The Lost Girls

by Heather Young

  At first Justine thought her mother hadn’t changed. Maurie was tan from the southwestern sun and her body was trim in tight black jeans. Her teeth were white, her lips red, and her lashes thick with mascara beneath overplucked brows. But as she drew nearer, Justine saw the skin of Maurie’s face was looser, and new lines traced the corners of her mouth and eyes. She was thinner, too, in a way that made her look haggard, even a little hunted.

  Maurie conducted her own inspection, cataloging her daughter’s worn jeans and unadorned face. Justine braced for the usual criticism: sweetie, why don’t you ever make the slightest effort? Maurie said nothing, just drew her into a hug. Her perfume smelled like gardenias.

  When she released Justine, she turned to the girls. “Look at these beauties! Do you remember your grandma?”

  Angela smiled shyly. “You used to do our fingernails.”

  “That’s right! And I brought all sorts of things for us to play with. Nail polish, hair things, even some very special makeup just for little girls.” She pushed Melanie’s lank hair away from her face with a well-manicured finger, and Melanie gave a lopsided smile that was a faint but recognizable echo of Maurie’s own.

  Maurie waved her hand, a gesture that took in the covered pool table, the bar, and the small square tables with their chairs, and said to Justine, “Not much has changed around here, has it?”

  “It never does,” Matthew said. The look he gave Maurie was heavy with history, and Justine realized this man who’d known Lucy and Lilith in their childhoods had also known Maurie in hers.

  “I thought you’d have gone somewhere warm by now,” Maurie said.

  “I like it here well enough.”

  “And Abe? How’s he?”

  “He’s the same, too.”

  “Where is he? I’m sure he’ll want to see me.” Maurie smiled. For a moment Justine sensed a silent crossing of swords between them. Then Matthew gave the smallest of shrugs and opened the door to the right of the bar. Behind it was a small alcove with a restaurant kitchen to the left, a set of stairs on the right, and another door at the back.

  Justine hesitated. She still hadn’t seen this Abe person, and she didn’t know why that was. Was he crazy? Bedridden? Over the last few weeks she’d gotten used to thinking she and Matthew were alone here, even though she’d known about Abe. Now she wasn’t sure she wanted to meet him. Curiosity won out, though, so she followed Matthew and Maurie, and Melanie and Angela came too—the three of them brushing the last of the snow from their jeans and crowding into a dim room heated to a near-sauna temperature by an iron stove. With its pine walls and low ceiling it felt like a burrow after the spacious main room, and it stank of cigarettes and the medicinal reek of the aged.

  In one corner a man sat in a stuffed chair pulled close to an old television. He looked up, startled, as Matthew turned it off. “We’ve got company.” Though his words were short, his voice was gentle.

  Justine knew right away why she hadn’t seen this man before. He was old, older than Matthew, and he hadn’t aged as well. He’d been big once—it was there in the breadth of his shoulders—but now his limbs were thin beneath his plaid shirt and the blanket on his lap. Almost no hair remained on his purple-mottled head, and his thick, knobby fingers shook with tremor. His face was broad, with prominent cheekbones and a bony nose, and though his eyes lacked the keenness of Matthew’s, the resemblance was there.

  When Maurie saw him, the tendons in her neck strained, and one hand went to her chest. Justine thought she saw a ghost of satisfaction in Matthew’s expressionless eyes as he watched her absorb what the years had done. Then Maurie bent down and took the old man’s hand. “It’s me, Abe. It’s your Maurie.”

  His face lit with recognition. He touched her hair, and Maurie let his fingers twine through it. Her demeanor with him was tender, even protective—not an aspect of her mother with which Justine was terribly familiar.

  Matthew said, “This is Justine. Maurie’s daughter. These are her children. They’re the ones living in Lucy’s house.” To Justine he said, “This is my brother, Abe.”

