by Lisa Lutz
“Five people were in that accident. Three survived. Two say you were driving.”
“But I was the passenger,” I said.
“I told you to stay away from that boy,” my mother said.
After dark, I rode my bike to the Oliver mansion. It was a tacky three-story showpiece with four Greek columns and a twelve-foot wrought-iron door on eight acres of land. Ryan once told me it took the gardener an entire day to mow the lawn. I circled the house in the shadows and found my way to Ryan’s window. I threw tiny rocks up to the second floor, like I had done many times before. Ryan had always answered. Not that time.
“Why don’t you use the front door,” Mr. Oliver said from the edge of the porch.
I thought about running but couldn’t see the point. I followed Mr. Oliver back inside the house. The foyer was about the size of my mother’s entire home. Mr. Oliver walked past the main staircase into a parlor. Sarah Oliver sat on the couch, flanked by Ryan and Logan. She had a clear drink sweating on her knee.
Sarah stared at something in the distance. Ryan focused on his shoe. Only Logan had the balls to meet my gaze. I couldn’t find remorse or regret in his eyes or anything else that might have been right for the moment. He looked defiant, as if I deserved what was coming.
“Have a seat,” Mr. Oliver said, gesturing to a plush leather chair in direct opposition to his family.
Roland paced back and forth behind the couch as he spoke. “It is my understanding that the police will come to your house tomorrow morning with an arrest warrant,” he said.
“An arrest warrant for what?” I said.
“For the vehicular murder of Melinda Lyons and Hank Garner.”
I didn’t really believe it until then, until Roland said it. My lungs felt as empty as they did at the end of a race.
“Logan was driving,” I sputtered.
“No,” Mr. Oliver calmly said. “You were driving. Logan and Ryan were passengers.”
“Ryan,” I said, trying to wake him up.
He wouldn’t look at me.
“Ryan,” I said again. “Tell them who was driving. You remember, right?”
Ryan looked up for a second. “You were driving,” he whispered.
My tears ran so hot they burned. Ryan looked away so he wouldn’t have to see them.
“Logan, you know what happened,” I said.
“You killed her. You killed my girl,” Logan said.
If I didn’t know it was a lie, I might have believed him.
“I’d like to help you, if you’d let me,” Mr. Oliver said.
“Help me? I don’t want your help.”
I stood up, but the floor didn’t feel as solid as floors should feel. I snaked a path to their front door, feeling dizzy and queasy and murderous all at once. Mr. Oliver caught up with me at the foyer. He gently took me by the arm and spoke in a smooth, soothing tone. He offered me his handkerchief. I wiped the tears away with my sleeve.
“I’ll drive you home and we can discuss your options,” he said.
I GOT INTO the car. I remember feeling lightheaded and seeing spots. As Mr. Oliver drove me home, he presented my options in his practical manner.
“You could stay and have your day in court. You would likely be charged with second-degree murder. The sentencing guidelines require a minimum of ten years in prison, but you could get out in seven—”
“I didn’t kill anyone. Logan did.”
“Nora, listen to me. It was your mother’s car, and the only two living witnesses say that you were driving.”
“What was my motive?” I asked.
“You were jealous of Melinda. She was better than you at everything.”
“That’s a stupid motive.”
“You don’t need a motive when you have two eyewitnesses.”
“Why have you always hated me?”
“I don’t hate you,” Roland Oliver said. He said it in a way that was almost believable. “I care for you. That’s why I’m trying to help you.”
“Ryan won’t do this to me.”
“Do you think Ryan would choose you over his entire family?”
“Pull over,” I think I said.
Mr. Oliver pulled over just outside the deserted high school. I spilled out of the car and vomited on the asphalt. Mr. Oliver waited patiently as I doubled over, convulsing.
When my body stopped gutting me, I staggered to my feet and started walking home. Mr. Oliver didn’t say anything. He followed me all the way home, driving in short five-mile-an-hour segments in his Mercedes.
