Chapter Twenty-Six

TWENTY-SIX

That evening, after dinner, Leni sat on her twin bed, reading. The Stand by Stephen King. In the past week, she’d read three books by him and discovered a new passion. Goodbye science fiction and fantasy, hello horror.

She figured it was a reflection of her inner life. She’d rather have nightmares about Randall Flagg or Carrie or Jack Torrance than about her own past.

She was just turning a page when she heard voices, lowered, moving past her room.

Leni glanced at the bedside clock, one of dozens in the house, all ticking in time like the beat of a hidden heart. Almost nine P.M.

Usually her grandparents were in bed by now.

Leni set the book aside, marking her page. She went to the door, cracked it open just enough so she could peer out.

Lights were on downstairs.

Leni slipped out of her room. Her bare feet made no sound on the plush wool carpeting. Her hand gliding down the smooth mahogany banister, she hurried down the steps. At the bottom, the black-and-white marble felt cold beneath her feet.

Mama was in the living room with her parents. Leni carefully edged forward, just enough so she could see:

Mama sitting on the burnt-orange sofa, with her parents sitting across from her in matching paisley wingback chairs. Between them, the maple coffee table was decorated with a forest of ornate china figurines.

“They think he killed us,” Mama said. “I read the local paper today.”

“He easily might have,” Grandma responded. “I warned you, you recall, not to go to Alaska.”

“Not to marry him,” Grandpa said.

“Do you think I need I-told-you-sos?” Mama said. She sighed heavily. “I loved him.”

Leni heard the sorrow and regret that eddied between the three of them. She wouldn’t have understood that kind of regret even a year ago. She did now.

“I don’t know what to do from here,” Mama said. “I’ve screwed up Leni’s life and my own, and now I’ve dragged you into it.”

“Are you kidding?” Grandma said. “Of course you dragged us into it. We’re your parents.”

Grandpa said, “This is for you.”

Leni wanted to peer around but didn’t dare. She heard the squeaking of a chair, then heels clicking on hardwood floors (Grandpa always wore dress shoes, from breakfast to bedtime), and finally a crumpling paper sound.

“It’s a birth certificate,” Mama said after a moment. “For an Evelyn Chesterfield. Born April 4, 1939. Why are you giving it to me?”