Pretty, Nasty, Lovely

by Rosalind Noonan

  With the blanket slung over my shoulders, I grabbed my notebook and cell phone and headed into the hall. I wasn’t going near Lydia’s old suite, and the study rooms were too stiff, with only a desk and chair in each little closet. Instead, I plodded downstairs to the parlor, determined to stretch out on one of the largest couches we had in Theta House. It was a wide-open area, but Lydia had figured out that we had a wide view of the foyer and stairs if we nestled in the corner of the two couches, and the control freak inside her wanted to monitor who came and went. I turned the floor lamp to its dimmest setting and settled into the pool of pale light. Watching over everything, I felt safe and in control again.

  It didn’t even bother me that this was the place Lydia and I used to sit for our late-night chats. She would be down here waiting out a bout of insomnia, and I usually slipped down to recover from a panic attack that shot me out of a sound sleep and into a sweaty hysteria.

  We had talked for hours with Lydia doing the navigating. She had this way of veering off my questions and venturing into long elaborate tales about the antics of the pet cats in her family. When I asked her about a professor who was being gruff with her, she answered with a story about a family friend who had squeezed her chest tightly at a family picnic when she was seven. When I mentioned a job opening at the library, she told me about her first lemonade stand and her family’s strong work ethic. And if I asked her about the latest guy she was accompanying to a football game or a dance or a party, she inevitably spiraled back to a story about her childhood sweetheart, Nick.

  “God, Lydia.” It was still hard to believe she’d killed herself. “And you left a mess behind.” It worried me that the cops wanted to see me. What did they think I had done?

  I turned the page and started drilling myself on the bones in the human hand—distal, middle, and proximal phalanges, then metacarpals were the bones in the fingers and . . . As I stared at the drawing, the bones of the hand suddenly resembled an exotic palm tree, the small nuggets of bone at the base of the fingers resembling coconuts nestled in the tree.

  I must have fallen asleep again. The next thing I remembered was a shift in the air, as if something were moving near me. I opened my eyes and found my face nuzzled into the velvety side of the throw. I recognized that I was sleeping in the parlor and knew that someone was walking in the hall. Was it morning?

  Shifting slightly, I peered over toward the hallway. One of the sisters was facing away from me, moving toward the stairs.

  “Hey,” I murmured.

  She didn’t answer. From the black Theta Pi hoodie and tights, there was no telling who it was. The odd thing was that she seemed to be carrying something up the stairs in the middle of the night. Reaching for my cell phone, I confirmed that: 4:10 a.m.

  Too tired to think much of it, I went back to sleep. When I scrambled off the couch at 6:30, I wondered if it was just something I’d dreamed. But as I headed to the stairs with the blanket draped over my shoulders, a blank section of wall in the foyer gaped at me like a missing tooth. A Theta Pi group portrait was missing from the wall. Had Hoodie Girl taken it?

  Weird things were occasionally happening when you threw forty girls into one house.

  I headed upstairs to take a shower.

  * * *

  A few hours later as I waited to meet with the police in Mrs. J’s quarters, I tried to ease my nervousness by soaking up her small apartment: the open mystery novels on the end table, the puffed-up pillows on the floral-patterned couch, the graduation photos of Jan Johnson’s two sons, who now had kids of their own. What would it take to give up your life and live like a nun, administering to forty girls, carting them to urgent care, negotiating with the cooks, and chasing the repairs on an old house?

  I’d made a lot of sacrifices during my gap year. By day I was a member of a cleaning crew, scrubbing toilets, coaxing grease from stovetops, and mopping floors. Rubber gloves and a mask were my friends. At night I worked as a hostess and food runner at a small Italian restaurant. The night job was a thousand times better, but I have to admit I probably did a better job cleaning kitchens and bathrooms, gritting my teeth and getting in the zone. The restaurant called for a more outgoing, cheerful girl, someone who lit up the room, not someone like me who moved tentatively through the empty spaces and occasionally told people exactly what she thought. At the end of the summer, when I gave my two weeks’ notice, the owner, Sal, asked me, “What’s your name again?” That was the kind of impression I made on people.

