The Lost Girls (23 page)

Without thinking, I stood up. At the same moment Matthew came around the side of the lodge. He stopped when he saw Lilith and Abe, and he frowned. I remembered how he'd fumbled with the change that first day at the lodge, and I felt a stab of jealousy. “Abe, you're wanted inside,” Matthew said.

Abe jammed his hands in his pockets and walked toward him. As Matthew turned to go, he saw me. He looked at Abe, then at me again, and shook his head. He couldn't come with me, but he wanted to, and that was enough.

Lilith had seen me, too, and once the brothers were gone she came over. She smoothed her skirt under her and sat on the log. I sat beside her, and we were silent for a while. It was not a comfortable silence. Before this summer, our silences had been of the best sort, thoughtful and communicative. I'd often thought, during them, that we were thinking the same things. I didn't think that now. Her body hummed with a tension I couldn't translate.

I said, “Why didn't you tell me about the show?”

She relaxed. I thought I'd guessed right, and she was relieved I'd brought it up. “I didn't want you to feel left out.”

I turned this over for a bit. “Why would I feel left out?”

She sighed. “Oh, Lucy, you would never want to be in a cabaret. You could never be on a stage, having people look at you.”

The sun was hot on my knees. I pulled my skirt down to cover them. She was right, of course. I'd never have the nerve to be in a cabaret. That was for her, whom no one could fail to notice, even if she were sitting quietly in a corner. Still, she'd always made me feel that with her by my side I could be more than what my nature
would have me be; do more than I would have dared on my own. I would have expected her to encourage me to be in it—just a small part, off to the side, singing in the backup chorus. I know, now, that she had her reasons for excluding me. But at the time I thought it was because she'd never really believed I could leave anything but the faintest of footprints, no matter how much she tried to help me. I wanted Matthew to come back.

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you,” she said. She put one arm around me and rested her head against mine. I sat, feeling the weight of her, until she got up to go. This time, she did head for the Lloyds'.

I sat there for a while longer, despite the droning insects. Then I went to the house. Emily and Mother were in the kitchen. “Emily, do you want to come and play?” I said. Emily gave a small clap, and a quick look at Mother. Mother didn't want to give her up; I could see it. “Just for a little while,” I added, and she relented, though I could feel her watching us as we walked out. Emily skipped with delight.

“Let's play in the woods,” I said, because I was the big sister, and I decided the game.

Justine sat on Melanie's bed, watching her sleep. Melanie lay on her side with her knees pulled up to her stomach, her eyelashes dark, perfect crescents. She looked achingly young. Justine hadn't said anything to her about the meeting with Mrs. Sorensen the day before—about the bullying or the drawings. Especially not the drawings. Although she was still confident they weren't of Patrick, their urgent lines pulsed with an anguish that worried and confused her. She didn't know what to say to Melanie about them. But she did think she knew what to do.

She put her hand on Melanie's leg. Melanie opened her eyes and her face fell into its familiar dour lines. She looked exhausted despite the night's rest.

“It's time for school,” Justine said, “but you don't have to go.”

Melanie studied her suspiciously. “Why?”

“There's only four days until the break, and we'll be gone before school starts up again. So you might as well stay home. If you want.”

Melanie continued to frown. Angela raised herself on one elbow, the quilt falling around her pink nightgown. With her mussed curls she looked like a child in an old-fashioned calendar. “I don't want to stay home,” she said.

“I thought you didn't like that school, either.”

Angela glanced at Melanie. “I don't. But we're having a Christmas party today.”

“We'll have just as much fun here, I promise. We'll go to the
mall. Hang out with Grandma.” Bake Christmas cookies, she almost added, then remembered the broken oven.

“But I want to go to the party. And I want to sing in the chorus concert. It's tomorrow night.”

“I didn't know you were in the chorus.”

“Everybody's in the chorus,” Melanie said. “They make you.”

Justine had seen the sign outside the school advertising the concert but hadn't thought anything about it. If Angela hadn't brought it up, they would have missed it. Which wouldn't have been such a bad thing. She'd never driven the forest road at night. “Do you really want to sing in it?” she asked. Angela nodded. Justine turned to Melanie. “But you don't, do you?”

Melanie's eyebrows drew down in a vee. Justine felt a wave of gobsmacked delight: Melanie liked the chorus! Melanie scowled in confusion at her mother's grin, which made Justine laugh. It couldn't be that hard to drive the road in the dark.

“Fine. I'll take you to school, Angela. Melanie can stay home. And we'll all go to the concert tomorrow. After that, we'll all stay home. Sound good?” Both girls nodded, and Justine smiled again. It wasn't often she got things right with her daughters.

When she returned from driving Angela, Melanie was helping Matthew shovel the walk to the lodge's front porch. Justine slowed as she drove by them. She couldn't imagine what had prompted Melanie to do that, and she debated telling her to come inside. They hadn't had much to do with the Millers since the ice skating incident, which was fine with her. She still found them both unsettling.

