by Kat Ellis
The closet is too small to hold it, and when I drop down to check under the bed—carefully, in case there are spiders—all I find is dust. Wait—not just dust. There are short, deep scratches on the floorboards near each of the bedposts. Was Lorelei the sort of girl to run and jump into bed at night in case the boogeyman reached out from under it to grab her feet? Considering the shelves of bugs, I doubt she was.
She isn’t worth even a moment’s thought. Nolan’s voice, his hand smoothing over my hair—a memory from when I was little. I’d asked him where she went, or something like that. The next time I brought up the subject of my mother, he didn’t answer at all. Asking about Lorelei was never a good idea. Never Optimal.
I duck my head back out onto the landing.
“Grandmother?” I wait a beat but there’s no answer.
Maybe Grant left my bag in the downstairs hallway?
The thought of running around a stranger’s house in a towel makes my teeth itch, but that only leaves me with yesterday’s dirty clothes to wear. I pick up my jeans between finger and thumb. They smell of sleep and travel sweat. Gross. My eyes slide to the closet.
No. I can’t be seen wearing my absentee mom’s old clothes while Nolan lies attached to machines back in New York.
But . . . the clothes in that closet aren’t all Lorelei’s, are they?
* * *
• • •
A few minutes later, I follow a rhythmic thumping sound and find my grandmother kneading dough in the kitchen.
Baked goods cover almost every surface in the room—loaves of bread, pies, and an unfrosted cake. The smell is cloyingly sweet.
In the doorway, I put my pointer fingers and thumbs together to make a square and look through it. The floor is a checkerboard of faded blue and white tiles. I don’t think Nolan would like them. Too cheap.
My grandmother stands center-frame at a wooden counter, an apron covering her dress, which is black, just like yesterday’s. The sleeves are rolled back, and a few stray curls of her hair bounce every time she thumps the dough in front of her.
At first I think she’s humming, but the low, keening sound she’s making isn’t any kind of tune. She’s crying.
Shit.
I drop my finger-frame. Look down at my green dress with the pleated skirt. I shouldn’t be wearing this. It was a terrible idea. I back away from the door and am about to tiptoe back upstairs when the movement catches my grandmother’s eye. She looks up from her kneading and screams.
Her rolling pin falls from the counter with a clatter and she screams again, her hands quivering like moths in front of her. She looks like she’s seen a ghost.
Oh, God. It’s not me she’s seeing—it’s Lorelei. Standing in the doorway wearing Little Bird’s clothes, I must look the double of my mother. Judging by her reaction, Grandmother hasn’t seen Lorelei in a while.
I take another step back. “I’ll go change.”
But the shock fading from her face now makes me hesitate. She shakes her head and finds her voice.
“Oh, Lor – Lola. You shouldn’t startle me like that.”
Grandmother quickly dabs her sleeve to her face. She’s wearing the same stark makeup as when I met her last night, only now it’s smeared. Maybe I should say something. The moment stretches out too long.
“I see you found your mother’s old movie things,” she says at last, gesturing to the dress.
“Yeah, I guess I should’ve asked first, but I couldn’t find my—”
“Oh, no. It’s fine.” She shakes her head again, thin-lipped. I can’t tell if she’s annoyed because I scared her or because I’m wearing this dress. Either way, there’s not a lot I can do about it.
“What’s all that for?” I gesture to the bread and pastries on the counter.
“Oh, it’s for the Easy Diner. I bake for them.”
“Like as a job?”
Grandmother doesn’t answer, but juts her chin at a plate of something sticky as she goes back to kneading.
“I made you breakfast,” she says. “Two hours ago.” I don’t miss the sharp note in her voice.
“What is it?”
“Canned peaches on toast. It was your mother’s favorite.”
“Really?” I eye the glistening mess. “I’m not much of a breakfast person. I usually just grab a coffee.”
“I see,” she says. “That’s fine.”
I’m quite certain it’s not fine, but I’m not going to force down that nightmare on a plate just to try and win her over. I’ll figure something out; learn what Optimal looks like to my grandmother.
“Do you know where Grant put my suitcase?” I say to her rigid back. “It wasn’t in my room. That’s why I borrowed this dress—I didn’t have anything else clean to wear.”
“Your . . .” She blinks at me. “Oh, but you should wear your mother’s old things—there’s no point leaving them to gather dust in the closet. And that dress looks just delightful on you.”
“Yeah, I think I’d still like to have my own clothes, though.”
“Right. I see.” She strides from the kitchen without another word, not waiting for me to follow her. I stay in the kitchen and listen to her footsteps clacking up the stairs, then across the boards above my head. After some more clacking, she comes back.
“No sign of it, I’m afraid,” she announces, like it’s nothing.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Grandmother says, slowing her words, “there’s no sign of your bag.”
I wait for her to go on, to say that she will of course find it for me, but she doesn’t. “Seriously? A suitcase can’t just disappear!”
“Well, there’s no need to raise your voice. It can’t have gone far.”
A wave of anger washes over me. “But I need my stuff!”
