Versions of Her Read online

  IT HAD STARTED RAINING in earnest twenty minutes after Kelsey left, so any plans Melanie had entertained about walking the path around the lake or taking the rowboat across to Dern’s Market to pick up some food and cleaning supplies were quickly quashed. The rain’s steady patter against the windows made the lake house feel somehow both sheltered and cozy as well as achingly desolate. She turned on every light as she walked from room to room until the Victorian was all lit up like it had been on the nights her parents threw their boisterous parties. She traced her fingers in the dust—Kelsey really hadn’t been exaggerating—drawing curlicues, and observed the tacky changes Ned and Lucinda had made, thinking of how best to undo them. Melanie had already made a mental list of about fifteen different tasks she needed to do before she reached the second floor.

  Her old bedroom, she was pleased to see, had mostly been untouched. Even the Tree of Life tapestry was still in place, hanging directly across the room from her black walnut headboard. The sight of it, with its brilliantly feathered birds, as familiar and dear to her as old friends, was almost enough to make her cry. The bird-bejeweled tree had been the last thing she’d seen before sleep every night and the first thing she’d laid eyes on every morning in her childhood summers there. Her mom must have also memorized every detail of the tapestry from sleeping in the same bed as a girl and wanted it to serve as a connection between her and her first-born daughter across the years. Melanie knew that because her father had once proposed having the wall hanging professionally cleaned and packed away in storage, saying it was too valuable to risk getting soiled or torn. But her mom had been adamant that the tapestry wouldn’t be moved as long as they lived in the house.

  Melanie finished her inspection of the house, saving the basement for last, which was unfortunately just as bad as Charlene and Kelsey had made it out to be—maybe worse. Particularly distressing to her were the washer and dryer—she’d been hoping to use them that night to freshen up the musty quilt and sheets she’d found in the linen closet before she went to bed—which seemed rusted to their electric sockets. She was worried she might burn down the house if she tried to run them, and she suspected both appliances would need to be replaced as well as all the electrical wiring in the basement. Did the Holloways have flood insurance? Even so, there had to be a statute of limitations on that kind of thing, and she had no way of knowing when the damage had occurred. The thought of sending a strongly worded letter of reproach to them in North Carolina made her feel slightly better as she mounted the creaky basement stairs.

  She found a forgotten, dusty bottle of Malbec on the top shelf of the kitchen pantry, wiped the bottle off, and opened it with a twisted wire coat hanger, a trick a friend had shown her that made her feel a bit like MacGyver. No reason to abstain from alcohol anymore. When she found no glasses, she sipped it straight from the bottle. Thank goodness Ben couldn’t see how pathetic she was acting. She hadn’t heard her phone ring but found a voicemail from him, already a few hours old.

  “Hey, Mel. Hope you had a good flight. Can you just call me to let me know you got there safely? I miss you already. Hope you and Kelsey are having some nice ‘sisterly bonding’ time tonight. I know I’ve expressed my doubts about this whole plan of yours, but I want you to know that I support you and whatever you need to do right now to get through this. I just can’t help wishing that we could get through this together, side by side. So if you change your mind or need some help, remember I still have a couple weeks of vacation coming my way, and I’d love to see your family’s old summer home. Just say the word. Okay? I love you, Mel. So much. No matter what.”

  Her heart clenched in a way that she had come to understand wasn’t a physical heart attack but an equally unbearable emotional pain that differed only because it meant she wasn’t dying. She would somehow live through it. It wasn’t much of a consolation.

  Since her cell phone had only one reception bar, just enough to maybe sneak him a text message, she had the perfect excuse for not calling. Feeling guilty, she typed, Got here safe and sound. Lots to do and not great cell reception. Try to call you tomorrow night? Miss and love you so much too! XOXO.

