“No. Just Cathy. I was supposed to meet her yesterday. She’ll be wondering why I didn’t show.”
She chews loudly, with her mouth open. I think of floppy white bread, thickly buttered and dribbling with jam. My stomach rumbles.
“Don’t you have children?”
“No. Do you?”
She giggles again. “Don’t be silly, Hazel!”
“How do you know my name?”
“It was on your cards. Your purse cards.”
Oh yuh, I think,of course. Store cards, credit cards, payment slips. It’s all in there. Our lives are so exposed now, even down to the things we buy. That thought sparks something then, too fast and bright to examine. Like a synapse flaring in my brain. A receipt.
“Well, now you know who I am, can I ask who you are?”
“Maria.”
Maria, I think. I’ve heard that name recently.
“Maria is the name of a saint,” she continues in her sweet,lisping voice, “Maria Goretti. She was eleven when she died. They keep her remains in a glass coffin, like Snow White.”
“What is she the saint of?”
“Purity. Teenage girls. Chastity.”
I think immediately of the Spit then, of steamed-up windows and damp, probing tongues. I gasp.
“Oh my God. You’re his sister! Andrew told me you’d gone missing.”
“I did! They searched the woods for nine days with dogs and helicoppers, but it was my brother who found me in the end, hiding here in the farmhouse. He said I must have crawled in for shelter and survived on berries and mushrooms.”
I’m trying to calculate in my head, but it’s hard work. My brain feels like glue.
“You must be about Danny’s age now, then. He’s fifteen.”
“Close! I’m sixteen. I run small, though, like the rest of the family.”
Huh. I don’t know about that. Andrew is at least six foot two, maybe more. I don’t say that, though. That idea is forming, shapeless and transparent, but there all the same. Like an impression left in dough.
“Well, you know, I understand that. Cathy’s older than me, which makes me a little sister too. Like you.”
She laughs and I realize what it is that has struck me as odd. I don’t have much experience with teens, but Maria sounds much younger than her given age—that babyish voice, the word she’d used,helicoppers, even the way she regularly interrupts, as if she isn’t used to holding an adult conversation.
“Tell me about him. The older one.”
“Danny? I haven’t… I haven’t seen him since he was ten.” It’sa jolt, thinking of all that lost time, all that I’ve missed. “I know he likes music and skateboarding and being with his friends. He’s a regular kid, pretty much. When he was born, my sister wanted to call him Heath, after Heath Ledger, the actor, you know? Cathy had a big crush on him at school. I don’t know why she went with Danny in the end, I don’t remember. Danny’s good at art. He draws comics and big fantasy worlds that he populates with orcs and trolls and God knows what else. He likes macaroni cheese that comes in the bags that you add hot water to and pizza and burgers.”
I sniff loudly. I’m not crying, but I’m close to it. Behind me, a stair creaks. I look round, but the stairwell is empty. I wish it wasn’t quite so dark.
“Does he go to school?”
“Oh yeah. He’ll be finishing soon, though, I think. He’s got exams coming up.”
“What then?”
It’s so cold in here. I don’t know how I hadn’t felt it before. Adrenaline, probably. I shiver as the chill crawls slowly up my back.