by Joy Fielding
Her mother was always telling her she had such a pretty face, and her mother was right, Delilah decided, pushing herself off her bed and examining her perversely delicate features in the full-length, freestanding mirror standing next to the closet. “All you’d have to lose is thirty pounds,” she heard her mother whisper in her ear. “Thirty pounds. Thirty pounds,” Delilah repeated in her grandmother’s incredulous voice.
But she knew even thirty pounds wouldn’t be sufficient to satisfy Grandma Rose. She could swear off Coca-Colas and stop eating after seven o’clock at night, and maybe she’d drop thirty, even forty, pounds, and it still wouldn’t be enough where her grandmother was concerned. She thought of the fashion magazines her mother gobbled up as avidly as some people read their Bible, of those skinny girls with sunken eyes and swollen lips who filled the glossy pages. They all looked alike. You couldn’t tell one from the other. Was that what her grandmother wanted?
It’s what I want, Delilah acknowledged sadly. To look like everyone else. To be like everyone else. To be invisible. She almost laughed. In a strange way, that’s exactly what she was. For all her bulk, nobody really saw her.
If only she had someone she could share things with. A close friend. Or a sister. She’d always longed for a sister, despite the stories her mother used to tell about her own childhood, the constant rivalry with her siblings for their mother’s approval, how Grandma Rose was a master at playing one girl off the other. “Be grateful you’re an only child,” her mother used to say.
Where was her mother? She’d left the house around four-thirty to go to the drugstore, and now it was closing in on ten o’clock. Maybe Grandma Rose was right. Maybe there’d been an accident. Maybe she should start calling all the hospitals in the greater area. Maybe she should go back outside, keep looking.
The phone rang.
“Can you get that?” her grandmother called from downstairs.
Delilah raced down the stairs to the kitchen and reached the phone in the middle of its fourth ring, hoping the caller hadn’t already hung up. Grandma Rose was in the next room, for God’s sake, and she wasn’t paralyzed, Delilah was thinking as she lifted the receiver to her ear, prayed to hear her mother’s voice. “Hello?”
“Delilah,” the voice on the other end said flatly.
Delilah knew who it was immediately. His voice was as intimidating as the rest of him. “Mr. Hamilton,” she replied. Had her mother come into Chester’s after she’d left? Was she there now? Was there some sort of problem?
“I saw you here earlier,” Cal Hamilton was saying, “but you left before I had a chance to talk to you.”
“Who is it, Delilah?” Her grandmother appeared in the doorway. “Is it your mother?”
Delilah shook her head. “It’s Mr. Hamilton,” she whispered. “Is everything all right, Mr. Hamilton? Is my mother—”
“I was hoping you could stop by on Saturday afternoon and keep my wife company for a few hours,” he interrupted, as if she hadn’t been speaking. “I have to be somewhere, and you know how Fiona hates to be alone.”
“Of course,” Delilah said, although she knew no such thing. In previous visits to the Hamilton home, Fiona had barely said two words to her. It was like babysitting an infant, she thought, and more than a little creepy. She would have said no, except that Mr. Hamilton insisted on paying her twenty dollars an hour. “He wants me to come over Saturday,” she began, hanging up the phone, but her grandmother had already turned her back.
They heard a car pull into the driveway. Delilah closed her eyes, said a silent prayer.
“Hi, everybody,” Kerri called as the front door opened. “Anybody home?”
Delilah released a deep sigh of relief. Her mother was home. She was safe. She hadn’t been in an accident. No maniac had snatched her. And it didn’t matter that she’d been gone for almost six hours, or that she hadn’t told anyone where she was or called to say she wouldn’t be home for dinner. What mattered was that she was home.
“Where the hell have you been?” Rose bellowed, marching back into the living room. “We’ve been worried sick.”
“Don’t be silly,” Kerri told her mother, waving bloodred fingernails in the air impatiently. She was wearing tight, red-and-white-checked capri pants and a white halter sweater, her nipples prominent beneath the fine wool. Long, platinum hair fell in loose curls around her shoulders. Red toenails peeked out between the straps of her red sandals. The sandals sported skinny, four-inch heels. “I told you I might be a while.” She dangled a large, brown shopping bag from her other hand. “Don’t be mad at me. I come bearing gifts.”