Then she told herself: stop it. He plows that road for you even though he drives his truck across the lake. Helping him with his walk was the least they could do. Like when Mrs. Mendenhall went to see her daughter and they'd gotten her mail and watered her plants. That was how it worked, being someone's neighbor. And he was their neighbor, even if only for a little while longer.

In the kitchen Maurie was going over her lists of things to keep and things to sell. Her papers were all over the table and her breakfast dishes sat unwashed on the counter. It had been like this since she'd arrived, and would be like this as long as she stayed. The only housecleaning done in any of their apartments had been done by Justine.

“How long has Melanie been outside?” Justine asked her.

Maurie peered over the top of her red cheaters. “I didn't know she was.”

Justine sighed and turned to the dishes in the sink. After she'd washed them she poured herself a cup of coffee and went to the living room, where she could keep an eye on the shovelers through the window. Matthew worked with efficient deliberation, heaving great mountains with each slow stroke. Melanie moved more quickly but managed only a snowball's worth at a time, her shovel hitting the mound askance or slamming into the ice beneath.

It was warm in the living room. Cozy, even. In fact, it was cozy in the entire house, now that Justine had decided she didn't need to ration the propane anymore. Maurie's brown bags were still scattered about, and she reminded herself to go through them, to see if she wanted anything. She noticed the candlesticks were back on the table beneath the portrait of Emily. The original candles were gone—Maurie must have thrown them away—and in their place were the candle stubs Justine had pulled from the drawer for Thanksgiving. She glanced toward the kitchen. She hadn't thought Maurie cared about Emily, but apparently she'd held a little ceremony of her own. That was interesting. She looked at the portrait again. The little girl stared back at her with those inhabited eyes, and Justine turned back to the shovelers.

They were almost done, though it was a mystery why they were doing it at all. Surely no one used the front door in the winter. Then it hit her: they had. They had used it the night Maurie arrived, and again when Maurie needed Matthew to clear the ice. The shoveled
walkway was a courtesy for them. A courtesy, and an invitation. Justine's hand tightened on her coffee cup. She didn't like visiting people. She certainly didn't want to visit the Millers—didn't want to sit in that cramped, smelly room, “visiting.”

Still, she had to admit she was touched by the gesture. Maurie had said Matthew Miller had lived here since before she was born, and that he'd never married. He'd probably spent decades in that lodge with no one for company but his brother and the guests who passed through in the short summer season then returned to their cities and forgot him. And Lucy, of course, and Lilith and their mother. It must have been a lonely life, made even lonelier now that Lucy was gone. Of course he would want them to visit.

She herself wasn't lonely, though. The thought surprised her. She'd been lonely for so long and so thoroughly that she never thought about it anymore. But here in Lucy's house, where she was more alone than she'd ever been, she wasn't. The snow-covered lake lay like milk between the charcoal of the points and the gray of the far shore. Its empty quiet, so unnerving when she'd first arrived, was soothing now, a balm upon her nerves. It was the sort of quiet she'd listened for each morning in her San Diego kitchen, that no matter how still she sat she'd never quite heard beneath the weight of Patrick sleeping down the hall and the humming of the hallway clock moving relentlessly toward seven fifteen. Here, even with Maurie making her mess, she could hear it: deep, mournful, and embracing.

She'd barely thought of Patrick since Maurie had arrived, she realized with surprise. That was one thing, at least, she could thank her mother for.

The walkway was done. Matthew reached out a hand and Melanie shook it. He patted her shoulder, nudging her up the steps to the lodge. Justine didn't want Melanie going in there alone with him, so she went for her coat and boots, cutting off her mother's question with the closing of the door.

She found Melanie and Matthew at a table in the main room, drinking cups of cocoa. They looked up at her and she stopped, feeling foolish.

“Would you like some cocoa?” Matthew asked. He knew why she was there; it was in his face.

“No, thank you.” She stood there awkwardly in her half-zipped coat as they continued to look at her. “Well, if it's not too much trouble.”

“It's a mix,” he said. “So it's no trouble.”

She went to the table, feeling like an intruder. When Matthew brought her cocoa he set it in front of her with his callused hand and said, “She worked hard. I appreciate it.”

Justine put her hands around the mug. The cocoa was very hot; she wouldn't be able to drink it for several minutes. She didn't know what to talk about to fill that time. Finally she said, “We're grateful to you for plowing the road.”

“That's no trouble, either.” He gave a hint of a smile.

“Well, you won't have to do it much longer,” she said. “We're moving away after Christmas.”

His smile faded. He turned to Melanie. She bit her lower lip, the muscles in her neck working. The lines of his face seemed to deepen. He nodded, as though agreeing with something only he heard. “It is a hard place to live.”