  Maybe my less-than-dazzling personality would finally work to my advantage with the police, who would wonder, “What could mediocre Emma have to do with Lydia killing herself?”

  Nothing, I thought emphatically as I chewed on the cuticle of one thumb. I never meant to hurt Lydia. At one time she’d thanked me for everything I’d done for her; she’d been grateful. But that hadn’t lasted long.

  My heart lurched in my chest as the door opened and Mrs. J escorted a middle-aged woman into the room and introduced her as Detective Paula Taylor.

  I had expected a woman, but not the twin of Oprah Winfrey.

  “And you are Emma Danelski?” Detective Taylor patted my arm with a warm, intelligent, best-friend vibe. “Thanks for making time for me, Emma. I know you have a busy schedule, so let’s get right down to it.” She sat across from me at the little round table and typed my name into her iPad. “Danelski. So, Emma, Lydia wrote about you in her journals, and some of the girls mentioned that you had kind of a special relationship in these past few weeks. I’m wondering if you can shed some light on that. Any insights on why Lydia might have taken her own life?”

  My face burned with guilt. Was I turning red? “We weren’t really close,” I said, looking down at the peeling skin on my cuticle, “but I could see that something was bothering her. She had stopped going out, and I don’t think she was showering. She wore this bathrobe all the time.”

  “The pink bathrobe,” Taylor said, scrolling the iPad’s screen. “I’ve heard a lot about that. It’s tragic how many people knew Lydia was in distress, though no one was able to help her.”

  “Yeah. Well. What can you do to help someone trapped inside herself?”

  “Sometimes there is nothing we can do. But sometimes we can get people to intervene. A parent or administrator. You have a counseling center here on campus, and Dean Cho tells me that, during orientation, every student is told that free counseling is available.”

  “It’s free, but there are strings attached,” I said quietly. “Last year, one of our sisters went there for help and got kicked out of school.”

  “They didn’t actually kick her out,” Mrs. J piped in for the first time. “They granted her a medical withdrawal.”

  Granted? As if she’d been given three wishes. “They told her she couldn’t come back,” I said. “Lydia knew what happened to Lexi, and she wasn’t going to make the same mistake.”

  “Lydia told you that?” Taylor asked.

  “She said that counseling was out. Besides, she wasn’t raised that way. Problems were private for her. I mean, so private that she didn’t admit to having any problems. Although we knew something was wrong. Believe me, we all tried to get her out of that bathrobe and out of the house.”

  “Was she dating anyone?” Taylor had a bright face when asking questions: brows raised, head slightly cocked in expectation.

  “Lydia dated a lot of different guys. She was into old-school dating, and that kind of works in sorority life.”

  “Anyone special?”

  “Besides her high school sweetheart? Not really.”

  “What about . . .” She flipped through her notebook and paused. “Graham Hayden. Do you remember her talking about him?”

  “From last year.” I was glad my hands were under the table, because she missed my fingers tightening into fists. How much should I say? “They went to the Winter Ball together.”

  “Was that a rough breakup for Lydia? I hear he broke her heart.”

  I
wanted to ping the sister who’d given that up. “That was a long time ago, and I think they were still friends. Recently, she was talking a lot about her old boyfriend from home. Nick. She still loved him. She wanted to go back to Greece, back to the island, and see if they could make it work. She thought she could be happy again if she ditched college and lived in the sunshine with Nick.”

  “Barefoot in the sun,” Lydia had told me, “and we’ll have lots and lots of babies.”

  Lydia had become obsessed with babies. And after what I’d gone through, it killed me inside.

  Detective Taylor’s face was pinched in a frown. “I wonder where she got the idea to go to Greece. Do you know why she came up with that plan?”

  “She came here from Greece. Her family owns an island there.” The doubts I had tamped down for the past year or so now surfaced like quickly rising bubbles. “She returned there every summer when spring term ended.”

  Taylor was shaking her head.

  “That’s what she told us.”

