Girl on the Verge

by Pintip Dunn

  I don’t know if it was nearly losing her granddaughter or knowing that her rigidity could have been the cause, but she’s mellowed out. A lot. Even my mom works less at the hospital. She told her colleagues she would no longer work extra shifts, and the practice ended up hiring another doctor.

  Ash is still dead. I mourn her every single day, but I’m slowly trying to rediscover the joy in my life, too. Ethan’s going to apply to Northwestern University, so maybe he’ll be in the same city as me after graduation. He’s recovered fully, and he’s already being recruited for their ballroom dance team.

  And the future looks promising. After what we’ve been through, our relationship isn’t going to follow the same easy path as other high school couples. I’m not going to delude myself otherwise. But the other night, we took a trip to the park. We swung, holding hands. We didn’t reach as high into the sky as we would have by ourselves, but the swings arced through the air together, in sync. I’m hoping that together, we’ll be able to reach the heights, after all.

  Later, we climbed to the top of the jungle gym, and he kissed me. After the hundreds of kisses Ethan’s given me this summer, you would think they would start feeling the same. But this particular kiss, I’ve never felt before. His lips rooted me to the spot, and yet, somehow, his kiss also opened my eyes to the future. It made me hopeful. That’s an emotion that’s been hard to come by since Shelly.

  The cut on my face has healed. It’s not as deep as Shelly’s, and it is not as noticeable, either. Still, when I apply foundation, I’m careful not to touch it. I have no desire to hide this scar.

  And even less desire to hide who I am.

  I’m trying to figure out how to cram my final pair of shoes into my suitcase when Khun Yai appears at the door.

  She ambles inside. She’s slower than she used to be. Frailer, too. But I also think she’s more at peace.

  I think the actions she took to hide my uncle’s transgression have gnawed at her over the years, and she’s relieved that the secret’s out in the open now. This way, she can begin to make amends. She continues to send checks, but this time, the money goes to an account in jail, so that Shelly can buy slippers and gum and other sundries.

  “Are you done packing?” she asks.

  I look at my suitcase sprawled on the floor. “Almost. I have to find a place for these shoes, and that’s it.”

  “I always said you’re my granddaughter. Packed and ready to go days before anybody else.” She smiles softly. “It was because we’re so similar that I’ve always been so strict with you. If I hadn’t been so worried about your future, I would’ve given you the world. Still would if I could.”

  She pulls a jewelry bag out of her pocket. My breath catches. It’s the one I’ve admired all my life—bloodred velvet, decorated with gold lettering, tied shut with a drawstring. The one that holds our family heirloom.

  Opening the bag slowly, she takes out the necklace. If possible, the sapphires and rubies flash even more brilliantly than I remember. The hammered gold gleams. Old. Ornate. Thai.

  “This necklace is yours,” she says. “It’s always belonged to you. I was simply keeping it until you were ready. You may not be eighteen, but you’re ready now, Kanchana.” She crosses the room, and we both turn to the mirror.

  Our reflections look back at us, one old and one young. Sixty years separate us, but the similarity in our features is unmistakable. The slightly flared noses, the teardrop-shaped eyes. It’s because Shelly doesn’t have these same features that it took me so long to see the truth of her parentage. I thought I was good at not judging someone based on her appearance. I guess I was wrong.

  I lift my hair, and Khun Yai places the necklace around my throat. I haven’t worn it in four years, but not for an instant have I forgotten how it feels.

  The piece of jewelry settles on my collarbone, dense and heavy. Just as before, it makes me feel special. It gives me confidence. It assures me I can do anything in this world.

  “Are you sure, Khun Yai?” I lick my lips. “Am I . . . worthy of this necklace? Will I do it honor?”

  Instead of ducking my head, however, I hold it high. With my recent decisions, it’s more clear than ever I’m not the Thai girl she was. And yet, I’m not purely American, either.

  But I’m no longer ashamed of that.

  She nods. “It took me eighty years to learn this, but I now know that a person’s culture does not reside in her outer trappings. It’s in the heart. And in your heart, luk lak, you are as Thai and as good as I would ever want you to be.”

