Lakewood - Megan Giddings Page 0,2

promise. She’s fine.”

Stumbling into their living room, Deziree dumped the contents of her purse on the floor. Dollars, credit cards, lipstick, a mint that looked as if it had already been sucked on and then put back in the cellophane wrap, coins scattered across the wood floors. Deziree looked at the mess for a moment, then fell.

Lena rushed to her side. Her mom propped herself up.

“Smile at me,” Lena said.

“I’m fine.”

“Come on. We both know you didn’t drink that much.”

Deziree gritted her teeth. Lena raised her eyebrows. Deziree rolled her eyes and did a big fake grin.

Lena had her mother lift her arms and repeat the phrase, “Pancakes are better with bananas in them.”

“They said we had to do this every time you fall.”

“You sound just like her.”

Deziree sat up and went to her bedroom. When she returned, she was holding a large envelope that was stuffed to the limits. She tossed it onto Lena’s stomach.

“Can we do this later today?”

But her mother was already in the kitchen, opening drawers and rifling through cabinets as if she had stored secrets among the plates and glasses. Inside the envelope were bills. Insurance statements that looked as if they were all disagreeing with each other about the amount of coverage. Folded-over invoices from the cemetery, the funeral home. Electric and water bills. Some receipts. Deziree came back holding more.

“Have any of these been paid?”

“I don’t know.”

Deziree stooped over the coffee table. She pulled more bills from between the magazines. It felt like an absurd magic trick.

Lena rubbed her eyes and the remnants of her mascara stained her fingertips. She made herself sit up straight.

“There’s more bills I can pull up on my phone.”

Lena felt all the aftershocks of no sleep, the stress of the past months, and now this. She wanted to go to bed and sleep for three days. Instead, she went to the kitchen, found the least green banana she could, poured a glass of water, and pulled out her mom’s pillbox. There were only enough pills in the box until Saturday.

“I’m sorry, Biscuit—” her mom began. Lena handed everything over. “Take these.” Her mom’s eyes were watering. Lena made her mouth soft, adjusted her posture. “I’m not mad, I’m just tired.”

“But—”

“This day has been too long for us to have this conversation right now.” She watched her mother carefully, making sure she swallowed her pills, ate at least half of the banana, drank all the water. Lena squeezed her mother’s hands when they were free, hoped the gesture was reassuring. “Get some sleep and we’ll talk about this in the afternoon.”

Deziree stood up and went to her room. Lena picked up the bills and carried them out to the kitchen table. She organized them into categories: house, medical-Mom, funeral, medical-Grandma. Then she pulled out a pen and her notebook from her backpack. Flipped to her current to-do list: an astronomy test the next day that she still hadn’t studied enough for, a three-hour shift at her work-study job that night, Spanish conversation lunch about going shopping where she was supposed to lead a conversation entirely in Spanish. Thank-you letters to write. Coordinating with Miss Shaunté about Deziree’s home health care schedule. She needed to understand the math to calculate a star’s gravity and its effect on everything around it while it was still living. Figure out summer work.

Lena tapped the pile of bills with her pen, flipped the page, and started a brand-new list.

2

The letter arrived in the mail on the day of Lena’s third job interview. An invitation to participate in a series of research studies about mind, memory, personality, and perception. The Lakewood Project. It offered Lena and her family health insurance if she was selected to be a participant. Also housing and a weekly stipend for qualified applicants. It was addressed specifically to her: Miss Lena Johnson. A signature at the bottom that she couldn’t read. An 800 number to call to schedule an appointment. There was something about it—the lack of details, the thick, expensive paper, maybe just the whole vibe—that made her uncomfortable.

Lena showed the letter to Tanya. “Is this a scam?”

Tanya held the letter up to the light, asked to see the envelope it came in. “I don’t know. I’m not—” She scrunched her nose. “What’s the word for someone who can tell if things are forged?”

“I think they’re called—” Lena took the letter back. “Um, forensic document experts.”

“It’s probably legit. Didn’t Stacy say his brother did these?”

“I can’t remember. I zone out