An Anonymous Girl(79)

Mrs. Voss perches on the edge of April’s queen-size bed while I sit in the tufted light green chair by the desk across from her. As we talk, Mrs. Voss’s fingers never stop moving. She smooths imaginary creases in the comforter, straightens an old teddy bear, and rearranges throw pillows.

When I’d phoned this morning, I’d told her that I’d known April from when we’d both studied abroad in London during our junior year of college. Mrs. Voss was eager to see me. To camouflage the fact that I was five years older than April, I’d turned to my makeup kit: a smooth, clear complexion, pink lips, and brown mascara on curled lashes helped peel a few years off my age. A high ponytail and jeans and my Converse sneakers completed the costume.

“It was so nice of you to come by,” Mrs. Voss says for the second time while I sneak another look around the bedroom. I’m desperate to gather more clues about the girl I have so much in common with in some ways but couldn’t be more different from in others.

Then Mrs. Voss asks me a question: “Would you share a memory with me?”

“Let’s see, a memory . . .” I say. I feel perspiration prickle my forehead.

“Something I wouldn’t have known about April?” she prompts.

Although I’ve never been to London, I remember April’s photos from that semester in her Instagram photos.

The lie slips off my tongue as smoothly as if it had been waiting there all along. Dr. Shields’s tests have taught me how to play a role, but that doesn’t erase the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. “She kept trying to make the guards at Buckingham Palace laugh.”

“She did? What did she do?” Mrs. Voss is nakedly eager for hidden details about her daughter. I guess because there will be no memories of April formed in the future, she wants to collect as many as she can from the past.

I glance at a framed poster in the corner of April’s room that has the following quote in a flowing cursive: Sing like no one is listening . . . Love like you’ve never been hurt . . . Dance like nobody’s watching.

I want to pick a detail that will make Mrs. Voss feel good. I rationalize that maybe if she can imagine her daughter in a happy moment, it’ll offset some of the immorality of what I’m doing.

“Oh, she did the funniest dance,” I say. “The guards didn’t even smile, but April swore she saw the corner of one of their mouth’s twitch. That’s why it’s such a great memory . . . I couldn’t stop cracking up.”

“Really?” Mrs. Voss leans forward. “But she hated to dance! I wonder what got into her?”

“It was a dare.” I need to derail this avenue of conversation. I didn’t come here to share phony stories with a grieving mother.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the funeral,” I say. “I’ve been living in California and I just got back to town.”

“Here,” Mrs. Voss says. She gets off the bed and walks over to the desk behind me. “Would you like a program from the service? There are photos in it of April through the years. There are even some from her semester in London.”

I stare at the pale pink cover. There’s an embossed drawing of a dove over the name Katherine April Voss and then a quote written in italics: And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make. At the bottom are the dates of April’s birth and death.

“What a beautiful quote,” I murmur, not knowing if that’s the right thing to say.

But Mrs. Voss nods eagerly. “April came over a few months before she died and asked me if I’d ever heard it before.” Mrs. Voss eyes grow faraway and she smiles. “I told her, of course, that it was from a Beatles song called ‘The End’—not that she’d know because they were well before her time. So we downloaded the song on her iPhone and played it together. We each put in an earbud to listen.”

Mrs. Voss wipes away a tear. “After she— Well, I remembered that day, and the quote seemed perfect.”

The Beatles, I think, remembering how Thomas had sung along to “Come Together” in the bar on the night we were together. He’s obviously a big fan, so he must have sung “The End” to April on the night they met and slept together. I can’t suppress a shudder; it’s another eerie similarity between me and Subject 5.

I tuck the program in my purse. How awful it would be for Mrs. Voss to know that the quote is intricately connected to the whole sinister web that ended in her daughter’s death.

“Were you in touch with April much over the spring?” Mrs. Voss asks me. She’s back on the bed now; her thin fingers keep worrying the silky tassel on a throw pillow.

I shake my head. “Not really. I was in a bad relationship with this guy and I sort of lost touch with my friends.”

Take the bait, I think.

“Oh, you girls.” Mrs. Voss shakes her head. “April didn’t have a lot of luck with men, either. She was so sensitive. She was always getting hurt.”

I nod.

“I actually didn’t even know she was interested in anyone,” Mrs. Voss says. “But after . . . well, one of her friends told me she was . . .”

I hold my breath, hoping she’ll continue. But she just stares into space.

I furrow my brow, like something has just occurred to me.

“Actually, April aid mention a guy she liked,” I say. “Wasn’t he a little older?”