THIRTY-THREE
Hannah made herself a cup of black coffee and forced herself to eat some dry cereal. For a long while she had sat at the kitchen table, unable to move, waiting for the phone to ring, or for Lisa to show up at the door. She could not believe that Lisa would ignore that direct summons, especially since Hannah had told her that she knew Lisa was the one who pushed her in front of the train. Hannah had challenged her to show herself, and Lisa never liked to shrink from a challenge. It had always been one of her qualities that Hannah most admired. Hannah glanced over at the front door of the apartment. Just show up, she thought. Let’s get to it.
But the phone remained silent, and there was no sign of Lisa. More than anything, Hannah wished that she could just go back to bed and hide under the covers. Can’t do that, she thought. You have to try and accomplish something. Wearily, she got to her feet, pulled a large black trash bag from the box under the sink and went over to the refrigerator. Worst job first, she thought. She opened up the trash bag, and then swung open the refrigerator door. Looking inside made her feel slightly nauseated and hopeless, but she knew what to do about hopelessness. Start attacking the problem.
She began throwing things away. She examined every item as she took it out of the refrigerator. Most things went directly into the trash. The few items that had not reached their expiration date she placed on the counter as she dispatched all the others. Finally, when there was almost nothing left besides ketchup, mustard, mayo and relish, she began to scrub down the shelves.
She was working on the last shelf when the doorbell rang. It reverberated through her body as if she were a tuning fork. She straightened up, holding on to the refrigerator door for support.
Lisa, she thought.
Her feelings were warring inside of her. It was Lisa’s perverted plans for her own child, and her lies about Adam, which had sent them fleeing from their home, from the life they knew in the first place. Hannah hated her for that. And this was the same daughter who had shadowed her, and pushed her off a subway platform into the path of an oncoming train. She hated her for that too. But this was also her Lisa. Her only child. Despite everything, the habit of worrying about her, of loving her, came naturally, unbidden.
The doorbell sounded again, impatiently. All right, she told herself. Go down and face her, and try to understand why she has done the things she has done. Hannah opened the door to the apartment and made her way painfully down the staircase. She reached the front door and put her hand on the doorknob. Would she look the same to her, now that Hannah knew her daughter was willing and able to kill? Then Hannah reminded herself that all the time they were defending her during her trial she had probably already killed Troy Petty. And they were none the wiser.
She had seemed the same. How could you not see it? Hannah wondered. That sort of corruption should be visible, like a stain. But Lisa’s face, Lisa’s eyes had remained as dear to her as ever. She had seen nothing.
Hannah took a deep breath, and turned the deadbolt. Then she pulled the door open. Dominga Flores stood on the welcome mat.
Hannah felt disappointed. Relieved. She tried to hide her feelings and forced herself to smile. ‘Dominga,’ she said. ‘How are you?’
Dominga looked around uneasily. She still wore camouflage pants, and a shapeless sweatshirt; her buzz cut, which had grown out, was gelled into spikes. Her skin looked less drawn than it had been the last time Hannah saw her. And it had a little more color. The circles under her eyes had diminished somewhat. A positive effect of the rehab, Hannah thought. ‘Hey, Mrs Whitman. I didn’t know if you’d remember me.’
‘Remember you? How could I forget? You were our hero. I was on my way to see you when . . . I had this accident.’ Hannah indicated her own head, still bandaged, as well as her arm and leg.
‘I heard,’ said Dominga.
‘So, you’re at Restoration House now.’
Dominga nodded.
‘Come on in. What can I do for you?’
Dominga followed Hannah into the house and Hannah closed the door behind her. Dominga shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. Uneasiness came naturally to her, as she was clearly a shy person, uncomfortable in her skin. ‘Well, you know, Frank Petrusa, he sent me over.’
‘Frank did?’
Dominga nodded. ‘He told me you have some space available in your apartment. He thought maybe I could rent a room from you.’
Immediately, Hannah understood. Dominga was an ex-soldier. Frank had sent her here in search of a room but also as a potential bodyguard. Who better to hover over Hannah and lie in wait for her stalker? Hannah had to give it to him — it was a good solution, made up, no doubt, on the spur of the moment. She knew he was only trying to protect her, and she appreciated the fact that he cared. But it was too much to ask of Dominga. She didn’t