  “You mean they haven’t met?” Maurie’s eyes glinted a reproach at Matthew that he accepted impassively. But as Justine looked from one brother to the other, a dim memory crystallized. She was sitting at one of the tables in the lodge’s main room with Maurie, Lucy, Lilith, and two dark-haired men. She’d finished her hamburger, and now she was eating the French fries that came with it. Maurie was telling stories and the others were laughing. At some point the grown-ups ordered drinks, so Justine went to the porch to read. Later she heard a crashing clatter of violence and ran to the doorway to see one of the men cradling the other’s face in his hands. Maurie shouted something, and the next day—wasn’t it?—the next day she and Maurie had gone. That time Maurie hadn’t said not to look back, so Justine looked through the rear window until the trees blocked the lake from her sight.

  Maurie waved the girls over. “Aren’t my granddaughters gorgeous?”

  Angela looked at the floor, but Melanie studied the old man frankly. Abe leaned forward in his chair. His finger traced trembly circles in the air in front of their faces. “A little of Lucy here, a little of Emily there,” he said in a thick voice clotted with consonants. “Nothing of Lilith, though, no sir. Nothing of that one.” He patted Angela’s arm. “Although you’re even prettier than she was.” He smiled up at her with wet lips opening on a nearly toothless mouth. Angela stood frozen as his touch became a caress, like one would use to pet a kitten. Justine resisted an urge to yank her away.

  To her relief, Matthew said, “It’s time to go. He gets tired.” His voice permitted no argument, not even from Maurie, so the four of them left through the back door, Maurie promising Abe she’d come back soon and Justine resolving never to set foot in that room again.

  On the way to Lucy’s house, Maurie stopped at her car, which was crammed with boxes, a couple of prints in cheap frames, a lamp, and a laundry basket stuffed with shoes. Two enormous suitcases filled the backseat. Justine sighed. Sixty years old, and everything her mother owned still fit in a hatchback.

  “Let’s just grab the suitcases,” Maurie said. “And the shoes.”

  In the lavender bedroom, they put the suitcases in a corner and Maurie sank onto the bed. As her mother looked around at the plain furnishings Justine saw remembrance settle into her bones, bringing with it a rare moment of stillness. Then Maurie summoned a smile and turned to Melanie and Angela, who stood in the doorway. “This room didn’t look like this when I lived in it. I had this fabulous Indian blanket, and posters everywhere. Buddy Holly, Elvis Presley, Little Richard. Bill Haley. Marlon Brando.” Her hand swept the air, indicating a place for every name. “This was my room for seventeen years. But as soon as I left they changed it back. Turns out I was just borrowing it.” Her tone was wry, but shadows darkened the fine-boned hollows of her eyes. Justine wondered how many hours she’d driven that day, and the day before that.

  “I’m making grilled cheese for dinner. Did you eat?”

  “God, no. I haven’t eaten since Montana.”

  On their way out Justine turned up the radiator.

  At dinner they heard all about Phil-the-boyfriend, cheating bastard and scam artist, who’d told Maurie of a sure thing in the form of a friend’s tax-free offshore business, then dumped her for the hostess at the golf club and denied taking any of her money. Maurie, of course, hadn’t gotten anything in writing.

  “He took everything. All that money I’d been saving for my old age. Almost five thousand dollars.” She said this with equal parts pride and shame. Justine felt a stab of pity, even though she’d seen her mother run this game on dozens of men: the hard-luck girl who needed a knight in shining armor. She’d even run it on her, three years and twelve hundred dollars ago.

  She changed the subject. “How long have you known those men in the lodge?”

  “They’ve been here since before I was born. Their father built that place.”

&nb
sp; “Are they—” Justine glanced meaningfully at Angela. “Are they okay?”

  Maurie snorted. “Do they look dangerous? No, they’re just two old bachelors. Harmless.”

  Justine nodded, though she wasn’t reassured. Maurie’s judgment when it came to men was notoriously unreliable. She got up to clean the dishes.

  Maurie twirled her glass of the rosé she’d brought with her, watching the pink liquid rise and fall. It was her third. “I’d forgotten how cold this house gets.”

  “I imagine it wasn’t built for winter,” Justine said.

  “No, but Matthew always said they could put a wood-burning stove in the living room, and the downstairs, at least, would actually be habitable. He said he’d put it in himself. I bet he still would, if you asked him.”