  “It wasn’t true,” Mrs. J said. “I confronted Lydia about it last year when she was bragging about getting a limo to the airport. I knew all along that her parents weren’t foreign billionaires, but I let the lie go until she was using it to make another girl feel inadequate. She promised me she would drop the ruse, but I guess she held on.”

  “So where was she from?”

  “Salem, Oregon,” said Taylor.

  I tried to swallow, but my throat had gone dry. “And not from a wealthy family?”

  “Her stepfather owns a dry cleaning shop and drives a limo on the side.” Mrs. J bit her bottom lip, staring sadly through stray silver hairs. “He was the one who used to pick her up in the limousine, and that’s how I had the chance to meet him.”

  “So everything she told us about Greece and her rich family was a lie.”

  The detective shrugged. “I suspect that she was embarrassed by her family. I’m still sifting through the web of lies she spun about her past.”

  “Wow.” I stared down at my hands, pretending more shock than I felt. “If she was lying, you probably can’t believe what she wrote in her journals. I heard she wrote something about me? Can I see it?”

  She held up one hand dismissively. “The journals have been vouchered as evidence, and the writing is disjointed, like a stream-of-consciousness thing. She may even have been writing about her dreams. But she seemed grateful to you. She wrote that you saved her life.” Her wide amber eyes turned on me, making me feel like a pinned butterfly. “Did you stop her from committing suicide in the past?”

  “I didn’t. I mean, not that I know of. We just talked a lot, sometimes late at night, and . . .”

  Shut up . . . shut up! The truth kept trying to rise up, a steel pillar in my path, but I couldn’t go there.

  The voice of reason blasted me to stop talking. It didn’t seem that Detective Taylor had anything that incriminated me. So why not just end the interview now?

  I decided to play the sympathy card.

  “It’s hard to talk about her now,” I said. This was true, but for reasons the detective wouldn’t understand. “I feel bad that she didn’t reach out to one of us. I don’t think any of us knew she was coming unhinged.”

  “It’s not your fault.” Detective Taylor reached out and squeezed the hand I’d rested on the table. “Very often in cases of suicide, the ones left behind feel guilty.”

  If Detective Taylor had an inkling of the guilt that was eating away at me right now, she would lock me up and ask questions later. “I’m okay,” I said.

  “The counseling end is not my bailiwick, but I know there’s guilt.” Taylor squeezed my hand. “I hope you’ll take advantage of some of the grief counseling services Dean Cho is setting up.”

  Had she not heard anything I’d said about the black hole at the campus counseling center? I wouldn’t be showing up there, but I shrugged to let the topic drop. “I need to go. I’ve got an exam in my Anatomy class.”

  “We’re about done. I’m just now wondering about some of Lydia’s references in her journal, and here’s where I have to be frank. More than once she called you an angel of death.”

  “What?” I was sure I’d heard her wrong.

  “An angel of death.” Detective Taylor nodded. “I thought it was a strange nickname for a sorority sister. It sure got my attention. Any idea why she might call you that?”

  “She must have been talking about someone else,” I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking with panic.

  Such an idiot, Lydia. You think I killed the baby?

  “I’m a nursing major.” My pulse was thundering in my ears as if I’d just run a mile. Stay calm. “I try to help people, not harm them. She must have been talking about someone else.”

  “Maybe. But there are a few times when she mentions a blue-eyed killer. And now that I’ve met you, well . . . You’ve got amazing eyes. Were you the blue-eyed killer?”

  A dull pain stabbed at my racing heart. I sensed that my face was red, probably looking guilty as hell. “I don’t know what that means, but I’m not a killer.”

  “Do you think Lydia was writing in some sort of code?”

  I shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know.”

  “Well, we know Lydia was in a vulnerable place, and you were a close friend. Is there a possibility she was coerced into jumping?”

  “I’ve been wondering about that. Lydia didn’t take direction well. She was stubborn, but she stood up for her convictions. That’s probably why she spent three years on the Rose Council.”

  “That’s the leadership board of Theta Pi,” Mrs. J explained.

