The Silent Sister (18 page)

*   *   *

She didn't fully wake up until noon the following day. She'd gotten up a few times, awakened by laughter or shouting or, on one frightening occasion, pounding on her door, but other than that and a couple of breaks to use the filthy toilet in the bathroom, she slept. When she opened her drapes that second day, a man was peering straight into her room, his craggy face pressed against her grimy window. She screamed and whipped the drapes closed again. She didn't dare go out there. The night she spent on the beach seemed like ages ago. Like someone else's life. She'd been very lucky she'd made it through that night safely and had lost none of her precious cash.

Sitting on the bed in the dim light, she nibbled the remaining third of that woman Ingrid's cookie, wondering how she would get more food, even though she still had no appetite. But she needed to eat to survive. She felt so weak and trembly, she wasn't sure she could make it down the motel steps to the street.
I could die in this room,
she thought. But she couldn't go outside with that creepy man out there. She crawled under the covers again. When she closed her eyes, all she could see was the image of her mother rocking Riley to sleep in her arms. Riley had on her pink-footed pajamas and Jade imagined the scent of baby shampoo and her mother's hand lotion. If only she could erase the past few months and be back with her family! She fell asleep, longing to touch them.

The next morning, she awakened to a knock on the door. She stared at the door from the bed. The sun peeked into the room through the gap between the door and the door frame. It was the only way to know day from night in the room. The knocking came again.

“Jade?” a woman's voice asked. “It's Ingrid, honey. Please open the door.”

Jade hesitated a moment, sitting up in the bed, thinking,
It's a trap. Don't open it. Don't open it.
But her need for kindness, for a grown-up to take over her life and put it in some kind of order, was too strong and she slowly moved the covers aside.

“I'm coming,” she said, her voice a croak as she got out of the bed. She could smell her filthy hair as she moved across the room, and she was still in the clothes she'd been wearing since getting off the train. Lisa would never have let herself fall apart like this. But Lisa was dead and gone.

She cracked open the door, blinking against the sunlight, and got her first real look at Ingrid. She wore loose white pants, a loose white flowy top, and green flip-flops. A very, very long braid hung over her left shoulder, and the color of her hair was a dull mixture of beige and brown and gray. Her eyes were as blue as Jade's, but Ingrid's stood out because of her tan. Crinkly lines fanned out from her eyes, and her neck had a leathery look, but she wasn't very old. Maybe in her early forties. Jade's mother's age.

Ingrid smiled. “Do you remember me from the other night on the beach?” she asked.

Jade nodded.

“I asked around and someone told me they thought you got a room here. But I don't think you really belong here, do you?”

Jade wasn't sure what she was asking, but no. She didn't belong here. She shook her head.

“I don't live too far from here,” Ingrid said, “and I have a little cottage I rent out. My tenant moved out last week and I can let you have it for a little more than what you're probably paying here. Would you like that?”

Could she trust her? Had Ingrid called the police about her? Jade's brain was too foggy to think it through. She remembered the screaming and shouting outside her room during the night hours. The old man's craggy face pressed against her window. She nodded. “Yes,” she said.

“Then pack up your things and let's go.”

*   *   *

They had to walk. Ingrid explained that she had no car and didn't need one in Ocean Beach, where everything was at her fingertips. She rolled Jade's small suitcase for her, saying nothing about how light it was when she took it from her hands. Jade wanted to ask how far it was to her house—she wasn't sure she could walk more than a block, she felt so weak and sick. Her stomach was concave and her muscles so slack that it was difficult to hold herself upright as they walked. But it was wrong to ask. Wrong to complain about anything at all when this woman was being so nice to her.

“Look at you, in that heavy jacket and hat,” Ingrid said as they walked. “You must have come from someplace cold?”

“Maryland,” Jade said, trying out the lie. Ann Johnson was from Bethesda, Maryland. At first she'd thought it was stupid that her documents made it look like she was from Maryland when that was only one state over from Virginia, but her father said it would be easiest for her. Growing up in Virginia, she knew a lot about Maryland. If anyone asked her about it, she could sound like she'd actually grown up there.

