In Her Skin(45)

“Try him again,” Mrs. Lovecraft urges.

Mr. Lovecraft calls again.

We stare at one another for a second, two. Mrs. Lovecraft grips my leg and gasps, “The car is spinning.”

“The car is parked,” I say, gently peeling her off my thigh. Her hand trembles, and I notice her hair is damp at the temples.

“Stay with us, Clarissa,” Mr. Lovecraft says, hammering at his phone again. “Wake up, Slade. Wake up,” he whispers.

“What’s wrong with her?” I ask Mr. Lovecraft.

“She’s having a panic attack. Just hang on, honey. Slade will clear a path for us in a minute and we’ll be safe inside. You have to hang on,” he says, phone jammed to his ear to hear over the growing hum outside the car.

“This is worse than I thought it would be,” she murmurs into her hands, peeking through her fingers at the crowd. “So much worse.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but I need to get to my next call,” the driver calls over the seat.

“Our security man will be here any second,” Mr. Lovecraft says.

“Hope you’re not paying him much,” the driver replies.

“Look!” Mrs. Lovecraft says, pointing out the window over her husband’s shoulder.

“Finally!” Mr. Lovecraft hisses.

Slade charges down the stairs, puffing his chest and wearing a Bluetooth earpiece that might be a prop. His hair is mashed up in the back and he is blinking away sleep, and he might be late but he is on, shoving reporters aside like a superhero. He opens the limo door with one hand and makes way with his other massive arm. As we climb from the limo, the reporters are on us, on me, and I get shoved around. It is everything I can do not to beat down one of these very small, very made-up reporters, men included, though I, too, have lips stained TV-burgundy.

Mr. Lovecraft turns to the crowd.

“If you want a comment, you have to be quiet!” Mr. Lovecraft is cupped-hands-around-the-mouth yelling, and they listen, because he is a powerful man, and also, he must look good on TV. A reporter with cleavage shoves a mic in front of his mouth, and five mics follow. Mrs. Lovecraft pinches her neck, barely able to stand. I want to pull her inside, get her some water and a couch to lie on, but Mr. Lovecraft draws me between them. There is no room for you, even if you were here, on the steps, and am I their new daughter?

Mr. Lovecraft booms, “Today my wife Clarissa and I shared with the world the news of the miraculous return of Vivienne Weir, who disappeared seven years ago from this very town house. We are honored, humbled, and blessed to have been given custodial rights to Vivienne by her tragically deceased parents, our dear friends, Travis and Marie Weir, who specified this wish in their wills. As we welcome Vivi into our home with open arms, it is our sincere belief that we have been given another chance to make things right, and we hope that you will respect our desire for privacy at this time.”

Cameras flash and video rolls and I gaze at the jawline of this man who says beautiful, unrehearsed things. I believe every word. Questions nail us from every side, and I think of battle scenes with flaming arrows shooting over our heads.

“Is it true she remembers nothing of the last seven years?”

“Is it confirmed that Vivienne was actually abducted?”

“Has Vivienne been diagnosed with a traumatic brain injury?”

“Are there plans to adopt Vivienne?”

“What about your daughter, Temple? How is she taking the news?”

Mr. Lovecraft puts his arms around us and draws us up the stairs of the town house. We keep our heads down. I count the steps: six, five, four, three, two …

“Henry Lovecraft!” A man’s voice soars over the crowd. I recognize the direction: it was a small man hanging out in the back, leaning against a gaslight lamp, with no camera, just a Boston Globe press badge. “Is it true that your firm has lost six of its ten major contracts with the city since Vivienne Weir’s abduction? As a developer, does her miraculous return mean anything for your own commercial success?”

Mr. Lovecraft halts. He is pissed. I am pissed. I don’t fully understand it, but I do get that it’s a rude question and someone should crack the little troll across the mouth.

Mrs. Lovecraft’s thin voice wavers. “Don’t respond, Henry. You’re better than that.”

He turns, leading with his chin, and the look in his eye scares me. I spin to face the cameras and raise my palms. The reporters go silent, and the only sounds are the roar of cars down Commonwealth Avenue and the clacks of cameras.

“I am Vivienne Weir,” I call out. “And this is my family now. I consider myself the luckiest girl in the world.”

I feel Mr. Lovecraft’s anger drain out of him. He pulls me close to his leg with one hand and presses his heart with his fist. Mrs. Lovecraft leans against my shoulder and weeps. The reporters are swarming, regrouping, and we need to escape. Finally, Slade herds us through the front door with his massive hands, one unit, a mother, father, and daughter, impenetrable.

You stand on the other side of the door, and I am in your arms.

“You were perfect,” you murmur into my hair. “I couldn’t have done it better myself.”

*

The Lovecrafts went out alone to celebrate this night, and for some reason you are shunning me, holed up in your room. I hear the Lovecrafts stumble in, laughing. They laugh like you, free and easy, and something in them has been rekindled lately. They stay up for an extra hour making love, and the noises wake up something inside me I wish would stay asleep, something I know is not useful to surviving here at 999 Commonwealth Avenue. When the house is silent, I creep downstairs to the parlor, which I am beginning to think of as the killing room. The darkness is more purple than black. I try to imagine this space seven years ago, a room less adult then and more for a little kid and her toys. Where a TV may have been. A huge antique floor mirror leans against the wall, and I use my back to hold it in place while I touch the wall behind, running my palm down to feel for seams and plastering. There, the faintest ridge, extending in the shape of a rectangle. The cutout is nearly identical in shape and size to the mirror, and a chill settles in the small of my back. I understand now why the Lovecrafts bought the brownstone next door but never expanded into it. Some walls ought to remain.