Page 46 of The Mystery Guest

She is absolutely, 100 percent right. And this is a detail only someone who has been in our apartment could know.

Still, I decide to exact another proof of truth. “How do you know my gran?” I ask.

“Oh,” she says as she tries to look through the peephole. “Um, we used to work together?”

“Where?”

“At…um…that mansion. The Grimthorpe mansion.”

“What did you do there?”

“What do you think? I was…a maid.”

That settles it. I jump off the chair, turn the lock, and open sesame.

The young woman stands in front of me, staring down at me with wide eyes. Her face looks sunken and wan. She could use a bit more sunshine, and she’s shaking as if she’s cold, though it’s not a cold day at all. I notice red marks up her arms. I know how she got them. We had bedbugs once, too. My legs were raw like that, a constellation of itchy connect-the-dots.

The young woman stares at me wordlessly.

“You’re a friend of Gran’s, you said?”

“Yeah.” She nods vigorously.

She does not look like any friend of Gran’s I’ve seen before. Gran’s friends tend to have gray hair and glasses, just like Gran. They arrive with wool picked up from garage sales or freshly baked cookies they made themselves. But when I open the closet and take out the shoe cloth to clean the young lady’s footwear, she takes it from my hand and knows just what to do. It’s more proof that she’s telling the truth—she most certainly has been here before.

She wipes the bottoms of her dirty, old sneakers and takes them off, placing them neatly on the mat inside. Her eyes take in the apartment.

“Wow. Time warp. Hasn’t changed a bit.” She notices the chair at the entrance. Resting proudly on it is Gran’s recently completely embroidered pillow.

“She still does crafts,” she says, picking up the pillow and reading out loud. “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.Whoa,” she says. “Sounds like my old sponsor.”

“Sponsor,” I say. “Meaning: to promote, to support.”

“Something like that, yeah.”

I realize then that I’m being impolite. It’s not often that I’m in charge of guests. In fact, it’s never happened before. “Would you like to come in?” I ask, thinking how proud Gran would be of my manners.

“Where is she?” the young lady asks. “Where’s your gran?”

“Folding laundry downstairs,” I explain. “She’s got three loads today. We saved up lots of quarters in the Special Jar. Come,” I say as I lead my guest into the kitchen. She stands in front of the table, extends a hand to touch it, gently, as if she were petting a friendly cat rather than a worn piece of furniture.

“Would you care for a cup of tea?” I ask.

“No,” she replies. “That’s okay.”

“Please have a seat.” I gesture to Gran’s usual spot at the table.

“Thanks,” she says as she pulls out the chair and cautiously sits. “You’re really…polite. You’re totally different from what I imagined. Come here, let me get a good look at you.”

I stand in front of her and she grabs my hands in hers. She leans forward, her face close to mine. And just like that, she begins to sob.

“I’m terribly sorry,” I say. “I recently learned I’m a social failure and that I’m not at the level of my peers, so whatever I did to upset you, I assure you, I didn’t do it on purpose.”

She lets go of my hands and wipes at her eyes. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she says.

“Maybe you don’t like me,” I say. “Not many people do.”

“No, Idolike you. You have no idea. It’s just…it’s like looking in a mirror.”

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