Dangerous Girls
Page 49
“I don’t understand,” I say softly, my fingertips tracing the fabric of the cushions, rich and brocade. “Why . . . ? Why are you here?”
Judy looks down. “I guess . . . I had to see you, before it all begins.”
It. The reality of the situation hovers between us in the small room, full of unspoken words like, “death,” “murder,” “killing,” “accused.” I can’t say them out loud any more than she can right now, so I don’t say a word; I just study her, feeling strangely detached, as if there’s more space between us than just these few short feet. A canyon, an ocean. Her face is worn and tired, even beneath the slick of makeup, and she’s wearing one of her usual pantsuits in crisp navy, but it hangs around her thin frame, draped and oversized. I have to fight the urge to go sit beside her on the sofa, to hug her casually the way I’ve done so many times before.
She left me too.
“I’m not supposed to be here.” Judy finally speaks, giving me a nervous smile. “Charles, he told me not to come. The lawyers, too.”
I don’t reply. There was a time when she was more of a mother to me than my own, somebody to ask how my day in school was, how things were going with Tate. I wound up crashing at Elise’s most Friday nights through last spring and summer—it made sense, when we were out until dawn, but the truth was, Saturday mornings at her house were my favorite place in the world. Judy would make cinnamon French toast, and confiscate Elise’s cell phone, and we would all wind up sitting around the table out in their glass-covered conservatory, drinking English tea and sharing the new fashion magazines that arrived with the newspapers. Elise always rushed her food down and then demanded to be released, like it was a terrible burden to be trapped in such tranquil domesticity, but those brief mornings held a sweetness for me that I can still taste, even trapped in my tiny cell, with Saturdays bringing nothing more than an extra apple on my breakfast tray; grapefruit juice instead of orange.
I wait for Judy to explain why she’s come, but she just sits there, looking anywhere but directly at me. Then she seems to remember something, and rummages in her expensive leather bag. “Are you hungry?”
“It’s late,” I reply, still confused. “They bring dinner at six.”
“I brought you . . .” She holds out a bar of chocolate to me, covered in a familiar blue wrapper. “It’s that Swiss make; I remembered it was your favorite.”
I pause a beat, then slowly reach out to take it. “Thank you,” I say politely.
“I remember, when I came back from that conference in Zurich”—Judy gives me a weak smile—“and brought all that candy. You girls nearly made yourselves sick, eating it in one night.”
I nod. I don’t know what to do with the chocolate, but I doubt they’ll let me take it back to my cell, so I slowly unwrap it, sliding my finger beneath the crisp paper wrapping and then scoring my fingernail down the crease of the foil. The bar breaks with a snap. The candy is smooth on my tongue, creamy and sweeter than the American brands that Lee used to bring me.
I offer her a square. She takes it.
“They had a memorial, at the school,” Judy says hesitantly. “There was one after the break, but this was for the unveiling. They built a lovely fountain in the side courtyard. They said that was where you all liked to sit, at lunch. In the shade there.” Judy stares at the piece of chocolate, still in her hand. “Charles wants me to start a scholarship in her name. Fund someone’s tuition. Or maybe a charity foundation. To honor her.”
“Elise would have loved that,” I murmur, sarcastic. Then I stop, horrified. “I . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“No, you’re right.” Judy meets my eyes and then, to my amazement, she begins to laugh: a tiny twitch at her lips that spreads until she’s gasping, a hollow sound ringing out in the small room. “It’s all wrong. I kept thinking, all through the ceremony, that Elise would hate it.” Judy shakes her head. “You know they had the choir sing that song, that awful one about being in the arms of angels . . .”
“Sarah McLachlan?” I ask.
She nods, trying to control herself. “They were all so sad, and all I could imagine was Elise making that face of hers, you know the one, where she’d just roll your eyes at you.”
“As if you were beyond saving,” I finish, “and she deserved a medal just putting up with you.”
“That’s the one.” Judy smiles at me, shaking her head. “I swear, I got that look every day of her life.” She takes a tissue from her bag and dabs at her eyes, the laughter fading away. “Nobody knew her like us.” She says it quietly, but I feel the words strike through me. “Everyone comes around saying what an angel she was, how perfect, how precious. But they don’t know. Nobody does, except you.”
Her eyes meet mine again, aching and lost. This is why she’s here, I understand it now. This is her only way to feel close to Elise: the memory of her, as she really was. Not the girl on the front page, or the glowing paragraph in her obituary. But the daughter who screamed in a rage because Judy had looked at her phone again; the friend who curled, sandwiched between us on the couch those late nights when Judy got back from the hospital and found us, still awake, watching bad reality TV and eating Doritos. We were poisoning ourselves, she’d warn us, plucking the remote and bag of chips from our hands, but inevitably she’d wind up tucked under the blanket too, interrupting to ask who this one was, and why was she mad at the other guy?
I’m her only link to Elise now. We’re coconspirators in the crime of loving her daughter.
“She hated me.” Judy’s voice cracks. “We fought, right before she came away. Did she tell you that?”
I shake my head.
“She was threatening to defer college,” Judy says, and clutches her tissue tightly. “Go out to California, or Europe, or volunteer in some godforsaken tribal village. Not that she would have done it,” Judy adds. “You know she couldn’t bear to be without her creature comforts. But still, I let her get to me, every time. She always knew just the hurtful things to say. . . .” She trails off for a moment, then shakes her head. “We were screaming, all night. And then I went to work in the morning. I didn’t even say goodbye.” Judy swallows back her tears, but her hand shakes. “The last time I saw her, and I didn’t even wait to say good-bye.”
