,” I say vaguely. “And I’ve heard—well, there are some rumors that Grace was seeing someone, and I wondered . . .”
Liz chuckles. “A name and a rumor and you put it together, when it took over a year for anyone else to catch on,” she says.
“Then she was really with Maeve?” I ask, breathless.
“Yes, though I didn’t know it at the time. I was too young for Atwood, and my parents thought I was too young to know about Grace’s ‘problem,’ as they put it. I didn’t find out the extent of things until after the fact.”
I sit back against the headboard. Once again, here is objective proof confirming what I’ve experienced. Evidence that this isn’t all in my mind.
“Eden, I have only been able to talk about Grace in the last few years. I used to be very ashamed of what had happened, even before I really understood what it was. I was ashamed of her, and then when I realized how wrong that was, I became ashamed of my parents. And of myself. I have tried to tell Grace’s story more honestly in recent years, but I need to know . . . I need to be sure . . .”
“You want to be sure that I’m worthy,” I say.
She laughs self-consciously. “That sounds so dramatic.”
I think of the photo of Grace. The secret in her smile, her steady gaze. “No, I think you’re right. Grace’s story, it’s been hidden all this time, because of people who didn’t understand her. Who couldn’t accept and love who she was. Now all that’s left is her story, her memory. You need to make sure that it’s protected. Because she wasn’t.”
There’s a short, sharp breath on the other end of the line. “Are you sure you’re in high school, Eden?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” I say. That breaks the moment just enough to keep it from becoming painful. “I feel this connection to Grace. And Maeve. I’m queer, and I’ve been lucky to have friends who are supportive. I don’t think my parents would care one way or another. It’s easy to forget how hard it was not long ago. How hard it still is for a lot of people. I look at Grace and I wish that she could be here now. Introduce her to my friends. Show her how far we’ve come.”
“That is a beautiful sentiment,” Liz says. “And one that I like to think Grace would appreciate. I’ll tell you what I remember and what I know, but I’d ask—if you’re going to publish it in any form, please talk to me first.”
“Oh! Of course. I wasn’t planning to,” I say. It hasn’t occurred to me.
“I know you kids are always doing podcasts or the Tik Toks,” she says, exaggerating the spaces between the words so I’m sure she’s making the mistake on purpose.
“I despise being perceived,” I admit. “This is just for me.” And Del.
“I understand that. But I think that’s all that Grace wanted, sometimes—to be seen. She was the perfect daughter. Did everything our parents asked of her. And because she never caused any problems, they never thought to look any deeper. Until she met Maeve.”
“Where did they meet?” I ask.
“Atwood, of course,” Liz replies. “Maeve—Maeve Fairchild—was a junior when Grace was a freshman. It was at the end of that year they started spending time together. Maeve was a bit older, and already wild—a troublemaker. Grace came home more excited and alive than I’d ever seen her. Their first kiss was on Grace’s birthday the next year. She was sixteen.”
Less than a year before she died. Before she disappeared, I remember, because there is no solid proof that Grace is dead.
“My parents found out. I’m not sure how—maybe someone at the school told them. Maybe Grace did. She could be like that. She was so sure of the goodness in people, sometimes she could be naive. She might have thought they would have no choice but to understand. But of course, they didn’t. They accused Maeve of corrupting her. And Maeve wasn’t a ‘good girl’ like Grace. She smoked and drank and sneaked out at night, and Grace wasn’t her first girlfriend. It wasn’t hard to convince the school to kick her out.”
“They expelled her?” I ask, more shocked than maybe I should be. “For being gay?”
“For corrupting the morals of younger students,” Liz says dryly. “Grace was furious. It was probably the worst thing they could have done. Maeve was eighteen by then. She moved into town and got a job waitressing, and Grace would sneak out to see her at night.”
Through the woods, I think. Over the Narrow. It’s the shortest way to get to town.
“I don’t know exactly what happened after that. I know that my parents became aware that they were still seeing each other. They spoke a lot with a teacher who was trying to intervene, to convince Grace to stop seeing Maeve. Things got quiet for a while. And then . . . then Grace was just gone. And so was Maeve.”
“The articles only ever talked about Grace. They hardly mentioned that Maeve even existed,” I say.
“My parents didn’t want rumors spreading. Maeve’s family had disowned her when the school expelled her, and no one was really looking for her. If my parents had their way, none of this would have been in the papers at all. You have to understand, it was a very different time—and our circles were obsessed with status and very conservative. I think my parents truly would have preferred a dead straight daughter to a living gay daughter.”
“What do you think happened?” I ask. I sit cross-legged on the bed, hunched forward as I press the phone to my ear.
She sighs. “Oh, from time to time I’ve fantasized about the two of them off together somewhere. Living under new names. Growing old around people who love them. But I think that after all this time without hearing from Grace, the only explanation that makes sense is that she died that night. She went to meet Maeve and drowned. And maybe Maeve tried to save her and fell in as well, or maybe she ran away when she realized what had happened. But either way, Grace is dead. I’m certain of it.”
Maeve didn’t run away. She’s still here. But if Grace died that same night, drowned in the river just like Maeve, why is Maeve still looking for her? “Thank you,” I say. “It helps. Knowing more of the story. And I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“You’d think a wound that old would be healed by now,” Liz says. She sounds exhausted. As if telling the tale had robbed her of all her energy.
“That’s not really the way it works, though, is it?”
“No, I suppose not. We’re all just bones haunted by our own memories, aren’t we?” Liz asks. “But you’re still young. Not so haunted yet.”
I don’t correct her. “Thank you again for talking to me.”
“Thank you. It was good, talking about her. I don’t think I’ve ever told the whole story like that. It was . . . I don’t know. Cleansing,” she said. “You take care, Eden. And be careful.”
“Careful?” I ask.
She hesitates. “I almost don’t want to mention this. It was a long time ago, and things have changed. People have changed. But the teacher who tried to break Grace and Maeve up, who was so dead set against their relationship—his name was Geoffrey Oster.”
My stomach drops. “He’s the dean now,” I say.
“I know. That’s why I wanted to mention it. I don’t know what you’re intending to do with what you learn, but I imagine it could be a very awkward subject to bring up, given how close to the situation he was. What happened wasn’t his fault, but he wasn’t blameless.”
“How is it not his fault? If he hadn’t broken them up, Grace wouldn’t have had to sneak out,” I say.
“He was part of it. But if you really want to blame someone, blame my parents. They’re the ones who were supposed to love her unconditionally,” Liz says, and now she sounds angry. “I wish I at least knew that wherever she is, she’s loved.”
I can tell that she is done, that grief is overcoming her willingness to talk.
“Thank you for everything,” I say.
“Take care, Eden,” she says.
I promise that I will; we say our goodbyes.
What happened to you, Grace?
They had wanted to be together forever. They had disappeared the same night. But somehow, Maeve was still here, alone and lost, and Grace—Grace was nowhere to be found.