Page 53 of The Narrow

This is probably going to sound very strange, but I am a student at the Atwood School, where I believe your sister Grace attended many years ago. I have been trying to find more information about her and about her disappearance. I understand that it is probably a difficult subject, and that you probably don’t want to talk about it, but if you are willing, I would love to speak with you. I’m just trying to get some insight into what she was like and what might have happened to her.

Thank you,

Eden White

I start to put my computer away, but then an email pops into my inbox. A reply to the email I sent.

Hello, Eden,

That is, as you said, a difficult subject. Can I ask why you are interested in Grace?

Liz

Shit. I don’t know what to tell her that won’t sound completely bonkers.

Thanks for getting back to me so quickly. I heard a bit about Grace’s story and I guess it spoke to me. I wanted to know more about her, but I’ve been hitting a lot of dead ends.

I hesitate. Then add,

Did you know a girl named Maeve? I think she and Grace knew each other.

I sit there staring at my inbox. Two minutes crawl by. Then three. Then five. And then: a reply.

Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer to talk on the phone. If it’s not too late where you are, I can give you a call.

It’s ten o’clock here. Seven on the West Coast. I send back my number and an assurance that it isn’t at all too late, and a moment later my phone rings.

“Um, hello?” I say, answering. My voice is shaky.

“Hello, this is Liz Elliott. Is this Eden?”

“Yes. It is. Thank you so much for calling,” I say, suffusing as much genuine gratitude into the words as possible. It’s weird—when you lie too much, you sort of forget how to sound genuine. But she doesn’t seem put off.

“You asked about Maeve Fairchild. Can I ask how you came across that name?” Her voice is steady and gentle.

“I think I read it somewhere,” I say vaguely. “And I’ve heard—well, there are some rumors that Grace was seeing someone, and I wondered...”

Liz chuckles. “A name and a rumor and you put it together, when it took over a year for anyone else to catch on,” she says.

“Then she was really with Maeve?” I ask, breathless.

“Yes, though I didn’t know it at the time. I was too young for Atwood, and my parents thought I was too young to know about Grace’s ‘problem,’ as they put it. I didn’t find out the extent of things until after the fact.”

I sit back against the headboard. Once again, here is objective proof confirming what I’ve experienced. Evidence that this isn’t all in my mind.

“Eden, I have only been able to talk about Grace in the last few years. I used to be very ashamed of what had happened, even before I really understood what it was. I was ashamed of her, and then when I realized how wrong that was, I became ashamed of my parents. And of myself. I have tried to tell Grace’s story more honestly in recent years, but I need to know... I need to be sure...”

“You want to be sure that I’m worthy,” I say.

She laughs self-consciously. “That sounds so dramatic.”

I think of the photo of Grace. The secret in her smile, her steady gaze. “No, I think you’re right. Grace’s story, it’s been hidden all this time, because of people who didn’t understand her. Who couldn’t accept and love who she was. Now all that’s left is her story, her memory. You need to make sure that it’s protected. Because she wasn’t.”

There’s a short, sharp breath on the other end of the line. “Are you sure you’re in high school, Eden?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” I say. That breaks the moment just enough to keep it from becoming painful. “I feel this connection to Grace. And Maeve. I’m queer, and I’ve been lucky to have friends who are supportive. I don’t think my parents would care one way or another. It’s easy to forget how hard it was not long ago. How hard it still is for a lot of people. I look at Grace and I wish that she could be here now. Introduce her to my friends. Show her how far we’ve come.”

“That is a beautiful sentiment,” Liz says. “And one that I like to think Grace would appreciate. I’ll tell you what I remember and what I know, but I’d ask—if you’re going to publish it in any form, please talk to me first.”

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