Black-Eyed Susans (34 page)

I toss an afghan over Lucas and decide to
check on Charlie. Her bedroom door is shut tight. I knock. No response. I knock again a
little harder before turning the knob. The white lights strung around the ceiling are
twinkling, a sign she was planning to be camped out here for a while. But no
Charlie.

A slight noise on the other side of the
wall, in my room. A sniffle? Is she sick? Seeking comfort in my bed while I’m off
on a field trip with the Susans? Guilt washes over me. Lucas should have called to let
me know. Maybe the flu shot didn’t take, or her allergies are acting up, or Coach
scratched her fragile teen-age heart with an offhand remark.

No. Not sick. Charlie’s cross-legged
on my bed like Lydia used to
be, her curls falling forward, intent on
what she’s reading. There’s a frenzy of paper everywhere, littering the bed,
the old antique rug on the floor. My backpack rests against the pillow behind her.
It’s unzipped for the first time since I returned from Huntsville. I want to
scream
No,
but it’s way too late.

Charlie’s cheeks are slick with tears.
“I was looking for a highlighter.”

She holds up a piece of paper.

I know in that instant that our relationship
will never be the same.

“Is this why you won’t eat
Snickers bars?” she asks.

Before I can utter a word, Lucas is there.
He’s holding out my phone, which I’d left on the kitchen counter with my
purse.

“It’s Jo. She says that you have
to come back to her office. Immediately.”

MR. LINCOLN
: Lydia … I
can call you Lydia, right?

MS. BELL
: Yes.

MR. LINCOLN
: Exactly how
long have you known Tessa Cartwright?

MS. BELL
: Since second
grade. Our desks were in alphabetical order. Tessie’s aunt used to say that God
made out that seating chart.

MR. LINCOLN
: And
you’ve been best friends since? For ten years?

MS. BELL
: Yes.

MR. LINCOLN
: So when Tessie
went missing you must have been terrified?

MS. BELL
: I had a really bad
feeling right away. We had like a secret way of letting each other know we were OK.
We’d call the other one and let the phone ring twice. And then we’d wait
five minutes and let the phone ring twice again. It was kind of a silly thing we did
when we were little. But I stayed home and waited.

MR.
LINCOLN
: Tessie didn’t call? And you never left the house?

MS. BELL
: No. Well, I left
for about ten minutes to check her tree house.

MR. LINCOLN
: Check the tree
house for … Tessa?

MS. BELL
: We used to leave
notes in this little crack.

MR. LINCOLN
: And there was
no note?

MS. BELL
: No note.

MR. LINCOLN
: Were your
father and mother home during this period of waiting while Tessa was missing?

MS. BELL
: Yes. My mom was.
My dad had some emergency at work. A car’s engine exploded or something. He came
home later.

MR. LINCOLN
: Yes,
we’ll get back to that. In an earlier deposition, you mentioned that you have had
nightmares since Tessa’s attack. Is that right?

MS. BELL
: Yes. But not as
terrible as Tessie’s.

MR. LINCOLN
: Can you
describe some of yours?

MS. BELL
: There’s
really just one. I get it practically every night. I’m standing on the bottom of
the lake. It’s cliché. Freud wouldn’t be too interested, you know?

MR. LINCOLN
: Is Tessie in
this dream?

MS. BELL
: No. I can see my
face but it’s not my face. My father is reaching his hand down from his boat. He
was always freaked one of
us was going to go under. Anyway, his
college ring falls into the water and starts sinking. He was always freaked about that
happening, too, and never wore it on the boat. He went to Ohio State for a year.
He’s really proud of that. He loves that ring. He bought it at some garage
sale.

MR. LINCOLN
: I know this is
hard but try to keep your answers just a bit simpler, OK? Tell me this: Was Tessa ever
afraid of your father?

This time, I’m not the first one there.
It’s a little past midnight. The Kleenex box on the conference room table has been
disturbed. Moved to the very far edge of the table. Jo is pulling on latex gloves.
She’d told me on the phone that I needed to drive over,
now,
but I
couldn’t leave Charlie in a paper bed of my testimony. We had to talk. Charlie is
a little Tessie, sometimes. Too quick to reassure adults that she’s OK.