“Where’ve you been?” Delilah asked.
“Bloomingdale’s,” Kerri purred seductively, reaching into the brown bag.
Bloomingdale’s? Delilah repeated silently. The nearest Bloomingdale’s was in Fort Lauderdale. “You went to Fort Lauderdale?”
“I wanted to get my girl something nice to wear.” She pulled a beautiful blue cotton sweater out of the bag and pressed it against her enormous chest.
Delilah thought she’d never seen a sweater so beautiful. “It’s gorgeous.” She reached for it eagerly, examined the designer label.
“I don’t suppose you remembered my heart pills,” Rose said.
“Of course I remembered your pills.” Kerri ferreted around in her red leather purse for the pills, tossed the small, plastic container at her mother.
“Good thing I didn’t need these right away.”
“You’re welcome,” Kerri said.
Delilah checked the size of the jersey, felt a sharp stab of disappointment pierce her heart. “I think this might be too small,” she whispered, hating the whine in her voice.
“It’s a medium.”
“I’m a large.”
Her mother smiled. “Well, then, this will give you some incentive to lose a few pounds.” She reached for the sweater. “I guess I could wear it in the meantime. So, what’s been happening? I miss anything?”
“Liana Martin’s disappeared,” Delilah told her, watching her mother return the sweater to the shopping bag.
“What do you mean, she disappeared?”
“According to Sheriff Weber, nobody’s seen her since yesterday afternoon.”
“When were you talking to Sheriff Weber?”
“Tonight. Grandma Rose was worried, so she sent me out to look for you.”
“Honestly, Mother,” Kerri said. “I told you I might be a while.”
“You didn’t tell me you were going to Fort Lauderdale.”
“It was spur-of-the-moment. Besides, I’m a big girl. I don’t have to tell you every little thing.”
“I don’t like those pants on you,” Rose said in response.
“I should call Sheriff Weber,” Delilah interjected. “Tell him you’re home.”
“Why don’t you like these pants?”
“They make you look hippy,” Rose said.
“They do?”
“I think they look nice,” Delilah said, coming to her mother’s defense.
“Look who’s talking,” said Rose.
“So, how is Sheriff Weber these days?” Kerri asked. “Was he worried about me?”
“Worried enough to tell me to call him if you weren’t home by midnight. I think he was worried because of Liana.”
“Liana?”
“Liana Martin,” Delilah reminded her.
“Judy Martin’s daughter,” Rose added. “Now that’s a beautiful woman.”
“You think so?” Kerri asked. “I always thought she was kind of ordinary. What do you think, sweetie?”
“I think you’re prettier,” Delilah said.
“Thank you, angel. See, Mom? Delilah thinks I’m prettier than Judy Martin.”
“Is that a blemish on your chin?” Rose asked.
“What? Where?” Kerri raced toward the small mirror in the hall. “What are you talking about? I don’t see anything.”
Delilah shook her head and walked into the kitchen.
They’d be at it all night, she was thinking as she picked up the phone and called Sheriff Weber, told him her mother was back, and that she was sorry for any unnecessary worry she might have caused him. “Any news about Liana?” Delilah asked.
“Nothing,” he told her.
“Nothing,” she repeated, hearing her mother and grandmother bickering in the next room. She listened for several seconds, then she grabbed a spoon from a nearby drawer, pulled a white wicker chair up to the freezer, and ate directly from the container what was left of the ice cream.
SIX
KILLER’S JOURNAL
Memory’s an amazing thing. Our memories shape us, providing a backdrop for our daily lives, a context for our actions, a rationale for our sometimes dubious decisions. Who we are today is inextricably woven through with memories of who we were yesterday, and the days before that—threads in the same complicated tapestry—highlighting episodes from our pasts, spotlighting our latest disappointments and first loves. Or hates. Pull one thread, and watch the whole thing unravel. Who did what to whom, what foods we’ve developed a taste for, the multiple skills we’ve mastered or failed at, the movies we’ve enjoyed, the music we’ve danced to, what movie stars we admire, what politicians we don’t—if we can’t remember such seemingly ordinary details, well, then, who are we?
