And When I Die, page 23
“Like I said, it’s crazy, but…” Melody shook her head. “She looks just like Ruthie—different, like I said, but yeah, I would swear it’s her. It’s Ruthie.”
“You’re from Texas, right? Houston?”
“Yeah.”
Ava laughed. “Oh. Well, Erica’s from Ohio so…”
“Oh,” Melody said, clearly stunned, shrinking back a little before she shrugged. “Okay. Obviously, I got it wrong. My bad.”
“They say everyone has a twin, right?” Ava pointed in the direction of Le Colonial across the street. “Come on. Let’s ditch the coffee, grab a glass of wine instead.”
“Sure, yeah. Sounds good,” Melody said, throwing one last glance over her shoulder in Erica’s direction.
55
ERICA
Erica slammed the front door behind her, her bags sliding out of her hands and crashing to the floor in an explosion of paper and plastic. Blood thrummed in her ears.
Melody Gonzalez.
What in the hell was she doing here?
She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d seen her. High school, obviously. A lifetime ago. She didn’t even know Melody all that well. More in passing, really. She knew her sister, April, better, since they had a few classes together. She and April had been friendly, but not friends.
Of course, Erica’s face—her old face—was seared into the memories of most—if not all, of the three million—at the time—residents of Houston, Texas, the 10,456 who’d lived in Willow Branch in particular. They’d never forget who she was. She would forever have the honor of being one of its most notorious residents.
It didn’t mean any of them would recognize her, though. It didn’t mean Melody would recognize her. It just wasn’t possible. She looked so different now. Completely different.
Maybe she’d have a faint tickle of familiarity and think Erica looked like someone she used to know, but would brush it off because it couldn’t possibly be her. What would be the odds?
What would be the odds, indeed.
Still, it seemed like Melody looked at her a little too long, a little too closely, a little too carefully. If she saw her again, she just might start to put it together.
And Erica couldn’t let that happen. She’d just avoid Ava over the next few weeks or so. Melody couldn’t be in town that much longer.
Erica bent down to retrieve the groceries from the floor, pushing her former classmate’s face to the background, concentrating on gathering her lettuce, tomatoes, olives, and cucumbers, her mind groping ahead to what she should pick up for dinner. Maybe she’d just order a pizza. Pepperoni. They all liked pepperoni. Her mouth watered at the thought of the spicy, greasy disc of meat, the buttery, crunchy crust, and creamy, salty cheese. The last time she remembered having a piece of pepperoni pizza was that night at the kitchen table with her mom. After. A lifetime ago. It had been so long since she’d had anything really good and greasy or buttery, or sweet, or food with any kind of taste. But like an addict, those tastes hovered on her tongue every day, never far from memory.
She couldn’t relapse, though. She would order a pizza for everyone else and stick with her salad, her plain boring salad and flavored waters that kept her rail thin. There couldn’t be any drastic changes to her routine, nothing that she did differently. Calm and steady until she was certain Melody was long gone.
Her hands trembled as she carefully put away her groceries, stuffing Melody’s face and voice as far down away from her as she possibly could.
Erica poured herself a glass of water, draining it in a few gulps before slipping into her study and locking the door behind her, even though no one was home. The last thing she needed was Jay sneaking up on her or one of the girls bursting in with some dire request about a missing sock or hangnail. She unlocked the bottom drawer of her desk and pulled out her second laptop, the one she used to order the colored contacts she had sent to a P.O. box in Glenview five times a year and for occasional clandestine missions like this. One she’d destroy if it ever came down to it.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard before typing the name she despised into the incognito window of her preferred search engine.
Ruthie Stowers.
The same stories filled the screen as had always popped up over the years. Links to old articles, obsessed, bargain basement, homemade crime blogs with pedestrian cartoon graphics detailing every last gruesome detail of what happened between her and Shannon. Speculation over the contents of the last conversation between the two girls, on what, exactly, had sparked her own explosive actions. The same musings over her whereabouts, opinions on her crimes. Pictures of her. Pictures of both of them. Forever intertwined.
