Harrow Lake

by Kat Ellis

“Did you say something?”

  I slither out. The heat of Grant’s hand rests at the small of my back, lingering there. Maybe I should tell him about the man at the movie premiere, and the smell of roasting meat. But I step away instead, taking the bag from him.

  “See you around.” I leave him by the idling truck as I hurry up the porch steps and knock on my grandmother’s door. It swings open, an eerie reminder of when I arrived at the apartment . . . was that only yesterday?

  The inside of the house smells dead, like old wood and insect husks.

  “Hello?” I call out to the dust, walking slowly across the bare floor of the hallway. “Is anyone home?”

  A stained-glass lamp casts warm colors on a side table, illuminating a vintage black phone with a rotary dial. Nolan has one just like it. Maybe I should call Larry. Maybe if I explain that I’m standing in a house straight out of one of Nolan’s movies, he’ll tell me to come home.

  There’s a hiss of air behind me. I turn and find a woman clutching her chest in an open doorway. She wears a long black dress, and her white hair is pinched into a knot at the top of her skull, with a few ringlets left loose around a pan-white face. Her makeup is stark: Heavy brown shadow fills her sunken eye sockets, her whisper-thin brows drawn down into a look of disappointed surprise. Plum-colored lipstick bleeds out into the fine wrinkles cross-hatching her skin. She’s like a pickled doll.

  “I . . . The door was open.” I assume she’s my grandmother, and now I realize I have no idea what to call her. Grant referred to her as my grandma, but that feels weird. She’s a stranger.

  “I’m Moira McCabe. Are you . . . You must be . . . Lorelei’s girl? My goodness, you’ve grown!” She holds out her hand.

  I start to correct her, then stop. I’m so used to being Nolan’s girl. I feel like I’ve walked onto the wrong movie set. I take her hand, but drop it when I feel how cold and papery her skin is.

  “You’ve turned out such a pretty little thing. Let me look at you.” She runs a strand of my hair between her fingers. “You’re just like her.”

  “Like Lorelei?” I say, barely resisting the urge to smack her hand away.

  “Of course,” she says. When she smiles, her teeth are like yellowed fossils in her mouth. Maybe it’s the lamplight. “Folks must tell you that all the time.”

  “Not really.”

  “Oh, they will, sweetheart—once you learn how to make yourself up properly.”

  Wow. “I appreciate the tip,” I tell her flatly. Her smile doesn’t falter. Maybe she thought she was being kind.

  Lorelei was flawless when she went out in public—red sweetheart lips, smoky lines framing her bright blue eyes, and her hair in Greta Garbo waves hanging to her shoulders. I don’t have Lorelei’s blue eyes—mine are such a deep brown they look black, like Nolan’s—but my hair is wavy like hers. Nolan won’t let me cut it, even though it hangs all the way to my waist. And he doesn’t like it when I wear makeup, either. You’re perfect as you are, Nolan says. It upsets me to think of something so perfect being ruined.

  “My name’s Lola.” I glance pointedly at the hand still hovering near my face. It’s like having a fly buzzing right next to my ear. She lets it drop to her side. “I guess you’re expecting me . . .” I suddenly have the awful feeling Larry didn’t bother to call ahead, and she had no idea I was about to land on her doorstep. But then I remember Grant waiting for me at the airport. Of course she’s expecting me.

  “Please, call me Grandmother.”

  Grandmother. It’s formal, detached. The way you’d refer to an ancestor’s portrait. It’ll work.

  “And don’t just stand out there in the hallway—come in, won’t you?” She disappears through the doorway. I hesitate just a moment before dropping my bag in the hall.

  The living room is small, with wood-paneled walls and three chairs around a colorless rug and an empty wooden coffee table. No TV—naturally—but a Philco radio sits on a corner table, its speakers carved into the wood like Gothic church windows. Yet another piece that makes me think of Nolan.

  It’s only now, standing in this space that looks a century out of sync with the world, that I realize just how much I’m surrounded by technology at home. The TV, my e-reader, the laptop I borrow for schoolwork, the smart fridge—even the oven can cook a meal practically without human intervention. All I have here is the phone Larry gave me, and its panicked proclamation of NO SERVICE. No cellphone for Lola, just like always.

