Fortunate One

 

 

 

©2010 The Angst Guy (theangstguy@yahoo.com)

Daria and associated characters are ©2010 MTV Networks

 

 

Feedback (good, bad, indifferent, just want to bother me, whatever) is appreciated. Please write to: theangstguy@yahoo.com

 

Synopsis: When Quinn Morgendorffer moves with her family to Lawndale, she tells her new friends that she is an only child—but she secretly suspects this was not always so. Did she once have a big sister? What happened to her? Where did she go? And was her sister named... Daria?

 

Author's Notes: “Fortunate One” appeared as a serialized tale on PPMB between late March and early April 2004. It began with a twist on the opening scenes in the first episode of Daria, “Esteemsters,” then was further developed as a multiple-ending story, with two very different resolutions. (The author once wrote multiple-plot books for a game company and was curious to see how it would work in Daria fanfic.) It gave birth to a long science-fiction serial, “Who Once Was Lost” (based on one of Quinn’s thoughts in chapter eight), and inspired a fanfic by another author, Galen “Lawndale Stalker” Hardesty’s “Over the River and Through the Cemetery,” a crossover tale.

       The main story here is the most popular version, using the second ending from its original online appearance. The first ending is appended for the curious. The title is derived from Creedence Clearwater Revival’s song, “Fortunate Son,” which becomes relevant later in the story. Flashback scenes of young Daria and Quinn came from the opening scenes in the episode “Monster” (from scripts available on Outpost Daria at http://www.outpost-daria.com) and from “Masochist’s Memories” in The Daria Diaries, though some scenes are unique to this story.

 

Acknowledgements: I am grateful for the large number of responses that came when this story appeared online, encompassing a wide range of reactions. All of them gave me food for thought and worked toward improvements in the final edition. Corrections, additions, factual notes, and valuable feedback for the original story were supplied by: Thea Zara, Renfield, Angelinhel, Mike Nassour, Kara Wild, and Cimorene, among others. The reactions of many others to certain parts of the story helped determine its direction.

 

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

 

Chapter One

 

 

       All was right with the world, for a few moments at least. Fourteen-year-old Quinn Morgendorffer relaxed in the passenger seat of the blue Lexus and closed her eyes of robin’s-egg blue. The pop-music radio station played a Joni Mitchell song from way too long ago. Quinn bore it, as it wasn’t so bad and the next song was sure to be better.

       “Think you’ll be okay today?” her father asked, maneuvering through morning suburban traffic. “Your mother and I realize it’s not easy, moving to a new town and a new school at the same time, and right after school’s already started. Sorry about that, couldn’t be helped because of your mother’s job, you know. It’s quite a change, we realize, this being your first day as the new kid, and we—”

       “I’ll be fine, Daddy,” she murmured, and added—though she knew it was pointless—“Don’t worry.”

       “I won’t,” said her father. “I mean, maybe a little. Can’t help it, you know, being a parent. Say, if you need anything, just call us. You have your number on your cell phone. It’s programmed in with all the other numbers. Don’t forget.”

       Quinn nodded, trying to stay in the flow of the music: Don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone?

       “Fourteen is a difficult age,” he went on. “And this is high school, too. Being a freshman is a completely different thing from being in middle school. It’s, uh... the difference is like... um, different. It’s not like elementary—I mean, middle school. The polar opposite, in fact. It’s... you know. It’s really different.”

       Exhaling long and slow, Quinn opened her eyes and looked out the side window. She shook her head, but not enough for her father to see. Another song came on the radio, one more to her liking.

       “Yes, sir,” said her father, warming to the topic, “different as can be. On the good side, Lawndale has a lot more opportunities than Highland ever did. I mean, Highland was okay, you know, but Lawndale—now we’re East Coast, right by the Interstates, close to everything. Think of the shopping! Just don’t max out our credit cards! Ha, ha!” He coughed. “I was kidding. Get what you want, of course. Make yourself happy. Just... you know, let us know if you want to get something big, if you could.”

       “Don’t worry, Daddy.”

       “Oh, I’m not. There’s the high school.” He turned the car into the semicircle drive to the school’s front doors, slowed, and stopped by the curb. “Don’t forget your backpack. Oh, wait!” He reached into his shirt pocket under his suit jacket and handed a roll of bills to her. “Just in case.”

       “I already have money, Daddy.”

       “Sure, sure, but you never know! Just use it if there’s an emergency. Or whatever. Doesn’t matter. Here.”

       Knowing it was pointless to argue, she smiled at him, took the money, and got out of the Lexus with a casual toss of her long mane of orange-red hair. She wore stylish beige pants with an eggshell blouse, under an open camel vest. Feather earrings, gold bracelets and rings, a jeweled choker, and dark brown boots completed her outfit. On a stylistic scale of one to ten, she was a bleeding-edge thirteen.

       “Call me if you need anything!” her father shouted after her. “I’ll call you about ten or so to check in! Leave your phone on!”

       “I can’t answer phones in class, Daddy. They don’t let you do that.”

       “Oh! Okay, then, well—call me as soon as you can, okay? During lunch? Or between classes?”

       “Gotta go, Daddy! Goodbye!” Shutting the car door, she waved him off, though he drove away slowly and kept looking back in the rear-view mirror. She headed for the building to get out of sight, or else he’d drive back and ask her what was wrong.

       A cute girl her age with pigtails approached. “Hi! You’re so cool!” she said, bubbling over. “What’s your name?”

       “Quinn Morgendorffer,” Quinn said, smiling her most perfect smile.

       “Cool name!” said another girl, who looked Quinn over with visible envy. As cute as this new girl was, she didn’t hold a candle to Quinn and clearly knew it. “I’m Sandi Griffin, President of the Lawndale Fashion Club. It’s very exclusive. Want to join? We have a vacancy for vice president.”

       “Um, sure!”

       Several boys crowded in. “Will you go out with me?” one cried to Quinn.

       “No, me!”

       “Go steady with me, please!”

       “Can I start your fan club?”

       “Marry me!”

       “We’d best go in before the bell rings,” said Sandi, glaring at the eager males who ignored her. “God, boys are such immature animals. My two little brothers are. You got any brothers or sisters?”

       “No,” Quinn said as she shook her head. “I’m an only child.” Remembering her father’s parting words, she reached into her pants pocket, felt for her miniature cell phone, and turned it off as she walked into school.

 

 

 

Chapter Two

 

 

       The Morgendorffers’ new residence in Lawndale was a pleasant two-story home of red brick, with plenty of space. Quinn’s mother, Helen, took over the guest bedroom on the first floor and converted it into an office from which she could handle legal matters. Her father, Jake, ran his consulting firm from a rented office in a nearby business park, but he was proficient at operating right out of his briefcase, too, and often made business deals sitting at the dining room table during dinner. Helen frequently spoke with her boss, Eric, on the portable phone at the same time.

       From Quinn’s point of view, this arrangement was like eating by herself. She knew everything her parents were doing, as they hardly left her company from the moment one of them picked her up from school to the time they dropped her off again the next morning. She doubted that either parent had a clue as to what she was up to, despite their company and their questions about her day.

       “Isn’t this wonderful?” her mother exclaimed, shutting off her phone and setting it by her plate. “Thanks to all this technology, we can have dinner together like a regular family!”

       “Mmm-hmm,” mumbled Quinn, poking at her lasagna.

       “Wait, George,” said her father to his cell phone, “I’ve got another call coming in. Hold on.”

       “How was your day at school, sweetie?” asked her mother.

       “It was okay,” Quinn said.

       “Did you get to meet a lot of other kids?”

       I’m not a kid, Quinn thought. When will you stop calling me that? “It was okay.”

       “That’s wonderful. Were there any problems?”

       Why do you always ask me if I’m having problems? What’s up with that? “No.”

       “Any good news?”

       Quinn rubbed her nose and thought of her new position with the Fashion Club. “Um, yeah. I guess.”

       “Oh! What happened?”

       “I met these other girls,” Quinn began, “and they—”

       Helen’s phone rang. Without missing a beat, she put down her fork, picked up the phone, and thumbed it on. “Morgendorffers’ residence. Oh, hi, Eric!” She put a hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s work again. I’ll be done in a moment.”

       Quinn sighed and pushed her plate away. “I’m not hungry anyway,” she said, getting up.

       “Sweetie, you need to eat something!” her mother called after her, then looked startled at something she heard over the phone. “Oh, no, not you, Eric!” she laughed. “I wasn’t calling you sweetie! I was talking to my daughter. What’s up?”

       Quinn went upstairs, intending to finish her homework in her room. However, she stopped with her hand on the doorknob and looked down the hall to the door at the end, on the left. After a moment, she released the doorknob and walked to the other door, opened it, flicked on the light switch, and peered inside.

       The dark room was horrid by any standards. The previous owner had put her schizophrenic mother there in a desperate last attempt to avoid putting her in a nursing home. Despite two cleanings, the dark carpeting still smelled of urine, and the bars over the windows had not been completely sawn off. The padding over the walls was scratched and badly worn in places. The long handrail along one wall was coming loose, too. It was an interior decorator’s equivalent of a nightmarish fixer-upper. It was perfect, though, for storing things one would not need for months or years to come.

       Quinn swallowed, feeling her gorge rise because of the odor, but she forced herself to walk in. All around her, against the walls, were piled the extra boxes of things they’d brought with them from Highland, Texas. Many of them were stuffed with sports equipment her parents had once meant to use, until the pressures of work erased most of their planned vacations. Cartons of books and papers with labels like “TAXES 1994” and “STATE LAW, VOL. XII-XVI” arose on either side, mingled with grocery sacks filled with Christmas decorations and broken things her parents had always meant to have fixed, but never did. The movers had filled the room the weekend before, when the Morgendorffers had arrived.

       Boxes of Quinn’s baby and adolescent clothing were kept here as well. She recognized many of the containers, like the one that held all of the baby shoes she’d ever worn, or the complete collection of her pajamas from her birth year to 1990. Her fingers traced the words on the thin box with her ballet outfit from third grade. She wondered if, when she went away to college, her parents meant to start a museum devoted to her.

       Why don’t you give this stuff to Goodwill or something? she had several times asked her mother and father. I can’t use it anymore.

       Oh, we couldn’t do that, they always said. These are our treasures. Our memories. We always want to remember you when we’re old and you’ve moved away. And you might need these for your kids, you know.

       I’m not having any kids for years, I hope, she always said. This stuff is just sitting here getting moldy and dusty and out of style. Why not sell it or give it away?

       We couldn’t, they always said. Just leave it. We want it here.

       It was nice to know she was popular and wanted, but it was overdone to the point of being weird. She had long suspected there was something more to it, but she wasn’t sure what it was.

       In the dark and secret places in her mind, though, she had an idea.

       Quinn’s eyes darted over the stacks. The boxes she was looking for were not visible; that much, she had expected. However, behind one particularly large stack of heavy boxes was a closet door. What she sought was undoubtedly in there. If she tried to get in there now, her parents might hear her moving boxes around, and they’d figure out what she was doing, come up, stop her, and find something else for her to do. Later, they’d secretly remove the things she was looking for, and she’d have to start hunting for them all over again. It had happened like this once before, three years ago.

       She had been patient. The first part of her search completed, she quietly left the room and went to her own. She checked the house phone, found her mother still talking to her boss at the legal firm, and hung up. Pulling out her cell phone, she dialed a number.

       “Hello,” said a woman’s voice on the other end. “Barksdales.”

       “Hi, Aunt Rita,” Quinn said in relief.

       “Quinn!” the woman on the other end of the phone said with delight. “How’s my favorite niece?”

 

 

 

Chapter Three

 

 

       Rita Barksdale was cheery and talkative, one of those never-ending sources of warm support no matter what was going on. She had been divorced twice but had never given up on love, to which her long string of boyfriends attested.

       “I’m okay,” Quinn said, in response to her aunt’s question. “Same old, same old.”

       “But you’re in a new school now, aren’t you? Tell me about it.”

       “It’s okay. I made friends with some girls in a fashion club here. They made me the vice president.”

       “Vice president? That’s my Quinn. You’re going to outdo your mother in no time. What exactly does the vice president of fashion do?”

       “Well, the president, Sandi, she said it was mostly a ceremonial post. I have to track fashion trends and report on them at our monthly meetings, though.”

       “That shouldn’t be too hard,” said Rita. Quinn heard a liquid pouring sound in the background. Ice cubes clinked in a glass. “You have any excellent sense for that sort of thing, just like Erin.”

       “How’s my favorite cousin?”

       Rita sighed heavily. “She’s still seeing that Brian. I’m a little... well, I’m sure it will work out. He’s charming, certainly. I’d be happier if I knew a little more about his finances or his actual job. I’d hate for her to rush into anything. She’s only twenty-one, and she’s got more than a few assets. You can’t be too careful.”

       “I know what you mean,” Quinn said, but she rolled her eyes. Rita had never been known to give any of her boyfriends an in-depth look. She knew Erin hated her mother’s choice in men, once confiding to Quinn that a few of them had made passes at her. The best of them were moochers, the worst of them actual criminals, like Bruno, currently serving ten-to-fifteen at a federal corrections facility in New Jersey. How Rita could pick them was a mystery to everyone.

       “How my sis and Jake doing?” Rita asked. Ice cubes clinked against the sides of a glass, and Quinn heard Rita take a sip of something.

       “Okay. Still working on business stuff.”

       “Kind of late for that. I’d think they could take a break now and then, you know? When was the last time you went on a vacation with them?”

       “We went to Disney World last year. That was okay. We had to come home early because Dad got a new client, but it was okay while we were there.”

       A sigh. “I don’t understand that. You’d think they’d want to take you and get away from it all.” Quinn heard Rita take another drink. “I can remember back when... anyway, you’d think they’d want a little fun. Helen was always like that, though. I love her, don’t get me wrong, but she does tend to overdo it.”

       Quinn nodded, but she wasn’t thinking about her mother’s workaholic aspects. “You said you remembered something,” she said.

       “What?”

       “You were talking about Mom and Dad wanting to get away from it all, and you remembered something, but you didn’t finish what you were saying.”

       “Uh... oh.” A glass clicked down on a marble countertop two hundred miles away in Leeville, Virginia. “Oh, nothing. Never mind. Helen and Jake used to go out more, that’s all.”

       “Why did they stop?” I think I know why. Tell me I’m right.

       A nervous sigh. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice unsteady, and Quinn knew at once that Rita was lying. “Things just changed. I don’t know. Who knows.”

       Quinn thought for a moment. “Is Erin around?”

       “No, she won’t be back until late this evening. She’s at her attorney’s place, going over the papers over about her trust. Do you want me to have her call you?”

       “Sure, if you could. Thanks, Aunt Rita.”

       “Was there any particular reason you called, dear?” Rita asked.

       “Um... no, I guess not. I just wanted to say hi. Oh, how’s Roger?”

       “Roger? Oh, he’s fine. He’s doing a special jump next week, trying for a skydiving record. I forget what it is, a halo something or other.”

       Quinn had a feeling that risk-taking Roger would not be long in Rita’s love life. “Wish him luck from me,” she said. “Good talking to you.”

       “I love hearing from you, too, dear. Tell your mother I said hello. See if she can fit me into her schedule and call me one of these days, before the turn of the century if possible.”

       “Sure. Oh, have you heard anything from Aunt Amy?”

       “Who?” Rita laughed again, but there was an edge in her voice. “I haven’t heard from her in months. I don’t know what she’s doing anymore. Still working with that publishing company, I guess.”

       “Why doesn’t Amy call us?”

       “I don’t know, dear. She’ll get around to it one of these days. I’ve left messages for her I don’t know how many times.”

       So have I, thought Quinn. What’s wrong with me that she won’t answer? Does she hate us? “Love you, Aunt Rita.”

       “Love you, too, dear. Have a good night.”

       “I will. Bye-bye.”

       “Bye.” The ice in her glass clinked one more time before the line went dead.

       Quinn put down the phone and lay on her bed on her stomach, hands under her chin, and stared at her pillows. Her mother and father made it a point to have one of them in turn leave work and pick up Quinn from school each day, usually pulling in the line of cars and buses at two-thirty. They said they weren’t quite ready for Quinn to walk around town by herself yet, and why bother walking when she had a free ride from either parent?

       Tomorrow, however, Quinn planned a slight change in schedule. She would try to catch a ride home during lunch, as walking home would not allow her the time she needed to complete her mission. Ostensibly, she was going home to find a missing homework paper or something similar. Her actual goal was quite different.

       As she lay on the bed, she imagined she could see through the wall separating her room from the ugly storage room next door, into the closet where she was sure the boxes she sought would be stored.

       Perhaps it was time to store them somewhere else. It was long past time to work out a long-nagging mystery in Quinn’s life.

       I’m an only child, she had told Sandi Griffin.

       But she suspected that was not always so.

 

 

 

Chapter Four

 

 

       Sandi Griffin was a year older than Quinn, having been held back a year in school by her mother, but she did not yet have her learner’s permit. Some older members of the football team had their driver’s licenses, but Quinn did not trust one to take her home without discovering that he expected a reward for it. In the end, she settled on somehow finding out who drove to school that morning. She had her father drive her to school earlier than usual so she could scout the parking lot while chatting outdoors with the Fashion Club, on the pretext of enjoying the warm, early autumn morning.

       Luck was with her. A tall, thin girl with black bangs and a red jacket pulled into the student lot in a beat-up four-door that had to be twenty years old, minimum. “Who’s that?” Quinn asked, noting the tall girl’s boots and her black, limb-fitting outfit.

       Sandi gave only the briefest glance in the girl’s direction. “Who cares?” she said.

       “I was curious,” said Quinn. “It’s always good to know who’s who in school.” She was quoting her mother, the lawyer: Know your judge and jury.

       “That girl’s not so much a who as a what,” said Sandi with a snort.

       “Jane Lane,” said the pigtailed Stacy Rowe. “She’s supposed to be an artist. She’s actually quite good with... um, never mind! Sorry!”

       “Outcast,” said Tiffany Blum-Deckler with finality, checking her lipstick in her pocket mirror.

       “I think even the outcasts cast her out,” said Sandi. She pointed in another direction. “That’s Brooke. She’s more our level, and she’s forever asking to join the Fashion Club. She always does this right before she makes some gauche mistake like wearing mismatched plaids.”

       “Or any plaids,” said Tiffany in a slow voice. “Eww.”

       “Where did you get your earrings?” Stacy asked, peering at the side of Quinn’s head. “Those are gorgeous!”

       Quinn noted Jane opening her car trunk and taking out a large box. After setting it on the ground and shutting the trunk, Jane picked up the box and headed into school. Jane Lane. Easy enough name to remember.

       “That’s the bell,” said Sandi. “Let’s show this school who’s hot today.”

       Between classes in the morning, it was child’s play to find out Jane’s schedule from a smitten boy helping out in the main office. The period before lunch, Quinn placed herself outside the sophomores’ history class and waited for Mr. DeMartino to dismiss his students. If necessary, Quinn figured she could afford to be late for her next class by up to a minute without repercussions.

       The bell rang. The classroom door opened moments later. After the initial out-flooding of students, the tall girl in the red jacket came out wearing a backpack and a bored expression.

       “Hi!” said Quinn brightly, taking a step toward Jane.

       “Uh, hi,” Jane said in return, startled. She started to walk away.

       Quinn immediately fell into step beside her. “You’re into art, right?” she asked.

       Jane looked back and forth between Quinn and the crowded hallway ahead. She was clearly having trouble believing she was having this conversation. “Yeah, that rumor’s gotten around a few times. Why?”

       “Well, I have an art project I left at home. I feel so stupid. Do you have a car? Can you drive me home real quick during lunch so I can get it?”

       “Uh,” said Jane, and shook her head as if to clear it. “Uh, I dunno. I’m borrowing my brother’s car today so I could bring in a box of pottery clay for Ms. Defoe, and—”

       “I’ll give you twenty dollars,” said Quinn.

       Jane slowed as she stared at Quinn, almost stopping dead in the hall. She began walking normally a moment later. “That must be one hell of an art project.”

       “It is. Can you help me?”

       “For a twenty, I’d drive you to Oakwood. When do you want to go?”

       “Can I meet you at your car about eleven thirty-ish?”

       “Sure. It’s a dark blue Plymouth Satellite, third row back, about, uh, sixth car out from the school. It’s kinda beat up, rusting out in back.”

       “Thanks!”

       “Hey,” said Jane. She put out a hand. “Pay up front.”

       Without hesitation, Quinn reached into a pocket and pulled out the bills her father had given her the day before. Pulling a twenty from the wad, she handed it to Jane, who took it, eyeing the roll of bills with surprise.

       “I’ll be there,” said Jane, and she waved as she left for the cafeteria.

       Jane was true to her word. Quinn’s instincts said she would be. Mercenaries usually were.

       “Aren’t you worried about hanging around unfashionable people?” Jane asked as they got into the car.

       Quinn wrinkled her nose. Something must have died in the car several months ago, leaving only its odor behind. “No, not really,” she said, speaking the truth. She had enough charisma to get away with almost anything, and she knew it. She had begged off from lunch with her fashion friends, saying she had to see her mother about family business. Not one of them had questioned that story.

       Jane stuck the key in the ignition and started the car. As she put on her safety belt, she noticed Quinn’s grimace. “Sorry,” she said. “My brother Trent left a ham sandwich under the seat in August. I can’t get the smell out.”

       “I think if you scatter baking soda around, it will work. My aunt Rita says so, anyway. My cousin threw up in her car once.”

       “Sounds like the trick to try, then, assuming we have any baking soda at home.” Jane pulled out of the parking space and started for the exit. “My mom isn’t really into baking, unless it’s pottery in a kiln. Okay, where do you really want to go?”

