B L A I R E
•
Once her shift at the café is over, Sukie texts me to let me know she's on her way over, and it's only a few minutes before there's a knock at the door and I find her standing on the other side.
"Hey," I say, going soft and warm in her presence, like I'm an ice cube and she's the sun. "Are you in a rush, or do you want to come in?"
"I've got a few minutes," she says, peering around the hallway. "Where's Elizabeth?"
"In the attic. She's painting. I assume," I say, leading her to the sitting room. I don't miss the way her eyes are drawn to the mantelpiece, where Mum's urn still sits.
"I'm sorry Jacob was such a dickhead earlier," she says, rubbing her forehead.
"I'm getting used to him."
"Shouldn't have to, really. And at his age, he shouldn't have to be told how much of an utter cock weasel he is."
I shrug. I can't get too excited about that dumb kid, who I'd rather not be thinking about when Sukie's sitting next to me in my house. "Do you want a drink?" I ask.
She laughs. "Bit of role reversal, eh? Can I have a water?"
I fill a couple of glasses from the tap and return to her, tucking my feet up under myself and pulling my bag over to pass her the book.
"I noticed something else when I was reading it."
"Oh?" She sits forward, head tilted. "Oh, god, please don't tell me you found a paragraph where Mary mentions four best friends whose initials spell out Jane."
"No." I laugh. "Don't worry, that's still a mystery. One we'll figure out, but yeah, still a mystery for now."
"What was it?"
"I reread the bit about 1994," I say. She nods, lips pressed together. "Mary mentioned your brother, but she called him Kieran Jennings. Is that right?"
"Oh, yeah." Sukie chuckles and rolls her eyes. "My name isn't really Sukie Watanabe."
"What?"
"It's Suzanna Jennings," she says, pulling a face. "But that's so ... boring. And I can't stand my dad, so I took Mum's maiden name after he left, and I've been Sukie for as long as I can remember. Dad's the only one who ever called me Suzanna, or Suzie."
"Oh my god. It doesn't fit you at all," I blurt out, instant embarrassment creeping over my face. "Sorry! I didn't mean th—"
"It really doesn't," she says. "I'm a Sukie through and through, and as far as I'm concerned, I'm one hundred percent Watanabe. Plus, Suzanna Jennings sounds like a total Karen. A real I want to talk to the manager kind of boring middle-aged white woman."
I splutter a laugh at the image, the total opposite of Sukie. She's a ray of sunlight, the human expression of a hug. "You're a total Sukie," I say. She grins.
"And you're a total Blaire."
I pause. For nearly twenty years, I wasn't Blaire. It's only the past, what, five weeks that I've adopted it as my name, and now I feel bad for hiding it. "My real name's Liberty."
Sukie's jaw drops. She looks like a cartoon image of shock. "Hold on a minute ... what?"
"Blaire's my middle name," I say, refusing to shy away from her stare. "I wanted a change when I got here, but my real name's Liberty."
"Holy shit. Do you realise how meta that is?"
"What? How?"
"Your name literally means freedom, and you gave it up when you moved to Anchor Lake." She drapes an arm over her eyes and groans. "Blaire, Blaire, Blaire. Why did you do that? You sacrificed your freedom for this place!"
"In my defence," I say, "I knew fuck all about the town when I got here. Literally all I knew was that it was in Scotland and my secret aunt lived there."
"All true," Sukie says, "but majorly lacking in detail." Dropping her head into her hands in an overly dramatic display of despair, she heaves a sigh. "Oh well. I guess it's too late now. Here you are, rocking a Scottish name."
"Blaire's Scottish?"
"Very." She whips out her phone and googles it. "It means meadow, or battlefield." Her eyes meet mine. "Hmm. Not very inspiring."
I let out a short, dry laugh. "Sounds fitting. I'm a battlefield, and this town's going to go to war on me."
"Stop! Don't say that, oh my god." She throws a cushion at me. I catch it and hug it to my chest. "You'll invoke the curse of the 1619 witches!"
"Sukie. You don't believe in witches. Do you?" I grimace. She shakes her head
"No. But – oh!" Her eyebrows shoot up halfway to her hairline. "The Blair Witch Project!" She throws both hands over her mouth. Everything she does is exaggerated and I love it. "Have you ever seen it?"
"No. I'm too much of a wuss. Mum refused to watch horror, and I couldn't bear to watch alone," I say, gritting my teeth and grimacing at the thought of a jump-scare horror film.
"Oh my god, we should totally watch it." She taps away on her phone some more and says, "It's only two fifty to rent on Amazon. That's less than a coffee." Pressing her hands together as if in prayer, she pouts at me. "Come over tonight; we can watch it together. It'll be fun!"
"Fun for you to watch me shit myself?"
She gives me a look. "I forbid all talk of shitting oneself," she says solemnly. "Mum decided to scar me this morning with the story of my birth, as though all I want to hear about before I have a baby is how she shat herself, and tore so badly needed stitches."
