The Passenger (33 page)

I walked through town just as I had ten years ago, although no one waved or said hello. I recognized a few faces with the years and/or the pounds packed on. I saw Mrs. Winslow, my old English teacher, shopping at the fancy market. She was probably retired by now. I spotted the old postmistress, head bent over her walker, taking a stroll. I saw Edie chasing after a blond boy, maybe three, who was the spitting image of Logan. I wanted more than anything to run up and give her a hug, hold her child. But then I remembered how she'd looked at me the very last time I saw her and I didn't want to see that face ever again.

I thought about walking into the Sundowners or the post office and making my presence known, but it didn't seem like the right time and I was hardly in the mood to argue over whether I was a wanted woman or an impostor.

I kept walking until I arrived at 241 Cypress Lane, the address I used to call home. Only it wasn't home. Home, in my mind, resembled a sepia print of a house during the deep depression—chipped paint, broken steps, missing shingles. This house was in impeccable condition. The lawn was bright green and recently cut, the smell of fresh grass cloying in my nose. The house was repainted light blue with white trim around the windows. The second stair on the porch, which had been broken most of my life, was now solid like the rest. The windows were scrubbed clean, the roof replaced. The yard wasn't cluttered with a single item meant for disposal. There were two rocking chairs on the newly painted porch, and that was it.

I rang the doorbell. A man in his sixties with a gray beard and a small belly, wearing blue jeans and a well-ironed plaid shirt, answered.

When he saw me, his eyes widened and watered just a bit. I could hear him gasp as he took a step back to steady himself.

“Nora?” he said.

I didn't know if I'd ever get used to being called by my old name. It didn't fit like an old sweater; it was more like putting on a pair of someone else's shoes.

“Yes,” I said.

The man's eyes crunched into a warm, sad smile, as if he was genuinely happy to see me. He held out his hand and said, “I'm Pete. Pete Owens.”

“Hi, Pete,” I said.

We shook hands.

He stood there, still smiling, looking sad and a bit lost. “Excuse me,” he said. “I forgot myself for a moment. Please, come in.”

Pete walked back into the house. I stayed put.

“Pete,” I said, still standing on the porch, “who are you?”

“Oh my,” Pete said, turning around and shuffling back to the front door. “I'm your mother's fiancé.”

He extended his hand again. I shook it.

“Nice to meet you, Pete.”

Pete stepped away from the door and offered a silent invitation. I entered my old house, but it felt like my old house in an alternate universe.

“I guess you're here for the funeral,” he said.

Tears I never thought would fall for my mother began to drip down my face.

“When did she die?” I said.

“Two days ago,” said Pete.

I sat down on the couch and tried to stanch the flow. I wasn't going to cry for one of my traitors.

“She was sorry about everything. She was trying to make amends near the end,” said Pete.

“I heard she's been talking to the police.”

“She made an official statement. Told the truth.”

“On her deathbed,” I said. “When she had nothing to lose.”

“Would you like some tea, coffee?” Pete asked.

“Got anything stronger?”

“This is a dry house.”

Just my luck. The one time I needed booze in my childhood home, it wasn't there.

“Tea is fine,” I said.

“I'll be right back,” Pete said as he retreated to the kitchen.

I expected that feeling you have when a memory takes hold and your whole body shifts back in time.
But I never lived in
this
house
, I thought.
I could stay for a little bit without the wrong memories shaking me by the shoulders.

But then I opened the door to my old bedroom and memories flooded back. That old flowered duvet I'd hated; the posters of bands I hadn't listened to in years; the bookshelf my father made from planks of wood and cinder blocks pilfered from a junkyard; my swim medals gathering dust on the walls. That room had stayed the same, like a shrine to the old me.

I quickly shut the door on my past and sat down on Pete's couch.

He brought me a cup of tea.

“The writer is on her way over,” said Pete. “She told me to call her as soon as you came.”