But no stories outing her. No fiery exposés on where she was now. Several bloggers had tried to unearth her identity, scouring the Earth in fruitless searches, apparently, but none had any luck, of course. She’d covered her tracks so carefully. No social media, no websites, no blogs, no headshots. No pictures at Christmas parties, PTA meetings, or charity functions. No trace to be found.
She was safe.
Erica wiped her browser history of the search and returned the laptop to its locked drawer before folding her hands in front of her, her eyes sliding shut, the blood thundering in her ears, the pressure crowding her organs, pressing everything to near bursting.
“Nobody knows that you’re Ruthie Stowers,” she whispered. “Nobody knows that you’re Ruthie Stowers.”
She repeated the mantra over and over, driving the words into her brain, manifesting this divine truth until the universe believed it and made it so. Ask, believe, receive.
Nobody knew she was Ruthie Stowers.
And nobody ever would.
56
RUTHIE
Every day, she watched her float down the hallway on Pepsodent smiles and frosted pink lipstick, her permed, blue-black curls crunchy with mousse in the back, bangs at half-staff in the front. Her daily glide through the corridors of Willow Branch High School were typically accompanied by GUESS? jeans miniskirts, Dooney & Burke purses, suede booties, and United Colors of Benetton sweaters, all generously spritzed with Liz Claiborne or Bonne Bell. She never wore the same outfit twice and Ruthie was convinced she threw her clothes out after a single wear. A gold Tiffany heart charm bracelet always swung carelessly from her slender wrist, though her bottomless jewelry box provided an endless supply of earrings, necklaces, and sparkly, oversized rhinestone brooches. Their lockers were close to each other, so every day, Ruthie Stowers pressed herself against the glass to witness the magic that was Shannon Kendall.
Every single time, every single day, everyone stopped and stared at her: the jocks, the cheerleaders, theater geeks, class officers, the pretty girls, the hot guys. They were all, each and every one of them, thunderstruck by all that bubbly perfection, grateful and envious all at once in its presence, clawing to be next to her, vying for a hello or even a glance in their direction. Boys swooped in on her, swallowing her into bear hugs or casually slinging arms over the perfection of her glossy golden shoulders. Girls solicited her opinions on everything from lip gloss to albums to hairspray brand, wanting to drool over Don Johnson or catch up on what happened on All My Children the day before. She bet Shannon’s family could afford a VCR—several probably—to record the show every day, unlike her, who had to rely on the recaps in the Saturday paper, sick days, and summer vacation to keep up with Pine Valley.
Shannon wasn’t beautiful, though she would probably earn that honorific in the school yearbook at the end of the year. She was pretty. Fresh-scrubbed pretty, even under the thick, glittery varnish of blush, foundation, and eyeshadow she painted on each day. Her dimples, straight white teeth, sparkling eyes, and airbrushed skin were seemingly ordered straight out of the pages of Seventeen and YM. Always full of hugs, smiles, laughter, and squeals. A lover of life.
And who wouldn’t love her life? She lived in a big house with a swimming pool which the cool kids crowded around all summer long. She zipped around in a pink Karmann Ghia convertible, just like Molly Ringwald in Pretty in Pink. She had her own private line in her room, where she spent hours gabbing on the pink Princess phone with those lucky enough to be granted those seven precious little numbers. Her father was a handsome ER doctor, her mother, a shellacked news anchor on the local television station, deftly alternated between stories on deadly fires and newborn baby pandas at the zoo every night at ten with polish and aplomb. Sports and academics were putty in this girl’s hands, as she easily excelled at both. And friends. So many friends, spilling from every corner of her charmed life.
And what Ruthie wouldn’t have given to trade places with Shannon Kendall for a day. An hour. Five minutes, even.