       “Home,” said Quinn.

       “But not for an art project,” said Jane.

       Quinn hesitated only a fraction of a second. She could tell that Jane was no one’s fool. “No, not for that,” she admitted. “I have to get something.”

       “Don’t drink at school,” said Jane. “The principal will be all over you like stupid on a football player.”

       “I don’t drink,” said Quinn with a frown. “And not all football players are stupid.”

       “Eh, okay. I guess I know one or two who aren’t. So, where do you live?”

       “Eleven-eleven Glen Oaks Lane.”

       “Oh, just a block or two over from me. I’m on Howard Drive.”

       “You’re really an artist?”

       Jane gave a slight grin. “As I said earlier, that rumor’s gone around. I mostly paint, but I’ll try anything once if the price is right.” She pulled up to a stop sign. “Is this a secret mission?”

       Quinn hesitated too long.

       “Never mind,” said Jane. “None of my business. You want me to wait in the car while you run in?”

       “No. Come on in. You can get something from the frig for lunch if you want.”

       Jane’s smile grew. “Hey, now that’s an offer I can’t refuse. Thanks.”

       “No problem.” Quinn was aware her heart was racing. She was very close to filling in a blank spot in her family’s life. For a long time, she’d felt this day would put her mind at ease and set her free.

       Instead, she had never been so terrified in her life. Her hands were actually sweating, and she feared she would throw up from the tension building within her. Did I once have a sister, one older than me? Are those little things I sometimes remember correct? What happened to her? Where did she go? Why don’t I know her?

       Her stomach knotted. Hold on, she whispered to herself, clutching her middle. Just a little longer. Hold on.

 

 

 

Chapter Five

 

 

       They chatted on the way to Quinn’s house. The conversation eased Quinn’s anxiety, taking her mind from her unanswered questions and their consequences. She told Jane about her parents and their peculiarities, glossing over most of her own life. Jane was talkative, too. She had an older brother, Trent, who was in his twenties, lived at home with her, and played guitar in a local grunge rock band Quinn. The Lane parents and other siblings were usually absent, off on various artistic pursuits, embroiled in dysfunctional family issues, or both.

       “Here you are,” said Jane, pulling into the driveway on Glen Oaks. “Nice place. Nicer than mine, unless that’s a façade over an outhouse.”

       Quinn threw open the car door, eager to escape the stench of the long-decayed sandwich. “Let’s go,” she said, running for the front door. “I don’t have much time.”

       “This gets more interesting by the minute,” said Jane, shutting her car door and hurrying after Quinn.

       Quinn unlocked the door with her key and pushed it open, immediately running up the stairs. After a pause, Jane came in, shut the door behind her, and stomped up the stairs behind her.

       Boxes covered most of the windows in the room, dimming the light even at noon. Snapping the lights on, Quinn hurried over to the place where the closet door was half-hidden behind a wide stack of boxes. “Oh, damn it!” she hissed, trying to force the stack aside. She noticed Jane coming into the room after her. “Can you help me with this?”

       “You didn’t tell me where the kitchen was.” Jane walked over, looking around. “What kind of room was this? Smells awful.”

       “I’d think you’d be used to bad smells, with your brother’s car and all,” Quinn said. “Here, help me push this over a little.”

       “Is that a closet or the stairway up to the attic?” asked Jane. She braced herself and grabbed the stack of boxes.

       “Don’t know,” said Quinn. The stack of boxes suddenly shifted and rocked. Jane was stronger than she appeared. Quinn steadied the stack and pushed with Jane until it was safely to one side. “Thanks,” she gasped. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

       “I figured I owed you a little more for the twenty.” Jane indicated the door. “Don’t forget the frig, though. You first.”

       Quinn took a breath and grasped the doorknob. It wasn’t locked. She pulled the door open.

       On the other side was a small, nearly barren closet. The walls were painted a dull, dusty gray. Someone using a sharp instrument had chaotically scratched hundreds of words into the paint. Quinn read two lines in the semidarkness and made a face. “Eww!”

       Jane peered at the writing while Quinn turned her attention to the closet’s other contents. “‘Feel my barren corpse pressed naked against the moon if you would love me,’” she read, quoting. “Huh. I bet my brother could make a song out of that.”

       “It’s gross. Don’t read it and I won’t barf.”

       “Find what you were looking for?”

       “Yeah,” said Quinn. She grabbed for three stacked boxes on the closet floor. Two of them she recognized, which set her heart thumping. The middle box, the third, was unfamiliar and thus frightening. She hauled the boxes out and put them on the floor of the storage room. “Shut the door, and let’s shove this stuff back into place. Make it exactly as it was.”

       “Did you hide that stuff in here?”

       “No, my parents did. Let’s go!”

       “Okey-dokey.” Again, Jane proved equal to the task. They left the room a few moments later with the boxes in Quinn’s arms, their tracks covered.

       Having accomplished her mission, Quinn suddenly realized she didn’t know where to put the boxes. “Let’s go to my room,” she said.

       “This isn’t one of those drug things, is it?” Jane asked, shutting the storage room door behind her.

       “Oh, right!” said Quinn in exasperation. “Give me a break! Close the door to my room when you come in.”

       “Why? Is anyone else home?”

       “Uh... oh. Forget it, then.” Quinn set the boxes on her bed. “Sorry. Nerves.”

       Jane looked around with mild interest. “I think your wardrobe costs more than my parents’ house. Can you put me in your will?”

       “Sure. It’s nothing,” said Quinn. She picked off the top box and carefully undid the tape on the top.

       “Nothing,” Jane muttered to herself. In a louder voice, she said, “Need help?”

       “No. Just a minute.” Quinn finally peeled the tape off and pulled the cardboard flaps apart. She peered in as Jane, by her side, leaned over to take her own look.

       Quinn swallowed. She carefully reached down and pulled out a small, forest-green T-shirt, sized for a toddler. She held it up, turning it from side to side. On the shirt’s front were the words, “50% MOM, 50% DAD, 100% TROUBLE” in little white letters. She remembered it from the last time she’d been in the box.

       “Baby stuff,” said Jane. “Yours?”

       Quinn slowly shook her head. “No,” she whispered.

       Jane looked at Quinn’s face in silence for a long moment.

       Setting the tee aside, Quinn delved further into the box. She knew some of its contents from the time three years ago when she’d accidentally discovered it in her parents’ bedroom closet in Highland. She had been playing with the baby shoes inside when her mother came in. Quinn still remembered Helen’s agonized cry, the speed with which her mother had snatched away the box and the shoes, the angry shouts to never get into her parents’ private things again.

       But she had always thereafter remembered the box.

       Things came out of the box into the open air of the bedroom. A teething ring with a Smurf on it. Three pairs of white and pink infant shoes, and two pairs of toddlers’ shoes. Many small pairs of socks, of every color. A pink, partly burnt candle in the shape of the numeral one. A folded, powder-blue dress for a one-year-old. A small yellow teddy bear with most of the fuzz worn off. A brown plastic horse that had teeth marks on its head. A ticket to a children’s music concert. One pair of black, elastic-waist, short pants for a toddler, big enough to encompass diapers. A set of six Disney children’s books, three with purple crayon defacing the covers. Five pink balloons. A glossy black pencil with the tip broken off, teeth marks on it. A plastic cat in a colorful plastic racecar, a toy from a fast-food restaurant. A pair of black, round-frame eyeglasses, sized for a very small child, in a black leather case.

       Three half-melted candles from a birthday cake, wrapped in a small plastic bag.

       Oh, my God! Quinn actually staggered back a step and put a hand to her chest, staring at the three candles.  Her heart almost jumped through her blouse.

       The three candles. The birthday cake. She remembered it. It was true.

       Jane carefully reached into the box while Quinn’s attention was diverted. She pulled out a small set of strung beads, alternating pink and white in color, and held it up to her face. Quinn looked over and immediately recognized it as a baby bracelet, of the kind sometimes given out by the birth units of hospitals.

       Frowning, Jane looked from the bracelet to Quinn.

       “Who is Daria?” Jane asked.

 

 

 

Chapter Six

 

 

       Quinn snatched the baby bracelet from Jane’s hand without a word. She held it up in the palm of her left hand, and with her right forefinger, she rotated the pink-and-white beads until the alphabetical letters on them were in a neat row.

       DARIA.

       “Sorry,” said Jane. She took a step back and waited.

       Quinn stared at the bracelet and licked her lips. “Daria,” she said hesitantly, pronouncing it “dare-e-ah.”

       Jane shrugged. “I thought the first syllable rhymed with car,” she said.

       The bracelet was becoming difficult to see in Quinn’s vision. She wiped her eyes with her right wrist and tried to focus. Her throat hurt terribly. With infinite care, she laid the bracelet on the bed, then picked up the candles, examined them, and set them down, too. Bits of dried frosting still clung to their sides. Still in the box were more assorted T-shirts and clothing items, carefully folded on the bottom. She pulled the top one out—a bright orange tee with the legend “#1” on it in bold white print—and on impulse held it to her nose. The smell was familiar. She remembered it from the time three years earlier when she’d first discovered the box.

       “Someone you know?” Jane asked in a low voice.

       Quinn closed her eyes and inhaled again, the tee pressed to her face. It had not been washed after it was last worn. She could smell someone now. The scent flooded into her sinuses, into her head, ran wild throughout her. It was a person, a child who smelled faintly of scented bath soap and sour milk.

       After a long moment, she lowered the tee and looked at it blankly.

       “My sister,” Quinn said, her voice hoarse.

       Jane looked down at the items on the bed. “I thought you were an only...” She lost her voice, her face going slack as she looked back at Quinn. “Oh,” she said.

       Without expression, Quinn picked lint from the tee and sniffed back a runny nose. She could feel her face getting red.

       “We should go soon,” Jane whispered. “I’m not hungry.”

       Quinn nodded. She folded the tee, put it back in the box, and in moments had everything else in the box on top of it. She put all three boxes under the bed, resisting the urge to open the mysterious third box, which rattled a bit. Quickly, she threw some of her worn clothing under the bed as well, to hide immediately discovery of the items.

       Five minutes later, they were out of the house. Quinn locked the front door and got into Jane’s car. She could hardly smell the decaying odor, as her nose was completely stopped up. She felt for a tissue in a blouse pocket but found none.

       “You okay?” Jane asked, shutting her own door, keys in her hand.

       Quinn closed her eyes and shook her head no. She put her right hand over her eyes, her elbow on the armrest on the door, and sniffed in hard. In moments, the first sob broke free. More followed, building until her body shook down to her feet. She howled, hands clutching her face or digging into her scalp and tugging her hair.

       Jane drove aimlessly for a time. The landscape was a forgettable blur. Just before one o’clock, they went back to the school. Quinn wiped her eyes on a handkerchief Jane gave her. She felt something drop in her lap and looked down. It was a twenty-dollar bill.

       “No,” said Quinn. She gave it back to Jane, then got out of the car and brushed back her long orange-peel hair. Dabbing a last time at her eyes, she walked around the car to Jane, who had also gotten out at that moment. “Thank you,” Quinn said, handing back the hanky.

       “Sure,” said Jane, tossing the hanky into the car’s back seat. “Anytime. Um, we’re pretty late.”

       “Come up to the office with me,” said Quinn. “I’ll fix it.”

       Quinn fixed it. The principal, a no-nonsense Asian woman named Ms. Li, melted under Quinn’s tale of how Jane had given Quinn a ride to her mother’s place of business to ask if Helen could give a special donation to Lawndale High’s Halloween Party fund. Quinn made a mental note to ask her mother about the donation later, for real. No punishment was assigned—with the understanding that a donation would indeed be forthcoming. Ms. Li, apparently, would do anything for a contributor to the high school’s many funds. She didn’t even ask why Quinn hadn’t asked for the donation at home, or why she didn’t use a phone to call her mother.

       Quinn and Jane then left the office together and did not speak until they were two halls away.

       “Do you take acting lessons?” Jane asked.

       “I used to,” Quinn said.

       “You’ve got my vote for next year’s Oscars.” Jane stopped at an intersection between two corridors. “I know you can’t know me after this, but thanks.”

       “For what?”

       Jane shrugged. Her eyes met Quinn’s. “Treating me like a regular person.”

       Quinn looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. “Thank you, too,” she said, and she started to leave for her next class, already in progress.

       “Let me know if you need another ride,” Jane called.

       Quinn turned and flashed a brief smile. “I will.”

       Focusing on schoolwork was impossible. While her teacher talked, Quinn took a pen out in her English class and wrote the words “Daria Morgendorffer” in her notebook, to see how it looked. She wrote it a second time, then a third and fourth and soon had filled the page with those two words. She mouthed the words as she did, feeling how strange they were on her lips and tongue. Daria. What an unusual name. True, Quinn’s own name was unusual, too. She didn’t know of anyone else named Quinn. But why had her parents picked out Daria for her sister’s name? And what in the name of God had happened to her sister?

       Quinn stared into space and soon fell backward in time.

       She remembered the birthday cake.

 

 

 

Chapter Seven

 

 

       As her English teacher droned on about participles and their great value in modern language, Quinn sat at her desk and retrieved one of the earliest memories she had. She did not know her age at the time, but she was sure it was before she was three. She sat in a high chair—she knew that because of the white tray in front of her. On a table farther away was a birthday cake. She had the idea that there were dark stars on the cake, perhaps as frosting decorations. On top of the cake were three lit candles in a row.

       It was not her third birthday party, however. Her blonde Aunt Rita had been present for that, as had an assortment of other three-year-old girls. Quinn had seen photos taken by her parents of her third birthday party, and she had often wondered at the strained look on her mother’s face in one of the pictures. Perhaps one of the other children had been acting up.

       Quinn’s birthday cake, however, had been white with pink and blue flowers on it, not brown stars. The photos showed this clearly. And her candles had been placed in a close triangle on top of the cake, not in a line.

       The first cake was thus someone else’s. Quinn had once thought it was the birthday cake of a three-year-old nursery-school friend she no longer knew. She did not believe that any longer.

       Quinn remembered more of the episode. She recalled a feeling of excitement on seeing the cake with the stars. She knew that candles were placed on a birthday cake in order for someone to blow them out. She wanted to be the one to do it.

       Then someone else leaned over to blow the candles out, someone on Quinn’s right. Little Quinn got up in her high chair and blew first.

       And she blew out the three candles.

       Someone yelled in protest. It didn’t matter. Quinn had blown out the candles. She’d won the race, and the victory had felt quite good.

       How old was I, then? Adrift in timeless space, Quinn studied the faded images. Before three, perhaps before two. What could she trust of her memory? Given the three candles in the plastic bag, perhaps she knew more than she thought she did.

       Other images swam to the surface. She was very small and dancing for her father, who held a camera, but someone else nearby was angry about it and did something with the camera. In another memory was an open door from the dark indoors to the outside world. A bright spring or summer day lay beyond a long series of steps leading down from the door. Someone held the door open for her, but then her mother appeared in a rush to shut the door. Don’t let her outside! her mother had shouted—at whom?

       Was that you holding the door open for me, Daria? Were you trying to help me get outside to see the world? Were you my sister? What happened to you? Was that your birthday cake I blew out? If it was, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I took that from you. I’m so—

       “Miss Morgenstern?”

       Quinn blinked and looked at the English teacher, who had appeared out of nowhere. He appeared very blurry. “Miss Morgenstern,” Mr. O’Neill repeated, concern written over his face. He lowered his grammar book. “Are you all right?”

       “Hay fever,” said Quinn, wiping her eyes on her sleeves. “I get it all the time. May I go to the restroom and wash up, please?”

       She was gone for ten minutes. Her face and eyes were still red when she returned. Everyone stared.

       I am so sorry I did that. Can you forgive me, Daria? Where are you? Where did you go?

       Her mother picked her up at two-thirty sharp that afternoon. Quinn remembered her promise. “A donation for a Halloween party?” Helen repeated, then shrugged. “Oh, I suppose. Most public schools are strapped for funds these days. We could afford a little something.”

       “A hundred at least,” said Quinn quickly. “Better yet, two. We need drinks and snacks badly. I’ll get them to put your name on something as the donor. And your legal office, too.” And the Fashion Club’s name as well. Can’t forget them.

       Helen brightened. “Eric would like that!” she said. “It’s like advertising directly to our future customers! Such as it were. We’ll do it!”

       Quinn’s nerves began to fray as they arrived home. “Time for homework!” she said with forced gaiety. Giving her mother a fast hug, she casually walked up the stairs to her room, then locked and bolted the door behind her. Seconds later, she had the three boxes out from under her bed. After a bit of thought, she put two of them back. She knew the largest box held more clothing. It could wait.

       She sat on her bed with the third box on her lap. It was a long time before she got the nerve to pry the packing tape from it. She broke two nails in the process and didn’t care. The tape came loose, ripping up the cardboard. There was no way to hide the damage. It didn’t matter.

       The box came open. It seemed to be full of folders and papers.

       On top of everything, however, was an unmarked black videotape. Beside it was a small color photo, two inches wide by three inches high.

       Quinn picked up the photo, her mind suddenly blank.

       A small girl looked back at her, a child about three years old with a solemn round face and dark, owl-eye glasses. The girl’s thick hair was medium brown, cut in a pageboy style. She looked out from the photo as if quietly waiting for someone to act. Her face gave away nothing of who she was, what she was like, or what she thought. The T-shirt she wore was bright orange and had “#1” printed on it in white. It was the very same tee Quinn had lifted in her hands that afternoon.

       Quinn knew the face in an instant. She remembered it clearly now. It was the face of the person who sat on her right when Quinn had blown out the cake candles. It was the person holding the door open for her. It was the person who turned off the camera while Quinn was dancing.

       With trembling fingers, Quinn turned the photo over in her hands. On the back, someone had written a note with blue ink. The precise handwriting was her mother’s. The note read:

 

 

April 1985

Daria Morgendorffer, age 3½

 

 

       Quinn was born in May 1983. Daria had thus been a year and a half older.

       “My sister,” Quinn whispered. “My little big sister. What happened to you?”

 

 

 

Chapter Eight

 

 

       A loud series of knocks rang out from the bedroom door. Quinn jumped, and the box slid from her lap and hit the carpeted floor. Even as the box came to rest, however, Quinn had snatched it up to keep the papers and videotape from scattering in a mess across room. The doorknob rattled—but the locks held.

       “Wait a minute!” Quinn yelled in a panic. “Wait!”

       “Quinn?” called her mother, right outside. “Are you all right?”

       Quinn shut the box and jammed it under her bed, hastily rearranging things to hide the box. She got to her feet, ready to let her mother inside—and spotted the little photo of Daria, sitting forgotten on her bedspread. Quinn snatched the picture, grabbed for her oversized wallet, and stuck the photo in a picture slot between two other photos, hiding it from view. Daria’s mine now, Quinn thought as she snapped her wallet shut. You can’t take her from me again. She’s mine, forever.

       “What, Mom?” Quinn shouted.

       “Open the door, please!”

       Quinn snapped the locks open and swung the door open just wide enough let her body fill the open space. “What, Mom?” she said again.

       Helen blinked, taken back by her daughter’s tone. “Nothing, dear. I just wanted to know when you want supper.”

       “I don’t care. Anytime is fine.”

       “Is everything okay?”

       “I’m fine, Mom. Everything’s great. I’m doing homework.”

       Helen looked past Quinn, around the room. “I don’t see your books,” she said.

       “I’m working on it, okay? It’s all right. Stop worrying about me. I’m fine.”

       Helen nodded. “Okay,” she said. “Dinner at seven, then. Your father will be a little late with a client. Oh, and I’ll be late tomorrow night working on a big case, but he’ll be here.”

       “Fine, great.” Quinn shut the door. After she heard her mother descend the stairs, Quinn threw the locks again and went back to her wallet. She took out the picture of Daria again, examined it closely, then closed her eyes and kissed the little girl’s face. “I love you,” she whispered, and then put the picture away.

       Aimlessly, she walked around her room, arms hanging at her sides. She could not bear to dig through the boxes again. The shock was too much. She needed time to think about what she’d seen and what she knew. Making a last check of her room and the area under her bed, she went downstairs.

       “Hi, sweetie,” called her mother from the kitchen. “How’s the homework coming?”

       Quinn stood alone in the family room, looking at the dark, big-screen TV. There was nothing good on the tube, anyway. “I’m taking a break. Mind if I go out for a walk?”

       After a pause, footsteps sounded from the kitchen and Helen came out, a sheaf of papers in her hands. “Outside? Why, dear?”

       “I just wanted to go for a walk.”

       Helen looked around the room, appearing agitated. “We don’t know the community yet, sweetie. Why don’t you watch some TV?”

       Quinn knew this verbal dance very well, but she wasn’t in the mood for it. “Come on, Mom. I just wanted to go out.”

       “Well, maybe you and I could go for a drive before I make dinner.”

       Quinn’s irritation built rapidly. “I just wanted to walk around by myself, that’s all. Why can’t I go?”

       “Call one or two of your friends,” Helen said. The papers slowly twisted and crinkled in her hands. “It’s okay if they come over.”

       “Can’t I go out by myself?”

       “It’s really getting late, Quinn. Just call a friend. She can have dinner with us.”

       Without the energy for a fight, Quinn gave in. “All right,” she said, and she stalked back to her room, shut her door, and lay on her bed, looking up at the canopy. She didn’t want company.

       She wanted answers.

       In her mind, she opened an imaginary pink notebook and began to write.

 

 

What happened to my sister, Daria?

1.

 

 

       The word Dead was erased as soon as it was written in. Quinn knew it was a real possibility, perhaps even the likeliest one, but it was too terrible to contemplate.

