Her hand was twitching again. She waited until the first couple of scribbles had expended themselves in the air before touching the pen to the page. The pen wrote,
She moved her hand aside, not wanting to spoil that statement with echoes.
When the pen had stilled, Caroleen leaned forward and began writing,
Exhausted? Was it strenuous for ghosts to lean out or in or down this far? Did BeeVee have to brace herself against something to drive the pencil?
But, in fact, Caroleen was exhausted, too-her hand was aching. She blew her nose into an old Kleenex, her eyes watering afresh in the menthol-and-eucalyptus smell of Ben Gay, and lay back across the daybed and closed her eyes.
A SHARP KNOCK AT the front door jolted her awake, and though her glasses had fallen off and she didn’t immediately know whether it was morning or evening, she realized that her fingers were wiggling, and had been for some time.
She lunged forward and with her left hand wedged the pen between her twitching right thumb and forefinger. The pen began to travel lightly over the calendar page. The scribble was longer than the others-with a pause in the middle-and she had to rotate the book to keep the point on the page until it stopped.
The knock sounded again, but Caroleen called, “Just a minute!” and remained hunched over the little book, waiting for the message to repeat.
It didn’t. Apparently she had just barely caught the last echo-perhaps only the end of the last echo.
She couldn’t make out what she had written. Even if she’d had her glasses on, she’d have needed the lamplight, too.
“Caroleen?” came a call from out front. It was Amber’s voice.
“Coming.” Caroleen stood up stiffly and hobbled to the door. When she pulled it open, she found herself squinting in the noon sunlight that filtered through the avocado tree branches.
The girl on the doorstep was wearing sweatpants and a huge T-shirt and blinking behind her gleaming round spectacles. Her brown hair was tied up in a knot on top of her head. “Did I wake you up? I’m sorry.” She was panting, as if she had run over here from next door.
Caroleen felt the fresh air-smelling of sun-heated stone and car exhaust-cooling her sweaty scalp. “I’m fine,” she said hoarsely. “What is it?” Had she asked the girl to come over today? She couldn’t recall doing it, and she was tense with impatience to get back to her pen and book.
“I just-” said Amber rapidly-“I liked your sister, well, you know I did really, even though-and I-could I have something of hers, not like valuable, to remember her by? How about her hairbrush?”
“You want her hairbrush?”
“If you don’t mind. I just want something-”
“I’ll get it. Wait here.” It would be quicker to give it to her than to propose some other keepsake, and Caroleen had no special attachment to the hairbrush-her own was a duplicate anyway. She and BeeVee had, of course, matching everything-toothbrushes, coffee cups, shoes, wristwatches.
When Caroleen had fetched the brush and returned to the front door, Amber took it and went pounding down the walkway, calling “Thanks!” over her shoulder.
Still disoriented from her nap, Caroleen closed the door and made her way back to the daybed, where she patted the scattered blankets until she found her glasses and fitted them on.
She sat down, switched on the lamp, and leaned over the phone book page. Turning the book around to follow the newest scrawl, she read,
“Sorry, sorry!” exclaimed Caroleen; then in her own handwriting, she wrote,
She waited, wondering why she must get the hairbrush back from Amber. Was it somehow necessary that all of BeeVee’s possessions be kept together? Probably, at least the ones with voodoo-type identity signatures on them-DNA samples, like hair caught in a brush, dried saliva traces on dentures, Kleenex in a forgotten wastebasket. But-
Abruptly her chest felt cold and hollow.
But this message had been written down
The message had been addressed to Amber next door, not to her. Amber had read it somehow and had obediently fetched the hairbrush.
Could all of these messages have been addressed to the girl?
Caroleen remembered wondering whether BeeVee might have needed to brace herself against something in order to communicate from the far side of the grave. Had BeeVee been bracing herself against Caroleen, her still- living twin, in order to talk to Amber? Insignificant
Caroleen was dizzy, but she got to her feet and padded into the bedroom for a pair of outdoor shoes. She had to carry them back to the living room-the bed in the bedroom had been BeeVee’s, too, and she didn’t want to sit on it in order to pull the shoes on-and on the way she leaned into the bathroom and grabbed her own hairbrush.
DRESSED IN ONE OF her old church-attendance skirts, with fresh lipstick, and carrying a big embroidered purse, Caroleen pulled the door closed behind her and began shuffling down the walk. The sky was a very deep blue above the tree branches and the few clouds were extraordinarily far away overhead, and it occurred to her that she couldn’t recall stepping out of the house since BeeVee’s funeral. She never drove anymore-Amber was the only one who drove the old Pontiac these days-and it was Amber who went for groceries, reimbursed with checks from Caroleen…and the box of checks came in the mail, which Amber brought in from the mailbox by the sidewalk. If Caroleen alienated the girl, could she do these things herself? She would probably starve.
Caroleen’s hand had begun wriggling as she reached the sidewalk and turned right, toward Amber’s parents’ house, but she resisted the impulse to pull a pen out of her purse.
Amber’s parents had a Spanish-style house at the top of a neatly mowed sloping lawn, and a green canvas awning overhung the big arched window out front. Even shading her eyes with her manageable left hand Caroleen couldn’t see anyone in the dimness inside, so she huffed up the widely spaced steps, and while she was catching her breath on the cement apron at the top, the front door swung inward, releasing a puff of cool floor-polish scent.
Amber’s young, dark-haired mother-Crystal? Christine? — was staring at her curiously. “It’s…Caroleen,” she said, “right?”
“Yes.” Caroleen smiled, feeling old and foolish. “I need to talk to Amber.” The mother was looking dubious. “I want to pay her more, and see if she’d be interested in balancing our, my, checkbook.”
The woman nodded, as if conceding a point. “Well, I think that might be good for her.” She hesitated, then stepped aside. “Come in and ask her. She’s in her room.”
Caroleen got a quick impression of a dim living room with clear plastic covers over the furniture, and a bright kitchen with copper pans hanging everywhere. Amber’s mother then knocked on a bedroom door and said, “Amber honey? You’ve got a visitor,” then pushed the door open.
“I’ll let you two talk,” the woman said, and stepped away toward the living room.
Caroleen stepped into the room. Amber was sitting cross-legged on a pink bedspread, looking up from a cardboard sheet with a rock, a pencil, and BeeVee’s hairbrush on it. Lacy curtains glowed in the street-side window, and a stack of what appeared to be textbooks stood on an otherwise bare white desk in the opposite corner. The couple of pictures on the walls looked like pastel blobs. The room smelled like cake.
Caroleen considered what to say. “Can I help?” she asked finally.
Amber, who had been looking wary, brightened and sat up straight. “Shut the door.”
After Caroleen had shut the door, Amber went on, “You know she’s coming back?” She waved at the