  There are two photographs on the mantelpiece above an empty fireplace. One is a picture of Lorelei at around five or six years old. It’s strange—I’ve never seen a picture of her that wasn’t taken when she was at least eighteen, after she got the part in Nightjar and met Nolan.

  The other picture shows her as a teenager with an older man. Her father, I guess, though there’s not much of a family resemblance. He looks like a man who might’ve played football when he was younger: solid and strong, with well-weathered skin. He sits in a high-backed chair with Lorelei in his lap, focused on her rather than the camera.

  I see the same chair now in the corner near the radio, a faint depression in the seat cushion. I’m tempted to touch it, see if it’s still warm.

  Then it hits me: I’m in her home. Lorelei lived here. Stood where I’m standing. I want to recoil, like I’ve just walked in on a house fire.

  “I’m quite sure the doorjamb can hold itself up without your help,” my grandmother says lightly. I must look confused, because she beckons me into the living room. She sits in a rocking chair with a lamp shining behind her, making a halo of the hair she wasn’t able to tease into her high bun. It would probably collapse like spun sugar if I touched it.

  “Can I use the phone?” I say. “I need to check in on Nolan.”

  “You call your father by his first name?” Her smile is tight with disapproval.

  “That’s what he prefers, Grandmother.”

  Her face softens. I make a note of that: “Grandmother” is Optimal.

  “Well, fathers and daughters always have a special bond, don’t they?” She laughs girlishly, then pauses when I don’t join in. I desperately want to end this conversation, but I have no idea what she wants me to say.

  “So, is it all right if I use the phone?”

  She makes an irritated sound, and waves in the direction of the hallway. “Go on and make your call, dear.”

  I almost walk right into Grant. My bag is in his hand.

  “Shall I take your granddaughter’s bag upstairs, Mrs. McCabe?”

  “I’ll—” I begin, but my grandmother cuts me off.

  “Yes. Thank you, Grant,” she says.

  He steps aside just enough that I have to squeeze past him, chest to chest.

  I leave them talking in hushed tones behind me. Normally, I’d linger to eavesdrop, but right now I’m more anxious to hear Nolan’s voice. I pick up the phone and dial.

  “Mr. Nox woke up a short while ago,” a nurse tells me over the crackling line. “Only for a few minutes, but the doctor spoke with him and said he’s doing very well, exactly as she’d hoped after the surgery.”

  “Can I speak with him?”

  “He’s sleeping right now—better if you call back in the morning.”

  I hang up, and whatever dregs of energy I had left seep into the floorboards.

  Someone is right behind me.

  “Your room is upstairs—your mom’s old room.” It’s Grant.

  “Nolan woke up,” I tell him. He’s going to be all right. I don’t say this part out loud. My voice might crack. That wouldn’t be Optimal.

  Grant’s expression doesn’t change. “Second door on the right. Mrs. McCabe turned in already, so you probably won’t see her until breakfast. Is there anything you need before I head out?”

  Wow. Way to express concern about my father’s condition, Grant.
<
br />   And nice of my grandmother to go to bed and leave me without a word. Is that normal? Or have I managed to upset her within ten minutes of meeting her?

  “I guess she thought you’d be on the line awhile,” Grant says distractedly, busy raking his eyes over me like he might’ve missed something the first time. “Damn, but you sure do look like Lorelei. Mm-mm-mmm. A real sweet little piece of—”

  “You knew my mother?” I blurt. I shouldn’t be surprised in a town this size. But I try to picture her standing next to Grant, and I can’t.

  “Oh, yeah. I knew her, all right. Everyone in Harrow Lake knew sweet little Lorelei. You know, if she hadn’t gotten her head turned by that fancy-pants movie guy, I could’ve been your daddy.” Grant’s smile is a bear trap, quick and sharp. I’d like to scratch that look right off his face.

  “I doubt that,” I tell him stiffly. He and Nolan are worlds—galaxies—apart.