“Well, you can burn those winter clothes,” Ingrid said cheerfully. “You're a California girl now.”

They walked a few blocks in silence, the shops and palm trees and people a blur, and Jade was breathing hard through her mouth by the time Ingrid pointed to a low wooden bungalow. It was tiny and looked old, like all the other houses on the street, but it was painted a deep turquoise, and purple flowers grew on vines all over the front yard. It looked like a real home. It looked like more than Jade felt she deserved.

She followed Ingrid up the cracked sidewalk to the front door of the bungalow. Ingrid opened the unlocked door and ushered her inside. They were in a small living room dominated by a green tiled fireplace and a huge, fat-cushioned brown couch. Jade could see three doorways from where she stood, all of them arched. “This is my house,” Ingrid said. “Your little cottage is out back.” Jade felt Ingrid scrutinizing her face and wished she could hide behind more than her filthy hair. Was Ingrid comparing her face to one she'd seen on TV that morning? She thought of the photographs of her that had made the news since Steven's death. In nearly every one, she was holding Violet. Her father had been right not to let her bring the violin with her.

“I've never been farther east than Iowa, where I'm from,” Ingrid said. She stood in the arched doorway between the living room and a yellow kitchen. “But I've been out here since I was eighteen. Your age,” she continued. “As soon as I graduated, I hightailed it out of town.” She laughed and Jade tried to smile. “I didn't regret it for an instant,” Ingrid said. “I had some friends in San Diego, though. How about you? Do you know someone here?”

She shook her head. “I wanted a fresh start,” she managed to say. “Just … really fresh.”

“And you look like you could use one,” Ingrid said. “Utterly exhausted, aren't you. Come on. Let me show you your new home.” She reached for the suitcase, but this time Jade grabbed the handle herself.

“I've got it,” she said.

She followed Ingrid through a tiny yellow kitchen and out the arched back door. They were in a small yard, where a minuscule turquoise cottage sat in a tangle of vines and pink flowers, looking like something out of a fairy tale.

“So this is your little abode.” Ingrid motioned to the cottage. “You can pick your own oranges for your morning juice.” She pointed to a couple of trees in the middle of the yard. “The man at the motel said you were paying one-twenty a week, so this will be one-thirty. Will you be able to manage that?”

Jade nodded. This time, she knew she was getting a bargain.

“Don't carry a lot of cash with you,” Ingrid said, pointing to her purse. “It's pretty safe around here, but there are drugs and users, just like everywhere. I'm sure you met some of them on the beach.” She smiled. “You need to open a bank account, even if you only have a little money. Don't risk losing it. You've got to be smart.”

They'd reached the little front patio—just big enough for two small white metal chairs and an identical pair of large potted plants. Jade touched the leaves. They were thick, rubbery and shiny, and they felt like velvet between her fingers.

“When I decided to ask you if you wanted to stay here,” Ingrid said, pointing to one of the plants, “I bought these for you to have on the patio. Do you know what they're called?”

She shook her head.

“They're jade plants,” Ingrid said. “Like your name.”

Before she knew what was happening, Jade started to cry. It was an out-of-control sort of crying that took over her whole body and spirit, and she wasn't even sure what started it. That Ingrid was so nice, she guessed. So nice to a girl who was lying to her face. She sobbed into her hands, unable to hold herself together one more second.

“Oh, you're so worn down.” Ingrid put an arm around her shoulders. “Come inside and get unpacked and you can take a nice bath. There's no shower, but you can wash your hair in the tub or the sink. Then after you've had a rest, we're only two blocks from a market where you can stock your fridge and pantry.” Ingrid lowered her arm to her side as Jade wiped her wet face with her fingers. “You're all skin and bones,” Ingrid said, and Jade wondered if she thought she was one of the drug users she'd been talking about.

