Standing over her deceased body, witnessing the havoc her life choices caused, didn’t give me satisfaction. I never wished for her to die. I never wished for harm to come to her. Truly as a young girl, I wanted the opposite.
It wasn’t longing for a Carol Brady from the Brady Bunch to welcome us home every day. No, it was much simpler. Young Lorna wanted to be in Nancy’s good graces, for her to look at me as our grandmother had looked at me, with love in her green stare.
The insatiable need I now recalled physically hurt. I berated myself for ever setting my worth on the actions of someone who never deserved that level of significance. And yet I had. I’d stood for hours, waiting and hoping she’d return home with food for our empty stomachs or clothes she’d promised would come for school.
The yearning to be important to the woman who was supposed to love me through everything was so intense that there was nothing I wouldn’t do to earn it.
Even lie.
Was it wrong to do a bad thing for a good reason?
That was a difficult question for a thirty-five-year-old. It was impossible for a ten-year-old.
A few hours ago~
My trembling stilled as I stepped from Reid’s embrace and pulled back the sheet revealing her face. The pervasive stench seemed to lessen, or my concentration was elsewhere. Her thin flesh was stitched together in a wide V beneath her collarbone. The sewn incision then went lower, beneath the second sheet.
I should be satisfied with a quick look and the test results.
I wasn’t.
My curiosity pulled me closer to the woman I was supposed to mourn.
Nancy Pierce wasn’t the woman from my childhood. She was barely her own skeleton. My fingertips roamed over her cheeks, feeling the bones beneath. Without embalming, her flesh was cold and tough, without elasticity. I didn’t know if that was caused by death or if she’d been that way before her heart finally stopped pumping.
I pulled back the second sheet, the one covering her body, not all the way, but to her waist and the end of the incision.
“Lorna.” It was Mason’s warning to stop there.
I couldn’t uncover anything that hadn’t been seen by hundreds if not thousands. Did customers see the prostitute they purchased or simply use her or him? This was among the questions I truly didn’t seek to answer.
My head tilted as my gaze scanned from the sheet upward.
I’d never gone on to college.
Was this what it was like to see a dead body in a science lab?
Could I insert a scalpel and identify what was within her heart if it still remained or ever had existed?
Was there ever a place within it for Missy, Mason, or me?
I ran my fingers over her ribs, feeling the peaks and valleys. Mine were healing and hers were on display. Her stomach area sank as if she didn’t have enough of anything to fill the void. Maybe she didn’t. Had her insides been removed during the autopsy?
My line of vision moved upward. I couldn’t recall if her breasts had always been so small and nonexistent or if this too was a byproduct of her withering away. I touched a small white circle and then another. “What are these?”
“Scars,” Laurel replied.
Scars?
“There are a lot more on her ass,” Mason said.
My stomach twisted as I turned to my sister-in-law. “Cigarette burns?”
“Mostly, we can only assume. A few are larger. They might be from cigars.”
My neck straightened as I refused to feel bad for her. She made life choices. They were hers and the rest of us were left to deal. She didn’t feel bad about leaving us. I wouldn’t feel bad about the consequences she faced. I focused again on her body as a whole. My memories of my mother resembled my own reflection more than the woman lying in front of me.
Her hands lay at her sides, palms toward her body. I lifted one as the arm sagged.
“Rigor mortis disappears over time. The refrigeration helps,” Laurel said.
“Hmm.” I studied her fingernails. When we were young, she always wore fingernail polish.
Why would I recall that?
The tips of her fingers were scarred. Her nails were unpolished, brittle, with ragged ends. It was as if she’d clawed at something, maybe beginning long before her death.
“You found her with me?” I knew the answer, but there were others I couldn’t fit in the equation.
“Yes,” Reid said, his deep voice strong and supportive as he stepped forward, coming to a stop at my side.
I didn’t need to look up to see his love and adoration; it surrounded us such as a warm blanket in this cold room. His presence radiated more than heat at my side. It was support. In stepping forward he—without words—told me he was with me, no matter what.
“Was she kept where Araneae and I were kept?”
“Forensics says yes.” Reid silenced for a moment before continuing. I would later believe it was because he and Mason were wordlessly discussing my need to know more. Thankfully, my husband prevailed. “There were two cells—like jail cells—in the bunker. Your DNA was found in one. Hers was found in the other.”
“Was there blood in hers too?”
“Nothing recent. It was mostly hairs and dead skin cells.”
I sucked in a breath before exhaling. “I wonder how long she was there.”
“They’re working on that.”
“Why?” I asked everyone. “Why would the people who took us take her? It doesn’t make sense. We haven’t seen her for years.”
Mason came up to my other side. “Have you seen enough?”
My hand went out to our mother’s sparse hair. In my memory it was bright and red. I pinched a few white, gray, and faded red strands between my fingers. Each one was coarse beneath my touch.
“Her hair used to be like yours,” Mason said with his most compassionate tone yet.
Taking a deep breath, I turned to Laurel. “Have you learned anything from the autopsy?”
She cleared her throat. “A few things.” She gestured toward the door. “May we talk somewhere else?”
I turned back to what remained of our mother as I searched for words or even emotions.
Shouldn’t they be pouring out of me?
Why was I at a crossroads when faced with her demise?
Reid kissed the top of my head. “Do you want to be alone to say goodbye?”
“That’s kind of morbid, isn’t it? I mean, this is her body. It’s not her.”
“I never got the chance to say goodbye to so many people I cared about.”
“Did they care about you?” I asked.
When I looked up, his Adam’s apple bobbed. “I believe they did.”
“Then you were blessed.” I turned away from the body. “Thank you for showing me.” My gaze met Mace’s. “I’ve seen enough.” After Mason pushed the body back into the refrigeration unit and secured the latch, I asked, “What are you going to do with her?”
“I’ve always been partial to barrels of acid down at the docks.”
My lips opened as I tried to assess if that was my brother’s warped dark humor or if he was being truthful. Before I could respond, he shook his head. “Cremation.” He reached out to me. “Don’t fight that, Lorna. How do we explain the presence of a woman who has been virtually dead for nearly twenty years? Cremation will rid us of any explanation.”