Girl One(77)

“Me too.” I didn’t know what it would mean if my mother had attracted the attention of the Bellangers, those strangers whose lineage was knotted through ours. Had they attacked her and threatened her? Had they kidnapped her, or had she escaped? The questions beat frantically inside my head.

We sat together on the gravel, the little rocks piercing my thighs. Tom leaned forward, sought out my eyes, and held my gaze. After a second, I understood that he was looking into my eyes as an act of trust right now, purposeful and intent. “Hey,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for calling the cops. I really thought we needed help, but I almost got you—”

I touched his knee quickly. “It’s okay. I’m fine now. Better than ever.”

“But you could’ve—”

“But I didn’t,” I said firmly. “We both thought it was the right move.”

He smiled a little, relief softening his face. “I wasn’t expecting any of this.” He rubbed his forehead too roughly, eyes looking tired in the scratchy dusk. “When I set out to research this book, I just wanted to find out what had really gone on at the Homestead. I wasn’t expecting to be in a motel with three fugitives, hiding from someone who wants you dead.”

“You’re one of us now.” I punched his shoulder, both teasing and not. “An honorary Homesteader.”

He gave a strange, quick smile, and I wondered if I’d hurt his feelings. But then—“Oh. Hey. I have something for you.” Tom reached into his back pocket, rising a little, and placed something gently into my palm. A photograph.

“What is this?” I asked, laughing, confused. Then I saw that it was a Polaroid. Not a professional shot. It was intimate and unstaged. My mother. Her hair was darkened with sweat, damp curls around her ears and temples, her head tilted back. An expression I’d never seen before: she looked exhausted and too full at the same time, emotions brimming on her tired face, everything close to the surface. Her robe was slipping to nearly expose one nipple, and she held me to her chest, my body small and naked, tiny limbs sprawled open, starfish-like. The loose spiral of an umbilical cord stretched to the bottom of the frame.

“Where’d you get this?” I asked, quieted. “How?”

“I found it as part of my research. Never published before, I guess. Took up most of my savings to get ahold of it. I thought it was worth it.”

I gave a laugh that was closer to a sob. “I’ve never seen her like this.”

“Happy birthday.” Tom sounded shyer than usual.

Stunned, I calculated quickly. He was right. In the middle of everything, my birthday had gotten lost entirely. It had passed unnoticed. I remembered my birthdays back home, those homemade birthday cakes. My mother’s soft voice singing alone. Happy birthday, dear Josephine, happy birthday to you.

I gave Tom a quick hug and felt him tense, his breathing coming quicker.

“I, uh, may be trying to butter you up,” he admitted.

“Oh yeah?”

“I keep thinking about what you said,” Tom said. “About the book. You asked me to stop working on it. I’m not sure if you were just angry, or—”

I loosened the embrace. “Right. So were you going to put this photo in your book?”

He gave a small, sheepish smile, staring at the ground. “I considered it. I—I think it belongs with its true owner. It’s yours. It’s your mom, your story. But the more we learn, the more I feel like this story needs to be told, somehow, some way. I was hoping you felt the same.”

“This story needs to be told,” I said slowly. “But I still need you to wait.” I kept thinking of what it would look like, our history spread open to the world. My mother, no longer the guinea pig. My mother, no longer innocent. My origin not a neat trajectory of progress and downfall but a confused and wavering line. “I’m not saying you should give it up entirely. I just need to understand this story before the whole world knows it too.”

“All right,” Tom said after a minute, words tinged with disappointment. “I can do that.”

“Look, maybe when this is all over and I have my mom again, I can even give you an interview,” I said, impulsively generous. “Formal and official and very much on the record.”

“Josie.” Tom was staring beyond me, whispering. “The car.”

I made myself move slowly, casually. I edged backward from Tom, pretended to play with my hair, lifting it off my neck, as I turned. A car idled on the thin service road. The maroon sedan. The driver was indistinguishable, just a blurred shadow. The headlights were milky against the dusk.

“He followed us,” Tom murmured.

My palms were damp, my heartbeat pounding, every nerve taut. Before I could decide what to do next, the sedan pulled away. Driving too fast, it sped around the curve of the road, hidden by an outcropping of trees. I got up at the last second and ran after it, ignoring Tom calling out to me. I stared at the plates: Utah, in red lettering. With an exclamation point. Ski Utah!

I just had time to register the ridiculous peppiness of this before the car vanished and Tom and I were alone again.

“If that creep’s been following us, who knows what he’s seen?” Cate asked, pacing in wild circles. “Maybe he saw what happened at Kithira. Maybe this was a message. He wanted us to see him this time.”