It Slipped Through My Hands,

Like a Shadow, Like a Dream

 

 

 

 

©2007 The Angst Guy (theangstguy@yahoo.com)

Daria and associated characters are ©2007 MTV Networks

 

 

Feedback (good, bad, indifferent, just want to bother me, whatever) is appreciated. Please write to: theangstguy@yahoo.com

 

Synopsis: In an alternate universe, a lonely outcast named Daria moves from Highland to Lawndale, yet in the wake of a single change to the Dariaverse we know, disaster spreads unchecked. The one who could have prevented it now cannot, and the widening avalanche of chaos will engulf everyone the outcast has known—unless someone takes a stand to stop it.

 

Author’s Notes: This alternate universe Daria story takes place during Season One. Most other notes have been moved to the end of the story to avoid spoilers.

            The title of this story was taken from a line in a translation of The Odyssey by Homer (book XI, line 204), where Odysseus unsuccessfully tries to embrace the ghost of his dead mother.

 

Acknowledgements: The following people served as beta-readers for this tale and have this author’s undying gratitude for their feedback: E. A. Smith, Between_the_Lines, FireWalkWithMe, Scissors MacGillicutty, Gregor Samsa, and Thea Zara. The story’s original ending was changed, and it is hoped this version is an improvement. Additional corrections were added based on feedback from Renfield, in particular (thank you!).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will,

shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness,

for he is truly his brother’s keeper and the finder of lost children.

 

—Pulp Fiction

 

 

 

 

 

 

one

 

 

            It was her room, the pink walls and white doors and salmon carpeting were hers, but in moments it would be gone from her life forever. It was already empty of every possession she had ever cared about, her books and toys carted off in boxes that very day. The place hardly looked like she had lived there at all. Even the lacy curtains over the windows had been taken. The light switch plate with the clown’s face was still there, as she hadn’t minded leaving it behind, though now she felt she would miss even that dreadful thing. She clutched her favorite book to her chest for comfort and sullenly toed the freshly cleaned carpet with her boot. Her eyes burned. The world got blurry.

            “Where is she?” her younger sister snapped in a distant part of the empty house. “Daria! Come on!”

            Scowling, she walked over to stand deep inside her open closet, placing her out of the view of anyone passing the doorway. She did not want to be found yet. Not by her sister, anyway.

            “Daria! Let’s go!”

            “Quinn,” a woman interrupted. “Why don’t you go outside for a few minutes? Give me a little time with her.”

            “But we’re leaving, Amy!”

            “I know, honey. Just a few minutes, okay? Go tell your mom and dad that we’ll be right out.”

            Quinn blew out her breath in exasperation. “What-ever,” she muttered. The front door opened and slammed shut.

            It became very quiet in the house. Daria glowered at the floor. Her sister was always bugging her like that, always yelling at her, always ordering her around. She raised her head to look out the bare bedroom window at the big green backyard she would never see again, bathed in the late afternoon sun. In moments, her anger melted again and became a grief she could not share with anyone, except—

            Keys clinked together at the far end of the hallway, then fell on a kitchen countertop and were silent. Moments later, a floorboard in the hall creaked, then someone paused in the doorway of Daria’s former bedroom. Daria heard the intruder’s breathing. She hugged her book and tucked in her chin so her waterfall of red-brown hair hid her face and oversized glasses.

            “So,” said Amy’s warm voice, “how’s my wonderful niece?” The words rang strangely in the empty room.

            Daria pressed her lips together and stared at the carpet. She did not want to talk, but she was glad it was her favorite aunt, not her parents or sister, who came to get her.

            Amy moved over to stand in the doorway of the closet. “Are you afraid of moving?” she asked.

            Hesitant but honest, Daria nodded.

            “Sad to leave your room?”

            A barely perceptible series of nods.

            “I can understand that. Which book is that, the one you have?”

            Swallowing, Daria loosened her grip and showed her aunt the book. It was an oversized illustrated volume, light on text but rich in color.

            “Ah, Black Beauty. That’s the one I got for you last Christmas. You like it?”

            Several strong nods.

            “I liked it, too. That was one of my favorite books when I was a girl.” A long pause followed. Her aunt was very patient.

            “I don’t want to go,” Daria said in a rough voice. “It’s not fair.”

            “I know.” Her aunt waited a beat before asking, “Can I give you a hug?”

            Daria thought hard about it, then turned and walked toward the presence in the doorway. Head bowed, she let herself be enfolded in the warmth of two long arms and a perfumed purple dress.

            Amy Barksdale looked down at the auburn hair just under her nose. Daria was a short, plain, sad-faced girl, barely over five feet though she was almost sixteen. She wore a gray t-shirt, black pants, badly scuffed black boots with Velcro straps, and a small necklace with a quartz crystal pendant. A thin black jacket completed the ensemble. The jacket makes her look like a goth, her mother once said, but maybe that will keep people away from her. At least if she spills anything on herself, it won’t show, and it keeps her from getting sunburned, too. She won’t take the damn thing off except for bed. I’m tired of fighting with her about it. If she wants to wear it in the summer, let her. She’ll learn what it’s like to get heatstroke.

            “Be brave,” Amy whispered, her mouth by Daria’s forehead. “Black Beauty was brave, wasn’t he? We have to be as brave as he was. I’m proud of how hard you’re trying to be brave, dear. I’m very proud of you.”

            Daria fought back tears. She did want to be brave, though it was very hard to do most days. She sniffed twice, then forced down the rest of her sorrow so her aunt would think good things about her. The lump in her throat hurt when she swallowed.

            “Moving is hard for anyone to do,” said her aunt. “It’s tough to leave your old home for a new one.”

            “I don’t want to.”

            “I know, but that was so brave of you to let them pack your things. That was very brave. You deserve something special for that.” Her aunt kissed her forehead and gave a final squeeze before pulling away. She noticed that Daria’s fingernails were bitten down to the quick. “Would you like to ride with me to the hotel in my little red two-seater? Just you and me? It’s still pretty warm out for September. Maybe we can stop and get a bite to eat, the two of us.”

            Vigorous nods and a stuffy-nosed: “Okay.”

            “I’d like that, too.” Amy did not worry about making such a promise. The cynical side of her knew Daria’s mother would not object to a family meal without Daria around. She guided her niece from the room and down the hallway, keeping an arm around the small teen’s shoulders to pull her close. “You want pizza tonight?”

            Animated nods and an almost-smile: “Yes.”

            “Good.” Amy smiled as they walked together. “Some things never change.”

            Daria’s almost-smile went away. She looked at her feet, her hair hiding her face again. “Quinn said I never change.”

            “What? Oh.” Amy stopped. “Daria? Look at me. Chin up. Now, listen: You’ve come a long way, and I’m proud of you, Daria. You’ve done wonderfully in school, you take good care of yourself, and . . . and I’m just proud of you, that’s all. You do change, because you always get better. You should feel good about yourself.”

            The lack of a response was disturbing. “What’s the matter?” Amy asked, almost dreading to hear her niece’s answer. Long experience warned that Daria’s home life was anything but perfect.

            Her niece licked her lips. “Quinn said I was . . . bad.”

            Amy kept her face impassive. “Bad? How do you mean ‘bad’?”

            Daria’s voice was very low. “Very bad.” Her right hand went to her mouth.

            “Look at me, dear. Look up at me. Don’t bite your nails. Put your hand down. Listen to me. Quinn doesn’t always know what—”

            “Mom said I was bad, too,” Daria interrupted, still looking down.

            It was suddenly difficult for Amy to continue the conversation as she’d planned, denying the reality of the situation or recasting it as good. “When did this happen?” she said, wondering where this would lead.

            “Before you came,” Daria whispered. “Quinn said I was a bad word, and Mom said I was, too.”

            What the hell is this about? “What did she say?” Amy asked, keeping her voice steady and low.

            Daria shook her head while looking at the floor. “Can’t say it.”

            Knowing Helen’s sensitivity on the mental condition of her eldest child, Amy had a good idea what the bad word was. Worse, it was true. She swallowed. “Did she say it to your face?”

            “No,” Daria whispered. “I was in my room. I heard them in the kitchen.”

            Amy’s hand rose and cupped Daria’s left cheek. Aunt and niece looked into each other’s owl-eye glasses and deep brown eyes. Their faces were framed by long auburn hair that on Amy fell in kinky waves, but on Daria in long curves.

            So much alike, so different.

            Why am I the one who has to put everything together? Why am I the one who has to straighten things out when my stupid sister can’t juggle her overburdened schedule and can’t cope anymore and is ready to dump the hardest half of her responsibility for parenting on anyone she can con into accepting it? Why am I always the one?

            She exhaled, weary from knowing the answer. Because there is no one else.

            “You’re very special to me, Daria,” said Amy. “You always will be, and I will never give up on you. Never. I will always love you.”

            Her niece’s eyes radiated such gratitude and joy as to stab Amy through the heart. There is no one else but me. No one else but me, no one ever. No one.

