something isn’t right with me. That I’m doing things I have no memory of doing, because the seller on that document is not my mother, it’s me. It says it right there. In 2006, I owned, and sold, my mother’s house to a complete stranger.
I gather the other pieces I can find, carefully separate layers of paper and smooth them out as much as I can, and now I’m wailing like an animal, because Luis said my mother was alive and of course she wasn’t dead, he said. Wouldn’t we know? But he must have known, because this, in my hand, is a piece of her death certificate. And when I look at it again it’s as if the light dims around me and the walls are closing in and I throw it to the floor and push myself away from it as far as I can, and I hit the wall with my back and I’m stuck there, shaking, crying, calling his name and I’m so scared, I’m losing my mind, because the manner of death is Accidental fall on stairs.
The floor is littered with debris and as I scurry around on my hands and knees, blood roaring in my ears, I catch sight of something long and strange and out of place. I pick it up. It’s some kind of tube, partly transparent, with a yellow and white sticker, and at first I think it’s a tube of solder wire, and it’s only when I read the label that I realize what it is.
Epipen.
I haven’t seen this exact type before. It’s different from the ones that you would see today, but that’s what it is, and my heart knocks around in my chest because I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that this belonged to Monica. It falls out of my hand and disappears under the couch. I’m on my knees and I peer underneath. It’s been stopped by something small and shiny, like a button, and I have to extend my arm as far as I can to reach it. I feel it with my fingertips but accidentally nudge it away. I have to use the rod to drag it out, and it slides out, along with the shiny button. Except it’s not a button. It’s a ring. Silver, oddly shaped.
He’s a very interesting metal artist. French.
Forty
My chest feels so tight, even drawing in a breath feels like a burn. I have to calm down. I make myself breathe but it hurts, like a stitch. I close my eyes, my forehead against the steering wheel, the phone pressed hard against my ear and I notice my hand is bleeding.
I press my fingers between my eyes as the call goes to voicemail.
“Luis?” My voice cracks and for a moment I think I can’t do it. I can’t summon the will to pretend that everything is as before, that nothing’s changed. I have discovered nothing. Then I think of my kids and I bend down at the waist, a hand over my mouth covering a silent wail. When I take a breath again, it’s like I’ve come out from under water.
“Luis, it’s me. Are you home yet? I need to talk to you. Will you call me as soon as you get this?”
I hang up, and call June.
Pick up! Pickuppickuppickup…
“Hi! I’m sorry I can’t take your call right now, but please leave a message!”
“June.” My voice is high-pitched with panic. “It’s me. Listen to me very carefully. If Luis comes over to your house, do not answer the door, do you understand? Pretend you’re not there. If you’re home, go out now, as soon as you get this. Go anywhere, go to the mall. Stay out. But under no circumstances should you let him inside your house.”
I hang up and dial again. I do it twice more. I tell myself it doesn’t mean anything that she’s not picking up. June doesn’t know what to think of me right now. I bet she hates me. She’s convinced I killed Isabelle, and maybe even tried to pin it on her. She believes I’m insane and I’m dangerous. Of course she’s not taking my call.
I call Luis’s dad. He answers on the first ring, his voice raspy by decades of smoking.
“Anna, you okay? I heard—”
“Rob. Is Luis there?”
“Luis? No, why? Should he be? I thought Carla and Matti were staying till tomorrow.”
“Listen, Rob. If Luis comes over, don’t let him leave till I get there, all right? Tell him to wait