Lies We Bury(50)

Her bedroom door is the only closed door that we passed. No doubt steeped in towering boxes, just like the front room. Years ago, I tried to convince her to throw out the comic books that I collected as a kid—none of them valuable—and blankets stained from a failed science experiment, but she’s held on to them.

“Actually, I have to get going after this. I told you about doing photos for the Portland Post, right? That’s why I came down here.”

Disappointment lengthens her narrow features, and my chest pinches with that persistent pitying feeling. And guilt that I know I shouldn’t allow in.

“But I haven’t seen you . . . in ages. Not since last June.”

When I don’t answer, she hugs both her elbows tight.

Restricting our time to an annual visit is hurtful, I know. Especially considering I’ve been only two hours away for much of the last year. But I also know what I missed out on all that time: watching Rosemary bury her life in scraps of fabric from clothing we outgrew and expired packages of macaroni and cheese, because it was a favorite of hers as a teenager and she never wants to go without it again.

In my head, I understand her compulsion to amass possessions after everything was taken from her during a morning run when she was twenty; I get it. But watching her wither away to a woman who scurries past her own front door to avoid the neighbors or any other sign of life that might take away her mac and cheese again—that has been painful to watch. Once Rosemary had made some friends online and joined some virtual book clubs, I told myself I didn’t have to maintain regular visits anymore.

“I know it’s been a while. I’m sorry about that, but we call each other on the phone, right? We video chat? I do need your help,” I add. “Can we talk on the couch?”

Her face brightens a little. “Okay.”

We settle back into our respective spaces among the memory-laden containers. Rain taps against the front windows. It makes the inside of the house feel even stuffier, but I know better than to ask to turn on the air conditioner.

“Remember how I said I’m freelancing at crime scenes? Well, it’s complicated. It seems like someone involved in the crimes knows about me. About us.”

Rosemary’s eyes widen. “Is that so?”

“More than that. I think they’re leaving me notes to . . . to threaten me. To goad me.”

“I don’t like this.”

“So I did something else. Something drastic.”

I don’t know if Rosemary is aware of the anniversary or that Chet will be released on parole soon—mostly, she focuses on getting through the day and on to the next. “I went to see Chet in prison. To see if he could help me profile this killer, whose mode of operation seems very similar to his.”

Rosemary’s mouth opens, then closes. She spies her glass of lemonade and drinks half of it in one gulp. She stares across the room a moment, then sets the cup back down. “You know he’s getting out on parole Monday. Did you get the victim notification?”

I shake my head. “I think my mail is delayed while it’s being forwarded from my last address.”

“Well, I don’t think you should be working on anything crime related, Marissa. It’s too close to home. Promise me you’ll ask to be reassigned somewhere else.”

“I can’t do that. I’m brand-new to the Post, and I need this steady income.”

She shakes her head again. Her eyes drift to my shoulder, glazing over; I wonder what she’s seeing.

“Mom?”

“All your life,” she whispers, “you handled it differently from Lily or me, and I think better than Jenessa and Nora, too. Nora, she’s . . . she’s had some trouble. Bad stuff. When she emailed me at Christmas, she was switching to new antipsychotics. I’ve struggled with depression; we all know that. But when Nora escaped, she went to her family and was shunned. They said she allowed herself to be kidnapped and then assaulted. She hadn’t even told them about Jenessa being born. At least I didn’t have any family to break my heart once we were free.”

I take in Rosemary’s wide eyes and the crease that sits between them. She was the only child of two immigrants from southern China, who died from carbon monoxide poisoning while Rosemary was spending the night at a friend’s.

“You’ve never told me that about Nora before.”

She shrugs. “It wasn’t mine to share. However, if you think working on this murder plot is a good idea, I’ll tell you everything I know. It hasn’t been easy for you, and I don’t want you to get caught up in this. To live out more pain.”

“What do you mean? What ‘it’? Our captivity? I’m past that. I’ve done the work; we all have; we should all be past it.” Panic whose source I can’t identify surges in my throat.

“Babies, you know? They come into this world, and no matter where life takes them, they always exhibit some personality at birth. They take that spark of themselves throughout life, and it grows and evolves, assuming different shapes. But it’s always there.”

“Mom. What are you talking about? You sound like a fortune cookie.”

She sits forward and clasps my hands in hers. Long fingernails I hadn’t noticed before cut into my skin while she looks me in the eye. “I want you to get as far away from this case as possible, Marissa. You handled our family’s origins . . . differently from the rest of us. You’ve been angry, rightfully so. And there is documentation of that anger. Most of it we know is sealed in school records, but I have pink slips from principals here in these boxes, too. God only knows what you got into off the record. But if anyone is trying to implicate you in a case that’s similar to ours, to make it look like you’re repeating something that Chet did—”