Chapter 19
19
The look on Sloane’s face when she sees the Rose it looks like she might vomit on the floor.
Sloane nods unconvincingly, head wobbling. Her face isn’t hard to read. She’s wondering if I’ve ever been to the place she used to work—and the answer is yes, I have.
“I’m fine,” she says. “Maybe it’s just the fumes from the hair dye. I do feel a little high.” She gives a little laugh, more high-pitched than normal. “It’s been a while since I was stoned at three in the afternoon. Not since college.”
I laugh like she’s made an incredibly clever joke. “Well then, let’s get out of here,” I say brightly. “Maybe we should go shopping! A new outfit to go with your new hair?” I link my arm through hers, begin pulling her toward the front door.
She smiles back at me weakly. She’s unnerved. Good. But I can’t let her go home. Not yet. Her makeover isn’t done. When I’m finished with her, she’ll look more like me than I do.
“Violet, I—” She starts to protest, but she stops, seeing our side-by-side reflection in a mirror on the wall. Gemini twins, our faces almost interchangeable. We both smile, pleased. For different reasons, obviously.
“You know what,” I say. “I have an even better idea. Come back to my house instead. I have a few things that I think will fit you perfectly. I won’t take no for an answer.”
And I don’t. Thirty minutes later, we’re standing in my bedroom, Sloane in a crocheted Carolina Herrera tank, admiring herself in the full-length closet mirror as I lean against the doorframe. With her new haircut, it’s almost as if I’m looking at myself. It makes me want to dance, leap up and click my heels together. Look what I did, Ma!
“I can’t accept this,” Sloane says, her eyes not leaving the mirror.
“Well, how about if I trade you,” I offer. “The top for your flannel.” I motion to the shirt tied around her waist, even though it’s pushing ninety today. It should have been tossed in the garbage years ago, worn and faded, frayed at the cuffs, but she wears it everywhere—and I want it.
Sloane raises her eyebrows. “You want this ?” she asks incredulously, holding up an arm of the shirt. “In exchange for Carolina Herrera?”
I laugh. It is an absurd trade, if you didn’t know why I wanted it. “I have two others just like it. But no flannel. What can I say, I like your style. So is that a yes?”
“Obviously.” She unties it and hands it to me.
I take it from her, surprised at how easy this is, then motion around my closet. “Is there anything else you like? I have too many clothes. Way too many. I’ve actually been meaning to do a purge.” Sloane looks at me skeptically. “Come on, a new pair of jeans, maybe?” I say teasingly, pointing to the gaping holes in the knees of hers.
“What’s wrong with these?” Sloane jokes. “Jeans from two thousand five must be considered vintage, right? I thought holes were in!”
“Eh,” I wheedle. “Holes are in, caverns are not. Plus, they’re a little big on you.” I cock my head. “Have you lost weight? You look great. Despite the pants.”
Sloane blushes, oblivious that she has me to thank for it. When we met, she was a little heavier than I was; not by much, ten or fifteen pounds, maybe. To close the gap, I started increasing my portions, but I also invited her on as many walks as I could, briskly setting the pace, asked her to piggyback Harper around the park, introduced her to yoga. It’s worked. I’ve noticed most of her pants have been a little looser, sagging around the waist, in the thighs. Her already-too-big T-shirts have become baggier, so I haven’t quite been able to tell how much weight she’s lost—until now.
“Here.” I reach into my closet and hand her a pair of dark denim. “Try these on. And this…” I turn around, grab a high-necked Trina Turk blouse off the rack, shove it into her hands.
Sloane spends the next hour wriggling in and out of my clothing. I clap excitedly when something fits as she poses for me in the mirror. There’s a growing stack of shirts, dresses, and pants that I’ve insisted are now hers. I’m glad to see them go; they’re beautiful and expensive, what I should want to wear, what I look good in, but none of it is me. I hate all of it. I’d like to put a match to the whole closet, but if I can’t, giving it to Sloane is the second-best thing.
When she finally leaves, it’s in an entirely new outfit—fitted, high-waisted jeans and the Carolina Hererra she first tried on. She’s also carrying a full shopping bag of clothes, stuffed to the brim. At my insistence, the clothes she arrived in are folded in a pile on top of my dresser. I offered to donate them along with a bag of things Harper has outgrown later this week. It wasn’t anything special, just a threadbare T-shirt and old jeans, worn-out from too many wears, but she’d hesitated when she’d handed them over. Then she let go. We both had smiled at her reluctance, then at her concession. What she doesn’t know is that instead of donating them, I’ll put the pile in my dresser.
