Burn Our Bodies Down(31)

The ground slopes gently away from the porch, down into the spread of the fields, but even from up here the corn seems so tall, and so close. Across the crops I can see another house in the distance, one I didn’t notice yesterday. It’s off to the left, on a higher little hill, and though it’s too far for me to see much, it seems almost like it was built to mirror Fairhaven. The same sort of porch, and the same white siding, although Fairhaven’s is weathered with age.

That must be the Miller house. Tess said we’re neighbors, and I can’t see any other houses out here. I wonder what happened at the station after I left, with her and Eli. I can’t imagine it went anything like it did for me in that conference room. Tess could’ve walked right out of there any time she wanted. But she didn’t.

I squint up at the windows of the Miller house, small squares of sun. Maybe she can see me. I barely manage not to wave, just in case.

“Oh, good. You’re up.”

I turn, and Gram’s there, leaning in the doorway, dressed in practically the same clothes as yesterday, a bucket hanging from one hand, a pair of work boots from the other.

“Get dressed,” she says. “There’s work to be done.”

Not a word about the police who just left, or the fire. Not a word about the girl. And of course, not a word about my mother.

“Well?” Gram says, when I don’t move. I came looking for her with a hundred questions waiting on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t find my voice. Not when she’s right there, and looking at me. “You waiting for directions back upstairs or what, Mini?”

It’s the nickname that does it. I am not my mother. I will not let a lie live inside me. I will carve it out, no matter what.

“What were the police here for?” I ask. “Did they have any news? About the girl?”

“Don’t worry yourself with that,” Gram says easily. “It’s Thomas Anderson doing what he does best, which is being bothersome.”

Fine. Fine, I’ll try harder. Carefully, gently. I’m used to doing this, anyway.

“Look, you can tell me,” I say, taking the words a parent should say and holding them on my tongue. Never mind that I’m in my mother’s pajamas, my feet bare. I’m as old as I need to be. “I saw the girl. I know who she is. You don’t have to cover for Mom anymore.”

I don’t expect her to give in right away, but I do expect more than what she gives me. Which is a blank stare and a tilt of her head.

“Cover?” she says. “Cover what?”

Oh, bullshit. Your house, Gram. Your land. Your face. Your girl.

“I mean, I get it,” I say, even though I don’t. “Mom was young and there were two of us, and she could only handle one. You can tell me the truth. I already know.”

The only change is the furrow in Gram’s forehead. “I have told you the truth,” she says. “Are you feeling all right, Margot?”

“I’m fine,” I say. It comes out too sharp. “I’m confused, though. Because you said family is honest. And aren’t we family? Wasn’t she?”

“She who?”

“The girl,” and it’s nearly a yell. I didn’t think I would be here again. I didn’t think it would be just like with Mom, with the world right in front of both of us and me trying, trying, trying to prove to her it exists. “I saw her. Tess saw. The police saw. You can’t pretend she’s not what she is.”

“I am not trying to.”

“You are,” I insist. I have to say it. Let her try to get around this: “I saw the clothes in the dresser. Just like the dress that girl in the fire was wearing.”

Gram looks baffled. “I imagine we could go to the thrift store in town and find you a half dozen more like it. What’s this about, Margot?”

“It’s about her,” I say. “I’m not the only girl you’ve had here.” Trapped, that’s what I want to say. Hidden. But she wouldn’t like that.

“That’s right,” Gram says. “Your mother grew up at Fairhaven.”

“You know that’s not what I mean. She came from here. That girl was wearing one of Mom’s dresses.”

“But how can you be sure?” Gram asks. She sounds like she really wants to know. “Did you see your mother’s name in that dress?”

Even if i’d gotten a good look, that dress was too damaged for anyone to make out a little line of handwriting.

I hesitate. “Well, no, but—”

“Then it seems quite a fit to throw over nothing, doesn’t it?”

“It’s not a fit.”

“No?” She frowns, purses her lips. “I thought you’d be more mature than this. I really did.”

I can feel it, that rushing panic I know from every fight with Mom. Putting me on the defensive, when I came down here with what I thought was proof. “Okay,” I say, “then why were there so many clothes in the dresser? You said you brought me a few things, but that was—”

Gram waves me off. “They’re just left behind from when your mother lived up there.”

I stop short. Victory sweeping over me until I’m smiling. “You said that wasn’t anyone’s room. That’s what you told me yesterday.”