Now You See Her

by Lisa Leighton

  It’s our house angel. Only it’s not our house angel—it’s Sophie’s. I stand and approach the beautifully styled white built-in shelves above Sophie’s window seat, eyes narrowed. It’s resting on top of a pile of vintage hardcover books way at the top. I step on one of the shelves and carefully reach up on my tippy toes, hesitating for a second before I pull the tiny house from its spot.

  Whether it was on top of a built-in bookcase in Iowa or in a chipped glass cabinet in the kitchen in Indiana or resting on a top corner of the tiny shelf beside the front door in Kentucky, the house angel was always there, watching over us. And now it’s here, resting on top of beautifully designed books in Sophie Graham’s room.

  I pick it up with trembling fingers. I have to feel it in my hands to be sure that it’s real. What are the chances of Sophie having the exact same house angel that we have? Could I be dreaming? Hallucinating? This tiny piece of my history in Sophie’s room feels wrong, like a false note in a symphony.

  Touching the house angel makes me feel like I’m holding a piece of myself that I’ve never been able to reach before and I’m terrified I’m going to lose it. I run my fingers over the carved wood. There are details I never could have noticed from my view from the floor. Or maybe it’s just that I’ve gotten so used to looking at it over the years that I stopped truly seeing it. It’s like staring at your own face in the mirror, impossible to tell if you’re pretty or plain because it’s just you.

  The figurine is small and delicate. Flower boxes painted under the windows overflowing with yellow blooms, intricately painted shingles on the roof, a front door with a plaque above it that reads Morristown.

  Wait, Morristown? We’ve had our house angel for as long as I can remember, but we’ve only lived in Morristown for the past three years. Suddenly it makes more sense for Sophie to have her own house angel. She’d grown up here and now that I think about it it’s just the kind of knickknack they’d sell in one of the tiny shops that line Main Street. There are probably hundreds of house angels in hundreds of houses across town.

  But how did my mom come by our house angel? Had she visited here before? Did she somehow know that we’d end up living here? Maybe it wasn’t so random after all that we ended up in Morristown after all those moves. Maybe she wanted us to make a home here too. The thought makes me even more sad when I remember that she was transferred yet again and that we were going to leave this place behind.

  I lower my body into the window seat. Morristown. There’s a sliver of space separating the roof from the frame, top from the bottom. I had no idea it opened.

  I press on the carved roof to open the box and find a slip of paper inside, four numbers written in a slanted script.

  2683

  “Sophie?” I startle at the sound of Mrs. Graham’s whispered voice, nearly dropping the carving as she taps on the closed door. Slipping the paper between the pages of my notebook, I rush to put the small house back in its rightful place on top of the books. I have no idea why the Grahams have the same tiny house that’s followed me all throughout my childhood, and I have no idea what the code inside means. I’ve never believed in signs, or at least not until I somehow ended up in someone else’s body. Now this feels like the universe or someone is trying to tell me something. If only I could figure out how to decode the message.

  But there’s no time to think about it now. No time to unravel and digest. There’s only time for Sophie Graham.

  Nineteen

  IN THE QUIETEST FLURRY I CAN MANAGE, I CLOSE THE WINDOW ON Sophie’s phone, shove it under her pillow with the notebook and necklace, and bury myself beneath her overstuffed duvet. “Yeah?” I say groggily.

  The door opens a crack and Mrs. Graham peeks her head into the room. “I thought maybe you’d be hungry.” She carries a tray with a bowl of soup, a cup of fresh fruit, and a glass of milk on it and places it on the desk. I never thought moms like Mrs. Graham actually existed outside of movies, but here she is, carrying a tray of food upstairs and into my room. She sits on the edge of the bed and brushes the hair off my forehead. I blink lazily hoping to remind her that I’m supposed to be sleeping off my latest meltdown, not participating in an intimate mother-daughter moment. “Daddy’s working late tonight, sweet girl, so you can take all the time you need.”

  Thank the lord. If there’s one thing I’m not up for, it’s a Graham family dinner. “Oh, good.” I yawn the words, stretching them out like taffy. “I guess I didn’t realize how tired I was.”