At home, Mr. Oliver and Naomi sat me down to discuss my option. The only one that didn’t involve serious jail time.
“You don’t belong in prison,” Mr. Oliver said.
“Logan does.”
“Your mother and I think you should run. I can help you. But you have to leave tonight. We’ll hide you in a motel outside of Tacoma. In a few days I’ll return with a new driver’s license, social security number, and birth certificate. You can start a life somewhere else. You can be anything you want to be,” Mr. Oliver said.
“I want to be Nora Glass.”
Mr. Oliver stood and buttoned his blazer. “You need to make a decision by midnight. I’ll leave you two to discuss it in private.”
Roland let himself out.
I looked at my mother, searched her eyes for something real. She was sober enough in that moment.
“Mom,” I said. “They can’t do this, right?”
She walked into my room. I followed her.
“I packed your bag,” she said.
A small suitcase sat on top of my bed.
“No,” I said.
But I didn’t say it with much conviction. It was over. I had three options: I could live free on the run; go to prison; or die now, like my daddy did. I chose to run because I figured that would give me the best chance at something like living. And that’s exactly what it was. Something like living.
My mother took me by the hand and led me into the bathroom. Her hand felt clammy and cold and unfamiliar. I couldn’t remember the last time she had touched me. Naomi sat on the edge of the tub, took a pair of scissors from a drawer, and cut my long, sandy brown hair in a straight slice across my chin and then she gave me thick uneven bangs. When I looked in the mirror it was the first of many times I wouldn’t recognize myself.
I remember my mother prepping the hair color and realizing that she had made the decision to send me away hours ago. I remember the smell and the cold burn of the chemicals on my scalp and inside my nose.
As we waited for the color to process, she said only one thing: “I know you won’t ever understand, but this is for the best.”
THE BLACK hair color didn’t suit me. It made my skin look yellow. Vanity should have been the least of my concerns, but it still cut to feel so plain.
“You can change it later,” Naomi said. “Just never go back to what you used to be.”
Mr. Oliver returned right before midnight. My mother tried to hug me. I let my arms hang to the sides.
“I love you, Nora,” Naomi said.
“Fuck you, Mom,” I said.
Mr. Oliver took my bag and walked me to his car. I got into the backseat straightaway. We drove for two hours. Oliver pulled his car into the lot of a Motel 6 in Tacoma. He went to the front desk, got a room, and returned to the car.
He passed me my room key, got my bag out of the trunk, and handed me a plastic bag.
“Room 3C. Don’t leave. That food and water should hold you for two days. I’ll knock four times when I return.”
I waited two days in room 3C. I thought about running to the police and telling them the truth, but when I watched the evening news, I saw that I had already been publicly convicted.
When Mr. Oliver returned, he knocked four times. I opened the door; he handed me an envelope.
“Your name is Tanya Pitts. You were born April 3, 1985, in Mesa, Arizona, to a Bernard and Leona Pitts, both deceased. There’s ten thousand dollars in
cash in that envelope, a birth certificate, and a social security card. You should have no trouble becoming gainfully employed.”
“Where am I supposed to go?” I said.
“Go as far away as you can and never come back.”
WHEN THE Empire Builder reached Everett, Washington, I thought about getting right back on the eastbound train. After revisiting my old life, the end of it, I wasn’t so sure that coming home was the wisest notion. I’d lasted a decade on the run. Maybe I could last another. But then I remembered all of the things I’d had to do to remain a free woman and I decided I didn’t want to do them anymore. I detrained, leaving my bag of secondhand clothing behind.
I bought a bus ticket to Bilman, Washington. Two hours later, when the bus stopped in my old hometown, my ten-year journey was almost complete. I strolled the two miles to Main Street. I walked up the brick steps to the Bilman Police Station.
The man at the front desk looked up and gave me a quizzical gaze. “Can I help you?”
