The Good Twin(11)

I needed to drive to Allentown. Maybe Lauren was living in the same house. I’d visited it enough with my mother to remember how to find it. And if not, maybe a neighbor would know where she’d moved, or at least her married name. I didn’t own a car, but Brian did. He’d lent it to me in the past, and I was certain he would now. Next Monday, I’d skip art class. I needed answers, and Lauren was probably the only person who could provide them.



I flipped through the stations on Brian’s car radio as I headed west on Route 78. I didn’t like any of the preset stations he had chosen, and I needed some distraction from the monotonous highway. I’d crawled through the Lincoln Tunnel, but that was no surprise. I didn’t want to arrive in Allentown before 7:00 p.m., to make sure Lauren or her neighbors were home from work. That meant leaving Manhattan during rush hour, which was anytime after 3:00 p.m.

I found a classic-rock station and settled in. I supposed most people would think I was too young to appreciate classic rock, but it was the music my mother always had listened to in our apartment. At 7:15 p.m., I pulled up to what I hoped was Lauren’s house. It had been years since I’d visited her with my mother, but I’d always had a good memory. I parked in front of the semiattached two-story brick house and rang the bell. Moments later, an unfamiliar woman answered the door.

“Does Lauren Kurz live here?”

The woman shook her head. “I don’t know anyone by that name.” She hesitated. “Wait? Do you mean Lauren Walker?”

“That could be her name. I know she remarried.”

“That’s the woman who sold me this house. Almost two years ago.”

“Do you know where she’s living now?”

“Sorry, dear. Don’t have a clue.”

I thanked her and left. At least I had her last name now. Unfortunately, it was a pretty common one. I retreated to the car, then entered the name Lauren Walker into a telephone app on my phone. There were too many to count. At least a dozen in the right age range residing in Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and New York. I got back out of the car and walked up to the other half of the semiattached house and rang the bell. A white-haired man leaning on a cane opened the door and smiled when he saw me.

“Well, you’re a pretty girl. How can I help you?”

“Do you remember the woman who used to live next door?”

“Lauren? Of course. She was a pretty girl, too.”

“Do you happen to know where she moved to?”

The man held the door open wider. “Come on in. I think I saved her Christmas card from last year.”

I hesitated a moment. I already felt uncomfortable from his comments about my looks. Even though he appeared frail, maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was someone to be afraid of. As soon as I thought it, I felt silly. Twenty-four-hour news coverage on multiple cable channels had made the world seem like a frightening place. It was far more probable that he was a harmless old man, one who could possibly lead me to Lauren. I stepped inside.

“Go, sit down. Make yourself comfortable,” he said. “Want some coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

“I’ll just be a minute.”

The living room looked like it had been decorated in the seventies and never updated. The couch I sat on was frayed along the seams, and the fabric of the two slipcovered chairs looked faded. There was nothing homey about the room, and I suspected he lived alone.

“Found it,” he said as he walked back into the living room. “I always keep the holiday cards, so I know where to send them the next year.” He handed me an envelope. The return address had the name of Walker and listed a street in Philadelphia. I took out my phone and entered the address into a Notes app.

“I really appreciate this, Mr.—”

“Gunderson. Felix Gunderson.”

“Well, thank you again.” I stood up to leave.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like some coffee?” His voice had a pleading tone.

I bet he’s lived by himself for a long time. I bet he’s lonely. I gave him a bright smile. “Sure. I’ll have a cup.”



It was 8:00 p.m. by the time I left Gunderson’s house. Over the half hour I spent nurturing one cup of coffee, I learned his entire life story. I was glad I’d stayed. He’d been retired and widowed for almost a decade, and he needed someone to talk to. But now it was getting late. It would take me a little more than an hour to get to Lauren’s house. As soon as I got into the car, I checked online and came up with a phone number for Lauren Walker in Philadelphia. I dialed it, and a woman answered.

“Lauren? It’s Mallory Holcolm.”

“Mallory! My God, it’s been ages. How are you doing, sweetheart?”

“Good. I’m good. Listen. I need to see you. Is it too late if I get to you around nine-ish?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just need to see you, and I can’t explain over the phone.”

“You have my address?”

I repeated it to her.

“Then, sure. Come over. I’ll be awake.”



At 9:20 p.m., I pulled up to Lauren’s apartment in Center City. I gave my name to the concierge, and he pointed me to the elevators. The door was already open when I reached 12G. I hadn’t seen Lauren since my mom’s funeral three years ago, yet somehow, she seemed even younger than she had then. Maybe it was because she’d dyed her hair a rich auburn, covering up the loose strands of gray that had popped up. Maybe it was because she’d lost some weight, and her tight jeans showed off her figure. Or maybe it was just because she was happy in her new marriage. If so, I was pleased for her. Yet, at the same time it saddened me that I’d never seen my own mother with the glow that radiated from Lauren.