We Are Here (42 page)

The girls turned as one and launched into high-pitched mutual denunciations. Catherine hurried down the steps to sort it out, leaving the door open behind her.

An hour later, homework was done. Pretty much. Isabella had been flogged through memorizing her six spelling words of the week and writing extremely short sentences showcasing them. Ella had done enough work on her project on Chad to feel honor had been served. Catherine was at a loss to understand why her daughter had to do a project on Chad—nobody’s idea of an A- or even C-list country—but that wasn’t the point, and hers had been the easier ride. Ella, though less sharp, accepted homework as another aspect of the world in the face of which she was essentially powerless. Isa resisted enforced learning with passion, imagination, and a capacity for self-distraction that bordered on genius. Catherine had largely managed to ignore the fact that this was an hour of her life she was never going to get back, for which one daughter’s newfound ability to spell “beach” and the other’s shadowy understanding of the whereabouts of N’Djamena, Chad’s capital (and home of its only cinema, apparently), might never seem sufficient recompense.

There was more to be done, but she sensed none of the team were in the right place for it. Ella appeared listless, Isa closer to the edge than usual. When Catherine ran out of steam as works foreman at the homework mines, both children looked at her with tired and grumpy faces.

“That’s enough for today,” she said. “Go on; shoo.”

“Can we watch television?”

Catherine opened her mouth to say no, of course not, then realized she was feeling pretty listless herself and screw the developmental implications. This was precisely what television had been invented for—or would have been, if women had been allowed to do the inventing back then. “Okay,” she said. “For a little while.”

“Can we have a cookie?”

“I’ll see what I can find.”

“Yay!”

Much cheered, the girls ran out of the kitchen and into the family room. Feeling the wash of relief that comes from completing some trivially arduous but potentially volatile session of child-wrangling, Catherine started to gather up the books and papers strewn over the table—but then decided the smarter tactician would get the girls settled with a snack first. As she turned toward the cupboard, her gaze skated across the antique mirror propped up over the mantelpiece.

She frowned and looked back. For a moment it had looked like there was a shadow in the corner, the kind of thing a passing figure might cast on the white walls. A cloud passing outside the window, presumably.

Luckily it turned out there were two oatmeal cookies left. She took these and two glasses of apple juice through to the other room.

When she came back into the kitchen, something felt different. She looked around. Everything was as it should be. A quiet, airy kitchen, the sound of wholesome entertainment from the other room. Catherine had a little time, too—Mark was heading straight from work to a business dinner (again). Except for getting the kids bathed and into bed and read to and asleep, the evening was her own, and amen to that. People drain you—of time, energy, even the will to live sometimes. Being able to ride the rails by yourself for once is a good way to recharge. Catherine thought a cup of Earl Grey tea might be a nice way to start, and reached for the kettle.

She noticed the table and stopped. She put the kettle down.

There was a clamor from the next room, distracting her. She quickly walked through the door to find the girls pointing at the television set.

Catherine saw a blank screen. “Yes, so?”

“It stopped.”

“Well, was it the end?”

“No,” Isa said firmly. “It was
not
finished yet.”

“So press play again. It’s probably just a glitch.”

Emma got the remote from the end of the sofa, held it out like she was afraid it was going to explode in her face, and pressed the button. Nothing happened.

Isa asked: “What’s a glitch?”

Catherine took the remote. “When the world does something odd.” She stabbed at the play, stop and pause buttons. “Well, maybe you’ve watched enough already.”

“No! It’s only been on for a second!”

“Well there’s something wrong with it and Daddy’s not here so—”

The DVD suddenly came on again, in midscene. The sound was
way
too loud, grotesquely so. Ella let out a squeal of surprise. Isa cackled in strange glee.

Catherine hurriedly wrestled the volume back to a sane level. “Did you mess with the remote? I’ve
told
you about doing that.”

Both girls denied it immediately and in unison. In the face of potential punishment, they deserted the ship of sisterhood faster than the eye could blink, ratting the other out immediately. Taking the same side was a reliable indicator of joint innocence.