 

 

1. She was kidnapped.

2. She was given up for adoption.

 

 

       She had to think before going further.

 

 

3. She was adopted to begin with, but was given back to her natural mother.

4. Aliens took her.

 

 

       She made a face and erased number four from the imaginary notebook.

 

 

4. Something else happened.

 

 

       Maybe she was hidden to protect her from enemies. Maybe she was in a hospital on life support. Maybe... Quinn shook her head. Her parents had attached themselves too closely to Quinn to allow for any interest they’d have in another living child. Number four was erased.

       The second possibility, of Daria being adopted out, seemed unimaginable. No reason existed for putting up one of two children for adoption when everything else was fine in a home.

       A quick review of the list cast doubt on the first possibility, too. There were no milk-carton pictures of Daria anywhere, no posters, no televised “Have you seen this girl?” spots. Her parents would never give up hope of recovering a child. Never.

       Unless...

       Unless their missing child had been found.

       Dead.

 

 

 

Chapter Nine

 

 

       Quinn’s hands flew up by reflex to cover her face. “No!” she said aloud. “No. My sister is not dead. She is not. She is alive.”

       She lowered her hands, wishing she had spoken with more conviction. Dumping the rest of that line of thought, she moved on. Logic left only the third outcome. Perhaps that was it. Quinn’s parents had adopted Daria, so she was actually Quinn’s stepsister, but somehow things didn’t work out and she went back to the place where she came from, or else her real parents came and got her. No wonder Helen and Jake never mentioned Daria. The experience must have been very painful. Daria was probably still alive, then, somewhere else. Should Quinn try to contact her?

       Or... this was strange, but maybe Daria Morgendorffer was actually Quinn’s cousin, from her father’s side of the family. Maybe Daria had stayed with Jake and Helen for a couple years, for some reason—family problems, most likely—and eventually went back to Quinn’s sole uncle.

       However, her uncle had never gotten married. Plus, as far as Quinn knew from family talk, he had never had kids and had never wanted them. He never saw the rest of the family, either, being overseas as he was. Her father was not close to his brother and thought of him as a jerk. The Daria-as-Quinn’s-cousin idea began to come apart like every other idea she’d had. And why would Quinn’s parents keep Daria’s clothing and toys hidden away all this time, if she weren’t their own child?

       This chain of logic led again toward that unwritten possibility, the most terrible outcome, but Quinn didn’t want to dwell on that any longer. She shook her head hard and ran her fingers through her hair.

       When would Daria’s disappearance have occurred? Quinn knew that by her third birthday, she was alone with her parents. The family was still living in an apartment complex in Austin, as her mother completed graduate school at the University of Texas and her father worked at several nameless business firms. They moved to Highland before Quinn was ready for kindergarten, in the summer of 1987. Quinn’s third birthday party was at the apartment in Austin in May 1986.

       So, Daria had disappeared in Austin, Texas, sometime between April 1985, the date on the photo, and May 1986, roughly between Quinn’s second and third birthdays.

       Quinn wiped her sweaty hands on her bedspread. Her chest hurt when she breathed, as if a steel band were tightening around her ribs. If her own sister could disappear like that, then what about Quinn herself? Could she vanish like that, too? What had happened? She raised a hand and watched it quiver uncontrollably.

       “Quinn?” It was her mother, calling from the foot of the stairs.

       “What?” she shouted back, unnerved.

       “Is someone coming over?”

       Glad to abandon thinking for a time, Quinn got off her bed. “Just a minute!” she shouted back, and she pulled out her cell phone. Company wasn’t a bad idea, now. She’d do anything to give herself a break—but who to call? Power-queen Sandi? Neurotic Stacy? Vacant Tiffany? Or all three?

       Or Jane?

       “Information,” said the woman’s voice over Quinn’s cell phone. Her mother could listen in on the house phones, but not on the cell phone.

       “Lawndale, the Jane Lane residence on, um, uh, Howard.”

       “One moment, please.” A pause. “I have a Vincent Lane on Howard.”

       “Okay.” Pen ready, Quinn copied the number down, hung up, and dialed it.

       The phone rang a long time. As Quinn was about to give up, the phone picked up and a voice came over the line. “Huh?” said a sleepy-sounding male.

       Trent—was that Jane’s brother’s name? “Is... is Jane Lane there?”

       “Uh,” said the voice, and after a long yawn he said, “Nah.”

       “When will she be in?”

       “Uh... I think, uh, later.”

       “Like when?”

       “Um, I dunno. When she gets here. She’s still at school, I think.”

       “Still at school?”

       “Some kinda class or something.” Another long yawn.

       “Okay. Look, could you tell her that Quinn... oh, never mind. Thanks.”

       “Okay.” The phone clicked off and a dial tone came on.

       Defeated, Quinn snapped her phone shut and sat on her bed. That had been useless. She opened her phone and added Jane’s number to the directory, just in case. Looking further up the list, she picked out a name and poked the fast-dial buttons.

       “Sandi Griffin,” said a girl’s voice on the other end.

       A second phone picked up. “Mojo’s Mortuary!” said an adolescent boy, stifling a giggle. “You stab ‘em, we slab ‘em!”

       “Chris!” yelled Sandi. “Get off the goddamn phone!”

       “Bite me, Boobular!”

       “I’m telling Mom! I swear to God I am! Shut up!”

       “Kiss my butt, Boobs-a-lot!”

       “You’re toast, you little bastard! You are so freaking toasted! I’m calling Mom on my cell phone!”

       The other phone hung up.

       “Sandi Griffin,” the girl repeated in a lower tone, huffing. “Sorry about that.”

       “No problem. It’s Quinn. Doing anything?”

       “I’m planning a murder. Two murders, if Sam gets into my room again.”

       “Wanna come over? Nothing’s going on here.”

       “Uh... sure. I can’t do homework here anyway with those little toads banging on my door, so that would be like wonderful.”

       “Bring Stacy and Tiff if they want to come, too.”

       “Oh, cool! I’ll call ‘em. Thank you so much! You’re a lifesaver—like, for my damn little brothers. I hate them so freaking much!”

       You have them, though, Quinn thought. They’re alive and living with you. How can you hate them? “I can’t leave the house, but Mom said I could have company over.”

       “Yeah, I remember you said she was sort of paranoid. That bites, but, like, if you don’t mind the company—”

       “No, that’s great! See you when you get here!”

       “You bet! Bye!”

       “Bye!”

       Even at the prospect of three more girls coming to the house, possibly for dinner, Helen seemed relieved to avoid the issue of Quinn’s going out. Quinn was relieved to stop thinking about the Daria mystery, which threatened to tear her sanity apart.

       Sandi arrived in only fifteen minutes, followed by Tiffany and last by Stacy, who had to finish folding laundry. All four were happily seated on the fluffy rug in Quinn’s bedroom, trading school stories and sharing candy and fashion advice, when a cell phone went off.

       Quinn recognized the phone as hers. She pulled it from a back pocket and snapped it open. The caller ID appeared on the phone’s tiny screen, using the phone’s internal directory.

       LANE, it said.

 

 

 

Chapter Ten

 

 

       “Excuse me!” Quinn quickly got to her feet, cell phone in hand. “I have to go talk to Mom about this. Be right back!”

       “Quinn? What’s the problem?” called Sandi, but Quinn was already on her way out of the room. She raced downstairs like lightning, around through the family room and back into the guest bedroom-turned-home office, where she shut the door and flipped the phone open. “Jane?” she gasped.

       “Yo,” came Jane’s voice. “Interrupting anything?”

       “No, no, nothing. Excuse me, sort of out of breath. Wait.” She inhaled, waited, let it out. “Okay, sorry.”

       “Trent said you’d called. I didn’t get back until four, and Trent didn’t remember to tell me until five minutes ago.”

       “Are you helping teachers or something?”

       “At school? Nah. I’m in an after-school class to improve my self-esteem. Long story, not worth telling. What’s up?”

       Quinn felt foolish. “I was...” She laughed nervously. “I was calling to see if you wanted to come over and talk. I’ve got some other friends here now, though. Fashion Club.”

       Jane sounded amused. “Hmmm. Thank you for the invitation, but I’ll stick it out here and finish a project I have going on the easel.” She hesitated. “Are you okay?”

       “Yeah, better. I found out some other things. I just needed someone to talk to about it.”

       “Your Mom and Dad? Or no?”

       “No, definitely not. They’ve never talked to me about this. About Daria, I mean. I don’t think they ever want to talk about it. I don’t think I can even ask anyone else in my family about it. I don’t know what happened. It’s some kind of secret now, I think. I just wish I knew.”

       “You said you found out some other things.”

       Quinn described in brief her finding of the picture and her thoughts on the time frame and location involved.

       “So, she had the same last name as you,” said Jane. “You’re sure she was your sister? Not a cousin?”

       “I can’t think of anyone else she could be.”

       “Well,” said Jane, “at this late date, and with her gone this long...” She did not finish the thought. A moment later, she said, “Where do your parents keep your birth certificate? Maybe they also have—”

       Quinn blinked. “Oh, my God, you’re right!” she gasped. “I think I know where it is! And they might have hers, too! Thanks!”

       “Eh, it’s okay. Look, I really wish you luck with this. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

       “You’ve done more for me than anyone else has,” said Quinn. “I don’t know what I would have done without you. If you ever need help from me, let me know.”

       Jane sounded as if she were smiling. “I’ll keep that in mind. Oh, right—that thing you said about the baking soda, that worked. The car smells better. We’ll call it even.”

       “I still owe you. I can’t thank you enough.”

       There was a pause. “Quinn,” said Jane, an edge in her voice—but there was another pause, and then a sigh. “You have a good night.”

       Thank you for not saying it. “You have a good night, too, Jane. See you tomorrow.”

       “You, too.” After another pause, Jane hung up.

       “What was that all about?” Sandi asked when Quinn came back in the bedroom.

       “Oh, God, I have to answer questions for some lawyers about a trust fund my parents set up for me.” Quinn sat down again with a sigh. “It’s so annoying. I don’t know why they can’t do this themselves.”

       “My mom hates lawyers,” said Sandi. She did a double take and smoothly added, “I’m sure she’ll like your mom, though, Quinn. Your mom is cool.”

       “Oh, guess what?” Quinn put in. “You just reminded me. My mom’s going to donate money for the Halloween Party at the high school in October! And the Fashion Club’s name can go on as a donor, because I’m her daughter!”

       Applause and whoops broke out, though Sandi’s was rather muted. “Normally, things like this should be approved through the office of the president,” she said, with a meaningful glance at Quinn. “However, in view of the good it will do our club in the eyes of the public, I give it the official A-OK.” More applause and whoops of joy.

       “Your mom really is cool!” shouted Stacy. “Does she make cookies, too?”

       “Calories, Stacy,” warned Sandi. “Use your self-control.”

       “Yeah,” drawled Tiffany. “Control.”

       “Sorry!” Stacy squeaked.

       Hours later, dinner and homework finally completed, the Fashion Club departed. Sandi was the last to go. “Thank you for a wonderful evening,” she told Quinn at the front door. “You are the best vice president we have ever had, in spite of the lasagna.”

       Quinn rolled her eyes. “That’s my mom for you.”

       “She at least knows how to keep you in fashion.” Sandi’s gaze strayed up the stairway behind Quinn. “I am forced to admit I have never seen such an incredible collection of clothing and accessories in my life—except perhaps in my own room, of course.” Sandi looked at Quinn directly. “Are your parents making up for something?”

       Quinn blinked. “What?”

       “Do you get them to buy things to make up for... you know, things they did? If my dad misses one of my school functions, I make him get me a new outfit.” Sandi snorted. “I sometimes wish he would miss more functions. He’s sort of embarrassing, and I need a new winter coat.”

       “No, they...” Quinn became lost in thought. “They just... get stuff for me.”

       Sandi sighed and waved goodbye. “Enjoy it, then,” she said as she left. “See you tomorrow.”

       Quinn closed the door with a soft thump. Are my parents making up for something? What a strange question! What could they possibly—?

       She went upstairs and looked in her closet. She did have a lot of stuff, far more than any other girl she knew except kids from really rich families. Her parents almost never denied her a thing. Quinn had always taken that for granted, and she was constantly surprised when she learned other kids weren’t treated the same way.

       Closing the closet, she walked to her dresser and opened her jewelry box. Her fingers picked up a pair of quarter-carat diamond earring studs. She rolled them around in the palm of her hand. Her parents had given them to her last year for Christmas.

       Why did you get me these? In November, I said only that diamonds were so pretty, I’d like for a boyfriend to get them for me one day, and you got these for me a month later at Christmas. These cost you hundreds of dollars, and you got other presents for me, too. Why did you spend so much? Why’d you do it? Why?

       The diamonds glittered in her hand.

       We’re sorry about your sister, Quinn, said her mother’s voice inside her head.

       Yeah, said her father. Tough break. Here’s my credit card to make up for it.

       Here’s a new dress. And here are some diamonds, like you said you wanted. And acting classes, ballet classes, voice lessons, a cell phone, gold jewelry—

       —a miniature television, a CD sound system, a pager you never use, a pink laptop computer, satellite TV, and every designer outfit you’ve ever admired.

       And the bedroom set of your dreams, in your favorite pastel colors.

       And a car! One of these days, we mean. Whichever car you want, we’ll get it.

       Sorry about your sister, though.

       Tough break.

       You’ll get over it.

       We almost did.

       Almost.

       We’re still a little paranoid.

       We’re making up for it, though. Have some money. All you want.

       Just don’t get out of our reach or out of our sight.

       Like she did.

       “Stop it,” said Quinn aloud. “Just stop it!” She tossed the diamond studs back into her jewelry box and slapped the lid shut and shivered hard. She rubbed her arms, which were breaking out in goose bumps though the room was quite warm.

       She went to the bathroom, got undressed, put on her nightclothes, and went to bed, though it wasn’t yet nine o’clock. She pulled the blanket over her head in the darkness and kept shivering.

       Sorry about your sister.

       We’re very sorry.

       We’ll make up for it, though.

       Take our credit cards. Go shopping, have some fun.

       Just don’t get out of our sight.

       Like she did.

       Shut up!” she screamed into her pillow until she was hoarse. “Shut up, shut up, shut up, just shut the freaking hell up!

 

 

 

Chapter Eleven

 

 

       “What’s up with your eyes?” asked Sandi the next morning before homeroom.

       “What?” Startled, Quinn jerked and turned in the direction of the voice she heard.

       “Your eyes.” Sandi frowned, looked at Quinn closely, then took her by the arm. “Come with me,” she said, and she pulled Quinn into the girls’ restroom. There, Sandi took a compact from her purse and applied eye makeup to the Fashion Club’s vice president until she was satisfied with the result. “Can’t have a club officer looking like she can’t sleep,” she said as she finished. “Are you okay?”

       “I’m fine. Okay.”

       “You look like you never went to bed. That old saying about beauty sleep isn’t a joke, you know.”

       “Thank you,” Quinn whispered. She tried to focus on Sandi’s face.

       “That’s why I’m the president,” said Sandi, snapping the compact shut. “See you after homeroom.”

       “Okay.” What happened to Daria? What do my parents know? What happened?

       Quinn fell asleep off-and-on during earth science, basic math, and world history. She came to before lunch and was able to hold a semi-reasonable conversation with the Fashion Club, for one minute.

       “I’ve had trouble sleeping before, too,” said Sandi, “but it was never quite that bad. Does insomnia run in your family?”

       “Oh, I always have trouble sleeping!” said Stacy, her fork nervously stirring her food. “When I’m lying there, I start to think about everything that happened during the day, everything people said to me and what I tried to say back and what they said when I said what I was trying to say, and then I think about what happened the week before, what everyone said then and what I said back, and how things got misunderstood, and then I start to wonder if anything bad will happen tomorrow, like what someone might say and what I might say after that and what might happen next, and then—”

       “Staaa-cy,” said Tiffany, looking down at her friend’s lunch plate, “what are you dooo-ing?”

       “What? Oh, no!”

       “Mixing up your beans and mashed potatoes and peach cobbler like that is sort of gross,” said Sandi. “Can you, like, cover it up with a napkin or something?”

       “I’m sorry,” said Quinn, stifling a yawn. “What were we talking about?”

       During English, while Mr. O’Neill extolled the virtues of Dylan Thomas to his bored students, Quinn wondered if there were any relatives with whom she could discuss the situation with Daria. Aunt Rita surely knew the situation, but she wasn’t talking. Pressing her for answers would likely spark a call to her sister, Helen, and things would go downhill from there.

       There was Rita’s daughter Erin, of course, but talking with Erin usually set off warning bells in Quinn’s mind. She wasn’t completely sure Erin could keep a secret, and at the moment, Quinn did not want her parents to know that she knew about Daria. Erin almost certainly knew what had happened with Daria—

       —but, if so, why hadn’t she ever mentioned it to Quinn? Erin usually blabbed about juicy, fun secrets, not dreadful ones. Perhaps, if the news were truly bad, Erin was not likely to discuss it. Even gossips had their limits, at least within families.

       Quinn could not envision asking the sickly Grandma Barksdale about Daria. Which left, on her mother’s side of the family... Aunt Amy. Quinn did not remember ever seeing Amy in the flesh, though her mother had a photo of Amy holding a newborn Quinn in her arms. Amy and Rita would know everything, but Helen, Rita, and Amy had never gotten along from childhood to adulthood. Helen complained a lot about Rita’s position as their mother’s favored child, Rita called Helen an overachiever, and Amy faded away into the woodwork, ignoring both to do her own thing. The Battling Barksdales, Quinn’s father once called them after he’d had one too many cocktails.

       With that in mind, would Amy even talk with Quinn? That was the million-dollar question, but Quinn knew the risks were high and a payoff wasn’t likely. Amy was clearly avoiding Helen’s family, and she might not want to talk with Quinn, though Quinn could not imagine why. Her mother sometimes got red in the face talking about Amy (“—who acts like she knows everything—”), but Helen usually broke off and changed the subject before long. Still, Amy was a possibility.

       Quinn knew that anyone on her father’s side of the family was right out. That group was bitterly divided over many old family issues, to a far worse degree than the Barksdales, and the less said to them, the better.

       And that left... no one.

       “We have a videotape to watch of six famous authors and poets reading Mr. Thomas’s work,” said Mr. O’Neill. An appreciative murmur went through the class. A videotape meant the lights would be turned down, which would let most of the students sleep through the presentation. Mr. O’Neill struggled briefly with the VHS machine, then turned down the lights and the tape began. Quinn yawned and rubbed her eyes, then squinted to focus on the television.

       After the introductions, the movie showed a poet in a baggy sweater standing on a quiet street in London, facing the camera. “‘A Refusal to Mourn the Death, By Fire, of a Child in London,’” he began.

       Stunned, Quinn stared at the TV screen, then quickly put her index fingers in her ears and shut her eyes. I am so not hearing this right now! she thought. I am like so not hearing this! She is not dead! I won’t hear it! Determined as she was, however, she took her fingers from her ears and opened her eyes a few moments before the recital ended, as the videotape showed the top of a church steeple.

       “‘After the first death,’” intoned the poet, off-camera, “‘there is no other.’”

       She remembered nothing else of the presentation except that line. It was the pits.

       At the day’s end, Quinn was at her locker, putting away the books she wouldn’t need for homework, when Jane walked by. She came awake in an instant. “Jane? Jane?” she called.

       Jane turned and stopped, then came back. “Yo,” she said, her tired gaze softening. “What’s up?”

       “Are you free for lunch Friday? For going out again, I mean.”

       “Trent’s using the car tomorrow, but Friday, sure. Need another run home?”

       Quinn pulled a twenty from her pocket and handed it over. “Yes, please.”

       Jane took the money reluctantly, appearing uncomfortable. “Sure. Same as before, eleven-thirty, okay?”

       “Yeah, that’s fine. Thanks.”

       “Birth certificate thing?”

       Quinn nodded, eyes darting around.

       “See you then,” said Jane, and waved and left.

       “How was school today?” Jake asked his daughter when he picked her up at two-thirty sharp.

       Quinn yawned. “The usual.”

       “Make any new friends?”

       Quinn thought of Jane, but she decided Jane wasn’t yet a friend. Strange, though, that she felt she trusted Jane more than anyone else she knew. She almost thought she could trust Jane with her life. If anyone was worth talking about, it was she—but Jane knew her secret and was best kept away from the parents for now. Wanting a respite, Quinn shook her head no, then asked the one question she knew would stop any further inquiries. “How was your day, Daddy?”

       Once back in her room again with the door locked, Quinn got into the boxes under her bed again. She went through the box with the T-shirts and toys, and she carefully removed the baby bracelet that read DARIA. Sitting cross-legged on the floor by her bed, Quinn held the bracelet to her face, moving the pink and white beads around until the name was clear.

       She became aware of her breathing in the silence of the room.

       “I swear,” she whispered, “I swear before God Almighty, I swear by all that is holy and sacred, I swear by my life, I will find you.” After a moment, she added, “And nothing on earth will stop me.”

 

 

 

Chapter Twelve

 

 

       The remainder of the week passed slowly. Between sleepwalking through her first days as a high-school freshman, Quinn spent hours examining the contents of the three boxes that contained all she knew about Daria. The third box with the videotape occupied most of her interest. The videotape she set aside, knowing it was impossible to view when her parents were home, which was nearly all the time. She felt more than a little dread over seeing its contents, but she knew she would do it. She had to know.

       The box also contained a half-dozen folders with a chaotic assortment of crayon drawings and pencil scribbles on notebook paper, all done by a small child who signed her name “Daria M.” Quinn went through these with care, smoothing out wrinkled pages and ordering them as best she could by dates or subject matter.

