by Kim Savage
I think of fencing. You’re talking about fencing, I’m sure of it.
“That said, you have to hide it. Blunt the sharp edges. When a victim shows rage, it’s called admirable. In a predator, rage is a lack of humanity. It scares people. Shape yourself so no one can see it.”
“I guess.”
“You need to be prepared. Once your rage takes over, there is no grasp of reality or balance until it’s exhausted. You’ll find yourself looking down at what you’ve done, and the shock will creep in. Resist. You need to get your head together fast to figure out how to get away with it.”
I think you are telling me to kill people who get in my way of being Vivi. You’ve said it before: we are natural-born killers. But I’m going to pretend you aren’t, because we are here under this big sky and you are warm and I have nowhere else to go.
I shiver underneath the blanket. You draw me nearer.
“You and me: we’re like sticks. Apart we were easily broken, but together we’re strong.” You bend and kiss my head. “Never leave me.”
We lie like this against each other. I watch my breath in clouds over my face. After a while, you slip from under the blanket and start the climb down.
I sit up. “Where are you going?”
“To bed. It’s a school night.”
My world is upside down and you are thinking about getting sleep for your classes tomorrow. You stop on the ladder before your head disappears.
“Oh, also: my parents were right. You should totally do the Today Show.”
* * *
Three days later the Today Show sends a limo to pick up Mr. and Mrs. Lovecraft and me at an ungodly hour. It’s four hours and twenty minutes of a near-silent ride, where everyone is absorbed in their own electronics and reading materials. I try to ask Mrs. Lovecraft what I am expected to do and say, but she insists I need only tell the truth: we are a family, I am doing well, and everything is better.
It would have been better if you were here.
“Do you think maybe this could backfire? Like, it could make the reporters more interested?” I sound so stupid. Straddling the line between being innocent Vivi and knowing they know I am Jo means everything I say comes out sounding like a backward woman-child.
Mrs. Lovecraft takes off the glasses she wears to read. “Are you having second thoughts?”
“No. I get why this is good. Once the world knows I don’t remember anything, the police can’t push,” I say, puppet that I am.
“That’s exactly right. As far as the press goes, never doubt that we can protect you.” She pats my knee. “We’ve been through this before. We will always be able to protect you.”
As we drive deeper into New York, towers crowd the sun and everything turns gray. I’ve never seen New York, but I say nothing of this. When Mr. Lovecraft says, “There’s Lady Liberty!” I bob my head to see. Thirty Rock, as Mr. Lovecraft calls it, is like Quincy Market on steroids, with fountains and distracted tourists. How easy it would be to pickpocket, and I banish the thought, for that is not the right mind-set for today. I want to stop and see the fountain and the golden statue, but the Lovecrafts are serious, and this is not a time to be a goofy tourist. We arrive in a lobby where the air smells pumped in and ride a fancy elevator, exiting into another lobby with huge posters of the show’s hosts. The receptionist asks our names and tells us to go directly to the greenroom, which is not green but orange, with a feast of pastries that has me drooling. From here you can watch the show in real time on one of the flat-screen TVs, and I don’t, because it freaks me out. The Lovecrafts don’t, either. A quick-talking woman rescues us from our nerves. She identifies herself as our producer, treating me like a piece of china, which is good, because it helps me get back into character. What she doesn’t do is tell us what they’re going to ask. We’re supposed to go on at 8:35, and we’re waiting for a fourth person. The producer sighs when at 8:02, Harvey Silver strides in, pink stripes down his gray suit, legs and arms scissoring like a grasshopper. He shakes Mr. Lovecraft’s hand and kisses Mrs. Lovecraft on the cheek. I am starting to feel like an afterthought, as in I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t notice if I stayed in the greenroom, and this is good, too, actually. Harvey asks where you are, to “complete the family picture,” and the only words I hear are “unpredictable,” and he nods knowingly, and I am not surprised.
