"I think you're right." Why not be honest? "I'm sure you're right."
They drank the soda and munched the gingersnaps, which turned out to be atrocious. Abigail talked about Fiona as if she'd been waiting for this day, for someone who would listen, for someone who would understand without telling her she needed to forget about what happened and move on-which was the last thing people like Abigail wanted to hear.
The conversation turned away from the tragedy to the sharing of fond memories of a girl who would always be sixteen. Abigail dragged out scrapbooks. Together she and Mary reminisced. They went through page after page of newspaper clippings about the spelling bees Fiona had won, and about recognition by the mayor for the money she'd raised for the homeless. There was a photo of her accepting a plaque for a state speech competition, another for Academic Bowl.
"She was such a special person," Abigail said, stroking the photo. "I never pushed her. I was never one of those mothers who pushed her kids to do things they had no interest in. She pushed herself."
"She had so much energy," Mary said. "She wanted everything."
"She wanted to be the first female president. Did she ever tell you that?"
"Yes. And I think she could have done it." Mary recognized an echo of the old enthusiasm she used to have for Fiona's ideas.
The last photos in the album were obituaries, cut from several papers. There was even a photo taken at the cemetery of the grieving mourners. With a weird jolt of recognition, Mary spotted her much younger self standing with Blythe. Gillian stood a little to one side.
Mary turned the page. Abigail had also cut out every single article about the murder and trial-and finally the conviction of Gavin Hitchcock. There was a four-by-five photo of him staring at the camera, looking both scared and pissed off.
"He's out of prison," Abigail said. "I can't believe he had the nerve to come back here and flaunt himself. You'd think he'd want to move to a town where nobody knew him, where nobody knew what he did."
"I was a little surprised myself when he didn't go somewhere else," Mary said. She didn't add that there was someone who'd encouraged him to return to his hometown, someone who'd helped him find a place to live and a place to work.
"He shouldn't have been released. He should have died. It's not fair that he's alive and running around free when my sweet little girl is dead. I have half a mind to drive over and see him someday."
"I don't think that would be a good idea," Mary cautioned.
"Tell him what a useless piece of work he is. He never even said he was sorry for what he did."
Mary waited until Mrs. Portman was looking at her. "Would you want that? Would it really make any difference?"
She thought a moment. "No, I don't suppose it would. But I'd still like to talk to him. I'd like to see his face when he opens the door and realizes it's me." She let out a burst of laughter, then pressed a hand to her mouth. "Can you imagine his expression? Oh, it would be priceless."
Maybe, Mary thought, she shouldn't have come. Her visit seemed to have set the poor woman off. She closed the book and stacked it with the others. "Thanks for letting me see these. I should get going. My mother's expecting me." No matter how old you got, mothers were still a good excuse when you needed to end a visit.
"Would you like to go upstairs?" Abigail asked. "To Fiona's room? It comforts me. Maybe it will comfort you."
Mary would never have thought, Gee, I'd sure like to see Fiona's old room. But now that the invitation was out there, something inside her was compelled to say yes.
The steps that led upstairs were covered with the same green carpet, and they creaked in just the same way.
Nothing had changed. Except for an underlying mustiness, Fiona's room even smelled the same.
On the walls were the posters of unicorns. There was her music box collection. Her stuffed animals, many of them huge, won at the fair by a legion of admirers. Her scrapbooks, her yearbooks. Tucked into the edges of the vanity mirror above a pink, skirted dresser were photos, many of Mary and Fiona. Hanging on a closet door hook was her cheerleader uniform, behind it her letter jacket.
The canopy bed, with its cream eyelet cover, was strewn with gaily colored wrapped packages, some with birthday paper, some Christmas. There were even Easter baskets overflowing with candy.
"I get her a present every year on her birthday and Christmas," Abigail said, sitting down on the bed and picking up one of the wrapped gifts.
Along one wall more gifts were arrayed.
"Sometimes I come up here and just sit. For hours. It's so peaceful, don't you think?"
A life derailed. "Yes." Sad was what it was. Mary wished she hadn't come. The room was stuffy, and she broke into a cold sweat. She suddenly felt as if she might pass out.
"Would you like me to leave you alone here for a while?" Abigail asked. "It might be good for you."
Mary nodded, stifling the urge to run. What with the buzzing in her head, she wasn't all that sure she could make it out of the house under her own steam. "That would be nice," she managed.
"You can light a candle and say a prayer," Abigail said, motioning toward a cluster of red votives on the dresser. Mary had forgotten the Portmans were Catholic, and now she remembered Fiona saying her nighttime prayers, "so I won't get a venial sin on my soul."
Abigail left, gently closing the door behind her.
Mary sank down on the bed and put her head between her knees, fighting light-headedness. She'd lost consciousness twice in her life. The first time had been when Blythe told Mary her father was dead; the second was when she got shot. Finding Fiona's body that day in the woods had had the opposite effect, sending her scrambling and screaming for help.
It was too much for her, being in Fiona's room. Too immediate. Too real. For years she'd mastered the fine art of retreat, but she couldn't hide here.
She kept her head down until the blackness behind her eyes disappeared and her heart quit thundering. Gradually her breathing returned to normal. She leaned back, lowering herself against the pillow, her feet on the floor, and looked up at the canopy above her head.
There were the stars that glowed in the dark. She and Fiona had put them there one summer. A crescent moon dangled from a thread, and there was the tiny stuffed lamb with angel wings Mary had given Fiona for Christmas.
Life had been so perfect then. So innocent.
But not real, of course.
Lying there, Mary realized her own life had stagnated. Differently from Abigail's, but stagnated all the same. Something had shut off inside her the day she'd found Fiona's body. For years she'd understood that she was no longer the person she used to be, and that as time passed Mary Cantrell was fading, but she couldn't seem to summon the strength or will to do anything about it.
She and Fiona used to discuss the future. They talked about what they wanted to be when they grew up, what it would be like, and where they would live, where they would travel, what they would see and do and learn.
"I don't want kids," Fiona had told Mary one day. "Kids just get in the way."
Mary had been surprised, because she'd always seen herself getting married and having children. Now she had no plans.
Lying there took her back to the days when she'd thought about that kind of thing. Now she tried to picture herself with a child and found it difficult. Any existence beyond her current one seemed hard to imagine.
Dizziness gone, she got up and moved around the room, leaning close to the vanity mirror to look at the photos. One in particular caught her eye. It was of Fiona, Mary, and Gillian. Fiona and Mary were smiling happily. Gillian had her arms crossed at her waist, a scowl on her face.
Poor Gillian. She'd been so jealous of Fiona. It was a shame, because they could have had so much fun together, the three of them. But Gillian refused to share Mary with anyone, and Mary had refused to be manipulated by her sister.