       A few drawings had penciled notes on the corners, in the handwriting of Quinn’s mother. “12/14/84 Self-portrait” read one note, above a hand-drawn, semi-stick-figure picture of a girl with a green T-shirt, brown hair, and round glasses. The girl had a yellow blob in one hand that Quinn thought was the stuffed bear from the box with the toys. The blob seemed to have feet and ears, anyway.

       Quinn peered at this and similar pictures for some time. She noticed that the self-portrait figures seemed well done for having been drawn by a child. Eyes, nose, mouth, and ears were visible. The hands on the figures had five fingers. Glasses and shoes were always present, and the hair was always brown. In several pictures, the eyes were drawn in brown as well.

       She also noticed that the self-portrait figures never smiled. They did not appear sad, but the mouths were small, straight lines. The small photo in Quinn’s wallet had the same expression—a closed face that revealed nothing of what was inside.

       The other pictures were of animals, airplanes, houses, and trees. Only one of the drawings showed a family. Quinn stared at this one a long time. It showed two tall figures, one with long hair and a blue dress, one with a white shirt and black pants, standing close together on either side of a very small pink blob that seemed to float above the ground. The pink blob had two eyes. Near the left edge of the paper, standing well away from the group, was another self-portrait of an unsmiling Daria in an orange T-shirt and black shorts.

       Quinn’s gaze drifted to the top of the page. “3/24/85 Daria, Mom, Quinn, Dad” read the penciled note.

       She jammed a fist into her mouth. Tears ran down from her eyes in moments.

       You were my sister. I know it now. You were my sister. And I will find you. I swear I will.

       By Thursday night, Quinn had smelled every piece of clothing in the boxes, even the socks and shoes, until whatever traces were left of Daria had been permanently imprinted on her senses. She found a small wool baby blanket, sea green in color, in the bottom of one box. Quinn stuffed it into one of her pillow covers so the blanket was on the bottom. She dozed off right after she lay her head down on it, bathed in a faint baby-powder aroma, and slept soundly.

       Sound sleep came too late, however.

       “Would Quinn Morgendorffer please come to the office?” said the classroom intercom during history class. The teacher glanced at Quinn and nodded to the door. She made her way out, accompanied by the interested looks of her fellow students. The office helpers pointed to the principal’s door.

       “You seemed very... distressed during your first week here,” said Mr. O’Neill. He, Ms. Li, and the school psychologist, Mrs. Manson, were all present, staring Quinn down. “Your homework performance has been a bit erratic, when you’ve remembered to turn it in at all, and your first quiz scores were on the, ah, challenging side. We feel it would be best to give your parents a call and discuss some helpful options.”

       “I’m fine, really!” Quinn began to panic. “I had a little trouble sleeping the other night, and—”

       “We have reports that you were crying in class,” said Mrs. Manson in a crisp tone. “Are you suicidal? I have some tests I can administer to—”

       “I had something in my eye!”

       “In four different classes?” Ms. Li shook her head. “This is for your own good, Miss Morgendorffer. We only want to see that your grand voyage through secondary education is as free of stormy weather as possible.”

       “I can get my mom to donate more money to the school!”

       Ms. Li hesitated, on the verge of cutting a deal, but Mrs. Manson charged into the gap. “You have nothing to worry about, dear,” she said. “Just go back to class, and we’ll talk to your parents about it tonight.”

       It did not help that Quinn burst into tears at that moment. Mr. O’Neill began to cry, too, until Ms. Li snapped, “Oh, knock it off, Timothy, for chrissakes.”

       Quinn told Jane about it as they drove away from school at the beginning of lunch period. Jane rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Sounds like they’re sending you to the self-esteem class,” she said. “Welcome to the monkey house.”

       Exhaling, Quinn looked out the car window at the traffic. “If Mom can’t get me out of it, at least you’re there, too,” she said.

       “For the seventh time.”

       “What? Really?”

       “Great place to do life drawings. We get some strange and interesting subjects passing through.” Jane glanced at Quinn. “Don’t get me wrong, but did you ever think about becoming a model?”

       “I had some classes on it in Highland.” After a beat, Quinn turned and looked at Jane. “Oh, you’re kidding.”

       “Not at all. I’m tired of doing caricatures. You’d be great. You’ve got the face and everything else. Haven’t you ever thought about being a professional model?”

       “You’re talking about for artists, right? I thought about being a fashion model, but not the art thing.”

       “Art doesn’t pay as well as fashion, for sure. It was just a thought.”

       Quinn looked out the car window. “I don’t know. My parents won’t let me out of the house without one of them handcuffed to me.”

       Jane frowned. “Seems a little much. You’re what, fourteen? Fifteen?”

       “Fourteen.”

       Jane scratched her nose as she drove. “When I was fourteen, I was doing everything I do now, except for driving with a license. I didn’t figure I needed one, then. You’ve got the opposite problem I do. Your parents are paranoid, and mine are oblivious. I think my folks are in South Africa this week. Mom is, anyway. Forgot where Dad is. Falklands, maybe, doing some bird shots for a nature magazine.”

       Quinn thought. “You could come over one of these days. Not like now, I mean, but after school.”

       Jane winced. “No offense, but I’m really not one of the high-fashion crowd. Maybe—”

       “I don’t mean when the Fashion Club’s over. I mean, by yourself, once in a while. When you want. I’ve never been an art model before.”

       “Do I need a passport? Immunization certificate?”

       “Why? Oh! No, I’ll talk to my Mom and Dad. They won’t have a problem with it, I’m sure.”

       “Cool.” Jane turned the car into Quinn’s home subdivision. “Mind if I ask a question?”

       “Sure.”

       “How long have you known about Daria?”

       Quinn hesitated, thinking. “I’ve sort of thought there was something weird going on for a few years. I didn’t really start to think hard about it until lately.” She described the drawings she had looked at, then pulled her wallet from her purse and took out the picture of Daria. As Jane parked the car in the Morgendorffers’ driveway, Quinn handed the little photo to her.

       Jane looked at it without comment for perhaps half a minute. A sad look passed over her face before she handed the picture back. She and Quinn then left the car and went into the house, heading upstairs. Quinn found herself praying that she would shortly learn the answer to the mystery of her sister—even as the bottom dropped out of her stomach at the thought of what she would learn.

 

 

 

Chapter Thirteen

 

 

       “In the closet of my parents’ bedroom,” Quinn said, leading the way upstairs. “I’m sure that’s where the papers are kept. I saw Dad taking some legal papers out of their closet when we lived in Highland.”

       “Do your parents have a safe?”

       Quinn reached the top of the stairs and stopped. “Oh, I hope not.” She pressed on to her parents’ bedroom door, opened it, and went inside. Opening the closet door, she began looking around.

       “How about on that top shelf?” called Jane. “What’s that there?”

       “Where? Oh, the strongbox! I think that’s it!”

       Once more, Jane proved equal to the task of recovery. Standing on her toes, Jane was just tall enough to pull the strongbox to the edge of the shelf with her fingertips, then catch hold of it as it fell. She handed the box to Quinn, who carried it out of the closet and set it on her parents’ bed.

       “Is it locked?” asked Jane, eyeing the strongbox’s keyhole.

       With a shrug, Quinn lifted the lid. It went up without a hitch.

       “So much for security,” Jane muttered as Quinn began riffling through the papers inside. “I guess we should be grateful for—”

       “Found it!” Quinn jerked a thin white folder from inside the box. On the raised tab was written “Daria.” Inside it was a plain manila envelope, obviously holding a few papers, with nothing written on the outside. The envelope was sealed shut.

       “Wait!” said Jane. “Do you have another envelope to put in there? Put the folder back with the same kind of envelope in it, so they won’t see that anything’s gone.”

       “Oh!” Quinn ran back to her room and got a matching envelope from her school supplies, stuffing a few sheets of blank paper inside to give it bulk before she sealed it. This she tucked back into the original folder marked “Daria,” which she put back into the strongbox, which Jane then put back on the shelf. They hurried out of the room and were halfway down the stairs before Quinn remembered that they had left the bedroom door open. She ran back, checked the room, and shut it. They went out to the car after locking up the house again.

       As Jane pulled out of the driveway, Quinn began to unseal the manila envelope.

       “Wait, wait, wait,” said Jane, putting out a hand. “Stop. You know what happened last time.”

       “But I have to see it!”

       “Listen! If you look at it now, you know you’re going to lose it, no matter what’s in there. Think about it. You’ve got what you’ve been looking for. Just hold on to it. If you have a breakdown at school, they’ll call your parents and find the envelope, and it’s all over. Just hold on to it right now. You’ve got to wait until you can read it without someone barging in on you or asking questions. Do you see what I mean?”

       Quinn sat motionless, envelope in her hands. “Damn it,” she breathed. “I really have to know.”

       “You’ll lose that envelope if you look. You know it. And we can’t be late again like the last time.”

       “I won’t get upset.”

       “Yes, you will, Quinn. If you’re going to follow your heart, at least learn to think with your heart, too. Don’t throw away everything you’ve gained.” Jane subsided, then added, “I won’t keep you from looking. Just wait until you can really be alone, and then look all you want.”

       Quinn sat a few long seconds longer, then clutched the envelope to her chest and swore in a low voice.

       “I hope it’s good news,” Jane said as they entered the high-school lot again.

       “I’ll take any news. I have to know.”

       When they parked, Jane reached over and took Quinn’s hand. They gripped each other’s fingers tightly.

       “Good luck,” Jane whispered.

       “Thank you,” Quinn whispered back.

       “She looks like an interesting kid. I liked her picture.”

       “Thanks.”

       They got out of the car, wiping their eyes, and went into the building. Quinn jammed the large envelope into her backpack, burying it inside another folder until it could hardly be distinguished from its surroundings. She suffered through English and the remainder of her day as best she could, then went down to the loading dock to meet her mother at two-thirty.

       “I got a call from the principal this afternoon,” said Helen briskly as Quinn got into the SUV. “I don’t know where she gets off, saying you should be in a self-esteem class. There’s nothing wrong with your self-esteem, like I keep telling you! Damn those busybodies! Do you know anything about this?”

       “I missed some sleep the last few nights, working on homework,” said Quinn. “Then I got something in my eye during a couple of classes, and I don’t know how the story got so out of shape. They said I was depressed or something, whatever.”

       “Quinn,” said Helen, “are you feeling depressed?”

       “What? Me? No, Mom! I’m fine! Why does everyone keep asking me questions like that?”

       “I’m sorry, sweetheart! I just wanted to be sure!” She drove for a few minutes, then said, “Ms. Li said something about a problem with your homework, so I thought once we got home, we could go through your backpack and see just where you are in school. Maybe we can set up some study sessions between you and your father and I, starting tonight.”

       Quinn’s heart was in her throat. “Mom, no!”

       “Why, dear?”

       “Uh—uh—I have to be honest and say that nothing would depress me more than doing homework on a Friday night. Seriously! It’s the weekend, you know? Let me dump my stuff in my room, and let’s go out and do something. We haven’t been to that mall here, Cranberry Corners or whatever it’s called, so let’s do that. We don’t have to buy anything, but let’s just go out, okay? Can we do that? Tonight?”

       Helen gave a heavy sigh. “Well, certainly we can do that! We do have to think about your schoolwork, too, though.”

       “Saturday morning, promise! Or better, Saturday afternoon, so Daddy is sort of awake. I’ll show you everything.”

       “Oh... all right. That makes sense to me.” Helen shook her head. “I don’t know where that Li woman gets off saying you have a lack of self-esteem.”

       “That’s nuts, Mom! I’m full of self-esteem! I don’t know where to put it, I have so much!”

       Helen smiled. “That’s my Quinn.”

       When she got home, Quinn was able to hide the manila envelope in one of the boxes under her bed. She was on the verge of opening it anyway when her mother called her down to go out to the mall. Cranberry Commons, as the mall was named, was like every other large suburban shopping center, if heavy on the clothing angle. Quinn begged off on having anything purchased for her, however.

       “I’ve got more than enough, now, Mom. Really. Don’t worry about it.”

       “Are you sure? How about that fall ensemble?”

       “No, I’ve got something like that already. It’s okay.”

       “Oh, very well. Oh, there’s your father. I asked him to meet us here for dinner. Is Buckaroo Blintzes okay with you?”

       “Um, Mom, instead of mall food, why don’t we try this French place some of the girls were talking about? It’s Chez Pierre, over on the east side. I have the directions.”

       “French... I could do that. Jake! We’re over here! Quinn, go get your father. He’s looking in that electronics store, and I don’t want a bigger TV in the living room than we already have.”

       Quinn got back to her room that night just before ten, only to discover she had left her cell phone on the bed when she left to go out. She had four calls waiting for her, three from Sandi and one from Stacy. “Damn,” she mumbled. She called Sandi back but got only a busy signal. Stacy Rowe could wait until tomorrow.

       After changing into bedclothes and kissing her parents goodnight, Quinn shut off the lights and got into bed. She lay back, let out her breath, and felt relaxed for the first time in days.

       Daria, whispered a voice in her mind.

       Quinn’s eyes snapped open. She got out of bed and turned on a light. Her parents were downstairs watching TV. The door was doubly locked.

       The box with the manila envelope came out from under the bed. Quinn sat hunched up on the edge of her mattress, the envelope in her hands. Her thumbnail ran under the sealed flap, tearing it completely free.

       Give me the answer. Give it to me now.

       Inside the envelope were less than a dozen papers, plus what appeared to be a folded-up page from a newspaper. Quinn pulled all the pages out and looked at the top one, printed on the letterhead of a college.

 

 

 

May 23, 1985

 

Dear Helen and Jake,

 

Please accept the condolences of the entire administrative staff of the University of Texas at Austin on the terrible loss of your daughter, Daria. No words can possibly convey

 

 

 

       “No,” said Quinn, her voice rising. “No, no, no!” She flung the sheet aside and looked at the next one.

       It was an official document from the state health department in Austin, Texas, with an embossed state seal in the lower right corner. It was a death certificate for a Daria Morgendorffer. Her birthday was given as November 20, 1981. The cause of death was given as accidental drowning, at a small lake near in Austin. It was signed by the city coroner.

       Quinn looked up and down the page without breathing, her eyes huge. Her gaze came to rest on one line in particular.

       Date of Death: Saturday, May 18, 1985

       She had died on Quinn’s second birthday.

 

 

 

Chapter Fourteen

 

 

       A condolence card and letter from a couple named Willow and Coyote. A birth certificate. A program from an Austin church for the funeral of Daria Morgendorffer. Paperwork from an Austin funeral home. Complicated hospital paperwork. A newspaper article from the Austin American-Statesman, dated Sunday, May 19, 1985: THREE-YEAR-OLD DROWNS DURING BIRTHDAY PARTY.

       And the death certificate and the condolence letter from the university.

       Nothing else was inside the envelope.

       Quinn dully scanned the newspaper article. Daria had wandered away from her parents while the family was celebrating the birthday of their youngest daughter, age two. While exploring the shore of a small nearby lake, Daria fell from a ledge and struck her head on a submerged rock, drowning thereafter. Her body was found and recovered by her father. Paramedics were unable to revive her. The death was ruled accidental. No charges were filed. The funeral was scheduled for the Wednesday following.

       Quinn set the papers on the bed beside her. Moments later, she slid off the mattress and fell across the soft white carpet. She felt herself grow heavier until the entire weight of the universe pressed down upon her, its suffocating mass flattening her out like a leaf between the pages of a great book. She lost her will to move, barely breathing, staring up at the patterned plaster ceiling. Ages of time passed with every second.

       She’s gone.

       The minute hand of her clock-radio slowly turned. A certain time later, her parents came up the stairs, paused outside her room, then went into their bedroom and closed the door. The refrigerator in the kitchen hummed and turned off. Water ran in the pipes, then faded and stopped. An infinite silence filled the room above her, stretching through the ceiling and roof out to the ends of space. Beyond feeling, Quinn lay on the carpet and gave herself up to the powers beyond. She asked, and then begged, for a merciful death. No one heard. The remainder of the night changed little from the manner in which it began, except to grow longer and heavier, until Quinn closed her eyes and tried to will herself to die.

       She awoke, unaware that she had fallen asleep. It felt like it was very early in the morning. The pressure from a need to go to the bathroom provoked her into struggling to her feet. Her weight seemed stupendous; she staggered to the door, hunched over with arms swaying, and made her way into the hall. When she returned to her room, she softly closed the door, locked it, and looked at the papers on her bed. She sank to her knees and lay down again on the soft carpet.

       There was no doubt. Her sister was dead and over twelve years gone.

       That’s not right, she mouthed without sound. That’s not right. Don’t do this.

       The passing hours were agony. Stirred by a mindless need to move, she finally put everything away again and went downstairs to the kitchen, where she sat at her usual place at the table in the breakfast nook, by the glass patio door leading outside. The sky was tinted red in the east. A few cars went by on Glen Oaks, their headlights on.

       Maybe there was a mistake, she thought. Maybe the body of her sister was in suspended animation somewhere. Maybe Daria had wandered away and was lost, but it was some other little girl who drowned, and everyone got it wrong. Maybe the whole thing was just a big lie, some awful error just waiting to be corrected by the first person who came along and cared to do it.

       Save me, she prayed, instantly changing it to, Save her, save my sister. Take me instead. Throw me away, destroy me, but bring her to life. Give her back.

       There was no response.

       Give her back to me! Damn you! Give my sister back to—

       Footsteps came down the stairs. Seconds later, Helen Morgendorffer walked into the kitchen in her bathrobe. She saw Quinn and stopped, startled. “What are you doing down here, sweetie?” she asked. “It’s not even six-thirty.”

       Quinn merely stared at her mother.

       Why didn’t you tell me?

       “Are you all right?” her mother asked. “Did you have trouble sleeping?”

       Why couldn’t you have told me about her? Why did you have to wait?

       Looking concerned, her mother walked toward her. Her right arm came out, the back of her hand coming up to Quinn’s forehead to feel for a temperature.

       Quinn jerked away, then kicked her chair backward and got up. The chair fell over and banged against the floor as Quinn circled around the table to get farther from her mother.

       “Don’t touch me!” she shouted. “Why didn’t you watch her? She was just a little kid! Why did you go and let her die?”

       Helen recoiled as if bitten. The color ran out of her face; her hands fell to her sides. “What?” she said in a voice that was too loud. “What?”

       She stepped forward again and stretched a trembling hand toward her daughter.

       Quinn bolted past her mother and out of the kitchen, running through the house to the stairs. She was back in her room in moments, slamming and locking the door. Contaminated—she felt dirty being in the same house with her parents, the people who let her sister die. She looked around, saw through her bed, saw all the things of Daria’s she had in her room.

       The backpack was in her hands. She emptied out all of her school books and papers, then got under the bed and pulled out the three boxes. Her mother hurried up the stairs, calling her name.

       Everything from two of the three boxes went into her backpack—toys, clothing, everything. The black videotape went on top. She had to carry the last box, as there wasn’t room in her backpack for its contents. As her mother knocked on her door, Quinn zipped the backpack shut, then went to her closet and pulled a T-shirt and jeans over her nightclothes. Jamming her bare feet into a pair of Western-style boots, she lifted the backpack and put her arms through the straps, then walked to the door. She snapped open the locks and threw the door open.

       Her mother stepped back. She was breathing rapidly, her face white. “Quinn! Quinn! Please, listen to me!”

       She shoved past her mother and headed for the stairs down.

       “Quinn!” Helen shouted. “Talk to me!”

       Quinn got to the bottom of the stairs and went for the front door.

       “Wait!” Helen started down the stairs, still shouting. “Wait! Let me talk! Is there anything I can do?”

       Quinn opened the door and turned, looking up at her mother. “Yes,” she hissed. “You can bring back my sister.”

       Helen stopped dead. She swayed, mouth open, a hand pressed over her heart. A moment later, she fell back, sitting down hard on the steps.

       The front door slammed. By the time Helen opened it again, Quinn was gone.

 

 

 

Chapter Fifteen

 

 

       After the first death, there is no other.

       Clear thought was impossible. Quinn had only a vague idea of where she was going. She had trouble remembering the address Jane had mentioned for her home. Was she on something like Hubert Street? Did the street’s name begin with an H? Jane said she lived only a street or two over in the same subdivision, but where? Quinn ran west on Glen Oaks through the yards of all the neighbors, clutching the box in both arms.

       After the first death, there is no other.

       She squashed her eyes shut for a moment and shook her head violently. Stop it! she ordered herself. What does that mean? I hate that phrase! Stop it!

       Growing winded, she turned north at the end of Glen Oaks, running up Etienne Street. She had no idea where she was going. It was the first time in her life that she had run away from home, but it was also the first time she was out in the world without one of her parents hovering over her in the background. She was becoming frightened as well as exhausted.

       A signpost appeared ahead. Howard Drive! She saw the T-shaped intersection and made for it. Her chest hurt, her lungs burned, and her legs were turning into logs. She swung past the signpost and ran west on Howard—and looked down a long suburban road lined with homes for many blocks. Her nerve faltered, but she pressed on at a steady jog. She would find Jane’s place if it killed her. And perhaps it would be best if it did.

       After the first death, there is no other.

       “I know! Stop it!” she gasped. Pins and needles lanced through her lungs as she ran. The box in her arms and the pack on her back each weighed a ton. “She can’t die twice! I know it, I know it, I know it, I know it!” I want her back! I want my sister back!

       A pale yellow two-story house appeared on her right. What attracted Quinn’s dazed attention was the large iron sculpture in the front yard, something like a bare tree with metal hoops on it. She looked at the white mailbox by the street.

       LANE, it read.