We are hustled into Hair and Makeup, capital H and capital M, and they apply makeup like mad to everybody, including Harvey and Mr. Lovecraft. I sneak a glance at Mrs. Lovecraft in the chair beside me and mirror her stillness, the way she raises her eyes when they sweep and spackle. When Momma wore makeup, it looked like her only better, but the stuff they are putting on Mrs. Lovecraft makes her look like a clown, and I assume clown colors look good on TV. Most people change their clothes, but no one gave us that memo, and the woman in charge of my hair frowns at my wrinkled skirt, and she should cut me some slack since we just drove four hours. Suddenly I am in my underwear and shoes behind a curtain in the corner of Hair and Makeup and a hungover intern is steaming my skirt. When I step into it, it burns my bare thighs.
While I was standing in my underwear, the others disappeared. The intern rushes me to the studio where a big digital clock reads 8:12. We are to be interviewed by the prettiest woman I have ever seen. Natalie is tiny, with sucked-in pockets underneath her cheekbones and a dress the color of bubble gum. Her arms are impossibly tight in cap sleeves, and I can’t stop staring at them. She sits in the chair opposite us and introduces herself, shaking our hands. She oozes health and energy and Mr. Lovecraft is oozing admiration, and I am vaguely irritated. When she takes my hand I stare at hers, a perfect little shell, with perfect fingernails edged with little white moons. She pulls away with a pretty frown.
And it is 8:35 and we are on. They are on; I am silent. I don’t need to speak, because they are playing a montage of my life—Vivi’s life—along with pictures of her chum parents, and Mrs. Lovecraft is tearing up. Apparently they wanted to do a “walking and talking shot” of me and Natalie, but there wasn’t enough time to tape it, and this is good because I don’t love the idea of America having a nice long chance to compare images of Jolene Chastain with images of Vivienne Weir. Natalie and Harvey are doing most of the talking, and I can see us on the monitors behind the cameras, and when Natalie asks each of us a question, the camera focuses on that person. Now Natalie is asking Mrs. Lovecraft what our “reunion” was like, and reunions make me think of big happy families and long picnic tables and matching shirts. The camera zooms in on Mrs. Lovecraft, and she is fiddling with her hands in her lap. Above the waist and on camera, she is perfectly still and composed, and I am weirdly proud.
“Seeing Vivi again, healthy and strong, was the second happiest moment of my life. The first was giving birth to my own daughter,” Mrs. Lovecraft says.
This is Natalie’s segue into that night. She recounts the hours while Vivi went missing, and the Lovecrafts reach for each other’s hands, when shouldn’t they be reaching for mine? Then Natalie mentions the unspoken: the flak the Lovecrafts got afterward, as careless parents. And then she’s on to the Weirs’ plane crash, and the fact of my orphaning, and don’t you feel bad for me, people? Natalie is brilliant. Natalie is a star. Natalie deserves her fat paycheck. Because without having to defend or deny, we are back to sympathy and admiration for the Lovecrafts, and it is my turn to say something.
I know this because she says, “I want to give Vivienne a chance to say something.”
I swallow at America.
“First, please accept our condolences on the loss of your parents. After all this time, do you feel like you are finally home?” asks Natalie.
I look directly into the camera trained on my face. Vivi’s crinkle-nosed smile is not an option: I will look deranged. I go for something straddling the line between shy and sad. “Um. I miss my parents, of course. In a way, I’m lucky, I think, not to remember anything about the last seven years. Being found—it’s kind of
like a rebirth. A second chance at my life.”
This was the right thing to say. You can feel hearts softening around the studio, murmurs of agreement: yes, it is her second chance, yes, it is a rebirth, let’s forget she probably got abducted and doesn’t remember anything about the last seven years, that’s a downer, all is well, what a wonderful world!
Natalie wishes us every good thing, and me especially, and it is done, over, and it was so fast and now the world knows me as Vivi. Mr. Lovecraft lingers, getting the most out of his time with Natalie, who is used to men and wants to get away from him.
By 8:55 we are back in the limo, which apparently kept circling around the block to avoid cops and tickets. I have whiplash from the speed at which this thing happened. By two thirty, we’re pulling up in front of 999 Commonwealth Avenue.
Mrs. Lovecraft leans over to me. “Just like I said. We nipped it in the bud with this one interview. We don’t—you don’t—owe them anything else.”