“Lola.” She slaps a hand down on the counter and I jump. “I’m sorry you don’t have your things, but I’ll ask Grant about it when he calls by later. He must have forgotten to take your bag out of his truck.” I’m about to insist that’s not possible, that I carried it into the house myself, when I remember the girl I saw standing out in the yard last night. Could she have snuck into the house and stolen it?
Calm down. It’s Nolan’s voice, and hearing it slows my thundering heart a little. It’s only a bag and a few clothes. There’s no need for hysterics.
“When I went in your room just now, I noticed you’ve moved the jitterbugs,” Grandmother says, snatching me from my thoughts.
“The what?”
“The wooden bugs in your mother’s room. Do be careful with them—Lorelei made them herself.”
“She made them? Like, from scratch?” That doesn’t fit my memory of her. Lorelei was not crafty. She didn’t do anything with her hands that made her seem capable in any tangible kind of way. But maybe this was something she left in Harrow Lake; she had a habit of leaving things behind.
“Oh, yes. Lorelei used dead wood from the forest. She carved and painted each one by hand. They were very precious to her. I would hate for any of them to get broken.”
“I will be very careful with Lorelei’s bugs.”
My grandmother narrows her eyes at me. “Are you being funny?”
I hear Nolan snort in disbelief. “I doubt it.”
“Well, good. I can’t abide young girls who think they’re funny.” She has that in common with Nolan, then.
“As for your clothes,” she continues, brightening, “there are plenty more dresses in the closet upstairs, so I’m sure you can make do.”
“I guess so,” I say.
“Good. That’s settled. And I’m sorry you feel so upset about your bag,” she says, making it clear how petty she finds it. Grandmother reaches out to touch my hair again. “Your mother was the same way. So . . . sensitive.”
“Do you ever see her?”
I blurt, taking a step back. “Lorelei?”
“See her? What on earth do you mean?” she says.
“I just thought maybe she came back here to visit . . .”
“No.” She stares at me like I’m being ridiculous.
“Where is Lorelei now?” I press.
“Perhaps you should ask your father,” she says with a lightness that feels forced. “She was his wife, after all. Not that I ever thought they were a good match.”
So she blames Nolan for Lorelei leaving. Of course she does.
When Lorelei left, Nolan said he was glad to be rid of her, that she was bad for both of us. But I saw his lie for what it really was. He needed to convince himself, and me, that she hadn’t really hurt us. That a woman who could abandon her family wasn’t someone we needed in our lives.
He cleared out her closets. Burned every photograph of her. He told me to forget about her, that we both should. Maybe Nolan should have told Grandmother that as well.
“The last time I saw her was just after your grandfather’s funeral. Goodness, was it really twelve years ago?” She toys with a lock of my hair, and I force myself to stay still. “She came to say her goodbyes, I suppose. And then she was . . . gone.”
Her words remind me of what Nolan used to tell me when I asked about Lorelei after she moved out: “She left a note saying she was taking a trip to her hometown to say good-bye, then went god-knows-where to do whatever the hell she wanted. She isn’t coming back.”
Something in his tone made me wonder whether deep down Nolan thought that she might actually come back and snatch me away in the night, leaving him alone.
“You know,” Grandmother says, snapping her fingers, “Lorelei left some of her makeup here when she came to visit. I’m sure at least some of it will still be usable. I can find it for you, if you like?”
Lorelei never wore makeup around the house, but when she went out she wore it in perfect 1920s style. Maybe she thought people expected her to look like Little Bird. Or that they wouldn’t recognize her if she didn’t. She was stunning, though.
That crap isn’t for you, Lola. I bite my lip, hearing Nolan’s words so clearly he could be standing at my shoulder.
But the makeup would make me more Nightjar-authentic, I argue silently. More like Little Bird. No—a new and improved version. Little Bird 2.0.
“Sure,” I tell Grandmother. “Why not?”
* * *
• • •
My borrowed green pinafore has a pleated skirt, with a waistline that sits low across my hips. This was what Little Bird wore in the opening scene of the movie.
I’m analyzing my reflection in the mirror, trying to decide how I look in this outfit, this makeup, when a face appears behind me. I startle so badly I almost leap out of the damn dress.
“That’s much better.” My grandmother sounds so pleased. “You look just like Lorelei now.”
“I look like Little Bird.” I’m annoyed at her for creeping up on me, so it comes out snappy.
“Goodness me, this town was here long before that awful film, you know!”
I feel the shadow of Nolan’s hand on my shoulder at her snippy words, fingers digging in as his knuckles whiten. “Would this town still be here if it wasn’t for that ‘awful film’?”
She stills. “Don’t get smart. All I meant was that you look like you belong here.”
I toy with the idea of telling her I’m not wearing any underwear, see if she still thinks I belong. But I fight the urge to needle my grandmother. For now, at least.
CHAPTER FIVE
Now that I’m made up like a Little Bird clone, my grandmother practically shoos me out of the house so she can finish her baking. Fine by me. I haven’t even been here twenty-four hours, and my insides are getting clogged with dust and spiderwebs and Lorelei’s lingering presence.