Not that it would be a fair trade. Shannon would most definitely be getting the raw end of the deal. Ruthie wasn’t boiling over with fizzy fun. Sure, there were some name brands in her closet, bought with hard-earned babysitting money, but they would cower next to what was in Shannon’s. She didn’t have a mouthful of gleaming white teeth to blind the masses with every time she smiled. She couldn’t even tan right, turning lobster red instead of golden brown. Boys’ eyes didn’t glint with lust when they looked at her, a plain, splotchy, pudgy girl who couldn’t make those stubborn pounds drop no matter how many carrot sticks she ate for dinner or miles she jogged. There were no breathless, desperate queries from girls about whether she swabbed her lips with Perfect Pink or Peachy Keen.
She wasn’t an outcast or anything. People liked her okay. No one tripped her in the hall, called her names, or made fun of her. She had a small group of equally nondescript friends to eat her bagged lunch of PB&J, chips, and cookies with in the cafeteria each day. She was in the art club. Played flute in the band. She wasn’t poor, her mother a nurse, her father a mid-level manager at an insurance company with incremental raises each year. They had a nice house with two cars in the driveway. There was money every summer for family vacations to Galveston or South Padre. They’d been to Disney World and Disney Land once each, and she and her sisters pooled their allowance and went to AstroWorld every July. They could afford dinners at Red Lobster or Fuddruckers a few times a month, a family night out at the movies—popcorn and SnoCaps included—every once in a while. Mrs. Stowers was a whiz with the sewing machine, able to duplicate every outfit you could possibly want, from The Limited, Express, Esprit, and just about every mall staple in between. With four children, there wasn’t a lot to go around, but none of the Stowers kids would ever say they were poor or struggling. They had a roof over their heads, meat and fresh vegetables in the refrigerator, shoes and clothes free from holes. All the Stowers children were considered nice kids who kept their noses clean, did what they were told, and led morally suitable lives.
But they weren’t special. Ruthie wasn’t special. Her life wasn’t charmed. Her small house was modest, the furniture as old as she was, their cars, plain and boxy, kept for transport, not luxury. Her clothes, no matter her mother’s artistry with the sewing machine, would never quite measure up. She would never measure up. She was just basic, boring Ruthie Stowers who no one gave much thought to. The girl no one really noticed.
Just once in her life, she wanted to be somebody.
She wanted to be special.
As she watched Shannon walk down the hall every day, greeting her admirers with kisses blown through frosted pink lips and pearly white smiles, the longing was almost too much to bear. It occurred to her one of those mornings, if she and Shannon were friends, she’d be somebody. If people saw them laughing and joking together, swooning over Don Johnson or how they’d bought Madonna’s latest cassette at Sam Goody over the weekend before purchasing matching outfits at Wet Seal, maybe they’d think she was cool, too. Worthy.
Somebody.
And that was how Ruthie Stowers started her junior year.
Determined to make Shannon Kendall her best friend.
57
AVA
“I mean, she’s thinner—way thinner—”
Ava stared up at the ceiling of her bedroom, Melody’s words squirming through her brain like a worm in search of sunlight, Kyle’s soft, wheezing snores filling the room as shadows from the moonlight danced across the walls. The blur of the holidays was over, the New Year ushered in, and the doom of knowing what she had to do next about Carly hovered over her like the sharp, shiny, unrelenting blade of a guillotine.
And yet, Melody’s words had refused to dislodge themselves from her thoughts, swirling around her in moments of quiet and chaos. The odds, the insane odds that Melody had gone to high school with a convicted killer who, if her future sister-in-law were to be believed, bore a more than comfortable resemblance to Erica Mitchell? It was too … ridiculous. Absurd. Flat-out crazy.
And over thirty years later, a similar murder, in the vicinity of—again, if Melody were to be believed—the same woman? It was too much for her pea brain to process.
And yet, Ava couldn’t release this vexing improbability, the fantasticalness of it.
Way thinner.
Over the years, she and some of the other moms had mused privately about whether Erica was a recovering anorexic. She flirted with being skeletal, though it seemed she managed to stay just this side of needing an intervention. Her painfully petite stature was all the more obvious anytime she stood next to Jay, given his almost comical girth and elevation.