            Her hand fell away.

            “We’d better go get dinner,” said Amy woodenly. She retrieved her car keys from the kitchen. “We have a lot to do tonight and tomorrow.” Seeing Daria still standing there in the hall, she put a hand out to her. “Come on, dear.”

            Daria took the hand. They walked together out of the empty house. Daria’s gaze lingered on the front doorknob, then they went down the sidewalk past the “SOLD” sign and the brown, rain-starved lawn. Helen and Jake were already seated in their brand-new navy-blue Lexus, waiting in the short driveway. The rear of the car except for where Quinn sat was filled with suitcases, most of them pink and obviously Quinn’s. Parked down the street was the moving van containing the Morgendorffers’ worldly goods, awaiting departure at dawn for their new home. The movers were off to who knew where, doing who knew what.

            “Was she any trouble?” Helen called from the Lexus, leaning out the rolled-down front passenger window with a tense frown. Sunglasses were perched atop her bobbed brown hair.

            Amy opened her mouth to say no, they had only been talking, all was well.

            “We don’t have any more room in here!” Quinn shouted from the rear passenger window. “She can’t ride with us!”

            “Quinn,” said Helen with a mild glance back. She looked at her younger sister again. “Amy, would you mind terribly if—”

            “Daria’s riding with me,” Amy called. Her arm automatically went around Daria’s shoulders and pulled her close. Daria did not resist. “We’re going out for a little pizza by ourselves. Don’t worry about us.”

            “Okay, but watch her,” said Helen, still looking irritated. “Be on her like a hawk. I don’t want a repeat of what happened at school.”

            Amy returned Helen’s irritated look. What did happen at school, and why won’t you tell me the whole story? Helen had never been specific about the reason she pulled Daria out of the special education class at Highland High, except that it had to do with some boys. The implications made Amy sick to her stomach. She didn’t know whether to approach the topic with Daria, bury it, or call child services to investigate. Helen was suing the school, so child services doubtless already knew—but Amy didn’t.

            “And don’t lose her baby book!” Quinn added, looking at the copy of Black Beauty Daria held. Daria glared back.

            “Quinn.” Helen looked at Amy again. “We’re going to the hotel first to check in, but we’re going to be really busy unpacking before we go out to dinner, and things could be chaotic. Daria doesn’t tolerate that kind of thing very well, so if you could—”

            “I know, I know.” Amy felt her face flush with anger. “I just said we were going out for pizza first. Don’t wait on us.” As if you would, you miserable wound-up pain in the ass.

            A look of relief filled her sister’s face. “Thanks!” Helen waved as Jake started the Lexus and backed out of the driveway. “See you at the hotel!”

            As the Lexus stopped backing into the street and Jake shifted the car into drive, Quinn took the opportunity to lean out of her open window, wearing her CD earphones and a nasty grin. “Bye, retard!” she yelled at Daria. She then settled back in her seat and rolled up her window as the car drove off down the long subdivision street.

            Stunned speechless, Amy searched for a strong reaction from Helen or Jake, some sign they were angered by Quinn’s parting shot. Neither parent did a thing. The Lexus turned a corner, and the sound of its engine faded and was gone. Of all the nerve!

            Amy looked down at Daria, who watched the car disappear with a smoldering expression. The bad word her niece had overheard earlier was now clear. It figured. Helen and Jake had never gotten over having a child diagnosed with such a disability. It was amazing they’d stuck together as a couple this long, given the amount of time they spent ranting about the unfairness of life in general, looking for someone or something to blame for everything.

            Sighing, Amy decided to face the issue head-on. “That was just plain mean,” she told Daria, having to be content with understatement. She wanted to use pithier terms, but Daria often repeated any obscenities she heard, usually at inappropriate times, and there would be hell to pay if she did. “Quinn says things like that because she doesn’t know any better, but it doesn’t excuse bad behavior. I’m sorry that happened.”

            “She is mean,” Daria spat. “She’s very mean.” She waited a moment, looking where the Lexus had gone, then shouted, “Bitch!” with naked hatred.

            Amy’s stomach knotted, but she gave Daria’s shoulder a squeeze before letting go. Her niece’s storehouse of rage made her nervous. “Come on,” she said evenly. “Let’s get on the road and have some fun.”

            Daria didn’t move, except to look up at her aunt with a mixture of anger and worry. “Are you mad?” she asked.

            “Mad? About Quinn?”

            “No. I said that word.”

            “No, I’m not mad at you,” said Amy after a beat. “You know that you can say things to me that you can’t say to other people. It’s safe to say stuff like that to me, but not to anyone else, all right? Don’t tell anyone else you said that, okay?”

            “Okay.” Daria’s anxiety began to ease. “You’re not mad?”

            “No.” Amy started toward her sports car, parked by the curb. “Are you ready for a little drive to get some pizza?”

            Temper fading, Daria followed. “Yes,” she said, looking ashamed. “I’m sorry I get so mad.”

            “I forgive you. Families can be trying, I know. Just remember that you can do better than other people, okay? Good. Always do your best. Let’s buckle in.”

            They roared away from the small blue ranch house and did not look back. Amy found a long two-lane straightaway outside town and pushed the top-down Triumph Spitfire to almost a hundred miles an hour. The wind howled in Daria’s ears and whipped her long hair. Her lips parted in excitement. She clutched her book and forgot everything else but the thrill of the moment, as Amy had intended.

            They got to the hotel an hour later, stuffed with pizza and cheese fries. The red sun had almost slipped below the horizon. The sky was cloudless, the air dusty and dry and oven-baked even at dusk. Amy pointed out a star as they pulled their wheeled suitcases across the parking lot to the lobby door. “Make a wish,” she said—and then grimaced. Don’t mislead her like that! her conscience warned. She glanced at Daria, wondering how she’d take it.

            Daria stared at the twinkling light with a rapt expression. Her lips moved but made no sound. “Okay,” she said at last. “I made it.”

            “Good, now let’s get inside in the air conditioning.”

            “Want to hear it? Want to hear my wish?”

            Amy did not think she could take it if she did. “If you keep it a secret, it might come true,” she said, then flinched. Amy! Damn you!

            “Oh.” Daria looked surprised, but her lips were sealed thereafter.

            Helen, Jake, and Quinn were not in their second-floor rooms when Amy called up from the lobby. She suspected the Morgendorffers had already gone out to dinner. It then dawned on Amy that she could not get Daria into the double-bed room she was supposed to share with Quinn, the one adjacent to their parents’ room, and there was no telling when the rest of the family would return, which meant . . .

            She gave up. “Can I trade my single-bed room for one with a double?” she asked the clerk. “Two queen-sized beds, nonsmoking? Put the difference on my credit card.”

            Ten minutes later, aunt and niece pulled their small wheeled suitcases into a third-floor suite on the side of the hotel opposite the other Morgendorffers’ rooms. They looked out a picture window at the fiery red sky to the west, admiring the handiwork of nature, then took off their footwear, had bathroom breaks, changed into pajamas, and sat together on one of the beds to watch cable TV. Daria flicked through the numerous channels with the remote, a look of delight on her face. Amy wondered if Quinn or Jake usually hogged the remote at home.

            The TV screen suddenly revealed a woman naked from the waist up, her breasts turned in the direction of the camera. Amy winced (Thanks, public educational television!), then glanced at Daria and saw her niece stare intently for a moment. “Thingies,” said Daria, pointing at the image with the remote before she continued surfing.

            “Some people call them that,” said Amy, concern creeping into her voice. What does she know about sex? Not much, I hope, or at least enough to say no. Or run. What the hell happened to her at—?

            “A boy at school said those were thingies,” said Daria, her voice low. She glanced nervously at Amy, then continued surfing until she reached a cartoon channel, at which point she smiled and settled back to watch the action.

            Amy cleared her throat, unable to concentrate on anything else. “A guy at school said that?” she asked gently.

            An irked expression crossed Daria’s face as she continued watching the cartoon. “Yes,” she said continued in a quavering voice. “He made me show my thingies.”

            The news hit Amy with a jolt. She waited until she could talk in a reasonably sane tone. “He did what?”

            “What?” said Daria, glancing away from the television, her face tense.

            “You said that boy did something to you?”

            That look of fear again. “Are you mad at me?”

            “No, dear, of course not. I just want to know what happened.”

            “Oh.” The frown returned. “He and his friend said I was too dumb to pull up my shirt. Then he said I was dumb because I did. I was so mad at him! He was gross!”

            Amy’s thoughts became clogged with profanity.

            “I like this TV show,” said Daria, her anger subsiding. “Mom won’t let me see it.”

            “What happened to that boy?” Amy asked, trying to be casual. Her hands itched. She fantasized driving over the little bastard and his friend with her Triumph, then backing up and running over them again and again, even if it dented a fender and chipped the paint.

            Daria frowned as she watched TV, trying to concentrate. “He was gross.”