She let Ingrid guide her inside the cottage to a tiny living room. Ingrid pulled open the blinds of the only window in the room, while Jade looked around her. A giant brown couch, identical to the one in Ingrid's house, took up most of the room, along with two chairs that looked like they came from someone's old dining room set. There was a TV in the corner. She wanted to turn it on. She needed to see if Lisa MacPherson's suicide was on the news. Instead she followed Ingrid into the bedroom, which was only a little bigger than the double bed, the same size bed she'd had at home. A dresser was wedged between the bed and the window that looked out on the orange trees. “And here's your bathroom,” Ingrid said. The bathroom, too, was tiny—just a toilet and sink and one of those old claw-foot tubs. Ingrid was right. She needed a long soak in that thing.

“Linens come with the cottage.” Ingrid pulled open a little cupboard that held faded pink towels and pink floral sheets. “There's a Laundromat on Newport Avenue,” she said. “Not far. And if you need to make local calls, there's a pay phone right in front of it. You can use my phone in an emergency.”

“Thank you so much,” Jade said, and for the first time since leaving home, her voice sounded a little more like her own, though quiet and weary. “This is amazing. And I'm going to do what you said. Take a bath. And then a nap.”

Ingrid pressed a key into her hand and looked her in the eye. “You'll be safe here,” she said, and Jade could only hope she was right.

*   *   *

For the next two days, Jade stayed in the cottage. She drank water from the tap but ate nothing, afraid to go out. Afraid to be seen. She trusted Ingrid, but not one hundred percent, and she waited for the knock on the cottage door that would spell the end for her. She cowered in the corner of the couch evening and morning, watching the news. There was absolutely nothing about her on it, although she knew she was probably the only story the newscasters back home were talking about. Here, it was all about a serial killer who was stabbing women to death in their homes and the Leaning Tower of Pisa being closed to the public because it was leaning too far. If the San Diego news had ever mentioned Lisa MacPherson's suicide, they were done with it now.

In bed at night, she longed for her mother. A word she hadn't uttered in years—
Mommy
—was nearly always on her lips. She wanted to be a small child again, like Riley, being tucked into bed by her mom. She remembered her mother leaning over to kiss the tip of her nose before saying her prayers with her, God-blessing everyone they knew, including Steven. Now, though, the bedtime prayer she repeated each night had nothing to do with God and everything to do with a post office box in North Carolina. She needed to keep that address front and center in her mind, although she felt certain her father hoped she'd never try to use it.

Was he relieved these days? He'd spared the family from the spectacle of her trial, which would have been in its third day by now. The media circus was over for them. Had he done this for her, she wondered, or for her family?

*   *   *

On the third morning, there was a knock on her door. Through the window, she saw Ingrid standing between the jade plants, something in her hand. Ingrid gave her a wave and Jade knew she had no choice but to open the door. She hadn't spoken to her landlady since the first day.

“I brought you some banana bread,” Ingrid said, when Jade pulled the door open. “Come sit out here in the sunshine with me. You've got this place all closed up and you're missing some beautiful weather.” She tilted her head, peering closely at her. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine,” Jade said. “Just still worn out after … not sleeping well on the train. And the beach and the motel.”

Ingrid looked like she didn't believe her. “Come on,” she insisted. “Sit with me out here. Let's have a chat.”

Jade followed her onto the patio, terrified of what Ingrid had to say and blinking against the bright sunlight.

“I don't mean to pry,” Ingrid said, as they sat down on the white metal chairs, “but I'd like to help you, and to do that I need to know what's going on with you. You're ill, right? You can tell me. Is it AIDS?”

“AIDS?” She was shocked. “No!”

“Well, I'm relieved to hear that,” Ingrid said, although she didn't look completely convinced. “You remind me of a friend I lost to that damn disease, so I was worried. It's that … you're so thin. You look like you haven't eaten in months. You're so pale and just … you have those dark circles around your eyes.”

She knew she looked sick. The shirts her father had picked up for her at Goodwill hung from her shoulders and she would soon need to get a belt to keep her jeans up. Her breasts had always been small, but now her bra puckered over them.