Free Finding Grace by Alyssa Brugman Page B

It has not occurred to me until this moment to wonder what she was like.
    I put the dishes away and walk around the house looking for clues that would tell me more about her personality.
    Who is this woman?
    I look for clues that I might have missed. I know she had expensive taste. She has beautiful things. She used to wear beautiful clothes. Her wardrobe is full of dark suits and silk blouses, but they are all new-looking, like clothes on a rack in a shop and not at all like the clothes I have been dressing her in.
    When I arrived she was dressed in a tracksuit and I have been dressing her in tracksuits ever since. There is a drawer in her wardrobe full of the things. But they are not at all like the suits. Firstly, they are cheap brands. Now I'm thinking that they must have been purchased postinjury for convenience. I don't think Grace picked them out for herself.
    I open the drawers in the wardrobe, looking for something old and comfortable. Didn't she have a favorite jumper or cardigan? Everybody has a favorite cardigan that they wear around the house, don't they? It might be ancient and stained and threadbare, but it's comfy. There's a clue to her personality—Grace must have thrown things out when they became old and worn. I wonder if she did that with people?
    The books in the house, except in Grace's study, are leather-bound classics or glossy photography or art books. Even all the cookbooks are hardcover. None of them look read or worn in any way. Didn't she have a favorite book? A favorite recipe?
    Who is Grace?
    I look at the pictures in the house. There is not one picture of Grace. There are pictures on every wall in the entire house. The hallway is lined with pictures, all in a nice neat row. There are lots of stylish prints, but no personal photographs displayed. If there were photographs then I could see the expressions on her face.
    The whole place looks kind of contrived, like a home furnishings catalog. It could almost be a very expensive time-share house.
    How irritatingly enigmatic.
    I know why I haven't thought about Grace before. There is nothing personal about this house. While everything is beautiful and meticulously displayed, there is no indication of the life of the person who lives here.
    I wonder if this had been done on purpose? Everything matches. Everything is ornamental. Everything from the tassels that hold the curtains back to the brass-backed lightswitches. The whole house is like a stage set. It is as if Grace didn't want anyone to know anything about her but the veneer—the image that she had created for public viewing. Why is that?
    I'm intrigued.
    Now this—this box bursting at the seams with Grace's personality.
    Before I go to bed, I sit next to Grace and watch her sleep. She lookes so peaceful and harmless and blank.
    Snow White.
    I wonder if she dreams?
    I look closer. There are small creases around her mouth and between her eyebrows that I hadn't noticed before. So, she laughed and she frowned. I wonder if she will ever laugh and frown again?
    Tomorrow morning I am going to ask the lime nightie woman next door if her house has ever been egged.

Rubber Gloves came to see me this morning. Why? Why me? I don't like her.
    She said that she's had an argument with Brioney and she came over to warn me that Brioney might come over and ask to use Grace's sewing machine.
    Grace sewed?
    If she comes over, on no account am I to lend it to her. Charity is sick of Brioney using all her stuff. Let her go out and buy her own things.
    She brought “little Jeremy” with her and he spent the whole morning chasing Prickles around and pulling his tail. Prickles jumped on the windowsill and sat there lookingdown at the offending child in disbelief, his long black tail swishing just out of reach.
    Charity told me that Jeremy just loves animals. He's so good with animals.
    Apparently Brioney was just being stupid and it's time she faced facts. Everybody knows that this man she's living with is