It’s our memories that define us. Without them, we have no identity. We have nothing.
Those pathetic old creatures who’ve outlived their memories and now sit screaming in lonely hospital corridors, scream not with the pain of their deteriorating organs, but rather with the agony of no longer knowing who they are, their ears searching their cries for the sound of a familiar voice. They live in the eternal present, and it’s hell on earth.
I never want to get like that. If I ever develop Alzheimer’s or some such awful thing, I hope someone will just take a gun to my head and shoot me. I’m sure Liana Martin would be only too happy to oblige. Although sadly, she won’t be around to get the chance.
You know how people are always telling you to live for today. I think that’s good advice. Remember yesterday, but live for today. Yes, sir, that’s my new motto. I should have told that to Liana Martin. Live for today, Liana. Because what’s done is done, and you never know what’s going to happen next.
Well, no. That’s not exactly true. Because I know. I know what’s going to happen next.
They also say you should live every day as if it might be your last. More good advice, although I don’t think Liana Martin would have appreciated hearing it.
I wonder what memories she conjured up last night. If they were happy or sad. If they were of any comfort to her.
Personally, I have a lot of memories that aren’t so pleasant. Like the time I was five years old and almost drowned in a neighbor’s pool. It was Robby Warren’s birthday and my mother was busy and couldn’t go, so my aunt, who was always hanging around, took me over there. I can still see her flirting with Robby Warren’s father as she stuffed her face with party sandwiches at the side of the pool. Don’t you love party sandwiches? I do. They’re solid butter, for God’s sake. That’s what makes them so tasty.
But anyway, it was real hot and there were tons of kids there, splashing around in the pool, making lots of noise. And the adults were gossiping and drinking, and I don’t think it was just lemonade they were drinking either, although my aunt always disputed this. Just as she always disputed my memory of what happened next. She insisted there was no way I could remember the events of that afternoon because I was so young. She said kids that age can’t remember things, especially in the kind of detail I can. I stopped trying to convince her. She had her truth. I have mine. And she had to live with herself after all.
But she was such a liar. She insisted she was watching me the whole time I was in the water. She claimed she only turned her head for half a second, and when she looked back, I was gone, so she assumed I’d gotten out of the pool and gone inside the house to use the facilities. That’s what she always called the bathroom—the facilities. She thought it sounded more genteel. I used to drive her crazy when I’d say, “I’m going to the toilet.” I can still see her cringe. Which, of course, is why I said it.
Anyway, she said she went inside the house looking for me. I think she went inside to find Robby Warren’s father. But, of course, she said she just ran into him when she was looking for me, like it was my fault she was talking to him, and, yes, maybe she got distracted for a couple of seconds, but no more than that, although others said I was under the water for at least a minute. I don’t know. The truth is I don’t remember exactly how long I was under that water. I just remember one of the other kids jostling me, and me losing my footing, and then slipping below the surface. I remember the taste of the chlorine in my mouth, the slimy feel of the tepid water as it slid inside my nostrils. I remember my hair lifting away from my scalp and floating around my head, like seaweed. Then nothing.
And suddenly there were voices, and crying, and lots of shouting. And then fists pounding on my chest, and my head being tilted back, my lips being pried open, and someone squeezing my nose and blowing air into my mouth. I remember gagging and spitting water into somebody’s lap. And I remember my aunt crying hysterically, carrying on so much, in fact, that there was actually talk of sending her to the hospital, then allowing Robby Warren’s father to calm her down—he had to take her into the house for a good ten minutes—before she was composed enough to take me home. Then she told my mother how it was all my fault I almost drowned, and my mother took her side and scolded me, shaking me until I was dizzy, screaming that I had to be more careful, not because I’d almost died, but because I’d ruined Robby Warren’s birthday party, and we’d probably never be invited back there again. And now what were we going to do in the summer when it got really hot, and there was nowhere to go to cool off?
