You Were Here

by Gian Sardar

  “What you just said. About a vase breaking.”

  “I said that?”

  “You don’t remember saying that, just now? When she told us about the bullet?”

  “In the wall,” Cynthia says, tiring of confusion. “The Stocktons, we bought the house from them. They left it and we left it. It gets people talking at parties—sometimes you need that.” She pauses, as if just having made a connection. “I’m sorry by the way, for what happened. To your grandmother’s sister. Your great-aunt, would it be?”

  “You know about Claire?” Aidan asks.

  “Just that she went missing that night.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “No. An incomplete picture, at best, over the years. Rumors here and there. Excuse me,” she says, stepping toward the hall, then motioning toward Abby. “She might need a moment.”

  Aidan puts his hand on Abby’s shoulder. “Do you need to leave?”

  She shakes her head. “No. I’m fine.”

  “Just tell me when you’re ready to get up.”

  Abby does not go to the bullet, though Aidan does. Inspects it. She watches his back. The pull of his shirt as he lifts his arm. This is the one, then, she hears him say, in the report. The night Claire went missing. Two shots fired, but one missed. Evidence just sitting here—my head would be on a plate if I left this behind.

  When they head upstairs, Cynthia lingers by the base of the banister, and Abby’s thrown by how much better she feels. Whatever it is, now that she’s no longer faint, she can grasp the beauty of the house. All the wood upstairs—everywhere else in the house, for that matter—is left unscathed, uncovered by paint. It was only the parlor that was white.

  Eventually they stand at an upstairs window, facing Abby’s grandparents’ house. It’s a concept she can’t seem to hold. Such a different life. One she’d never known. What had Claire seen when looking through this window? Did she see a young Dorothy playing in the yard below, hopscotch in the garden? What would she have done if told that one day Dorothy’s daughter would stand here, searching for her family in the way sunlight falls or the length of the garden path?

  Aidan’s fingers are soft on her collarbone, slowly moving a few strands of hair. He takes a step closer and is against her. Both arms wrap around her waist just as a sudden gust of air bursts through an open window and billows the curtain in a breath. They turn, watching it settle back against the wall.

  36

  Then

  IF YOU ASKED CLAIRE, even minutes later, what it was that made them turn to the door to see Ketty standing there, she wouldn’t have known. Maybe it was a dark shape where before there was none. Maybe Ketty made a sound or the floorboards groaned. Most likely it was the swing of Eva’s shoulders, turning to try and run from the room. Whatever it was, everything then happened at once, as if some crucial tie came undone and the evening soared into the unthinkable. There were the sounds: Edith’s startled cry and the blast of her gun, something breaking, and Claire’s scream, which she became aware of only when Edith finally begged her to stop. But it was the sights that burned into her mind: the knife in Ketty’s hand, flashing only for a second, then two bodies almost one, mere inches apart. The knife’s handle, fingers strained white. Blood slowly catching the fibers of a dress, filling and spreading, filling and spreading.

  —

  Eva never saw it. What she sees are eyes. Cat’s eyes, velvety deep and layered, and for a second the blue and yellow and tendrils of brown become mountains and rivers and valleys, edges of continents and vast, magnificent oceans. A map of the ancient world. The eye blinks, and Eva blinks, too. And looks down. Fingers let go of the handle. Rosewood, with three brass rivets. Eva blinks again and sees that though the fingers are gone, the knife’s handle remains.

  Outside the pounding in her head, voices squirm in the air, and she realizes she’s in the summers of her youth, floating on her back in Hudson’s Pond, surrounded by elm trees, clusters of black-eyed Susans, and roads that stretch forever. Her ears hum with the filtered sounds of the world. Somewhere a boy waves to her from a treetop, and colors burst from clouds, dry fields beneath a sunset, rolling and magnificent.

  —

  Claire watches the gun dangle from Edith’s hand as if she can’t let go, and when she finally shakes it off, it falls to a table and spins, the mouth turning, turning, turning, as in a game of spin the bottle. There’d been one shot and something broke, which she thinks means the bullet didn’t hit anyone. She turns, identifying the sound. Shards of pottery are scattered. Lilac-blue shards. The Lorelei vase. A bullet hole in the wall behind it, dark metal caught in the floral print of the wallpaper.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Edith is saying over and over as Ketty reaches back to the knife.