T
HE DOORBELL RANG.
Pete answered it. Blue entered my childhood home. She looked the same, but different. Her hair was cut in a sharp bob and she wore black-framed glasses that I was certain she didn't require. Over her shoulder was a heavy canvas bag that seemed weighed down with papers.

“Nora Glass, as I live and breathe,” she said with a thick Southern drawl. “I'm Laura Cartwright. I'm the writer researching your case.”

“Nice to meet you, Laura,” I said as I got to my feet.

We shook hands, playing strangers.

“Have you heard the news?” she said.

“What news?”

“You're a free woman.”

“How is that possible?”

“Ryan made a statement. So did your mother. It was enough evidence to convince the prosecutor, Jason Lyons. In fact, we're supposed to meet him at the police station in a few minutes. I'll give you a ride.”

Everything felt like a trap, but Pete looked so honest and right, I thought maybe it was true.

“I hope you understand the debt of gratitude you owe this woman,” said Pete. “It was Laura here who convinced your mother and then Ryan to make their statements.”

“Really?” I said.

“It was nothing,” said Blue. “I just appealed to their sense of honor.”

“Well, I'll have to find some way to repay you,” I said.

“I think we're even,” Blue said.

I had to agree.

“I
S THIS
really her?” Chief Hendriks said to Blue.

The three of us were standing in an awkward triangle in the waiting area of the police station.

“It's Nora,” I said. “I'm Nora.”

“It's her,” said Blue.

“But you never met the real Nora Glass, did you?”

“No,” said Blue. “But I've seen dozens of photos, and she has her mother's nose.”

Chief Hendriks gave me an inscrutable gaze and spoke slowly and clearly, as if English might be my second language.

“Let me explain something,” he said. “In the last ten years we've had exactly fourteen Nora Glass impostors. About half of 'em you could rule out on first sight. One was in her late sixties and another was clearly a transvestite. It's a drag, no pun intended, on police resources every time. And it used to be very traumatic for Naomi when she'd have to come down to the station to identify, or deny, the impostor.”

“Well, she's dead now,” I said.

“Jason Lyons will be here shortly. I suppose he can confirm.”

I
SAT
for an hour with Blue in the interrogation room, facing a one-sided mirror.

“Some weather we've been having,” Blue said.

She nodded her head in the direction of a camera mounted in the corner. We were likely being recorded.

The police officer, the one at the front desk who'd sent me away, brought us both a cup of coffee.

“You don't look like her. Not like any of the pictures I've seen. That's why I sent you away.”

“People change,” I said.

“You changed a lot,” he said as he departed.

A few minutes later, Jason Lyons walked into the room followed by Chief Hendricks. Jason wore what looked like a new suit and carried a battered old briefcase. He looked nothing like the boy I remembered, and yet I could still see that boy somewhere inside of him. He wasn't lost completely like I was. He looked like a prosecutor. I can't say why, but it fit him. It was hard to gather my thoughts with my past and present clashing as they were. I remembered Jason's clumsy kisses in his bedroom, but now his expression was implacable.

“Is this her?” Chief Hendricks asked.

“Hi, Nora,” he said.

“Hi, Jason.”

“Glad that's finally settled,” Chief Hendricks said. “I'll leave you to it.”

Hendricks left. Jason sat down across from me and opened his briefcase. He glanced over at Blue, silently hinting for her departure.

“Nora, when you're done, meet me at the Sundowners,” Blue said. “I have a few more questions before I can turn in my article.”

“I'll see you later.”

As soon as she was gone, Jason said. “Why did you run?”

“Because I didn't want to go to prison for something I didn't do. I was eighteen. I wanted to be free.”

Jason slid a document in front of me. “That's a signed statement from Ryan Oliver corroborating your story.”

“When did he do this?” I said.

“He called me last night. He said you were coming home and it was time to tell the truth. I took his statement this morning. We had a very interesting conversation.”

