What She Left Behind (24 page)

CHAPTER 17

I
ZZY

The morning after being locked in the vault, Izzy crawled out of her sleeping bag and staggered into Alex’s bathroom, her joints stiff and her muscles tight, as if she’d been in a brawl. She rinsed her face and squinted in the bathroom mirror. Her eyes were blurry, her hair disheveled. She sat on the toilet to pee and, for the first time, noticed her knees were scraped and bruised. Dark blue blotches covered her elbows and forearms, and the skin on her knuckles was torn and bloody. Even her toes were purple. All of a sudden, the feeling of being trapped came over her again. She pushed the sensation away, got up from the toilet, and went to the window. Outside, the day was gray and rainy, mirroring her sour mood.

At least they had decided to go back to Alex’s house instead of staying at the lake last night. They would have gotten soaked, not to mention the ensuing drama that would have occurred when Shannon caught up to them. Besides, Izzy hadn’t been able to stop shaking since they pulled her out of the vault. Her thin sleeping bag wouldn’t have been enough to warm her. On the way back to town, she’d cranked the heat in Alex’s Beamer until Alex and Ethan complained.

After a quick breakfast of orange juice and Rice Krispies, Alex dropped Izzy off at the end of her foster parents’ driveway, promising to come back later to watch a movie. Despite her dark mood, Izzy was grateful for Alex’s attempts to get her mind off what happened at Willard. She hunched her shoulders against the rain and hurried along the paved drive, sidestepping the growing puddles. She could still picture Ethan standing on the curb when they dropped him off at his house last night, leaning in through the open passenger window. At first, she thought he was trying to kiss her and she backed away. Then she realized he was just saying good-bye and her face flushed with embarrassment. He asked her for the hundredth time if she was all right and insisted she keep his sweatshirt until school on Monday, but she refused. Everything was moving too fast and she didn’t want him to think that, just because he was done with Shannon, she was ready to be his girlfriend. Actually, she didn’t think she’d ever be ready to be his girlfriend. She still wasn’t sure she could trust someone who used to go along with Shannon’s mean tricks. And yet, she kept the Green Day pin she’d found inside his sweatshirt pocket. Now, she rubbed her thumb over it, taking a deep breath before opening the door leading into Peg’s kitchen.

Normally, on Sunday mornings, Harry made pancakes and the three of them sat around in their pajamas, reading the comics and doing the crossword puzzles until noon. It was Izzy’s favorite day of the week. Those few hours when they laughed and talked, and Peg and Harry helped with her homework, made her feel like she was part of a real family. Now, her stomach growled thinking about the crisp bacon and fluffy buttermilk pancakes covered with sticky maple syrup. But when she entered the kitchen, Peg and Harry were dressed and sitting at the table, coffee mugs in their hands, the Sunday paper folded neatly between the placemats. Peg looked up, startled, her lips in a grim, hard line. Harry turned in his chair and considered Izzy, his eyes serious.

Izzy’s heart dropped. Somehow, they’d found out about the party on the beach. She had lied to them about staying at Alex’s and now they were going to tell her she had to leave. She just knew it. She let her duffel bag slip off her shoulder and sat down, holding her breath as she waited, staring at the picture of President Clinton and Monica Lewinski on the front page of the newspaper.

“Did you have a good time last night?” Peg said, attempting to smile.

“It was okay,” Izzy said, wondering if this was a test. She decided to come clean. “But I—”

“We have something to tell you,” Harry interrupted. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and wiped his hands on his pants. Peg shifted in her chair, her knuckles turning white as she tightened her grip on her coffee mug.

“First, we have some good news,” Peg said. Her voice shook and she cleared her throat. Izzy stared at her, a hot lump threatening to cut off her breathing. What could Peg possibly say to soften the blow? “I found a nurse who used to work at Willard. We think she might have taken care of Clara. We can go talk to her, if you’d like.”

Izzy nodded, her heartbeat picking up speed. “Do you think she knows what happened to Clara?” she managed. “Or her daughter?”

