The Dollhouse(94)

“And you kept it all these years.”

“I did. As a reminder of my shame. You see, Esme had trusted me, she’d loved me. She was a woman who struggled to rise above her station in life in spite of terrible prejudice. Not that she was perfect. She made a rash decision, not thinking of how it could affect all her friends, including Sam. But every night, when I close my eyes, I see her tipping over the side of the railing, reaching out for my hand as she falls. I look over the edge and watch her body slam into the ground. I relive it over and over.” Darby let out a sharp breath. “I couldn’t face Sam. I wasn’t brave enough to try again.”

“But it was an accident; she attacked you first.”

“Intentions are worthless to me. I pushed her and she fell to her death. After, Mrs. Eustis at the Barbizon took pity on me and let me stay on, and the Gibbs school arranged for the job at the button store. Pity, for my terrible wound. There I could work behind the scenes and stay out of view. Of course, as styles changed and hats went out of fashion, I knew I looked strange, traipsing around town in my veils. But by then, I didn’t care. My life was structured, orderly. I paid my rent on time each month. The world around me transformed dramatically, but I refused to. I couldn’t.”

Jason spoke quietly. “You never heard from your family again?”

“No. I wrote my mother, but she didn’t write back. I made a quiet life for myself, working, coming home. It’s more in my personality, to do the same thing day after day. Like Bird, here.”

“He does like a structured regimen,” said Rose.

“Thank you for watching over him while I was away.”

“I’m sorry I invaded your apartment. That was terrible of me.”

Darby’s shoulders tensed, but instead of scolding Rose as expected, she shrugged and let out a sigh. “It’s the building. I would probably have holed up in a broom closet at the Barbizon if they hadn’t offered me the chance to stay on after Esme died. By then, it had become my refuge, my sanctuary. I can understand the deep pull of the place. You can shelter here when the city feels too overwhelming to bear. Sometimes I wonder if it’s a living, breathing animal instead of an inanimate pile of stone and cement.”

The thought was strangely comforting. Rose spoke up. “Can I ask where you’ve been the past few weeks?”

Darby gave a mischievous smile. “Oui. Montreal.”

“Montreal?” Jason blinked a couple of times and he and Rose exchanged incredulous looks. Not their first guess.

“Yes.” Darby pointed to the black-and-white photo on the bookshelf. “The girl I consider my grandniece was performing at the festival they hold there each year. Her international debut.”

Rose stood and took the photo down. “The one who calls you Tía. I thought this was a photo of Esme.”

“No, no. Alba loves the old black-and-white studio portraits from the fifties; she insisted on this for her professional photo. My influence, I’m proud to say. A head shot, they called it.” She wiggled her fingers at Rose, who handed her the photo. Darby stared at it, smiling, and for a moment, Rose got the sense of what she might have looked like without the scar tissue. Her face was radiant, underneath the damage.

“Looks just like Esme,” Darby said. “We’re not related, but she calls me Auntie anyway, dear girl. Alba is the granddaughter of Esme’s sister. She’d invited me to hear her sing in Canada and initially I said no, too far for an old lady like me to go. But when you showed up at my door, I figured it was a good time to hit the road, as they say. You lived in the building, I knew there would be no avoiding you. So I flew up and she took great care of me. I had the best seats, was brought backstage, went out for drinks after the gig with the band. Treated like royalty. She’s a good girl.”

“So you’d stayed in touch with Esme’s family all these years?”

“About twenty years ago, I had sunk pretty low. It was during October, a time of year I’ve always found difficult. I had constant nightmares, as if Esme was haunting me. Although I had always visited her grave a few times a year, that year I went on the anniversary of her death.”

“On Halloween?”

“Yes. I’d hoped to have a quiet moment to say I was sorry, but there was a group of women there, lots of commotion, in a good way. Esme’s family. They were pleased to meet someone who’d known her then.”

“Did they know who you were?”

She shook her head. “The hotel told them that Esme jumped of her own accord. Keeping the fuss to a minimum. This little girl was there, at the graveyard, dressed as a fairy in her Halloween costume. She played by herself off to the side, singing in perfect pitch, and I found her delightful. Over the years the family was kind to me, invited me over for dinners every so often. And as Alba grew up, I offered to pay for her singing lessons, head shots, whatever she needed.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“Inside and out. When I was in Montreal with her I told her the truth, about who I was and what I’d done. Alba didn’t care. She said it explained why I’d taken her under my wing and nurtured her. That it was my way of making it up to Esme.”

“Esme would have been so proud of her,” offered Rose.

“True. Esme made some terrible decisions, but she should have had a singing career, an acting career. If she’d lived, I have no doubt she would have made something of herself.”