Look Closely by Laura Caldwell Read Free Book Online

no one else near us. “We’re not supposed to talk about this,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper, “but a lady died here.”
    I was quiet. I felt as if I was holding my breath and didn’t know how to let it out. I’d never known where my mom was when she died or exactly how it had happened. I was only seven at the time, and I didn’t remember anything—nothing at al — which had always troubled me. And yet my father and I rarely talked about the subject. When we did, or I should say when I did, it was too painful for him. She became ill, he would say, tapping his head as if to indicate some injury or disease in the brain. His eyes would cloud over, making me fearful he might cry. I knew I looked like her in some ways—my slim build, my wide shoulders, my long sandy hair. I always assumed that resemblance, combined with the horrible memories, made it too painful for him to talk about her death. And so I never stayed on the topic for long. What difference did it make, real y? Eventual y, I managed to ignore the issue altogether. But that letter had let loose the wonderings again.
    “There was some talk, I guess,” Jan said. “The rumor was that someone had done something to her. I got this al secondhand, of course. I was just a baby when it happened.” She checked her watch. “Anyway, let’s finish up.”
    Shestartedtotakeastepaway,butIgrabbedher arm.Shelookedatmyhand,thenatmeinsurprise.
    “I’m sorry.” I took my hand away. “I didn’t mean to startle you, but can you tel me what you mean by the rumors. I mean, what were the rumors, exactly?”
    Jangavemeanotherwarylookandrubbedatthe spot on her arm. “I don’t know real y. Like I said, we’re not supposed to talk about this on the tour, and I wasn’t around to hear about it at the time.”
    “I understand.” I tried to make my voice easy, conversational. “But what have you heard? I’m just curious.”
    Jan paused a moment, then shrugged. “Wel , to be honest, I heard someone kil ed her, but no one was ever charged, so I’m sure it’s one of those old wives’ tales. Now let me show you the master.”
    I trailed behind, her words reverberating in my mind. Someone killed her.
    We entered the master bedroom, a large space with a huge bay window of curved glass at the opposite end. A secretary’s desk was tucked into the bay, but I remembered how my mother had instal ed a long bench under that window and covered it with pil ows. I would often find her there, writing in her journal or just looking through the glass onto the front lawn.
    I studied the rest of the room, and the cold feeling returned. I remembered so many things al of a sudden—my parent’s king-size bed against the right wal , a bureau of cherrywood with a mirror over it, more flowers, my mother’s yel ow sweater hanging over a chair, an armoire to match the dresser, paperbacks and tissue on one nightstand, a lone alarm clock on the other. Recol ections poured into my brain with such speed that they startled me. And yet, there was something else about the room that I couldn’t recal .
    “Thank you,” I said, interrupting Jan’s remarks. “I have to be going.”
    I turned and left the room.
    “Is something wrong?” Her voice fol owed me.
    I hurried down the stairs, distantly hearing Jan’s feet pounding behind me, until I made myself stop on the landing. Be calm, I told myself. Be calm. It wouldn’t be good to act crazy when I’d come here seeking answers.
    I opened my mouth to say something, but as I gazed down the stairs, I saw my mother again in the powder-blue suit. She was struggling to stand, holding a hand to the back of her head.
    The doorbel rang once, then again, then pounding came from the door. My mother moved slowly, inching toward the doorway, the white of her hand never leaving her head, holding it gingerly, as if she was keeping her hairstyle in place.
    “Is something wrong?” I heard Jan say again.

    “No. Nothing at al .” And I turned away,