  “You know I’m here, right? We’re all here for you. Me, your father, your friends. Nothing has changed, Sophie. We’ll get through all this together.”

  The way she looks at me makes me realize I’ve probably been acting all wrong. I know nothing about the intricacies of their relationship. I can only nod because I don’t know any of the words Sophie would have used. Mrs. Graham kisses my forehead lightly like that mom from the movies and starts to walk toward the door.

  “Oh, I almost forgot—let me just grab your phone.” She spins around and cranes her neck toward my bedside table. Panic crashes into me hard and fast the way it might if I were actually Sophie and I actually cared about whatever personal messages my mom might be intercepting all night. I don’t care about those messages, but had I closed out my last search? Was there history she might stumble upon? “My phone?” I reply weakly.

  “You know the rule, Sophie. Your phone, but we pay the bills. It charges in our room. Your accident hasn’t changed that. Besides, you need your rest.” After she’s unsuccessful at locating the phone on my table, she holds her hand out expectantly. Apparently Sophie is in the business of handing it over. I reach under the pillow and Mrs. Graham raises her eyebrows probably expecting to unearth naked pictures or something. Maybe St. Anthony won’t raise any flags.

  “Get some sleep, baby. I love you.”

  I mumble in response and manage to wait until she softly closes the door behind her before I begin to sob. I have no idea where the tears come from, have no idea whose they even are. I don’t know if I’m crying because I’m failing everyone in Sophie’s life, or because I’m failing everyone in mine, but once I start, it’s hard to stop. I cry for her and me and this whole messed-up situation. I cry because I know Mrs. Graham is doing the same and Mae and my mom and maybe even Sophie’s friends and it only feels right to join them. The tears fall hot on my cheeks and my pillow is damp by the time I’m exhausted enough to sleep.

  I startle awake to an excruciating headache in a dim room, completely disoriented. The clock reads 2:08 a.m.

  A light tapping sound comes from the direction of the window and I know immediately that this is exactly what woke me out of a dead sleep seconds ago. I hold my breath because I can make out the outline of a body in the dark, standing on the landing outside. I’m sure my heart has stopped beating, that this will all be over now because I’m going to have an actual, fear-induced heart attack in this borrowed body. It’s him. I have no idea how or why, but the kidnapper is back for me. I don’t move a muscle, my eyes trained on the window. I do not breathe, I do not shift, I do not blink.

  Taptaptap. The sound comes again, this time followed by cupped hands and a face pressed to the glass that does not belong to a shadowed stranger. Instead, I see Jake Radcliff.

  He makes an upward motion with his hands, indicating for me to come open the window already, smiling like scaling the side of my house and knocking on my window in the middle of the night is commonplace. I manage to swing my shaky legs over the side of the bed and unlock the latch, opening the window out of curiosity more than anything else. Why the hell is Jake Radcliff acting like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to be appearing at Sophie Graham’s window in the dead of the night?

  “Hey.” The word is stretched a little in the middle, carried on a warm gush of air mixed with Jake’s cologne, his soap, and his minty breath.

  Laughter rumbles low in my throat, his stubble on the soft skin of my palm as I cover his mouth to qu
iet him. I feel the weight of his body, the smooth skin of his lips on my lips and my neck and my . . .

  “Holy. Shit. You?” I stab my finger into his chest, my eyes bugged out. “And Sophie Graham are . . . are . . . ?” The revelation is too much for this mixed-up brain to process.

  “Um, yeah?” Now it’s his turn to be confused, his forehead all wrinkled up. “Since when do you talk about yourself in the third person?”

  “Holy shit, you know what the third person is?” My laughter sounds borderline hysterical, but this is just too much. Jake Radcliff, known man whore, the only guy who ever asked me out in Morristown, is hooking up with pure-as-snow Sophie Graham, who’s supposedly madly in love with football god Zach Bateman. This is brain-melting material.

  “Are you okay? You’re not really acting like yourself. Why don’t you let me in and we can talk . . . or something.”

  Jake reaches through the window to kiss my neck and it’s clear that he’s way more focused on the or something than he is on the actual talking. I push him back out the window, careful not to push him off the small balcony entirely, although I’m tempted. If only to pay him back for all the hours I spent digging for the perfect dress at consignment stores.