Justine wished she hadn't said anything. After all, he'd shoveled his walk in hopes they'd come visit; that they'd drink his cocoa and sit at his table. And she'd just told him they would never do that, or wouldn't for long. It would have been better to leave without saying anything. Wouldn't it?

“It's not so bad,” she assured him. “It's quiet. I like that.” He didn't respond, so she rushed on, “It's just so cold. For us, I mean. We're from a warm place. And the school is so far away.”

“I wouldn't know about that.” He shrugged his shoulders in the dirty brown coat. “I didn't go to the school.”

Melanie watched him, her fingers picking at one another behind her cup. “Why not?”

“My grandmother taught us here.” He saw her envious look and gave a gravelly laugh. “I would rather have gone to the school.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to learn things my grandmother couldn't teach me. And I wanted to be with the other children. Play on a baseball team. Go to birthday parties.” He spoke as though none of this mattered anymore, and looking at his ancient, weary face, Justine couldn't imagine him as a boy who wanted to play center field and wear party hats.

“I've never wanted to do any of those things,” Melanie said.

“Why not?”

“Because they're stupid.”

That small smile again. “Maybe they seem less stupid when you can't do them.”

Melanie blinked. Justine had never seen her at a loss for an argument, but she was now. Matthew took a long, calm drink from his cocoa, watching her from beneath his bushy gray brows.

“Do you like it here?” Melanie asked. For once her voice held no challenge, only an honest curiosity. Justine turned to Matthew, surprised by how eager she was to hear his answer.

Matthew paused for so long that she thought he wouldn't respond. He looked at the door that led to his small living quarters. His fingers considered the ceramic mug. “It's been a good place for us,” he said at last.

As if he had been waiting for a cue, Abe opened the door. Justine was surprised to see him standing; he'd seemed too weak to walk. He held on to the jamb, his head shaking with his palsy.

Matthew turned to him. “I thought you were sleeping.”

Abe shuffled over. He wore sagging pants, a plaid shirt, brown woolen socks worn through at the big toes, and no shoes. He sat
beside Justine, and she slid her chair back a little, away from him. He smelled like nicotine and menthol. He folded one purpled hand over the other and smiled at Melanie, who sat across from him. “Go back inside,” Matthew said. The sharpness of his tone startled Justine. “Company makes you tired.”

“This is different company. Not cabin people.” Abe sounded petulant, like a boy arguing with a parent. Justine had noticed his childishness the night she'd met him, but now it seemed like more than senility. He was probably mildly retarded. That would explain the odd way he'd touched Angela that night, she thought.

“That doesn't matter,” Matthew said.

Melanie said, “Can't he have some cocoa?”

Matthew ran one square hand across his face. His eyes were the same near-black as Melanie's and Maurie's, Justine saw. His hair had once been as dark as theirs, too, as had Abe's. It was no wonder there had been talk about Maurie's parentage. She studied Abe, hoping she wouldn't find other traces of her mother, though surely Maurie was right; this simple man couldn't have been Lilith's lover. To her relief, other than the eyes and Maurie's dusky complexion—which was probably the result of years in the sun, not genetics—she didn't see any resemblance.

Matthew gave in, and went to the bar. Abe smiled at Melanie again. “What's your name?”

Melanie smiled back. “Melanie.”

He tilted his head. “Emily?”

“No. Melanie.” She pronounced it slowly, but kindly. Justine couldn't remember the last time Melanie had spoken kindly to anyone.

“I knew an Emily once.”

“That was my grandma's aunt.”

Abe nodded. “I liked her.”

“You did?”

“She played with me sometimes. I showed her the kittens.” He pursed his lips. “Mimsy was her favorite.”

Mimsy was the name of the mouse in the Emily books, Justine realized with a jolt. The cheerful friend to the lost girl. When Melanie heard that name, she leaned forward with an intensity that was strange even for her, and Justine remembered how she'd asked Matthew about the photograph of the Evans sisters; the stealthy way she'd slid the Emily book beneath her covers; how she'd asked if the painting in the living room was of Emily. Justine had assumed, like Mrs. Sorensen, that Melanie's drawings were self-portraits. Now she saw they weren't of Melanie at all. They were of the lost child. Not lost in the fantastical summer forest of Lucy's stories, but alone and frightened in the winter woods, pursued by a man with the savage face of a killer. Justine knew she should be glad the drawings had nothing to do with Melanie. Instead she licked her lips, which were suddenly dry.

“Do you know what happened to Mimsy?” Melanie asked Abe.

Abe drew his mouth down. “I don't like to think about that.”

Matthew put one hand on Abe's shoulder as he set his cocoa on the table. “We don't talk about Emily. It upsets him.” He said this to Melanie, and his voice held a warning.

“Of course,” Justine said, gratefully.