At least Grandmother was happy for me to go out and explore by myself, something Nolan would never agree to. Still, part of me worries that I’ll return to the house and find something horrific has happened, just like at the apartment. That breaking Nolan’s rules brings terrible consequences.
Stop it, Lola!
Thinking like that is not Optimal.
I follow a dirt track away from the house, looking for Nolan’s Nightjar to emerge out of all these trees. The path winds between them, pitted with stones and fallen leaves, muddy enough to make a shitshow of my shoes.
I have a mental list of the Nightjar locations I want to see—the Easy Diner, the ruined church, the caves . . . but I’ll need to see them in the order they appeared in Nightjar. When I tell Nolan about my visit to Harrow Lake—and he will expect me to, in great detail—he’ll notice if I’ve taken the scenes out of order. That would not be Optimal.
I’m headed for Main Street, where the movie opens. And I’m wearing Little Bird’s opening-scene outfit, so I’m on the right track.
It isn’t long before I find it. Those elegant lampposts curtsey in greeting along the roadside. The stores are all open, the sidewalks surprisingly busy for such a small town. But I remember what Grant said about them holding some kind of Nightjar festival in a few days, so maybe there are visitors mixed in with the locals. It’s hard to tell since they all look like they’re in Nightjar costumes.
I keep checking my phone, hoping Grant was exaggerating about the lack of signal in this town. He was not. My steps fall into the rhythm of the piano music piping through a sound system I can’t see.
All the people bustling about the sidewalks stay in character, wishing me a good morning, doffing caps as I pass, playing the part with rose-tinted, old-timey civility. There’s a sameness to them that’s unnerving, and then I realize why: Almost everyone’s white. Another reminder of just how far I am from New York. I catch some people eyeing me curiously. Nolan has kept me well away from the public gaze, thank god (he only takes me to industry events or parties where there’s a strict no phones, no cameras, no social media policy), but I look like Little Bird in this dress, so of course they stare.
That thought doesn’t bother me like it should. Walking along this street feels like stepping inside someone else’s daydream—as if I’m a different person here. No Larry to drag me back home. No Nolan waiting for me.
I’m completely alone.
My footsteps are suddenly too loud on the sidewalk. It feels wrong to be in this place that’s so Nolan when he’s not with me.
Nolan always prefers to use real locations to shoot his films. He likes the idea that he’s layering one reality over another instead of just painting it onto plywood. He says it gives the story depth. It’s hard to find places that look like authentic 1920s backdrops, but that’s Nolan’s thing—he is the King of Roaring Twenties Horror after all.
* * *
• • •
I was nine the first time I was allowed to visit one of Nolan’s film sets. It took months of careful asking, showing the right kind of interest and smiling sweetly when he said no.
The movie was called The Path from Innocence, and the crew was shooting in a pine forest at night. They set up rigs to give the cameras enough light to record. I stayed absolutely silent while the camera rolled or when Nolan was talking to his crew, watching the three actors limp dazedly between the trees, searching for invisible predators. In between takes, though, I asked him questions. How had he chosen the location? How long would the scene be after it was edited? Why were the cameras positioned at those exact angles? Not too many questions, but enough to show that I was thinking about his work. Optimal questions to make him proud of me.
The next time I asked to go on-set, he said yes. I stood next to Nolan as an actor walked into a snare and was whisked up into a tree by her neck, her broken string of pearls bouncing onto the ground beneath her like hailstones. She kicked her legs wildly, then less wildly, then not at all. I saw a guy get shot through the eye with a dart. I sa
w a woman with tight red pin curls soaked with blood and fleeing for her life. Then it was time to shoot a flashback of the redhead and her two friends as children playing patty cake in the rain.
I went to watch the rigs that would make the rain turn to blood, and I overheard the casting people nearby talking about the kid who was meant to play Snare Woman as a girl; she’d dropped out without warning. They were making plans to call in another actor. I left the blood rig and went over to them; they should let me act in the movie, I said. It would be a surprise for Nolan. He would love it, I said.
Playing the part was easy. The script laid everything out—what to say, how to say it, and when. I didn’t have to think about it at all. Just laughed and played patty cake and screamed as I’d seen the others do during the run-through, getting drenched in my little blue dress and letting the fake blood make rats’ tails of my hair and trickle into my eyes. I didn’t even glance over at Nolan until he called “cut.” Just knowing that I was a part of his work, the thing he took the most pride in, lit me up inside like I’d swallowed a firecracker.
When I did look at him, his expression was unreadable. But that was just Nolan. If he’s working, he’s 100 percent focused on his project. So it wasn’t until we’d been home for a few hours that I noticed he was in a bad mood. He said nothing was wrong, but I could tell it was a lie. For five whole days, the weight of his silence was like the world collapsing on top of me.
“Why won’t you look at me?” I asked him again on the sixth day. Desperation made me whine, which I knew he hated.
The seconds stretched to an impossible length as I counted each painful heartbeat, wondering whether my ribs would break under the impact.
“Why would I want to look at you?” he said at last.
I tried to come up with the right answer. He’d liked it when I showed I was interested in his work, but not when I became a part of it. Was he angry that I hadn’t asked first? Or had I done a bad job? Oh, God—had I ruined the movie?
