In Her Skin(26)

The detective claps slowly.

Chairs scrape. Mr. Lovecraft and his lawyer are outta there, and so am I.

“Worth every penny you’re paying him, Lovecraft,” I hear the detective call as I make for the lobby, nearly seen by Mr. Lovecraft and Gene, and panting by the time I reach Mrs. Lovecraft and Ginny, without Harvey Silver, whose work here is done. The women sit on plastic chairs, and Ginny covers Mrs. Lovecraft’s hands in her lap, as if she was the one traumatized.

“Oh! Vivi!” Mrs. Lovecraft says, surprised. “How did we lose you?”

Ginny pulls me down to sit in the chair on her other side. “There’s something I need you to understand. No one is going to force you to remember something you aren’t ready to. You have the Lovecrafts, and here at the precinct, I am your family.” She pats my knee firmly. “You are not alone.”

For the first time, I feel rotten for the way I’ve judged Ginny. She has holes inside her same as me, and she likes how I fill them. It just goes to show all anyone really wants is family.

*

This is the way you celebrate a win. This is life.

A napkin is draped in my lap and the fork I dropped is replaced before I can say oops. When I spill crumbs next to my plate, another waiter scrapes them away. The air conditioner gets turned down because the hostess saw me shiver from across the room, and then she checks to make sure I’m comfortable, twice. My Sprite is refilled without asking. In candlelight, everyone is prettier, and I am prettier, and it becomes a running joke that every time I stuff food in my mouth, someone will stop by the table to talk to the Lovecrafts and wish me well.

This is the treatment you get when you build things in this town.

My stomach is the only one not having a good time. It doesn’t want to stretch, but I hear Wolf’s warning that this could be over soon and a hibernation reflex is kicking in and I cannot stop eating this amazing, fancy, famous hotel-restaurant food. My gut gurgles, crying, “Enough!” for everyone to hear, and your parents laugh, and you laugh, and I hold my stomach, and though it will hurt to eat, I grab one more roll.

The laughter fades and arms cross over and between us, making our dirty plates vanish. Mrs. Lovecraft pushes a small box across the table to me. It’s a shade of blue-green that I’d call big-money blue, and it’s tied with white satin ribbon.

Mrs. Lovecraft runs two fingers along her collarbone, girly and excited. “Open it, Vivi.”

“But it’s so pretty, I’ll ruin it.”

“It’s from Tiffany,” you say flatly.

“Temple!” Mrs. Lovecraft protests. “Don’t spoil it!”

“I’m just letting Vivi know the significance of the box. You want to open it, trust me,” you say, and I hate that I’m missing something.

I look to Mr. Lovecraft—females look for his approval—and he nods, so I carefully untie the ribbon. Nestled on a square of cotton is a thick silver link bracelet with a single heart charm.

“Go ahead, read the heart,” urges Mrs. Lovecraft.

I lift the charm. “‘Daughter,’” I read softly.

You’ve been quiet through dinner. True, we keep getting stares, and this likely does not play as cool at the Parkman School, and I have heard you complaining to your friends on your phone. I don’t know how you feel about this silver heart, because you are their real daughter, and I’m just some girl from the past making your lives messy. Something hard flickers across your face, but then it’s gone.

“Try it on,” Mr. Lovecraft urges.

I try to slip it on, but my wrist is not as delicate as Mrs. Lovecraft imagined, and it pinches. Mrs. Lovecraft reaches across the table to help close it. As she does, she looks at my fingernails, and the corners of her mouth droop, and I’m aware of the white ridges from the lean year with Wolf.

I dangle the bracelet in the candlelight. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever owned,” I say, and this is true, and the way these people soften me is dangerous.

“We thought it would remind you of your place here with us. It’s only going to get better from here on, we promise,” says Mrs. Lovecraft. She looks to Mr. Lovecraft meaningfully.

He clears his throat and leans over his folded hands. “Vivi, we need to talk.”

I drop my wrist and the bracelet clatters on the table. This is it. Time to drop Vivi Weir’s skin.

I look for the nearest exit.

“Now I know we said one and done,” Mr. Lovecraft says, “but there is another thing we can do to ensure the police don’t continue to bring up unpleasant facts.”

I’m wearing shoes I can’t run in and that burner phone would have been handy right about now. I have been careless. I have gone soft as one of those dinner rolls, two of which could easily fit into my bag.

“It may seem frightening. But it’s actually not as scary as it sounds.”

Below the table, I drop a stolen dinner roll to the floor. “Scary?”

“The Today Show called,” Mrs. Lovecraft blurts. “They’d like to do an interview.”

“An interview? With who?”

“With you. Really, with us,” Mrs. Lovecraft says, leaning toward me. “You wouldn’t be alone, not for a minute.”

“Why would they want that?” I say it slowly, like Vivi would, but really I’m just trying to calm my breathing down because I don’t have to leave you. Yet.