The Letting Go

by Deborah Markus

  Considering the news I was fairly sure Ms. Lurie was going to be giving us, I would have expected her to look frightened or confused or at least grim. Instead she looked around with an expression of pity.

  “Sometimes,” she said, “even wanting to protect someone can be selfish. If you take it too far.”

  She looked at us again, lingeringly, as if this were the last time she’d ever see us.

  Which it was, in a way. She’d never see this same group of girls again. Everyone else in the room was about to have her life sliced cleanly in two. After this morning, after Ms. Lurie finally broke the damned news to us, disaster wouldn’t be something that only happened to other people anymore. Everything that happened from now on would be measured as coming before the catastrophe or after.

  Must be nice to have a dozen-plus years of that kind of arrogant ignorance.

  I had four.

  Eclipse—at Midnight—

  It was dark—before—

  One of the books—the one that managed to get a really big publisher—insists I must not remember that first time. Maybe I remember my father, and certainly Violet and Zoë; but of course I must have forgotten my mother. Any “memories” I might think I have of her could only have been glued together from other people’s words.

  Yes, I was young. Yes, I probably have some of the details wrong.

  But please let the record state that there are things no one can forget. Not if you’re old enough to wander out and find those things yourself.

  I have not forgotten finding my mother that night. And I have not forgotten her.

  I never will.

  I think Ms. Lurie would believe me, but she’s the last person I’d ever tell.

  Second to last, now.

  I give that detective pride of place.

  The name they dropped opon

  my face

  With water, in the Country

  Church

  Is finished using, now,

  And They can put it with

  My Dolls,

  My Childhood, and the string

  of spools,

  I’ve finished threading—too—

  “It’s a very common name,” the other Emily said.

  I glared at her. She’d followed me when we were herded out of the lounge. Now she was in my room. Sitting on my bed.

  Everyone else had worn the impact of the news visibly. Some of the girls were staggering, clutching best friends like stuffed animals. Others were stiff and straight. One particularly young-looking girl had stared at the floor so hard I would have thought the directions to her room were printed there.

  This new, unwanted Emily had moved as quietly and naturally as she had when trailing me to the lounge. She wasn’t unmoved by the news, exactly. Her bright eyes were as solemn as a bird’s. But she wasn’t panicked and she didn’t take the announcement as the sort of assault everyone else had.

  I wanted to ask if this was her first murder, but I was afraid of being overheard and also afraid she’d take it as an invitation to conversation.

  I didn’t want her here. It wasn’t even about the rules, for once. I wanted to be alone.

  So of course she didn’t let me be.

  In this small, enclosed space the scent of her perfume was pronounced. Something dark and sweet. Violets? And when had she had time to put it on this crazy morning? Or was it a reflex for her on getting out of bed?

  I almost rolled my eyes. A terrible alarm goes off, and that’s your priority? “I looked it up when there were three other Emilys in my English class at the last school I got kicked out of,” she went on. “It’s actually the most popular girl’s name in the country. Lucky us. My parents have never been very original. Other than coming up with me, of course, but I’m not sure how much credit I give them for that.”

  “You don’t give your parents credit for making you,” I said. “I’m guessing they kicked you out of that school for failing biology?”

  “Oh, I know the basics,” she said, unruffled. “So do my parents, apparently. I just don’t think I was quite what they had in mind when they decided to go in for the whole baby-making venture, you know? Otherwise they wouldn’t keep shipping me out and looking so disappointed when I turn up again. Which I tend to do.”

  I said nothing. Hostility wasn’t working—if anything, she was taking it as encouragement. Instead, I turned to my closet and started browsing through my clothes. As if it mattered what I wore today.

  Although it might, really. Today wouldn’t be the day to throw on a BE HAPPY! T-shirt. Not that I own one, but another girl here does.

  The police would be talking to us. A detective. I’d be making an impression on someone.

  I had to pretend to be startled—terrified, if I could manage it—by the proximity of a murder victim.

  What would a frightened but innocent bystander wear?

  “Schools are funny,” Emily went on. “So often, all you have to do to get expelled from one is walk out. They don’t seem to see the irony at all. ‘You want to leave? We’ll punish you by making you leave.’ ”

  “Is that how you’re planning to get kicked out of here?” I asked hopefully.

  “Oh, here’s all right,” she said, flopping down and lolling across my bed. Ick. “Here’s wonderful. Recent events notwithstanding, there’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

  “Great.” I picked a dark, lightweight, long-sleeved blouse, and then a pair of jeans.

  “This is the first place I’ve gone where the teachers know more than I do,” other-Emily said, staring up at my ceiling. “About some things, anyway. I can ask a question and get a useful answer. It’s amazing. And the best part is, unless I’m asking them something, they stay out of my way and let me do what I want.”

  “What is it you want to do?” I asked without thinking.

  She actually shut up for a second and looked at me with a pleased expression. I closed my closet with more force than necessary and turned to my chest of drawers. “And could you please go do it and let me get dressed?”

