Girl One(21)

A young man with a clipboard opened the door to us. “Girl One,” he said. “Come in, come in. We’ve been eagerly awaiting your presence.”

The entryway was chilly white marble, larger than our entire house; through the doorways, more marble. The icy veins were like the arteries of the house itself, extending into every corner. An autographed portrait of Deb and Bonnie hung above the stairwell, cursive spidering across their collarbones. I was awed for a moment, and then I remembered why I was in Minnesota. “Is my mother here?”

“Here?” The young man glanced around, confused, concerned. “I was led to believe she’s missing.”

“But has she been here in the past few weeks? Has she talked to Deb?” I balanced my growing desperation to find my mother with the awareness that I needed to keep some things close to my chest. I didn’t need the entire world to know that my mother had been visiting other Homesteaders.

“I really doubt it, Miss Morrow,” the young man said. “Ms. Clarkson would’ve told me if your mother showed up at her doorstep—”

“It’s fine,” Tom said, interrupting. He gripped my elbow lightly for a second, a little signal. Play it cool. “We’d like this to be a private interview. Just the Clarksons, Miss Morrow, and me. Nobody else, thanks.”

The young man made a quick calculation and shrugged, acquiescing. “The girls just got finished with Channel Five. Come with me.”

The Clarksons’ McMansion was even bigger on the inside, a trick of physics. Endless corridors, each one leading outward again. From what I could see through the open doorways we passed, all the rooms were alike—unused, some furniture still in plastic wrap or boxes, like a dollhouse designed by a child who’d wandered off bored. So this was what talking about the Homestead had given Deb and Bonnie. The opposite of my water-stained bedroom ceiling, of Emily French’s attic, of the original compound where we’d been born.

Deb had always been an unlikely member of the Homestead, looking like she’d gotten lost on her way to a sorority mixer. She was both cautionary tale (This could be your daughter, suburban parents!) and inspiration (This could be your daughter, suburban parents!). I’d always had the distinct impression my mother didn’t get along with her.

A door opened as we approached, and there she was. Deborah Clarkson, in the flesh. Up close, her TV makeup was expertly applied so that her cheekbones looked hollowed out. Her chignon was architectural and stiff with spray. Deb stared at me for a long moment, face unreadable, then took me by the shoulders, running her hands down my arms. “Looking at Bonnie, it’s like looking in a mirror,” she said. “But looking at you? It’s like traveling back in time. It could be ’71.” She blinked, seeming to break herself out of a spell. “Margaret’s with you?”

“I was hoping she was with you.”

“With me?” Deb stepped back, a frown creasing only her forehead. In her eyes, a flutter of panic, though her voice stayed steady. “Why would she be here, sweetheart?” Before I could grasp her feelings, she was all professionalism again. Glossy and intractable. “Thomas! So lovely to see you again, my dear.” Deb extended her hand to Tom as if it were a precious museum artifact she would loan him.

“We’re excited to sit down with you and Bonnie.” Tom shook her hand firmly.

“For Margaret’s girl? Anything.” We followed Deb into the room. Tom was all confidence, shoulders back. But when Deb’s smile slipped away, she looked like a woman held hostage.

She knew something. She knew something about my mother.

The room was lined with windows, all of them gauzy with curtains that gave the room a womblike pastel hush. A chandelier shone like a flattering spotlight on a tufted love seat. The walls were lined with images of Deb and Bonnie, posing with a menagerie of people, celebrities and otherwise. Oprah. Johnny Carson. A local restaurant owner beaming over a pizza box.

Bonnie Clarkson wore a tight shift dress that matched the pink velvet love seat so closely she could vanish into it at the right angle. Her flossy hair was in a high ponytail. I couldn’t help looking at the scar that snaked between her mouth and the top of her right cheekbone. Rubbery, shinier than the soft flesh around it, curved like a deflated letter J. When she saw me, her eyes widened, though she made no move to get up. “You’re here.” Bonnie darted a glance at her mother for clarification. “Josephine. The first one.”

The way she said it gave me a rush of goose bumps. She was hung up on the sequence of the Miracle Babies, just like I was. Sisters squabbling over birth order. “Hello, Bonnie,” I said. “The seventh one.”

“We,” Deb said, “are going to sit down with Josephine and Thomas and have a little chat.” I caught something in her voice, a warning tapped in Morse code, hard for me to access. Bonnie scooted over and I approached, conscious of the rusty ketchup stain on my jeans, the careless bun at the base of my neck. It was the same style I wore in the lab, keeping my hair out of my face, but in here it felt too plain.

Deb was talking. “If you’re here to discuss your mother, Josephine, you’ll need to follow the same rules as any other guest. Don’t dwell on anything too depressing.”

“Too depressing?” I repeated. “Are you aware that my house was burned down and that my mother hasn’t been seen in three days? Where’s the positive spin on that?” I smiled, but the words were heated with sarcasm.