I watch as she disappears down the sidewalk. From behind, you wouldn’t know that she wasn’t me. When she’s out of sight, I ease the door shut and check the time. Four thirty. Harper won’t be home until six. And Jay is on a work trip; he isn’t coming home until tomorrow. Although never would be too soon.
I cross the living room into the kitchen and grab a step stool to reach the cupboard above the fridge, carefully taking out a bottle of Grey Goose from behind some extra paper towel rolls. I pour it over ice, the cubes cracking as the glass fills, then top it off with a squeeze of lemon.
I take the drink back into the living room and settle onto the couch. The vodka is cold and smooth. I smile. This whole thing is almost funny, Sloane and I lying to each other. She doesn’t drink? Oh my god, neither do I! Her dad is from Philly? What a coincidence, mine, too! Big Taylor Swift fan? Well, come on, who isn’t?
This whole time she thought she lied her way into our lives, but the truth is, I lied my way into hers.
Here’s what happened. A year ago, when I was walking Harper into Mockingbird one morning, I overheard a group of moms gossiping in the schoolyard. We were still new to the preschool, Harper and I, both of us hesitant at drop-off, me smiling awkwardly at the other parents, her tightly holding my hand as we approached the play yard. We looked like we belonged—me in a Marni midi, Harper in a Pepa London pinafore, both gifts from Jay—but we didn’t, not yet.
“I still can’t believe it,” one of the moms was saying vehemently—and loudly—“she was in my apartment. In my clothes.” A redheaded woman stood in a small circle of wide-eyed mothers, her voice carrying across the blacktop. She had sharp, fine features, porcelain skin. Her arms were wrapped around herself, hugging tightly.
She looked up as she said this last bit, about someone being in her clothes, and our eyes connected. The other women turned, too, saw me staring.
“A former teacher,” she said, raising her voice slightly as an invitation for me to join the conversation. I took a step closer to the circle. Then to Harper, I motioned, go play, darling . The women parted, opening themselves to me. “I’m Allison,” the redhead said, touching her hand to her chest lightly. One by one, the other mothers introduced themselves as well, offering their hands in delicate handshakes. “Violet,” I said, over and over again, smiling politely at each woman.
They were desperate to share the story with someone new, all of them, about how, a few months ago, one of the preschool teachers had become obsessed with Allison. She had found her one evening in her closet, dressed in one of her formal dresses—a Jason Wu, if you can believe—her hair dyed the same shade of auburn as Allison’s. Allison shuddered at the retelling. “I let her watch my children ,” she said, shaking her head. All of the other moms tsked, murmuring unintelligible noises of dismay.
“It was so unsettling. I think she wanted to be me,” Allison said in a low, hushed voice.
I stifled a laugh at the melodramatic delivery. It sounded like an overreaction. It made me think of when I babysat for my next-door neighbors when I was in high school. When the kids were asleep, I’d sneak into the parents’ room and experiment with the mom’s makeup, try on her expensive jewelry, diamond earrings, emerald rings. I’d thought it was something everyone did when they were alone in someone else’s house. But I’d been fourteen, not a teacher at a preschool. So I arranged my face in an expression of distaste and mimicked the concerned sounds of the other mothers.
I didn’t think of the teacher until a few months later, after the night my world exploded, shrapnel flying, leaving me pulverized and desperate, when I was lying in bed at three in the morning, moonlight streaming through our bedroom window. Jay was down the hall in his office. I could hear his snores through the walls. I wasn’t sleeping at all. How could I, rage in my heart and in my bones?
Allison’s words rang in my head. I think she wanted to be me . I imagined the teacher as a younger version of Allison, clear, pale skin, waify, her long hair dyed a shocking red. Maybe she’d gotten bored one night, decided to play dress-up; the hair could have been a coincidence. Or maybe Allison was right. Maybe she’d crossed a line, admiration turning into something else. Something darker. It gave me an idea. A late-night, pitch-black idea.
I picked up my phone and started sifting through archived newsletters on Mockingbird’s website. I found what I was looking for quickly: an article announcing a new preschool teacher, starting midyear. The last line read: Former teacher Sloane Caraway will not be returning. I googled Sloane Caraway and found her picture easily. She looked nothing like Allison: light brown hair, a heart-shaped face, a strong nose, not unlike my own. Not particularly pretty, but not unpretty, either.