“Well, just don’t touch it, okay?”

She’d lost them already. Both were munching their cookies, staring at the cartoon. Catherine put the remote out of reach and went back into the kitchen, where she stood and looked at the table.

When she’d stopped to sort out cookies and juice, the table had held two exercise books, seventeen pencils in a rainbow of colors, printouts from Wikipedia, a sharpener, and two erasers. They’d been spread across the artfully distressed Restoration Hardware table with the randomness only children can cause.

Now everything was down at one end.

The papers were in a pile, the exercise books on top. The pencils were lined up next to one another, perfectly aligned at the unsharpened end.

She hadn’t done that. She was sure of it.

She noticed what wasn’t on the table—a mess—before noticing what
was
there. Something was lying in the middle of the table. A small object, metallic, but not shiny. What the hell was it?

She took cautious steps forward. Was it a
brooch
? Unconsciously her hand reached up to her chest before she remembered that she hadn’t put on anything that morning. So it couldn’t have fallen off.

Was it even hers? She looked more closely. The piece was two inches wide and one inch tall, a muted pewter. The detailing had the sinuous lines you’d associate with early Tiffany, or Liberty, and with Archibald Knox in particular. It was the kind of thing that, had she seen it in a store, she’d have bought in a flash.

But she didn’t recognize it.

An upcoming gift from Mark—stashed in a drawer, found by the girls and played with before being dumped here? They’d been through her jewelry any number of times in the past, despite stern warnings, and one pair of earrings had disappeared never to be seen again.

But this hadn’t been on the table when they’d gone into the living room, and neither of the girls had been back in the kitchen since. They wouldn’t have tidied the table up, either.

She picked up the brooch. It was heavy. And beautiful. But it shouldn’t be here, and the cool weight of it in her hand reminded her of something. Of feelings of guilt and pleasure, inextricably mingled. Of needs and desires that felt personal, rather than domestic, a long time ago. Of being younger.

“I hope you like it,” said a voice.

Catherine whirled around.

There was no one there.

She backed away. She realized the brooch was still in her hand and dropped it on the table. Threw it almost. Part of her had been hoping it was some kind of illusion or daydream. It wasn’t. Imaginary brooches do not go
thunk
.

There was no one in the kitchen. She could see that. The only other place the voice could have come from was the DVD the kids were watching. The voices on the soundtrack were high-pitched, squeaky. The voice she thought she’d heard was different. Female. Adult.

Familiar?

She went to the hallway and stuck her head out. No one there, of course.

She leaned over to the staircase and peered up and down, seeing nothing but dust-free floorboards, white walls, black-and-white photos, and restrained art.

She turned back to the kitchen but decided now that she was out here she may as well make a proper fool of herself. She trotted upstairs and checked the bedrooms and bathrooms, then back down past the kitchen and into the formal sitting room, before going right down to the lower hallway, which was empty too.

The front door was shut. Catherine stood by it, relieved and yet not relieved. The house was empty. Just her and the girls. She’d demonstrated it.

That should be a good thing. So why had proving it made her feel worse?

She looked around the hallway, realizing how much of being at home was an unspoken contract with the building. It’s yours, and you belong to it. There was a bond there, surely. Or maybe not. Maybe it was just a structure that a dead person had built out of insensate materials as cheaply as possible. Maybe it didn’t care about you at all, and could be accommodating to the passage of others.

Christ
, she thought.
What
others? There were no others. She’d just
proved
it.

She breathed out heavily. Gathered herself.

And that’s when the girls began to scream.

They were huddled tightly together at the end of the sofa in the living room, eyes wide, utterly silent.

Ella leapt up and ran to her mother as soon as she came in the room, nearly knocking her off her feet. The television was showing an innocuous scene from the DVD. There was no sound, however.

“What?” Catherine said. “What’s wrong?”

She was freaked out, and spoke too sharply. Ella started crying, clinging to her, burying her face in her stomach. “Ella,” she said. “Calm down. What—”

Then the television went off.

