Black-Eyed Susans, page 25
Bill’s face is inscrutable, but I know what he’s thinking. It’s too late for this. Someday, science may give the Susans back their names, but not in time for Terrell.
It’s Lieutenant Myron who jumps up, newly animated. She walks over and gives Bill a playful punch in the shoulder. “Cheer up. You’re one of those Texans who believes in evolution, aren’t you?” She turns to the rest of us.
“We’ll get busy with missing person and newspaper databases,” she says. “In an hour, we’ll be looking for missing girls in their late teens or early twenties from Tennessee and Mexico that fit our time frames. I’m most hopeful on the Tennessee angle. Good job, Dr. Frankenstein. This is something real. Y’all think I don’t care? I care. I just like real.”
She wouldn’t want to be in my head. I’m wondering why none of the Susans speak to me in Spanish.
I enter the house quietly and see my Death Row clothes folded and stacked neatly in a kitchen chair. I wonder if Charlie or Lucas alienated them from the others; it’s a toss-up as to which one sees through me better.
Charlie’s volleyball clothes are piled on the coffee table. A vacuum cleaner has swallowed up the popcorn crumbs in front of the couch. Lucas has been taking care of the mundane, important details of my life while I’ve been trying to fathom how we are so deeply connected to the earth and wind that it is cooked into our bones.
I have no problem believing Dr. Igor. It wasn’t exactly science, but there was a period when I believed that if someone brushed my shoulder by accident or shook my hand that black-eyed Susan pollen would rub off like a sticky curse. People had thought I was obsessive-compulsive because I ignored outstretched hands. I was just protecting them.
I’m a big girl now. I offer strangers the firm grip of my grandfather and swallow my daughter in a hug twice a day and let friends take a sip from my Route 44 Sonic iced tea, all without breaking out in a sweat. That doesn’t mean Black-Eyed Susan isn’t still who I am. It’s a brand. Like schizophrenic. Fat. ADD.
Lucas rises briefly from the couch, then falls back down when he sees me. He’s already asleep again, a soldier grabbing zzz’s while he can, so I don’t call out for Charlie. She’s probably in her room doing her complicated dance. Jane Austen, calculus, Snapchat. Repeat.
It’s at moments like these that I find it hard to explain to myself and to Charlie why Lucas and I don’t work as a permanent team. How many lieutenant colonels would fold girls’ underwear? I smell potato soup gurgling in the Crockpot because that is about the sum total of Lucas’s dinner repertoire. Potatoes, onions, milk, salt, pepper, butter. Bacon bits, for Charlie. If pressed, he can also kick out a pretty mean bologna and mustard sandwich.
Normal always tries to cuddle up with me but I tend to push it away. My mother was making brownies one second and then she was dead on the kitchen floor. That is my baseline for normal. After that, it’s a very jagged graph.
I set my purse on the kitchen counter. Beautiful Ghost has been shoved off to the side with some unopened mail. I want to read it, and I can’t bear to touch it. It will hold answers about Lydia I can’t fathom knowing, or I’ll prick my finger on its paper and fall into a cursed sleep. My fingers absently examine the foil-wrapped brick on the counter, which wasn’t there this morning. The scrawl on the masking tape label declares it to be Effie’s Carob Fig Bread Surprise. Almost all of Effie’s recipes have the word Surprise tacked to the end, and if they don’t, they should.
I wonder if her daughter is next door right now trying to politely chew and swallow. As I pulled in the driveway, I noted the Ford Focus with New Jersey plates parked at Effie’s. She had told me last week in excited tones that her daughter was venturing down South for a visit. I discounted it, thinking she was confused with the time that Sue made that false promise a year ago, or even three years ago. I don’t know what her arrival means after years of staying away, but I hope it’s good for Effie. Maybe Sue got a peek of the digger snatcher who lives in Effie’s brain, too. He’s a first-class thief all right, just not the kind Effie thinks. The sight of all those diggers lined up in a row still sends a chill through me.
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.”
September 1995
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?
16 days until the execution
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.”
September 1995
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.
12 days until the execution
“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.
I’m hoping Lydia will appear in that chair and tell me something I don’t know. She usually does.
“If you really want to try hypnosis, I’ll recommend another therapist. I’m not on board here. This is not what I do. I thought you understood this.”
“I don’t want another therapist.”
My forehead begins to sweat. I’m hanging from the ceiling, a bat in the dark.
There I am. In the back of the parking lot. Tying my Adidas shoe with the pink laces that were in my Christmas stocking. Glancing up. There’s Merry, gagged with something, pressing her face against a backseat window of a blue van. Me, running. Clinging to a sticky pay phone. Praying the silhouette turning the ignition in the van didn’t see me. Sudden, excruciating pain in my ankle. Concrete slamming up. His face, looming. Strong arms, lifting me. Black.