The odd eating habits were another puzzle. She couldn’t ever recall seeing Erica eat anything other than salad. Not a piece of fish, not a plate of pasta. Barely even a smoothie, like that day at the gym. At her big birthday party a few years ago, where cheeses, meats, sweets blanketed every table, Erica munched on a salad all night. She wouldn’t even take a bite of her own birthday cake, flown in from New York for the occasion. Not even a swipe of frosting. God knows, avoiding carbs was a rite of passage to live in Lake Forest, but even Erica’s discipline seemed extreme.
Way thinner.
Ava glanced over at Kyle, dead to the world. She pushed the heavy duvet back, her joints snapping like crickets as she headed toward the bedroom door. The banister was cool beneath her palm as she padded down the staircase toward the kitchen, her stomach grumbling despite the late, heavy date night meal she and Kyle had at their favorite restaurant, neither of them embracing the mantra of healthy eating in the New Year. She flipped on the light and poured herself a glass of almond milk, before slipping onto the bar stool, staring out the windows at the dark night.
Way thinner.
Her head snapped up as she plunked the half-full glass down onto the counter.
The party invitation.
She hopped out of the chair and rushed toward her office, beelining for her desk. She flicked on the small desk lamp as she opened the bottom desk drawer to rummage through the files. The tab for ‘Past Parties,’ poked up through the sea of hard plastic tabs attached to the army green hanging files. She pulled out the file, slapping it on the desk, sifting through the mountain of invitations. She’d hung onto Erica’s because she liked the design, thinking she might use it as inspiration for her fiftieth in a few years.
The hot pink square was at the bottom of the pile. The morass of cardstock and envelopes cascaded out of Ava’s hands, thudding to the desk, as she seized on the invitation. Her desk chair squealed as she leaned over, studying the picture of Erica on the front.
Erica the homecoming queen smiled at her from inside the symmetrical square announcing a party to celebrate her forty-fifth birthday. Though the black and white picture of Erica and her king standing beneath their crowns, loaded down with sashes, corsages, and bouquets was grainy, there was no mistaking it was her. Her shoulders were visible beneath the mounds of celebration paraphernalia and the sweetheart neckline of her form-fitting dress showed a thin girl with a hint of curves, not terribly different than how she appeared now. Hardly dumpy. Hardly plump. Hardly a girl who would need to be way thinner.
“This is crazy,” she muttered, as she shoved the invitations back into the drawer and turned off the desk lamp. She stopped in the kitchen to rinse out her cup and put it in the dishwasher before climbing the stairs, her mind drifting toward sleep.
“Way thinner.”
Ava stood on her landing, not realizing she’d said the words out loud. They rattled through her brain like stones skipping down an empty well.
The sound was too much for her to ignore.
Ava whirled around to rush back into the study to retrieve the invitation, getting lost in the picture, the streams of moonlight through the window illuminating the smiling queen in all her glory.
58
RUTHIE
Willow Branch was one of those Houston communities that felt less like a neighborhood in a booming metropolis and more like a small town with its own mores and traditions.
Like any small town, it had haves and have nots, but mostly haves. Great wealth and privilege dominated Willow Branch, with a smattering of middle-class or affordable homes, and of course the ‘apartment people.’ Its neighborhoods were ones that families from less desirable pockets of Houston clamored to get into because of that all-consuming elixir of ‘good schools.’ The self-imposed mandate of the city council to incorporate affordable housing put the dream of life in a nice, safe community in the reach of the middle class, the chance to slot their children in alongside the sons and daughters of lawyers and doctors and businessmen. The achievers. The strivers.
Ruthie and her family were fortunate enough not to be apartment people. That white-hot yearning for good schools and boundless opportunity for the four Stowers children had propelled the family from its scratching-to-be middle-class neighborhood on the other side of town the summer Ruthie turned twelve, to the peaceful, tree-lined streets of Willow Branch. Though their house was small and ordinary, particularly by Willow Branch standards, Bob and Grace Stowers were happy and proud they had the ability to give their children the chance to do better than they had, and this community afforded them the opportunity.