  She carried the Malbec and the in-flight package of pretzels up to her bedroom. In between bites and swigs, she tried to think of innovative ways to use the items she’d packed in her suitcase to tidy up her bedroom and the small bathroom she had shared with Kelsey when they were kids. The plastic canister of wet wipes worked great on the sink, the toilet seat, and the bathroom’s dingy tile floor. The microfiber cloth she ordinarily used to wipe off her laptop screen took care of most of the dust on the headboard and nightstand, and the clean-linen-scented room-freshening spray provided a temporary fix to the mustiness of the bedding she’d have to sleep on—if she ever felt like going to sleep. The more she cleaned—and the more wine she drank—the more renewed and energized she felt.

  “What do you think, Mom?” she asked, knowing she was being a tad theatrical but not minding since she was all alone and she’d drunk half a bottle of wine by then. “Not bad considering I don’t even have Lysol and a sponge, right?”

  Melanie walked toward the midnight-blue tapestry, wondering how someone even went about cleaning something so old and treasured. She could probably look up a how-to blog or video as soon as she had the Internet connected. It was most likely a time-consuming process involving a soft-bristled toothbrush and diluted baby shampoo or something. Or maybe she should simply whack it with a carpet beater. Up close, the fibers were even more densely woven together than she had imagined, but a graying fuzziness rested over the otherwise vibrant colors. She doubted it had been cleaned in the last few decades, not since Grandma Dot, maybe.

  She reached out one timid finger to lift the edge of the tapestry away from the wall. Her parents had forbidden her to touch the tapestry as a child, and it had been impressed upon her, over and over again, how the oils on her hands could harm it, how she was not to lay one finger on it, not even to stroke her beloved birds, which looked so soft and realistic in certain lights—no, not even once. So she felt a little guilty when her nail and the pad of her finger came into contact with the scratchy backing of the tapestry and she gave a slight forward tug. It was heavy and would be more difficult to remove than she had thought. She slid her whole hand behind the tapestry and gently pulled again. Yes, she would definitely need Kelsey’s help to take it down for a proper cleaning.

  As it fell back against the wall, faintly disturbing the still air, Melanie noticed something that had been hidden behind it—a long, thin crack that ran from floor to ceiling. It was too straight and uniform to be a flaw in the wall. She drew the edge of the tapestry toward her again, pressing her face against the wall so she could better see behind the Tree of Life.

  It was a narrow crevice, all right, like the edge of a door, and right beside it, at elbow height, was a small metal plate, perhaps some kind of hinge. With her entire arm hoisting the tapestry away from the wall, and her head almost completely behind the rug, she strained to make out what she was seeing in the dimness, and she saw that it was in fact a door—a frameless door that blended right into the wall, flush and undetectable, with a tarnished silver flat handle. A door that had been hidden behind the tapestry for all those years. But why?

  She stumbled backward, and the tapestry dropped back into place, concealing its secret. Crossing her arms over her chest, she took a deep breath. A particularly strong torrent of rain rattled the windows, and she scurried to the bed and sat down. Hopefully, the basement wasn’t flooding anew with all the rain.

  She brought the bottle of Malbec to her mouth, though it was starting to taste bland to her increasingly numb lips and tongue. She wished Kelsey were with her. Kelsey had always been the braver, more adventurous of the two girls, and Melanie knew her sister wouldn’t be cowering on the bed, as she was. Kelsey would be prying open the secret door with a screwdriver or by any means necessary. But instead of striving to uncover things that had been intentionally hidde
n from her, Melanie felt it was wiser and safer to simply let them be.

  Her cell phone chirped, and Melanie nearly jumped off the bed. But it was only a text message from Kelsey: Hope you’re holding up in this storm! The place isn’t haunted, is it? Let me know if you get too scared and you want me to come get you! :P But not really... I’m going to bed. It was almost like she could read Melanie’s mind. Or maybe it was a sign that she shouldn’t be such a baby and she should just peek inside the tapestry’s hidden door, like any normal human being with even a modicum of curiosity. Then in the morning, in the bright light of day, she could show the door to Kelsey, and they could laugh about how Melanie had been nervous to open up the former maid’s quarters or defunct bathroom or whatever mundane thing it was that lay behind the Tree of Life.

