Bloodline(56)

Finally, I remember where I am.

The Furies redouble.

I cock my ear. It’s early evening now. I hear them outside, know what they’re doing. I smell the meat they’re roasting, hear the brittle bubbles of their laughter popping in the humid night air and releasing blurts of joy.

They’re demons.

But I know exactly what to do.

Have been planning for this.

I gingerly, haltingly return to the bathroom, remove my bloody, crusty clothes, and step into the shower. The water runs red, and then pink, and then clear. I express milk from both breasts, the relief exquisite. I towel off, and below the sink, I locate thick belted pads for my underpants and thinner ones for my brassiere.

In the top drawer of the oak dresser, I discover loose, clean clothes. The basic comfort of standing, of cleaning and clothing my body, of having fresh pads to soak up my blood, is so overwhelming it nearly brings me to tears.

But there isn’t time.

Clarity is returning by the second. I remember the bottle of Geritol and the strawberry Pop-Tarts I hid in the rear of the closet, inside a musty box of children’s clothes. I rip the tinfoil and eat two so fast I hardly taste them. Screwing off the Geritol cap, I take two deep swallows. The salty, slimy metallic taste almost brings the Pop-Tarts back up, but I force my gut to accept it. I need the iron to make it through what I must do.

The next package of Pop-Tarts I take to the bathroom, where I chew slowly, drinking water from the faucet between bites, reveling in the returning focus.

Because it’s not just the Geritol and Pop-Tarts I’ve hidden.

A smile (maybe a grimace, maybe the mask of war) stretches across my face.

I have prepared for this.

They are going to pay.

I am Joan Harken. I will take back my baby.





CHAPTER 40

Knowing that I’ll be moving back to Minneapolis soon has me antsy. I can’t talk to Kris at the moment, not if someone is spying on us. It might jeopardize my escape. Regina doesn’t know anything about what happened in Lilydale in 1944. The microfiche machine is down. No one on Mill Street will tell me the truth. The two classmates who might have seen something, Quill Brody and Aramis Bauer, are out of my range of contact.

I walk, mulling things over. No way can I wander into businesses and start asking the workers if they remember Paulie or Virginia Aandeg. When I think about my goodwill mission here just a week ago, I’m embarrassed at my naivete. I thought I was making friends. More likely, I was creating informants.

I’m glad I stole the pineapple brooch. And the locket full of Lily dirt that thank god I never opened.

I can’t go door to door, either, knocking, asking people what they know.

What does that leave?

I find myself in front of Dr. Krause’s. He isn’t originally from around here and so wouldn’t be a help even if he were the obliging sort, but I spot my answer across the street: the Lilydale Nursing Home. Surely someone inside remembers Virginia and Paulie Aandeg.

I walk in like I know what I’m here for. I ignore the unsettling, overpowering smell of antiseptic and stride to the front desk. I assume my mildest expression.

“Hello, how are you?” I ask.

The older woman behind the desk glances up, her eyes narrowing. She’s nondescript. Brown hair under a nurse’s bonnet, brown eyes, crisp white uniform. “I’m good, Mrs. Schmidt. What can I do for you?”

The familiar chill settles in my bones. Everyone in Lilydale knows me. Small-town insanity. Well, I will use it to my advantage. “I’m good, thank you. You know I’m writing the article on Paulie?”

The woman leans forward conspiratorially. “We all do. How exciting! The boy has come home.”

“So it would appear,” I say. “There aren’t any residents here who would have known him before he was abducted, are there? Maybe a neighbor or friend? He doesn’t remember much of anything from back then, and I’m trying to flesh out my story.”

The woman taps her chin with a pen. “I think I can do you better than that. We have Rosamund Grant here with us. She used to watch the neighborhood children back in the day. The poor kids, anyhow. They didn’t call them babysitters back then, but I suppose that’s what she was. Maybe she watched Paulie, too?”

I try to keep the excitement off my face. This might be the first uncensored, unbiased lead I’ve had. “I’d love to speak with her. I promise not to say anything upsetting.”

The woman snorts. “You don’t need to worry your pretty head about that. Mrs. Grant is an old battle-ax. She was mean back then, and she’s even crabbier now. I’d be more concerned about you.”



“Yes, Paulie had one just like that. Remember it as plain as the back of my hand. So unusual.”

I let my short sleeve drop. “Did any other kids you took care of have a similar scar?”

“Well, I suppose your beau, Deck,” she says.

I blink rapidly. “Did you used to watch him, too?”

She cackles. She’s the oldest woman I’ve ever spoken to, her back a hump that rises higher than her head as she sits bent nearly double in her wheelchair. Her eyes are bright, though. “That family would sooner die than let me within an inch of their child. Same with all of those Mill Street snoots. But I assisted Dr. Krause when the vaccinations were given. Not a nurse, exactly. Just a helper. I also cleaned the wounds when they got infected.”