  There’s a sound, a sound like nothing Claire’s heard before, starting with the base of the blade’s corner, caught on cotton. Ketty pulls the knife, slowly at first, the fabric snagging, until suddenly it’s released with a single, solitary pluck. Then it all heaps together—the suck of steel from flesh and the swish of the blade pushing air, removed quickly, so quickly it hits the doorframe. Chop. The blade lodges in the wood.

  —

  Though Eva’s ears still hum with underwater muddle, she now sees the knife in the doorframe. Slowly she turns her head. Blue splinters are on the floor, flowers scattered. Then Claire, eyes wide, hand pressed against her mouth. It takes a moment to realize that Claire is trying to hold it in but is screaming. And on her hand is a ring. Beautiful. Flashing, like a star. It twinkles in the night, beckoning, but then the night takes over. The world closes to black. Suddenly the star is gone, everything is gone, lost to darkness.

  But Eva still feels. At first she’s sinking, her body no longer weightless but heavy, so heavy. It’s peaceful, giving in, this laden sleep, until she realizes there’s no choice. She’s loose inside herself. She has no control, she’s tumbling, scrambling, trapped in darkness, hitting edges and corners and walls. The body she’s had for a lifetime—the body that’s been beautiful and amazing and always faithful—cannot be controlled, and in the darkness she understands that the last thing she saw is the last thing she will ever see. The star.

  In her mind flashes an image of her sister, stomach large with child. The sound of her sister’s voice, calling the baby Eva.

  But it’s the thought of him, as her knees buckle, that pulses and fills every space within her, a longing so powerful that borders and boundaries and lines should be rendered powerless and he should be conjured as a mist, a shimmer of particles her own body craves to join.

  He never came.

  Her kneecaps crack against the floor. A rush of air, silky apprehension. Slam. Her head hits the wood, and there is silence.

  37

  Now

  HOMESICK. HEARTSICK. Whatever the feeling is, wherever it comes from, it grips Abby the second they step into the kitchen. Sadness spreads, aching even in the tips of her toes.

  “The basement,” Aidan says, turned to a closed door. And though it could be a pantry or any other kind of room, Abby knows he’s right. The glass knob is beautiful, but not one she wants to touch.

  “That’s Claire,” Cynthia says as she enters the room, “her and her neighbor and a woman who used to work here.” She must see their confusion. “The picture? Sorry, I thought that’s what you were looking at.”

  Now Abby sees the photo, hanging on the wall by the door to the basement. Her grandmother as a young woman and Claire and another woman, standing in the front yard, faces washed in sunlight.

  “The woman on the right,” Cynthia says, “was the housekeeper. When she died a while back, someone sent the Stocktons this picture. I feel bad. It’s a nice frame and a nice picture, but I didn’t want to put it in the living room. Neither did the Stocktons, apparently. It was in this spot when we moved in.”

  “Can I?” Aidan asks and unhooks the frame
from the wall, turning it over to read what’s on the back. “Claire Ballantine, mistress of the house; Edith Walters, neighbor.” He pauses to look up at Abby. “And Ketty Rasmussen, employee of the Ballantine family since 1919.’” He hands her the picture. “Can we see the basement?”

  “I’ll let you explore,” Cynthia says. “The basement’s—well, it’s not for me. But you should take that. The picture. It’s yours, more than mine.”

  Abby nods, still studying the photo as Cynthia excuses herself, heels echoing, expansive, then fainter. The housekeeper’s face. Claire’s face. Her grandmother, so young and healthy. She puts the photo frame into her purse—an odd feeling, to be carrying them away like this—but then Aidan’s got his hand on the glass doorknob and now all Abby can think of is the basement.

  “We don’t have to go down there,” he says.