Actually, the Warren family moved away that summer, and another family moved in, and they were old, and they didn’t swim, so they had the pool taken out. Then they paved the whole backyard over, took out all the grass and everything, because old Mr. Jackes said he didn’t have the strength to keep picking the weeds out all the time. I volunteered to do it—actually my mother volunteered me to do it—but Mr. Jackes said his wife was allergic to grass anyway, so it was better to just put in pavement. I liked Mr. Jackes. He was big and gruff and usually upset about something. But at least you always knew where you stood with him. There was no pretense. No bullshit. How often can you say that about anybody?
After he died, we went over to pay our respects to Mrs. Jackes. My mother brought a peanut-butter cake she’d bought in the grocery store and was trying to pass off as her own. Didn’t matter. As it turned out, Mrs. Jackes was allergic to peanuts as well as grass, and she couldn’t eat it, couldn’t even have the damn thing in the house. So we took it back home and ate the whole thing all by ourselves. My mother claimed there was no way Mrs. Jackes was allergic to all those things, and that she was just being snooty, thinking she was better than us. We never talked to her again. A few months later, her kids moved her into an old-age home in Hallandale, and eventually a new family bought the house, dug up the backyard, and put in another pool. But they never invited us over.
I never did learn how to swim. Not well anyway. Water always terrified me. Still does. The way it sneaks up on you.
I guess I’m a bit like water, in that respect.
Another unpleasant memory: yearly vacations in Pompano Beach with my mother, grandparents, and of course my aunt. These holidays were always torture for me, largely because of my aunt, who seemed to go out of her way to make my life a living hell. No wonder her husband died before his fortieth birthday. He was probably grateful for whatever it was that killed him. Only way he could get away from that witch was to die.
After that near-drowning incident in my childhood, my aunt had decided it was essential that I learn how to swim. She didn’t want to find me floating facedown in the motel pool, she told anyone who woul
d listen—she loved an audience—and she didn’t want to have to worry about me being swept into the ocean by some deadly undertow. She just wanted to relax and enjoy her holiday, she repeated ad nauseam. So, almost as soon as we got to the motel, she arranged for this lifeguard I saw her cuddling up to, to coach me. He tried. I’ll give him credit for that. And ultimately, he did manage to keep me afloat for more than three seconds at a time, although I never progressed much beyond the dog-paddle stage. He explained that there was no way I could swim properly without putting my head underwater, but I wasn’t interested in swimming properly, I told him, and I refused.
This didn’t stop my aunt, who never learned when to leave well enough alone. She just couldn’t leave me to my own devices. She couldn’t understand that someone might actually enjoy reading a book, for example. Or drawing a picture. No, like someone who relentlessly picks at a scab before the sore below has a chance to heal, she was constantly at me, arranging for long boat rides and deep-sea fishing expeditions that always made me sick to my stomach. For someone who claimed she was so terrified of seeing me drown, she made sure I spent an awful lot of time near the water.
One year, she insisted we all take up waterskiing, promising me it was easier than riding a bike, something else I had trouble with. I don’t know what lapse in judgment made me believe her, or if I went along with it just to shut her up. Maybe it was that the other kids made it look so easy, so effortless, the way they flew across the water, occasionally letting go of the rope with one hand to wave at those of us watching enviously from the shore, their heads thrown back in exhilaration, but I decided to give it a try. I climbed into the skis, my life jacket tied securely around my chest, and waited for the boat to take off. “Hang on,” I can still hear my aunt shouting as I struggled to stand up. Well, I barely managed to rise above a crouch before the speed of the motorboat tore the rope painfully from my hands, and I found myself in the salty water, my fingers scratching wildly at the air as the life jacket pressed painfully against my chin, and the skis shot from my feet to the water’s surface. “You big baby,” my aunt said, laughing, pulling me onto the deck. She laughed all the way back to the motel.