Laura Lippman - Every Secret Thing

It proved to be hard work, opening her veins, but not as hard as it had been all those years ago, when Ronnie had scratched and bitten and clawed through her own flesh. The skin on her wrists reminded her of the almost transparent slices of Parmesan that her mother cut when she was making noodle casseroles. The cheese was so hard on the rind, waxy and hard to remove, yet so fragile once separated.

Finally, the blood began flowing and Ronnie leaned back, arms propped on the ledges of the tub. No one cuts me but me . She smiled at the memory of the shocked look on the detective’s face, her expression so similar to the one Maddy’s mom had worn all those years ago, when Ronnie’s fist hit her chin. It had been a good line.

If only Ronnie had more good lines, more words, better words, words that she could put together so people would understand her, know who she really was. If only she could be like Alice, who was never at a loss for what to say-who, in fact, came to believe everything she said so fiercely that her stories might as well be true. Alice would find a way to discount what Ronnie had told her tonight, would decide it was a lie, or that she hadn’t heard it right. She might come to accept that Helen had given Ronnie the jack-in-the-box, but not on that particular night or for that particular reason. Alice was so good at sweeping away the facts that didn’t fit her version of things. Ronnie saw her back in the cabin, sweeping the floor with a broom she had insisted on lugging there, indifferent to the fact that she was just moving dirt over dirt. And Helen would never admit that the jack-in-the-box was her idea, so-two against one. Even alone with Ronnie, Helen had not spoken directly of the truth that bound them, the secret that only they knew. “Between us” was another way of saying only between us.

Besides, nothing, not even Helen’s private sympathy, could change the central fact of who Ronnie was. She was the girl who had killed a baby. Ronnie, not Alice. She could say “I’m sorry” a million times over, could go to adult prison for the rest of her life, become a nun, work her way up to manage the Bagel Barn, marry and have her own children. She could do anything and everything, but she could not undo her past, despite the promises her doctor had made. It was what she was, all she was, and all she would ever be.

She was getting woozy, and her hair was trailing in the water again, but she no longer cared. Bit by bit, her upper body followed the strands of her hair. Her bath took on a pinkish hue, as if she had been using rose-scented oils. Ronnie wondered if she would fight the water as it came over her face, if she would change her mind at the last minute.

She didn’t.

“The date is wrong.”

“Excuse me?”

“The date. It’s wrong.”

“I think I know the day my daughter was born-October 8. Today. It’s why I’m here. Today is my daughter’s birthday.”

“No, the day she…the day that…the second date. July 17. That was the day she disappeared . But not-well, it’s not exactly right.”

Cynthia Barnes followed Nancy Porter’s tentative finger: July 17, seven years ago. The girl was right. How could such a mistake have been made? She and Warren had brought so much care to the task of burying their daughter. This, after all, would be the only ritual they would plan for her. There had been seemingly endless decisions-picking out a headstone, planning a service, debating the bas-relief lamb and whether it would be over the top to add William Blake’s familiar lines. No poetry, Cynthia had finally decreed. The short span of Olivia’s life was more eloquent than any couplet ever written.

So how had this oversight happened? Was Olivia dead to her parents from the moment she disappeared? Had Cynthia and Warren lost hope, and in doing so, lost their daughter? Cynthia was still not beyond such bouts of self-recrimination.

Which meant, she understood now, that she never would be, that she didn’t really want to be. Forget and forgive, the old adages advised, although most people switched the order, put the forgiveness cart before the forgetting horse. But if you were determined not to forget something, to remember a deed in all its stark horror, then you would have to be a saint to forgive it. Cynthia had never aspired to sainthood.

“It doesn’t really matter,” Nancy said. “It’s just that, well, I can’t help remembering the date.”

You remember for you, Cynthia thought, because it was central to your life. But she no longer availed herself of the privilege of saying whatever she wished. She might not be a saint, but she also wasn’t Sharon Kerpelman, thank God.

“I choose to remember this day.”

“That’s probably for the best,” the detective said, missing Cynthia’s tone. She missed a lot of nuances, this girl. “I was touched you agreed to share this visit with me this year.”

Actually, Cynthia had done no such thing. She had mentioned her plans in the context of an excuse, a reason not to meet with Nancy at all. Again, a more intuitive person would have picked up on the insincerity of the invitation and turned it down.

“You have done a lot for our family, I suppose. I know my daughter is safe, that those girls were not trying to harm her or get to us. And I needed to know that for my peace of mind.”

Nancy nodded. “I can see that. I also can see you usually get what you need, one way or another. Don’t you, Mrs. Barnes?”

Perhaps the girl understood more than she let on.

“What are you trying to suggest, Ms. Porter?” Cynthia never called the young woman anything as formal as “detective.” It wasn’t a real title, like her father’s, or something a person earned with a degree.

“Nothing, nothing at all. I’ve just been thinking about the fact that what appeared to be a coincidence-the missing girl’s resemblance to your daughter-turned out to be anything but.”

“That wasn’t my fault.” Said sharply, swiftly, with the defensiveness of a child. “Helen Manning did that, when she appropriated my child’s likeness for the grandbaby she never knew, never wanted to know, if you ask me.”

“True,” Nancy said. “I don’t think Helen Manning had much desire to be a mother, much less a grandmother.”

“It was a good thing I called, if you think about it.”

“Oh, you’re very good with a telephone.”

There was nothing to say to that.

“Let’s see-” Nancy began ticking off a list on the fingers of her left hand. “You called my sergeant and then you called me, even though I wasn’t even the primary on the case. I figure you called the reporter, too, got her stirred up. Because you didn’t really care if we found the missing child. You just wanted to make sure that everyone knew who Alice and Ronnie were, what they had done. Brittany Little’s disappearance gave you an opportunity you were already looking for.”

Cynthia shrugged, as if the matter was of such insignificance that it didn’t merit comment.

“You even called me.”

“So you said.”

“No, I mean earlier . Those messages on my cell phone, right after Alice was released-those were your handiwork, right?”

“How would I even know your cell phone number?”

“I don’t know. I do know my mom got a call last spring, from a woman organizing a class reunion for Kenwood High School. Potrcurzski, now that’s a name you can find in a phone book-and it’s the name you knew me by, back in the day. My mom gave the caller my cell and my home phone, but I never did get that invite.”

“I was right. In the end, I was right.”

“ Half right,” Nancy said, in a bone-dry tone that Cynthia had to admire.