  “Yeah, it’s over. Sorry.” I start to close the window and then pause when I see the words twist up his face even more. “Actually, you know what? I’m not sorry. You know that thing you do with your tongue? It totally makes me want to gag. And since we’re being honest, you’re kind of like . . . hmmm . . . how do I say this? Small. Like way smaller than what would be considered average. Anyway, just thought you should hear it from me first.”

  He actually looks like he might start crying. Oh man, this is so much better than pushing him off the balcony. I snap the window shut with a satisfying thud and slip the lock back into place. He stands there for a moment, completely still, and then finally slinks back to where he came from. Payback is a real bitch.

  Adrenaline is coursing through my veins. No chance of sleep now. I open up Sophie’s notebook to write this latest development. It’s definitely not information that will help me find my way back to myself, but since I can’t gossip about Jake and Sophie with Mae, I’ll have to settle for writing all the salacious details in my sad excuse for a diary.

  When I open up Sophie’s notebook the folded paper from inside the house angel flutters to the floor. 2683. A code. It must unlock something. I flip the paper over and notice something has been written on the back.

  Sophie, if you’re reading this, you deserve the truth and I’m no longer here to tell it to you. Unlock the safe in our closet. And remember, we did this all for you.

  The note is written in Mrs. Graham’s perfect cursive handwriting. I recognize it from the grocery list she left laying on the counter downstairs. But why hide this note in her daughter’s room? What truth could she possibly be hiding? There’s only one way to find out.

  Since Sophie’s phone was confiscated, I’ll have to find something else to light my way. Her desk drawer looks like the place where school supplies go to die with its random assortment of pens, unsharpened pencils, some sticky notes, and old notebooks. On the bookshelf I find a collection of textbooks, a huge selection of Nicholas Sparks novels, naturally, a couple of jewelry boxes, a music box, and a ton of tennis trophies. On the bottom, though, beneath a stack of wrinkled Vogue magazines, I see a pink metal box.

  Inside, there’s a set of tools, all with diamond-bedazzled handles. Jesus. Sophie Graham has a blinged-out tool set. There’s a greeting card inside that says, Congratulations to my dear, sweet daughter . . . on the front with a bouquet of red roses beneath. Inside the card’s script reads, . . . on getting your period. Welcome to the wonderful world of beautiful, powerful women! And below that in cursive, Love, Mom. Oh. My. God. They make first-period cards. Sophie’s mom bought one for her. With a bedazzled tool set.

  But thanks to Mrs. Graham’s consideration, I find exactly what I’m looking for.

  I press the small button on the flashlight on and off. Bingo.

  As soon as I open Sophie’s bedroom door, I’m assaulted by the sound of someone snoring. Actually, snoring isn’t even the word for it. This sounds more like a chainsaw attempting to slice through steel. No wonder Jake was able to sneak in through her window all these nights; Mr. Graham’s snores create a thunderous white noise in the hallway and would provide plenty of warning if they suddenly stopped. It’s a wonder that anyone can sleep in the same house let alone the same room as this man.

  The roaring grumble increases in volume as I walk closer to the master bedroom and then just as suddenly, the sound stops. I freeze, sure Mr. Graham has either been suffocated by phlegm or is going to come barreling out the door in striped manjamas complete with a cap, holding a rifle. I’m not sure any man truly wears pajamas with a cap or keeps a rifle under his bed, but given my limited experience with dads and my interactions with Mr. Graham so far, somehow it doesn’t strike me as outside the realm of possibility.

  But then there’s a rattled gasp-snort combination that takes my breath away. Still sleeping, slowly dying? Either way, I continue.

  When I reach the master bedroom doors, I peek through the crack, angling my head to get a view of the bed. I see Mrs. Graham’s blond hair splayed out across a silk pillowcase. Apparently the woman does sleep. Mr. Graham is as far away from her as their king-sized bed allows, asleep in a tense-looking lump beneath the duvet. Porter or Wells or Gary or whatever the hell that dog’s name is is sprawled in the middle. I hope he’s a deep sleeper because he really didn’t seem to take to me.

