Except who the hell could I call? The street outside is empty. Having said their piece, all my reliable witnesses went home or to church or to brunch with their friends where they’ll recount all the gory details over beans on toast. None of them would be too interested in playing taxi for me for the day. So much for that.
Frustrated, I hit the button on the answering machine, where the little light is still blinking furiously. Just a few minutes ago, it was all so important—as if any of those messages could contain the answers I’d been seeking. I listen to yet another voice tell me how eager they are to talk to me about Michelle. Now that I have something to offer, a shred or two of thirdhand attention, everybody wants a piece. I was right about this place. I was right, and Laura was wrong.
After I half-heartedly jot down a couple of phone numbers, figuring I can always call them later, a new message starts to play, and I realize right away this one’s different. There’s lots of background noise, and the voice is loud, abrasive, bored. I realize I’d heard it before, albeit briefly. It’s the same woman who had mangled our last name in another voice mail of which I heard only a couple of seconds.
Hello, the message is for Madame Omalé, I’m calling from the oncology department of Chaudière Hospital Center to confirm your appointment tomorrow afternoon—
I drop the pencil I’d been holding. The damn thing falls to the floor and rolls somewhere out of reach. But I hardly care.
Oncology department? But she—she’s supposed to—
Why didn’t she say anything? The thought thrums anxiously in the back of my mind.
Of course she didn’t. And why would she? She thinks I don’t care. And do I care? I haven’t exactly been a paragon of caring lately. Or ever.
Guilt hits me like a freight train. Just like that, not only do I know who to call, I forget all my misgivings and reservations. If there ever was a time to put my stupid pride aside, this has got to be it.
Somehow, I manage to dial his number from memory, even though it’s been more than a decade. I guess some things are just etched onto our minds and stay there no matter what.
I fully expect him not to pick up, to just ignore me or send me to voice mail. My head fills with uncomfortable images of him seeing the name on the screen, grimacing, and hitting DECLINE. But the phone beeps twice, and then he picks up.
“Stephanie? Is everything okay?” Luc sounds a little breathless. Like he’d been expecting my call and couldn’t race to his phone fast enough.
“You’ve gotta come over,” I say.
“What’s the matter?”
“We have to find my mom! As quickly as possible.”
THIRTY-ONE
1979
This is the first time Laura has come this close to the Fortier house, and she gets to go inside. Many things about that house made her wonder before. Why is it that shape? It seems so incongruous, like something from the future. Why build such a place here, where it looks like it doesn’t belong? It’s not so surprising the townspeople disliked the Fortiers from the start.
As the car drives up to the front gate, Laura cranes her neck and starts to notice other things. First, the tall fence, then the bars on the first-floor windows. There’s nothing to fear in Marly. The most serious crimes involve teenagers shoplifting and drunks starting bar fights. People don’t lock their doors at night, and not just people like Laura’s parents who have nothing.
The Fortiers are afraid of something. Or someone.
As she follows Marie to the front door, the house looms over her. Only now she realizes how big it really is. She walks up the stairs leading to the front door, waits while Marie takes out a heavy key ring and opens three different locks, and then follows her inside.
At first, Laura’s sure they’re alone in the house. The space is so big and empty that Marie’s voice seems to echo when she calls out for her daughter. Everything here is like a picture in a catalogue. Soft carpeting muffles Laura’s steps. On the walls hang photographs behind glass, in matching frames, like a gallery. Laura is tempted to come closer and inspect them, but she holds herself back. There will be time when the Fortiers leave. She can snoop around all she likes.
“Hello,” says a child’s voice somewhere over her head.
Laura gives a start. Her head snaps up, her gaze roaming the living room half expecting to find a ghost or a disembodied smile floating in the air like something from Alice in Wonderland. But the voice has a physical source: Michelle Fortier is standing at the top of the stairs, dressed in a pink skirt with frills and a matching sweater.
Marie starts saying something, explaining why Laura is here, but Laura can’t concentrate on the words. She’s transfixed by Michelle. She’d seen her enough times before, riding her bicycle around town, but never this close or for this long. Michelle wears her hair in a French braid, and little hoops of gold glint in her earlobes. She has outdoor shoes on indoors, white Mary Janes with pink bows on the toes. Michelle’s cherubic face is a perfect symmetry, its beauty only spoiled by the too-small eyes.
There’s something unnerving about Michelle. There’s something unnerving about this whole house. Laura wonders how Marie can live here every day. Fall asleep under this roof. She knows she’ll soon find out because she has to stay overnight, but she already knows she won’t get a minute’s sleep.
She says hello to Michelle, who measures her with a look and then gives a brilliant grin. “I know you,” she says.
Laura doesn’t dare utter a word.
Marie’s husband arrives, hardly sparing Laura a glance, which should be surprising because he’ll be leaving her in charge of this sumptuous house for many hours—her, the O’Malley girl. But Marie looks reassured, and she tries to be reassuring too. The goodbyes are hasty. Michelle promises to behave.
Then the door closes. Laura watches as the three locks click into place, and then she faintly hears the car drive down the paved driveway, out the gate, and onto the road where it disappears.
That’s it. Michelle and Laura are alone.
Laura has no idea what to do now. She wishes she had a framework for these things.
Meanwhile, Michelle makes her way down the stairs. The carpeting that seems to cover every inch of the floor absorbs the noise from the leather soles of her shoes, making her steps near silent. Laura feels herself being scanned by those cool, dark eyes. Michelle is smirking, as if she can tell full well that Laura is out of her depth here, and so she takes the lead.
“If you’re hungry, there’s food in the fridge,” she says innocently. As if she’d read Laura’s mind.
Laura had managed to forget all about it, but she realizes that yes, she is hungry. In fact, she can’t remember the last time she ate.
“There can’t be much food at your house,” Michelle goes on with a knowledgeable nod.
Laura is taken aback.
Michelle giggles. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. You’re Laura O’Malley. Your parents have nothing. No point in pretending like that’s not the case. You can eat everything in the fridge if you want, my parents won’t even notice. They’re not the type to notice things like that.”
“How do you know about me?” Laura asks, her voice husky.
Michelle shrugs. She walks past Laura like Laura isn’t even there and heads to the kitchen without a backward glance, as if certain that Laura will follow her. Which Laura does.