       Staggering, Quinn got to the brown front door of the yellow house and set the box on the concrete step. She then hammered on the door with both fists. She was terrified that she might be near death, she hurt so much from the run. But why should I be afraid? Isn’t Daria waiting for me on the other side? I swore that I would find her. Shouldn’t I join her so we can be together? Panting for air, Quinn leaned against the door on her shoulder and felt tears run down her face. Shouldn’t I go find her? I can’t go on. This is too much. I just want it to end.

       Someone walked up to the front door on the other side. Quinn pushed away from the door just as it opened.

       Jane Lane rubbed sleep from her eyes, clad only in a black T-shirt and short pants. “What the fu—” she began angrily, then she gasped and stared. “Quinn?”

       Quinn stumbled past her into the house, coming to a stop in what appeared to be a debris-strewn living room. Doubled over, hands gripping her shaking knees, she looked back at the door. “Box,” she wheezed, and sank down on someone’s discarded socks. She then covered her face with her hands and began to cry.

       The door shut with a thump. Someone came over and knelt down beside her. Two arms encircled her and pulled her close.

       “She’s dead,” Quinn choked out through her sobs. “She’s dead. She’s dead.”

       “I’m so sorry,” Jane whispered, cradling the smaller girl to her shoulder. She pressed a cheek to the back of Quinn’s head. “I’m so sorry.”

       In time, Jane got Quinn to drop her backpack and took her upstairs to one of the house’s many spare bedrooms. “This was my sister Summer’s,” she said. “Just ignore all the clothes on the floor. Pretend it’s a rug or something.” She got Quinn to lie down on the unmade bed, then sat with her on the edge of the mattress, holding one of her hands.

       “She drowned,” said Quinn, her voice so hoarse it was nearly gone. “She died when I was two. She drowned at my birthday party, back in Texas, when I was two years old. I hardly remember her.”

       Jane sniffed and wiped her nose on the hem of her black tee, saying nothing.

       “Mom and Dad weren’t watching her. She wandered off and fell in a lake. They never told me. They never told me anything about her.” Quinn stared into the half-darkness in the room. “They never... nothing.”

       “Do you want to stay here a while?” asked Jane.

       Quinn nodded. She understood the meaning of a while. “Can’t go home. Not yet.”

       Jane let out a deep breath. “Okay,” she said. “No one else is here right now. Trent hasn’t gotten back from his gig downtown yet, so he might be staying over with one of the other band members.”

       “Jane?”

       “What?”

       Quinn looked up at her. “Can you keep my stuff here?”

       “What? The box?”

       “And what’s in my backpack. It’s everything I have about Daria. Can you keep it here?”

       Jane bit her lower lip before answering. “Yeah,” she said. “No one comes in this room anyway. We can put it under the bed.”

       Quinn settled back. Suddenly her eyes shut and she made an agonized expression. “Oh, damn it! I left the blanket at home!”

       “What blanket?”

       “Daria’s baby blanket! It’s in my pillow! Oh, crap!” She began to cry again.

       “Shhh,” said Jane. She stroked Quinn’s head, fingers running through her orange-red hair. “It’s okay. It’s safe, I’m sure it’s safe. You can get it later. It’s okay.”

       When Quinn stopped crying, she took back her hand and wiped her face. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t believe I’m here doing this.”

       “It’s okay. I’m sort of used to it. My nieces and nephews show up now and then, and they do pretty much the same thing.” Jane paused to reflect. “Most of the time, though, they’re happy just to get away from my sister, Summer. Long story, not worth talking about.”

       “Thank you. For letting me stay.”

       “Don’t worry about it. Get some rest. You need a blanket?”

       “No. It’s warm enough.”

       “Did you sleep at all last night?”

       “Not much.”

       “Just rest, then. We can talk later.”

       “Okay. Jane—thank you.”

       “Hey, like I said, don’t worry about it.” She gave Quinn’s hair a last stroke, then got up. “I’ll bring your things up. You rest.”

       “Okay.”

       Quinn looked around the room after Jane left.

       After the first death, there is no other.

       Not true, Quinn thought to herself. That is so not true.

       Her thoughts drifted. She remembered the VHS tape and wondered if Jane had a player for it.

       Then her eyes closed, and the darkness carried her away.

 

 

 

Chapter Sixteen

 

 

       The VCR in Jane’s room was battered and scratched, and the time flashed “12:00” even when she tried to adjust it, but otherwise it worked. Once Quinn pushed the black VHS tape into the slot, the television screen filled with static and the speaker hissed—then both cleared. A color home movie began with a burst of talking and sound. Quinn sat back on the foot of Jane’s bed and watched.

       Someone held a video camera, the image swaying slightly as it focused on two small girls sitting at a table. The timer at the bottom right read, “12:31 P.M., 11/27/84.” A brown-haired girl with glasses, a green T-shirt, and a striped party hat sat in a booster seat on the left. A red-haired toddler in a pink, one-piece gown with a party hat sat in a high chair on the right. Between them, on the table, was a white-frosted birthday cake with large brown chocolate stars on its sides and three lit candles in a row on top.

       “Happy birthday to you!” sang two adults in the background, a man and a woman. “Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday, dear Daria! Happy birthday to you!” There was the sound of one person clapping off-camera. The red-haired baby smiled and began to clap, too. The girl in the green T-shirt looked at the infant, made a sour face, and looked back at the camera as if waiting for instructions.

       “Make a wish, dear!” called the unseen woman. It was Helen Morgendorffer, though the tone was lighter and higher than Quinn remembered.

       “Make a good one, kiddo!” called Quinn’s father, his voice overly loud as he was very close to the microphone on the movie camera. The camera shook as he spoke. Little Quinn made happy noises, bouncing in her seat.

       Daria looked at the cake for a solemn moment. She then got up in her booster seat and leaned toward the cake and candles, obviously inhaling.

       At almost the same moment, little Quinn stood up in her high chair and blew hard, spitting a little as she did. The candles flickered and went out, to the horror of her sister. Little Quinn laughed and clapped again.

       “Hey!” shouted Daria, looking angrily across the table. “You’re ruining my birthday cake!”

       Teenaged Quinn had lifted the VCR remote when she heard her sister speak. She intended to rewind the tape and listen to the voice again, so she would always remember what Daria sounded like. At Daria’s outburst, her hand froze with the VCR aimed at the TV. She did not rewind. She watched and listened, her lips parting in shock. She remembered.

       Helen appeared in the picture now, walking on from the left behind the high chair. Her hair went down to the middle of her back, unlike the short hairstyle she had now, and she wore a pale yellow blouse and blue-jean skirt.

       “Make her stop!” cried Daria to her mother.

       “Oh, Daria, she’s just a baby!” said Helen in a soothing voice. “She wants to play, too!”

       Daria sneered. It was the only possible way to describe the look that came over her face. “Why can’t I be an only child?” she retorted.

       Little Quinn began to bounce in her seat again, making more happy noises. Helen blinked as she stared at Daria, caught flat-footed for a response.

       Stunned, teenaged Quinn drew back from the screen, her sister’s words ringing in her ears. Why can’t I be an only child? Why can’t I be an only child?

       The screen filled with fuzz for a moment, then showed a close-up view of little Daria and Quinn standing together. The time given was 10:33 A.M., 01/21/85; the Morgendorffers appeared to have missed filming Christmas. Little Quinn was dancing in place in an approximation of the Twist.

       “Attagirl!” cried their father, again crewing the video camera.

       Daria looked at her sister with disdain, then looked up and reached for the side of the video camera with her right hand. The camera image cut off. Static again filled the screen.

       When the picture reappeared, it was of an outdoors scene that appeared to be a park in the spring or summer. The time read, “01:54 P.M., 05/18/85.”  In the foreground was little Quinn in the same pink gown, sitting on her mother’s lap on a blanket spread out on the grass in the shade of a tree. “And here we are at the lake!” Helen said. She wore a blue blouse with her blue-jean skirt now, but her hair was as long as before. “It’s May eighteenth, and guess whose birthday it is!”

       “We didn’t go to the lake on my birthday,” said Daria, off-camera.

       Helen looked to the left of the screen. “Daria, sweetie, it was raining on your birthday. We couldn’t go out.”

       “We could have gone to the museum. It was indoors.”

       “Well,” said Helen reasonably, “we’re outside now, and it’s Quinn’s birthday, the big two!” Helen bounced Quinn up and down on her knee, which caused the toddler to shriek with laughter. “Let’s all sing ‘Happy Birthday’!”

       As the birthday song began, the camera changed position to show Helen and Quinn at a different angle, closer up. Just visible to the side of Helen’s head in the background was the image of a small girl with a brown pageboy cut, wearing glasses, a plain green tee, and brown shorts. She did not sing. She stooped and picked up a stick, turning around a last time.

       “Come on, Daria! Have some cake!” cried her father behind the camera.

       “Not now,” said Daria, her face a stone wall. “I want to play.”

       “Get some cake first, sweetheart!”

       “I don’t want any cake,” said Daria glumly. “I can’t stand her cake. I can’t stand her.” She swung the stick around, then turned and walked toward a line of trees in the distance. Sparkling water was visible beyond the trees.

       “We’ll save you some, then!” Helen called to her, ignoring the last remark. “Don’t go far!”

       The camera changed position again. Helen reached down and picked up a fork with a bit of birthday cake on it. The cake was white with pink frosting. “Is my girl ready for a bite?” Helen asked, cooing to the tiny redhead. “Is my little girl ready for a big bite?”

       Little Quinn clapped her hands and took a cautious mouthful. She clearly liked the cake, and Helen helped her wash it down with apple juice from her drinking cup. The feeding went on for several minutes as Quinn ate and clapped with delight. Pink frosting collected around her mouth and over both her hands. Helen and Quinn sang the birthday song one more time together.

       “It’s time for presents!” said Helen brightly to Quinn. “Yes, it is! It’s time for our little girl to get her presents!” She turned her head to the left, craning her neck to see behind her, and then looked to the right. “Where’s Daria?”

       The camera rose and scanned the area. Only a few people were out, none nearby. Daria was not in sight.

       “Daria!” called Helen. She twisted around, only the top of her head visible at the bottom of the screen. “Daria! Come on, it’s time for presents!”

       “I’ll get her,” said Jake. “She went off to those trees. Get ready for presents!”

       Little Quinn laughed. The camera angle dropped, showing the ground and part of the picnic blanket. “Daria!” called Helen, a bit peeved, off-camera.

       The image vanished. The screen was filled with static that did not stop.

       Teenaged Quinn stared at the screen. Her right hand shook wildly, her thumb still over the remote.

       She hated me.

       She hated me so much, she wished I wasn’t alive. She didn’t want pictures of me to be taken. She tried to let me walk out of the apartment in Austin and fall down a flight of stairs. She hated me so much, she walked off from my birthday party and drowned.

       My sister’s last words were about how much she hated me. She hated me, and she died from it.

       My parents didn’t kill her.

       I did.

 

 

 

Chapter Seventeen

 

 

       Just after two o’clock that afternoon, Quinn left Jane’s house and began her walk back up Howard Drive, without the backpack or box. When she got to the western end of Glen Oaks, she looked up the street and saw her mother running for her, clad in a light yellow jacket, maroon sweat pants, and sneakers with no socks. Helen was red-faced, shouting and crying as she ran. Other people were out in the street as well, standing in small groups and looking at Quinn, too. Two police cars were parked in front of the Morgendorffers’ home, as well as an assortment of other vehicles.

       For a moment, Quinn had the urge to turn around and run again, but she kept going because she didn’t feel like it mattered anymore. In only a moment, Helen caught her in a crazed, crushing embrace, sobbing aloud. A few moments later, other people ran up and surrounded them both. Quinn recognized her Aunt Rita of the long, pale gold hair, who threw her arms around both Helen and Quinn and uttered thanks to God that Quinn was all right. Jake appeared moments after, out of breath and gasping, “Oh, God! Oh, God!” over and over again.

       The reticent woman behind Rita, however, was harder to place. She had dark, wavy brown hair that fell past her shoulders and a long, angular face. Only her round-frame glasses hinted at who she was, as Quinn dredged up the memory of a photo of her holding an infant Quinn. “Aunt Amy?” she said.

       Her arms crossed over her maroon blouse, Amy Barksdale looked coolly at her niece. “The prodigal returns home,” she said in a deadpan. She looked as if she wanted to say more, but too many people were around and she held her tongue.

       The questioning by police was troublesome because Quinn would not reveal where she had been. She did state she had not been kidnapped or forced to go anywhere against her will, but beyond that, she said nothing. She said only that she wanted to be left alone.

       “Did you take a box of things when you left this morning?” asked the officer.

       “Yes,” said Quinn sullenly.

       “Where is this box now?”

       She looked away and said nothing, even when her parents begged her to talk.

       The police officer sighed, finished his report, and left. The neighbors gave their thanks that all had turned out well, and they left after giving Quinn long, curious looks. Drained, the Morgendorffers and Quinn’s aunts stood in the family room of the house, the small talk dwindling down. Quinn stood to one side and stared at the floor, her hands jammed in her pants pockets.

       “Mind if I have a few minutes alone with her?” asked Amy, her face impassive. She was looking at Quinn.

       Helen, Rita, and Jake looked at Quinn, then back at Amy. “Okay,” said Helen wearily. She wiped her eyes again. “Here, or—?”

       “We’ll go to her room,” said Amy.

       Quinn turned and walked ahead of her aunt up the stairs. She went into her room and stopped by her bed, her back to the door. She heard her aunt come in behind her. The door gently thumped shut.

       “So,” said Amy, “you know about Daria.” She made the first syllable rhyme with car, just as Jane had done.

       Quinn did not answer.

       “How’d you find out?” Amy asked. “Helen and Jake said they didn’t tell you. Which I could kill them for.”

       “I... I found her things.”

       “What things?”

       “Clothes. Toys. Drawings.” She turned around. Her aunt still had her arms crossed. Quinn kept her hands in her pockets. “They were in some boxes in the closet in the next room.”

       “When’d you find them?”

       “This week.” Quinn coughed and cleared her throat. “I actually found one of them a few years ago, but Mom took it away from me. I found all of them this time.”

       “And you took them away this morning and hid them.”

       After a hesitation, Quinn nodded.

       “So your Mom and Dad can’t have them anymore. Now they don’t have anything left of Daria. Is that what you want?”

       “They had everything in a closet and in... they weren’t looking at it, anyway.”

       “Ah. Now, and you are looking at it, since they weren’t—rather, you can look at it when you go to wherever you’ve hidden it—and it’s yours forever. You took back your sister.”

       Quinn swallowed but looked her aunt steadily in the eye.

       “I imagine this was quite a shock to you,” said Amy, without expression. “And I bet after you got over the shock, you were pissed as hell.” When Quinn said nothing, Amy uncrossed her arms and put her hands on her hips. “I can’t say I blame you. I’ve had a little problem with my sister that’s been running for the last twelve years over Daria and the way in which... about the whole damn thing. If I had my way, I’d roast Helen alive. I really would.” She looked Quinn over. “She’s got you now, though. Maybe that’s almost as good.”

       “It wasn’t her fault,” said Quinn, softly but earnestly.

       Amy turned her head slightly, still looking right at Quinn. “What?”

       “It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t Dad’s fault, either.”

       Amy gave her niece an unfriendly look. “What exactly do you know about what happened to Daria?”

       “I saw the videotape.”

       “The videotape?” Amy’s eyes widened. “The tape they made on your birthday? At the lake?”

       Quinn nodded. Her throat tightened.

       “I never saw that one,” said Amy. “I didn’t think I could stand it. What did you see on it?”

       It was difficult to frame her next words. “She hated me,” she whispered. “She ran off because she hated me.”

       “No. She ran off because your dumb-ass parents weren’t watching her!” Amy snapped. “What are you talking about, she hated you? You mean Daria?”

       “It’s in the tape. She kept saying it, in everything. She couldn’t stand me.”

       Amy’s expression softened. “Honey, Daria was just three years old. Three-year-olds say all sorts of things.”

       Quinn shook her head no. “She really hated me. I could tell she did.”

       “Quinn, just because a three-year-old says she’s bugged about something doesn’t mean she means it. Three-year-olds are just little kids. You don’t know what she thought.”

       “You hate my mom,” said Quinn, her voice hardening. “You just told me you wanted to roast her. How old are you?”

       Amy stopped. Her face cleared in surprise.

       “You hate me, too,” Quinn went on. “Do you hate me because I lived and she died? Is it because she hated me and you thought she was right to hate me? Do you hate me because you know she died because of me?”

       “Jesus H. Christ,” said Amy, her face turning pale. “That’s not at all what—”

       “I killed her,” said Quinn, her voice louder. “She hated me so much that she—”

       “You did not! Quinn, stop that!”

       “—that she ran off and fell in a lake and drowned! If I hadn’t been alive, she would be!”

       “Quinn!”

       “She’d be here, and you wouldn’t hate my mom, and the whole freaking world would be better off, and you know it!”

       “No! Stop it, Quinn!”

       I hate me, too!” Quinn screamed at the top of her lungs. “I freaking hate me, too! I killed my sister! You’re right to hate me! You never see me, you never call me, you never write to me, you hate me, and you’re right to hate me! I wish I was dead! I want to kill myself more than—”

       Amy crossed the space between them in less than a second, grabbing Quinn by the shoulders and shaking her. “Stop it! Stop it!

       Quinn lashed out and knocked Amy’s arms away. Amy forced her way in and grabbed her again, wrapping her arms around her niece. Quinn struggled and struck out with her fists, slamming Amy again and again on her back, shoulders, and head. “Get away from me!” Quinn screamed. “Let go of me and let me die!”

       Many footsteps pounded rapidly up the stairs. “Quinn!” Amy screamed back. “I don’t hate you!”

          I killed her!” Quinn shrieked. “I killed her! I killed her! I—”

       Amy caught the back of Quinn’s head and forced her niece’s face into the space between her neck and shoulder. Quinn screamed wordlessly into her aunt’s skin, thrashing violently and nearly breaking free. She gripped handfuls of the back of Amy’s blouse in her fists and tried to tear it away.

       “I love you!” Amy shouted, eyes shut, her arms still locked around her screaming niece. “I love you!”

       Quinn’s howls faded into sobs. Amy buried her face in Quinn’s orange-red hair and kept her from falling, as Helen, Jake, and Rita stood in uncertain postures around them in the room.

       “I love you,” whispered Amy, and she began to cry, too.

 

 

 

Chapter Eighteen

 

 

       The remainder of Saturday afternoon was peaceful, perhaps only because no one had the strength left to fight. As the sun dropped below the rooftops of the houses to the west, Quinn sat in the kitchen with her two aunts and her mother, while her father went to get take-out from a Chinese restaurant. Every face reflected the exhaustion they felt.

       “Roger’s supposed to call Sunday after his jump,” said Rita. “It’s his practice run for next week, he says.”

       “Practice run for what?” asked Helen from a lack of anything else to say.

       “His halo-something jump. He’s making it with three buddies from the skydiving school. I guess they call it a halo jump because they start so high, they’re up with the angels.” She shrugged. “Just a guess. Beats me why they call it that.”

       “High-altitude, low opening,” said Amy. She gingerly touched a bruise on her cheek that Quinn had given her. “It means they jump from really high, but they try to open their chutes at as low an altitude as possible.”

       Rita frowned. “That’s what it is? Why would they do that?”

       It was Amy’s turn to shrug. “Because they’re guys,” she said. “It’s what guys do.”

       “That’s dangerous, isn’t it?” asked Helen.

       Amy started to answer, but glanced at Quinn and instead looked around the room. “I like your kitchen,” she said to Helen. “The center counter is nice. Lots of space.”

       “Thanks. We were thinking about redoing the ceiling lights. We don’t seem to get enough illumination at night when we’re sitting down to dinner, especially in the winter.”

       There was a silence after that. Rita pulled a strand of her long blonde hair and began wrapping it around a finger.

       “I’ll bring back Daria’s stuff home tomorrow,” said Quinn.

       Everyone looked at her. She lowered her head and looked at her hands on the tabletop.

       “It’s at a friend’s house,” she said. She fidgeted and took a deep breath. “When I bring it back, I want to be able to see it. I want to look at it whenever I want. I don’t want it to be hidden away any more.” She took another breath. “I don’t want anyone to hide anything from me, ever again.”

       Helen stared at her daughter, her expression empty. She lowered her eyes, though, and nodded. “Okay,” she whispered.

       “I hope Jake gets back soon,” said Rita, inspecting her nails.

       “Were you at your friend’s house earlier?” asked Amy.

       After a moment, Quinn nodded.

       “Can we meet her?” asked Helen.

       Quinn frowned and hunched forward in her chair, frowning.

       “If you don’t want any secrets,” said Amy, “you can’t have any yourself.”

       This provoked a glare from Quinn. “Do you still hate us?” she asked.

       “Quinn,” said Helen quickly, glancing up. “Don’t.”

       “It’s okay.” Amy shook her head, but she didn’t meet Quinn’s glare. “No. I don’t hate you. And I’m sorry for what I’ve done. For not talking to you all these years.” She looked at Helen. “I’m sorry, Helen.”

       Helen made a small sound like a laugh. “You can hate me. I deserve it.”

       Amy’s face worked. “No,” she forced out. “No, you don’t. I quit. I’m sorry.”

       Helen let out her breath, looking at her lap.

       “Mom?”

       Helen looked at her daughter.

       “Where is Daria buried?”

       Rita gasped and sat back in her seat, an anxious look on her face. Amy merely looked up at Quinn, then at Helen. Helen looked Quinn steadily in the eyes.

       “She’s buried in Austin,” she said softly. “We found a place for her in a cemetery on a hillside.” She paused. “Do you want to see her?”

       Quinn looked uncomfortable. “Where she’s buried, you mean?”

