“I’ll be right back.”
When he’s gone, I page through Evelyn’s notes. Is there something inside Andrew didn’t want me to see?
Florence is reluctant to open up to me,she wrote.
Florence appears to be sober,she wrote.No signs of withdrawal since her arrival.
Further proof: My mother was sober when she arrived.
Despite her reputation for anger, Florence strikes me as terribly sad.
The notes are neat and concise, but hardly revelatory. Georgia was a widow whose career had soured and whose sick daughter barely spoke to her. You don’t need to be an expert to notice she was sad. (Then again, I never noticed at the time.)
I set Evelyn’s notes aside and open my mother’s notebook instead, turning to the last page first. Adrenaline flutters through me at the sight of Georgia’s nearly illegible but unmistakable scrawl. Across the top of the page is the title “The Good Mother.” The preceding page is labeled, “For Andrew.”
These aren’t diary entries like the notebook I found, but songs. I recall the nonsense phrases in between entries of her sober diary—they were, I realize now, snippets of lyrics.
I’d thought she stopped that kind of writing. By the time she’d died, it’d been years since she’d recorded a single song, let alone an album.
I turn another page and see a song titled “Imposter Syndrome.” I find myself humming along with the lyrics. The words in the notebook are slightly different from the ones I know by heart.
Was the tower his prison, or the wide world outside?
Was he looking for a rescue
Or another place to crawl inside?
Would he always be searching for somewhere that felt like home?
Some place he could be himself, unafraid to be alone?
No longer afflicted with Imposter Syndrome.
Andrew Rush’s one-hit wonder.
59Lord Edward
My phone is vibrating in my pocket.
I open my eyes.
That unknown number again. Some intrepid journalist—if you can call them journalists—digging for dirt. Haven’t they learned yet that I know better than to pick up? The snow continues to accumulate around me, but now I’m wide awake, cold and restless.
I push myself up to sit. The ground is wet, soaking my jeans and gloves as I shift onto all fours. I take a deep breath, concentrating on the pressure where my prosthesis meets what remains of my leg as I stand.
I resume my limping hike toward the structure at the edge of the property. I follow the path Amelia and I took days ago until I make out cedar shingles and a slate roof.
The front door is open, giving the house the look of a mouth that’s missing a tooth. I recall the story of Hansel and Gretel, the charming cottage in the woods where wandering children met their doom.
But this house doesn’t smell like ginger and sweets. As I cross the threshold, I smell rot: There’s dirty food strewn across the kitchen counter alongside open bottles of wine left to turn sour. If there is a witch here, she isn’t interested in luring children close with promises of lollipops and cookies. My winter boots crunch over broken glass scattered with drops of blood.
What the hell am I walking into?
60Amelia Blue
I hear Andrew’s footsteps, heavy on the hardwood floors like an alarm signaling his return, so I tuck my mother’s notebook into the waistband of my leggings, hiding it beneath my bulky sweater.
There were always rumors that my father wrote Georgia’s biggest hits for her. It wasn’t hard to believe. After he died, she didn’t release any more albums.