  I get down on all fours and push open the door to their room. Thank God nothing squeaks or creaks in this house. I hang close to the perimeter, my eyes trained on Mrs. Graham’s rising and falling chest with each crawl forward, Mr. Graham’s snoring a rhythmic accompaniment. The closet door is ajar and I only need to open it another inch before I can slip through. The dog lets out a breathy sigh, too tired or too comfortable in his cloud-like paradise to care about a crawling intruder.

  The closet has to be the size of my old bedroom, but I can’t quite remember. The left side is full of gauzy, silky fabric, noticeably lighter and brighter than the dark jackets and pants on the right side. But there’s no metal box, nothing that looks like a safe. I push through clothes, shuffle around shoe boxes, but still nothing. Finally my eyes rest on a beautiful abstract painting hanging on the wall in the center. The lines dance across the canvas in perfect shades of ballet pink and bold black strokes. Who the hell hangs art in their closet?

  And then, like one of those ridiculous light bulbs appearing in clouds over animated characters in cartoons, I make the connection. I carefully lift the canvas and sure enough there’s a metal safe built into the wall behind it. These people probably have a panic room hidden behind a linen closet. The paper with the code written on it is crinkled between my fingers, but I’ve already memorized the numbers. I train the light on the keypad and press the 2 and then the 6 and then the 8 and then the 3 to a satisfying click I hope is dulled by the sound of Mr. Graham’s consistent snores.

  I’m not sure what I expect to find inside. A human head? Guns? Evidence that the Grahams are actually Russian spies? A bedazzled handgun? But I can’t help but feel disappointed when I see a stack of papers and folders.

  I carefully pull out a folder from the bottom of the stack, comforted by the sound of Mr. Graham’s rattled wheezing because it means I’m still safe. Johns Hopkins is printed on the front, and inside I find printed transcripts for Hillary Vanderplume from 1999–2000. Embryology. Immunology. Microbiology. There are residency papers for Saint Agnes Hospital, Baltimore City. Mrs. Graham was training to be a doctor? It never occurred to me that someone who wakes before dawn to put her “face” on, lives in yoga pants that cost more than a week’s worth of groceries, and cooks breakfast for a man who reads the newspaper at the breakfast table would have an MD after her name. Somewhere Gloria Steinem weeps.

  Sheets rustle
outside the door and I shove the flashlight up my shirt, holding my breath. There’s a pause in the snoring, thick silence hanging in the air like a noose. But a long sigh follows the rustle and Mr. Graham sputters to life once again.

  I page through the papers and find a Maryland birth certificate for Sophie. May 23, 2001. Hillary Vanderplume and Robert Graham listed as the parents. 2001. Vanderplume and Graham. No wonder Mrs. Graham’s last transcript was for 1999–2000. She must have gotten pregnant and dropped out. Oops. And interesting. Can’t imagine that would have gone over well with Sophie’s grandparents if they were anything like the Grahams.

  There’s another piece of paper underneath with Child: Sophie Graham written on one side and then Alleged Father: Robert Graham written on the other. I skim over paragraphs of confusing sentences to the bottom where it says Probable Paternity: 0%.

  I look up from the paper. Paternity? The word brings to mind trashy daytime television. Women pulling hair and men yelling a string of bleeped-out profanities to the amusement of seemingly shocked audience members and kids taking sick days on couches across America.

  Holy shit. Mr. Graham isn’t Sophie’s real dad.

  I think of Mr. and Mrs. Graham just a few feet away, sleeping with a wall of cool sheets between them in this house full of flawless captured moments. They don’t look very much like those sad, raging people on TV and yet it all somehow makes sense.

  I lift the folder to straighten the papers back inside when something falls to the wood floor with a clink. It’s a necklace. As soon as my fingers graze the broken metal clasp, I know. I don’t need to feel the delicate etchings on the medallion, the inscription, the swaddled baby. It’s not a necklace. It’s the necklace.

  Mr. Graham is not Sophie’s real father. He knew our names. He tried to take me. He’s hiding evidence, covering everything up. He won’t let his daughter remember. He wants to send me away. He’s afraid I know the truth. Mr. Graham is the shadow man.