Page 97 of The Manor of Dreams

This was her last chance. She had to try. Her daughter looked up at her. The actress steeled herself, bracing her hands on the arms of her chair. “I want to settle this. I’m going to tell the truth about what happened.”

There was a knock at the front door. With difficulty, Vivian crossed the library and foyer to answer it. The house was now a minefield of brittle, cracked floorboards. Ada was nowhere to be seen, but she could feel her daughter’s presence.

Vivian unlatched the door and opened it. “Hello, Elaine.”

Elaine Deng looked every bit as bitter as she did when the actress saw her last, as that radical college student who came home that summer with cropped hair, tattoos, and accusations. The once youthful,angry tilt of her mouth now puckered with lines and wrinkles. Her once-short hair was now pulled back into a graying bun.

She almost looked like her mother. Vivian thought of Edith with a pang.

Elaine’s expression didn’t soften. She stood at the threshold and looked around. “This place has gotten ugly.”

Vivian swallowed. “Please, come in. Let’s talk.”

For a moment she saw herself as Elaine did. Shriveled and pitiful. The stairs were lopsided and sagging. The chandelier bulbs above them had long burned out. Dust piled up in the corners and stains crawled down the walls. The house stretched in front of them. Vivian didn’t know if it was her old age and limited mobility that made it seem more cavernous, but she often felt like giving up before she’d even started to cross a room. She took a deep breath and motioned for Elaine to follow her as she made her way to the table. It was a relief to sit.

“Do you remember this house?” Vivian asked in Mandarin.

Elaine considered her for a moment. She answered back in accented Mandarin. “I try not to.”

“Fair enough. You were never very fond of this place, were you? Or of us.”

“Vivian,” Elaine said. Before that summer she had always used “a yí,” even if it was measured and defiant. But Elaine said her first name coldly. “Why did you ask me here? What do you want?”

“I’m sorry,” Vivian said. “I know this place holds grief for us both.” She lifted her head to meet Elaine’s eyes. “I wanted to talk about your sister. You must promise that this stays between us.”

Two days ago, Vivian had picked up the phone and dialed a number she found online.

“Hello?”

“Elaine. Is that you? It’s Vivian Yin.”

There was silence. Then, “How did you get my number?”

Vivian said, “We should talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“I want to tell you the truth,” Vivian said. “About your sister.”

She waited for a click, or for the drone of the dial tone. When neither came, she continued. “Where are you right now?”

“What?”

“Are you in California?”

Another pause. “San Bernardino.”

“That’s only a few hours away. Come to the house, then. At your convenience.”

“No. I never want to see that house again.” Her voice dripped with disgust.

“It’s just me, Elaine. I’m alone and I’m not well enough to travel. I want us to talk. In person.”

“No.”

Vivian sighed. “I know you have questions. If you come to the house, I will answer every question you have.”

Elaine finally said, “Why don’t I just ask you now?”

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