I was young, maybe four. It was barely a memory, more like a flash of an image accompanied by a strong feeling. Fear? We were on the move, bags and suitcases shoved into the trunk. Claire, hurried, abrupt, and angry, pulling the seat belt across me. I heard the snap of the buckle. The image faded.
Another one took its place—Claire hovering over me while I lay on the couch, drowsy, half-asleep. I was around ten. Her breath in my ear roused me. “My life won’t be my own. I will never have peace, because of you. Remember that.” I’d opened my eyes, startled; she’d looked down on me and then wandered away.
Then I was standing in the bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror. Sixteen years old, long tangled brown hair, puffy eyes. I hated my image at that moment. The red mark from where Claire’s palm had smacked my cheek was visible in the mirror. I hated her.
I’d resented our move that year to Haddonfield, New Jersey—a quaint, upscale town a short drive across the border from Philadelphia and close to the church where I’d been told I was abandoned. Claire’s sister, Marie—or, I should say, Sister Marie—was here too, having transferred from a convent in California only a month before we arrived. Maybe that’s why this move felt different, more permanent than the others. And I despised all of it. This town was expensive, exclusive, pretentious. I didn’t fit in. I would never fit in. Always the only girl in the class not invited to the party, always the new girl without a lab partner—a kaleidoscope of towns, schools, upheaval. Adaptation, rejection. But I’d been right: this was the last stop. Claire’s death ensured that I would never have to move again.
I opened my eyes and shivered. The house had a cold, stale, closed-up smell to it. I got up and wandered onto the porch. This had always been my favorite place—part of the house, but not quite. I would have moved my bed out here if I’d been allowed. But it wasn’t as comfortable a haven as I remembered. Something had changed, shifted.
“Ava, I’m so glad I found you!” The words broke the stillness.
“Aunt Marie?”
She’d exchanged her nun’s habit for slacks and a sweater. She climbed the steps slowly and sat next to me. Her dark hair was cut close to her head, her delicate features unadorned with makeup, giving her a gamine look. She was in her forties but her eyes, large and brown, dominated her unlined face, making her look years younger and much more innocent than she was. “I was looking for you earlier, but you didn’t answer your phone.”
It was hard to see now, but Marie had been the wild sister growing up. Pretty and impulsive, she’d been into boys, drinking, running away, and flunking out of school. She’d been volatile, succumbing to uncontrolled mood swings and outbursts until her mother did what rich people do and shuffled her off to the uberprivate, expensive Calda Clinic on Lake Zurich, Switzerland.
Grand-Mère Anais said Marie’d been given every diagnosis, every medication, intensive therapy for over a year, until she finally just grew up and grew out of it. She emerged from the clinic doors made placid by therapy and decided to join a convent—peace, structure, quiet, and God. What more did anyone need? When you looked Marie in the eye, sometimes you could still see the insanity in there, rolling around, waiting to come out.
Claire was hardly a nun, and the two girls sparred as they grew older but finally settled for civil tolerance. Until Claire’s death, they’d made a yearly pilgrimage to France to see their mother, who owned a small cottage in Cherbourg.
I’d spent every summer there when I was little. The small, silver-haired woman was perfect in every way to my young eyes. She strolled into town and bought her bread every morning. Breakfast with Grand-Mère was always the same. Coffee, diluted with lots of cream and sugar, or thick hot chocolate, served in a huge bowl-like mug. There were teeny chips in the handle, and worn colors ringed the bowl. But it was mine, and Anais never let anyone else use it. I had my coffee-cream and warm rolls with butter and lingered with her on the patio, practicing French.
Anais Lavoisier’s family had been residing in Hanoi, Vietnam, as rubber traders and diplomats when French colonization was winding down in the ’50s. As tensions in the region escalated, some of her family moved south toward Saigon, taking posts in the French embassy, while others returned to France and settled in Cherbourg. Ross Saunders, a millworker’s son from Philadelphia, had the misfortune of being drafted by the army and sent to Saigon in the late ’60s. Their initial meeting sparked a romance and protests from both families, but they were married and living in the United States within two years.