The screen went black. Catherine heard the sound of the button being depressed. Not the button on the remote—the actual plastic button on the unit itself.

Isa was motionless on the sofa. She looked very scared but also curious. “There’s a lady,” she said.

Catherine stared at her. “What?”

Isa lifted her arm and pointed to an area near the television set. There was nothing there.

“Isa—what are you
talking
about?”

“A pretty lady.”

“There’s no one there, Isa. Stop making up stories.”

Isa started to move her arm. She held it up at the same height, moving it slowly to the left as if following something changing position from beside the television to the far end of the room, near the fireplace.

The back of Catherine’s neck felt very cold. “Isa … what are you pointing at?”

“For heaven’s sake,” said a voice. “Can’t you see me
at all
?”

It was the voice Catherine had heard in the kitchen. It sounded now as though the speaker was trying to remain cheerful in the face of high odds.

Catherine grabbed the TV remote and stabbed at the off button and the volume button. Nothing happened.

“It’s not the television, Cathy. She’s pointing at
me
. Why can’t you see?”

Ella started to wail, a hitching cry. Isa remained silent, staring avidly at the end of the room, her head moving from left to right, as if watching something. Something large, too—her head was tilted backward—and perhaps something that was pacing up and down. Catherine couldn’t see anything at all.

“Catherine.”

And then … she could. Down at the far end of the room, in front of the bookcase. A shadow, like the one she thought she’d seen in the kitchen.

She took a step back, pulling Ella with her. “Isa—come here.”

“Who is it, Mama?” Isa didn’t move. “Who is the lady?”

Then finally Catherine saw her, standing in front of the fireplace.

A tall woman, wearing a red velvet full-length dress under a long black coat. Her face was bone pale. Red lips and dark eyes, thick hair gathered up, like …

“How did you get in here?”

“It’s
me
, Catherine.”

The woman disappeared again, as though a shutter had come down between them, or as if she was there only when Catherine blinked, painted on the inside of her eyelids.

“What the hell is happening?”

“Who’s the lady, Mama?” Isa asked. She could evidently still see the woman. “Why is she so mad at you?”

“Mommy knows,” said the voice.

“Who the hell
are
you?”

“Come on, Catherine. It’s
Lizzie
.”

Catherine’s stomach rolled over. All the blood felt like it dropped out of her head, as if she’d been sucked down a snake to being five years old, as if everything she’d ever done had been found out.

Lizzie.

Oh holy God.

“Get … get out of my house,” Catherine said, trying to keep her voice steady, turning blindly toward the spot the voice had come from.

Suddenly the woman was visible again, stronger and more concrete this time.

Lizzie took a step toward her, hands held out, and finally Isa lost it and started screaming too.

“It’s okay,” Lizzie said to the children, trying to smile in a reassuring way. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Catherine screamed at her.
“Get out.”

“But … I brought you something.”

“What are you
talking
about?”

“The brooch. You like it, don’t you?”

“That was
you
?”

“Of course.”

“Take it back. Take it and
get out of my house
.”

“But … that’s what you always wanted,” Lizzie said, confused. “I thought … I thought you stopped seeing me because I stopped doing what you wanted.”

“I didn’t want you to steal.”

“Yes … you
did
. You asked me to. You
told
me to. In school you wanted me to do other stuff, like the Kelly thing, but when we came to the city that’s all you ever
talked
about. Things you wanted me to
get
for you.”

Catherine was clutched by a vertiginous twist of guilt, so strong it felt like nausea.

She hadn’t thought of Kelly Marshall in twenty years, but all it took was hearing the name to take her back to the afternoon when she’d seen the girl who’d been her best friend, talking in class with a boy Catherine had decided she might fall in love with. She didn’t want to be taken back there, didn’t want to remember how Kelly had lost that boy (to Catherine) after she’d been accused of stealing from other girls, or how she’d wound up losing weight and getting thinner and thinner until she was a full-blown anorexic who got taken out of the school by her parents, never to be seen again.