The Women in the Walls by Amy Lukavics Page B

somewhere. She was keeping a secret; maybe I can find out what it was. I can look through her bedroom, maybe even Penelope’s. I could put my mind to use instead of having it run in constant, violent circles.
    As I’m leaving the kitchen, I see papers spread out over the small table in the corner—more seating arrangements for an event that is supposedly a week away, according to the date scribbled in the corner. Margaret’s memorial, perhaps? I would have thought that over a week is a long time to wait for funeral and memorial services—too long—but maybe I’m mistaken.
    After some thought, I decide to go to Penelope’s room, which I’ve been avoiding for weeks. The idea of going into Margaret’s room first fills me with a cold, electric fear, a deeply threaded string of dread that feels as though it’s sewing my heart closed stitch by stitch. Penelope’s door is closed but not locked, which I half expected after my father discovered what Margaret had done to the pictures. I slip in and close the door behind me before taking in the sight of Penelope’s room.
    Her bed is made, and there are small piles of clothing scattered over the hardwood floor. A framed painting of a rabbit hangs crookedly over the swirling wallpaper. Scarves lie in piles over the dresser. Overcome, I lie facedown on her bed, inhaling the familiar scents of lavender and cigarette smoke.
    What happened to you, Penelope? And what did Margaret know about it?
    After I’ve taken a moment, I go to my aunt’s large wooden dresser that sits against the wall by the entrance to her bathroom. Margaret always used to remark how stupid it was that Penelope loaded her dresser drawers with pictures and trinkets and books as opposed to clothes, but I thought it was wonderful, having your most precious items all stored together somewhere that is organized and accessible.
    The bottom drawer is books: fiction, old Spanish cookbooks that belonged to her grandmother, hardcover notebooks filled with drawings she did of different parts of the house. I flip through the notebooks, aching with sentiment as I take in the lazy sketches of the entry room and the courtyard and the garden. Penelope was always so deeply in love with this house, with its historical architecture and wide-open spaces. She couldn’t get enough of it, even referred to the grounds as sacred from time to time.
    I am filled with relief to discover that Margaret didn’t wreck any of these notebooks, but the nostalgic half smile blooming on my face fades away when I look into the middle drawer, the one with all of Penelope’s photographs. Every single one is ruined, just as my father said they were, but seeing it with my own eyes just makes it more appalling.
    One photo shows Penelope at a country club summer picnic that took place in the courtyard, her head held high and proud as she stands in a yellow housedress among the rosebushes and the guests. The word BITCH is scrawled sloppily across the entire sky. Penelope’s face is covered in scribbles, as are her feet and the single rose that is being extended to her by a man in a blue suit, Gregory Shaw. The sight of it is eerie enough to make me feel ill.
    I go through the piles and piles of defiled photos, each one containing more scribbles and curse words than the last. I try to imagine Margaret coming in here, grim-faced and equipped with a black marker. No matter how hard I try, I can’t figure out what her intentions were at that moment; whom she was trying to hurt by ruining the photos. Her mother? My father?
    Me?
    The next photo was taken on my seventh birthday and shows Penelope setting a cake down before me, her mouth open in silent song. The flame of each candle has been crossed out, and long, jagged teeth have been drawn over my aunt’s mouth, monster-like. Instead of scribbles like she did every other time, Margaret had very carefully outlined and filled my face in with