I started to open the screen door. The hinges weren’t rusted, but they needed some oil, because they began to groan the moment I pushed out. I had the door more than halfway open and had taken a step out when I heard what sounded like a door slamming and looked to my left. Anthony was pushing a wheelbarrow loaded with equipment toward the house. I knew he would see me the moment I started down those porch steps. I could run only so fast barefoot on gravel. He’d catch me for sure.
I backed up, closing the screen door as softly as I could, but I wasn’t disheartened. There was still a good chance, I thought. I would stay out of his view, and as soon as he started down the stairs to the basement apartment, I could run out and down the driveway. I might even be able to hide somewhere off the road until a car came along.
So I turned and went first into the small kitchen and then into the living room, where I knelt behind a large brown sofa to wait and listen.
11
Haylee
Never, from the moment I could realize anything until now, had I ever seen or heard Mother confuse one of us for the other. Although I sensed it never bothered Kaylee as much as it did me whenever anyone confused us, especially when we were younger, one of us was often quick to correct the person. I did notice that sometimes Kaylee didn’t seem to care at all. It was barely worth a shrug. When I complained, she said, “Oh, they’ll eventually realize who’s who.” That was never good enough for me. I grew to hate the word eventually anyway. So many things were eventually in our house. Mother would use it to justify everything she believed about us.
“Eventually, the two of you will think more and more alike. . . . Eventually, you’ll want the same things. . . . Eventually, you’ll appreciate how I brought you up. . . . Eventually, people will see how perfectly alike you are.”
If I asked when I could have something on my own, something just mine and not duplicated for Kaylee, whether it was clothes or shoes, anything, Mother might simply say “Eventually” and leave it at that.
Who didn’t confuse us sometimes? Teachers, Mother and Daddy’s friends, relatives, our grandparents, even other students often would call me Kaylee or call her Haylee. Most of the time, they corrected themselves quickly when they saw the reaction on my face. Those who were trying to be my close friends got to the point where if they were momentarily unsure, they would keep their traps shut.
But Mother never confused us, at least never until now.
Right now, she had the same look on her face that she’d had when she came down and asked where Kaylee was. Only a little while ago, she was asking how Kaylee could have done all this. Thoughts were bouncing around in her head like ping-pong balls.
I looked at Mrs. Lofter, who closed and opened her eyes to signal that I should be gentle, understanding. Then, perhaps afraid that I didn’t appreciate what she was subtly suggesting, she shook her head emphatically to tell me not to contradict Mother.
She must have seen the displeasure in my face and how close I was to correcting Mother. I had to remind myself that Mrs. Lofter was trained in how to read people’s faces and sense their emotions. Of course, I didn’t know exactly what she expected me to say. Should I contradict her with a little amazement? Oh, no, Mother, I’m Haylee. Or should I pretend I hadn’t heard her? Mother was the only genuine nutcase I knew. I didn’t have the experience.
“Yes, I’m home,” I decided to say. At least I didn’t say I was Kaylee. All I said was that I was home.
Anger slipped in beside Mother’s gleeful surprise. I didn’t need psychological training to realize that; I had seen it too often. “We’re going to have a good old-fashioned mother-daughter talk about all this, young lady,” Mother said. “You go get your sister and meet me in the living room in two minutes. And I mean two minutes. I don’t want to have to go looking for either of you.”
“Looking for us?”
“Exactly.”
This ought to be amusing, I thought. Go get my sister? What did she think was happening here? Who did she think Mrs. Lofter was? Why was this stranger in her room? Was this emotional or psychological breakdown she was having going to get worse? Had it gotten seriously worse in a matter of minutes? I looked to Mrs. Lofter for instructions.
She didn’t look pleased with the way I had reacted and ignored me. “Perhaps you should rest a bit now first, M
rs. Fitzgerald,” she said. “You’ve been through quite an emotional shock.” She smiled at Mother. “Most of the time, we are simply unaware of how much of a toll our emotional turmoil takes on us. You want to be strong for your girls, don’t you?”
Mother looked up at her, blinked rapidly, like someone with dust in her eyes, and nodded.
Mrs. Lofter moved forcefully to get Mother to return to bed, seizing her arm and guiding her out of the chair. “We have a little something that will help you rest,” she said, and handed Mother a glass of water and a pill after she had her lying down. “There’ll be lots of time to address the things you want to address.”
I was amazed at how Mother did what she asked without any resistance. Mrs. Lofter fixed her blanket and her pillow, and Mother closed her eyes. I thought she was going back to sleep, but then her eyes opened quickly and she started to sit up.
Mrs. Lofter kept her hand on Mother’s shoulder and stopped her. “Now, now, just give it some time, Mrs. Fitzgerald. You have to be strong for everyone, just as we agreed, and you can’t be strong if you’re not well rested.”
Mother looked at her suspiciously for a moment and then relented and lay back again. I had never seen her so firmly manipulated. I couldn’t recall her ever doing anything she didn’t want to do, especially if Daddy had asked her or even her own mother. I seriously considered learning the things Mrs. Lofter had learned, perhaps making it my career, too. I’d have loved to have the sort of power that let her control and influence others. I knew I was simply too impatient and definitely too intolerant with people. I often snapped my sarcasm at some of the girls and most of the boys in school, like a verbal whip. It didn’t help make me Miss Popularity.
Kaylee had always criticized me for being clumsy and overbearing when it came to making and keeping friends or speaking with teachers and other adults. “You get more with honey than you do with vinegar,” she’d say, mimicking Grandmother Fitzgerald. Especially when we were both younger, Kaylee liked to lecture me. She’d take on Mother’s or one of our grandmothers’ posture and tone of voice and pace back and forth, tossing out these tidbits of wisdom and instructions the way we tossed peanuts to monkeys at the zoo.
Now, when Mother appeared settled, Mrs. Lofter turned to me and nodded toward the doorway. We practically tiptoed out. She didn’t speak until we reached the stairway.
“Let’s talk a bit downstairs,” she said.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“Let’s have a chat,” she insisted.