Chapter Fifty-Two. Melanie
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
MELANIE
Hannah, Olivia, and I follow Mrs. Whitmore down the narrow hallway to the kitchen.
The green floral wallpaper is covered with pictures of Ingrid and Isabelle, filling almost every inch of wall space.
As we pass the stairs, I glance up to see the pictures running backward through time, each step up the stairs another year erased.
They must lead up to Isabelle’s room, the place she grew up and grew out of, until the day she disappeared.
I think of Mrs. Whitmore climbing these stairs over the past twenty-five years, rewinding, watching her daughters grow younger.
I wonder if the pictures play like movies in her mind, the sound of their laughter, the smell of the ocean.
Outside, we ran into Mr. Whitmore, all bundled up and covering his flower beds. Supposed to be something else come this weekend, he’d said.
My dad used to talk about the blizzard back in eighty-five. Said it took them a week to clear the county roads, I said.
We stood on the porch while he went inside to check on his wife, to make sure she was fit for company. Fifteen minutes later, she answered the door in a quilted housecoat, but she’d put on her makeup and jewelry.
I notice that she’s moving slower, and as she walks, she leans on the chair tops to maintain balance as she makes her way around the table.
“I brought cards.” I hold them up with a small smile, hoping to coax one from her in return.
“Oho,” Mrs. Whitmore chuckles. “I don’t know that I’m up for that today, dear.” She uses the table for support as she lowers herself down into a chair.
I take the seat beside her and open the Tupperware. “Banana muffins?”
“Any nuts? My mother used to always make banana bread with walnuts. But Iggy’s allergic.” I watch as she pinches the muffin’s top with two fingers, then places the soft, sweet bread into her mouth. Even though she’s feeling nauseous, she’s put on lipstick and doesn’t want to be impolite.
“No nuts,” I say. “I use chocolate chips. Is Iggy here?”
Mrs. Whitmore swats the air. “You know Iggy. She always has an errand.”
Cat asked me once how I do it, spend my time with sick and dying people every day.
Isn’t it depressing? It’s sad sometimes, sure.
I meet a lot of people toward the end of their life, spend a lot of days saying goodbye to people I’ve grown to care about.
They’re dying whether I’m there or not, I told her.
I’d rather be there to help. I like keeping them company, bringing them little tidbits of happiness, stepping in when their loved ones can’t bear it.
I’m weak in a lot of areas in my life, but I’m strong enough when facing death.
I was the one who found Oma Greta dead in her bed, after she’d slipped away peacefully in the night, and that is exactly how it had felt the minute I saw her lying there, eyes closed and still.
I hadn’t, even for an instant, thought she was sleeping.
I felt distinctly that she had slipped out of her body, like in the Bible when we are told that our bodies are just jars of clay, just vessels for our souls.
“These are cool,” Olivia says, peering into a curio cabinet filled with porcelain figurines, Victorian women in blooming, frilled dresses holding parasols, put together in that high society way of the time.
“Aren’t they pretty? Those are my Avon dolls,” Mrs. Whitmore says.
“I used to collect them. See that one in the yellow jacket with the matching hat? I got her for earning the President’s Club Award one year.
Oh, that was forever ago. I just loved her little pearls and the roses on her dress.
” She flutters her fingers over the neckline of her housecoat, where the flowers would be.
“You know I had roses like that on my dress when I was in Miss Lone Star.”
“You mean when you won Miss Lone Star,” I correct.
“Oh,” Mrs. Whitmore says, playing at modesty, but I see her little shimmy of pride.
“Mrs. Whitmore,” Hannah asks, “do you have any pictures from the pageant?”
“Hanging upstairs in the hallway, over by my bedroom. Go on up, it’s all the way in the back. I keep them there, so Jim doesn’t forget what a catch I was.”
The girls run off. We can hear a flutter of laughter, their voices carrying lightly down the stairs. Mrs. Whitmore tilts her head, eyes drifting closed for a moment as she takes a deep breath and lets out a slow sigh. I wonder if she’s remembering a time when it was her two girls giggling up there.
There are some memories that I only allow myself to return to every so often.
The time my Oma Greta sewed me an exact replica of Cinderella’s silver-blue ball gown, way back when I barely came up to her hip.
It took her nearly a month to stitch it together, staying up late, cutting patterns with crackling paper attached.
I’m beautiful, I’d said, when she slipped it over my head, even though there was no mirror in Oma Greta’s room.
I didn’t need one. I could see my beauty reflected in her eyes.
Memories like that are too perfect, too precious to withstand everyday wear and tear.
They are like the good china, only to be brought out on special occasions.
And then, when I’ve given myself permission, I can slip into the memory, feel the satin around my ankles, fill up with the warmth of being cherished.
The details are sharp because I haven’t worn away their edges.
I wonder how often Mrs. Whitmore must think of Isabelle.
Of her treasure box of memories with her.
I wonder whether she has worn them all out.
Isabelle was only seventeen. Same age as our girls now, Cat said the other day, as if I wasn’t already perfectly aware.
As if I didn’t think about it every time I checked Mrs. Whitmore’s temperature or played canasta.
What it must be like for her. What it would do to me if I ever lost Hannah. The thought alone scoops me empty.
I look to the Avon dolls, to their pretty painted exteriors. Mrs. Whitmore is like one of her figurines. Behind her pleasantries, the hellos and how-do-you-dos of everyday life, behind the teased hair and makeup, her insides are surely hollow.
While she picks at the muffin and I make her a cup of hot cocoa, she tells me that they’re looking forward to finally being able to have a service for Isabelle.
“Are they even sure it’s her?” I ask, setting down the cup in front of her, the spoon to the side. “I mean, have they had time to—”
“It’s her,” Mrs. Whitmore says, firmly. “The items they found in the cave belonged to her.”
I sit back down.
“You know those stories you hear?” she says, pausing to sip her cocoa.
“The one-in-a-million stories. The girl who’s kidnapped and held captive for a decade before escaping and being reunited with her family.
Every few years, you hear a new one. Jaycee Dugard, held captive for eighteen years.
Or those girls in Ohio, the ones they found in that house… ” she trails off.
“It’s amazing what people can endure,” I say.
“I always hated myself for hating those stories. Deep down I knew my Izzy was gone, but those stories wouldn’t let her die.” Mrs. Whitmore smiles sadly. I expect her to cry, but she doesn’t. I put a hand over hers. It’s frail and cold.
Looking at Mrs. Whitmore now, a calm relief settles on her face. No more stories to tease her. And I realize that the real cruelty of it all was not knowing.
The girls come back down, peppering Mrs. Whitmore with compliments, with questions about the pageant fifty years ago, what her talent was, if she still remembers the opening dance sequence.
I snap the lid on the Tupperware and tuck the remaining muffins into a corner of the cabinet, refill Mrs. Whitmore’s water bottle and get her situated comfortably in a recliner in the living room with a book on her lap.
The girls climb into the back seat of the minivan, and we wave goodbye to Mr. Whitmore, who is moving potted plants into the garage now.
It is only then that I let myself feel the full weight of Mrs. Whitmore’s prolonged pain. It presses down on me, and it’s worse than death, cracking hairline fractures deep into my own happy porcelain veneer.