       “Yes.”

       Quinn lowered her head again and nodded several times.

       “Okay.” Helen sighed. “I’ll talk to Jake. We can take a long weekend and fly down there. Maybe the next weekend that the high school has teacher conferences. I’ll have to check the calendar. We’ll go on a Wednesday or Thursday night, come back on Sunday. We haven’t been back there in years, since just after we moved to Highland.”

       Quinn swallowed. “Mom, why didn’t you talk to me about her?”

       Helen inhaled deeply, then got up from the table and walked away. She stopped halfway across the kitchen and pulled on the bottom of her blouse, arranging it, then left. Moments later, they heard her walk up the stairs to her bedroom and shut the door.

       Quinn looked down at the table again.

       “Give her time, honey,” said Rita. “Don’t push her right now.”

       “It was just a question,” said Quinn.

       “Quinn,” said Amy, “why do you think she and your dad didn’t tell you?”

       “I don’t know,” she answered sullenly.

       “If you saw the videotape, honey, then you know why.”

       Quinn got up, scooting her chair back.

       “I love you,” said Amy, looking up at her niece.

       Quinn found to her anger that she was pulling on the bottom of her blouse just as her mother had done. Instead of leaving the room, which she’d originally meant to do, she walked over to the refrigerator and opened the door, leaning on it as she usually did when thinking about what she wanted to eat from it.

       “I hope Jake gets back soon,” said Rita, looking at her fingernails very closely. “Chinese would be good right now.”

       After a long look in the frig, Quinn shut the door. She felt she had no energy left to do anything.

       “I really screwed things up,” she said to the refrigerator.

       “You did what had to be done,” said Amy, without looking around. “I don’t think we could have gone on like this much longer. Sometimes someone has to break everything up so things can start to get back together the right way, or at least in a better way. It had to be done.”

       “I shouldn’t have said anything about Daria at all.”

       “Someone should have said something about her ages ago,” Amy replied. “Probably me.”

       “It wasn’t your place,” said Rita.

       “It doesn’t matter, if it had to be done.”

       “Let’s don’t argue,” said Quinn, still looking at the refrigerator. “Let’s drop it, please.”

       The two aunts subsided.

       “Amy?”

       “Yes, dear?”

       Quinn turned and looked at her. “I have a weird question.”

       Amy turned around in her seat, resting her chin on her arm on the back of the chair. “This is a good day for that, I think. Ask away.”

       Shoving her hands in her pockets, Quinn looked at the tips of her boots. “We were talking about poetry yesterday in English. There was this saying in one of the poems. It was something like, um... ‘After the first death, there is no other.’”

       “Dylan Thomas,” said Amy. “I remember that one.”

       “That was quick,” said Rita, with a mirthless laugh.

       “I read a lot,” said Amy evenly, still looking in Quinn’s direction.

       “What does that mean?” asked her niece. “That part of the poem?”

       “Well... it’s religious, in a way. After someone dies, Thomas was saying that person lives on in heaven, in the afterlife. There is no death there. You live forever.”

       “Do you believe that?”

       Amy blinked. Her gaze drifted to one side. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “I have no idea what happens after we die.”

       “Do you think Daria’s an angel now?”

       “Of course,” said Rita with quiet assurance.

       “I don’t know,” said Amy, an edge in her voice. “I don’t believe much in angels. They’re never around when you need them.”

       “Yes, they are,” said Rita. “It just depends on what you need.”

       Amy merely sighed and shook her head, looking away.

       “They don’t show up and save you from anything, but they’re there,” Rita added. “They watch over you.”

       Quinn considered this. “Why do they do that?”

       Though she looked as if she desperately wanted to say something, Amy took off her glasses and rubbed her face hard with both hands instead.

       “I believe they’re around to give us strength and guidance when things go wrong,” said Rita. “I know that’s not a popular view—” She looked pointedly at Amy “—but it’s what I believe. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

       “I guess I don’t know what to believe,” said Quinn. “I wish I knew.”

       “You’ll figure it out for yourself,” said Amy, putting her glasses back on. She turned around, head tilted, listening. Everyone heard the garage door open next to the kitchen.

       “Jake’s back,” said Rita. She got to her feet and walked out of the kitchen. “I’ll get Helen.”

       Amy got up as well.

       “Amy?”

       “What?”

       “Did you like Daria a lot?”

       “Daria?” Her aunt looked at her in a strange way. “I liked you both,” she said. “She was a good kid. She had her ways, but she was a good kid.” She sighed. “She was a little hard to get used to, because she didn’t talk much, but I liked her as she was. She could be kind of particular.”

       “Will you tell me more about her?”

       “Honey,” said Amy, then stopped and closed her eyes. She blew out her breath and opened her eyes again. “I wasn’t around very much when you two were kids. I’m sorry for it now. I didn’t get to know either of you very well. You were both good kids.”

       “Thanks,” said Quinn. “Thanks for telling me about her.”

       Amy walked over and gave Quinn a hug. “Come on, let’s get ready for dinner. I’ll get the drinks if you can set the table.”

 

 

 

Chapter Nineteen

 

 

       Dinner was a strange affair. Quinn remembered having Aunt Rita with them on a number of occasions, but never Aunt Amy. As they sat down at the table, Quinn noticed that her mother was flanked by her two sisters, who passed cartons of Chinese food to her without being asked. The women began talking about the people they worked with at their jobs—Helen at her legal firm, Amy at the editorial department of a publishing house, and Rita with volunteers for a charity drive she managed for her church.

       Jake, on the other hand, sat at the opposite end of the table and ate without speaking. He passed food to Quinn, who sat next to her Aunt Rita. It was crowded but manageable with the small cartons scattered everywhere between the plates.

       Quinn did not feel like talking about Daria during dinner. There had been entirely too much stress to this point, and she needed a break. Nonetheless, she found herself thinking, as her father passed the sweet-and-sour sauce to her, that it was he who found Daria drowned in the lake, he who had pulled her out. What had that been like for him? Without warning, an image arose in her mind of her father struggling out of a lake with a child’s cold body in his arms, water spilling from their soaked clothing. She saw the child’s head thrown back in death, her mouth open, white limbs hanging slack as her father ran, crying for help.

       In moments, Quinn lost her appetite and could only pick at her food. It was no wonder he seemed to have so much trouble dropping her off at school every day. He did not know whether she would be alive when he next picked her up.

       “I’m full,” she said at last, pushing her plate away. She got up, carrying her plate, glass, and silverware to the sink to rinse before putting them in the dishwasher.

       “Do you want some dessert?” Helen called to her.

       “No.” As Quinn finished cleaning up, she noticed the calendar and walked over to it. She flipped the pages to November. Daria’s next birthday, the 20th, was on a Thursday, one week before Thanksgiving Day. It would have been her sixteenth. She let the pages drop and stood, thinking.

       The portable phone rang. Quinn reflexively reached for it. “Quinn,” she said.

       “Ah, who?” said a male voice on the other end. “Is this the Morgendorffers’?”

       “Yes.”

       “Oh, okay. This is Eric Schrecter. I work with Helen Morgendorffer at Vitale, Davis, Horowitz, Riordan, Schrecter and Schrecter. Is Helen there?”

       “Just a minute.” Quinn walked over and handed the phone to her mother, who wiped her hands on a napkin and answered.

       “Helen Morgendorffer,” she said. “Oh, hi, Eric. Yes. We’re having dinner right now.... Oh, I was going to do that Monday.... Uh, well, if you really need it by then, I guess I can come in.” She looked at her watch.

       “What are you doing?” asked Amy, staring at Helen with growing alarm.

       “I can be there in a half hour,” said Helen. “Are you there already? Oh. Are you coming in later, then? Oh, I see. Well—”

       “No,” said Amy, getting up from the table. “No, absolutely not! You are not going off to work on a Saturday night—not this Saturday night!”

       “Helen,” said Rita, putting her fork down, “I’m sorry, but I agree with Amy. That can’t be as important as this.”

       Helen froze with the phone against her ear, eyes darting from one sister to the other. “Um,” she said into the mouthpiece, “Eric, wait one moment.” She covered the mouthpiece with her hand. “I just started there,” she said. “We have a huge case that’s going to trial on Tuesday, and—”

       “What’s more important?” Amy interrupted. “You tell me. What’s more important?”

       “Amy, I need this job!” Helen snapped. “I just started working, and if we don’t have my salary, we don’t have this house! It won’t take that long!” She raised the handset to her mouth again.

       “You’re going to turn your back on this daughter, too?” said Rita, before Helen could say a word.

       The moment was imprinted on Quinn’s vision. Her mother looked up at Rita and pulled back, the phone at her lips. Horror erased all expression from her face. She stared at her sister without breathing or moving. Though she paled and swallowed, Rita stood her ground and did not look away. Amy and Jake watched, unmoving, from the sidelines.

       Helen lowered the phone and thumbed it off. Without a word, she pushed away from the table and hurried out of the kitchen, still clutching the handset. After a moment, Jake got up and went after her. Their quick footsteps thumped up the stairs.

       “I didn’t know you had it in you,” said Amy in amazement.

       Rita stared into space, one hand playing with the neckline of her blouse. “I think I’d better go apologize,” she said, and she walked away from the table.

       “You don’t have to,” said Amy, but Rita was gone in moments.

       Amy settled back into her chair, then looked at Quinn. It seemed as if she wanted to say something, but instead she shook her head, picked up her glass of water, and took a long drink.

       Quinn listened to the sound of Rita’s footsteps going up the stairs. She then looked back at the table and thought about all the food that was going to go bad if it wasn’t put into the refrigerator right away. It did not seem that important, but she had nothing else to do. She walked over and began to close up the cartons.

       “We’ve always been like this,” said Amy, poking at her chicken fried rice. “Something wrong always comes out of someone’s mouth, and down the drain it goes.”

       Quinn continued to close up the cartons of food.

       “When Dad died,” Amy went on, “we argued before the funeral and afterward, too. I don’t remember anymore what we were arguing about. That’s all I remember about it. That’s us, the Barksdale girls.”

       “Did you argue at Daria’s funeral?”

       The question caught Amy off-guard. She didn’t answer right away. “I, um, no. No, we didn’t. We didn’t talk much.” She rubbed her face.

       “At least you have each other,” said Quinn. She closed another carton, the second to last, and stopped. “It’s sort of funny, isn’t it,” she said. “I find out I had a sister, but she’s gone, and here you three have each other, and all you do is fight.” She leaned on the table with both hands, looking down into the last open box of barbecued ribs. “I don’t get it,” she said.

       Amy poked at her fried rice a little longer, then put down her chopsticks and stared at the floor.

       “My sister is dead,” said Quinn, “and all you do is fight.” She closed the last carton, then stacked several of them up and carried them to the refrigerator. As she opened it, she heard someone get up from the table and leave the kitchen. By the time Quinn finished putting the cartons away, Amy’s footsteps had reached the top of the stairs.

       Quinn went back to the deserted table and looked at the plates. Sitting down again, she picked up a fork and lifted a bite from her Aunt Rita’s plate. The lemon chicken was pretty good.

       “I wish I had someone to fight with, too,” she said to the air around her. “I wish you were here. They shouldn’t have all the fun.”

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty

 

 

       Sleep did not come easily. For one thing, Quinn knew her mother and two aunts were up late talking in Helen and Jake’s bedroom. They had said they wanted to talk about Daria, but they did not want Jake or Quinn present. Quinn suspected they were talking more about their own lives than about Daria’s. It was impossible to hear anything through two doors with the three of them talking in low voices, but worries over what exactly they were discussing kept her up anyway. She tried to relax while lying on one side, then the other, crossing and recrossing her legs and repositioning her arms. It felt too warm in the room, and though she was down to her underwear, it was useless.

       Rolling over, she sat up on the edge of the bed and checked the clock-radio. It was half past eleven. She was still worn out from the events of the day. Her head felt like it was stuffed with gray cotton. Maybe if she watched a little TV on the big screen, she would get tired and sleep. The couches were comfortable enough. She pulled on a pair of short pants and an over-long nightshirt, padded barefoot across her carpet, opened the door, and checked the darkened hall. The faint sounds of music drifted up from downstairs. She frowned. Did someone forget and leave the TV on, or was someone down there watching already? If the set was occupied, she could come back to her room and watch her miniature TV, but the big-screen set was a lot better. And there was always the kitchen for a little yogurt or carrot sticks... or ice cream.

       The ice cream decided it.

       She got downstairs with a minimum of noise and turned the corner. Her father, still in his day clothes, was in the living room before her. He sat close to the TV in a chair borrowed from the kitchen. The volume was turned down, but Quinn clearly heard the music, another hippie-generation rock song from the Sixties. It looked like her father was watching one of the music channels, perhaps a documentary of the hippie days and their weird lifestyle that her parents remembered with fondness, for reasons Quinn could not fathom.

       A caption at the bottom of the screen came on as one rock band sang: Creedence Clearwater Revival. The group appeared to be well into a song. A guitarist with a black mop of hair put his mouth to the microphone as he played. He sang with great intensity.

 

 

 

Yeaaah, some folks inherit star-spangled eyes,

Ooo, they send you down to war,

And when you ask them, how much should we give,

They only answer, more, more, more,

Yeah—

 

It ain't me, it ain't me,

I ain't no military son, no no no,

It ain't me, it ain't me,

I ain't no fortunate one.

 

It ain't me, it ain't me,

I ain't no fortunate one, no no no

 

 

 

       Jake turned around and saw his daughter. At the same moment, he pushed the remote and turned the volume down until the set was completely silent. “Hey, kiddo,” he said. He winced when he said that. He had never called Quinn “kiddo” before.

       “Hey, Daddy. What are you watching?”

       “Uh, oh, nothing. Just, uh, some music station. Old stuff. What can I get for you?”

       “Nothing.” Quinn walked around the love seat and sat near her father on the sofa. “Can’t sleep.”

       “It’s okay, kid—sweetie. I can’t sleep, either.”

       “Kiddo?”

       Jake shook his head, looking back at the TV set. “Nothing. Just... got confused.”

       Quinn meant to make a joke about the word, but a moment later she remembered where she’d heard her father use it before. It was on the videotape, when Jake had said something to Daria. In an instant, Quinn realized that had been his pet name for her sister.

       Desperate to change the subject, Quinn pointed to the TV. “Did you ever see them in concert?”

       “Once.” He pushed the remote again, and the TV set turned off. He dropped the remote on the round table in front of them. “It’s old stuff. I can hear it anytime. I’ve got one of their tapes in the car.”

       Quinn crossed her legs on the sofa and scratched her thigh. “Sorry about today,” she said.

       “Huh? Oh, that’s fine. That’s fine. No harm done. We got you back safely. That’s all that matters.” He continued to look at the dark TV screen, sitting forward on his chair, elbows resting on his knees and hands clasped before him.

       Another topic was needed. “What was your father like?”

       “My old man?” Jake glanced at Quinn, then looked away and sighed. “He, uh... he was kind of mean. Strict, maybe you could say, but mean, too. He wasn’t a very nice guy, I think.” He looked down at his open hands, studying his palms. “I used to complain about him a lot. He sent me to military school instead of high school. He made my life a living... eh, you already know about that. I complain about it sometimes.” He clasped his hands together again. “It doesn’t matter now.”

       “Why was he mean like that?”

       “I don’t know. He just was. I think I complain about him too much. He just wanted me to grow up and be a good man. We didn’t agree on anything. I hated listening to him worse than death. He wanted me to enlist in the Army, but I went into college instead. The other guys from military school, most of them went to Vietnam, and most of them are dead now, from the fighting or other things. Then my dad died when I was in college. He had a heart attack. We never got things sorted out between us.”

       “Was he mad at you when he died?” As soon as she said it, Quinn remembered Daria’s last words: I can’t stand her.

       “Maybe,” said her father. “I was more angry with him. I used to complain he ruined my life, but... in the end, I guess he wasn’t so bad. He and my mom brought up my brother and me, even if he wasn’t too understanding of things. We were a handful, but he saw us through safely.” He clapped his hands together once lightly. “He wasn’t so bad, I guess. I complain too much.”

       Quinn saw where this was going. “I think you’re a good dad,” she said quickly.

       He looked away from her. “I don’t think so,” he said.

       Quinn opened her mouth to contradict that, because more than anything she wanted to tell her father he was a good dad, but she knew what was already in his mind. His father was a bad man who got his children to adulthood alive. Her father failed to do that, so he was worse than his own father. There was nothing she could say to that.

       “I still think you’re a good dad,” she said anyway.

       “I should have gone to Vietnam with the rest of them. I should have gone with them.” He looked at the TV and rubbed his hands together. “I was a coward. My dad was right about that.”

       “Daddy,” said Quinn earnestly, “if you’d gone to Vietnam, you might not have had me.”

       He stared into the black TV screen and said nothing.

       She knew what he was thinking: I would not have let Daria die, either.

       He reached down for something beside his chair on the floor. His hand came up with a tall, brown-glass bottle that he put to his lips. The label said it was bourbon. He took a long drink, made a face as he swallowed it, then set the bottle back on the floor beside him. The bottle appeared to be half empty. He usually drank a bit, but he rarely seemed to get drunk. Tonight was different.

       This needed to come to an end. “Daddy?”

       “What, sweetie?”

       “Why don’t you go to bed?”

       He waved a hand toward the stairs. “Can’t yet. Your mom and her sisters are up there. Battling Barksdales.”

       Quinn got up from the sofa. “Here, this is comfortable. Sleep here. I’ll get you a blanket.”

       Jake shook his head. “I’m fine here. Not sleepy yet.” He rubbed his eyes and looked around for the remote, but he didn’t pick it up. “Maybe I’ll get a snack. Is there any Chinese left in the refrigerator?”

       “Sure. I’ll get you some.” She was out of the room and into the kitchen in a moment. Taking three cartons from the frig, she put them on the counter and went to look for a plate and glass. She heard her father get up from his chair, and she turned to look. He came into the kitchen with heavy steps, his shoulder slumped and head down. She thought at first he was tired, but it looked like something more was happening. He always looked tired, weary around the edges, a little slow despite his efforts to be cheery when she was near.

       He still carries Daria with him, Quinn realized. She’s still in his arms. He has never put her down.

       She swallowed, fighting back tears. “Here you go,” she said quickly, piling the cartons on the plate and carrying them to the table. “Sit down. I’ll—”

       He was still carrying the bottle of bourbon. Quinn waited until he set the bottle on the table, then she took it and walked back to the refrigerator, putting it on the counter as he protested. “I’ll get you some milk,” she said. “Milk will help you sleep.” She got out the milk bottle and poured a glassful. When she carried it back to the table, her father was looking at the food cartons with a dull expression. Quinn helped him get some food on his plate, then got a small plate for herself and some silverware and napkins.

       They ate in silence for fifteen minutes. When her father finally pushed his plate away, she got up immediately. “Go get on the couch,” she said, and led him out of the kitchen. She got him settled, took off his shoes, and put a blanket over him that she took from a hall closet. After turning down the lights, she checked on him one last time. His eyes were closed, his breathing low and steady.

       She poured the rest of the bourbon down the sink. He’d buy more later, but he wouldn’t drink this batch. When she was done and had thrown out the bottle, she leaned on her arms on the edge of the sink, looking down the drain.

       Everything was coming out now, and it was more than Quinn had expected. She had never imagined how much her parents had suffered over the years, reliving what had happened with Daria on that day in the lake. It was becoming clearer to her, the damage done, how it had snowballed even as they’d tried to hide it away.

       We need help, she thought, looking into the drain. We have to get some help, or we are all lost.

       She went back to bed after checking on her father once more. Only much later did she remember she had come downstairs to get some ice cream. When she came down the next morning, however, she found her mother and aunts had gotten into it before her and eaten it all.

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty-One

 

 

       Amy Barksdale’s lone suitcase was not heavy, and Quinn managed without trouble to get it into the small trunk of her aunt’s flame-red Triumph Spitfire. She gave the convertible an admiring gaze, then went back into the house to say her goodbyes before Amy left for home that Sunday morning.

       Helen, Amy, and Rita stood in a huddle in the living room, Amy with her car keys in her hand. Quinn was relieved to see the three of them standing close to each other and talking animatedly about getting together at Christmas at Rita’s place in Leeville. Amy had already agreed to come back the following weekend for one more visit, just to see how things were going. The atmosphere held some tension, but it was a vast improvement over all that had gone before.

       Quinn was less happy to find her father alone in the kitchen, trying to make himself a margarita. He would not be badgered into seeing Helen’s sister off, so Quinn left him there after making him promise not to drink too much.

       Back in the living room, Quinn gave Amy an impulsive hug. “I love you,” she said. “It meant a lot to me that you came.”

       Amy gave her niece a squeeze and a kiss on the cheek. “It meant a lot to me, too. I gave your mom my e-mail address and cell phone number. If you need to talk, you can get in touch with me. I can’t promise I’ll be prompt, but I’ll do better than I’ve been doing.”

       Releasing her niece, Amy waved and headed for the door. “I’ve got to get back and get ready for work tomorrow. I’m in charge of a staff meeting at nine sharp.”

       Helen and Rita walked outside with her, Quinn following behind. “I love your car,” Quinn confessed as Amy got in and shut the driver’s door. “Lucky you, you’ve got good weather for leaving the top down, too.”

       Amy put on a pair of sunglasses and looked up at Quinn for a moment. She turned to Helen. “Hey, sis, do you mind if I give your kid a ride around the block before I go?”

       Everyone looked at Helen. She hesitated, then crossed her arms and shrugged in a way that was clearly forced. “It’s fine with me,” she said. “Just, you know, be careful and don’t... just... it’s okay.”