  She stood up and crossed the room before she could lose her nerve and lifted the bottom right corner of the tapestry to duck under it. It felt warm and itchy resting on her shoulders. She studied the door’s handle, a silver square no bigger than a credit card with a half-circle latch. That would be her fail-safe, her excuse for not going any farther. No doubt it was locked or overly complicated, and she wouldn’t have the tools necessary to open it. But at least she could say she tried.

  But when she hooked her finger around the half-circle latch, it twisted easily, and she was able to pull the door open. Melanie’s pulse raced, and her eyes strained to adjust to the darkness of the mysterious room within.

  Chapter Three

  Something tickled Melanie’s cheek, and she yelped, imagining it was a spiderweb or something worse. Her instinct was to swat it away, but when her fingers brushed the offending thing, she realized it was nothing more than a long piece of string, a pull cord to a light fixture. She gave it a good yank, and a single light bulb suddenly illuminated the space behind the tapestry.

  With equal parts relief and disappointment, she saw it was only a small, mostly bare room about four feet by four feet: a closet, really. It had a lower ceiling than the bedroom, dirty white walls, and a built-in wooden bench along one wall. A small stack of items rested on the bench, and Melanie stepped into the room to see what they were—a cream-colored cardigan that she suspected had been her mom’s, two books with titles she didn’t recognize, and a pack of cigarettes. But whose cigarettes? Nobody in her immediate family smoked. She bent down to examine the books more carefully, when a loud gust of wind shook the house and slammed the closet door shut.

  She told herself not to panic, but her hysterical brain was already calculating how long she could survive without food and water and ways she could alert Kelsey to her presence behind the hidden door. Does the tapestry have a sound-dampening effect? she wondered with absolute dread. She should’ve followed her wussy instincts and left the daring exploration to her sister. She was going to die there all alone, and Ben would never know what had happened to her.

  Don’t be such an idiot, she reproached herself. All she had to do was push the door back open. In fact, there was even a regular silver knob on this side of the door. Melanie stepped forward and gingerly rested her palm over the doorknob before attempting to rotate it. She had to turn it and push at the same time, as the tapestry was heavy and blocking the door’s outward path. Once she had gotten it open a few inches, she squeezed her arm through to nudge the tapestry out of the way. And to think, years and years of never even so much as tapping the antique wall hanging with her pinkie, and there she was, practically manhandling it.

  The rain had stopped in the few minutes she’d been trapped in the closet, and the first hints of dawn were brightening the bedroom. What time is it, anyway? Have I really stayed up cleaning the whole night? The room looked different in the kinder, gentler light—the seashell-pink bedspread, the fluffy white rug, the lamp with the fringed shade, the dolls and teddy bears propped against the pillows.

  Dolls and teddy bears? What the hell? Where is my suitcase? The blue-and-white quilt I spread across the bed? My cell phone? The Malbec? She rubbed at her eyes. She was overtired, drunk, and nostalgic—a terrible combination. Obviously she was imagining the room as it had been when she was a little girl. Although that wasn’t true. It looked like a little girl’s room but certainly not hers. Her bedspread had been a yellow-and-red starburst quilt, and only one stuffed animal had ever graced her bed: a plush dolphin named Marvelous.

  I’m dreaming, she thought. I must have finally fallen asleep. Of course, that made the discovery of the secret door behind the tapestry make much more sense. But it annoyed her that she was having one of those stressful dreams again, the kind that made it feel like she was working all night, figuring out problems, instead of resting and renewing her tired brain. Change dreams. Go somewhere peaceful like the beach. Try to imagine Ben lying beside you.

  But of course, that tactic never worked. She lay down on the pink comforter, closed her eyes, and drummed her fingertips against her forehead. A loud thump came from downstairs. Her eyelids shot open. The thump sounded again.

  Is someone in the house? What if this isn’t a dream?

  She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and cautiously stood up. There had to be a logical explanation. Maybe Kelsey had come to check on her, or maybe the rainstorm had knocked a tree branch loose, and it was banging against the side of the house. But perhaps some squatter who was used to the house being abandoned had broken in. Melanie shivered at the thought of a total stranger lurking downstairs. She wondered why she hadn’t listened to her sister and waited just a day or two until she knew the lake house was “totally livable and safe.” Because there she was, a sitting duck without a car and without cell phone reception—not that she could find her cell phone in this strange pink room anyway.