  Tears spring to my eyes, and I bring my hand up to stroke the sapphires and the rubies, the uneven towers of the necklace. “This makes me feel so beautiful.”

  “You are beautiful. Never doubt that. You may not look like or feel like other people, but that’s what makes you so special, through and through. On the inside and out.”

  I run my fingers along the necklace one more time. And wish with everything in my little girl’s heart that I can keep this heirloom I’ve coveted for so long.

  “You know how much this necklace means to me.” I swallow hard. “But as our family tradition dictates, the necklace is bequeathed from grandmother to eldest granddaughter. And there’s another girl who has your bloodline. She didn’t grow up with our family, and she’s had a difficult life. She’s made mistakes. Big ones. Maybe unforgivable ones. But I have to wonder if it’s because we weren’t there to support her. To love her.” I unclasp the necklace and let it fall into my hand. “No matter what her sins are, Shelly is still my cousin. She’s still your granddaughter. I’m not saying I want to give this necklace to her. Not yet. Maybe never. But perhaps, like you, I can just hold onto it for a little while. And then . . . we’ll see.”

  “Yes. Perhaps you are right,” Khun Yai says haltingly. “I’ve . . . made mistakes, too. I turned away a child when she should have been living with us, her family. That is a sin that will stay with me not just for this life, but for the next one, too. It is a blemish on my soul for which it will take much to atone.” She places a hand on my shoulder. “Do what you think is best, luk lak. The necklace is yours now. Someday, if you ever choose to give it to Shelly, then I will fully support your decision.”

  I turn and hug her. I no longer need a necklace to prove her love for me. Because I now know that in my heart. “Thank you, Khun Yai. I’m so lucky to have you.”

  She smiles. “No, luk lak. I’m the lucky one.”

  Chapter 51

  The next morning, I wake up early and drive two hours to the Prairie County Jail, where Shelly is being held before her trial. We leave for Chicago tomorrow, and there’s nothing more important for me to do on my last day before vacation. I’ve packed a bottle of water and a granola bar for the trip. Oatmeal raisin, this time. I’ve somehow lost my taste for peanut butter chocolate chip.

  Last night, I told Ethan my plans, and he offered to accompany me. But this is something I need to do by myself. At its core, my relationship with Shelly was always about the two of us.

  I park the car and enter a large, rectangular brick building. In the waiting area, clusters of people sit in metal chairs. Lawyer types, with their briefcases and sloppy ties. A man with tattoos covering every square inch of his visible skin. A little girl eating cubes of cheese, and a young woman knitting a scarf, her needles clacking in the air.

  I approach the service window. The guard gestures to a clipboard and pen, and I fill in my name and Shelly’s before retreating to a metal chair.

  A few minutes later, the guard calls me back to the window. She has puffy hair and wears a navy uniform. Her fleshy cheeks and firm jaw make her face both soft and hard. I hand her my driver’s license.

  She takes the card but doesn’t look at it. “Sorry, dear, we’ve got a problem. There ain’t no one named Shelly Ambrose here.”

  I pull my phone out of my purse. “I have the right place. I’m sure of it.”

  I tap on the phone, pulling up the proper document. “See?
” I hold the screen out for her to see. “I even wrote it down.”

  The guard doesn’t give my phone so much as a glance. “You can look at the inmate list yourself. I’m telling you, there’s no Shelly Ambrose here. We’re not even holding anyone named Shelly.”

  “Could she have registered under a different name?” I ask, gripping the counter. “Maybe Shelly’s a nickname or something. She’s about my height. Last time I saw her, she had hair just like mine, long and black and straight, but she might’ve changed it. She does that a lot. She has a scar.” I stumble over the words. I hate using the scar as an identifying feature. There’s more to Shelly—and to me—than the remnants of a blade on our faces. But whether or not I like it, our scars set us apart. “It goes along her cheek, kinda like mine. Except hers is much deeper.”