I stared at her face on my phone, the tint of the screen lighting up the room. She looked so ordinary . I wanted to know more. It didn’t take me long to discover she was working in a day spa in the next borough over, her picture on the About Us section of the spa’s website. From there, I found her Instagram, her TikTok. When I finally fell asleep, I was still scrolling through her pictures, my phone lying on my chest when I woke the next morning.
After I dropped Harper off at school, I found myself heading in the direction of the spa. I slowed as I neared. Instead of continuing past, I stopped, peering through the large front glass window. Past the reception desk I could see a row of pedicure chairs against the left-hand wall. And there she was, in the flesh, bent over someone’s feet, carefully applying polish to each nail.
Finally, she looked up, over at the manicurist next to her, her whole face visible. I almost snorted thinking about Allison’s claim. They couldn’t look less alike. But—I realized with pleasure—even though she didn’t look like Allison, she did look a little like me. A similar profile, the same color complexion, though hers flecked with acne. My hair was darker than hers, and she was a little heavier than me, wore glasses, but the resemblance was there. My fury-fueled idea might work.
Then I shook my head, turned, and started back toward our brownstone. No, it’s crazy , I thought as I walked away, it would never work , but then, in the next moment— Maybe it could .
I returned to the spa the next day, and the next. The day after that I followed her home. I followed her everywhere until I knew her schedule, when she took her breaks, the little corner park where she took them, the patch of grass where she lay down and opened her books.
And then, on a whim, I sent Jay to the same park with Harper, telling him it was her new favorite, hoping Sloane would be there, hoping she’d notice him. It wasn’t a stretch; everyone notices Jay. If I was lucky, she’d find a way to talk to him. Women often do, especially since he no longer wears his wedding ring. And Jay always welcomes the attention; he isn’t particularly discerning. If Sloane approached him, he’d engage, his ego pulsing, ready for stroking.
If a chance run-in with Jay didn’t happen, I planned on taking Harper to the park the next week and finding a reason to introduce myself, accidentally bumping into her while playing tag with Harper or tripping over one of her shoes, which she always left kicked off beside her in the grass, but I thought Jay was clever bait. At the least, he’d catch her eye. Then I could say, You might have seen my husband here? He’s tall, dark hair? Her eyes would light up, and suddenly, I’d be interesting to her. And that’s all I needed.
I’d followed Jay and Harper to the park, settled onto a corner bench, my hair tied under a scarf with big Breakfast at Tiffany’s glasses on in case anyone looked my way. Sloane was where she always was: on the grass, reading a book. When I saw her glancing around, her eyes landing on Jay, I grinned to myself. When she didn’t speak to him, I gave Harper a handful of M&M’S to ask Jay to take her back the following day, and the next. Instead of reading her book, Sloane watched them while I watched her.
I was there, too, when Harper stepped on the bee. I didn’t know exactly what happened, only that she started screaming. It took everything in me not to rush over and scoop her up. I might have, too, if Sloane hadn’t reached her first. As soon as Harper stopped crying, I went home. I wanted to be there when they got back, eager to hear about the interaction.
“I got stung!” Harper announced as soon as she’d walked through the front door. She raised her foot in the air to show me. I pulled her into my lap, carefully examined the welt, then kissed it until Harper dissolved into giggles. “Want a Band-Aid, baby?” I asked. “I got new Minnie ones.”
“A nurse helped us,” Jay said to me as I stood up, Harper still in my arms.
“A nurse?” I’d looked at him, puzzled. Had Sloane told him she was a nurse? I must have sounded funny because Jay gave me a strange look. “I mean, how did you find a nurse?” I said quickly. “That was lucky.”
He shrugged. “She said her name was Caitlin. She was nice.”
What a liar , I thought. And that’s when I decided my plan might actually work.
“I’ll look for her the next time we go,” I said. “So I can thank her for helping out.” And the rest is history, as they say.
I drain my glass, feeling the alcohol spread through me. I smile. I’ve been waiting a long time for this day, Sloane in my clothes, my makeup, my haircut and color. Sloane as me. I debate pouring another drink to celebrate, but I decide against it. It’s not worth the risk. Instead, I take my glass into the kitchen, wash and dry it, put it back into the cabinet where I found it. Me, drink? Never!