“So let’s say this photo was taken in 1976,” I said. “Lily-Anne couldn’t possibly have been pregnant with Fiona. How is she pregnant in this photo, then?”
Nobody answered.
“Did your mothers ever tell you about a tenth pregnancy?” I asked.
“No,” Isabelle said, and Cate shook her head.
Tom spoke up: “We would’ve heard about this. A tenth pregnancy from a mother who’d already given birth? This should’ve been front-page news.”
“We could go back and ask Patricia if she knows anything,” Cate said, looking at Isabelle, who instantly and vigorously shook her head.
“No,” Isabelle said. “I’m not going home.”
“Then we should be talking to Barbara,” Cate said. “She’s right here in the photo.” Her expression was tight, like she wasn’t sure what to think.
“The Kims are in North Carolina,” Tom said. “More than a day of driving, and it would take us seriously out of our way if we’re heading to Chicago.” His gaze flicked to me, gauging whether or not I’d yield. I kept my face neutral. “But there’s another possibility if we’re all okay with a shorter detour. Another Homesteader lives nearby and might know something about this. Vera Stroud.”
Mother Six.
“She and Delilah live in upstate New York,” Tom said. “A town called Kithira.”
28
Stately colonial houses, red brick and crisp white shutters; the fresh green of the leaves and lawns making everything look newly washed. We were heading to 1512 Skylark Lane, the Strouds’ last known address. It was one of those towns where every building had a complex family history. A great-grandmother who’d planted a particular oak; a distant uncle who’d named a sawmill. Completely unfamiliar to me, this idea of long-reaching and tangled family ties. My mother and I were it.
As we drove, the houses changed, slumping and shrinking. Skylark was just a trickle of a road. It might’ve been the optimistic beginnings of a subdivision, but had given up at just one or two homes. A wide swath of undeveloped forest lay a few yards away. It was late in the afternoon, the sky heavy and golden.
The Stroud house had dingy white siding, a steep staircase leading to a cramped front porch. There were no lights in the windows. Standing on the porch stairs, I worried the four of us looked less like visitors than trespassers. I noticed all the signs of long absence. A stack of mail flaking onto the porch, leaking out of the overstuffed mailbox. Pine needles clogging the gutters.
Cate gave up on the doorbell and was shading her eyes to peer into the window, craning over the edge of the porch railing. “Hello?” she called, and knocked. The door creaked open at her touch. There wasn’t anybody on the other side. Just darkness, shadows, the humped silhouettes of furniture. “What the hell?” she murmured.
We exchanged quick glances, all of us equally alarmed.
Inside, the Strouds’ home smelled both musty and ripe. The rooms were gloomy with the blinds shut. The sour smell only grew more potent as I moved through the living room—the TV was playing but muted, an anchor laughing at her cohost with her lipsticked mouth wide open. While the other three branched off, I hung back, trying to ignore how much this reminded me of entering my mother’s flame-ravaged house. The same impression of a life abruptly interrupted. My skin crawled.
I passed through the kitchen, looking for Cate. The source of the smell was a plate of food in the kitchen. A sandwich, blackened and haloed by flies. I had to cover my face with my shirt, my eyes watering. A photo was stuck to the fridge, Vera Stroud and her daughter, their arms draped around each other’s shoulders. The refrigerator door was ajar. The coffee maker was plugged in, light glowing red. A purse yawned open on the counter.
“Morrow.” Cate’s voice was bright with urgency, coming from deeper inside the house. “You have to hear this.”
I traced her voice to a small nook off the kitchen. She stood next to a clunky gray answering machine resting on a side table, surrounded by cast-offs of a normal life. Bobby pins, a bright green scrunchie, a gum wrapper. Cate hit a button, and there was a whir, then a mechanical voice—First saved message—and the date, back at the end of March. A young man’s voice, nervously clearing his throat. Hey, Del, it’s me, uh, call me back—
Cate pushed the button. Next saved message. This one from only a few weeks ago. I was aware of Cate looking at me, watching me closely and gently. My mother’s voice was filling the room. Vera. I know it’s been a long time. I was hoping to discuss … well. I was hoping to discuss Fiona. There. I said it.