They settled in a small suburb of Philadelphia. Ross got a job in the paper mills; Anais stayed home, had two children, and pined for the life she’d left behind. The romance of wartime diminished as each day passed and Anais came to the realization that she found Americans uninteresting and uncultured. One morning, she packed her bags, took her two girls, Claire and Marie, and moved to Cherbourg.
Ross, the story went, was devastated but not altogether surprised. He’d found Anais increasingly difficult to live with. Part of him must have felt some measure of relief. He never divorced her. He never remarried. He never traveled to France. He just continued his life in Philadelphia, alone. Even after they returned to the States, Claire and Marie saw their father only sporadically before his death a year ago.
“Why don’t you come to Mass tonight? Light a candle for Claire. Pray. I can even get Father Martin to hear confession.”
I looked out onto the neighborhood. The familiar houses across the tree-lined street showed no signs of life. “Claire’s dead, Marie.”
She hesitated. “Are you all right, Ava?”
I glanced up at her. “Who named me? Who gave me the name Ava Hope? Was that my birth name?”
Marie’s head was down, and I was sure her lips were moving. Was she trembling or praying? “Claire wanted to name you Simone. She loved the name Simone. I wanted something a little more meaningful. Therese or even Mary. Anais came for the christening, held you, and said, ‘No, her name is Ava Hope.’”
My head hurt. My eyes hurt. “But Hope isn’t even French. Neither is Ava, really. Grandma Anais would never appreciate a name that wasn’t French.”
Marie nodded slowly. “Yes, well. There were actresses that she liked so much. Ava Gardner and Hope Lange. So Ava Hope it was. Why these questions?”
“Hope springs eternal.”
Marie finally raised her eyes. They were dark and expressionless. “Yes, it does . . .” After a moment, she pushed herself up from the seat. “Should I wait for you at Mass?”
“Do you think Claire really wanted me, Marie? I’ve wondered that. Now more than ever.”
Her face paled and she dropped back down next to me. “I know my sister could be harsh at times. Lord knows she and I had our bad moments growing up. But she did the best she could for you.”
“The best she could. Is that something you say about an adopted child? I mean, it was her choice, right? To take me in? I wasn’t an accident, an unplanned pregnancy?”
“No. No. She didn’t give birth to you.” I couldn’t help but give her a sideways glance. “And Lord, no. I wasn’t pregnant either. Don’t even think that.”
My hands twisted in my lap. “I found this Polaroid in her things. A picture of a house. I went there today, to that house. I just had this feeling—”
Marie’s hand was on my arm now. I was aware of the pressure of her fingers against my skin. “You went to some random house? For what?”
I turned to face her. “It wasn’t just any random house. I went because I had a feeling it had something to do with me. The picture had this writing on the bottom. Do you know it turns out people were murdered in that house?”
Marie’s gaze skittered away. “Who was killed?”
“Loyal Owens and his wife, Destiny. Have you heard the names before? Did Claire know them?”
Marie stood. “Whatever this is, it has to stop.” She moved to the railing, keeping her back to me. The hand that held the railing trembled ever so slightly. “I know bein
g adopted must be hard . . . the not knowing. But you can spend your life looking for answers or you can accept the fact that you’re a Lavoisier-Saunders. One of us. Come to Mass and let’s light a candle for Claire. Okay?”
“Light a thousand candles, Aunt Marie. Watch them burn. It won’t make my questions go away. I promise you that. This photo means something.”
“Ça ne veut rien dire. Nothing.”
With that she hurried to where her car was parked on the street. I crossed my arms and watched. She hesitated just a second before opening her car door. I could only see the outline of her form, but she seemed to be taking in me, the house, everything, before getting into the car and driving away.
It means nothing, she’d said. “Liar,” I muttered.
CHAPTER 4
I woke up to filtered light coming through the blinds. My first thought was that my head hurt. The constant pounding hadn’t gone away. I sat up, confused and disoriented. My mouth was dry and tasted like dirty socks and vomit. I’d fallen asleep on the living-room couch in my clothes. An empty bottle of Château Lafite Bordeaux from Claire’s wine collection lay on the floor near me. A regular drinking glass lay tipped near the bottle. I remembered raiding Claire’s stash, then the warm, velvety feeling of the wine going down my throat. The woozy, forgetting happiness that followed. I was only surprised I’d taken the time to pour it into a glass.
