Page 18 of Someone Knows

Maybe I should have taken Sam up on a trip to the Caribbean.

It might be ungodly hot there, too, but at least it wouldn’t be filled with memories the way Louisiana is. The Toyota Corolla I rented doesn’t drive quite right—a typical airport car, used by too many people who didn’t give a damn as they hit a curb or slammed on the brakes. It’s the alignment, I think. Right now, I just hope it doesn’t putter out and die, leaving me stranded in a mosquito-riddled field in ninety-degree weather with high humidity.

“I hate Louisiana,” I mutter as I stab a finger at the audio console. The Bluetooth doesn’t seem to work, either, which means I can’t connect my phone and listen to a podcast. Instead, I’m left with scratchy country-music radio, a man’s voice wailing about love unrequited. It’s only a matter of time before he starts in about his truck and his dog. I huff out a breath and shut it off, looking out at my surroundings as I try to relax and feelat home.

Though I didn’t feel at home when itwasmy home, so it’s futile.

But as hot and muggy and uncomfortable as it is here, I need to get to the bottom of things. I can’tcontinue to live with so many unknowns hanging over my head. And all roads in this mess I’m in point to this little town—the IP address, Ivy, thescene of the crime. I don’t even have a real plan for what I’ll do while I’m here yet, other than to talk to Ivy, but my gut tells me if I’m going to find clues about who Hannah Greer really is, I’m in the best place to find them.

Twenty minutes later, I park in front of a familiar house, except the yellow paint my mother swore was the color of sunshine has faded to off-white, and it’s peeling. Moss grows fuzzy in the cracks of the roof, which looks a lot like it’s sagging in the middle. The once-trimmed green grass rises nearly to my knees as I pull myself from the car, lift my hands over my head, and stretch one way, then the other.

For a second, I wonder if my mother even lives here anymore. The place looks abandoned. Then I spot the cross hanging on the door. I remember her buying it, remember the day she hammered a nail into the wood and hung it, proclaiming, “This household belongs to God.”

It wasn’t the first sign she’d gone a little off the rails with religion. Nor would it be the last. I glance at my phone, but no notifications have popped up. I’m desperate for a distraction, a reason to wait a little longer before I go up to that door and knock.

It’s been nearly twenty years. Yet, sadly, not long enough.

Mom and I trade occasional phone calls. They used to be more frequent, at least on the big holidays and birthdays. But that’s fallen off over the years. Her slurred words and preaching were too much to handle. So I stopped calling as often, and she either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Now it seems the only time we speak is when family members are having babies or someone’s died.

I still send cards on her birthday and at Christmas, even though hers have stopped. It’s just as well, because the last few she sent me were full of shame, full of judgment—reminding me what Christmas was about and questioning whether the life I was living as a single woman in the big city was honoring Christ’s sacrifice for me.

I take a breath and force myself to put one foot in front of the other. At the door, the cross now hangs crooked. I can’t help it—I reach up and straighten it before my knuckles rap against the door.

“Come in!” someone wheezes from inside.

I pause. Maybe someoneelselives here. Or maybe she has a roommate now. Maybe . . . I reach for the knob, twist, and creak the door open. “Hello? I’m looking for Ther—”

“Elizabeth?”

I swing the door the rest of the way open and catch sight of a woman on the same couch we had when I was a kid. It’s tan and sagging, now worn to a shade that’s closer to gray. And the woman is gray, too. Sallow and bony and—I swallow.Oh my God. It’s my mother.Not as I’ve ever known her, but it’s really her. My suitcase drops from my hand and thumps to the floor. “Mom?”

“You born in a barn? Get in here. Close that door. You’re letting the cool air out.”

I step inside quickly, like I would have when I lived here. Old feelings rush back. I’m a little afraid of her, aware she isn’t above the type of harsh discipline she received as a girl. It’s dim, the light mostly coming from the television and an ancient-looking computer monitor sitting on a folding table nearby. And it’s the same television we had before—the boxy kind, no flat screen—after more than twenty years. I stop, absorbing it all. The house smells off—almost sour, like bad food, maybe urine, too.

“Mom?” I say again, because I can’t quite believe my eyes. My mother was once a woman proud of her curves, frequently declaring, “God made me this way,” and that she had “good child-bearing hips.”

Now she looks like an image from amagazine—a starving child, maybe a person who lives somewhere riddled with disease. Skin and bones. Cheeks hollowed out. Blond hair stringy, limp, and dirty. I can’t quite understand what’s going on, what’shappened, but of course, it’s been a long time. A lot can happen in twenty years, and apparently it has . . .

“You just gonna stand there?” she snips.

“Um . . .” I blink again, then cross through the kitchen into the living room, over the threadbare imitation Persian rug, which is also more than two decades old. I nearly trip over an empty bottle of what is likely gas station whiskey and offer her a one-armed hug. This close, I can hear the wheeze in her chest, smell a sickly scent of . . . I’m not sure what. But something isn’t right. I slowly sit down in the chair across from her.

“Mom?” I ask, forgetting all about the reason I came here. “What’s . . .” I flush, aware that I’m close to telling her she looks like shit, the sort of thing that would have gotten me slapped when I was a kid. But I’m not a child anymore, even if it suddenly feels like it. I take a deep breath and continue. “You seem sick. What’s going on? Why didn’t you call?”

She gives me a long look. Even her eyes are off, the whites having turned an unhealthy shade of yellow. “You have your own life. You don’t want to be a part of mine. Besides, I have the church. I didn’t need you.”

Ouch.Cut to the bone.

I stare at her. “What’s wrong, though?”

A heavy sigh. “I’m dying, Elizabeth. Isn’t it obvious?”

Her words echo in my head, cause a clench in my stomach. Like someone’s punched me in the gut. I barely speak to her anymore, and yet . . . she’s still my mother. I search for words but come up empty-handed.

“Pancreatic cancer. I have one, two months to live. Tops.” She reaches for a glass of amber liquid that I’m sure is liquor and takes a big gulp like it’s lemonade. “So, to what do I owe the honor of yourpresence?”

Straight to business. As if she didn’t just drop a bomb on me. I open my mouth, thinking of sayingto visit you, of course, but we’ll both know I’m lying. So I don’t. I let the silence settle between us.

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