            “Uh, right. Sorry.” Amy waited until the cartoon was over and a commercial came on. “What happened to that bad boy?”

            “Oh.” Daria turned to face her. “A car fell on him. It fell on his friend, too, and they died.”

            Amy could only blink. This news was shockingly close to her dark little fantasy. “Whoa,” she said. “Really?”

            “Yeah.” Daria became more animated. “They were fixing a tire and the car fell on them. Mom said that was good, ‘cause they were bad. My teacher said it was sad they died, but Mom said no.” She clicked the remote again and paused at a channel showing a set of concentric green ovals with the words “SICK SAD WORLD” overlaid in red. She shrugged and kept clicking.

            “Who is Helen suing, then?” Amy muttered aloud, staring at the TV without watching it.

            “The school,” said Daria. “The boys at school were mean. The principal died too, Mister McVicker. Mom said his heart went bad ‘cause she sued him.” She paused to reflect. “I don’t know what sued is,” she added, looking at Amy. “What’s sued mean? Does it hurt?”

            Too much information, way too much. “It . . . it’s really hard to explain, even for me. It has to do with money. It doesn’t matter. Any more good cartoons on?”

            Daria smiled, then aimed the remote at the tube and clicked for all she was worth.

            As the shock receded, Amy discovered that the news of the two boys’ deaths was not at all unwelcome, considering the circumstances. They tried to fix a flat and ended up very flat. Yeah, that was lame, but what’s the point of a senseless tragedy if you can’t find a little humor in it? She did not laugh, however. She was too angry.

            They played cards later with Amy’s deck, talking about what Daria had been doing in school, then Daria yawned, laid down on her bed “for just a minute,” and fell asleep. Amy covered up her niece, then took out her laptop computer, booted it up on the desk, and checked her e-mail. Still no word about the movie scripts her agent claimed she was floating around Tinseltown. Amy wondered if she should try writing another one.

            She then roughed out a column for a travel magazine, describing how one crosses the country by highway with a mentally challenged companion. She wrote out the notes only, waiting for the trip ahead to reveal which “parenting” tricks and techniques worked with Daria and which didn’t. About midnight she unplugged her computer, got in bed, then slept until the ringing phone (Helen, of course) got the two of them up at seven a.m.

            Amy and Daria met the other Morgendorffers downstairs in the dining room for breakfast at nine. Quinn said there was no room for them at the table and prepared to throw a fit when Amy reached for a chair to get Daria seated.

            “Amy,” said Helen quickly, “why don’t you and Daria sit over there, by the wall? That table’s okay.”

            “Why don’t we sit together like a family?” Amy asked, tensing.

            “Because there’s no room here!” shouted Quinn, drawing attention from diners all over the room. “Sit over there!”

            Amy’s temper began to fray. “Quinn, that’s rude,” she began. “You shouldn’t—”

            “Let me handle this, Amy,” interrupted Helen, rising. “Come on, Quinn. Let’s you and I go over there, and Daria and Amy can sit with Dad.”

            “Helen!” Amy protested.

            “Please!” Helen snapped back. “I’m taking care of the situation, all right? Just sit down and eat! We can’t stay here and fight all day! We have to get going!”

            Helen and Quinn left. Amy watched them go in disbelief, then dully got Daria seated and pulled out the chair across the table from Jake. He studiously ignored everyone and everything to dig into the food piled on his plate from the breakfast buffet. Amy dropped into the chair and rubbed her temples, feeling a sharp headache coming on. She didn’t know which of her older sisters drove her crazier with their self-righteousness and power issues: Rita, the blonde princess of privilege and entitlement, who expected to be loved and worshiped, or Helen, the authoritarian control freak, who expected to be feared and obeyed. Scylla or Charybdis: really, what was the difference?

            “Try the buffet,” said Jake, looking only at his food. “Great stuff here. Love the six-cheese bacon omelets.”

            “No, thanks.” Amy signaled to a waitress. “We’ll order from the menu.”

            “My father never let me order from the menu,” Jake muttered. “He was such a—”

            “What do you want, dear?” Amy interrupted, looking at Daria. She was not in the mood to hear one of Jake’s rants.

            Daria did not answer. She was looking with a sad expression across the room at the table where her mother and sister sat and talked in a lively way. Quinn glanced up at Daria, made a nasty face for half a second, then looked back at her mother and smiled.

            “Daria?” said Amy softly.

            Her niece turned around, her face creased with sorrow.

            “Want a waffle with whipped cream on it?”

            Daria looked down at her empty plate, her hair shrouding her face, and said nothing.

            Fortified by three aspirin and two ibuprofen tablets, Amy met the Morgendorffers one last time in the parking lot when they left the hotel. “We should be in Lawndale the day after tomorrow, probably about noon,” said Helen, checking a fold-up map. “Here’s the route we’re taking with the van. Drive carefully, don’t speed, and don’t take your eyes off her for a second. If she gets to be too much to handle, take her to a hospital emergency room and give them this prescription; the tranquilizers will keep her calm the rest of the way. When you get to a hotel, make sure she washes herself everywhere she’s supposed to. Watch her do it in the tub if you have to. She knows not to argue or talk back, and she knows not to hit—or she’d better know, if she knows what’s good for her. Here’s my cell-phone number and the number at the new house, in case you lost them. Oh, and the front-door key. The agent said the phones should be connected. I figure we’ll get in before you do, but you never know. Remember, she can be a handful without half trying. Be firm. If she swears or—” Helen’s voice dropped to a stage whisper “—says anything about sex—” Her voice rose again “—cut her off right away. Don’t let her get away with a thing. Got all that? Good.”

            A grim, silent Amy took the house key, roadmap, prescription, and list of phone numbers, then watched as Helen walked back to the Lexus. Daria stood beside Amy with her head bowed in anger and shame.

            As the other Morgendorffers drove away, Quinn stuck her hand out the window of the Lexus and nonchalantly waved her middle finger at Amy and Daria. Amy frowned and shook her head as she watched. She did not give voice to her unprintable thoughts, almost all of which were directed at her sister Helen for letting Quinn turn into a spoiled monster who competed against Daria for attention with monomaniacal determination and energy. What was driving Quinn to do that, anyway—insecurity, fear, imitation of her mother’s bad behaviors, or all of the above?

            For all that, Amy could still sympathize with Helen, well familiar with her sister’s belief that she had somehow caused Daria’s intellectual deficiency. Was it that wine she drank at the office party, or the pot she smoked before she knew she was pregnant, or was it just bad genes and bad luck? The relentless guilt had crippled Helen’s good instincts. Now her family was swimming in disaster.

            The very second that the Lexus was out of sight, Amy methodically tore up the roadmap, prescription, and phone list, then threw them in a nearby garbage can and dusted off her hands. She already had all of Helen’s phone numbers programmed into her cell phone, and she knew the Interstates better than either of her sisters ever would. And she was damned if she would drug her niece for any reason.

            “Ready for some fun?” she asked her niece, putting the house key on her key ring.

            Daria’s face lit up. “Yeah!”

            “Me, too, and about time.”

            They got into the car. As they were fastening their seat belts, Daria said, “Amy?”

            “What?”

            “Can I ask you something?”

            Sensing it was important, Amy faced her niece. “Sure, anything.”

            Daria appeared quite anxious as she collected herself, then suddenly blurted out, “What’s sex?”

            Amy bit her lip, then went for it. “It’s how people make babies, dear.”

            “Oh,” said Daria, still looking concerned. “Are you mad?”

            “No, dear. Everyone asks that question. It’s good that you did.”

            Daria sat back in her seat, clearly relieved. “Okay.”

            “Uh . . . was that all you wanted to know?”

            “Yeah.”

            Amy felt a rush of relief, too. “Okey-dokey,” she said as she fired up the Triumph. They roared out of the parking lot, wind whipping through their hair.

            Amy had years of experience with Daria, thanks to being badgered into caring for her niece whenever a crisis loomed in the Morgendorffer household. Traveling with Daria could wear on the nerves, but it was rewarding, too, in curious ways. Amy occasionally felt the pressure to have children of her own, but the short supply of suitable men in the Washington, D.C. area kept her from trying. She had often wondered what it was like to be a mother, to have a child, to feel that connection to another life. Daria’s off-and-on presence filled some of that need. That Amy often wrote of her experiences with Daria in magazine articles and movie scripts did not hurt, either, even if it pissed off Helen on occasion. Helen always called back to beg for more Daria-related favors. Once in a while Amy admitted to herself that, despite all the hassles involved, she was glad Helen did call her. Being a part-time mom wasn’t bad at all—trying, yes, but not bad.

            We are going to have a good time, come hell or high water. Daria and I are going to have the best time of all, she repeated to herself as she went up the Interstate ramp and headed east across Texas’s flatter-than-flat plains. She glanced at her niece, who watched the passing scenery with solemn concentration. If Daria later became melancholy over leaving her old home, it could be borne. Highland was the ugliest, trashiest town Amy had ever seen, and she had seen a good many. God only knew how Helen and Jake had come to settle here in the first place. Daria would be better off elsewhere in the long run, and Lawndale was sure to have resources Highland could not hope to match.

