her hands toward me. “You’ve come back to us. You’ve come back at last.”
I hated when she was like that. I hated being mistaken for someone who was dead. But her face looked so happy, and she was reaching out to me, reaching into the past. I took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “Lillian,” I said, rushing forward to give her a hug. “I missed you so much.”
We embraced, and Grandma Gibson held me close. She smelled like old person—scented soap and hairspray. She was crying, and I felt the damp of her tears on my cheek. “I missed you so much,” she whispered, then let out a tiny sob. “Why did you stay away for so long?”
“I’m sorry. I missed you, too,” I replied, hoping she wouldn’t ask me where I’d been.
“Sit down, and let me look at you,” she said, finally breaking our hug. I pulled up a chair and we sat, her holding my hand, her eyes dancing with delight. “You always were the beauty,” Grandma said. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
“I think I must have,” I told her, unconsciously putting my hand to my cheek. I hated lying to her about who I was, but she was happy, so that was at least something.
She reached up and took my other hand, giving it a warm squeeze. “No, you’re exactly the same. Your clothes are different, but I’d know you anywhere.”
An idea occurred to me. “Can we look at your picture album?” I asked. “You still keep it, don’t you?”
“Of course, I do,” she clucked. “But you’ll have to get it down for me. I’m afraid I’m a bit tired today.”
I hurried to where she kept her photo album in the closet, up on a shelf, realizing after I’d already grabbed it that she hadn’t told Lettie where it was, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Ah,” she said when I handed the album to her. “I love to look at photos. Don’t you?”
“Yes,” I told her. Most of my photos were on my phone, but that didn’t mean I didn’t like looking at them. “Let’s look at the photos from when you were a girl.” If I was serious about pretending to be her sister, I should have said, when we were girls , but it just didn’t feel right lying to her if I could avoid it.
Grandma opened the book to the very beginning. There were some old photos with scalloped edges that were held in place at the corners with black triangles. “There we are with Mother and Father,” she said, pointing to a photo with two very little girls in matching dresses and a parent holding each. “That’s Grandma Gibson’s house.” It was weird to think about someone so old having a grandmother, but I guess everybody did. “And there’s Papa’s first car.” She tapped at a black automobile that looked more like a couple of boxes on wheels than a vehicle.
“Do you have any photos of you as a teenager?” I prompted.
“Oh, let’s see.” Grandma turned over two pages. “Here we both are ready for a dance. I remember my date was Walter Bennett,” she said, touching the corner of a picture of two girls in organdy dresses. She looked up at me. “I can’t remember your date’s name for the life of me. I know he was a friend of Walter’s. What was his name again?”
“I can’t remember,” I said in a small voice. “How old are you here?” I asked.
“Let’s see, I must have been about seventeen.”
That meant Lettie was sixteen. A year before she ran away. I leaned closer to look at the girl in the photograph. Did she look like me? Did I look like her? It was so hard to tell with her old fashioned clothes and her hair being styled so different. It looked like she was trying to tame her mane with some type of hair gel or something. I stared at her face and tried to see my own reflection. Was it like when you hear a recording of your voice and don’t recognize it as being you?
Grandma Gibson flipped the page. “And here we are on our first day at the castle,” she said. “Papa was so proud.” She caressed the edge of a photo of two young women in black
I hated when she was like that. I hated being mistaken for someone who was dead. But her face looked so happy, and she was reaching out to me, reaching into the past. I took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “Lillian,” I said, rushing forward to give her a hug. “I missed you so much.”
We embraced, and Grandma Gibson held me close. She smelled like old person—scented soap and hairspray. She was crying, and I felt the damp of her tears on my cheek. “I missed you so much,” she whispered, then let out a tiny sob. “Why did you stay away for so long?”
“I’m sorry. I missed you, too,” I replied, hoping she wouldn’t ask me where I’d been.
“Sit down, and let me look at you,” she said, finally breaking our hug. I pulled up a chair and we sat, her holding my hand, her eyes dancing with delight. “You always were the beauty,” Grandma said. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
“I think I must have,” I told her, unconsciously putting my hand to my cheek. I hated lying to her about who I was, but she was happy, so that was at least something.
She reached up and took my other hand, giving it a warm squeeze. “No, you’re exactly the same. Your clothes are different, but I’d know you anywhere.”
An idea occurred to me. “Can we look at your picture album?” I asked. “You still keep it, don’t you?”
“Of course, I do,” she clucked. “But you’ll have to get it down for me. I’m afraid I’m a bit tired today.”
I hurried to where she kept her photo album in the closet, up on a shelf, realizing after I’d already grabbed it that she hadn’t told Lettie where it was, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Ah,” she said when I handed the album to her. “I love to look at photos. Don’t you?”
“Yes,” I told her. Most of my photos were on my phone, but that didn’t mean I didn’t like looking at them. “Let’s look at the photos from when you were a girl.” If I was serious about pretending to be her sister, I should have said, when we were girls , but it just didn’t feel right lying to her if I could avoid it.
Grandma opened the book to the very beginning. There were some old photos with scalloped edges that were held in place at the corners with black triangles. “There we are with Mother and Father,” she said, pointing to a photo with two very little girls in matching dresses and a parent holding each. “That’s Grandma Gibson’s house.” It was weird to think about someone so old having a grandmother, but I guess everybody did. “And there’s Papa’s first car.” She tapped at a black automobile that looked more like a couple of boxes on wheels than a vehicle.
“Do you have any photos of you as a teenager?” I prompted.
“Oh, let’s see.” Grandma turned over two pages. “Here we both are ready for a dance. I remember my date was Walter Bennett,” she said, touching the corner of a picture of two girls in organdy dresses. She looked up at me. “I can’t remember your date’s name for the life of me. I know he was a friend of Walter’s. What was his name again?”
“I can’t remember,” I said in a small voice. “How old are you here?” I asked.
“Let’s see, I must have been about seventeen.”
That meant Lettie was sixteen. A year before she ran away. I leaned closer to look at the girl in the photograph. Did she look like me? Did I look like her? It was so hard to tell with her old fashioned clothes and her hair being styled so different. It looked like she was trying to tame her mane with some type of hair gel or something. I stared at her face and tried to see my own reflection. Was it like when you hear a recording of your voice and don’t recognize it as being you?
Grandma Gibson flipped the page. “And here we are on our first day at the castle,” she said. “Papa was so proud.” She caressed the edge of a photo of two young women in black
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