  But Grant just laughs, then shakes his head. “Prickly like her, too. Be a doll and stay inside the house tonight, okay?” I cringe at his words. “I wouldn’t want you getting lost out in the woods. There’s no moon tonight.”

  “So?”

  “So you never go into Harrow Lake woods on a moonless night, or the trees might mistake you for one of their own. With no moonlight, a girl like you could end up wandering for hours and see nothing but trees and trees and more trees.” He steps closer, and I force myself not to back away. “They say if you lose your way out there, you need to keep moving. Stand still even for a moment, and you’ll feel your toenails sprouting long like talons, digging down into the earth, planting like roots. In the cold dark, your skin’ll harden into bark, and your arms will twist toward the sky like you’re reaching for a moon that ain’t there.”

  He reels this off like he’s reciting a nursery rhyme.

  “What a cute story,” I say.

  I wonder whether Grant has children—whether he tells them terrifying tales about being claimed by the forest to keep them in their beds at night. Perhaps reading my thoughts, Grant smirks.

  “I guess your mother didn’t pass on the old tales to you. No doubt you’ll pick ’em up while you’re in town. But I wasn’t kidding about not going out there at night—the woods is no place to be after dark. You never know what might happen.” He winks as if he’s being friendly. “Sleep tight, Lola.”

  Sleep with one eye open, asshole.

  After he leaves, I listen to the unfamiliar groans of the house around me, and the chug of Grant’s truck fading to a sigh.

  I lock the front door, taking one last look outside through its narrow window. There are only the dark woods out there, where you never know what might happen.

  * * *

  • • •

  The walls of Lorelei’s room are covered in a faded gray pattern like upside-down beetles, repeated over and over and over. It’s almost hypnotic, though that could be because I’m so tired. One section of the wallpaper has started to peel away near the picture rail to reveal another layer of paper underneath. Only that one has exactly the same beetle-like pattern on it, which is odd. I climb up onto the bed to get a better look. Beneath the furling corner, the second layer of paper is also loose. I carefully peel it back. This room has been decorated and re-decorated with the exact same wallpaper.

  “Who does that?” I ask the wall.

  I press the paper back into place. It’s a little sticky with damp, but it holds, and I climb back down. Every item in this room, every piece of furniture, looks like it should be in a museum showing what life was like in 1920s small-town Indiana. I knew this town would look like a relic on the outside—but I guess I thought it would be different inside. It’s like I’ve imagined myself inside an ancestor’s dollhouse.

  The wall opposite the bed is lined with shelves. The highest shelf holds only an old carriage clock with hands left to die at ten after two—probably because it’s too high to reach without a stepladder. What I didn’t notice when I first walked in is that the other shelves hold dozens and dozens of walnut-looking things, all laid out in neat rows. But, as I pick one up to inspect it, I see it’s not a nut; it’s carved from wood and pitted, with a split running right around the middle. I squeeze the two halves apart, and it opens to reveal a hollow space.

  I stifle a scream. A shiny black bug waggles its legs at me from inside the nutshell, and I almost drop it. But the bug isn’t real, either—just a painted beetle with legs attached by wire hinges that allow them to dance whenever the shell moves. Even the slight motion of my hand sends those legs jittering against the inside of the shell. In that moment, I have the oddest sense of déjà vu. But maybe that’s just because all bugs freak me out.

  I set it back on the shelf, leaving it open, determined that it won’t get the better of me. Then I force myself to open every single one. There’s a ladybug, a beetle with emerald-green wings, then a brown one with orange stripes across its back. I go from shelf to shelf until I’m done. Dozens of bugs in all sorts of colors.

  Did Lorelei collect them? If this was my room, the shelves would be full of books, not little toys. Maybe Lorelei was into bugs? I try to imagine her playing with them, but I can’t picture it. I don’t even remember the sound of her laugh. It’s been a long time since I’ve wondered about Lorelei like this.

  Forget her, Lola.

  I refuse to get caught up with thoughts of Lorelei. I’m not a kid anymore.