  It was the opening Justine needed. “We’re not staying. We’re leaving right after Christmas.”

  Maurie took this in, her fingernail tapping the table. “You’re going back to Peter?”

  “Patrick. And no.”

  “Where, then?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  Maurie laughed. “Shake the dust off, right, sweetie?”

  Justine kept the dishrag moving without comment. Maurie reached into her purse and pulled out a half-empty pack of Vantage cigarettes and a lighter. She lit up and took a deep drag. “Of course you’re leaving.” She smiled at Angela. “This is no place for pretty girls.”

  “What was it like to grow up here?” Melanie asked. She’d said nothing during the meal, but now she watched her grandmother with feline intensity. Justine put the last plate in the drying rack and sat down. She was curious, too. She’d never dared ask that of Maurie.

  Maurie draped one arm over the back of her chair. She seemed relaxed, her pupils dilated from the wine. “Oh, you know how small towns are. People have nothing better to do than talk about your business. And there’s no town smaller than the town you grow up in. Everybody thinks they know you, just based on who your parents are. Or who they think your parents are.”

  “Who did they think your parents were?” Melanie asked.

  Maurie’s eyes narrowed, and Justine thought she wouldn’t answer, but Melanie kept her pinned with her gaze until Maurie shrugged. “My father died in the war, before he and Mother could get married. That was enough of a scandal right there. And Mother was apparently a bit of a tramp in her younger days. The most popular theory was she messed around with Abe Miller while Daddy was off fighting Hitler.” She gave a bitter laugh. “Which made me part Indian, part slut, and one hundred percent bastard.”

  Justine glanced at Angela, but she was drawing aimless circles on the table with her finger and hadn’t heard. She thought about the creepy old man at the lodge, shriveled beneath his blanket, and how his hands had caressed Maurie’s hair and Angela’s arm. Could he actually be Maurie’s father? Her own grandfather? The thought appalled her.

  Maurie rolled her eyes. “Honey, please. Abe Miller is not your grandfather.”

  Justine flushed. “I know. It’s just that he was so happy to see you.”

  “He always liked me. He’s a little slow, but he’s sweet. Matthew keeps him locked in the back like he’s some sort of crazy uncle, but I used to sneak in to see him.” She shook her head. “God, Matthew was pissed when he found that out. I thought he’d kill us both.” Then she leaned forward and pointed her finger at Justine. “Here’s the truth. My father was Charlie Lloyd, the son of the family that owns this town. But Mother wasn’t good enough for them, so Agnes Lloyd told everyone she’d been running around behind his back. If she’d done the honorable thing, I’d be rich now. Charlie’s sister got herself killed in a car crash before she had any kids, so it all would have come to me. Instead she gave it to the damned library.”

  Maurie’s face was drawn with bitterness and hurt. Justine’s hands tightened in her lap. The library had a mahogany checkout counter, picture windows, and raised brass letters above the door: AGNES M. LLOYD LIBRARY. Maurie had waited tables for forty years to save her five thousand dollars, only to have it stolen by a middle-aged hustler in a trailer park. Was it really so simple? Had her mother’s miserable fate been decided before her birth by the prejudices of a small town and the malice of a reluctant mother-in-law? After all, her own fate had been decided by a great-aunt she’d barely known—another woman who’d decided to ignore her relationship to Maurie.

  Maurie picked up her wineglass. The rim was crusted with feathered red stains from her lipstick. “It doesn’t matter. We Evans girls make our own luck, that’s what I always say.” She waved her glass at Melanie and drank.

  Justine looked at the clock on the microwave. It was ten. “It’s past bedtime,” she said to the girls. Reluctantly, they allowed her to shepherd them up the stairs.

  Maurie put out her cigarette and followed, as Justine knew she would. She watched as they brushed their teeth and Justine helped Angela pull on her nightgown, but she didn’t say anything until Justine told Angela it was too late for their story. Then she pushed her way into the room, swaying a little from the wine. “How about Grandma reads you your story, since Mommy’s too tired?”