            One could always hope so, at least.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            Fifteen hundred miles and two long days passed.

            At four o’clock on a cloudy afternoon, a dusty red Triumph Spitfire with its top down pulled up to the curb in front of 1111 Glen Oaks Lane, in the Baltimore suburb of Lawndale. A mildly sunburned Amy Barksdale lifted the brim of her Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders cowboy hat (purchased in Dallas) and peered up at the upscale, two-story, red-brick home that would be the Morgendorffers’ new abode. She brushed the remains of Burger Baron onion rings from her sweat-stained Hillary Rodham Clinton t-shirt (Little Rock) and black gaucho pants (Alexandria), and then with her knee-high, black-leather goddess boots (Nashville) kicked aside the clattering pile of Ultra-Cola cans (everywhere) littering the floor so she could put on the parking brake.

            A mildly sunburned Daria squinted at the house, her hair pulled back in a ponytail under a black VIRGINIA IS FOR LOVERS baseball cap (Shenandoah). She had newly pierced ears with golden earrings in the shape of horses to go with them (Knoxville), and under the black jacket wore a red top that read: I SAW ELVIS AND ALL HE GAVE ME WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT (Memphis). Her old footwear had been replaced by black walking boots that zipped up in back (Nashville). Her quartz necklace remained.

            “There it is,” Amy said, waving a hand at the house and the “For Sale” sign in front that had a “SOLD” label slapped over it. She shifted in her seat and made a pained face. “God, my butt hurts,” she groaned, opening her door. “I gotta stand up.”

            “Where are we?”

            “That’s your new home. It’s certainly bigger than the old one, I’ll say that for it.” Amy shut the car door, then stretched and rotated her back. Every muscle and joint in her body ached from the long drive, deluxe leather form-fitting seat or no. “Do you have to go to the toilet?” she called.

            “Yeah,” said Daria, still giving the house a dubious stare.

            “Me, too. Let’s find one before I explode.”

            Daria snickered. Her aunt always made her laugh, usually with her funny faces. They unlocked the front door and went inside, soon finding a first-floor bathroom. Then they explored at their leisure, giving it a thorough once-over.

            “My guess is,” said Amy after they’d inspected the second floor, “your mom and dad will claim that bedroom there because it’s got a master bath. I don’t know what’s up with that room with the padded walls. That’s just plain weird, but it’s kinda cool in a way. I don’t know if your mom would let you have that. That leaves the bedroom with the white carpeting and the one with the salmon carpeting for you and Quinn to divide.”

            “White gets dirty,” said Daria, remembering her mother’s complaints about the end-of-day condition of the white blouses she once wore to school.

            “It does, doesn’t it?” Amy crossed her arms as she leaned against a wall, facing her niece. “At least we don’t have to wear it now that Labor Day’s past. So, what do you think of the house?”

            Daria looked pensive. “I don’t know.” A pause. “It’s big.”

            “Sure is. Hey, you remember what I said about why this house is better than the old one?”

            “It’s closer to you?”

            “That’s right. I live only an hour away instead of a long, long way away. I can get in my car and drive over to see you whenever I want, if your parents don’t mind. And you’ll get a bigger room than you had, no matter which one you get.”

            Nodding absently, Daria turned to look back in the direction of the weird bedroom with the padded walls. It had a TV in the ceiling, and she liked bumping into the pads and hanging from the handrail along one wall. It was weird, but good weird. The closet was reasonably big for hiding in, too.

            “We should wait until everyone else gets here before we divide up the rooms. Your mom will probably use the extra one, whichever one it is, for a guest bedroom. What would you like to do for now?”

            Some quick thought, then: “Watch TV.”

            “The moving van’s not here yet. We don’t have a TV.”

            “That bedroom has one.”

            “We don’t have a remote for it yet. What else could we do?”

            “Oh.” Amy waited until Daria came up with: “Eat pizza.”

            “That’s my girl. Must be a decent pizza parlor somewhere in this burg.”

            They were on their way downstairs when the phone rang. Amy found an old rotary-dial telephone in the kitchen and answered it. Helen will replace this thing right away, I bet. “Hello,” she said.

            “Amy? Helen,” said her sister. Soft piano music was playing in the background. “I tried your cell phone, but you have it turned off or something.”

            “The battery died. I left it on by accident and forgot it. I’ll recharge it tonight.”

            “Oh. Well, we’re in Leeville at the nursing home, visiting Mother. I thought it would be good for her to get reacquainted with Quinn when we had the chance.”

            Good to get reacquainted with Quinn, but not with Daria. I understand. “Is Rita there, too?” Amy asked dryly.

            “What? No, she’s not coming by until Thursday. She’ll probably bring Erin with her when she does. Erin’s twenty-first birthday’s coming up, you know.”

            “Ah. Kind of like a beauty contest for cute kids, isn’t it? Complete with cash prizes and everything. Think your protégé will get lucky this time?”

            “Amy, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Helen said, stung to the quick. “We’re just visiting, nothing else, and it wouldn’t hurt you to see Mom once in a while yourself.”

            “I would, I would, but I—” Amy’s gaze fell on Daria, staring up at her, and she bit off her words: —don’t have a beautiful daughter for use in milking Mom for more of that lovely pile of money that Dad left her when he died. “—I’ll be by next month to take her out to lunch again. She liked that a lot the last time.”

            “You took her out for lunch? The staff let you do that? When was this?”

            “Last time I was there. So, when are you leaving?”

            “We might be here overnight. I think we’ll take Mom out for a nice dinner somewhere. If the moving van arrives, just have them wait for us. Don’t let them unload anything until I get there.”

            “Sure. Nice place you’ve got, by the way.”

            “I know it is,” Helen said in a peeved tone. “You say that like you were expecting a dump.”

            “Like the one in Highland, you mean?”

            The phone slammed down on the other end. Amy winced, then carefully hung up. It was difficult not to smile. Touchy, touchy. She turned to Daria. “Your mom said they were running late. They’ll probably be here tomorrow about noonish.”

            “Oh.” Daria thought about it. “Can we go out?”

            “We sure can.”

            They cruised Lawndale for half an hour before a suitable pizza place appeared: Pizza Forest, where people dressed up as giant adorable wild animals and sang songs for the customers. Small children usually enjoyed this, but it caused unending annoyance for the adults. Predictably, only families with small children and chaperoned groups of kids out for birthday parties were present when Amy and Daria arrived. They were escorted to their table by a giant opossum named Opie and a giant penguin named Tux. After three energetic choruses of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” which Daria sang with verve, Amy felt her patience slip. She quietly signed to every other oversized specimen of wildlife to avoid their table by drawing an index finger across her throat—an unmistakable signal that the costumed employees wisely obeyed.

            “Did you want to hear my wish?” Daria asked just before the pizza arrived. She then clamped a hand over her mouth. “Eep!”

            “A secret, dear,” Amy reminded her. She was curious to hear the wish, but she fought off the urge to ask.

            Daria took a drink of her apple juice, which Amy had ordered for them both in place of caffeinated beverages that would get Daria too stirred up before bed. “The police were nice,” she said. “The ones we met.”

            “Oh, um, yes, I guess they were.”

            “Why did they chase us?”

            “Uh . . . I was speeding, dear. They don’t like for people to go too fast on the roads. It’s not safe.” Amy found herself turning red. “I sort of messed up.”

            “I was scared, but they waved at me and asked me my name and let us go.”

            “Yes, with a warning not to speed again. It was just once.”

            “No, three times. They stopped us three—” Daria counted on her fingers, remembering each incident “—I mean, four times.”

            Amy took a deep breath, gauging Helen’s reaction to the news. “Let’s keep this a secret just between you and me, shall we?”

            “Okay.” Daria took to looking for their pizza’s arrival.

            “Did you have any friends in Highland?” Amy asked, and immediately regretted that she had.

            Daria glanced back, then looked away and shook her head no.

            “Oh. Well, maybe you’ll . . . oh, there’s our pizza and breadsticks. Just in time.” Way to go, Amy. You almost said she might find some friends here. What are the chances of that, do you think? Dope.

            Halfway through the meal, Daria wiped garlic butter from her hands onto her fifth napkin and said, “I wish I was smart.”

            Amy chewed very slowly on her pizza when she heard that. She glanced at Daria, but kept her gaze on the table thereafter and said nothing.

            “I wish I was smarter than Quinn.” Daria picked up another piece of pizza and stared at it. “She tells me I’m stupid all the time. She tells me what to do and that makes me so mad. She always gets her way. I tell Mom and she says shut up, don’t talk about it, but she won’t make Quinn stop being mean.” She bit into her pizza. “Mom loves Quinn more than she loves me,” she said glumly as she chewed.

