Hannah, stretched out on Lydia’s frilly white bed, props herself up on her elbows. “What are you doing in here?”
“Your mother said it would be okay. I didn’t realize you’d be here, sorry.” I reach for the doorknob to shut the door as I exit.
“You can stay. I don’t mind.” Hannah lays back down. “Sarah doesn’t like to come up here. She thinks it’s creepy. But I like it. I feel as if she’s here. That if I listen hard, she’ll talk to me.”
The room is too warm and airless. Contrary to Hannah’s impression, it seems as though the life has been suctioned out. And yet the Lydia-ness of the space nearly undoes me. Like my room, Lydia’s is mostly pink. Unlike my room, it actually suits her. The frothy white curtains, the rosebud wallpaper, the pink gingham pillows.
“Will you please tell me what she was sick with?” Hannah’s voice seems to glisten with tears. “Mother and Father still won’t talk about it. They say it doesn’t matter now.”
I think of the china tea service downstairs, of the way Mrs. LeVine has been so kind to me. But Hannah’s swimming eyes win. “She had seizures. Lots of them.”
I pace the length of the room, taking it in. Lydia’s knitting basket sits by a rocking chair, all the supplies tucked neatly inside. The armoire drawers are shut tight, as are the dresser drawers. The books are orderly on her bookshelves, alphabetized, spines aligned.
“Did you ever see one? Mother and Tabitha always shooed us out. Said she needed space to recover.”
“I saw two.” I turn from the window to Hannah’s watchful blue eyes. “They were terrifying. You should feel thankful.”
Hannah’s jawline hardens, and she looks back at the ceiling. “I only feel angry. She shouldn’t have been alone. If I had known, I would have walked with her.”
“I wish all the time that I would have.”
“Father’s the one to blame.”
Hannah’s dark words make ice crawl up my back. I look at her. At thirteen, her body is still a girl’s, and there’s a hint of childlike roundness to her face. But her words are sharp like an adult’s. “Why do you say that, Hannah?”
“He cared more about his stupid medical practice than he did Lydia’s health.”
I clamp my teeth over my lower lip, holding in the questions that want to spill out. I need to let Hannah talk.
“I even heard him say that to Mother one night.” Hannah shifts her gaze from the ceiling to me. “That he should’ve sent her to the Mayo Clinic earlier. That he felt guilty and responsible.”
“And what did your mother say?”
“That he wasn’t. But I can’t get over thinking that he was.”
Where was he the night she went missing? I knew what he had told Mariano, of course, but I wanted to hear it verified by his angry daughter. A daughter who had no problems accusing him of caring more about his reputation than his family.
“He called me that night, when she hadn’t come home yet.” I try to make my voice sound casual, conversational. “He was upset.”
“He was.” Hannah wipes at her eyes with the back of her hands. “I was actually there when he called you. He and Mother had been talking in private, and then they called Sarah and me in. They told us what we already knew—that Lydia was sick—and she would be going to Minnesota for a while to try and get healthy. We talked for some time, and then he realized she should have been home by then.”
My focus blurs as I take in Lydia’s view of the back alley. So Dr. LeVine couldn’t have done it. He was with his wife and daughters, one of whom is so angry, she wouldn’t hesitate to point a finger. Relief soaks through me.
I sweep my gaze across Lydia’s desk. Her mementos are all in their normal places—the photograph of her grandmother, a vase full of seashells she collected when her family traveled to Florida, a stuffed bear I gave her back when we were children and she had the flu.
I know I told Mrs. LeVine I wouldn’t touch anything, but I can’t resist picking up the bear and letting the memories sweep over me. My mother had taken me to the toy store to purchase it for Lydia.
“Poor child,” Mother had said on our way. “Father off at war all year long, and now this wretched flu.”
I had been so disappointed that Mrs. LeVine wouldn’t let me give the bear to Lydia myself that I had cried. “It’s because she hates me.”
“No, Pippy.” Mother had cupped my face in her hands. “She doesn’t want you getting sick too. That’s all.”
I put the bear back on Lydia’s desk, eyes pooling from the memory of Mother’s touch.
“Matthew wouldn’t have done it.” Hannah’s words startle me—I had forgotten she was in the room. “He was in love with her.”
She looks at me then, as if waiting. I nod. “He was.”
Despite how her tone had invited no argument, her sigh seems relieved.
I slide open the drawer of Lydia’s desk. Everything seems to be in its place.
“What are you looking for?”
I think about all the ways I could answer Hannah. I decide to go with the truth. “Clues.”