  “Ms. Lurie said to stay together,” she said virtuously.

  “She didn’t say we had to get married,” I said, pulling out socks and a bra. “Whatever she’s worried about, I’ll be just as safe with you outside that door as in it.”

  She grinned knowingly at my clothes and rolled over on one side, facing away from me. “There,” she said. “Can’t see a thing. Carry on. Unless of course you’re planning to drag me out of here.”

  Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have minded doing exactly that. Today wasn’t a day to attract attention, though, even by acting like my usual self. I glared at the back of her head, hoping I had undiscovered powers and her hair would start smoldering. Sadly, she seemed perfectly comfortable, so I turned my back on her and started getting dressed as quickly as possible.

  “Painting, mostly,” she said as the chill morning air touched my skin.

  “Excuse me?” I snapped my bra and pulled my blouse on. Backwards. Damn it.

  “You asked what I want to do here,” she reminded me as I struggled like a toddler with my top. “Art. I love painting, but I like to draw, too. And sometimes I tear things up and put them together again, only different and better this time.”

  I would have liked to hear more about that. It sounded like what I wanted to do at Hawthorne.

  “You’re not an artist, though,” she said rather than asked. “You like to write.”

  “I don’t know if I like to write, exactly,” I said. “It’s just what I do.”

  “But why do it if you don’t like it?”

  I sat down on the bed as far from her as possible to pull off my sweats and pull on socks and jeans. “I don’t not like it,” I said. “And I have to do something if I want to stay here. Writing’s the only thing that doesn’t take any talent.”

  She startled me by bursting into silvery, unabashed laughter.

  “Could you possibly keep it down, please?” I asked, standing up and going to the closet aga
in. I’d forgotten a belt. “People will hear you.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I do. And you should.”

  “Why on earth should I? Why do you, for that matter? You certainly don’t act like someone who cares what people think of her.”

  “This isn’t about what people think,” I said. “Not the way you’re talking about, anyway.”

  “What, then?”

  I pulled a light sweater over my blouse. “Someone died today. Someone was murdered. I do care about that, thank you.”

  “Of course,” she said, surprised. She rolled over to look at me without asking if I was ready for her eyes. “So do I. But if you say something funny, I’m going to laugh. There’s nothing wrong with that. We could all use some cheering up on a day like this.”

  “Yes, you’ve really had the worst of it, haven’t you?” I asked. “How was that second croissant, by the way?”

  “I never said I was the victim in this play,” she said calmly. “But I have my share of worries, thanks. Corpses at the door aren’t my idea of a lovely start to the morning.”

  I flinched.

  “And,” she went on, pulling herself up to sit cross-legged, “this could be a disaster for Hawthorne.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, come on,” she said. “Think about it. How are the parents who are shelling out Hawthorne’s tuition fees going to feel about their little darlings being exposed to actual violence? A police investigation? A dead body one of us might have found? If there’s enough publicity, and if enough parents freak out, they might even have to close the school.”

  “No,” I said. It came out louder than I meant it to.

  “I don’t want it, either,” she said. Her voice was quieter now, almost gentle. “I’m just saying it’s possible. Ms. Lurie’s certainly old enough to be thinking about retirement. Maybe she’ll take this as an excuse—close Hawthorne before anyone can force her to.”

  “But—” I stopped, choked by bewilderment that threatened to become terror. It was one thing to know I’d have to leave Hawthorne someday. Next year, to be precise. I didn’t like to think about that, but I had it as a concept. But close Hawthorne? It felt impossible, as if someone had threatened to “close” the mountains Hawthorne nestled in, or the ocean we could see from town on field trips.

  Close the ground under my feet and the sun in my sky while you’re at it.

  “She wouldn’t do that,” I said.

  “She wouldn’t want to do that,” the other Emily corrected. “That doesn’t mean she might not have to.”

  I said nothing. Ms. Lurie had always laughed if anyone mentioned retirement. Hawthorne was her retirement, she always said.

  But things were different now. Maybe Ms. Lurie would have to be different, too.

  That shouldn’t have mattered to me.

  Thanks to California emancipation laws, I was a legal adult already. I couldn’t quit school, but I could finish out the year using one of those online education programs. And I could live all alone while I did so. Which would make it that much easier for me to follow the rules.

  So much easier than it was now, living in a house full of people who would be friends—or at least friendly—if I gave them half a chance.

  “So don’t tell me I’m not taking things seriously enough, Little Miss Cakes and Ale,” the other Emily concluded.

  I stared at her.

  “Twelfth Night,” she said. “I played Viola two years ago. That was the closest I ever came to finishing the school year at the same place I started. ‘Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?’ ”

  For the second time that bizarre morning, I wondered what century she lived in. “Look, I never said I was virtuous—”

  “Good. I find virtuous people very boring.”

  “What is wrong with you? Not everything’s about what you think, you know.”

  “Of course it is. Everything important, anyway.”

  I made a rude noise. “What a wonderful, selfless philosophy.”

