The Girl I Used to Be Read Online Free

heats up, so I roll down my window. I drive through long miles of evergreens, forests that stretch to the horizon.
    I find a radio station playing old music from the nineties. In a couple of years, I’ll be as old as my parents were when they died. It’s as if they’re stuck in amber, like the scorpion in a necklace I once saw at Goodwill. They’ll forever be wearing out-of-date clothes and smiling with slightly crooked teeth they couldn’t afford to get fixed.
    I’ve got those same teeth. Foster care doesn’t pay for braces.
    At the rest area outside Roseburg, a dark-haired girl sits cross-legged in front of the cinder-block restroom, her head tipped back against the wall, her eyes closed. Her sign reads JUST TRYING TO GET HOME . As I leave, I put a dollar bill in her white paper cup, but she doesn’t stir.
    Finally, I’m through the mountains and driving down into the Rogue River valley. It’s more a feeling than a memory, but these tawny, folded hills, like a golden blanket pushed down to the foot of a giant’s bed, are so familiar.
    It’s only four miles to Medford, and I’ve still got nearly two hours before the funeral. There’s one other place I want to go.
    My grandmother’s house. My house, really, or it will be when I turn eighteen. Until then, I get the rental income. At least I used to, until three months ago, when the last tenant left.
    I take the exit and follow the directions. And there’s the house, familiar and not. Tiny and square, gray, with peeling white shutters that were probably last painted long before Grandma died.
    I park next to a huge yucca bush with sword-shaped leaves. A sign stuck in the tall grass reads FOR RENT BY LEE REALTY .
    I’m looking through the front window at a worn gold couch next to a battered coffee table, when I hear a voice behind me.
    â€œI know who you must be.”

 
    CHAPTER 6
    SEEING DOUBLE
    I whirl around, my heart a bird in a too-small cage.
    An old lady stands smiling with crowded teeth traced with gold. A rivulet of sweat is tracing its way down my spine, but she wears black corduroy pants, a crisp blue shirt with white stripes, and a black cardigan. Buttoned.
    â€œSo who am I?” I say lightly, as if the answer doesn’t matter.
    â€œYou’re the new renter, right? I’m glad they finally got someone in the house.” Her high cheekbones are as red as apples, but the rest of her face is pale.
    Suddenly, I feel as if I’m seeing double. It’s like that drawing of a vase, the one where if you look at it right, it changes to two people facing each other. I see an old lady dressed in black, but my memory superimposes another image.
    I see: silver hair cut to her chin.
    I remember: dark, silver-streaked hair worn in a braid that fell past her shoulders.
    I see: red-framed glasses.
    I remember: gold wire frames.
    I see: eyes caught in a net of wrinkles.
    I remember: those same golden-brown eyes, but in a fuller face.
    Seeing the new and the old, the real and the memory, makes me dizzy. I steady myself against the peeling gray siding.
    Her face creased with concern, she touches my wrist lightly. My memory offers me her arms, pulling me close into the soft smell of baby powder.
    â€œHoney, are you all right?” Her voice is a little too loud, like she’s slightly deaf.
    I manage to nod. “It’s probably just the heat.”
    â€œI wish I could get warm.” Her fingers twist against each other. “My heart doesn’t work too well.”
    My own heart is still racing. “So you’re the neighbor?”
    â€œThat’s right. Nora Murdoch.” She offers me her hand, cool skin over bones as delicate as a bird’s wing.
    Nora Murdoch was our neighbor and Grandma’s best friend. They would sit in the living room and drink cup after cup of coffee. Every Christmas, Nora would bake gingerbread men and let me help decorate them. She