  “Oh.” The guard brightens. “You must mean Jane. She’s got a zigzag scar just like that. I swear, we could call her Chameleon. She changes looks and personalities by the day.”

  I wrinkle my forehead. “Jane?”

  “Jane Doe. She came into the system without a verifiable identity. And clearly, we can’t trust any of the aliases she’s given us. So we just call her Jane.” She types on the keyboard. “Would you like to see her?”

  I blink. I’m still not convinced this Jane is my Shelly, but I have nothing to lose. My only other option is to go home. “Sure. Why not?”

  Another guard shows me into a room with a table and two chairs. The floor’s swept clean, but the air feels sterile, cold. As though the heat doesn’t reach inside here.

  I wrap my arms around myself and shiver. If this is how I feel after being in here for a few seconds, how does Shelly—or Jane—or whoever the hell I’m about to meet—feel being locked up for months?

  A few minutes later, the door opens, and Shelly shuffles into the room. A jolt of electricity runs up my spine. So it is her. The same girl I knew, but with a new name.

  Her ankles are shackled, and she wears an orange V-neck top and pants. The black hair dye is fading, and streaks of her natural hair color show through. Only it’s not brown like it was when I first met her, but a dirty blond.

  She no longer looks like me or even like a distant relative, if she ever did. It’s amazing how one unique characteristic, such as hair color or fashion sense, can make two girls look so similar.

  For a long moment, we don’t say anything. She observes me with a completely neutral expression. Maybe this is who she is when she’s not trying to be someone else. Maybe she truly is a chameleon and can take on any identity she wants. The old Jane—the one who went by the name of Shelly—always had a yearning in her eyes. She always wanted something, anything, even if it was just a pat on the head.

  There is no such desire in Jane. Maybe all those wants died with her Shelly persona.

  I speak first. “So your name is Jane now, huh? Where’s Shelly Ambrose?”

  “Shelly is dead,” she says flatly. “She died months ago, on the same day that her mother committed suicide. Or at least . . . that’s what I’ve been told.”

  The air jams in my chest, and I pound it, trying to get my breath dislodged. My fingers shake, and my heart mourns. Oh god. Shelly Ambrose, dead. The girl who was my cousin. The girl who was forsaken by my family. And I never knew her.

  The tears build behind my eyes, piercing them as though they were a hundred sharp needles. I wish I could’ve taken her to Thailand. I wish I could’ve introduced her to her family. I never felt like I fit in over there. I was always too big, too inelegant, too outspoken. I didn’t understand the Thai subtleties. I was awkward, even with my own relatives. And yet, they are my family. They love me. And I’m certain they would’ve loved Shelly, too, whoever she was.

  But now it’s too late. We will never be able to make it up to her. She was dead before I ever knew about her. Before Jane Doe ever entered my life. And that’s something my mom, Khun Yai, and I will always carry on our souls.

  “Did you kill her?” I ask in a low voice.

  She gives me a look, as if to say she’s not about to incriminate herself. “Of course not. I don’t know anything about it. All I can tell you is what’s in the police report. After Sheila Ambrose’s body was found in the church, a policeman drove to the Ambrose residence to inform the daughter. A girl matching Shelly Ambrose’s general description opened the door. She had the proper identification, and she was the only one in the house. The police didn’t check her fingerprints; there was no reason to. Shelly was over eighteen and legally an adult, so that was the end of her involvement with the police.”

  “Until you were arrested,” I prompt.

  “Until I was arrested.” She cocks her head. She wants to tell me more, I can see. She’s dying to tell me more. She’s just not sure if she should.

  I wait, not saying a word. We stare at each other, and one second flows into the next.

  “A few weeks after Sheila’s death, a body washed up from the river,” she finally says. Her voice is soft now, almost dreamy. “She was unidentified for a long time. Her fingerprints and dental images didn’t match any from the missing persons file—maybe because she was never reported missing.”