            Amy wiped her hands, her appetite gone. What am I supposed to say to that? I think she’s right, but what do I say?

            “I wish that—” Daria stopped and shook her head. “I won’t say it. I want it to come true.”

            “Okay.” After tossing around for the perfect response, Amy gave up. “I’m sorry to hear all that,” she said. “I didn’t know things were so bad sometimes.” Not true. I did.

            “Things are always bad.” Daria reached for another breadstick. “No one wants to be friends with me. I don’t want to go to school anymore. Other kids laugh at me and call me names. I don’t want to talk to them.”

            “Do you like to learn?”

            “Yes, but I hate school. I want to stay home and read.”

            “Well, maybe Lawndale will be different.”

            Daria shook her head with the grim look of a realist. “No, it won’t.”

            “Promise me you’ll give it a try, though. That’s all I ask, to just give it a try.”

            “Okay,” Daria grumbled.

            “I’ll talk to your teacher so maybe they’ll be nicer to you, how about that?”

            Though Daria agreed, it was clear she didn’t believe for a moment that would happen.

            They drove around town after dinner until they found the Lawndale Mall, where Amy and Daria discovered a Books by the Ton outlet. Daria wanted to get George Orwell’s Animal Farm until she realized it had no pictures and she couldn’t follow the text. Amy bought a complete collection of poetry by Pushkin in a new translation, then found a book of children’s poems by Shel Silverstein, an Eloise book Daria had not yet read, and a large picture book on dinosaurs that Daria seemed fascinated with. On the way to the cashier, Daria saw Scieszka and Smith’s Stinky Cheese Man and Other Fairly Stupid Tales, and Amy relented and got it for her, too.

            “Good choices,” said the teenage girl behind Amy in the checkout line.

            Amy looked back. The teenager seemed friendly enough. She was lean and lanky, with shoulder-length jet-black hair and large blue eyes. She wore a red overshirt with rolled up sleeves, a black t-shirt and gray shorts, black leggings, and gray boots.

            “My niece and I have similar tastes,” said Amy.

            “She has my tastes in clothing, too,” said the teenager, looking at Daria’s black-and-red outfit. The teen was holding a large book on life model drawing. Daria turned around, embarrassed, lowering her head and hiding in her hair again. “A little shy,” said the teen, who seemed to catch on to Daria’s condition but did not seem disturbed by it.

            “We just drove in from Texas,” said Amy. “Are there any pizza places around Lawndale that don’t have giant singing animals? Or at least a place where I can shoot them instead of listening to them?”

            The dark-haired girl smiled broadly. “The best pizza place here is called Pizza Place—an original name if there ever was one. It’s on Bernstein Drive, near the high school. A guy with a crown is painted on the window. If you can put up with a sizeable school crowd, it’s worth the visit.”

            “Thanks. Maybe we’ll see you there.”

            “Probably,” said the girl. “I eat there about twice a week, more often if someone else is buying. That was a hint.”

            “Next,” said the cashier. Amy paid for her items and waved goodbye to the girl in line. Daria kept her head down the entire time, arms folded in front of her. On the way to the parking lot, it occurred to Amy that the girl might be a good sitter for Daria, but it was too late then to go back and get her name, address, and phone number. Maybe we’ll see her later, she thought. She looked mature for her age, and Daria didn’t put her off, so maybe . . . wait, forget it. Helen would never go for it, if it was my idea. Oh, well.

            They checked into a hotel so that Daria would have cable TV to play with. They were getting changed for bed when Daria asked, “Are you going to stay with us, Amy?”

            “I can stay for only a few more days,” said Amy. “If you want, I can take you to school on your first day there, unless you want your mom or dad to—”

            “No, you,” said Daria quickly. “I want you to take me.”

            “Okay. I’ll have to go home to Washington, D.C., before long, but I’ll be back soon to check up on you, all right?”

            Daria didn’t answer. She went into the bathroom for a while, then came out and went to bed with the covers pulled over her head. She didn’t even ask to watch TV. It was a sure sign that she was upset. It always happened when they talked about Amy leaving.

            Amy stayed up with her laptop, finishing an article for a Washington political magazine and e-mailing it to the editor-in-chief. If he took it, Amy would clear fifty thousand for the year to date—less than she’d hoped because time with Daria cut into her writing, but still very nice. After closing up shop on her computer (still no word on her scripts, damn it!), she lay in bed for a long time afterward in the darkness, thinking about her niece’s larger future. Could Daria eventually get a job with a sheltered workshop, cutting up boxes or packing things or whatever it was they did in sheltered workshops these days? Would she ever be independent? Amy doubted it. Daria was functioning at a third-grade level academically, and though she was in much better shape than most people in her predicament, she still needed to learn a lot about getting around in public. Her tendency was to go off and hide whenever she was angry, frightened, upset, crowded, or overwhelmed, which was far too often.

            What are Helen and Jake going to do with her? Helen said something about a group home or an institution the last time I was here, especially if Daria became violent, which I suppose she could if Quinn won’t stop ragging on her and Helen keeps playing dictator and Jake stays deliberately clueless so he won’t get involved in anything that might be emotionally unpleasant. Would Helen do that, put Daria out of the house and out of her hair? Daria’s not that hard to manage or get along with, really—or is that just my short-term experience, and not Helen’s full-time reality? I’m only around Daria for a few days at a time. How would things work out if she was with me twenty-four seven? Would we get sick of each other, or would we make it together? Why am I even thinking about this? That’ll never happen. God, Amy, just go to bed.

            Sleep did not come, however. How would I ever manage things if I did wind up with Daria? She’s very demanding of time and attention, even when she’s doing things on her own. She gets angry and depressed at the drop of a hat nowadays, thanks to her deluxe nut bar family, and when she gets an ugly attitude, she’s damn ugly. And that whole hiding thing gets on my nerves. It would drive anyone to distraction. I just want to shake her and yell: Grow up! Stop acting like a little kid!

            Her anger faded. Except, of course, she is a little kid. She’ll always be like this. I would have given up my arms and legs for her to be three standard deviations above normal on IQ tests instead of three below like she is, on the borderline between mildly and moderately retarded, and not a single doctor can figure out why. Thank God she’s not a Down syndrome kid, a fetal-alcohol baby, or has fragile-X. She doesn’t have a host of other disorders, like a screwed-up heart or spine. There’s so much to be thankful for that she doesn’t have. All that’s wrong with her, as far as anyone can tell, is that she’s just . . . retarded. That’s it. As things like this go, she’s as lucky as she can get, beyond this one stroke of bad luck. She’s got a future, even if it isn’t as much of one as we had all hoped. She’s got a future, as long as someone is there to help her find it.

            Could I do it, if that person had to be me? Could I still churn out articles and columns for the magazines as fast as I can now, and still make them sell? My rate of production is already suffering. I wanted to crack a hundred thou this year for the first time, but it looks like I’ll have to put off that trip to Hawaii for a few more years. Could I ever go if Daria was always with me? Could I live with less just to have her, or am I happy being a part-time presence in her life? Do I really want to know the answers?

            She shook her head to make the problem go away. About two-fifteen in the morning, it finally did as she slipped into exhausted slumber. A long road lay ahead. Nothing had been resolved. Nothing, except Amy knew she would try. It was all she could do. She would try.

            And if it wasn’t enough, then . . .

            She was asleep before she completed the thought.

 

 

 

 

two

 

 

            The trees along Glen Oaks Lane burned autumn yellow as Amy Barksdale pulled her growling Triumph into the driveway of the Morgendorffers’ home. It was the first Friday afternoon in October; the sky was clear, and the breezes were warm enough to drive with the top down. Amy prepared herself as she got out of the car and headed for the front door with a rapid stride, her purse under her arm. The terse message her sister had left on her cell phone the night before said little but implied much, all of it bad. The Morgendorffers’ phone had been busy all morning, too—a very bad sign.

            Half a minute went by after she rang the doorbell, but no one answered it. She was on the verge of walking around the house to see if anyone was in the backyard when she heard quick footsteps approaching. The door opened to reveal Helen in a magenta skirt-suit, a portable phone pressed to her ear. She gave Amy only a glance before walking away, still listening to the phone. Amy squelched the urge to broadcast a sarcastic remark in favor of eavesdropping on Helen’s conversation, hoping to learn how dire the situation was.

            “Sorry, go on,” said Helen to the handset, making her way toward the kitchen. “Did they say they were thinking about a lawsuit, or were they planning one for certain? Her brother, what was it he said, exactly? I see. So, it looks like they’re moving ahead with some kind of legal action, no matter how things turn out. Did you get any idea if it would be civil or criminal? I’d bet civil, but . . . yes, I thought so, too.”