“My name is Nora Glass. I’m here to turn myself in.”
Chapter 29
* * *
THE officer on duty gave me a quick glance, sighed like a bored teenager, and picked up his phone.
“Chief,” the officer said. “We got another Nora Glass in town.”
The officer listened, nodding his head, saying uh-huh a few times, and then placed the phone back in its cradle. “Ms. . . . ,” he said, leaving a blank space as if I hadn’t just told him my name.
“Glass. Nora Glass. I believe there’s a warrant out for my arrest.”
“I’ll never understand you people,” he said.
“The chief these days, he’s called Lars Hendriks, right? Why don’t you call Chief Hendriks out here and we’ll sort this thing out.”
“Listen, Ms. . . .”
“Glass. Nora Jo Glass. The real one.”
“Listen, Ms. Glass, we’ve been through this about a dozen or so times before. Why don’t you save me the trouble of writing up a three-page report and enjoy the freedom that this country has fought centuries to provide for you.”
I could have stood there arguing with the man, but he had handed me another get-out-of-jail-free card, and I thought I should take it. Besides, I owed someone a visit. I could take care of a few social niceties before they put me behind bars.
I strolled down Main Street to get my bearings, but everything I’d known had changed. Only the post office remained in its original spot. My family’s old grocery store, after a brief interlude as a thrift store, was now an upscale market, everything organic and marked up 300 percent. I bought a two-dollar banana because I was starving. An Italian restaurant had taken the place of the diner that I used to frequent post–swim practice for chocolate shakes and burgers. Parsons’ hardware store had doubled in size, shoving out Art’s Deli & Pizza; in place of the shoe repair store was a boutique clothing shop. The Sundowners now had a swanky new sign, as if shunning its past clientele.
I walked through town just as I had ten years ago, although no one waved or said hello. I recognized a few faces with the years and/or the pounds packed on. I saw Mrs. Winslow, my old English teacher, shopping at the fancy market. She was probably retired by now. I spotted the old postmistress, head bent over her walker, taking a stroll. I saw Edie chasing after a blond boy, maybe three, who was the spitting image of Logan. I wanted more than anything to run up and give her a hug, hold her child. But then I remembered how she’d looked at me the very last time I saw her and I didn’t want to see that face ever again.
I thought about walking into the Sundowners or the post office and making my presence known, but it didn’t seem like the right time and I was hardly in the mood to argue over whether I was a wanted woman or an impostor.
I kept walking until I arrived at 241 Cypress Lane, the address I used to call home. Only it wasn’t home. Home, in my mind, resembled a sepia print of a house during the deep depression—chipped paint, broken steps, missing shingles. This house was in impeccable condition. The lawn was bright green and recently cut, the smell of fresh grass cloying in my nose. The house was repainted light blue with white trim around the windows. The second stair on the porch, which had been broken most of my life, was now solid like the rest. The windows were scrubbed clean, the roof replaced. The yard wasn’t cluttered with a single item meant for disposal. There were two rocking chairs on the newly painted porch, and that was it.
I rang the doorbell. A man in his sixties with a gray beard and a small belly, wearing blue jeans and a well-ironed plaid shirt, answered.
When he saw me, his eyes widened and watered just a bit. I could hear him gasp as he took a step back to steady himself.
“Nora?” he said.
I didn’t know if I’d ever get used to being called by my old name. It didn’t fit like an old sweater; it was more like putting on a pair of someone else’s shoes.
“Yes,” I said.
The man’s eyes crunched into a warm, sad smile, as if he was genuinely happy to see me. He held out his hand and said, “I’m Pete. Pete Owens.”
“Hi, Pete,” I said.
We shook hands.
He stood there, still smiling, looking sad and a bit lost. “Excuse me,” he said. “I forgot myself for a moment. Please, come in.”
Pete walked back into the house. I stayed put.
“Pete,” I said, still standing on the porch, “who are you?”
