“We were friends in fourth grade,” Meredith said.
“Were you? I didn’t realize that.”
“For a little while,” she said. She did not say, “for an afternoon.” “I don’t think she was really all that different than she was then. She was just, you know . . . she was just what she had to be. She was just what she was, what the world made her, like everybody.”
“She had a mother who loved her. And friends who loved her.”
“Yeah,” Meredith said.
Here was something she knew. She knew that Lisa’s words—the things Lisa had told her at the apartment—weren’t really Lisa’s words. She knew those were words she had given to Lisa, guesses, maybe good guesses, but guesses. She knew that Lisa’s only words to her, maybe since that day in the cafeteria when Lisa had told her she had a big butt, were the ones Lisa had said on the floor in the Deli Barn. She had been holding onto those words, selfishly, desperately, for months. They were probably the words that had made all the other words happen.
“I need to go to the Bellows’,” she said, looking up at her mother. “I need to talk to Mrs. Bellow. I need to tell her something.”
“What is it?”
“It’s something,” Meredith said. She considered before going forward. “It’s something private.”
She was fairly certain this would not fly with her mother, not after everything that had happened. She had not been back to the Bellows’ house or seen Mrs. Bellow since her mother had come for her that morning, although she knew that Mrs. Bellow sometimes called, and that her mother sometimes talked with her.
“Are you sure?” her mother said.
“Sure that it’s private or sure that I need to tell her?”
“Both, I guess.”
“I’m sure.”
“Then it sounds like you should do it. I could take you there after school.”
“Do I have to go to school?”
“Yeah,” her mother said. “I think so.”
?
Meredith walked through the falling snow up to the Bellows’ front door. It was one of those light, powdery snows that melted almost as soon as it landed, the kind of snow that parents loved and kids hated. The stone path to the Bellows’ door was dusted white. Meredith rang the doorbell and a moment later a man answered. Meredith had never seen him before, but she assumed this was Mrs. Bellow’s boyfriend, the one Lisa had called lame. He was balding and wore a sweater with a Christmas tree on it. It was a lame sweater to be sure.
“Is Mrs. Bellow here?” she asked.
“She is,” he said. “Just a sec.”
He left her standing on the porch, which was fine with her. After a moment a little girl, maybe eight years old, ran past the storm door and stopped when she saw a person on the other side. The girl had a long ponytail and wore a black T-shirt that said “Oh No You Didn’t!” that Meredith was 99 percent sure had once belonged to Lisa. The girl looked left and right and then, apparently confident she would not be seen, did a little hula dance, pushing out boobs she did not have, and then laughed and ran off. A moment later Mrs. Bellow came to the door and opened it.
“Meredith, come in! I can’t believe he left you in the cold.”
“It’s fine,” she said. “I’m just here for a minute.”
She did not want to go into the house. She knew that for sure. She saw Mrs. Bellow realize this, but Mrs. Bellow didn’t have any shoes on so she slid on the man’s brown loafers that were beside the door and stepped out onto the porch. She was coatless and crossed her arms against the chill.
“How are you?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” Meredith said.
“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Mrs. Bellow said. “I’ve been—”
“I’ve been really busy,” Meredith said. “And we’re getting ready to go away for Christmas tomorrow, to my grandparents’.”
“Oh, that sounds nice. Where are they?”
“Kansas City,” Meredith said. She felt her nerves crumbling. It had been a mistake, coming here. It was not too late to back out, to say Merry Christmas, to keep her treasure to herself.
“That’s a long trip,” Mrs. Bellow said. “You guys don’t drive?”
“We do,” Meredith said. “Always. We always drive.”
“That must take—”
“I have to tell you something,” Meredith said. The words tumbled out before she could stop them. “I mean, I wanted to tell you something. I wanted to come today so I could tell you something.”
“I’m sorry about that night,” Mrs. Bellow said. “I tried to call afterward but—”
“It’s not about that,” Meredith said. “It’s about Lisa.”
Mrs. Bellow pressed her lips together. It was probably the wrong thing to say. “It’s about Lisa.” How could anything good ever follow those words again? The next time Mrs. Bellow heard those words would probably be from a policeman, and his face would be stone and his hand would be on her arm.
“It’s about that day,” she said. “The day it happened. I wanted to tell you something because I didn’t tell you before. I didn’t tell anybody. It’s just a little thing but I kept it to myself because . . . I don’t know why. I just—”
“What is it?” Mrs. Bellow asked.
The man appeared behind her at the door, then moved away.
“At first,” Meredith said. “When it first happened, Lisa was really scared. She was crying. I wasn’t scared at all. I mean, I guess I was, but I was in shock or whatever, so I didn’t actually feel scared. I was just kind of in a daze or something.”
She looked up. Mrs. Bellow was just staring at her, waiting for her to go on.
“But then I got scared. I got really scared because I thought he was going to shoot me. I was sure of it, actually. But then Lisa stopped being scared.”
“Why?” Mrs. Bellow asked.
“I don’t know,” Meredith said. “But I could tell she wasn’t scared anymore. I was looking right at her. She was like six inches from me. She stopped crying and she looked just like herself, just like always. We were just lying there and I was so scared and she wasn’t, not anymore. And then she said something. She told me it was going to be okay. She said, ‘It’s okay Meredith. It’s going to be okay.’ That was what she said to me. She almost smiled, even. And then right after that was when . . . was when she had to leave.”
“That was the last thing?” Mrs. Bellow said.
“Yeah,” Meredith said. “That was the last thing.”
A gust of wind sent snowflakes swirling against the storm door. The door was warm from the heat of the house, and the flakes vanished on contact.
“I wanted you to know she said that,” Meredith said. “I think about it a lot, but I didn’t ever tell anybody. I didn’t think it would make any difference. But I wanted to tell you now. Because I think she would want me to tell you.” She paused. The neighborhood was silent in the snow. “Actually, I know she would want me to tell you,” she added quickly.