            Amy deposited her purse on the family room loveseat. It sounded like Helen was delving into another corporate legal case, nothing she couldn’t handle at her office but always managed to bring home like any good workaholic. Where was the alleged family emergency for which she had been summoned? She considered the options. Were Helen and Jake getting a divorce? Unlikely, as their individual shortcomings meshed too well. Was one of the kids in trouble? Unlikely, too, or else Helen wouldn’t be gabbing on the phone when she should be—

            “How did they get Quinn’s name, then?” Helen asked, stopping in the kitchen doorway. “It wasn’t on the news when . . . what? From the school principal? Can you document that? That’s actionable, definitely actionable. Get confirmation of that right away. It sounds like Ms. Li’s trying to spread the blame around or deflect it. She knows the school will probably be named in the suit, and her in particular, but she’s not allowed to give out the children’s names like that. She has an obligation to—oh, the hell with it.”

            Amy shook her head in disbelief. Quinn was in legal trouble involving the high school? How was that possible? The last Amy knew, Quinn was a fashion drone and social conformist, cruel to her sister but nice to others, so how could she be in trouble? Amy knew she’d have to suffer through to the end of the phone call before learning the truth. Interrupting Helen when she was “going legal” was a ticket to disaster.

            Helen paced to and fro in the kitchen. “When did you last check on her condition? Mrs. Johanssen, of course. I see. Did you talk with her doctor or nurse? Good. What’d they say? Wait, John, that doesn’t make any sense. A person with type two diabetes can’t be hypoglycemic; it’s the other way around, it’s hyper-glycemic. She couldn’t—oh. I see. Can the drugs do that? Get the name of the medication she was taking, then. Do the doctors have a preliminary diagnosis? Mmm-hmm. How would that happen? I see. Are they connecting the stroke with all the chocolate she ate? I have to know. Can you get into her medical chart and copy it? Yes, I know that, but can you do it anyway? Well, try, damn it! Did anyone talk with her when she was brought in—EMT technicians, ER personnel, police, anyone? Oh, she wasn’t . . . she couldn’t have said anything, then. I see. Yes, it’s terrible, but it wasn’t Quinn’s fault in any event. That woman should have known what she was doing to herself!”

            Was Daria involved in this, too? Amy frowned. It was unlikely, but—

            “Here’s what I want from you,” said Helen in an ice-cold command voice. “I need to know if Mrs. Johanssen’s condition was commonly known, if she was adhering to her medication, diet plans, any treatment she was getting for the diabetes, or if she knew what her diagnosis was, but she was ignoring treatment—any evidence of the latter is priority one, get it for me ASAP. If she’d been specifically told by her doctor not to eat chocolates or sweets, I need to know that in particular, and for how long she’d disobeyed doctor’s orders. We’ll build a counter-case that no one was at fault but her. She was killing herself, and there’s no one else to blame. And I need to know if that woman’s brother or adult children have evidence that they think proves that Quinn knew of her condition when she was selling the chocolates to her. If there’s physical evidence, I need to know exactly what it is, in detail. If you can get your hands on the evidence, bring it to me at once: any notes, letters, anything connecting Quinn to those sales, get it to me right away and I’ll make it worth your while. I don’t give a damn what it costs, just get it!”

            Helen’s voice fell. “Look, my sister just got here. I have to go. Okay. Talk to you later tonight.” She thumbed off the phone and leaned against the doorway to the kitchen. Her shoulders slumped as she looked down at the kitchen floor with glazed eyes.

            After a pause, Amy cleared her throat. She had a good idea now of the problem, but there was little she could do to help against such a nightmare. Little she could do, except perhaps—

            Helen pushed away from the doorway and turned around, the handset held loosely in her fingers. She ran her other hand through her short brown hair. “Thanks for coming,” she said, without meeting Amy’s gaze. “Jake, Quinn, and I are going away this weekend. We were going to take Daria with us, but our plans changed. We need to focus on Quinn without any distractions. You can take Daria anywhere you like, but you’ll probably need to get a hotel room. Reporters might come back here if anything else happens, regardless of the court order. We should be back Monday afternoon. I hope that doesn’t interfere with any of your plans, but if it does . . . I guess I’ll find somebody else.”

            That’s a bit cold-blooded even for you, sis, Amy thought. “No problem,” she said. “Just tell me what happened.”

            Helen looked at the phone in her hand. “A week ago, the high school started a fund raiser for a student coffeehouse downtown. Some of the students sold chocolate bars, among other things, door to door. Then a heavy-set lady in this subdivision was discovered yesterday in her home by her brother. She’d had a stroke. She’s in Cedars of Lawndale on life support, but she might be in an irreversible coma. Her brother and her three adult children are talking about filing a civil lawsuit against whomever who sold her ten cartons of fundraiser chocolate bars that were found at her home. A lot of the bars had reportedly been eaten. One of the local TV stations got wind of it and made it a feature story last night, one of the reasons we’re getting out of town.”

            “That lady was diabetic?”

            “She told her neighbors she was hypoglycemic, but she was actually diabetic, type two. Her medication made her hypoglycemic, but a sufficiently large amount of sugar in her bloodstream would overwhelm the medication and worsen her condition. She must have been diabetic for ages. She was grossly overweight and in bad physical condition. You can bet we’re going to use that in court.”

            “And Quinn—”

            “Quinn’s accused of selling the woman the chocolate, of course!” Helen snapped. “Ten cartons of it, a hundred and twenty bars total. Quinn told me she stuck a note on one of the last three boxes, which she left on the lady’s doorstep two days ago because no one answered the door. The brother found the boxes before he found his sister. Some boy that Quinn’s dating drove her over to deliver the goods—I’ll have to talk with him and his family, too. If the private detective can get back the note that Quinn left, they won’t have anything connecting Quinn to the sale except for school records, and I can probably get those from Principal Li once I tell her she’s going to be named in my lawsuit for giving out Quinn’s name to that woman’s family!” Helen exhaled angrily. “The idiot!”

            Amy wasn’t sure if that last comment was directed at Principal Li, at the unlucky Mrs. Johanssen, or at Quinn. She didn’t want to know, in any event, and Helen’s determination to get her hands on physical evidence possessed by the other side in the case sounded horrendously unethical, not to mention illegal. “What can I do to help?” she asked, eager to change the subject.

            Helen checked her watch. “I need you to pick up Daria from her special ed class, the one I arranged at Lawndale High. Another high school’s been doing them, but it’s too far away to bother with if Daria got out of control, or we had to get both girls in a hurry. Jake’s been getting them and bringing them home, but he’s running some errands for me at the moment. What else . . . oh, I guess that’s enough disaster for the moment. I’ll call you on your cell phone when I can, but make sure it’s charged this time.”

            “Where are the three of you going, if it’s not a secret?”

            “It’s not to you, but I don’t want anyone else to know, and that means the news media, Mother, and Rita especially. Rita’s given me enough subtle digs about Daria to last a lifetime. She doesn’t need to sink her teeth into this one, too. We’re going to a mental-health spa called Quiet Ivy, near Annapolis. We . . . well, Quinn . . .”

            Helen drew a long breath, continuing in a lower voice. “We’ve been having problems with Quinn. She’s almost out of control. I don’t know what’s happened to her. I’ve been called away from work more times than I can count in the last few weeks to bail her out of trouble at school. Things have gone downhill since she started there. Jake’s gone in more often than I have, since he can set his own hours at his own consulting business, but it’s not much of a business anymore with him gone all the time. I thought a weekend away for all of us would help, as things have been so tense. We’re trying to get Quinn straightened out as fast as we can, and I thought her selling candy for the school was a good thing, but now there’s this mess to deal with, and it’s too much, Amy!” Her voice rose to a shout.

            Amy pondered what to say. “This doesn’t sound like something you can rush, Helen,” she began. “It could take time. If something’s happening with Quinn, there might be something happening with Daria, too, so—”

            Helen threw the handset across the room. It banged into a window ledge on the wall behind the loveseat and bounced across the carpet.

            “I can’t take any more of this!” Helen shouted. “I can’t save them both! I can save only one of them, and there’s nothing left that I can do for Daria!” Helen turned a ferocious gaze on her sister. “I can’t save Daria! It’s just a fact of life! Quinn’s the only one I can reach, and I’m going to save her if it takes everything I’ve got!”

            Helen made a visible effort to control herself, then turned and walked aimlessly around the family room, waving a hand. “Ever since we got here, Quinn’s gotten crazier and crazier. She doesn’t make curfew, she’s been staying out a parties where the kids are drinking and fighting, and she lies like the devil. The police brought her home drunk from a party at a cheerleader’s house, and she ran away from us when Jake and I took her to Middleton to the old campus. We wanted to show her what college was like, but she took off to some fraternity house and—and I can’t take it!”

            Amy found her ability to offer a snappy response was beggared. She waited, her mouth dry from shock and fear.

            “I think it’s Daria’s doing,” Helen went on. “It’s her presence, I mean. It’s tearing our family apart. The two girls argue and fight non-stop. Quinn’s ashamed of Daria and won’t bring her friends over to visit. And she’s been going crazy because word’s gotten around school that Daria is her sister, and she’s been telling everyone some kind of nonsense about Daria being adopted, not even related to us! It’s just too much!”

