“Of course,” Vi told her. “I can type them up!” Vi had a Smith Corona that Gran had given her for her birthday. She loved the clack of the keys, the clang of the bell when she reached the end of the line, the slight smell of oil and ink.
Gran chuckled. “That’s my girl. Verbal reports will work just fine, Vi. And I’d prefer if Iris didn’t know. When she trusts you, as I know she will, I don’t want to make her question that trust. Do you understand, my love?”
“Yes,” Vi said, nodding, trying to look as serious and grown-up as she knew how.
“One more thing,” Gran said. “I don’t want Iris leaving the house. Not yet. She can go out in the yard, explore the woods with you kids, but nowhere else. Not into town yet. And do not take her over to the Inn.”
“How come?”
“I think it would be too much for her right now. Let’s focus on giving her a safe environment here at home.”
“Okay.”
“And, Vi, it’s a secret that she’s here. No one else can know, for now. Not even Mr. MacDermot.”
Vi frowned. Why keep Iris a secret? But Gran’s face didn’t look like it’d hold answers. Not tonight. So Vi only nodded, said, “Okay.”
A sister.
A secret sister.
When Gran left, Vi turned, looked at her nightstand. At the luminous face of the clock, which slipped from 10:13 to 10:14. The ceramic owl lamp with the glowing eyes, turned off now but still watching her. Beside it was a photo of her parents. Eric had the same one in his room, next to his bed. Gran had another photo in her own bedroom of herself and her husband, both young, standing together, Gran’s belly bulging. Vi loved looking at that picture, knowing her father was in there, waiting to come out, grow up, one day meet a girl named Carolyn, get married, and have Vi and Eric.
Vi gazed at the photo now, lit up orange-red by the digital clock. She looked at her mother, dark-haired and smiling; at her father, handsome as a movie star, his long surgeon’s fingers resting on her mother’s shoulders. She searched their faces, as she did each night, for some trace of recognition, of memory.
She knew the stories by heart, the ones Gran told: how her mother named her Violet because when they first brought her home from the hospital her eyes were such a deep, rich blue, they looked almost purple.
She thought of the accident that had killed them. The accident that she and Eric had somehow survived.
Her father had been driving that night. They were coming down from the mountains, where they spent each summer in a cabin on a lake with water so clear you could see all the way to the bottom, even in the deepest part. You could count the fish beneath you as you swam. Vi had tried and tried to remember that lake, those fish. She’d prayed over and over to the God of Memory, and sometimes she was sure she did remember floating in the water in a little blue life jacket while her mother drifted beside her and shimmering fish swam below.
When she tried to remember the accident, it got all mixed up in her mind. Images of the lake and the fish twisted together with the screeching of tires. The crashing of metal and glass blended with the lapping of waves and her mother’s soft laughter, the feel of the life jacket (or was it the seatbelt?) tight around her, keeping her safe.
When she asked Eric what he remembered about the accident, he always turned from her, tucked himself away like a turtle going into its shell, and said, “Nothing.” He didn’t like to talk about their lives before.
She reached down under the covers now, pulled up her pajama top, ran a finger over her own scars.
And she thought of Iris, of that black line of stitches on her chest.
“Sister,” she said, the word full of recognition and longing. “My sister.”
Lizzy
August 19, 2019
AFTER A TEN-HOUR drive from Louisiana, I unlocked my front door and stepped through into the entryway. It smelled like home: coffee and wood and books.
I’d bought the house—a little run-down cabin just outside of Asheville, North Carolina—ten years ago and had it totally renovated. I was fond of the sparse look of untreated wood, and the walls were paneled with locally milled tongue and groove. The floors were made of reclaimed floorboards from an old tobacco barn. It was a small house—just over a thousand square feet—but it had all I needed and suited me perfectly. There were a lot of windows that overlooked downtown Asheville to the east and the Tennessee mountains to the west. In fifteen minutes I could be downtown, but up here, tucked away on the ridge and surrounded by trees, I felt worlds away.
I set my bag down and went to the basket on the front table. It was piled high with mail and there was a note from my part-time assistant, Frances. She came once a week to assist with email, the website, speaking requests, and basically whatever I needed help with. When I was away, Frances would come by to bring in the mail and make sure the house was still standing. I scanned the note:
Welcome Home!
The Monsters of the Ozarks Conference emailed to confirm travel arrangements and dates (September 28 & 29) and they want to know what AV equipment you’ll need for your presentation.
UC San Francisco wants to know if you’re interested in doing a guest lecture in October (details in email).
Reminder: Your article for Crypto Cryptids is due next Wednesday.
AND… Brian’s called and emailed about a hundred times. He’s threatening to come to Asheville next week to take you to lunch and make you an offer you can’t refuse.
I set down the note and shook my head. Brian Mando was the producer of Monsters Among Us. I’d been one of the three researchers on the series last season, and according to Brian, I was a fan favorite. They wanted me back for next season. Brian also said he had a new idea to pitch to me—a solo show of my very own. He wanted to take the idea to the network. So far, I’d avoided talking to him about the new show and said I wasn’t interested in next season’s Monsters Among Us. I loved doing my podcast, writing blog posts and articles, even lectures and talks. But I’d never been comfortable in front of a camera. The lights, all the people telling me where to go and what to do—it all felt so artificial.
I picked up my bag and carried it up the stairs to the loft where my bedroom was. I unzipped the bag, dumped my dirty clothes into the hamper, and started to repack.
I wanted to move fast, get back on the road as soon as I could. I hoped to be on Chickering Island before noon tomorrow.
My bedroom walls were covered in unfinished tongue and groove and decorated with old monster movie posters: Frankenstein, Bride of Frankenstein, and The Wolf Man. There was a bed, a little table, and a window with a cactus sitting on the sill (the only plant I could keep alive, being away so much). The large skylight above my bed allowed me to go to sleep looking up at the stars. I often thought about the constellations we’d invented when we were kids lying in the backyard: the Hunchback, King Kong, Vampires—a sky full of monsters.
Once I’d repacked, I carried my bag back downstairs.
The house had a tiny but functional kitchen (I wasn’t big on cooking), the single bedroom, a bathroom with an old claw-foot tub, and a big combination living room and office where I spent most of my time. There were more old movie posters hung down here: Dracula with Bela Lugosi, Creature from the Black Lagoon, The Mummy. I’d also put up a poster of Shadow People, the documentary I’d been in two years ago. Brian had sent me a life-size cardboard cutout of myself, Jackson, and Mark—the three researchers in last season’s Monsters Among Us. We stood in the corner of the living room: Jackson holding a flashlight, Mark with his night-vision scope and camera, and me holding a microphone and digital recorder. The pose was very Ghostbusters. At the bottom, beside the title of the show, was the tagline: They’re real and they’re here.