Pretending to Be Erica Read Online Free

cook.”
    Mrs. Silverman hesitates in the doorway. Her eyes glaze as she stares into the distance. Reporters gather at the front gate, the security and wrought-iron fence holding them back. I grab her hand, reassure her.
    “Together.” I nod.
    “Together.” She smiles, glaze lifting and leaving a clear sapphire blue.

    Erica’s kidnapping broke Mr. Silverman like a toy soldier.
    I put myself in his shoes; she was his angel. She was the reason he worked so hard, hurried home after dusk, and bought so many dolls. She was the reason his steps were light and his mind worked like it did—quickly and cleanly. When she was gone—when she’d been
taken
—his razor-sharp intelligence turned on him, the way a shark attacks its prey, shredding his sanity. And then he was gone, too. Only his body remained, macerated by hopelessness. Mrs. Silverman put him in Whiteriver Rehabilitation Center, where he’s been for four years now. We’ve visited him every Wednesday of the last month. He hasn’t spoken a single word to me or Mrs. Silverman. It’s like he doesn’t even know who we are, or that he’s still in the world of the living. All he wants to do is play checkers. He’s held together by the shallow will to keep moving forward as a Darwinian life form. Breathe, blink, breathe, sigh. He’s here, but not really here. This linoleum table in the visitor lobby is where his body is, and only his body.
    “Dad.” I lower my voice. “It’s me.”
    He’s balding. He was once a very handsome man, but age and emotional storms weathered him thin and malnourished-looking. Stubble tints his face a sickly gray. Dark eyes dull with a milk of apathy. He glances up, looks me over, and looks down at the checkers again. Moves a black piece. I capture it with a red piece of my own.
    Mrs. Silverman watches us from afar, wrapped in a vintage fox-fur coat as she taps on a vending machine for a coffee. She looks out of place, nervous. She wants to see Mr. Silverman frown, grin,
something
. Anything. I’m supposed to be the charm that brings him back. Even I can tell he’s too far gone. The nurse pity-smiled when I said he’d remember me. Anything he says is inadmissible. The police will never believe a man who’s been in a crazy house for years. Maybe I can give him some comfort. Some truth. If he says something about me, no one will believe him.
    I lean across the table and put my hand over his, my whisper low.
    “Your daughter wasn’t in pain long, Mr. Silverman.”
    Gerald used a knife to cut her wrists. Clinical, quick, silent. She died of blood loss, probably just felt herself getting colder and sleepier. The violation happened long after she was dead. Her soul wasn’t around to feel it.
    A nurse passes, dropping a cup of water and pills for Mr. Silverman.
    “Just to help keep him level,” she assures me. Mr. Silverman downs the pills mechanically, a reflex. His eyes rivet to the checkers game. It’s the only thing he seems to care about. I envy him. This game of strategy is so much simpler than the one I’m in the midst of—the one I’m living. The one in which I’m the star piece. Everything rests with me.
    For once, it would nice to be a pawn instead of a queen.
    Mr. Silverman smiles sweetly and moves a checker to my king line. Eyes surrounded by fine lines look up at me, his voice singsongs.
    “I win.”

    “Did he say anything?” Mrs. Silverman presses. I shake my head and dredge a nice lie from my mental bank.
    “He said something about a ballet class?”
    Hope gleams in her eyes. “Yes, you took ballet when you were younger. Maybe he’s coming to. We should keep visiting him. Work him out of his shell.”
    I don’t have the heart to tell her the truth or disagree. She’s still in love with him. A mother and father who love each other. I wonder if Erica knew just how lucky she was.
    When we get home, I realize Marie picked out new bedcovers for me—blue with white flowers, smelling of fancy department stores.