In Her Skin(20)

“Sure. Should I get dressed?” I ask, pointing at my pajamas, which probably cost what Wolf earns in an hour.

Wolf.

“Just come down. We’ll talk over breakfast.”

I stop in my bedroom and shimmy into my bra underneath my pajama shirt. My MO is zero sexuality in the Lovecraft household, not only to remind them of forever-nine Vivi, but also to avoid threatening my new mother, because, been there. I pad down the stairs, still feeling naked in my pajamas, the polished steps slippery under my socked feet. In the kitchen, Mr. Lovecraft stands with his back to me and his phone held to his ear with one broad shoulder, and Mrs. Lovecraft is seated at the counter. A fourth stool appeared at some point and I have a spot, and at my spot sit fresh fruit and four kinds of granola and Greek yogurt and I will never get used to choices, though I would like to. Mrs. Lovecraft insists we can eat and talk at the same time, in fact, maybe she’ll have some yogurt, too. (She won’t. I haven’t seen her eat a full meal yet.) I fill my bowl with yogurt and granola and fruit. As Mr. Lovecraft turns and catches sight of me, his eyebrows rise, because he has not yet watched me eat, though Mrs. Lovecraft is already used to my rough ways. Mrs. Lovecraft shoots him a look, and he ends his call.

“Where’s Temple?” I ask between slurps and crunches. If they’re going to toss me for stealing a valuable poem, I’m going to inhale as many calories as I can during my best last meal.

“It’s Saturday. She has cello.” Mrs. Lovecraft says this like the world knows Temple Lovecraft has a cello lesson on Saturdays. “Which works out well, because this is a conversation meant for us three.”

Natch. Why involve your perfect daughter in the sleazy details of my crime?

“Okay,” I mumble, wiping my mouth with my napkin. Mrs. Lovecraft looks to Mr. Lovecraft, who has shaved his beard as predicted. In sweatpants and a tee, he is more boyishly handsome than I thought, and she thinks this, too, the way she gazes at him, which is not the way he gazes at her. I make a mental note of this, because it could be useful in the future. Mr. Lovecraft sits awkwardly at the counter. His knees and elbows jut at strange angles, like yours. He is a man used to taking up space.

“As you can imagine, the police are very interested in catching your abductor. In fact, they won’t let the matter rest until he is found,” he says.

“They’re doing their job, of course,” she adds.

“But we understand your need to put this behind you. Not to allow this criminal to steal one more second of your precious life.”

“Moving forward is best.”

“Best for you. And what’s best for you is our concern. Especially since you remember so little of your time in the shed, isn’t that right?” he says, but maybe insists.

I nearly miss my cue, still thinking about Emily Dickinson in my underwear drawer filled by Mrs. Lovecraft with clean cotton wonderfulness. “Mmm.”

“We understand that there is a perpetrator at large and that he could strike again. But here’s the thing. If you remember so little—”

I never said that I remember so little. The second rule of conning: never forget what you claim.

“—then the chances of catching him are slim. Yet the police won’t rest until they find him. There will be endless procedural interviews. They won’t let you move on. But you have a choice here. You can make it stop.”

“I can?” I say.

“You can simply tell the police that you made the story up. The truth is, you have amnesia. You have no idea where you’ve been these last seven years.”

The Lovecrafts are freaking brilliant, smarter than me, smarter than Momma, smarter than you, Temple, thinking you got me into enough trouble that your parents would make me leave when they want me to stay.

But—Vivi is an innocent. Lying doesn’t fly with Vivi. I screw my face into confusion and say, “You want me to lie?”

Mrs. Lovecraft shakes her head. “Not lie exactly. Just confess your uncertainty. Make it clear that you don’t remember the details.”

“You won’t be alone. We’ll be there, of course, and our attorney will be, too. His name is Gene. The goal is to make this one meeting; one and done. Any question you feel like you can’t answer, don’t worry. Gene will handle it.”

“Gene is an old family friend, and he was a friend of your parents,” Mrs. Lovecraft says, licking her lips. “If you don’t tell the police this, they will be a permanent fixture in your life. Relentless. If they find your abductor, there will be a trial. You will be questioned, ripped to shreds on the stand. Painful memories will be lived over and over. It takes away from the joy of your recovery.”

I could not agree more.

“I really don’t remember,” I say softly.

Mrs. Lovecraft presses her fingers to her smile, and Mr. Lovecraft opens his palms. I am about to get a group hug. Mrs. Lovecraft rises and pulls me out of my seat to hug me and Mr. Lovecraft stands behind her with his hands on her shoulders, squeezing them, and I have yogurt on my shirt and it’s getting on Mrs. Lovecraft’s blouse and she doesn’t see.

And like that Mr. Lovecraft is off to his fancy-sounding Equinox in the Financial District and you are tucked away at your fancy cello lesson and Mrs. Lovecraft and I are on fancy Newbury Street getting me a fancy haircut. Four fancies is okay here, because wishing is not needed. The hairdresser is respectful and gentle to the point of cringy. He speaks only to Mrs. Lovecraft, and they are close. Jerel has a studded belt and a goatee and is the same dude who came to our house before the symphony. He owns the place and speaks in soothing tones, as though his salon is a museum, and usually I don’t like my head touched, but I wish the girl who washed my hair took even longer because who knew you could have your head massaged, and that it would feel so amazing? We are in a private room, which is the perk of being a Lovecraft. Mrs. Lovecraft perches on a white chair that looks like an alien pod and flips through a magazine.