“I don’t know,” Peg said. “But we’ll ask her. If she doesn’t know, we’ll try to find out together. I promise.”

Together.
Izzy’s eyes filled. Peg said they would try to find out together. They weren’t sending her away after all. She took a deep breath and exhaled, waves of relief washing through her. But then Harry glanced at Peg, as if for reinforcement.

“There’s something else,” he said, his brows knitted. “It’s your mother.”

Izzy stiffened. Harry and Peg rarely mentioned her mother. Whatever Harry was about to tell her, it was bad. Really bad. She could see it in his face.

“What about her?” Izzy said, her stomach knotting. Peg put a gentle hand over Izzy’s. Izzy felt something move in her head, as if her brain was shoring up, preparing for shock.

“She had a stroke last night,” Harry said. “She was in her cell and no one knew anything was wrong until this morning.”

Izzy swallowed.

“I’m sorry,” Peg said, her eyes brimming with tears. “But she’s in a coma. They don’t think she’s going to pull through.”

Izzy stared at Peg, trying to form words. Her tongue felt like lead, her lips heavy and useless over her teeth. Peg rubbed Izzy’s hand, her soft fingers catching on Izzy’s torn knuckles. She looked down and gasped.

“What happened?” she said.

Izzy pulled her hand away, clenching it into a fist on her lap. “Nothing,” she said. “I fell trying out Alex’s Rollerblades.” Somewhere in the back of her mind, she was surprised at how easily the lie came. What had changed between yesterday and today? She reached for her duffel bag and stood, pushing her chair under the table.

“Are you okay?” Harry said. “Do you want to know what the doctors are saying?”

Izzy shook her head, her body numb. “Um . . . not right now,” she said.

“We can take you to see her after school tomorrow,” Peg said. “If you want.”

Izzy dug her nails into the back of her chair.
What good will that do?
she thought. “I’m really tired,” she said. “If it’s okay with you, I’m going to take a shower and a nap.”

“Can I get you something to eat first?” Peg said.

“I’ll make pancakes if you’re hungry,” Harry said.

Izzy shook her head and left the room, her legs like elastic beneath her. Halfway up the staircase, she slowed and grabbed the banister, her heart booming as she pulled herself upward. At the top step, the hallway teetered in front of her. She gripped the newel post, waiting to regain her sense of balance. After a long minute, she went to her room, dropped her duffel bag on the floor, and hurried into the bathroom.

She opened the toilet and threw up the Rice Krispies she’d eaten at Alex’s, dry heaving until it felt like her esophagus would come spilling out, slithering into a bloody coil in the bottom of the toilet bowl. Eventually, she was able to take a breath without gagging. She spit into the toilet over and over, then wiped her mouth and straightened. Half a can of Coke sat on the edge of the sink. She drank the rest of the flat soda, hoping the caramel-flavored liquid would wash the sour taste from her mouth.

Still dizzy, she stumbled into her bedroom and fell on the bed, lying on her side and gripping her pillow against her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to stanch her tears, but it was no use. For ten years, she’d been too afraid to visit her mother in jail. Too afraid her mother would look and act crazy, or wouldn’t know who she was. Now, there was nothing she wanted more. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she’d hoped the day would come when her mother would be cured, or released from all charges. Maybe, by some miracle, it would be discovered that her father’s murder was a big misunderstanding. Maybe a burglar had shot him. And Izzy’s mother, having witnessed her husband’s violent death, had temporarily lost her mind. When the truth came out, her mother would be set free and she and Izzy could be a family again. Over the years, a hundred different scenarios played over in Izzy’s mind, but she always pushed them away, certain they were nothing more than the impossible imaginings of a lost little girl. Now, it was final. None of those things would ever come true. Izzy was going to be an orphan. The chance of ever having a real mother again, no matter how infinitesimal, was gone.