       Amy glanced back at Quinn. “Hop in,” she said with a smile.

       Quinn did so on the spot. She marveled at how compact the car was; it was almost as if she were wearing the car, not sitting in it. “Where are we going?” she asked as she buckled in and tried not to bang her knees into the glove compartment.

       “Around,” said Amy. “Just a quick drive through the subdivision. Don’t want your mom to worry for too long.”

       Amy started the car and backed out onto the street, then took off with a roar. “You like it?” she called over the thunder of the wind.

       “I love it!” Quinn shouted back. “How fast can you go?”

       “A little too fast. After my third speeding ticket, I had to make a choice between walking and driving like a boring person, so boring won out.”

       As the car rounded a curve and went out of sight of the Morgendorffers’ home, Amy slowed and pulled over to the curb, the engine running. “Okay,” she said, looking at Quinn. “I hate to put you on the spot, but do you want to get Daria’s things now?”

       Quinn’s enthusiasm subsided. She looked around, then nodded. “Take a left at that street over there,” she said, “at Howard Drive.”

       Amy nodded and followed Quinn’s instructions until they arrived at the Lane home. Amy parked the car at the end of the driveway, turned off the engine, and raised her sunglasses. “You can go in and get them, if anyone’s home,” she said. “I’ll wait here to give you some privacy. Do you need help?”

       “No. It’s okay.”

       “Your mother will be glad to see these back.”

       “I know.” Quinn got out of the car, walked up the driveway to the front door, and knocked. After her third time knocking, she heard the sound of approaching feet. The door opened to reveal Jane in a red T-shirt and black jeans. She was brushing her teeth. Motioning Quinn inside, she looked out at the Triumph in the driveway, waved to Amy, and walked upstairs, leaving the front door open.

       “Who’s that?” Jane asked after spitting out the toothpaste in the upstairs sink.

       “One of my aunts,” said Quinn. “I came to pick up Daria’s things.”

       “Everything okay?”

       “Yeah.” Quinn nodded. “Mostly. Things are still a mess, but at least we’re talking about stuff. I think we’re going to have to get some help or something. Soon, I hope.”

       Jane led Quinn to her sister’s bedroom and helped by carrying the box while Quinn put on the backpack. Quinn explained the events of the weekend in brief.

       “You know,” said Jane as they went downstairs, “as screwed up as you think your family is, you haven’t seen mine yet. We haven’t had the same problems as your family has, but at least your folks are making an effort to get their lives sorted out. Everyone here is still in denial.”

       “Denial about what?”

       “That’s exactly what they say. Anyway, good luck.”

       “I hope things work out. I’m really worried about my dad.”

       “If I knew how my dad was doing, or even where he was right now, I’d probably worry about him, too.” Jane opened the door and let Quinn go outside first. “I’ve learned not to worry, though. Makes my life simpler. Which I sort of regret.”

       Amy was waiting for them in the car, her sunglasses still pushed up into her hair. “Just set those in the back seat,” she said. “We’re heading back to the house at below light speed, so nothing will blow away.”

       Jane put the box in the car, giving the Triumph the same pleased look that Quinn had. “I want one of these, but in royal blue.”

       “You must be Quinn’s new friend,” said Amy. She put out a hand. “Amy Barksdale, sometime aunt.”

       “Jane Lane, sometime artist.” Jane shook hands. “If you ever consider adoption, I’m free. My parents won’t mind.”

       “Sorry, but I don’t have enough money for a second Triumph,” said Amy.

       “Forget it, then.” Jane grinned. “Quinn says she’s lucky to have you in the family.”

       “Really?” Amy gave Quinn a peculiar smile. “I was thinking how lucky I was to have her around. Maybe we should form a club.”

       “I’ll be treasurer,” said Jane. “I suck at math, but I love money.”

       “I’ll remember that. I should be back in the area next weekend. Maybe the three of us can go out and do lunch. Are you partial to pizza?”

       “You’re sure you’re not adopting anytime soon? I’d clean my room once a month, honest.”

       Amy laughed. “I have to run, but we’ll continue this conversation when I return. Thank you, Jane, for helping us out.”

       “No problem.” Jane looked at Quinn, who stood beside her with Amy. “See you tomorrow in self-esteem class.”

       Amy raised an eyebrow. “In what?”

       “I’ll explain later,” said Quinn glumly. “It’s a stupid story.”

       “It’d have to be,” said Jane. “It’s a stupid class.”

       Finishing their goodbyes, Amy and Quinn waved to Jane as they drove away. Quinn gave directions back to Glen Oaks. Once they turned onto Quinn’s home street, however, Amy pulled the Triumph over to the side of the road once more, leaving the engine idling in park.

       “I have to talk to you about something before we get back,” said Amy, turning to Quinn. “You said you wanted the truth from now on, about Daria and, I assume, everything else, too.”

       Though she hadn’t expected this, Quinn nodded and waited.

       “Okay. Look, I’m having some second thoughts about some things I said to you about your mother. I’ve already apologized to your mom, but I need to talk to you.” She stopped, searching for words. “I’ve really had a two-by-four up my butt for a long time about what happened with Daria, and I’m a blunt person so I’m just going to say it as best I can. What happened to Daria was a terrible thing, it shouldn’t have happened, and there was no excuse for it. I can rage to the end of my life about that, but I think the time has come for me to let it go.”

       She hesitated again. “You want the truth, but Quinn, there are some truths that probably shouldn’t be said aloud, because saying them does more damage than covering them up. Your parents should have told you about Daria—I’m not talking about that. I’m fiercely pissed that they didn’t, but that’s... what I’m saying is that I’ve tortured Helen long enough about... about the circumstances of Daria’s death, and not telling you about her, just everything. Your mother’s punished herself for what happened to Daria for over twelve years, and she’ll keep doing it to the end of her life. It will always ride on her. That said, she doesn’t need me to add to her burden.”

       Her face darkened. “I think I made things a lot worse by not being there for you and your mom. I was feeling pretty self-righteous about it until this weekend, I’m sorry to say. Rita’s been a better aunt to you than I ever was. I’m going to try to—no, I’m going to do better for you and your mom. That’s what I mean.”

       “And my dad, too,” said Quinn. “He’s really having problems about this. I think he always has, but it’s getting worse.”

       “And your dad, too, though I... yeah, and your dad, too. Sorry. Anyway, I don’t want to talk to you about all the things I’ve thought about your mom all these years. That kind of honesty you don’t need. I suspect you’ve got some of your own feelings about the situation with your sister, too, especially if you saw that videotape, whatever was on it. Anyway—”

       “You want to let go of it,” said Quinn pointedly.

       “Uh, yeah. Good one. I have to let go of it. Doesn’t seem like I am, but I have to. But listen to me: I’m not letting go of Daria. She was a great kid. I have some pictures of her at my apartment. When I come back, I’ll bring them with me. I’m not sure your mother’s even seen them. Daria stayed over with me once for a couple days. We had a good time.” Amy sighed and looked past Quinn into space. “We had a pretty good time.”

       “I wish I’d known her better,” said Quinn. She looked down, feeling the energy drain from her. “I know you don’t like to hear this, but she really didn’t like me. The videotape has a lot of stuff on it, things she said and did, and even if you don’t believe me or tell me to ignore it, I can tell that she hated me. The last thing she said before—at the picnic, in the video—was that she couldn’t stand me, and then she wandered off. That was the end.”

       “Oh, Quinn,” said Amy. She reached over and took her niece’s hand.

       “I’m okay,” Quinn said in a low voice. “It really did happen, though. I think I’ll have to get over it, like you said you have to get over things with mom and dad. I really wish she and I had had the chance to get past that, if we ever could have. I never got to know her as a person.” She looked up. “I didn’t tell you this the other night, but I envy you, that you have sisters you can argue with. I wish I had that, too.”

       “You said some things that got me to think about what I was doing,” said Amy. “I have a lot of catching up to do before I get to be as good an aunt as Rita.”

       “You’re doing pretty well already, I think.”

       “Thanks. We’ll see how it goes next weekend.”

       “Amy? Can you help my mom find some help for us? I don’t even know where to start. I really getting worried about my dad. He’s drinking and saying some things that are kind of scaring me. We need to do something for him, but I have no idea what to do. Things are so messed up.”

       Quinn described what had happened the night before with her father. Amy listened, then took a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll do what I can. I’ll try to call your mom after I get home tonight and talk to her about it.”

       “Thanks.”

       “Let’s go home.”

       Amy put the car into gear again and drove the rest of the way back to the house. “Oh, hell,” she said as she pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine. “I may as well stay a while longer and talk now, then look at Daria’s things, too. I’ve been thinking about it ever since Helen mentioned you took everything with you.” She tossed her sunglasses aside and got out of the car with Quinn. “You get the backpack, I’ll get the box. And maybe your mom won’t mind if we have pizza delivered for lunch. I don’t think I could stand Chinese again.”

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty-Two

 

 

       Her father parked the Lexus next to the caretaker’s home at the cemetery outside of Austin. In front of the car loomed the treeless hill on which most of the gravesites lay. Moments later, Quinn and her parents got out, shivering in the late November chill. Few people were around on the long holiday weekend. Quinn zipped up her windbreaker and stuck her hand in her pockets, hunching her shoulders against the wind. A few minutes more, she thought. Just a few minutes more.

       Her parents hesitated at the base of the gravel pathway up the hillside. “I’m not sure I remember where it is,” said Helen. “It’s up this aisle, I know, but I don’t remember—”

       “I know where it is,” said Jake. He put an arm around Helen’s waist, and they began walking up. Her head down, Quinn followed behind them. She found herself reading the last names on the grave markers they passed. Some names were familiar, like Rowe or Lane; seeing them was creepy. It reminded her that in time she, too, would have a marker like one of these. She tried to forget that as quickly as she could.

       The top of the hill was a tenth of a mile from the parking lot. Just short of the top, Jake stopped and looked to the right, then began making his way between the rows of granite and marble stones. Many of the markers in this section were small, only one by two feet, rising a few inches above the ground with simple names and dates on them. Quinn swallowed when she saw that some of the gravestones were for children. Hunting among them for her sister’s grave was the most depressing and nerve-wracking thing she could remember. She wondered what Daria’s stone would look like.

       Her father came to a stop by one small marker in light gray granite. Her mother inhaled sharply, then stood rock-still as she leaned into her husband, looking down. Tears ran down their faces as they looked at the stone at their feet. Quinn walked slowly to their side and looked down as well.

 

 

 

 

DARIA MORGENDORFFER

Beloved Daughter

Nov. 20, 1981 — May 18, 1985

Be at peace, and forgive us

 

 

 

       Daria, my sister, I swore that one day I would find you, and nothing would stop me. Quinn wiped her eyes on her jacket sleeves. I swore I would find you, but I meant for you to be alive, not like this. This is not at all how I wanted to find you. I hate this. All that I wanted is lost. You are gone.

       Her parents clutched each other in silence before the stone. Sniffing back a runny nose, Quinn took a step forward and knelt beside the marker to brush away the dust that covered it. Her throat hurt terribly.

       This is not fair, Daria. This isn’t fair at all. This thing is a rock. It isn’t you. I know you’re supposed to be down there, somewhere below us in the ground, but I can’t see you. I can’t hear you. I can’t touch you. I can’t even remember you that well. All I have is a lousy video, a little photo, a few pages of drawings and scribbles, your baby clothes, and my faded memories. That, and the knowledge that you were angry with me when you died, so angry that you ran away and were lost. Now I have no way to say what I want to you, to tell you I love you, to even know that you hear me or can tell I exist.

       She again wiped her face on her jacket sleeves, which had become damp and messy. Her fingers moved over the marker’s surface and pressed into the engraved letters, feeling their still-sharp edges. Be at peace, and forgive us. It said everything her parents felt about her sister’s death. Quinn thought of the rage she had poured out in some of her sessions with the counselor, the grief she went through for a death over a dozen years gone. She had cursed and damned her parents for failing to watch Daria—but then, her rage spent, she had gone home with them and lived with them as if she loved them, which she did, however strained it was. She still loved her parents despite their faults, great and small. That’s just how it was.

       Her fingers traced the edges of the stone, measuring out how small it was in the ground. All there is of you is this marker with your name on it. I wish my fingers were touching you instead of this stone. I thought there would be more here than this rock, but I don’t see it. I have not found it. I thought I could put my grief behind me, make peace with you and move on with my life, but my pain goes on. You are not here. I cannot believe in your death. It has not ended for me, as it has not ended for my parents, who are your parents, too. We need to get through this pain, but we cannot move.

       Quinn put the fingertips of her right hand to her lips, then put her hand back on the grave marker, fingers pressed to the name Daria.

       I want to believe you are alive somewhere in another world, a better world than this. I want to believe you are far away on another hill, running and laughing, your bitterness gone. I do not care if you are an angel or some other being, so long as you are happy, and I pray you do not dream of this place or of me in sadness or anger. I want only for you to be happy and at peace.

       She covered her face with her hand and struggled not to lose control.

       Today is your sixteenth birthday, but you will always be three. Soon it will be Thanksgiving, and even if you hated me in life, I am thankful that you were my sister. Tonight I will light a candle in the window of my room at the hotel and sing the birthday song for you and you alone. I hope you hear it and think of us, and if you do, I hope you forgive my parents, who are your parents, too. Forgive them so they can go on with their lives and do good things. Forgive them because they loved you and still love you. Let them go on.

       And if you do forgive them, forgive me, too, if I made you feel alone and unloved. Forgive me if I hurt you so much that you wished I were gone. Forgive me, because you are my only sister, and I love you, too.

       We are in so much pain we cannot move, but we need to go on. We need to go on with you in our hearts, but we cannot do it without this thing from you. Do this, I beg you, in whatever world you are. Forgive us. Forgive us, as we love you, and let us go.

       Quinn felt a hand on her shoulder. She wiped her face on her hands and stood. Her parents reached for her and pulled her to them. “I’m okay,” she said. “I’m okay.”

       They stayed for a few minutes longer, looking at the view from the hilltop, then began the walk down to the car.

       That afternoon, they picked up Helen’s sisters at Austin-Bergstrom International Airport. Helen took Rita and Amy to the cemetery, just the three of them, while Quinn and her father sat in one of the hotel rooms and watched cable TV. That evening, all five went out for dinner at a family restaurant and ordered soup, appetizers, and little else. They looked as tired as they felt.

       “I think Erin’s going to have some news for me when I get back,” said Rita, buttering a roll. “Something’s going on between her and this new guy Brian she’s been seeing, and she said it would be resolved by Monday.”

       “Do you think he’s planning to pop the question?” asked Amy. “Or is she planning to pop him?”

       “If she did pop him, I’d feel a lot better,” muttered Rita. “I told Erin to be careful. There’s something about him I don’t like, but I can’t put my finger on it. She hasn’t listened to me up to this point, but maybe she’ll come to her senses.”

       Amy looked over at Helen. “You’re not eating, dear.”

       Helen appeared to wake up, blinking and looking around the table. “Hmm? Oh, sorry. My mind was wandering.”

       “You okay, honey?” asked Jake.

       “I’m all right. The therapist said it would be hard, coming here at this time, but maybe it would—”

       “Mom,” Quinn interrupted quickly, “could you pass the salt, please?”

       “What? Oh. Here, sweetie.”

       “How about everyone coming over to my place next week for Thanksgiving?” Rita said. “Erin and I would love to have you.”

       Amy exhaled through her nose, clearly thinking about her work schedule, and Jake and Helen exchanged looks. “Well—” Jake began.

       “I would love that,” said Quinn in a low voice. Everyone looked at her and thought a second time.

       “Okay, sure,” said Helen, giving in. “Thank you.”

       “I’m in, too,” said Amy, half smiling. “I’ll shift my schedule around and be there with a pot of something. I might cook it myself. First time for everything.”

       “Jake’s taking a cooking class,” said Helen. “The therapist said that it would be good for him to find something to do so he won’t become so depressed about—”

       Rita coughed hard into her napkin, interrupting her sister.

       “Helen—” Jake began, looking stricken.

       “We’ve got a new book coming out in January,” said Amy, jumping in and talking fast. “One of the top underwear fashion experts in Hollywood is going to reveal what some of the big names have—or don’t have—under their clothes. It even has pictures.” She glanced over at her niece. “I’ll see that Quinn gets an advance copy. Maybe she’ll learn something from it.”

       “Oh, right, as if,” said Quinn, who then appeared to reconsider. “Wait—anything about thongs in there?”

       This provoked a gasp from Helen and an animated conversation about women’s underwear that Jake attempted to ignore as best he could, though he gave Amy a grateful look. Quinn felt a great rush of relief, too. Her mother tended to talk too much about what went on during the family therapy sessions, and everyone was becoming adept at derailing her train of thought, especially when it concerned Jake.

       “So, Quinn,” said Rita when the underwear topic had run its course, “are you still in that Fashion Club at school?

       “No,” said Quinn. She had been staring at her soup, trying to work up an appetite. “The president of the club said my membership had been on a trial basis, and when I was put into that self-esteem class, they revoked it. Someone named Brooke got the VP job after me.”

       “Oh, no. Girls can be so mean. Well, are you in any other activities?”

       Quinn shook her head. She spooned a little of the soup into her mouth. It was good, but she kept thinking of Daria, outside on the cold hill instead of alive and well, inside the dining room with them.

       “Are you still in that, uh, after-school workshop?” asked Amy.

       Quinn nodded. She didn’t want to talk about it, but she was now in her third cycle of the self-esteem class, and Jane was in her ninth. Quinn liked it there, too. As long as she was in that class, she was around other students in the afternoon and didn’t have to go home and deal with her parents, who of late were often in the throes of bleak depression or steaming anger as a result of their therapy. Things were improving, though she knew they all had a long road ahead of them.

       “Jane in the workshop with you?”

       “Yeah. I model for her sometimes.”

       “She’s good,” said Jake suddenly animated. He appeared embarrassed for a moment, then added, “Good sketches. I like her pictures of you. Just like you.”

       “I like her,” said Amy. “I wish she’d do more with her art, though. I think she’s got potential. She should put together a portfolio and send it around for freelance work.”

       “She should,” said Quinn absently. Jane might do it, too, except she—like Quinn—had gotten used to being in the self-esteem class, wasting her afternoons instead of working on her paintings and sculptures. What Jane needed was someone to push her a little, someone to make her want to do better. Not a mentor, Quinn reflected, but someone more like an agent. She chewed the inside of her cheek.

       “Aunt Amy?” said Quinn. “Do you know of some places Jane could send her stuff to? Freelance places?”

       “Heavens, yes. I know a lot of people in publishing who are looking for artists. Most of the work’s in periodicals, but there are some book publishers looking for line artists and color work, too. Some need photographers.” Amy coughed. “Of course, most of these people are our competitors, but artists need to get themselves out there and build up their talents somehow.”

       “Can you get me a list like that? Maybe I can show it to Jane and get her interested.”

       “Certainly. Next week, first thing when I get back.”

       “Leeville has a tourist magazine that needs a good artist,” said Rita. “The ones it’s using now are terrible.”

       Quinn reached down for her purse and pulled out a pen and miniature notebook. “What’s the magazine’s name?” she asked.

       Leeville at Leisure. I know the publisher. Used to date him, before Roger.” She sighed and shook her head. “I knew that HALO jump was a bad idea. I just knew it.”

       Having already heard several times about Roger’s fatal descent onto a cow in a farm pasture, Quinn ignored Rita’s comment and scribbled a few notes. “If you can send me the publisher’s address and phone number, that would be great.”

       “Sure, dear.”

       If Jane got interested in freelance work, she might get interested enough to pass the exit exam for the self-esteem class, too. It would be about time for it. Jane had confessed she knew the right answers for the test, but—like Quinn—had never felt motivated to give them. Perhaps it was time for them to take the test and move on.

       Deep in thought, Quinn picked up her spoon and began to eat her soup. It wasn’t bad at all.

       That night, Quinn turned out the lights in her hotel room, though she had not yet dressed for bed. She kept her jacket on. Tomorrow, the five of them were to explore Austin and see its many cheerier sights. She wasn’t that crazy about seeing the state capitol building, but the shopping was supposed to be excellent. It would help to get some sleep before the touring got started.

       But first...

       Quinn pulled a small package from a side pouch of her suitcase and walked over to the window in her room. She pulled out a piece of clay first, pressing it down on the windowsill after making sure the curtains were not in the way. Then, she pulled out a single small white candle and pushed it into the clay so it stood upright.

       Outside, the sky had cleared to the west. She could see stars twinkling in the distance. Pulling out a book of matches she had picked up in the restaurant, Quinn prepared to light the candle—

       —but stopped. After a period of thought, she pulled out the candle and dropped it back into her suitcase pouch. Reaching into the pouch again, she brought out a small plastic bag that she had brought with a few other mementoes. Inside the bag were three birthday candles, dried frosting still on their bottoms. She pushed these into the clay instead, forming a line.

       Opened the window a foot, she felt a cold breeze stir the air around her. With luck, it would keep the smoke detectors and fire alarms from going off, which would ruin everything.

       All was in readiness. She opened the book of matches and pulled a match free.

       “You didn’t get to blow them out the first time,” she said, looking at the stars. “This time, they’re yours.”

       She struck the match and lit the candles one by one, cupping a hand around the flame as she did. When all three candles were lit, she stepped back, wrapping her arms around herself and shivering in the cold. She waited, not knowing what to expect.

       The candles flickered in the darkness for a long minute.

       The wind then rose for a moment, and all three candles were blown out. Smoke drifted from their glowing wicks, then the glow died and the smoke ceased.