  She lowers her head, still light-headed. “I should, so I never wonder if it would’ve made a difference.” The strange thing is her feet look out of place, simply wrong, and everything’s off-kilter—as if she’s not standing flat on the ground but at a very slight, almost imperceptible angle. Lifted black-and-white linoleum—she sees it, right before the basement door, a slight gap, a raised bit of flooring. For some reason she can’t look away, her gaze caught in that dark, exposed line.

  “Okay, I don’t know,” she says. “I leave it up to you. Nothing about me is logical right now. Do with me as you will.”

  “Oh I will, Ms. Walters. Though maybe not in the basement. At least not this basement.”

  She smiles and looks up. Diffused sunlight is soft in the room, an even brightness. A neighbor’s car door shuts and a dog barks. Life, common life, the sounds of days. Oddly comforting, in a way—the world continued right outside this door—and in an instant something within Abby lifts with hope. This is it, she knows it is, the beginning slide of a card obscured, a beam of radiance about to find its mark. What she’ll learn or how, she doesn’t know, but the feeling that she’s mere steps away makes her feel as though she’s not the only one looking—something is looking for her. Something wants to be found.

  “Ready?” Aidan asks, and steps forward. “I’ll go first.” In one swift motion he opens the door, reaches into the dark, and flicks on the light. For a second she wonders how he knew the switch was there, but then the basement is alive. Narrow stairs. Dusty walls. A splintered banister.

  His first step on the old wood plank summons a deep wail.

  38

  Then

  AT FIRST they didn’t think she was alive. There was, when they lifted her shirt, a large gash inches below her breast. It continued to gush blood, scolding them, relentless. Her eyes were closed, her lips still, her pulse hidden somewhere deep inside her. A matter of time, it was clear.

  “I have a mirror,” Edith now announces.

  Everything is slow, so slow, and sounds are amplified. Claire watches Edith’s fingers, shaking too hard to undo the clasp on her evening bag. Claire is not inside herself, but rather hovering just above the person she understands is Claire. That’s Claire. That’s her arm, reaching for the bag. Those are her fingers, poised. Now they press the clasp. Snap. Loud, like another gunshot. She startles, though she herself caused the sound. Then her focus snags on the bag itself, a witness to martinis, gossip whispered by a coat closet, perhaps even fights in the car as headlights grew bolder. And now this. Whatever this is, there is no definition yet. Claire’s mind is still in a disbelieving state and therefore, to her, it’s entirely possible that nothing has happened, that what’s seemed like a long-drawn-out horror is actually just a slender breath of time in one of those haphazard moments before sleep. Inside the bag there is a powder compact, silver with light blue enamel, and for a while Claire stares at it, wondering why they need to powder the girl’s face.

  Now Edith kneels on the floor, the compact open, rain outside a steady thrum. She holds the mirror an inch from the girl’s mouth, but her hands are still shaking and bits of powder fall onto the girl’s lips. Edith takes a shocked breath, then frantically tries to brush the powder away, but instead smears streaks of red across the girl’s face.

  A whistle shrieks into the room. Claire whips toward the sound.

  “Tea,” Ketty says, taking the compact. “To soothe our nerves.”

  Claire takes Edith’s shoulder and leads her into the kitchen, where she shuts off the stove. Steam rises from the spout. Ketty has already filled the silver tea infuser with loose leaves and for a moment Claire wonders what’s inside. To soothe our nerves. The idea that she might not wake from this tea strips through her mind and leaves a trail of laughter. She’s laughing and she can’t stop.

  “Claire,” Edith is saying over and over again until Claire takes a deep, stabilizing breath. “We call someone,” Edith continues, “and she’s passed when they get here. Then what?”

  “We say the truth,” Claire says. “It was an accident. She walked into a knife.”

  Edith raises an eyebrow, and Claire falls silent, having just heard her last sentence as Edith did. Walked into a knife. Though of course there was also the question of was it an accident? Why was the knife extended just so; why did Ketty not react, not try to remove the blade or herself or anything? Wasn’t there time? Why didn’t Ketty scream? Did she? The chronology of events jumbles in Claire’s mind like photos strewn on a table. Which came first? No, Claire tells herself. If there had been time, then Eva herself would have moved out of the way—it was momentum, pure and simple, that drove her into the knife. Though even as she tells herself this, she isn’t sure who took the last step, whose momentum it was that drove the blade. A glimmer and then nothing. Two bodies almost one.