            Helen stopped at a window and looked out, her hands on her hips. “I can’t save both of them,” she repeated. “I can save only one. Just one.”

            Amy had a glimmer of where this was leading, and the conclusion appalled her. “I’ll get Daria,” she said, eager to be gone before she screamed or did worse. “What time does she get picked up?”

            Helen sighed as she walked back into the kitchen. “She goes to school for only half days,” she said. “Her class ended at noon. Quinn’s upstairs packing now, so don’t worry about her. I didn’t send her to school today, just Daria.”

            Shocked, Amy looked at her own watch. “Helen, it’s two-twenty! Daria’s been there for—”

            “I know, damn it! I can see the time! Daria waits in the school somewhere until two-thirty, when school lets out, then they bring her up to the office and they send her out the door to the car. She’s got plenty to do, so it’s not like it’s an imposition on the—”

            Helen ranted on in the kitchen, but Amy had already left, leaving the front door wide open behind her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            Amy knew exactly where Lawndale High School was and how to get to the main office, near the school’s front entrance. She had escorted Daria in for her first day of school back in September, then had to leave her there and drive back to D.C. It tore her apart to leave her niece behind, clutching her books with a forlorn look while flanked by the principal and the school psychologist, both of whom looked like cold fish. Daria had been well briefed, though she was pale as a sheet and trembled.

            Pushing her abuse of local traffic laws to the limit, Amy got to the school at two-thirty on the nose and parked in the semicircle drive in front. A rowdy wave of exiting students flowed around her as she headed in. Once she reached the office, however, the plan to pick up Daria hit a snag. Of five teachers and six students present, none had the slightest idea where Daria or the special education classroom was. Amy was reaching her wit’s end when a mushy-looking middle-aged man wandered in and noticed the loud debate over Daria’s physical location.

            “I’m Timothy O’Neill,” the man said with a sensitive look that Amy immediately distrusted. “Are you Daria’s birth mother? I notice the resemblance.”

            I damn well ought to be! Amy thought, outraged at the question. “I’m her aunt, not her mother!” she snapped. “No one seems to know where she is at the moment, and if you can’t produce her in exactly one minute, I’m going to—”

            “Right this way!” said Mr. O’Neill cheerily, motioning her back into the nearly empty hall. “We’ve set up a fine classroom for her with everything she needs, just down the hall this way. Um, we have to go downstairs here, so watch your footing.”

            “You set up a classroom just for her?” said Amy. “Or was it for her and the other special education students here?”

            “Er . . . not exactly. I’ll get the door for you. There, we have to go downstairs here and take a right before we reach the boiler room, and—”

            “Wait a minute,” said Amy, stopping at the top of the staircase. The fiery intensity of her gaze caused Mr. O’Neill to cower. “Are you saying she’s the only special education student in her room, or that she’s the only one in your entire school? And you set up her classroom in the basement?”

            Mr. O’Neill looked stricken. “I’ve been assured by the principal herself that we’re well within the county and state rules for creating learning environments for special education students of Daria’s . . . um, caliber. I’m sure you’ll be pleased when you see how thoroughly equipped her room is, and she’s got the best teacher that we could affor—find, the best teacher we could find anywhere! Trust me!”

            Amy noted that he had sidestepped the issue of whether Daria had any classmates. Steamed, she descended the filthy stairs into the ill-lit basement, keeping her right hand on the railing with a tight grip so she would not accidentally grab Nr. O’Neill by the throat and strangle him. She tried counting to ten to keep her temper, but she lost count as she got closer to the basement level, seeing cigarette butts, candy wrappers, chip bags, soda cans, and even beer cans down the steps. The air stank of machine oil and mildew.

            “Does someone escort her so she doesn’t come down these stairs by herself?” Amy asked, unable to keep the acid out of her voice.

            “Oh, certainly! Mrs. Stoller is with Daria every inch of the way. She’s been our most reliable substitute teacher, and—”

            That brought Amy to a second full stop. “Substitute teacher? You’re telling me that Daria doesn’t have a qualified—”

            “Oh, no!” Mr. O’Neill interjected, looking horrified. “Mrs. Stoller is fully trained as a special education instructor! We just haven’t had much of a call for that field the last few years, and—well, I’m sure you understand, she has to make a living somehow! I’m told she’s excellent!”

            “Where are all the other special education students, if they’re not here?”

            “They go to a new facility adjacent to Oakwood High School, a half-hour’s drive from Lawndale. All the special education students in this area are bussed to Oakwood every morning at seven-fifteen from Lawndale High’s back parking lot.” He sped up as if anticipating Amy’s next question. “Mrs. Morgendorffer was insistent that Daria attend school here, as it was convenient for her husband to pick up Quinn and Daria at the same time when he got off work. The other special education students arrive here by bus at twelve thirty for pickup, but she said neither she nor her husband could break away from their work schedules to come in that early. We’ve done our best to accommodate them, I assure you!”

            Yet Helen can break away from work to help Quinn through her turmoil. Amy wrestled down her temper, then said, “Take me to Daria this second.”

            Mr. O’Neill did just that, leading the way down a dim hall to a door marked “STORAGE.” “We’re going to change that,” he said nervously as he knocked, wrestled with a troublesome doorknob, then opened the door.

            Amy walked in behind him. The room was better lit than she had feared it would be, but the lighting revealed the room’s other deficiencies. The floor was bare cement, though it appeared to have been swept. Water pipes and electrical conduits snaked up the unpainted walls, with open fuse boxes and water-flow control wheels within easy reach of anyone. On the far side of the room was a battered table on which was a stack of easy-reader books, with a small collection of drawings and written papers beside it. Sitting up in a chair behind the desk was a gray-haired, grandmotherly woman dressed in pastels, wearing a white knit sweater against the room’s chill. She was sound asleep.

            In the middle of the room was a single desk—unoccupied—on which an open book rested. As Amy watched, the pages of the book slowly flipped over, indicating the desk had been vacated only moments before. It was the Eloise book Amy had bought for her the month before.

            “Mrs. Stoller?” Mr. O’Neill called, giving a nervous look over his shoulder at Amy. “Mrs. Stoller! Please, wake up!”

            Amy’s gaze ran around the room. It was devoid of all other furniture except a single orange locker in one corner. She walked over to it. “Daria?” she said softly. “It’s Amy. I’m here to take you home.”

            She received no response. With care, she pulled up the handle and opened the door. Daria was hunched inside in the dark, her arms hugging her chest, her head down, her face hidden.

            “Did I frighten you?” Amy asked.

            After a moment, Daria nodded.

            “I’m very sorry, dear,” she said. Behind her, a sleepy Mrs. Stoller and a nervous Mr. O’Neill talked in whispers. “Will you come with me? Your mother asked if you could stay with me for the weekend. Would you like that?”

            With a quick nod, Daria took the hand offered her and stepped out of the locker. Cobwebs clung to her auburn hair, and her black jacket was dusty. Amy guided her back to the teacher’s desk, where Mrs. Stoller was collecting her belongings to leave.

            “You must be Darlene’s mother,” said Mrs. Stoller, beaming. “She’s been such a good girl for me. Here’s some of her work.” The old lady handed Amy the few papers stacked beside the reading books. Amy took them without giving them a glance. “We had a good day today. None of those bad boys came down to disturb us.”

            The news hit Amy in the gut. “Bad boys? What bad boys?”

            “We’d best get back upstairs,” said Mr. O’Neill with increasing anxiety.

            “Oh, those young rascals,” said Mrs. Stoller with a disapproving look. “They’re only being boys, I know, but they cause such a ruckus and use such dreadful language. It’s shameful. Children these days, I don’t know. When I was a girl—” She glanced at her watch and gasped. “Goodness, it’s late! I’ll miss the first round of bingo!” With that, she seized her things and left with surprising speed.

            Mr. O’Neill was wringing his hands. “Now, before you jump to conclusions—”

            “Is that why Daria hides when people come in this room?” said Amy, her voice rising in her rage. “Boys are breaking in here to harass her? Your school can’t even protect her in her own classroom, which you can’t even staff and furnish properly and which you hide in the basement?”

            “In the case of the boys, it’s the natural exuberance of youth, I’m sure!” cried Mr. O’Neill. “Let’s not take the actions of a few out of the greater scholastic context! And as for the class—”

            “Mis-ter O’Neill,” Amy hissed through clenched teeth. Her victim wilted under her killing glare. “Daria and I will return to this school Monday morning with one or more of the following people: the superintendent of this county’s schools, the state’s attorney general from Baltimore, a news crew from one of your local television stations, and the most aggressive civil-action attorney in Maryland, who happens to be a close friend of mine. We will personally inspect every inch of Daria’s classroom at that time and examine the educational credentials of her teacher, and we will spend the entire day in class with her, monitoring how other students interact with her. I will not meet with nor take calls from anyone from this school until we appear Monday. Do you understand me? Then I’ll see you Monday morning, seven o’clock sharp.”