Before I knew it, tears were streaming down my cheeks. In the last twenty-four hours I'd cried more than I had in the last decade.

“I'm sorry,” I said.

I had nothing else to offer. For the first time in years, I thought about Melinda. Not about what Melinda's death had done to me, but the life lost. I'd started running so soon after her passing, I never had the chance to mourn it. The things people said, some of it was true. I
was
jealous of her. She
was
better than me—not just a better swimmer or student, but a better person. If the tables had been turned, I knew for a fact she wouldn't have run.

“Thank you,” Jason said. “I remember you were close for a time.”

“What happens now?” I asked.

“We're dropping all charges. I also talked to the authorities in Waterloo. They'd like you to go home in the next few weeks and answer a few questions. But the warrant has been withdrawn. You're a free woman. You can do whatever you want now.”

I have to admit, it was a bit of a letdown. Running so hard for so long only to learn I was free. It was like gearing up for a championship fight only to have your opponent take a fall. I still wanted to fight. I had lived for so long with my options narrowed into a foxhole, I wasn't sure how I would proceed now that the real world was open to me.

“What about Logan and Mr. Oliver?” I asked. “Have you made any arrests?”

“We're reviewing the old case for any physical evidence. A man like Roland has every kind of lawyer on speed dial. I'm not bringing them in until the case is airtight.”

“Three witnesses isn't airtight enough for you?”

“Never underestimate your enemies.”

“I don't,” I said.

“There's one thing I don't understand. It's been nagging at me,” Jason said.

“What?” I said.

“Your mother. Why did she keep quiet all of these years?”

I had debated whether I should shield my mother's memory and keep her secrets intact. But there had been so many lies already, I didn't see a problem in speaking the truth. Besides, the woman had sold me out for ten years.

“Because she was in love with Roland Oliver,” I said. “They had a thing for as long as I can remember.”

Jason remained still. I could see his brain putting pieces of a puzzle together in his head, only there was still a piece missing.

“So she chose him over you?” he said, not quite buying my theory.

“Yes, she chose him.”

“I think there's more to it than that,” Jason said.

“Maybe,” I said. But I figured we'd never know.

“You've led quite a life in the last decade,” Jason said.

“You have no idea.”

Jason and I hugged awkwardly as we said our good-byes. As I walked out of the police station a free woman, I thought I might feel different, released. But, really, I felt even more like an impostor answering to a name that was no longer mine. I put on my sunglasses and strolled to the Sundowners.

Blue was sitting at a table in the corner. She waved me over with a cheery smile.

“Tell me
everything
,” she said, like we were two gossiping schoolgirls.

I noticed she had a giant rock on her ring finger.

“You're married?”

“Just for a few months. I normally go by Laura Bainbridge, but I use my maiden name for my literary career.”

“You work fast,” I said.

“It was a quick courtship, I must admit. But he's running out of time.”

“Is he sick or something?”

“No, nothing like that,” said Blue. “What are you drinking? Gin?”

She smiled wickedly, as if she always knew that drink order was a disguise.

“Whiskey,” I said.

Blue went to the bar and got our drinks. It was kind of like old times, drinking with Blue. Only she refused to cut out that Southern drawl no matter how many times I asked.

We exchanged travelogues and compared notes about our relative successes being each other. As Amelia Keen, she'd managed to bilk twenty grand out of Roland Oliver before he closed the bank. She moved to Colorado and met Eugene Bainbridge. She didn't offer too many details on that engagement; I didn't ask. There were some things that I felt better off not knowing. I regaled her with a few stories from my teaching stint in Recluse. She liked the idea of my geography lessons revolving around road maps. I wondered how Andrew was doing.

“Did you know that I always wanted to be a writer?” Blue said. “You're like my good luck charm.”

I couldn't quite say the same for her, although she did right by me this one time.

We ordered another round. Blue held her glass of whiskey aloft in a toast and said, “To Naomi Glass, rest in peace.” She looked me right in the eye.