The Lost Girls by Heather Young Page A

Justin Yeats, the doctor’s son from Minneapolis whose family used to rent the Lloyds’ house every Augustwhen Maurie was little. Of course, by then it wasn’t the Lloyds’ house anymore—they had sold it to a family from Duluth after Charlie died in the war, and its new owners rented it out by the week to people like the Yeatses.
    Justin and Maurie were four when he started coming, and they were inseparable from the beginning. They ran around building forts, pretending to be Indians and cowboys and whatnot. Maurie always decided the game, ordering Justin about in her high, bossy voice. His parents thought it was sweet; Justin wasn’t the sort for rough play, and I think they were happy to see him having some adventures. But I never liked it.
    One day I walked past the fish cleaning shed to our kitchen garden and surprised them there. They were seven, eight at the most. As I came around the corner Maurie jumped backward, away from him. Justin was standing against the wall of the shed, his hands behind his back. His cheeks were red and his lips were shiny and wet. Maurie wiped her hands on her shorts and looked at me with those glittery eyes, and as I said, I didn’t like it. They weren’t doing anything wrong that I could see, but the air was charged with something, and it made me uneasy. I shooed them back to the beach.
    Later I told Lilith about it. We were making dinner while Mother watched one of her programs, the muffled voices coming through the door. They were probably playing doctor, Lilith said; it was nothing to worry about. She knifed through a peeled potato with brutal dexterity.
    I told her it hadn’t seemed like they were playing doctor.
    Lilith laughed a singing little laugh, the knife flashing up and down through the white meat of the potato. “How would you know? Is that something you did with Matthew?”
    I had been draining the lettuce but I stopped, putting my hand on the counter. I was twenty-seven years old that summer. No one had ever kissed me, and Lilith knew that. In fact, no one ever wasgoing to kiss me, and I was beginning to realize this, and she knew that, too. Here I was trying to be helpful, pointing out that her daughter might be a bit wayward, and perhaps this tendency ought to be nipped in the bud, but instead of thanking me Lilith couldn’t miss the chance to cut me, the virginal, unclaimed sister. I hated her a little bit in that moment. But all I did was turn back to the lettuce.
    She knew she’d hurt me, though, and she continued in a milder tone. It was normal, she said, and she wanted Maurie to be normal in that way.
    I’m sure she did, but I was right. The Yeatses eventually saw it, too, because after the summer Maurie turned fifteen, when it was obvious to everyone where things were heading—indeed, probably had already gone—they never came back. For a while, the two of them wrote to each other, but then Sylvie Yeats called and asked me to intercept Justin’s letters, as she was doing with Maurie’s, and I did. I know it was hard on Maurie. Still, I was surprised to see the name on the birth announcement, ten years after she’d gone.
    Justine, indeed.

Justine
    After they left the lawyer Justine found the elementary school, a squat, brick cube with 1924 stamped in its cement cornerstone. Inside, it stank of sweaty sneakers and microwaved noodles. Melanie made an explosive noise with her lips. “Gross, Mom.” Justine ignored her and led them to the office, where the secretary gave her the enrollment forms and said the girls could start on Monday. She offered a tour, but Justine thought of the airy San Diego school and declined.
    Then they went home and unpacked. As the girls bickered over the drawers in the green bedroom, Justine replaced the photo of Lucy and Lilith on their dresser with one of Melanie and Angela at the Padres game Patrick had taken them to that summer. Her own room was less easily