  “But anyone can be influenced, right? I heard that someone else was on the bridge,” I said, staring directly into the detective’s brown eyes, silently daring her to say that she suspected me. “Do you know who that was?”

  Something shifted between us; it was as if I’d scored a point. “We’re investigating the pedestrian on the bridge.” She cocked her head to one side. “So you know Rory MacFarlane?”

  “Everybody knows Rory,” I said. “But yeah. We’ve met.”

  “Rory was in the last Winter Olympics,” Mrs. J interjected. Another useless comment. “He almost won a medal in snowboarding.”

  “So I heard.” The detective kept her gaze on me. “He was very helpful. And I appreciate your honesty, Emma.”

  Was she being sarcastic? I couldn’t tell.

  “Did you ever talk with Lydia about the other suicides this fall?”

  “I don’t think so. It’s not something my friends and I talk about. We try to keep things positive. Except that now, with Lydia . . . it’s been rough.”

  “That’s understandable.” The detective sat back in the chair, seemingly disappointed. “I’m sorry to press you, but I had to ask. Lydia’s mention of you was one of the few things that made us wonder if her death wasn’t a suicide. I’m glad to put these questions to rest.”

  “I have a test to study for. Are you finished with me?”

  “For now, at least.” Her smile brought me no relief.

  I was on the hook.

  Alarm flared in my chest at the thought of the Pioneer Falls police labeling me as the “blue-eyed killer,” sticking a photo of me up on one of those white boards and just waiting until I stepped out of line, jaywalking or drinking, so that they had a reason to toss me in jail.

  Was I on their list?

  The possibility sent apprehension thrumming through my veins as I rose from the table. I hoped that Detective Taylor didn’t notice my hands trembling.

  CHAPTER 14

  After the interview I felt a little sick and off balance. Had the detective been giving me a subtle jab? Her professionalism hadn’t completely covered the fact that she didn’t entirely trust me. What had Lydia written about me in that journal? I didn’t have time to worry about this over coffee or a late breakfast.

  I escaped to the suite and tried to make some sense of the human skeletal system, the mos
t recent unit of study in my A & P class. Everyone said that Anatomy and Physiology was the turning point for nursing majors, the class that weeded out the weak from moving ahead. Merriwether’s program provided human cadavers for us to dissect and study in the lab—a mixed blessing. Working on human cadavers provided excellent training for us, but I could never forget that I was working on a human body. A hand that once rinsed dishes, a cheek that had been kissed. At the beginning of the term, various body parts had haunted my dreams. Now I greeted the corpses with a feeling of respect and gratitude, and I think that kept them out of my psyche.

  I opened my notebook and the air left my lungs. There were two hundred and six bones in the human body, and I needed to be prepared to identify them all. Oh, why hadn’t I started studying this yesterday, when I still had a chance?

  I pulled up a practice exercise on Quizlet and let out a yelp. “I am so dead.”

  “You okay?” Isabel appeared from her room, where she’d been tapping away on her laptop. We were the only two in the suite, but I figured she wouldn’t hear me with her earbuds in.

  I threw up my hands. “I thought I had a grip on this material, but I can’t focus, and I’ve got the exam tonight.”

  “Oh, no.” Her dark eyes seemed impossibly large in her sweet face. “Well, you still have the afternoon. Want me to drill you?”

  “It’s not about memorization. I just can’t do this now.”

  “I’m sorry.” She sank down on the sofa beside me and stroked my arm. “Maybe your professor will give you a makeup test.”

  “He’s a hard-ass.” The doubled-over, bearded Dr. Lamont had reminded me of an old crow perched on the edge of the desk. “No extensions. No makeups. No excuses.”

  “If you tell him about Lydia, I bet he’ll soften up,” Isabel said.

  “Trolls like Dr. Lamont do not soften. They wear their bitterness like a badge.”

  “Did you talk to the police?”

  I nodded. “Detective Taylor looks like Oprah.”

  “Did it go okay?”

  “Fine.” I hated myself for lying to someone as kind and pure as Isabel. I knew she would be sympathetic if I told her everything, but I couldn’t.