  She’s watching me carefully now. She wants my reaction. She craves it—to what end, I can’t even begin to guess. “And then, I was arrested as Shelly Ambrose. Problem was, my fingerprints didn’t match Shelly’s. And my dental records didn’t, either. Someone had the brilliant idea to compare Shelly’s metrics with the unidentified body. Bingo. A perfect match. Enter my new, but surely not final, identity: Jane Doe.”

  I bring my hand to my mouth, horrified. “You’re Riley. You killed both Sheila and Shelly Ambrose and began impersonating Shelly from that day forward. When you talked about Riley being dead, you meant her identity had died. Everything you said about Riley—it was all true, but reversed. Shelly was the one who broke your trust. And she died for it. Am I right? Is your true name Riley?”

  She shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “But what about the notches under the bed?” I ask. “You said there was a person who was kept in there before me. If it wasn’t Shelly . . . then who was it?”

  She studies her hand, as if she’s trying to map the veins underneath. “Maybe Riley had a mother who treated her like a possession. Maybe she made her daughter participate in cons, even though Riley hated it. Maybe the mother needed to be taught a lesson on how it feels to be kept. On how it grates the soul to be forced to do things against one’s will.”

  My jaw drops. “You locked up your own mother?”

  “Maybe.” She glances up, and the look in her eyes sends chills up my spine. “Maybe not.”

  I think I’m going to be sick. My stomach churns so violently I may never keep anything down again. I lift my eyes to the ceiling and breathe deeply through my nose. I’ve got two options here. I can run screaming from this room. Or I can stay and get the answers I need.

  “The real Shelly,” I say faintly. “My cousin. What did she look like?”

  “You can find out from her yearbook photo.” She smirks. “Brown hair and eyes. Her skin is paler than yours. She has more Caucasian features. But the eyes are a dead giveaway. They could be yours.”

  “I always wondered how you could be related to me,” I murmur, shaking my head. “Appearances can be deceiving, but still. You look nothing like me.”

  “We believe what we’re told to believe,” she says. “That’s why I’ve been so successful in my impersonations. I understand that, and use it to my advantage.”

  “What are you saying? Are you saying you’ve stolen identities other than mine and Shelly’s?”

  A small smile plays on her lips. “Hate to say it, Kan, but you’re simply one in a long line of victims. I’ve been stealing identities for years. I told you I was eighteen, but can you tell, truly, how old I really am?” She thrusts her face forward, showing me the scar that draws so much attention, that hides so much. Most people are so busy looking at it that they don’t notice an
ything else. “I could be five years older. Hell, I could be ten years older. Can you really ever know? Riley may have hated what her mom made her do, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t learn from her.”

  Acid sprints up my throat. To think I felt sorry for her. To think I considered, for even one moment, that I might someday give her my necklace. I’m surprised I’m not retching over a trash can. But I hold the nausea down, for just a little longer.

  “Who are you really, Jane?” I ask. “Who is the true girl lurking beneath your surface?”

  She breaks into a smile. “Do you really want to know? I have no past, and I have no future. I can be anybody I want, which means I will always fit in, but I will never belong. We’re the same, Kan. That’s why I was going to break the pattern for you. That’s why I was going to let you live. You feel the same loneliness, and you feel the same dread. You, too, would do anything to belong.” She leans back, her eyes glittering. “Face it, Kan. I am you, and you are me.”

  “No,” I whisper. “I never would’ve done what you did. I never could’ve hurt all those people.”

  “But you did, Kan. You hurt Khun Yai by lying to her. You hurt Ash by not being there when she needed you. Hell, you even hurt Ethan, by judging him for something that wasn’t his fault. Don’t forget, Kan. I know all your secrets. I know how you think. In order to be you, I had to study you. Your every word, your every feeling. I know you better than you know yourself. And when I look at you, I feel like I’m looking in a mirror.”

  I’ve heard enough. I push my seat back and stand up. “We’re nothing alike, Jane. NOTHING.”

  “Deny all you want.” Jane laughs. She’s the one sitting in jail, and she’s laughing. At me. She thinks she’s won, once again. She thinks she’s gotten inside my head, crawled around, and made it her own.