MR. LINCOLN: Check the tree house for… Tessa?
MS. BELL: We used to leave notes in this little crack.
MR. LINCOLN: And there was no note?
MS. BELL: No note.
MR. LINCOLN: Were your father and mother home during this period of waiting while Tessa was missing?
MS. BELL: Yes. My mom was. My dad had some emergency at work. A car’s engine exploded or something. He came home later.
MR. LINCOLN: Yes, we’ll get back to that. In an earlier deposition, you mentioned that you have had nightmares since Tessa’s attack. Is that right?
MS. BELL: Yes. But not as terrible as Tessie’s.
MR. LINCOLN: Can you describe some of yours?
MS. BELL: There’s really just one. I get it practically every night. I’m standing on the bottom of the lake. It’s cliché. Freud wouldn’t be too interested, you know?
MR. LINCOLN: Is Tessie in this dream?
MS. BELL: No. I can see my face but it’s not my face. My father is reaching his hand down from his boat. He was always freaked one of us was going to go under. Anyway, his college ring falls into the water and starts sinking. He was always freaked about that happening, too, and never wore it on the boat. He went to Ohio State for a year. He’s really proud of that. He loves that ring. He bought it at some garage sale.
MR. LINCOLN: I know this is hard but try to keep your answers just a bit simpler, OK? Tell me this: Was Tessa ever afraid of your father?
16 days until the execution
This time, I’m not the first one there. It’s a little past midnight. The Kleenex box on the conference room table has been disturbed. Moved to the very far edge of the table. Jo is pulling on latex gloves. She’d told me on the phone that I needed to drive over, now, but I couldn’t leave Charlie in a paper bed of my testimony. We had to talk. Charlie is a little Tessie, sometimes. Too quick to reassure adults that she’s OK.
Jo wouldn’t tell me why I had to come. It was maddening. Drive carefully, she urged. Once I unwrapped myself from Charlie, I drove at warp speed, through two red light cameras, wondering what waited for me. My monster in handcuffs. More Susan skeletons grinning in ugly glee.
There is one other person in the room. A young girl by the window who is very much alive. A silky black ponytail trails down her back. She is gazing out the window at silvery trees, lit by pale moonlight, on the lawn of the Modern Art Museum across the street. Two stainless steel trees, their branches intricately, tediously soldered, pulling toward each other as if by magnetic force. That is how I feel about this girl, as if she can’t turn toward me fast enough. When she does, I have an immediate impression of familiarity. Of longing.
“This young woman is Aurora Leigh,” Jo says. “She says she is Lydia Bell’s daughter.”
It’s not like it wouldn’t have been my first guess. The hair is darker, the skin even more ivory, but the eyes, full of dreamy blue intelligence, unmistakable.
And her name. Aurora Leigh. The epic heroine of Lydia’s favorite poem.
“Hello, Aurora,” I say. I’m trying to tamp down the words being silently pelted at Aurora by the Susans. Liar, screams one. Imposter.
Jo is drumming her fingers on the table, drawing my attention back. “Aurora went to the police station first. They called Lieutenant Myron, who is off duty. She told the front desk to call me.”
“I was making a scene.” Aurora plops into the nearest chair and drops a handful of crumpled tissue onto the table. Her nose is shiny and red and pierced by a tiny silver ring. Her lovely eyes are bloodshot. “I’m sorry. I’m calmer now.”
“You sit, too, Tessa.” She turns to Aurora. “Do you want me to explain?” She touches Aurora’s shoulder, and she flinches.
“No,” says Aurora. “That’s OK. I’ll do it. I’m OK. Really. I just wanted someone to listen to me. You listened.” She turns to me with eagerness. “I saw a story on Fox about the box that was dug up. It’s my mom’s stuff. It belongs to me.”
“But I explained to Aurora that it is still evidence,” Jo says. “That she can maybe get it back later.”
“I don’t want it later. I want to see it now.” Matter-of-fact and petulant at the same time. Reminds me of Charlie. This girl couldn’t be more than two years older. Sixteen. Seventeen, at most.
“I didn’t know Lydia had a daughter.” My voice sounds surprisingly calm. “Where is your mother right now?”
“I’ve never met her.” Aurora’s words are an assault. Accusatory, even.
Jo forms her face into a professional mask. “Aurora tells me she has lived with her grandparents since she was born. Mr. and Mrs. Bell. Although Aurora says she just learned that they changed their last name. They told her that her mother was dead and they had no idea who her father was. She had no reason to doubt them. Then her grandmother died. Her grandfather had a stroke last year and was moved to a full-term care facility. Aurora has been living with a foster family in Florida. I’ve already called them to let them know she’s OK.”
“So…” I begin.
“So a lawyer cleaned out her grandparents’ safe deposit box a month ago. Birth certificates. Tax documents. It’s all there in Aurora’s bag.” She points to a stuffed, pink-flowered tote.
“They lied to me. Every single day, they lied to me. I’m not Aurora Leigh Green. I’m Aurora Leigh Bell.” Aurora pulls out another Kleenex. “I was saving money for a private investigator. I was Googling around in the meantime. It freaked me out when Lydia Bell’s name came up a couple of times. You know, in those Black-Eyed Susan stories. But I didn’t know if it was the same Lydia Bell. I didn’t want it to be. And then I saw that story about the police digging at my grandparents’ old house. They said their real names on the air. So I knew. I couldn’t wait anymore. I stole some money out of my foster mom’s purse for the bus.” Tears are lurking again. “She’s going to kill me. She probably won’t take me back. She’s not that bad really.”
“She’s just happy that you’re OK, Aurora. Remember, I talked to her and she told you not to worry.” Jo, reassuring. “Aurora is worried that her mother was a victim of the Black-Eyed Susan killer and that’s the reason her grandparents went into hiding. I told her there is absolutely no evidence that she was. I explained that you could tell her the most about her mother. What she was like. Who she was dating.”
I open my mouth, and close it.
As far as I knew, Lydia only made it as far as third base one time, with our school’s star third baseman. Lydia reveled in the literalness of it. She even told me she was considering similar conquests with the first and second basemen. It made me ache for her. When it came to Lydia, boys just wanted a cheap thrilclass="underline" to meet a beautiful, crazy girl in the dark and hope she didn’t bring an axe.
Aurora’s face is twisting with impatience. Here she is, defiant, flesh and blood evidence that I never dreamed existed. I feel ineptly unable to answer without hurting her. Aurora’s eyes are incandescent holes despite the harsh light of the conference room. Even with the nose ring and a scowl, she’s a stunning replica of her mother.
“Jo, why are you gloved?” I ask.
“I was about to swab Aurora’s DNA. I told her I can’t give her the evidence, but I can run her DNA through all of the databases.”
“So that maybe she can find my father. That was blank on my birth certificate.” Aurora is so hopeful. Innocent. “Maybe he didn’t know about me.”
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Sixteen.”
So Lydia was pregnant when she hurtled out of town. The picture is a little clearer. Why the Bells might flee. Mrs. Bell believed brides should bring their hymens to the altar intact. Sperms and eggs instantly make microscopic people. A pregnant daughter would be the ultimate humiliation in her world. Abortion, not an option. But changing their names?