       Quinn blinked, surprised. “I love you,” she said to the wind. She waited to see if anything would be said back, but only distant traffic noise could be heard in the night. After waiting a while longer, she shut the window but left the curtains open, so she could see the stars. She then removed the candles and clay, wrapped them up, and put them back in her suitcase pouch. The matches she left on the desk in the room. Changing into her bedclothes took only a minute.

       When she was ready, she curled up under the bed’s thick quilt with a sea-green baby blanket under her head, looking out the window at the stars. It made sense, of course, that the wind would blow out the candles eventually. She had expected it, but not that quickly.

       I’ll never know if it was her, she thought. I can only hope it was.

       Her eyes closed. Not all was right with the world, but it was better, for a few moments at least.

       “I love you, Daria,” she whispered. And then she was gone.

 

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

 

 

Author’s Notes II: So ends the main tale. Additional revisions were made in this, the final version of the story, particularly with Daria’s birth date. The background chronology of the story assumes that Daria Morgendorffer would normally have graduated from Lawndale High in the year 2000, but here did not. An alternate version of chapters eighteen and nineteen follows, paralleling and surpassing events in chapters eighteen through twenty-two above. Enjoy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

APPENDIX: ALTERNATE ENDING

 

 

The Other Chapter Eighteen

 

 

       The following Monday, after school, Jane sat at her usual seat in Mr. O’Neill’s English classroom, waiting for the self-esteem course to begin. She had her sketchpad open and was working on a scene in which a grossly bloated demon with the facial features of the school principal was devouring assorted students, when the door opened and Quinn Morgendorffer slowly walked in.

       Jane looked up and stopped drawing. Quinn appeared hollow-eyed, and her hair was uncombed. She wore a bland pink tee, blue jeans, and a scuffed pair of shoes, and she carried her books under her arm. She saw Jane and walked over and sat down next to her in an empty seat.

       “Hi,” whispered Jane out of the side of her mouth.

       “Hi,” Quinn whispered back.

       “You okay?”

       Quinn raised a shoulder, then let it drop.

       As Mr. O’Neill prepared his lecture notes on body image and self-esteem, Jane passed her sketchbook to Quinn. As Jane watched, Quinn looked at the demon principal—and smiled faintly.

       “That’s good,” said Quinn.

       “I don’t like the positioning of the hands,” said Jane. “They don’t look threatening enough.”

       Quinn looked at Jane, then made a fierce monster face and raised both arms, her hands open in an attack position with her fingernails out like claws.

       Jane studied her. “That’s more like it. Hold that pose.” She took back her sketchbook and began making some quick adjustments to the demon picture.

       “Um, are we ready back there?” Mr. O’Neill asked, looking at the two of them.

       “Be right with you,” said Jane, putting the finishing touches on her work.

       Quinn and Jane completed their first and seventh self-esteem classes together, respectively. After the second week, however, Quinn’s position as Vice President of the Fashion Club was permanently filled by Brooke. Only Stacy acknowledged Quinn’s existence thereafter, secretly waving to her when no other club members were looking.

       Because Quinn and Jane both failed the exit exam for the self-esteem class, they began their second and eighth cycles of the course, respectively, in October. By then, Quinn wore pretty much the same outfit all the time: a pastel tee, jeans, and scuffed shoes. Boys continued to try to go out with her, but she did not acknowledge their existence. Her hair became tangled and lost its glowing beauty. She didn’t wear makeup. She rarely talked. Her Aunt Rita, having recovered from Roger’s untimely fall onto a cow when his HALO jump went awry, now despaired over her niece’s fall from fashion.

       Aside from the self-esteem class, Jane and Quinn did not hang around much together. They had few things in common aside from their connection over Daria and being high-school outcasts. Jane at least had her art to occupy her. Quinn, however, did little but sleep, read teen novels of love and angst, or watch soap operas on TV when she wasn’t in school or therapy. Reassured that their daughter was not going to take her own life, Quinn’s parents had finally relented and allowed her to be out on her own, though not after dark. Once in a while, she and Jane went out for pizza together.

       “I made a promise,” said Quinn during one such meal at Pizza King. Her comment came out of the blue, between discussions of school politics and a new three-level mall being built in Oakwood. Quinn put down her pizza slice and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “I swore to God that I’d find her, no matter what.”

       Jane knew when to be thoughtfully quiet around Quinn, and this was one of those times. Quinn worried her, even now.

       “I said nothing on Earth would stop me. I really thought I would find her.” Quinn shrugged and picked up her pizza. She ate it, looking out of the window. After a pause, Jane brought up the mall in Oakwood, knowing Quinn’s affection for malls, and the conversation was off again.

       Having settled out most of the past with her parents, Quinn brought all of Daria’s things back to the house, where they were kept in the open in the storage room. Quinn and her parents could see them whenever they liked. Her mother and father opened up and talked about Daria for the first time, all the things she did and said, how they had suffered for their negligence on that terrible May day. A kind of peace was found between the three of them, and it gave them a measure of comfort they had lacked before now. Daria’s former toys ended up in Quinn’s room, decorating the tops of her furniture.

       Things began to settle into a routine. Quinn and Jane entered their third and ninth cycles of the self-esteem class in November. The psychiatrist seeing Quinn tried to get her to take medication, but she refused it or else palmed it and threw it away when no one was looking. Jane began to date a little. Quinn followed suit and began to date a little, too, though few boys were tolerant of her parents’ restrictions.

       Daria’s birthday, which would have been her sixteenth, fell exactly one week before Thanksgiving Day in 1997. The family traveled to Austin, Texas, for a long weekend, and there on Daria’s birthday they visited her gravesite—a small thing on a hilltop cemetery, just a granite marker on the ground. Her parents had meant for Quinn, in effect, to meet her sister in this manner, but for Quinn the stone marker in the ground was not Daria. It was nothing like her lost sister. She did say a prayer for Daria there, but she did not feel she was any closer to her than she was before. Nor did she believe anyone really heard her prayer, God or otherwise.

       Quinn did not eat that long day, despite her parents’ best efforts. As night fell, she lit candles in her hotel room window and sang the birthday song to the evening sky. She wept in silence but was too depressed to cry much. She wondered if her sister was an angel now, but after having been through so much, Quinn found it hard to believe in angels. As Amy had said, they were never around when you most needed them.

       The trip seemed to help, though the routine when they returned to Lawndale went on. The routine, however, came to a sudden end shortly after Quinn and Jane began their fourth and tenth cycles in the self-esteem class in early December.

       “Esteem. A teen.” Mr. O’Neill put on his most thoughtful face. “They don’t really rhyme, do they?”

       Quinn was sorting through the papers in her backpack. She’d let a rat’s nest build up inside it. As Jane sketched her profile for use in a painting she was doing at home, Quinn pulled out page after page of class work and homework, depositing most in the garbage can beside her desk.

       “Can’t believe this junk,” Quinn grumbled under her breath, pulling out more papers.

       Mr. O’Neill cleared his throat at the front of the classroom and continued in a louder voice. “The two words don’t quite match up. That’s often the case when it comes to a—”

       Damn it!” said Quinn, holding up a wrinkled page. “That’s where last week’s science homework went!” She threw out the paper. “Too late now.”

       With a subtle cough, Mr. O’Neill went on. “And that’s... um, where was I? Um, oh! We are here to begin actual—wait, no, to begin realizing your actuality, yes. And when we do—”

       “What the hell’s this?” Quinn peered at another wrinkled paper.

       The teacher groaned. “Miss Morningburger—”

       “Morgendorffer.”

       “Miss Morgenduffer, please, let’s stay with the class. You can talk during the movie.” Seeing that Quinn was no longer interested in him and appeared absorbed in reading her paper, he went back to his lecture. “Now, um, let’s see. Realizing your actuality, yes. Now—”

       Quinn heard nothing of what he said. She was looking at the fact sheet she had pulled from her backpack. Her forehead creased in concentration. She folded the sheet out with care and laid it on her desk, studying it from beginning to end.

       After she finished her sketch of Quinn’s face, Jane leaned over to peek at the paper. “Oh, I remember that,” she said. “They did that earlier this year sometime, didn’t they? ‘Sick, Sad World’ had a great expose on how the government’s using it to—”

       “This—” Quinn tapped the page “—this only works with living things, right?”

       “What? How do you mean?”

       “Well, like, you have to use something living to start with, right?”

       Jane looked at the paper again, then looked at Quinn with a faint sense of dread. “As far as I know,” she said with caution. “If you get the material from, uh, something that isn’t living, like hair, I don’t think it works as well, if at all. The genetic material, whatever it is, isn’t as good, I guess. I’ve never heard of it being done that way, except in the movies.” An anxious look crossed her face. “You’re not really thinking of...”

       Quinn glanced up for a moment, then went back to studying the sheet. “It’s just interesting,” she said, her face revealing nothing.

       Jane watched Quinn carefully, then made herself relax. “It is interesting,” she agreed, going back to her sketchbook. “Dolly is a stupid name for a sheep, though.”

       When she got home that night, Quinn was more animated than usual, to her mother’s relief. Her father was out of town on a business trip, and after dinner Helen worked in her downstairs study on a big court case that was coming up in two weeks, consulting hourly with other attorneys.

       After dinner, Quinn went upstairs and lay on her bed, thinking. She knew she was not a scientific genius—or any kind of genius for that matter—but she had unlimited willpower, and sometimes that worked just as well. Eventually, she left her room and got into the storage-room box containing the paperwork on Daria’s death. She sorted through it until she found the complicated hospital forms she had not understood several months earlier on their discovery. These forms she took back to her room and read carefully, then got on the Internet with her pink laptop and began some research of her own.

       It appeared that her parents, after Daria’s death was made official at the hospital, had decided to allow some of her major organs to be harvested as transplants for needy children. It was a stunning gesture for two grief-stricken parents to make on the day they had lost their eldest child, and Quinn had secretly been proud of them for doing that. On a day they had done a terrible wrong, they had also done something right.

       However, instead of pride, Quinn felt quite a different emotion.

       It was hope.

       For if any child who had taken Daria’s organs were still alive, twelve years later, those organs would also be alive—and the genetic material within them would be complete and undecayed.

       Quinn picked up the fact sheet on the cloned sheep from Scotland and read it once more. For the first time, she understood it—and all that it implied.

       “Yes!” Quinn whispered, her eyes burning with tears. “I knew I would find you! I knew I would! I knew it!”

       After the first death, there is no other.

       Daria Morgendorffer was coming back.

 

 

 

The Other Chapter Nineteen

 

 

       It was a dry Saturday, November 20th, 2021, the thermometer hovering at 89 degrees in the shade in central Texas. A slightly mad climate breathed drought over the American Midwest and South, and water rationing was in effect in the Austin area. Everyone prayed that one or more of the tropical storms stacked up to the east would come ashore with blessed rain—Xenos, maybe, or even Yolanda, which was category four and rising fast. Another hurricane couldn’t hurt Galveston or Corpus Christi at this point, as the old coastline was already several meters underwater, and the new coastline was miles inland.

       At slightly after two in the afternoon, Jane Lane’s private jet landed at Austin-Bergstrom International. Jane snagged a exec-cab the second she ran out of the terminal, carrying only an overnight bag and the burden of what she suspected was the reason she had been summoned to Austin by a lawyer and a hospital administrator.

       Once through security at the hospital, Jane banged open door after door up to the ward named in that midnight phone call. She strode down the bright hallways, gaze darting left and right until she found room 513. Pushing open the door, she looked immediately for the bed—and what she saw there brought her up short. Her blue eyes grew enormous, and her mouth fell open like a fish’s. She dropped her overnight bag as the door swung shut behind her.

       “Jane!” said Quinn Morgendorffer from the bed, peering over her swollen abdomen and raised knees. She forced a smile and waved as the two nurses with her looked up, startled. “Good to see you! Love your show, by the way! And that suit is the perfect shade of blue for you! Give us a hug!”

       “You went and did it,” Jane gasped, taking in the scene. “Mother of God, I can’t believe it. You actually went and did it.”

       “Well, someone had to,” said Quinn. She suddenly clenched her teeth and tilted her head back as another contraction began. Her orange-red hair was cut short and styled as her mother’s had once been.

       “Ma’am,” said one of the nurses to Jane, “you can’t just barge in here like—”

       “I’m Jane Lane, and I certainly can barge in here like this!” She went to Quinn, nudging one of the nurses aside, and grasped her friend’s hand. Though Jane worked out regularly, she was shocked at the power of Quinn’s return grip. “Do your parents have the slightest idea of what you’ve done? Did you tell them?”

       “They never told me!” Quinn hissed through her teeth. “Why should I tell them?

       “But how did you find a—”

       The contraction eased. “Kidney transplant,” Quinn gasped, sweat rolling down her red face. “Wynona DeSales, from Colorado Springs. My lawyers found her once we got the transplant recipient papers unsealed. She got a hundred K for a biopsy, and ReproTech in Seoul got the nuclear transfer with one of my eggs on the third try. Win-win situation, the kind Mom always likes. Good old Mom.” She gave a grim smile of triumph. “She had her time with Daria. Now it’s... someone else’s turn.”

       “But why did you do it?”

       “Damn it, Jane, don’t get stupid on me now! She didn’t have a chance with me around! I’m giving her a chance! She’s my sister!”

       “Quinn, for the love of God, is she your sister or your daughter?

       “Who the freak cares?” Quinn began to laugh. “I swore I’d find her! I swore to God I would, and I did it! I did it, I did it, I—” Another contraction cut off her words, and she cried out.

       “We have to go to Delivery right away,” said one of the nurses. “You can’t—”

       “Scrub me up!” Jane shouted. “Get me a suit or something! Hurry!”

       Because she was Jane Lane, the host and creative director for ‘Sick, Sad World’ and a familiar face to two hundred seventy-three million people on a twice-a-week basis, she got what she wanted. She remembered how the birth procedure went, having helped deliver one of her older sister’s children when she was in middle school, and she coached Quinn as best she could even as the horror of the moment ran down her spine.

       “Push!” she cried. “That’s it! Push!”

       Quinn’s agonized face turned to the ceiling, her mouth open in a silent scream.

       “Crowning,” said one of the doctors. “We’re looking good.”

       Quinn caught her breath. “Come on, sis!” she shouted, sweat running down her face. “Come on!”

       The doctor glanced at Jane. “You’re doing a good job, too, there, sis,” she said.

       Jane did not bother to correct her.

       “We’re gonna do it right this time!” Quinn wheezed. “We’re—augh!

       “Push!”

       “Here she comes!”

       An infant’s halting cry filled the room.

       “It’s a girl!” said the doctor, an announcement that was completely unnecessary.

       Quinn began to cry. Jane held her hand and pressed a cold washcloth to her forehead.

       “I won’t screw it up,” Quinn gasped through her tears. “Nothing bad will ever happen to her again.” She turned to Jane. “She won’t die again, not this time. After the first death, there is no other.”

       Jane mopped her face and was thoughtfully quiet.

       “Here she is, Mom,” said the doctor, and lay a tiny, red-faced bundle on Quinn’s chest. The infant began to squall, her eyes clamped shut. Strands of dark brown hair were pasted to her head.

       Quinn put a hand on the tiny, noisy newborn. Her tear-stained face grew peaceful at last, though the infant kept bawling. “Hi, sis,” she said softly, looking down. “We’re going to do it right this time.” After a long moment, she looked up at Jane with an emotionless face. “Could you take her, please?”

       “Me? Don’t you want to nurse her? I can help you—”

       Quinn shook her head. “No. I want you to hold her first. Just a little.”

       Swallowing, Jane reached down and with infinite care lifted the bundle and held it to her chest, cradled in her arms. As she looked down at the tiny face, the infant opened its eyes, looked into Jane’s face with evident surprise, and stopped crying. To Jane’s own astonishment, a rush of warmth passed through her. An unspoken connection was made. Jane held out a finger. Five tiny fingers took hold of it and would not let go.

       “Hi, Daria,” Jane whispered, full of awe. “Welcome to Earth. Glad you could make it.” Again.

       Quinn sniffed and turned her head away. “Can you take her out now?” she said to a doctor, her voice thick.

       The doctor nodded and reached for Jane’s arm. “Ma’am? Would you come with me, please?”

       “Uh, sure. Wait.” Jane tried to give Daria back to Quinn, but the doctor shook his head. “Bring her with you.”

       “What?”

       “Bring the baby with you. This way, please.”

       “What—what’s going on?”

       “Goodbye, Jane,” said Quinn from the table. Her voice was drained and weary. A doctor pressed a tube against her arm. “Thanks for coming. For everything.”

       “What is this? Quinn?”

       “We’re doing it right this time. We’re—” Quinn’s voice faded. Her eyes closed and she exhaled slowly, falling asleep.

       “Quinn? What the—!”

       The lawyers and doctors in the meeting room down the hall explained it in detail. Quinn Morgendorffer, for a variety of reasons—not the least of which was her mental status—had been ruled an unfit parent during her pregnancy by the State of Texas. Her parental rights were being terminated. Moreover, this was a status she herself had sought, despite her unparalleled efforts to get pregnant in the first place, using money cleverly stolen from the fashion company for which she’d been an executive for over a decade.

       On top of that, Quinn had named Jane Lane as the sole guardian of Daria Morgendorffer in the event that Quinn was unable to function as her mother. The state attorney’s office would not contest Quinn’s wishes so long as her own parental rights were terminated immediately after the birth. If Jane refused to act as Daria’s guardian, the child would be turned over to the state’s child protective services and either be put up for adoption or turned over to her grandparents.

       “Or her genetic parents, however you want to look at it,” said an attorney. He shook his head. “Science and technology these days. Strange world we live in, isn’t it?”

       “You’re telling me,” said Jane, holding Daria in her arms. Daria looked around the room with wide eyes, content to be where she was. She held Jane’s finger with a grip of iron.

       “So, Miss Lane, your answer is—?”

       “Wait. Don’t her parents—Quinn’s parents, I mean—don’t they have—”

       “They already know. They had an investigator check on Quinn several months ago and discovered her plans. Whatever other feelings they have in the matter, they are also both in failing health. Jake Morgendorffer’s heart is barely functioning, and he would not survive a second transplant. Helen shows moderate symptoms of Parkinson’s. We discussed Quinn’s arrangements for Daria with them once they contacted us, and they are agreeable to you serving as Daria’s sole parent and guardian under one condition.”

       Jane waited. Little Daria yawned.

       “You have to move to Lawndale, so they can maintain contact with the child on a regular basis.”

       Jane weighed out a multimillion-dollar career and worldwide fame against a half-hour-old baby girl. Me, a mom? Just like that? Well, I always did want a kid, but I never had the time for it till now. Hell, I could manage the show from Lawndale if I want, once I get my web office up. I’m never in the main office anyway. And...

       She looked down at Daria, and little Daria looked back.

       “Sure,” said Jane, looking up. “I’ll do it.”

       “Excellent. That about wraps it up, except for signing the papers.” He looked down at Daria. “Great kid you have there.”

       “Yeah.”

       “Love your show, by the way.”

       “Thanks.” Dazed, Jane stood and carried Daria back to the doctors.

       “You can take her home next week,” the doctor in charge said. “We need to do a few chromosome checks because of the circumstances of her birth, you understand, but we don’t see any problems. Cloning isn’t a perfect technique, but in this case, they seem to have done it right. Couldn’t have done it in this country given the circumstances surrounding the, uh, mother’s situation, of course, but they did it right. A miracle.”

       “Good.”

       “Her eyes are actually brown. All newborns have pale eyes. She’ll need glasses by the time she’s two or three. Myopia gene.”

       “I know.”

       “Smart kid, too.”

       “I know.”

       “Love your show, by the way.”

       Jane merely sighed.

       One week later, just over forty years after Daria Morgendorffer was born the first time, Jane Lane carried Daria to a rented ‘copter parked beside the hospital’s air-ambulance fleet at the medical center’s heliport. Thanksgiving traffic was terrible, but they would fly over the mess to the airport and catch a private jet there.

       “I have to clear up a few things in New York first,” Jane explained as she held the bottle for Daria, who rode in an infant’s transport seat beside her in the passenger cabin. Daria clutched a finger on Jane’s other hand. “Then we’ll head down to Lawndale. I think my sister Summer has my parents’ old house. I bet she’s wrecked it. We might have to get a new place. Maybe I’ll just have someone build us one, but not near the high school. Ugh. Maybe I’ll buy the country club and make it our personal estate. We’ll think of something.”

       Daria drank from her bottle and looked at Jane with wide eyes. She never let go of Jane’s finger.

       “I guess you’ll have to call me Mom, huh? Never thought of it that way. Wonder what you’ll be like when you get older. I’m kind of cynical and smart-mouthed and not too serious about stuff. You’ll find out about that, I’m sure. Just stay out of my private computer files, that’s all I ask. On second thought, I’d better delete them now. You’ll be too smart to hide anything from you.” She smiled. “Boy, I hope you like pizza when you get older. That’s about all I eat these days. I never learned to cook. Won’t be a problem for you, I hope. Pizza okay with you? Even for breakfast?”

       Daria seemed agreeable. Nuk nuk nuk went the bottle as the milk disappeared.

       Jane looked down at Daria and felt a strange thing pass through her. It was as if, from that moment on, all was suddenly right with the world.

       “Forty years old, and here I am, a single mom,” she mused. “Strange world, huh? Hey, you wanna see the tallest buildings on the planet? They’re right by my office on Manhattan. We’ll go to the top of the tallest and see the universe. You’ll love it.” Jane bent her face down and kissed Daria on the forehead. “I love you,” she said as she smiled.

       Daria looked up and smiled, too.

       And all was right with the world, at last.

 

 

 

 

Original: 04/05/04, modified 12/09/04, 09/23/06, 08/18/08, 05/17/10

 

 

FINIS