  There’s only the closet left for me to explore. It opens with a small iron key, the door swinging wide to reveal a rail filled with dresses. I assume they’re Grandmother’s—her winter clothes, or ones she doesn’t wear often—but when I look closer, I see they aren’t hers at all. They’re Lorelei’s.

  Of course they’re Lorelei’s—I’m in her room, for God’s sake.

  Big surprise, they’re cut in the rustic, late-twenties style. Muted fabrics with modest necklines and low waists. Plain, except for an occasional ribbon-trim or brightly colored button. These aren’t the clothes I remember Lorelei wearing when she lived with me and Nolan. Then I come to a section that isn’t Lorelei’s at all. It’s Little Bird’s.

  Little Bird was the character my mother played in Nightjar—the beautiful, small-town girl who starts out as the local sweetheart, but soon becomes an object of superstition and fear when the town is cut off from the outside world and its residents begin to starve.

  I’ve been half in love with Little Bird my whole life, memorizing her lines in the movie, copying the way she talked and how she moved. Despite the way she dies in Nightjar (it is a horror movie), everyone loved her, Nolan especially. She was his first creation, after all. I actually think Little Bird was the person he really fell for, not my mother. Bright and happy and charming . . . his idea of the Optimal woman. Not someone who would walk out on her family without a word.

  The Little Bird outfits are more colorful. The pleated green pinafore she wore in the opening scene. The sailor-style dress from the fairground. The pretty smocked primrose one with embroidered rosebuds that she wore at the Easy Diner. And more: a deep emerald-green one from the night of the storm; a royal-blue knit for when the townsfolk turned and chased her into the caves; and finally the plum-colored frock from the final scene at the church ruins. Her death scene.

  I run my fingertips across the different fabrics, feeling an electric tingle. These are unique. Pristine. Optimal. And as tangible a piece of Nolan’s heart as I will ever find in the whole world. I almost can’t bring myself to close the closet door.

  I’m about to draw the curtains when a movement outside catches my eye. No, not a movement; whoever is out in the yard isn’t moving at all. It’s their stillness that makes them stand out. Someone petite—so not Grant. Maybe a teenager, or a slender woman.

  I go cold.

  It’s Lorelei. She saw me rifling through her things. Somehow, it’s her.

  Don’t be ridiculous, L
ola, Nolan’s voice snaps in my head. She’s long gone, and good riddance.

  I glance at the closed closet door, then back to the window, hoping and not hoping that the figure will have vanished. But she’s still there, facing the house, a dark silhouette in the weak moonlight. Then a faint giggle carries up on the breeze. It’s a girl.

  But what is she doing out there? Why would anyone be out in the woods so late at night? Grant’s warning about the trees slithers through my mind and I feel like I should throw open the window and call out to her, but I hesitate, my heart racing.

  It’s just a girl. What are you afraid of?

  The windowpane mists where my breath hits it. I wipe it with my palm. The girl outside waves up at me, mirroring the movement. Wait—is she mimicking me?

  WTF?

  I fumble with the window latch, but the hinges only move a couple of inches before getting stuck. The gap is just wide enough for me to talk to her without yelling and waking my grandmother. But the girl is gone. The yard is empty. Just the crooked shadows of the trees intrude beyond the boundary fence.

  Where the hell did she go?

  Is she out there in the dark woods, peering back at me?

  You’re behaving like a child, Nolan chides. I scowl at my reflection in the window. He’s right. He usually is.

  I draw the curtains, then crawl into bed fully clothed and lie there, counting the nutshells on the shelves. There are seventy-two.

  With every whisper of breeze through the open window, the lace curtains cast twisting patterns onto the clock on the high shelf. They shift and change, tricking my tired eyes into seeing the hands twitch with movement: time struggling to move forward, and failing.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I take a quick, cold shower the next morning (no choice on the temperature) and rush back to my room—Lorelei’s room—wrapped in a towel. Kicking aside yesterday’s dirty clothes, I look around for my suitcase. It’s not here.

  It was in here a second ago. I mean, I think it was. Wasn’t it? I was so tired and weirded out last night, I can’t remember if I saw it then. But Grant brought it up here. He told me which room I was staying in. So it must be in here.