“C’mon, Foster,” she sings in an irritated voice. “If we get to the pool while it’s still adult swim, I’ll buy you an Icee.”
Foster ignores her and bends down to blow on a fluffy dandelion.
I don’t know this young mother, but I recognize my old self in her. I had a similar cooler bag hanging off the stroller, which probably holds carefully cut organic fruit. I wore the same type of messy bun that’s on her head (no time to shower) and also hid behind large sunglasses to disguise sleep-deprived eyes. Those years were hard. The walks to the pool in the midday heatseemed endless. I want to tell her to enjoy it, that one day Foster will be spending his summer backpacking in the mountains or working in a faraway city, that she’ll long for just one hour of uninterrupted time alone with him. But I keep my mouth shut. When I was her age, I hated when older women would offer up such pearls of wisdom.What do you know?I would think.
I turn back to the stark, modern house. WhatdoI know about anything? It feels like less and less these days. My mom used to say, “When I was twenty-five, I thought I knew it all. It wasn’t until I was fifty that I realized I didn’t know anything.” I don’t know how I ended up in front of the Allards’ rental Sunday morning, that’s for sure.
I remember when Jo decided to buy the old 1950s rambler that was here and tear it down for funsies. That’s when I knew for sure that she had changed. The whole neighborhood was upset with the size of the project and ripping out the trees. But Jo didn’t care. She had the money and she felt like it.
I stare at the cold, gray façade, searching for clues about what happened to me Saturday night. In a world of doorbell cameras and GPS tracking, it turns out there are still corners where no one is watching. I know that Miguel wants me to move on—from this, whatever this is, from Rachel’s problems junior year, from anything awkward and uncomfortable. But I can’t until my memory returns. I want it back. I want to feel normal. I know I won’t until I can figure out what happened to me.
When I get to Yumi’s back porch, I am thrilled to see she has laid out sandwiches and iced tea and has the fan going at full speed. I let Kugel loose in the backyard and pour myself a tall glass.
“Thirsty, huh?” She is surrounded by tech—computer andcell in her lap, and beside her on the settee a camera sporting a long lens for photographing birds.
“It’s brutal out there.”
I make myself a plate and sit in my usual spot. I want to be settled in when I hear what she has to say. Once I have a napkin on my lap and a salmon-and-cream-cheese croissant in my hand, I give her the go-ahead. “So tell me. Is Rachel involved?”
Yumi doesn’t answer right away, she’s typing. After a moment she shuts the laptop and places it next to the camera. “Sorry. I have a new client. Hasn’t even started high school yet! He’s going into ninth grade in the fall and the mother wants me to guarantee I’ll get him into Princeton.” She rolls her eyes. “Oh, well. It pays the bills. So, anyway, do you remember that rash of break-ins about two years ago?”
“Yes,” I say, my whole body tensing a bit.
“I saw something one night. I had fallen asleep on the porch and when I woke up, it was late. Very late. I got up to go to bed, and I saw a couple of kids leaving the house two doors down.” She points through the screened windows, and I follow her gaze. Yumi’s house is on a slightly higher elevation than her neighbors’, and beyond the canopy of tree branches I can see a stretch of green lawn backing up to several houses. It’s a communal backyard, where the kids in the adjacent houses play hide-and-seek and capture the flag. Now that this is Yumi’s de facto office, the view is perfect for bird-watching—and people-watching.
Yumi turns back to me, a thoughtful look on her face. “Actually, I heard them more than I saw them. They were acting very suspicious.”
“How?”
She considers this. “Whispering. Oh, and they had flashlights. Using their phones probably. The next day in the Facebook group, it said that a house had been burgled. Holly Stone’s house.”
“Whoa, you never told me that.”
“It was the weekend after I got my first infusion. I was totally wiped out.”
I nod, understanding. Two years ago, when Yumi was at her sickest, she needed regular immunosuppressant infusions that put her out of commission for a few days every few months. Those were days when Kenya and I would alternate dropping off meals that she and Ryan could eat, as well as an endless supply of Graeter’s black raspberry chocolate chip ice cream.
“I would have answered any questions from the police if they asked,” she says. “But they never did. And I didn’t know for sure that those kids were involved. I didn’t want to get anyone in trouble. They could have been playing manhunt or something.”
A chill goes through me. “So, who were these kids?” Yumi says nothing, her smile small and stiff. Dread grows in the pit of my stomach. “Tell me. Who did you see?”Was it Rachel? Tell me it wasn’t Rachel.
“I told you I didn’t get a good look, I heard them.” Yumi pulls her long black braid around to the side of her head and mindlessly tugs on it. “But I definitely saw Van Allard. And a girl.”
I lean back against the cushions and let this sink in. “A girl? What girl?”
She won’t meet my eye. “I can’t say for sure. It looked like it might have been Rachel.”
“Why would Rachel be with Van? And why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wasn’t sure. Not a hundred percent. You have to understand.”
But I don’t. I know that Rachel was hanging around Eloïse and her clique the beginning of junior year. And that meant empty houses to party at, thanks to parents who always traveled, even access to alcohol, but stealing? And why would Rachel be with Van alone? I think of Van, driving his Jeep too fast in the neighborhood, top down, wind blowing his brown hair, blasting music while some girl dances in the passenger seat next to him. I was always grateful that Rachel was never that girl. “Are you sure? Rachel and Van? It doesn’t really make sense.”
“I mean, maybe someone else was there too? Maybe Eloïse? That would explain why Rachel was there.”
“I guess. If Eloïse was there. It would explain how Rachel got the bracelet.” I stare down at the ice cubes in my tall glass, feeling my brow furrow into those deepening frown lines I have come to loathe. I have to manage this, fix this, spin this. I can’t let past Rachel—young, reckless, foolish—destroy future Rachel’s life.
“What are you going to do?” Yumi asks.