            With an arm around Daria’s shoulders, Amy left the room after collecting her niece’s books. They walked up the dark, trash-strewn stairs together, down the empty halls, and out the doors into the afternoon sunlight.

            “Are Dad and Mom here?” Daria whispered. “Are they mad at me?”

            “No, dear, it’s just me, and no one’s mad. Not at you, anyway. Your mother and father are taking Quinn away for the weekend. It’s just you and me here for the next few days.”

            Daria looked relieved. “Okay.”

            “Let’s go home and clean you up, then we’ll talk about what we want to do. Is that all right?”

            “Can we get pizza?”

            “Later, after you get cleaned up. You have yukky stuff all over you. Wait, I have a brush in my purse. Hold still.” With a little work, the dust and cobwebs disappeared. Amy had to keep her hand under Daria’s chin to ensure her head was elevated. As soon as she let go, her niece was looking at the sidewalk again.

            “I don’t like school,” Daria mumbled.

            “I can certainly understand why,” Amy growled, “but we’re going to fix that.” Something else came to mind, and she frowned. “Does your teacher know that your name is Daria, not Darlene?”

            “She said my name was bad. She said Darlene was better.”

            Amy came very close to snapping. “Idiots,” she hissed.

            “Are you—”

            “No, no, Daria, I’m not mad at you. I’m sorry to cut you off, but you did nothing wrong. It’s just that . . . oh, forget it. There’s the car. We’ll drive with the top down.”

            They were halfway home, with her niece looking at the passing scenery in contentment, when it occurred to Amy that she had twice been mistaken for Daria’s mother by school personnel who seemed well familiar with Daria. Had they never seen Helen Morgendorffer? Was her sister too busy or too ashamed of Daria to come to school? No, that couldn’t be, because Helen said she came in to handle Quinn’s problems, so everyone should know her. Then why did everyone assume Daria and Quinn were not . . . sisters?

            Then she recalled Helen’s confession about Quinn’s misdeeds: And she’s been going crazy because word’s gotten around school that Daria is her sister, and she’s been telling everyone some kind of nonsense about Daria being adopted, not even related to us! It’s just too much!

            But, Helen would have corrected that notion, wouldn’t she?

            Well, wouldn’t she?

            I can’t save both of them, her sister had said. I can save only one. Just one.

            Daria turned around in her seat, looking back in puzzlement at the intersection they had just crossed. “You went through a stop sign,” she told Amy as the sounds of skidding tires and honking horns filled the air behind them.

            They made it home without further incident. Thankfully, no unfamiliar cars with TV-station call letters were in sight, and there was no crowd of shouting reporters, as Helen had feared there would be. In the Morgendorffers’ driveway, Amy got out of her car and leaned against the vehicle’s low hood, trembling hands covering her face. I will not kill my sister, I will not kill my sister, I will—

            She heard Daria’s door shut. Dropping her hands, she straightened and took a deep breath, hoping she had not been speaking aloud. She then motioned to her niece, and they walked to the house together. The door was locked, so she had to use her key to get in. No one was home. The SUV was gone from the garage, though Jake’s Lexus was still there. Everyone had evidently left for their mental-health weekend. What good it would do them, Amy was unable to guess—but they were not her concern now.

            After entering the house and sending Daria upstairs to clean up, Amy found she was holding both her purse and the sheaf of class papers Mrs. Stoller had given her. She dropped the purse on the love seat, then sorted through the papers. Word practice, simple math problems, a spelling test with an “A” marked at the top in red with the notation: “Good girl!” beside it—all standard stuff, encouraging if unexciting. Perhaps Mrs. Stoller did know something about teaching special education students. On the other hand, any second- or third-grade teacher could hand out the same work. Amy flipped through the papers, noting a test over the colors on the American flag (another “A”), two photocopied outline drawings of horses (filled in with black crayon, like Black Beauty), and several original drawings with the name “Daria” carefully lettered in the lower right corners.

            Amy studied the drawings. One showed what she assumed was the blue ranch house in Highland, with a sun above and three figures outside. Given their heights, clothing, and hair color, the figures likely were Helen and Jake, with red-haired Quinn between them. Looking out a window on the other side of the house was a brown-haired head with only glasses for a face. Amy flipped the paper over and saw a penciled notation at the top, not in Daria’s handwriting: “My family.”

            She doesn’t believe she’s part of the family, Amy translated. Quinn is the favored one, between the two parents. Daria’s inside by herself, looking out, isolated and alone. Perhaps she’s hiding, or perhaps she was left behind.

            The next picture was of a tiny armless figure in black clothing, with brown hair and eyeglasses, but no facial features. The figure seemed lost on the large page, floating in nothingness. On the back was written, “Self-portrait.”

            The last picture was of the black-clad figure again, but now it was larger and had rudimentary ears and a nose, with dark dots in the glasses for eyes. The hands even had five fingers.

            And standing right beside the figure was a larger figure, equally complete, with long brown hair, a purple dress, and round glasses just like the smaller figure’s. Amy slowly turned the page over. She stared at the notation for several long seconds, then mouthed it to herself.

            Someone who loves me.

            She turned the page right side up again, staring at her niece’s handiwork. Her eyes watered, and her throat hurt when she tried to swallow.

            Footsteps thumped down the stairs from the second floor. Amy put the papers on the back of the sofa by her purse as Daria came around the banister by the front door. Daria stopped short as she approached her aunt, sensing something was different. She waited, staring at Amy and playing with her fingers.

            Amy wiped her eyes with a hand. “Can I see your room before we go?” she asked, wishing for a tissue in which to blow her nose.

            “I cleaned it up,” said Daria, looking anxious. One hand rose to her mouth.

            “I’m not worried about that, dear. No, don’t bite your fingernails. I just wanted to see it before we go out.”

            “Can we have pizza?”

            “Didn’t you eat at school before I got you?”

            Daria shook her head.

            “Your mother made you lunch, right?”

            “I . . . I ate it in the car.” Her voice grew smaller as she spoke.

            “In the car?”

            “Yes, when Dad took me to school.”

            “Didn’t you have breakfast?”

            A head shake. “There was a fight.”

            Amy felt a major headache coming on. “A fight?” she said. “Who was fighting?”

            “Quinn and Mom and Dad.”

            “So, you haven’t eaten since this morning? I can’t believe this. I swear, I can’t—”

            Daria swallowed. “Are you mad at m—”

            “Stop saying that!” Amy shouted. “Just stop it! You’re driving me crazy!”

            Daria recoiled in horror, her eyes huge.

            “Ohmigod.” Aghast, Amy hurried over to Daria, but her niece turned to run. Amy caught her, grabbing her hands to keep her from striking out, then pulled Daria close after wrestling her arms down. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to do that! I’m so sorry!”

            Daria stopped struggling and made a sound as if stifling a sob. Her shoulders began to shake as she wept into Amy’s blouse.

            “You didn’t deserve it,” Amy whispered, hugging her niece to her chest. “I didn’t know you haven’t had anything to eat. This has been a bad day for everyone. I’m not mad at you. It’s just been a bad day, really bad, but it’s not your fault. I’m so sorry. Let’s go out and eat.”

            Long minutes later, Daria sniffed and said something that sounded like “Okay.” They went upstairs to the bathroom to get cleaned up, peeked into Daria’s bedroom with the cheery cartoon-character posters on the walls, then left for a late lunch.

            Am I any better than Helen? Amy thought as she drove, hardly aware of where she was going. How can I criticize my sister when I’ve acted just as badly over the least of Daria’s behaviors? I don’t know what to think anymore. Daria can try my patience, but she’s not impossible. She doesn’t deserve to be yelled at. This really has been a bad day for all of us. Everything’s gone to hell. I can’t even get my agent to call me about those damn movie scripts. I’m totally worthless. Okay, wait, I know that’s not right. I’m not a monster because I snapped at Daria, but I’m still ashamed of it, I can’t believe I did it. I can’t go on like this. I can’t—oh, great, now I sound just like Helen. That’s just great. Give it a rest, Amy. Get pizza. Pizza cures everything. Where in the hell is—

            The advice of the girl in the bookstore came to mind. Amy cruised up and down the streets around the high school until she spotted Bernstein Drive, and moments later she pulled up in front of the fabled Pizza Place. Relieved that at least one thing was working out, she locked up the car with the top up and then headed inside with Daria.

            Indeed, as the girl in the bookstore had warned, a large crowd of teenagers was already hanging around inside the restaurant, laughing and talking and even eating now and then. The two of them drew curious looks from all around, which Amy gamely ignored. Seeing what appeared to be an empty booth at the back of the restaurant, she guided Daria toward it, glad for a chance to have some privacy. They round the side of the bench facing away from them—

            —and stopped dead. Someone was already sitting there, hidden from view by the bench’s high back.

            “I’m sorry!” Amy said, startled