"Oh, god, no."
"I know. Really didn't need to hear that," she says, her hand going to her bump, idly stroking it. "But in all serious, you should come over and we should watch it. It'd be fun."
"I'm having supper with Elizabeth tonight," I say.
"Want to come over after?"
I nod without really thinking about my answer. Why on earth would I say no to that? Sure, I may not be a fan of horror films, but I am a fan of the thought of tucking up late at night to watch a film with Sukie. "Is nine-ish too late?"
"Nope. I don't have work until twelve tomorrow. I prefer staying up late anyway. I am not a morning person."
Could have fooled me. She's always so perky when I see her at the café in the mornings, her attitude as bouncy as her ponytail.
"Awesome. I'll be there," I say, a shy smile inching its way over my lips.
"It's a date."
Don't get too excited, Blaire, it's just an expression.
But that hopeful balloon inflates my chest at her words and I'm floating, rendered weightless by her smile and her eyes and the proximity of her body to mine. For several seconds, I can't string together a word and I'm showing myself up, swiftly losing any semblance of cool. Sukie doesn't seem too bothered, though, judging by her sleepy smile.
"Here. I've got the book," I stammer at last, fumbling for it in my bag. "You wanted to read it again?"
"Yes, please." She takes it in both hands, handling it like a ... well, like a newborn. With care and admiration. "I'm not nearly as quick a reader as you, though. I'll try to finish it by the time you come over."
"Don't rush. As long as I know it's with you, and not some other random townie fan, it's fine. I can always come and bug you if I need to check something out," I say.
"You can always bug me for anything," she says. "You don't need an excuse."
Does she realise what her words do to me? She's my light in the darkest year and every time she says something like that, she only burns brighter, and I'm the moth drawn to her flame.
"Right. I'll get home and read. You have a good supper with Elizabeth. I'll see you later?"
"See you later." I stand when she does, expecting to walk her to the door, but she pulls me into a hug that takes me by surprise and squeezes an oof out of me.
"Nine o'clock," she says. "Be there or be square!"
*
As much as I want to be with Sukie, I enjoy having supper with Elizabeth. I don't just tolerate it: I actually enjoy it. Especially as I helped her cook. It was a joint effort, her remembering her mother's recipe and me remembering mine, and it tasted all the better for it when we sat down at last, sometime after eight o'clock.
I don't want to rush out the moment we finish; I don't want her to think I'm trying to escape her. So when she asks if I want a drink, I say yes – I'm going to need caffeine if Sukie and I are going to start a film after nine – and while Elizabeth boils the kettle, I meander through to the sitting room and stand in front of the fireplace.
I've replaced the first bunch of flowers with the second, the one from Sukie. These are still bright and beautiful, soft pinks and lively greens and warm reds. I rearrange them, facing the best flowers forwards, and when my fingers brush over Mum's urn, they linger.
"I don't know what to do with you," I murmur, determined not to cry this time. "What do you want me to do with you?"
I wish I knew. I wish the answer would jump out at me, a sign from the heavens telling me where to scatter her ashes. I can't think of anywhere that feels right, not when Mum never wanted to put down roots anywhere. We lived our lives on the move, never staying in the same place for more than a few months; maybe she'd be happiest going with me wherever I go.
I don't know. Heaving a sigh, I throw myself down on the other sofa and swallow down a cry of pain when something jabs my thigh. I dig around for a loose spring, but what I feel isn't the jagged end of a metal coil. It's the point of a book, stuffed down the side of the sofa.
"Coffee, Blaire?" Elizabeth calls from the kitchen.
"Yes, please!"
I dig out the book. My heart drops to my toes when I realise what I'm holding. My aunt's copy of The Key to Anchor Lake. Not as battered; not nearly as many hands have touched this one. This is hers, the one that came with this house, the one that I saw her writing in.
Shit shit shit shit shit she'll be here any moment.
I go clammy with panic as I fumble for my phone with shaking hands, no time to search through the pages when I hear the clink of a teaspoon in a mug. I open my camera, both ears fixed on Elizabeth, and I turn the pages as quickly as I can while snapping the clearest photos possible when my fingers are trembling.
She's coming. I hear footsteps in the hallway. Racing to the final pages, I take a photo and stuff the book back where I found it, but not before I see what she has written there.
Just a few words. After Mary's – Betsy's? – final question, those lingering words that ask Who next? My heart catapults itself from my toes to my throat so fast I feel sick, my eyes swimming when I see the names Elizabeth has written under the question.
Anna, in faded ink. Crossed out with a fresh line.
Elizabeth, in dull black ink.
And then, in stark red ink that jumps off the page and claws at my eyes, I read my own name.
Who next? Mary asks. Whose life will Anchor Lake steal?
Elizabeth seems to know: LIBERTY BLAIRE.
*