Mr. Lovecraft smiles at me, but it’s more like a grimace. “One and done.”
I nod. They can’t imagine how much I would like this to be over with. Every time my face shows up on the screen, it’s a chance for someone to pop out of the woodwork and claim I’m not Vivi.
A pack of reporters stands at the curb. There is a festering quality about them, like maggots, tight-packed, jostling for the same space.
The limo driver leans over the seat. “Good luck getting into your own house.”
His breath smells of stale coffee and I shoot him a dirty look.
“We’re never getting out of the car!” Mrs. Lovecraft cries, her voice stippled with fear.
Mr. Lovecraft pats his pocket for his phone, finds it and calls Slade, cursing softly when he doesn’t answer.
“Try him again,” Mrs. Lovecraft urges.
Mr. Lovecraft calls again.
We stare at one another for a second, two. Mrs. Lovecraft grips my leg and gasps, “The car is spinning.”
“The car is parked,” I say, gently peeling her off my thigh. Her hand trembles, and I notice her hair is damp at the temples.
“Stay with us, Clarissa,” Mr. Lovecraft says, hammering at his phone again. “Wake up, Slade. Wake up,” he whispers.
“What’s wrong with her?” I ask Mr. Lovecraft.
“She’s having a panic attack. Just hang on, honey. Slade will clear a path for us in a minute and we’ll be safe inside. You have to hang on,” he says, phone jammed to his ear to hear over the growing hum outside the car.
“This is worse than I thought it would be,” she murmurs into her hands, peeking through her fingers at the crowd. “So much worse.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but I need to get to my next call,” the driver calls over the seat.
“Our security man will be here any second,” Mr. Lovecraft says.
“Hope you’re not paying him much,” the driver replies.
“Look!” Mrs. Lovecraft says, pointing out the window over her husband’s shoulder.
“Finally!” Mr. Lovecraft hisses.
Slade charges down the stairs, puffing his chest and wearing a Bluetooth earpiece that might be a prop. His hair is mashed up in the back and he is blinking away sleep, and he might be late but he is on, shoving reporters aside like a superhero. He opens the limo door with one hand and makes way with his other massive arm. As we climb from the limo, the reporters are on us, on me, and I get shoved around. It is everything I can do not to beat down one of these very small, very made-up reporters, men included, though I, too, have lips stained TV-burgundy.
Mr. Lovecraft turns to the crowd.
“If you want a comment, you have to be quiet!” Mr. Lovecraft is cupped-hands-around-the-mouth yelling, and they listen, because he is a powerful man, and also, he must look good on TV. A reporter with cleavage shoves a mic in front of his mouth, and five mics follow. Mrs. Lovecraft pinches her neck, barely able to stand. I want to pull her inside, get her some water and a couch to lie on, but Mr. Lovecraft draws me between them. There is no room for you, even if you were here, on the steps, and am I their new daughter?
Mr. Lovecraft booms, “Today my wife Clarissa and I shared with the world the news of the miraculous return of Vivienne Weir, who disappeared seven years ago from this very town house. We are honored, humbled, and blessed to have been given custodial rights to Vivienne by her tragically deceased parents, our dear friends, Travis and Marie Weir, who specified this wish in their wills. As we welcome Vivi into our home with open arms, it is our sincere belief that we have been given another chance to make things right, and we hope that you will respect our desire for privacy at this time.”
Cameras flash and video rolls and I gaze at the jawline of this man who says beautiful, unrehearsed things. I believe every word. Questions nail us from every side, and I think of battle scenes with flaming arrows shooting over our heads.
“Is it true she remembers nothing of the last seven years?”
“Is it confirmed that Vivienne was actually abducted?”
“Has Vivienne been diagnosed with a traumatic brain injury?”
“Are there plans to adopt Vivienne?”
“What about your daughter, Temple? How is she taking the news?”
Mr. Lovecraft puts his arms around us and draws us up the stairs of the town house. We keep our heads down. I count the steps: six, five, four, three, two …
“Henry Lovecraft!” A man’s voice soars over the crowd. I recognize the direction: it was a small man hanging out in the back, leaning against a gaslight lamp, with no camera, just a Boston Globe press badge. “Is it true that your firm has lost six of its ten major contracts with the city since Vivienne Weir’s abduction? As a developer, does her miraculous return mean anything for your own commercial success?”