“Oh my,” Pete said, turning around and shuffling back to the front door. “I’m your mother’s fiancé.”
He extended his hand again. I shook it.
“Nice to meet you, Pete.”
Pete stepped away from the door and offered a silent invitation. I entered my old house, but it felt like my old house in an alternate universe.
“I guess you’re here for the funeral,” he said.
Tears I never thought would fall for my mother began to drip down my face.
“When did she die?” I said.
“Two days ago,” said Pete.
I sat down on the couch and tried to stanch the flow. I wasn’t going to cry for one of my traitors.
“She was sorry about everything. She was trying to make amends near the end,” said Pete.
“I heard she’s been talking to the police.”
“She made an official statement. Told the truth.”
“On her deathbed,” I said. “When she had nothing to lose.”
“Would you like some tea, coffee?” Pete asked.
“Got anything stronger?”
“This is a dry house.”
Just my luck. The one time I needed booze in my childhood home, it wasn’t there.
“Tea is fine,” I said.
“I’ll be right back,” Pete said as he retreated to the kitchen.
I expected that feeling you have when a memory takes hold and your whole body shifts back in time. But I never lived in this house, I thought. I could stay for a little bit without the wrong memories shaking me by the shoulders.
But then I opened the door to my old bedroom and memories flooded back. That old flowered duvet I’d hated; the posters of bands I hadn’t listened to in years; the bookshelf my father made from planks of wood and cinder blocks pilfered from a junkyard; my swim medals gathering dust on the walls. That room had stayed the same, like a shrine to the old me.
I quickly shut the door on my past and sat down on Pete’s couch.
He brought me a cup of tea.
“The writer is on her way over,” said Pete. “She told me to call her as soon as you came.”
THE DOORBELL RANG. Pete answered it. Blue entered my childhood home. She looked the same, but different. Her hair was cut in a sharp bob and she wore black-framed glasses that I was certain she didn’t require. Over her shoulder was a heavy canvas bag that seemed weighed down with papers.
“Nora Glass, as I live and breathe,” she said with a thick Southern drawl. “I’m Laura Cartwright. I’m the writer researching your case.”
We shook hands, playing strangers.
“Have you heard the news?” she said.
“What news?”
“You’re a free woman.”
“How is that possible?”
“Ryan made a statement. So did your mother. It was enough evidence to convince the prosecutor, Jason Lyons. In fact, we’re supposed to meet him at the police station in a few minutes. I’ll give you a ride.”
Everything felt like a trap, but Pete looked so honest and right, I thought maybe it was true.
“I hope you understand the debt of gratitude you owe this woman,” said Pete. “It was Laura here who convinced your mother and then Ryan to make their statements.”
“Really?” I said.
“It was nothing,” said Blue. “I just appealed to their sense of honor.”
“Well, I’ll have to find some way to repay you,” I said.
“I think we’re even,” Blue said.
I had to agree.
“IS THIS really her?” Chief Hendriks said to Blue.
The three of us were standing in an awkward triangle in the waiting area of the police station.
“It’s Nora,” I said. “I’m Nora.”
“It’s her,” said Blue.
“But you never met the real Nora Glass, did you?”
“No,” said Blue. “But I’ve seen dozens of photos, and she has her mother’s nose.”
Chief Hendriks gave me an inscrutable gaze and spoke slowly and clearly, as if English might be my second language.
“Let me explain something,” he said. “In the last ten years we’ve had exactly fourteen Nora Glass impostors. About half of ’em you could rule out on first sight. One was in her late sixties and another was clearly a transvestite. It’s a drag, no pun intended, on police resources every time. And it used to be very traumatic for Naomi when she’d have to come down to the station to identify, or deny, the impostor.”
“Well, she’s dead now,” I said.
“Jason Lyons will be here shortly. I suppose he can confirm.”
I SAT for an hour with Blue in the interrogation room, facing a one-sided mirror.