Jo wouldn’t tell me
why
I had
to come. It was maddening.
Drive carefully,
she urged. Once I unwrapped myself
from Charlie, I drove at warp speed, through two red light cameras, wondering what
waited for me. My monster in handcuffs. More Susan skeletons grinning in ugly glee.

There is one other person in the room. A
young girl by the window who is very much alive. A silky black ponytail trails down her
back. She is gazing out the window at silvery trees, lit by pale moonlight, on the lawn
of the Modern Art Museum across the street. Two stainless steel trees, their branches
intricately, tediously soldered, pulling toward each other as if by magnetic force. That
is how I feel about this girl, as if she can’t turn toward me fast enough. When
she does, I have an immediate impression of familiarity. Of longing.

“This young woman is
Aurora Leigh,” Jo says. “She says she is Lydia Bell’s
daughter.”

It’s not like it wouldn’t have
been my first guess. The hair is darker, the skin even more ivory, but the eyes, full of
dreamy blue intelligence, unmistakable.

And her name. Aurora Leigh. The epic heroine
of Lydia’s favorite poem.

“Hello, Aurora,” I say.
I’m trying to tamp down the words being silently pelted at Aurora by the Susans.
Liar,
screams one.
Imposter.

Jo is drumming her fingers on the table,
drawing my attention back. “Aurora went to the police station first. They called
Lieutenant Myron, who is off duty. She told the front desk to call me.”

“I was making a scene.” Aurora
plops into the nearest chair and drops a handful of crumpled tissue onto the table. Her
nose is shiny and red and pierced by a tiny silver ring. Her lovely eyes are bloodshot.
“I’m sorry. I’m calmer now.”

“You sit, too, Tessa.” She turns
to Aurora. “Do you want me to explain?” She touches Aurora’s shoulder,
and she flinches.

“No,” says Aurora.
“That’s OK. I’ll do it. I’m OK. Really. I just wanted someone to
listen to me. You listened.” She turns to me with eagerness. “I saw a story
on Fox about the box that was dug up. It’s my mom’s stuff. It belongs to
me.”

“But I explained to Aurora that it is
still evidence,” Jo says. “That she can maybe get it back later.”

“I don’t want it later. I want
to see it now.” Matter-of-fact and petulant at the same time. Reminds me of
Charlie. This girl couldn’t be more than two years older. Sixteen. Seventeen, at
most.

“I didn’t know Lydia had a
daughter.” My voice sounds surprisingly calm. “Where is your mother right
now?”

“I’ve never met her.”
Aurora’s words are an assault. Accusatory, even.

Jo forms her face into a professional mask.
“Aurora tells me she
has lived with her grandparents since she
was born. Mr. and Mrs. Bell. Although Aurora says she just learned that they changed
their last name. They told her that her mother was dead and they had no idea who her
father was. She had no reason to doubt them. Then her grandmother died. Her grandfather
had a stroke last year and was moved to a full-term care facility. Aurora has been
living with a foster family in Florida. I’ve already called them to let them know
she’s OK.”

“So …” I begin.

“So a lawyer cleaned out her
grandparents’ safe deposit box a month ago. Birth certificates. Tax documents.
It’s all there in Aurora’s bag.” She points to a stuffed,
pink-flowered tote.

“They lied to me. Every single day,
they lied to me. I’m not Aurora Leigh Green. I’m Aurora Leigh Bell.”
Aurora pulls out another Kleenex. “I was saving money for a private investigator.
I was Googling around in the meantime. It freaked me out when Lydia Bell’s name
came up a couple of times. You know, in those Black-Eyed Susan stories. But I
didn’t know if it was the same Lydia Bell. I didn’t want it to be. And then
I saw that story about the police digging at my grandparents’ old house. They said
their real names on the air. So I knew. I couldn’t wait anymore. I stole some
money out of my foster mom’s purse for the bus.” Tears are lurking again.
“She’s going to kill me. She probably won’t take me back. She’s
not that bad really.”

“She’s just happy that
you’re OK, Aurora. Remember, I talked to her and she told you not to worry.”
Jo, reassuring. “Aurora is worried that her mother was a victim of the Black-Eyed
Susan killer and that’s the reason her grandparents went into hiding. I told her
there is absolutely no evidence that she was. I explained that you could tell her the
most about her mother. What she was like. Who she was dating.”