  “Oh, come on. You of all people can’t claim you’re always thinking of everyone else’s welfare first and foremost.”

  And then I said the stupidest thing I’d said all morning. Probably in all my life.

  “As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what I do,” I said. “That’s all I ever do. And I’m sick to death of it.”

  I think I would have killed her if she’d laughed. She didn’t. She just looked at me quietly, as if waiting to hear more. I stared back, paralyzed by how much I’d already said.

  Then she smiled and stood up. “My turn to get dressed, I guess,” she said.

  I turned to the door without answering. Today had brought the worst news almost everyone at this school had ever heard, and here my hands were feeling strange and shaky because of something I’d said. Almost said.

  The old familiar panic was flaring up. I couldn’t blame it. I’d practically called it by name.

  She didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. “I partnered you,” she added, “so you have to return the favor.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  “We’re not supposed to be alone right now,” she reminded me.

  “You’re a big girl. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

  “Shall I tell Ms. Lurie you said so? After she explicitly told us—”

  “Oh, shut up,” I said. “Just shut up about Ms. Lurie. Shut up about everything, while you’re at it. You can find someone else to go with you if you’re afraid of your own room.”

  “I wasn’t worried about me.”

  Oh, please. “If it’s me you’re so concerned about, you can do me a big favor and leave me the hell alone.”

  She just smiled at me again.

  “Not going to happen,” she said.

  I had some things that I called mine—

  And God, that he called his—

  Till recently a rival Claim

  Disturbed these Amities—

  “Call me M,” she said in her room. “As in the letter M, not Auntie. It’ll make the whole Emily/Emily thing a little easier to take. Anyway, it’s what I make everyone call me, even my parents.”

  I was staring at her door, waiting for the second I could open it and leave. Her room smelled like that flowery perfume and a dozen other scents besides. Nothing fake or intrusive. I caught lavender and lemon balm and others I couldn’t quite identify. It was like standing in the best-disguised garden in the world.

  (I notice scents a lot. I guess it’s a natural consequence of not liking to meet people’s eyes. Once I’ve memorized the floor, my other senses get bored and start taking notes.)

  I heard her open her closet. “I kind of hate my given name,” she added. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” I said. “And no offense right back, but I’m not actually planning on calling you anything at all.”

  There were a few soft thumps behind me as she tossed items of clothing onto her bed. “Well, that might be awkward,” she said. “But if you’re looking right at me, I guess I’ll know who you’re talking to.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’ll know who I’m not talking to. That would be you.”

  “Oh, of course,” she said. “As opposed to all those other people you’re not talking to. Do you like my work?”

  “Excuse me?” I asked, startled.

  “On the door. I noticed you were looking at it.”

  I wasn’t. I’d only been glaring at the plank separating me from freedom. But now that she pointed it out, I realized there were strange pictures taped up all over it.

  “Ms. Lurie drew the line at letting me paint on the door,” M said. Her voice was muffled for a few words, and I began to realize that the only thing worse than having someone else in the room while I got dressed was (as M put it) returning the favor. “But she doesn’t mind where I tape things up. As long as I keep them in here, of course. No fair scaring the neighbors.”

  “Scaring?” />
  She laughed. “You really aren’t looking at my pictures, are you?”

  I was. I just didn’t find them frightening.

  I liked them. Which, for me, is its own kind of frightening.

  One that caught my eye was of an elegantly dressed girl with gold, curling hair and an impish smile. She looked a lot like M, in fact. She was wearing a pair of glasses, but they were pushed down low on her nose and she was holding them on with one hand and peering over them. Or would have been, except that where her eyes belonged there were only dark shadows. A pair of beautiful blue eyes gazed up from the lenses of the glasses.

  “That’s Lucy,” M said. She was standing beside me—suddenly, or maybe I just hadn’t been paying attention.

  “Lucy?”

  “Not the girl down the hall. Saint Lucy.”

  “She doesn’t look like a saint,” I said.

  M laughed. “Of course not. She looks like me. But the picture’s based on the story of Saint Lucy. Bits of it, anyway.” She looked at me. “You don’t know it, I gather.”

  I shook my head.

  “Saint stories are wonderfully weird,” M said. “I love them. Lucy’s is one of the weirdest. There are lots of different versions, but the best one is where this guy was pestering her to marry him. He kept saying how beautiful her eyes were. So she mailed them to him with a note saying they were all his now, and would he please leave the rest of her alone?”

  “That’s going pretty far just to break things off with a guy,” I said.

  “You’d think,” M agreed. “But it turned out okay. That part, anyway. God healed her up and made it look like nothing had ever happened. That’s why in most paintings you see her looking perfectly fine, except she’s carrying a plate or something with a couple of eyeballs on it.”

  “Ugh.”

  “My favorite picture is one where she’s holding what look like opera glasses, but really it’s a pair of eyes on a flower stem.”

  I looked some more at M’s picture, which now seemed almost tame in comparison. “And this is what you do here? Your project is learning about creepy saints and their creepy stories?”