“You need anything? Everything go okay at work today? The members got back from their retreat, yeah?”
She pauses. She really wants to talk with him—not only about seeing Peter, but also the “go back to nursing” note she received. Rose’s comment about the lost girls, which keeps bobbing to the surface of Taylor’s mind. And maybe, just maybe, about Vivian. Sam still has no idea the woman even exists. But he’s standing there with that silly grin on his face, his thoughts clearly drifting to the man waiting inside his apartment. So she says, “Yeah, everything’s fine. Y’all have fun.”
“Thanks.”
He’s happy, so she should be happy for him. And she is, but she’s also jealous. No—that’s not the right word. She’s something; what is it?
Lonely.She’s lonely.
No—that’s not it either. She’s not lonely, she’salone.
It’s not a bad sensation; it’s not a good sensation, either. It’s a familiar one, if anything.
After her mom left, Taylor spent hours, weeks—years—of her childhood alone. At her dad’s restaurant, in his office, she’d pore over fashion magazines that his waitstaff brought, once they realized how much she liked them. She’d cut out pictures of beautiful models wearing beautiful clothes, just like her mom. She’d build collage after collage of fancy people and fancy houses, taping up the busy posterboards around her room until there wasn’t any wall space left. Until the alone feeling was neutralized, like a positive ion meeting its negative counterpart.
Now, settling into her bed, Taylor opens up a fashion podcast and closes her eyes. Sinking into the alone.
But then her phone pings with a text. Taylor checks to see who it’s from: Aunt Gigi. Her aunt has finally decided to respond to Taylor’s reveal that she’s working at the Knox.
T.J., we need to talk. It’s very important.
Taylor ignores the text.
Aunt Gigi sends another.
I’m heading back now from a nursing conference in Orlando. Let’s plan to meet up tomorrow afternoon. Bc the following day I leave for another conference. See you tomorrow, then?
Taylor sighs, and then “likes” her aunt’s message. She knows she’ll have to face the music with Aunt Gigi eventually.
Speaking of aunts…something is nudging at Taylor’s memory.
This is for the bad Aunt Emma,the woman who spat on her outside the Knox had said.
Almost impulsively, Taylor types “Aunt Emma” into her phone’s browser search bar. When the results appear, she’s puzzled. “Aunt Emma” is slang for opium. Weird. Maybe Taylor misheard the woman.
She then opens her emails, scrolls through. Bill, advertisement, spam. Repeat. No wonder she doesn’t check her email more often. But then, something catches her eye. An email from [email protected], with the subject “Death Certificate Order.”
We have been unable to locate a death record for Vivian Lawrence in the past twelve months. There is nothing currently on file either at the State Registry of Vital Records or at BostonCity Hall. Is it possible she could be listed under a different name?
L. Weber
Massachusetts Document Retrieval
Taylor inhales sharply. So Vivianisalive?
But her elation is quickly followed by worry—and more questions. If Vivian’s alive, thenwhereis she? Why hasn’t she come back to claim her antiques store? Her apartment? Her life?
Taylor opens a new search tab and types, like she has many times before, “Vivian Lawrence.” No new results. She tries adding combinations like “Beacon Hill” and “antiques.” Nothing relevant. “Boston neighborhood AND Vivian Lawrence.” Nothing. Taylor taps her finger, thinking. On a whim, she opens her Nextdoor neighborhood app on her phone. She searches for “Vivian Lawrence,” and bingo! She gets a hit. She clicks on Vivian’s blank profile photo. There’s only one post: Vivian Lawrence just joined Beacon Hill (Front and Flats).
The post is from five days earlier.
Vivian
Present Day
The series of loud clangs that interrupt the silence begins to occur with regularity. It’s a tune of sorts, Vivian realizes one day with a start. She quickly grows tired of it. Vivian doesn’t like to rewatch a movie she’s seen, let alone listen to a song on repeat.
But something about the sound tugs at her subconscious, like an impatient child vying for her mother’s attention. And then it comes to her: It’s the church bells from King’s Chapel Parish House in Beacon Hill. They ring each day at noon. She hears them from her storefront; they serve as her daily reminder to eat lunch.