I open my mouth, and close it.

As far as I knew, Lydia only made it as far
as third base one time, with our school’s star third baseman. Lydia reveled in the
literalness
of it. She even told me she was considering similar
conquests with the first and second basemen. It made me ache for her. When it came to
Lydia, boys just wanted a cheap thrill: to meet a beautiful, crazy girl in the dark and
hope she didn’t bring an axe.

Aurora’s face is twisting with
impatience. Here she is, defiant, flesh and blood evidence that I never dreamed existed.
I feel ineptly unable to answer without hurting her. Aurora’s eyes are
incandescent holes despite the harsh light of the conference room. Even with the nose
ring and a scowl, she’s a stunning replica of her mother.

“Jo, why are you gloved?” I
ask.

“I was about to swab Aurora’s
DNA. I told her I can’t give her the evidence, but I can run her DNA through all
of the databases.”

“So that maybe she can find my father.
That was blank on my birth certificate.” Aurora is so hopeful. Innocent.
“Maybe he didn’t know about me.”

“How old are you?” I ask.

“Sixteen.”

So Lydia was pregnant when she hurtled out
of town. The picture is a little clearer. Why the Bells might flee. Mrs. Bell believed
brides should bring their hymens to the altar intact. Sperms and eggs instantly make
microscopic people. A pregnant daughter would be the ultimate humiliation in her world.
Abortion, not an option. But changing their names?

“Jo says you were best friends.”
Lydia’s daughter is begging me. For anything.

Aurora’s arrival seems a little too
pat.

She might be telling the truth. Or she might
be a pawn of her mother’s.

“She was loyal,” I lie.
“Like no one else.”

MS. BELL
: No. Tessie is not
afraid of my dad. He could be a little mean after a few beers but he never bothered
Tessie. She was so tough sometimes. Stood up for everybody. One time I told her that I
could never handle it if I’d been the one to wake up in that grave. Don’t
get me wrong. She’s messed up. Or maybe she’s just mortal now like the rest
of us. But I’d be totally nuts. And you know what she said? She said, that’s
why it happened to me and not you. Not to make me feel guilty or anything, or be
martyr-y, just because she really can’t stand to see anybody else hurt. You need
to know something … Tessie is the best.

MR. LINCOLN
: Again, try to
keep your answers short and confine them to my questions. I’m sure Mr. Vega has
told you this, too.

MR. VEGA
: I’m not
objecting.

MR. LINCOLN
: Lydia, let me
ask you this. Are you ever afraid of your dad?

MS. BELL
: Only sometimes.
When he drinks. But he’s getting help for that now.

MR.
LINCOLN
: Lydia, your dream sounds pretty scary to me. At the bottom of a
lake with no one coming to your rescue.

MS. BELL
: I never said that
no one comes to the rescue. My dad always dives in after me.

MR. LINCOLN
: Interesting
that you never mentioned that ending when I took your deposition. How can you be sure
your father wasn’t going for that college ring he loved so much?

MR. VEGA
: OK, your honor,
now I’m objecting.

“Reconstructing memory doesn’t
work this way,” Dr. Giles says. “It’s not a magic act. And I’m
not the expert on light hypnosis. I’ve told you that.”

I’m staring down the same empty velour
chair as last time, the one where Dr. Giles suggested I picture my monster and give him
a pop quiz. There’s a frizzy blond Barbie nestled in the corner, her arms
confirming a touchdown. “So tell me how it works,” I beg.

“Some therapists use the imagery of a
rope or ladder. Or tell you to watch a painful event from above, as a voyeur.
There’s a famous quote—that traumatic memory is a series of still snapshots
or a silent movie and the role of therapy is to find the music and words.”

“So, let’s find the
music,” I say. “
And
the pictures. I pick … watching from
above. Let’s make my movie.”

I don’t tell her about Aurora, who is
safely back in Florida with her foster mom.

I don’t tell her that I’m giving
Lydia the starring role today. She always wanted it, and I was always snatching it away.
I was the little girl with the dead mommy. I was the Black-Eyed Susan.