Mr. Lovecraft halts. He is pissed. I am pissed. I don’t fully understand it, but I do get that it’s a rude question and someone should crack the little troll across the mouth.
Mrs. Lovecraft’s thin voice wavers. “Don’t respond, Henry. You’re better than that.”
He turns, leading with his chin, and the look in his eye scares me. I spin to face the cameras and raise my palms. The reporters go silent, and the only sounds are the roar of cars down Commonwealth Avenue and the clacks of cameras.
“I am Vivienne Weir,” I call out. “And this is my family now. I consider myself the luckiest girl in the world.”
I feel Mr. Lovecraft’s anger drain out of him. He pulls me close to his leg with one hand and presses his heart with his fist. Mrs. Lovecraft leans against my shoulder and weeps. The reporters are swarming, regrouping, and we need to escape. Finally, Slade herds us through the front door with his massive hands, one unit, a mother, father, and daughter, impenetrable.
You stand on the other side of the door, and I am in your arms.
“You were perfect,” you murmur into my hair. “I couldn’t have done it better myself.”
* * *
The Lovecrafts went out alone to celebrate this night, and for some reason you are shunning me, holed up in your room. I hear the Lovecrafts stumble in, laughing. They laugh like you, free and easy, and something in them has been rekindled lately. They stay up for an extra hour making love, and the noises wake up something inside me I wish would stay asleep, something I know is not useful to surviving here at 999 Commonwealth Avenue. When the house is silent, I creep downstairs to the parlor, which I am beginning to think of as the killing room. The darkness is more purple than black. I try to imagine this space seven years ago, a room less adult then and more for a little kid and her toys. Where a TV may have been. A huge antique floor mirror leans against the wall, and I use my back to hold it in place while I touch the wall behind, running my palm down to feel for seams and plastering. There, the faintest ridge, extending in the shape of a rectangle. The cutout is nearly identical in shape and size to the mirror, and a chill settles in the small of my back. I understand now why the Lovecrafts bought the brownstone next door but nev
er expanded into it. Some walls ought to remain.
I place my cheek against the wall. I want to say I’m sorry, but I can’t, because I’m not.
That night I dream of Momma. We’re in the Dwiggins room, that marionette room in the library, and we are doing a new con, but my time is running out to learn it. Also, Momma has to be quiet explaining it to me, because we’re not supposed to be in the Dwiggins room. I can’t seem to wrap my brain around it, and there is something desperate about Momma; if I don’t get this new con, something terrible is going to happen. But I can’t think straight. It’s complicated, this con, but I am older and I should be able to get it. Momma is frustrated, is trying to regress me, something she used to do when I couldn’t get the right lifetime in my head, but it’s like she’s speaking a different language. Finally, Momma takes a key out of her ear, like a magician with a penny, and unlocks one of the cases.
“Don’t!” I cry, because I know those marionettes are mean mothers and they’re just waiting to get out from under that glass and chew our limbs off with their clickety-clackety mouths.
“I’m going to act it out for you,” Momma says, pulling out two dolls.
And there I have to sit, watching Momma with seams across her face where the Last One smashed it in, holding two puppets high in the air, acting out the trick I am supposed to perform, but Momma isn’t tall enough and the wooden feet and buckled legs keep dragging on the glass case. Footsteps and voices approach, along with the unmistakable yelling of guards, and dogs barking, and I keep trying to tell Momma we have to run, and it’s the old panic again, the one I felt when I knew the Last One was going to kill her. But Momma ignores the noises, insisting I learn the con …
I sit up in my bed. Window, chair, nightstand. Moonlight on the fire escape, neon clock. My chest pounds and skitters dangerously. I think I am having a heart attack. I peel the sheets down and they stick to my sweaty legs, and I fight to free myself. Through my window I hear the demented yells of the last of the drunk college students heading toward Fenway. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and hoist myself across the hall to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my cheeks until they grow numb.