  Justine tugged at the sleeves of her sweatshirt, smarting from the implied criticism, even though she’d been expecting it ever since they’d climbed the stairs. Maurie took a dim view of Justine’s parenting. Justine was never any fun, she said. She never—in one memorable phrase from years ago—made magic for her children. It was ten fifteen, and the girls had school tomorrow, but Justine got out of her mother’s way. It wasn’t a battle she could win.

  Angela pointed to the box of Emily books. “They’re over there.”

  Maurie picked up a notebook. “Oh my God. Where did you find these?” When Justine told her she said, “Lucy used to read these at the library. She let me turn the pages.” She turned one now. She wore a wistful expression that made her look younger, or at least less tired. “I always wondered what happened to them.”

  When Justine was little, on the rare nights Maurie stayed in, she would sometimes read Justine a bedtime story. Justine had loved the weight of her mother on her bed in her chiffon bathrobe, the scent of her night cream, fresh and sweet. Maurie read as well now as she had then: slowly and with great expression. Both girls were mesmerized, and Justine, too, found herself drawn in by Maurie’s voice, mellow and tinged with a lyricism that transported them all to the magical summer forest of Lucy’s imaginings.

  The story was called “Emily and the Indian Princess.” In it Emily found a series of earthen mounds in the woods. She didn’t know what they were and they scared her. Then, on the night of the midsummer full moon, the ghost of an Indian princess appeared and told her the mounds were where the Indians had buried their treasures. If Emily were to dig in the mound she indicated, she would find the princess’s own riches. So, with the help of Mimsy the mouse and her cousins the moles, Emily dug until she found a golden crown and scepter, and necklaces and bracelets of gold and silver and gems. She put them on, and all the creatures of the forest called her Princess Emily. The ghost of the princess smiled and said Emily was the true heir to her forest kingdom.

  Maurie closed the book. In the silence they could hear the house breathing, soft and slow. Then she laughed, breaking the spell. “Well, damn. I sure could use an Indian princess right about now.”

  “Couldn’t we all,” Justine said neutrally.

  Maurie gave her an irritated look. She pushed Angela’s curls aside and kissed her forehead. “I’ll tell you what, baby. While I’m here, I’ll read you your stories every night. How’s that sound?”

  Angela nodded as she slid down her pillow. Melanie’s eyes met Justine’s, but Justine looked away. It was okay if her mother read the Emily stories to the girls for a while. She was their grandmother, after all. And they would be leaving soon.

  Lucy

  Father wasn’t Mother’s first love. I didn’t know this until she was dying. She died slowly, so she had lots of time for deathbed reminiscence
s. Most were about her childhood on her family’s farm, and how desperately she’d wanted to escape her father, our tiny, hunchbacked Grandfather Roberts, whom I barely remembered, so long had he been dead. Lilith and I ignored those stories; they didn’t interest us. But this one did interest me, so I listened.

  His name was Samuel. I never heard the family name, but he was a Williamsburg boy. They were the star pupils of the one-room schoolhouse that used to sit on First Street, and when they were in the upper grades the teacher often asked them to stay after school to help her. He lived in town, but every day he walked her home to her family’s farm—three miles there and back. By the time they graduated, they were promised to one another. He was going to take over his father’s cabinetry shop and build her a house. It would have been yellow, she said.

  Then came the Great War. Williamsburg’s young men shipped out in the fall of 1917 in a frenzy of flag-waving and band-playing, and Samuel the cabinetmaker’s son never came back. Mother wasn’t the only war widow, or almost-widow, in the county by any means, but she was a shy, plain girl who’d just held one boy’s hand. She thought Samuel was her only chance, she told me through milky tears, and I did feel a little sympathy for the girl she must have been.

  Father was six years older than she, so although she knew of him and his prominent family, they’d never had much to do with each other. While she and Samuel were courting, Father was away at the Methodist seminary. After he broke with the seminarians, he came back to Williamsburg, and when his brother was killed in France and his father died of the influenza, he took over the pharmacy that was supposed to have been his brother’s inheritance. So he was there when the shy, plain girl came to pick up the sleeping powder her mother was stockpiling against the day, not much later, when she would make her own escape from the hunchbacked farmer.