Judy looks down. “I guess . . . I had to see you, before it all begins.”
It. The reality of the situation hovers between us in the small room, full of unspoken words like, “death,” “murder,” “killing,” “accused.” I can’t say them out loud any more than she can right now, so I don’t say a word; I just study her, feeling strangely detached, as if there’s more space between us than just these few short feet. A canyon, an ocean. Her face is worn and tired, even beneath the slick of makeup, and she’s wearing one of her usual pantsuits in crisp navy, but it hangs around her thin frame, draped and oversized. I have to fight the urge to go sit beside her on the sofa, to hug her casually the way I’ve done so many times before.
She left me too.
“I’m not supposed to be here.” Judy finally speaks, giving me a nervous smile. “Charles, he told me not to come. The lawyers, too.”
I don’t reply. There was a time when she was more of a mother to me than my own, somebody to ask how my day in school was, how things were going with Tate. I wound up crashing at Elise’s most Friday nights through last spring and summer—it made sense, when we were out until dawn, but the truth was, Saturday mornings at her house were my favorite place in the world. Judy would make cinnamon French toast, and confiscate Elise’s cell phone, and we would all wind up sitting around the table out in their glass-covered conservatory, drinking English tea and sharing the new fashion magazines that arrived with the newspapers. Elise always rushed her food down and then demanded to be released, like it was a terrible burden to be trapped in such tranquil domesticity, but those brief mornings held a sweetness for me that I can still taste, even trapped in my tiny cell, with Saturdays bringing nothing more than an extra apple on my breakfast tray; grapefruit juice instead of orange.
I wait for Judy to explain why she’s come, but she just sits there, looking anywhere but directly at me. Then she seems to remember something, and rummages in her expensive leather bag. “Are you hungry?”
“It’s late,” I reply, still confused. “They bring dinner at six.”
“I brought you . . .” She holds out a bar of chocolate to me, covered in a familiar blue wrapper. “It’s that Swiss make; I remembered it was your favorite.”
I pause a beat, then slowly reach out to take it. “Thank you,” I say politely.
“I remember, when I came back from that conference in Zurich”—Judy gives me a weak smile—“and brought all that candy. You girls nearly made yourselves sick, eating it in one night.”
I nod. I don’t know what to do with the chocolate, but I doubt they’ll let me take it back to my cell, so I slowly unwrap it, sliding my finger beneath the crisp paper wrapping and then scoring my fingernail down the crease of the foil. The bar breaks with a snap. The candy is smooth on my tongue, creamy and sweeter than the American brands that Lee used to bring me.
I offer her a square. She takes it.
“They had a memorial, at the school,” Judy says hesitantly. “There was one after the break, but this was for the unveiling. They built a lovely fountain in the side courtyard. They said that was where you all liked to sit, at lunch. In the shade there.” Judy stares at the piece of chocolate, still in her hand. “Charles wants me to start a scholarship in her name. Fund someone’s tuition. Or maybe a charity foundation. To honor her.”
“Elise would have loved that,” I murmur, sarcastic. Then I stop, horrified. “I . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“No, you’re right.” Judy meets my eyes and then, to my amazement, she begins to laugh: a tiny twitch at her lips that spreads until she’s gasping, a hollow sound ringing out in the small room. “It’s all wrong. I kept thinking, all through the ceremony, that Elise would hate it.” Judy shakes her head. “You know they had the choir sing that song, that awful one about being in the arms of angels . . .”
“Sarah McLachlan?” I ask.
She nods, trying to control herself. “They were all so sad, and all I could imagine was Elise making that face of hers, you know the one, where she’d just roll your eyes at you.”
“As if you were beyond saving,” I finish, “and she deserved a medal just putting up with you.”
“That’s the one.” Judy smiles at me, shaking her head. “I swear, I got that look every day of her life.” She takes a tissue from her bag and dabs at her eyes, the laughter fading away. “Nobody knew her like us.” She says it quietly, but I feel the words strike through me. “Everyone comes around saying what an angel she was, how perfect, how precious. But they don’t know. Nobody does, except you.”
Her eyes meet mine again, aching and lost. This is why she’s here, I understand it now. This is her only way to feel close to Elise: the memory of her, as she really was. Not the girl on the front page, or the glowing paragraph in her obituary. But the daughter who screamed in a rage because Judy had looked at her phone again; the friend who curled, sandwiched between us on the couch those late nights when Judy got back from the hospital and found us, still awake, watching bad reality TV and eating Doritos. We were poisoning ourselves, she’d warn us, plucking the remote and bag of chips from our hands, but inevitably she’d wind up tucked under the blanket too, interrupting to ask who this one was, and why was she mad at the other guy?
I’m her only link to Elise now. We’re coconspirators in the crime of loving her daughter.
“She hated me.” Judy’s voice cracks. “We fought, right before she came away. Did she tell you that?”
I shake my head.
“She was threatening to defer college,” Judy says, and clutches her tissue tightly. “Go out to California, or Europe, or volunteer in some godforsaken tribal village. Not that she would have done it,” Judy adds. “You know she couldn’t bear to be without her creature comforts. But still, I let her get to me, every time. She always knew just the hurtful things to say. . . .” She trails off for a moment, then shakes her head. “We were screaming, all night. And then I went to work in the morning. I didn’t even say goodbye.” Judy swallows back her tears, but her hand shakes. “The last time I saw her, and I didn’t even wait to say good-bye.”
