Free Dead Ringer by Mary Burton Page A

past the parlor and the dining room, and into the
kitchen in the back of the house.
    She
flipped on the kitchen lights, which cast an anemic glow over scarred linoleum
floors, chipped counters, and dated appliances.
    She
picked up the white teakettle on the stove. At the sink, she switched on the
water, waited as the aging pipes trickled out a weak stream, and then filled
the kettle. "The contractor can't arrive soon enough," she muttered.
    She
set the kettle on the stove and switched on the front electric burner, which
was the only one of the four that worked. Then she put a chamomile tea bag into
a porcelain cup and drummed her fingers as she waited for the water to boil.
    From
the kitchen window above the sink, Kendall stared into her backyard and the
alley and beyond that into the darkened house behind her. It had sat empty for
the last few months. The sagging real estate market and the cold winter hadn't
helped sales. It would be nice to finally have someone move in.
    The
teakettle whistled, snapping her out of her thoughts. She turned to the stove
and poured hot water into her cup.
    She
sat at the kitchen table and blew on the steaming mug. The worn walnut table
had belonged to her mother. It didn't fit into the design of the new kitchen
but she planned to keep it anyway. Not in the kitchen, but somewhere in the
house.
    When
she was a kid, there were nights when she didn't sleep well. She used to go
into her parents' room and her mother would wake instantly. Her dad would
grumble and ask her what was the matter . Her mother
always told him to go back to sleep, and then Kendall and her mom would go to
the kitchen and share tea. At eleven or twelve, drinking tea with Mom felt like
such a grown-up thing to do.
    Those
were some of the best times she'd shared with her mother. During those
nighttime sessions they'd talk about the boys at school. They'd gossip about
the neighbors. Those were the moments when Kendall felt the most secure and
most tempted to broach sensitive topics.

    "I
hate my hair," twelve-year-old Kendall complained.
    Irene
set her cup of steaming tea on the table. She smiled, her
brown eyes neutral. They'd had this conversation before and Irene understood
now that no answer would be satisfactory to Kendall. "I like your hair."
    Kendall
groaned and glanced at her tea, heavily laced with sugar and milk. "You always say that."
    Irene
sipped her tea. "But it's stunning. Rich dark brown, thick,
lush. I would have killed for hair like that at your age."
    "I
like yours. I like blond better." Kendall really didn't care about hair color.
She was trying to ask without asking: Who do I look like? Where do I come
from? Why was I given up for adoption at the age of three?
    "The
grass is always greener." Irene smiled stiffly, realizing instantly where this
was headed. She didn't like this topic and avoided it at all costs.
    In
the last year, Kendall had really zeroed in on the differences between them.
Her mother was short, pale, blond and gained weight even when she walked by
food. Kendall, even at twelve, was taller than her mother; her skin was olive,
not pale; and her long, limber body suggested she had a lot of growing to do.
Her parents liked puzzles and books. Kendall craved continued action.
    Night-and-day
differences weren't the only reminders of the never discussed adoption. "The
Gallery of Kendall," as her father jokingly called the dozens of framed
pictures of Kendall in their house, documented all of her achievements: dance
recitals, visits to Santa, even Easter egg hunts. But all the pictures were
taken after Kendall had turned three. Once when a neighbor had asked about the
lack of baby pictures, Irene Shaw had lied and blamed the discrepancy on a
house fire that had destroyed all their pictures.
    "I
wish I looked more like you," Kendall said, trying a different tactic.
    Irene
set her cup down. "Good heavens, why? Honey, you are
stunning."
    "Yeah,
but my skin is so dark compared to yours."
    Irene
frowned