  If an intruder were downstairs, she decided, she would sneak out the back door and run to the Fletchers’ house, or whoever lived there now, and ask to use their phone to call the police. With that plan in mind, she felt a little less afraid, enough so to force herself to tiptoe out of the bedroom and creep down the flight of stairs. She froze halfway at the sound of female voices coming from the kitchen—at least two of them, and neither of them sounded like Kelsey. Melanie strained to make out what they were saying with no luck. What are strange women doing in the kitchen? Did Charlene Hallbeck schedule a showing already without telling us?

  Melanie continued down the stairs, feeling like a ghost in her own family’s house. Everything looked different, just slightly off-kilter. The walls were back to their original white instead of the drab brown Ned and Lucinda had painted them, and the antique grandfather clock was back in its proper place in the foyer. But framed pencil sketches and photographs that she had never seen before were hanging on the walls, and a lime-green velour couch was standing squarely in the living room like a bad hallucination.

  She paused on the bottom step and massaged her temples. This is just a weird dream. The female voices were still chatting pleasantly, and she heard cooking sounds and smelled the delicious scent of cinnamon, brown sugar, and apples. Slinking down the hall to the kitchen doorway, she nearly tripped over a shag throw rug and felt like the world’s worst spy. She poked her head around the corner. A tall, broad-shouldered lady with curly brown hair was standing at the stove. Melanie’s heart stopped. It was her mom.

  She stepped into the kitchen. Her voice broke. “Mom?”

  But her mom didn’t turn around. She continued stirring something in a saucepan, one hand on her apron-covered hip.

  Melanie moved closer. She tried again, raising her voice. “Mom?”

  But her mom still didn’t respond or even acknowledge Melanie’s presence. Instead she bent down and opened the oven door to look inside. From that angle, Melanie was startled to see that though the woman looked very much like her mom, she wasn’t. This woman’s eyes were a dark brown instead of sky blue, and her forehead was high and rounded. She was also wearing red lipstick and large pearl earrings, things Melanie’s mom would never have been caught dead in.

  “Finish your oatm
eal, Christine,” the woman said. “Bobby’s about to come downstairs any minute, and I need you two to run to Dern’s for me to pick up some more milk.”

  Melanie’s attention abruptly shifted to the kitchen table, where a little girl in a yellow plaid short set was seated. She had curly brown hair tied into two pigtails and clear blue eyes, and she looked to be about seven or eight. And her name was Christine—Melanie’s mom’s name. In a kitchen that looked suspiciously like it was from the sixties. With a woman who looked suspiciously like a much younger version of Grandma Dot.

  Melanie reached out for the counter to steady herself and almost bumped into her grandma, who was hurrying to the fridge. “Oops, sorry,” Melanie said instinctively, but young Grandma Dot rushed by, acting like someone hadn’t almost run her over. Melanie had never had a dream like this before. Normally, she was free to speak and engage with the other people in her dreams, but she felt like she wasn’t even present. The sensation of being a ghost in her own house returned.

  “Hi, Christine,” she tried again, seating herself directly across the table from the little-girl version of her mother. But her mom didn’t look up. She only spooned more oatmeal into her mouth.

  She was impossibly cute, and while Melanie could see how the child’s soft, angelic features would mold into her mom’s sharper, shrewder face one day, she could also see hints of both Kelsey and herself in that little girl, and it made her feel a little teary. She wished she could reach out and touch her mother. She felt so nostalgic that she would even accept a hug from Grandma Dot, who had been a bit of a crank later in her life. But her earlier almost-brush with her grandma told her that the dream wouldn’t allow physical contact. Even sitting in the kitchen chair, Melanie felt detached from the environment, like she was floating a centimeter above the seat. It was disconcerting, and despite the pleasantness and novelty of glimpsing her mom as a kid, she wished she would wake up.