“You’ve never been particularly modest, either,” Mary continued. “Unless you’ve got some new bruises you don’t want me to see.”
That startled Susan into turning around. “New bruises?”
“Check your arm. The old ones are probably faded by now, but there may be new ones.”
Susan slid off the chenille bathrobe and surveyed her right arm. It was smooth and soft, without the firm muscle tone she was used to.
“The other arm,” Mary said patiently.
They were fading now, a yellowish-purple memory on her upper arm. She stared down at the bruises in surprise. It would have taken a fair amount of force to leave that kind of mark on her.
“How did it happen?” she asked.
“You told me you walked into a door.”
“But how could a door do that?”
“Exactly,” Mary said. “So why don’t you remember? I don’t think you even know who I am.”
“Of course I do. You’re Mary Abbott, you’re nine years old, born April 25, 1940, and you’re my...sister.” She barely hesitated.
Mary, with her precocious face, looked far from convinced. “He hit you, didn’t he? Is he the reason you don’t remember anything?”
“He didn’t touch me!” Susan protested hotly. “He was just sitting by the window, smoking, when I woke up and?—”
“I’m not talking about Jack. Jack would never hit a woman, though he might be tempted. I’m talking about Neddie. He’s the one who left those bruises on your arm, and it’s not the first time he’s done it. I can understand your lying to Daddy, but you don’t need to keep it from me.”
“Why would I lie to Daddy?”
“Because this marriage is too important for the family, and you know it Daddy made a lot of money during the war, but it was all with Neddie’s help. And things haven’t been so good lately—I’ve heard Mummy and Daddy fighting about it If you marry Neddie the business partnership goes through, and they’ll build all those little boxy houses in all the poorer towns of Connecticut New York and New Jersey. And the Abbotts will be very rich once more, and everyone will live happily ever after. Except poor Lou, who should have run when she had the chance.”
Susan pulled the maroon dress over her head, searching and finally finding the zipper on the side of the dress, under her arm. She zipped it then sat back down at the cluttered dressing table and stared in the mirror. Mary Abbott was reflected behind her, young and old at the same time, mother and sister, child and parent.
She turned to face her. “Do you trust me, Mary?”
“Yes.”
“Then will you help me?”
“Help you get away from Neddie? Absolutely.”
Susan shook her head. “I don’t know if that’s what I’m supposed to do. If that’s the lesson I need to learn. I’m here for a reason, and I haven’t the faintest idea what that reason is.”
“You’re here because you were born here,” Mary said flatly.
Susan shook her head. “No, I wasn’t I was born twenty years from now. I’m not Tallulah Abbott I’m her niece, Susan, and somehow I’ve gotten trapped inside her body.”
Mary didn’t say a word. She just looked at her for a long, solemn moment, then shook her head. “You expect me to believe that?”
“No.”
Mary came up to her and put her small hands on Susan’s face, cupping it as she looked deeply into her eyes. It was the strangest sensation—Susan had felt that loving touch, that gentle gaze many times in her life, but this time the hands were a child’s hands, the eyes that looked into hers were innocent.
They stared at each other for a long, silent moment and then Mary spoke. “If you’re Lou’s niece that would make you my daughter.”
Knowing how absurd it would sound, Susan shut her eyes for a moment. “Yes.”
Mary released her face, taking a brisk step backward. “I almost believe you.”