After Marie left I’d been so angry, I’d wanted to follow her and squeeze some measure of honesty from her throat. Honesty was what I needed. Marie was quiet and reserved, but underneath all of that she was a fluttering wreck, a stone’s throw from a nervous breakdown. She seemed to think the structure of the church would keep her from utter madness, but those walls of piety could only support her for so long.
I forced myself to get up and made coffee, then took the mug onto the porch and sat down. The cold air made my head less foggy. I thought about throwing a few things together and catching a flight to London. It was quicker to fly to London and then cross the channel to Cherbourg than it was to fly into France. Anais still had her little stone cottage. I could sit on her patio and eat baguettes with fresh cheese and tomatoes and sip wine, get away from everything. But I knew I’d spend my time helping her tend to her house and gardens, listening to her lectures and advice. She’d tolerate my presence in her little oasis, but I’d come back with just as many questions as I had now.
I glanced at the clock. Nine thirty. I still had time to make it to Sunday Mass. I looked down at my wrinkled clothing. Then I raked my fingers through my matted hair and grabbed my coat.
When I entered the church, Sister Regina was walking toward the door. Regina was a bubbly, friendly woman in her early sixties. Today, she was deep in thought and didn’t see me until I was right in front of her.
“Sister. Good morning.”
“Goodness, Ava.” She scanned my attire and then pursed her lips. “How have you been?” She reached out and placed her thick hands on my upper arms.
“I’m okay, Sister. Is Marie in the back? I’d really like to see her before the service starts.”
“Marie’s not here.”
“But I saw her last night. She came to Claire’s house. She was trying to get me to come to Mass. Where is she?”
“She had things to attend to this morning. That’s all I know.”
“What kind of things? Church things or personal things?”
“I don’t know.” Regina took my arm, urging me forward.
“Wait, when’s she coming back?”
Regina didn’t answer. She had her head bowed as she walked with me to the front of the church. I lit a candle, crossed myself, and knelt before it. I tried to keep a prayer for Claire in my head while I was at the altar, though images of the murder house and then Marie kept flitting through my brain.
I crossed myself again and stood. Regina was to the side, watching me intently. I slid into the nearest pew and settled in for the service. I’d spent many hours in pews just like this growing up, and I did the same thing every time. Closed my eyes in the silence and said a prayer. It was mostly a single-themed prayer with only slight variations over the years—Make Claire love me. Then, Help me find a way to fit in somewhere in this world. Then, Let me find out who I really am. My real family.
Father Martin’s voice droned on in the same intonation; the entire homily sounded like white noise. I studied the ancient woman seated in the pew in front of me methodically rubbing lotion onto her spotted knuckles. Her movements matched the seesaw monotony of the priest’s voice, and I felt my lids grow heavy. My eyes drifted to the front of the church. The blessed mother was serene; the little candle I’d lit sent flickers across her delicately folded hands. Then I studied my own fingers. Cuticles raw, fingernails chewed, they were a mess. Like the rest of me.
The service ended and I got in line to exit the church. Father Martin was standing near the entrance, talking with each of the congregants. I let others go ahead of me while I scanned the chapel for Sister Regina, but she was nowhere in sight. When I turned back to the door, Father Martin was gone.
I threw myself into a pew and stared straight ahead at Jesus hanging from the cross. His thorned head was tilted to the side, slightly down, mouth agape. Blood dripped from his wrists, ankles, and wounded ribs. He’d surrendered to his fate willingly. The fate of the Owens couple was suddenly there, almost superimposed upon the man on the cross: Loyal Owens on his side in the living room, wounds soaking the carpet around him. I leaned forward and made a silent vow that I would never come to this church again.
I headed out of the building, contemplating stopping for coffee on the way back home. A grande caramel latte might wake me up and wash the Catholic from my mind. I saw Sister Regina out of the corner of my eye. She was talking to Father Martin—I could hear they were deep in conversation, their expressions intense and fluctuating. I stepped back to avoid being seen.