  Edith closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, and when at last she looks at Claire, it’s as if she’s invoked a fragment of her former self. “Right,” Edith says, voice now steady, though her eyes glance around the room, searching for something Claire realizes is not there. “So telling the police that the woman your husband was having an affair with, who he was possibly going to leave you for, walked into a knife isn’t the smartest of choices.”

  Ketty appears for a moment, then disappears down the hall into her room. Only when the music ceases does Claire realize it’s been playing this entire time. When had Ketty heard them? There must have been a pause in the song for her to detect a different voice in the parlor. One fateful instant, a beat that allowed for recognition, a recognition that allowed for what should never have happened. A soft, orchestral moment. A pause before a gust of wind. Claire thinks of the song that was just playing and then rewinds the evening, hearing the soft, wavering beginning of “I’m Gettin’ Sentimental Over You.” That was it. That must have been it. If only a different song had been playing, something jam-packed with sound. One song could’ve changed the night entirely. Changed her life. William’s life. This girl, whatever family she has. Claire thinks of her earlier feeling, that something was impending, and wishes more than anything in the world she’d just gone to bed. Or that the girl had just stayed hidden, had not been so bold, or so filled with youthful faith, as to come inside. What those choices have done. What that one pause in the music had allowed.

  Ketty returns to the kitchen. “Nothing,” she says, and tries to hand Edith the compact. But Edith shakes her head, refusing to touch it, so Ketty drops it in the trash.

  —

  To remove her from the parlor, they roll her onto a large canvas bag Ketty had found and splayed open. The sound the girl’s arm makes, lifelessly slapping the ground when they roll her over, takes them all by surprise. When finally she’s laid by the stairs to the basement, right by the door, they sit once more and listen for sirens. But the neighborhood sleeps.

  “If someone was coming,” Edith says, “they’d have been here by now. The Carlyles are in Maine and the Grants are in London. If someone heard, they’d have been here by now.”

  Claire looks toward the
stairs. Already she’s become someone she never thought possible. Already her life has changed irrevocably, and for a moment she’s mad, mad that this girl has done this, has made Claire leave herself forever.

  She looks back to Ketty at the sink, washing the knife yet again. Her sleeves are rolled up, and for the first time Claire sees the long scar on Ketty’s arm, the result of the factory accident. As if Ketty feels her staring, she switches off the water and unrolls her sleeve, then dries the blade. Claire pictures her later, cooking with this very knife, using it to slice onions for a stew. William would bring the spoon to his mouth. William. She closes her eyes tight, vision red with her eyelids. What will they tell him? Nothing? “Put it in a drawer,” she says to Ketty, and then opens her eyes. “Take it out later.” Make it go away. Plant it so the handle crumbles in the earth and the blade scars with rust.

  Ketty nods and wraps the knife in cheesecloth, which just earlier today had been resting atop yogurt. Everything, everything has been tainted. Claire watches Ketty place the knife under the sink between the Maid of Honor rug foam, the Johnson’s Glo-Coat floor polish, and the Last Lunch rat powder. A triangle of protection.

  “If the police were coming,” Edith says again after their third cup of tea, “they would’ve been here by now.”

  It’s almost one o’clock. The rain has eased. They’ve had the same conversation a few times now.

  “I don’t think anyone heard,” she continues. “I think it’s best, this course of action. We never saw her. We make it so no one finds her. What’s done is done. Why ruin more lives?”

  “Yes. I agree.”

  “And she’s from Rochester?”

  “I believe so.”

  “And William didn’t know she was here.”

  “Right,” Claire says and then pauses, looking for Ketty, who’s disappeared. The basement, she remembers Ketty having said. That’s right. She’s downstairs digging a hole in the tunnel, getting things ready. Ready. “Ketty never gave him the message. But Edith, where was she staying? A friend maybe, maybe they knew she was coming here.”