Page 65 of Another Girl Lost

When I returned to the house after the eighty-eight days, I’d look out the same window. This time I’d imagine Della standing on the street corner, coaxing me outside. I don’t know how many times I rose and searched the darkness for her. When I realized she wasn’t there, I’d cry tears of relief and sadness.

Often, I’d find my mother standing in my doorway, sipping a cocktail and staring at me as if I were a stranger.

“Young girls get fooled by pretty men all the time,” my mother said.

I pulled my blanket up around my shoulders as I curled my feet in the chair by the window. “Go away. I’m tired.”

“It was a hard lesson, but you’ll never forget it. Better to learn it when you’re young.”

I burrowed deeper. “Go away.”

“Watch your tone. This is my house.”

“Fuck you.”

In the next instant, footsteps thudded across the floor and my mother grabbed my chin, forcing my eyes to lock on hers. “If you don’t like it here, you can always leave. Those three months you were gone were some of the best of my life.”

I’d left the next day.

This house had never been a place of comfort or love, and it needed to go. It was just another tie to the past, and maybe once the house was gone, I’d be one step closer to normal.

I stood at the bottom of the staircase, my hand resting on a bullnose banister. I could climb and see my old room, inspect the Realtor’s work. But I didn’t care. I just wanted to bury the past before it buried me.

“Thanks, Elaine,” I said as I stepped outside. “It looks great.”

If she was surprised by my very quick visit, her smile gave no indication. “Glad to hear it. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Thank you.”

I strode onto the sidewalk and glanced up and down the street. I realized how little had changed. Of the dozen square little neat yards, half were well maintained, a few passable, and a couple in poor shape. They were the same yards, the same patterns. As I walked down the sidewalk, I paused and allowed myself to study the house across the street. The yard was well kept, but back in the day, it had been pristine. The white paint had been refreshed, vibrant marigolds were planted by the mailbox, and the porch furniture was wicker instead of wrought iron.

Reporters had swamped the area after my release. They’d interviewed neighbors, who were all universally shocked. Tanner had worked for many of them. They’d all described him and his work with glowing comments:Meticulous. Always on time. Reasonable prices. Great attitude.

I’d been portrayed as moody and distant. Some thought I’d been tricked by Tanner. Others assumed I’d gone willingly. “Scarlett.”

I turned at the sound of my name. Standing to my left was Mrs. Rose. She’d lived in the neighborhood when Mom and I moved in fifteen years ago. I remembered she’d brought us a plate of cookies after my return.

“Mrs. Rose.”

The lines on the woman’s face deepened. “I heard about your mother. I’m sorry.”

The polite words vibrated like buzzing flies. “Thank you.”

“We haven’t seen much of you in a long time,” Mrs. Rose said.

“Not a place I like to remember.”

“No, of course not.” To her credit, Mrs. Rose met my gaze. “How are you doing?”

“Getting along. I love my warehouse.”

“You look well.”

Looking good or at least above average was always a win. “Thank you.”

“You still doing your art?”

“I am. I run a printmaking business now.”

---