“She was looking for Marie. And she looks terrible,” Regina said.
“We never know how death will affect us,” he answered.
Regina was shaking her head. “There are other considerations here, Father. This whole thing worries me.”
“Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.” He patted her arm.
I put my back to the wall and took a deep breath. My heart almost stopped beating.
“Yes, I know Matthew 6. But Marie worries that the child knows more than she should. That this is just the beginning.”
There was silence during which I could only imagine what was happening.
“Claire’s passing has certainly created problems, but this was going to happen anyway. I told them both that. Ava should have been told the truth long ago. Marie and her sister couldn’t go on like this forever.”
“But Father—”
“This is one time I can say I wish I hadn’t heard confession. I could have done without Claire’s sins on my mind. My advice to you, Sister, stay out of it, and pray.”
CHAPTER 5
The sky was filled with clouds, and he was afraid it was going to rain. He hated driving in the rain. Traffic was surprisingly heavy, though Haddonfield was nothing but a sprawl of expensive Victorians spread over a few square miles. Funny Claire had settled here, of all places. But it was probably because she could hide in plain sight. She was one of these people, tucked in her neat house: uppity, arrogant, aloof. A first-class bitch.
It was strange that Ross could have produced the two children he had. Claire, an elitist snob, and Marie, hiding behind religious garb, pretending her cold, flat stare reflected some higher calling to Jesus. Flip sides of the same coin. Ross had been a Philly boy. From the neighborhood; son of a millworker. Blue collar. Long working days. Longer drinking nights. A row-home-filled-with-plastic-covered-furniture kind of guy. Honest, loyal, nice. Which was maybe what started all this.
He looked around at this street, at the town—decorated with lights, the cafés with outdoor seating, the Starbucks on t
he corner, and a multitude of expensive stores—and he scoffed. What bullshit. She’d come to rest, literally, in some New Jersey version of Chestnut Hill, where Owens lived. He’d imagined something more dramatic from her. Maybe Oklahoma on a windswept ranch, or Quebec City in a crumbling-chic townhouse. Or maybe even Portland, Oregon, near an organic market. But boring New Jersey, so close to her father’s old stomping ground?
He turned the corner onto West End Avenue and pulled up in front of the house. The porch was empty; no movement through the windows. He waited, feeling the anticipation of ending the nightmare of the past twenty years, right here, right now. It was going to feel so good to walk away from this. And he wasn’t going to make any mistakes this time. Clean. No prints. He’d even toss the house, take a few things to make it look good. What better time for Ava to die than on a quiet Sunday morning when all these idiots were either in church or sipping a cup of ten-dollar coffee in one of those shops in the middle of town?
He scanned the street. There was ever-present traffic, but everything else was quiet. He slipped on leather gloves—his breath was labored, making him light-headed as he climbed the stone steps to the front door. A small hunting knife was stuffed in his jacket pocket. No cars in the driveway or out front. No sounds or movements. No one was home.
The knob turned under his hand. She hadn’t even bothered to lock the door. She’s oblivious. For a minute he almost felt bad. He wanted to feel bad. But too many things had happened over too many years to stop now. He slipped through the door, closing it quietly behind him. He scanned the living room. Empty wine bottles were scattered across the floor. He counted six at first glance. He picked one up and smiled. Drinking the expensive shit. Probably Claire’s shit. A blanket was stuffed at one end of the couch. She’d been sleeping there like a dog. Maybe he’d let her get drunk before he slit her throat. One last bender.
Then it occurred to him. The photograph. Did she have it on her? He saw her purse lying on the floor in the corner. Where’d she go that she didn’t take her purse? He thought for a moment that she might be sleeping off her liquor upstairs, but her car was gone. The front door was unlocked, no purse. Maybe she went to visit someone, or to the market with cash stuffed in her pocket. He needed to be quick and ready in case she returned. He dumped her purse onto the coffee table. Old receipts, crumpled papers, sticks of gum, her wallet, and one small empty bottle of vodka. No photograph. He riffled through the papers left on the end tables, tossing them onto the floor as he went. Then he moved into the dining room.
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