Honestly, I don’t know. My best guess is that talking about the past has Lenora dreaming about it. Those humdinger nightmares that linger. When she wakes, she thinks they’re real. Just for a moment. And that her sister is with her still.
But saying that would reveal all. A tempting idea. Tell them everything and see what happens. Admit that I’ve been helping Lenora type her story, that Mary did the same thing, and that it’s why I think someone shoved her off the terrace. I don’t because it would also give away Carter’s secrets. Something the nervous ping-ponging of his eyes tells me he wouldn’t like.
“It’s the power of influence,” Mrs. Baker says, answering in my place. “Something in Kit’s body language or the way she spoke our names indicated to Miss Hope it wasn’t the answer she wanted. But the way she mentioned Miss Hope’s sister did. Miss Hope was merely trying to please her.”
Not knowing how to respond, I begin to smooth the skirt of my uniform. My tell. “What are you suggesting?”
“That the culprit is you, dear,” Mrs. Baker says.
“Why would I type this?”
“Attention?” Jessie suggests while shooting a quick glance at Carter she probably doesn’t want me to notice.
I glare at her. “I don’t need anyone’s attention.”
“Then why are we all here?” Mrs. Baker tilts her head, staring directly at me, her blue eyes boring into me like the sunrise. “You’re the one who demanded we all come here so you could show us the words on that page and tell us Miss Hope claims it was her sister. Why go to all that trouble?”
“Because I want whoever did it to stop,” I say. “Please. And stop sneaking into Miss Hope’s room at night.”
Mrs. Baker’s body goes rigid. “Someone’s been doing that?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I did,” I say. “The morning after my first night here. I told you I heard footsteps in Miss Hope’s bedroom and you said it was just the wind. But I heard it again the next night. And saw someone at that window. And watched a shadow pass the door between our rooms. That wasn’t the wind. So it was either one of you or it was Lenora.”
I stare at Mrs. Baker, silently daring her to chastise me for not saying “Miss Hope.” She doesn’t. Instead, she says, “Tell me immediately if it ever happens again.”
Then she leaves, thereby bringing an end to this melodramatic—and ultimately fruitless—household meeting.
Archie is the first to follow her out. Then Carter, who gives me a we-need-to-talk-later look before slipping out the door. Jessie, however, lingers. Remaining on the divan, she says, “Sorry about that. I don’t really think you did it for attention.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Jessie stands, steps closer, touches my arm. “What I mean is that I don’t think you did it at all.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lenora pretending she isn’t paying attention to every single word. Before Jessie can say anything else, I pull her into my room and shut the adjoining door behind us.
“Did you do it?” I ask her. “Did you type it and get Lenora to tell me it was her sister?”
Jessie drifts away from me, toward the bookshelf. “No way. How could you, like, even think that?”
Because she’s done this kind of thing before. In the ballroom. With a Ouija board. Like we’re in a goddamn game of Clue.
“If it was some kind of prank, I’d—”
“I told you it wasn’t me,” Jessie snaps. “How do you know it wasn’t Lenora? She can type, right?”
“Not like this.” I glance at the page in my hand, filled with proper capitalization and punctuation. “And not without help.”
“Maybe she can do more than you think.”
Kenny said the same thing last night. And I thought it myself before that, as I fiddled with the Walkman to see if it could shut itself off.
“Did Mary—” I have no idea how to phrase this without sounding insane. Did she ever say Lenora is stronger than she looks? Did she ever think Lenora’s faking this whole thing? “Did Mary ever say she thought it was possible for Lenora to recover?”
“In what way?”
Walk, I think. Shove. Kill.
“Any way,” I say. “Mentally. Physically.”
“Like, learning to walk again?” Jessie says. “No. She never did.”
“But it’s possible, right?”
Jessie leans against the bookshelf, her hands behind her back. “I was just talking about typing. I didn’t mean for you to think Lenora is running around without telling anyone. Sure, we’ve all heard stories about people suddenly snapping out of a coma or paralyzed people miraculously being able to walk again. So I guess it can happen. But probably not to someone Lenora’s age. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. That kind of thing.”