Izzy’s shoulders convulsed and she bit down on the pillow, surprised by the depth of her emotions. She’d kept her head high and held herself together for so long that she’d convinced herself she was invincible. Now, it all came crashing down. She knew someday things would change. But not yet, not now, not like this. She blinked against her tears, then lifted her head and looked at the dresser. Her mother’s cards and letters were still there, stuffed in a manila envelope behind her socks and underwear.

She sat up and wiped her eyes, her heart slogging in her chest. Reading the letters could make things better, or make things worse. She thought about the envelopes in Clara’s trunk. Clara’s life might have turned out differently if they had been mailed, if Bruno had had a chance to read them. Maybe he would have gotten Clara out of the Long Island Home before she was sent to Willard. Maybe they would have gotten married, raised a family together, and lived happily ever after.

Now, Izzy wondered if things would have been different if she’d read her mother’s words. Maybe the answers she’d been looking for had been right there all along. Her stomach churned. Regardless of what the letters said, it was too late for things to change. And yet, she needed to know the truth. Either her mother’s letters would paint a picture of the woman she used to be, full of love and adoration, or reveal once and for all that she really was a lunatic.

Izzy stood and retrieved the letters from the back of the top drawer, then sat cross-legged on her bed, the bulging envelope on the comforter in front of her. She undid the metal clip, opened the flap, and let the cards and letters spill out. The tilting pile of differently sized and colored envelopes reminded her of Valentine’s Day in elementary school, when everyone got cards from their classmates. She always wondered if she’d get as many Valentines as the rest of the kids, eager to see how they were signed on the back. Would there be just a name, or would it include the initials BFF, best friends forever, or even BF, best friends?

One by one, she turned her mother’s envelopes right side up, checking the postmark and putting them in chronological order. She would read them year by year, starting with the first months after her mother’s incarceration. At first, there had been a letter a month. Then, as time went on, the frequency dwindled to three or four times a year. Izzy guessed that, along with the regular letters, there were birthday and Christmas cards. All had the same return address: Bedford State Prison.

She took a deep breath, picked up the first letter, postmarked July 1986, the month after her mother was sentenced to prison, and ripped open the envelope. It was now or never. She put her fingers over her trembling lips and began to read.

Izzy’s eyes burned. Love you to the moon and back. Her mother had said that every night after tucking her in, before turning off the light and slipping into the hall. Somehow, Izzy had forgotten. She ripped open the next envelope. It was a birthday card.

The front of the card read “Birthday Wishes for a Sweet Eight-Year-Old.” Inside, her mother had signed, “Miss and love you to the moon and back!”
Where does an inmate go shopping for a birthday card?
Izzy wondered. The next letter was more of the same; a letter to an eight-year-old girl whose life had been turned upside down. More apologies and requests for a visit. Eventually, in the letters, her mother stopped asking Izzy to come, instead saying all the things she wished she could say in person, all the advice she wanted to impart to her only daughter. Izzy had to remind herself to breathe, waiting to read that one sentence, that one group of words that would confirm her mother’s mental illness. So far, she hadn’t found it. The other thing she hadn’t found was any further mention of her father. It was as if he never existed.

Izzy felt cold shards of regret forming in her chest. Could she have been wrong all along? Had she wasted years being afraid? On paper, her mother sounded normal. The more Izzy read, the more it felt like losing her all over again. And yet, she was no closer to understanding what happened than she was ten years ago.

By three o’clock, Izzy had read nearly forty letters. Peg had come up several times, softly knocking on the door and asking if Izzy was okay, if she could get her something to eat or drink. Each time, Izzy refused, saying she needed to be alone and thanking Peg for the offer. In truth, Izzy couldn’t have eaten anything if she’d tried. Her stomach felt sour, like it was boiling.

An hour later, the words were getting fuzzy and it was getting harder and harder for Izzy to keep her eyes open. The letter in her hand had been folded inside her thirteenth birthday card, the creases making it even harder to read. She decided to finish one last letter, then shower and take a nap. But in the next instant, her breath caught in her throat and she sat up. She read the words again.