My daughter, she might say to the ceiling. Shake her lovely head. Light a cigarette. Let me tell you.
Tell me, Tad would whisper, entranced.
I imagine the words that might emerge from Mother’s traitorous throat. Hateful. Jealous. Estranged. What a weird child she was.
Or maybe she told him nothing at all.
But if she told him nothing on those nights, then why is he looking at me like that? Unsure. Maybe even suspicious. Of what? Of what?
“Look,” Tad says, “I’m just trying to help you find a solution, Belle. I thought you needed money. My fee is whatever, I can wait for it. But I can’t repair the entire apartment myself. There’s just too much to do. And some things are far beyond my meager expertise.”
He smiles sadly, so handsome, so capable, so clearly Mother’s man. The sun beats down on us, making him look divine, making me squint and melt in my black dress, like a witch. I remember I’m not wearing Glowscreen. No moisturizing overcoat to prevent the transepidermal water loss. The loss is likely happening as we speak, to say nothing of the oxidizing damage from unprotected exposure. Marva would be horrified. Prevention, my darlings, is our mightiest weapon against the onslaught of the elements. Our armor must be thick, thick. The only time you can afford to go without is if you happen to find yourself in a black hole. And we’ll all find ourselves in a black hole soon enough, won’t we?
“Belle?” Tad says.
In the distance I see the woman in red walking away hurriedly under her red umbrella. A red umbrella on a sunny day. I don’t think it’s strange. What I think is: What a brilliant way to keep out the sun. I feel the red card in my breast pocket. Right over my heart. It seems to pulsate like it has a heart of its own.
“Just give me a day or two, okay?” I tell Tad.
“But you’re leaving tomorrow, aren’t you?”
“A day, then.”
“Who was that woman in the shop? She seemed to know you.”
“A friend,” I lie. “A friend of my mother’s. I’m surprised you didn’t recognize her.” I’m turning it on him. I look at Tad’s face closely now.
“Well, your mother was popular,” he says slowly. “She had a lot of friends, didn’t she?”
11
I had to google what time Vespers was. Sunset. The sky is a pink blaze. The dark palm trees swaying, just like they always did in Mother’s voice, so lazy and happy with beauty. I’m walking along the cliff by the water’s edge in the red shoes. The dirt trail I’ve walked twice now in the dark. Third time’s a charm, isn’t it? In the light of day, it’s a different beast. Just a winding path through shrubs and low-growing trees, on a downward slope of tall grass and wildflowers. I hear the water to my left, crashing serenely against the rocks, against the cliff walls. Bunnies hop along the path. Lizards dart into the bush as I pass. My phone keeps buzzing but I ignore it. Chaz again. Wanting to know am I selling the place or not, what have I decided? Funeral director reminding me to pick up those ashes, please. Persephone wanting to make sure I’ll be back on the shop floor this Sunday. The house should be around this corner somewhere, shouldn’t it? Yes, any minute now, I’ll see it. Nervous. Nervous but excited, too.
After he drove us home, I told Tad to take the rest of the day off. But there’s so much to do, he insisted. It can wait until tomorrow, I told him. At home, I fished the red diary out of the basement box. Anjelica was sleeping on it, but I lured her away with food. I put the little gold key in the little gold lock and it came right open. I held my breath, just like I’d held my breath when I’d first opened the box itself. And it was funny. When I opened the book, I knew exactly what it would say on the first page, beneath This Diary Belongs To. I knew before I saw the words Belle, Age 10, in my child’s hand. My very careful print. Red and tight and tilting. 1988, I’d written beneath my name. The year I don’t remember. The year that’s in a box. Cold rushed through me. In my head, I saw a 45 of “Walk Like an Egyptian” turning slowly on a Fisher-Price record player. A pink room full of spiders, dusk outside the frilly curtained window, a screen full of holes. A princess bed cluttered with staring dolls.
I looked down at the diary. Hesitantly, I turned the page, my whole body suddenly thrumming with the beat of my heart. Blank. I turned the next page. Blank too. I turned the next and the next and the next, more quickly now. Blank and blank and blank—what the fuck? I flipped through the whole book. All fucking blank. All but one page, one sentence. Right in the middle of the book, in the middle of the page. Six words on a single line written in that same red ink in which I’d written my name and age.