“But what if this isn’t a case of an old dog learning a new trick?” I say. “What if they’ve known this particular trick since they were young?”
“You think Lenora’s faking this?” Jessie says. “Why would she do that?”
I don’t have an answer other than that Lenora seems to enjoy keeping secrets. She’s been doing it for decades, never telling a soul what she knew about the Hope family massacre until Mary came along. And now, despite all common sense and reason, I can’t shake the feeling that once she revealed her biggest secret to Mary, Lenora decided to take it back.
If such a thing is possible.
“I’m kind of worried about you, Kit,” Jessie says. “You’re acting like Mary.”
“In what way?”
“Um, every way.”
I’d be worried about me, too, if I didn’t know what I do. That someone’s been walking around Lenora’s room. That she’s lied to me repeatedly about who it is. That she turned off a Walkman using a hand everyone thinks she can’t use.
“I’m fine,” I say, even though I’m not.
When Jessie departs, claiming she needs to dust the urns in the downstairs library—a sure sign she wants to get far, far away from me—someone who’s fine wouldn’t transfer Lenora from her wheelchair to the bed.
Someone who’s fine wouldn’t then examine Lenora’s legs and right arm, searching for signs of untapped strength, feeling for muscles tense from disuse.
Someone who’s fine wouldn’t also tickle Lenora’s palm, looking for a twitch, a twinge, a flicker of movement.
I do all those things as Lenora watches me from the bed, more wary than suspicious. I think she knows what I’m up to. If she’s capable of resisting, she shows no sign of it. Her limp right arm is easy to stretch across the mattress, palm up, fingers spread. When she sighs, as if she’s been through this before, I wonder if Mary also tried it.
I wonder if it worked.
I wonder if Lenora then felt the need to make her disappear.
With that in mind, the next logical step would be to try the opposite of tickling—inflict pain, which is more likely to induce a reaction. It would be so easy, too. Grab a syringe and needle from Mary’s medical bag. Jab it into Lenora’s right hand. Watch for the wince.
I shove the thought out of my mind. It goes against everything I’ve been trained to do. I might not trust Lenora right now—and I might be far from fine—but I’m still a caregiver.
So I cross to the desk, grab the sheet of paper I’d found in the typewriter, and read the accusation running from the top of the page to the bottom. I’m so tired that the words begin to blur, the letters rearranging themselves before my very eyes.
It’s all your fault
It’s all Kit’s fault
What they’re saying’s not true, Kit-Kat
I crumple the paper into a ball, take it to the bed, and drop it into Lenora’s open right hand. My hope is her reflexes take over when it hits her palm, the same way we catch something without thinking about it. It just happens. At some point, instinct takes over.
Not in this case. The balled-up paper bounces off Lenora’s palm and onto the floor.
I pick it up and try again.
Then again.
Then I throw it across the room, where it ricochets off the window before rolling into a corner.
I need something heavier. Something Lenora will really feel when it lands in her hand.
I eye the open door between our rooms and the paperbacks that once propped it open but were pushed out of the way when someone (Virginia? Lenora?) pulled it shut. I grab one—Ordinary People by Judith Guest—and hold it spine down a few inches from Lenora’s hand.
I let it drop.
The book stands upright a second before flipping onto its side over Lenora’s thumb and forefinger.
Still nothing.
Because, I realize, it doesn’t matter if she catches it. The book, like the ball of paper, is expendable. Both mean nothing to her. If Lenora’s faking all of this, she’s not going to reveal it without a good reason. To get her to move her right hand—if she can move it—I need to provide a bigger incentive than a wad of paper and a dog-eared book.
I scan the room, considering and dismissing its contents. A hairbrush? Too worthless. A handheld mirror? Too unwieldy. The Walkman? A strong candidate. But it, too, could be replaced.
My gaze lands on the Eiffel Tower snow globe on the sideboard. Stereotypical Paris under glass.