I cry in the bathroom, even though I’m close to finding my mom, closer than I’ve been since this nightmare began. My grandfather didn’t know me. He screamed at me and was so lost in his past that he couldn’t find the present. But Grace could know me.
I flush the toilet, because Laura is listening. Then I wash my hands and splash water on my face. I don’t linger over my reflection. I don’t recognize it anyway.
“Mom? What are you doing there?”
Grace. I reach for the door the second I hear her in the hall. But the handle doesn’t turn. Laura is holding it from the other side. I can imagine her leaning back against it, blocking Grace’s view so she won’t see the handle fighting against her. I promised to be quiet, but nothing more.
“Hmm?” Laura says, sweetness and ease. “I was thinking about replacing the wallpaper up here. What do you think?”
Footsteps. I push harder on the handle. It doesn’t give an inch.
“I like it the way it is,” Grace says. There’s something about her voice. Something I’ve heard before but can’t place. “Why are you…Who’s in the bathroom?”
There’s no outward show of defeat when Laura finally releases the handle and lets me open the door. She even smiles at me as I nearly stumble into the hall.
“Grace, this is Katelyn. She and her friend stopped by to use your father’s computer. Katelyn, this is my daughter, Grace.”
I see her feet first, her sparkly turquoise-painted toes, her black yoga pants, and the loose, Doris Day T-shirt that I would kill to add to my collection.
And when I see her face, a piece falls into place.
“Hi, Katelyn.”
She smiles at me, and I feel it. That instantaneous, shocking cementing of one person to another.
“Hi,” I say back.
It’s like I’m meeting every celebrity I’ve ever idolized all rolled into one. I can’t take my eyes off her. We don’t really look alike. Both of us favor our mothers more than our father in terms of coloring, but she has bangs like me and, as we stare at each other, we both lift our left hands to brush them from our eyes at the same time. I laugh, and the sound turns watery. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this much happiness. It should be radiating from my skin.
“Grace is a really pretty name,” I tell her. And it’s apparently the exact perfect thing to say, because she lights up.
“Grace was my great-grandmother’s name. Do you want to see a picture of her?” She barely waits for me to nod before she takes my hand in hers and leads me to her room. She doesn’t notice the distressed half squeak that escapes from her mother.
Grace’s room is a mess, and I love it. It’s how my room would look if I ever felt settled enough in one place to actually live in it. I spot a few books that I read growing up, in piles on the window seat, and makeup scattered atop a mirrored vanity. There’s a robe tossed onto a white four-poster bed, and a fluffy orange cat lounging lazily atop it. Grace doesn’t release my hand even when she brings us to a stop in front of a wall that is covered in framed photos.
“That’s her.” She pushes a short finger into the face of a striking woman who could have easily graced the silver screen. “And that’s her again.” The same woman, slightly older and gazing lovingly at a bundled baby in her arms. “And again, and again, and…” Her finger taps out an obviously well-rehearsed pattern as she traces her great-grandmother’s life from some of its first moments to its last.
“She was beautiful,” I say, staring at one of the earlier pictures, one Grace lingered over too. It’s an older photograph, black and white, a bride on her wedding day. Grace’s great-grandmother’s hand is wrapped around her husband’s, and the ring I’ve worn by my heart for years is on her finger.
“Mom’s trying to get Grandmother Abbott to let me have Great-Grandma Grace’s wedding dress, but Grandmother Abbott says it’d be a waste and I’d never fit in it anyway.” This admission doesn’t seem to bother Grace, or maybe she’s grown so accustomed to hearing similar things that she no longer lets them affect her. Either way, I’d know which one Grace loved more. One has years of her smiling photos framed on Grace’s walls, and the other is stiffly referred to as Grandmother Abbott.
“I don’t have to wear it,” Grace continues. “But to have it so I could see it sometime, I’d like that. I never met Great-Grandma Grace, but mom says she was nice, that she would have been nice to me. She would have let me stand next to her in photos and would never have called me”—I catch just enough of her mumbled words to make my ears burn hot and my fists clench—“defective…unsuitable…”
I can’t even imagine someone saying such vile things to her own granddaughter.
Laura’s arm slides protectively around her daughter. “Remember, we don’t listen to the things Grandmother Abbott says. I’m taking care of everything. But now, I think it’s time for Katelyn to leave. I’m sure her friend is waiting for her.”
If I hadn’t seen her face as she spoke, I’d never have known from Laura’s voice that she was close to grabbing my hair and dragging me down the stairs. Another second and I think she would have.
“Grace, why don’t you give Elvis his brushing. His fur looks a little tangled to me.”
Concern flashes in Grace’s eyes as she turns to her cat and moves to scoop him into her lap. The last sight I have of Grace is her snuggling his soft fur as he begins to purr.
Laura takes my arm again to lead me away, and her grip tightens with every step until we reach the foyer. Malcolm is standing there, looking like he wants to be anywhere else.
“Did you find her?” I no longer care about keeping my voice down. Laura shut Grace’s door when we left. I almost want him to say no, that he needs more time, so I can go back upstairs with my sister, but his quick nod douses that hope.
“Then you need to leave.” Laura swings the front door wide open, and all three of us are slapped with the wind and drizzling rain.
