Free Girl in Reverse (9781442497368) by Barbara Stuber Page A

eyes adjust.I see stepping-stones of scrap plywood straddling the boards. Two trails—one to the window and another to a tarp by the chimney stack. My heart races. How in the world did Ralph find my box?
    The single window is broken. The wind chimes rattle softly in the cold breeze. I bite my lip, stifle a sneeze, train the flashlight on the tarp, and crawl, propelled by raw nerves.
    I imagine my brand-new father straddling the rafters, hiding my box under the tarp, and declaring: Lillian Loo’s past is finished. Lillian Firestone’s future can begin.
    I sneak down the attic stairs and dart in the bathroom as the Girdles tromp upstairs to get their coats off my parents’ bed— Those were my worst cards, ever! I should have bid no trump. Ha-ha-ha. I must have that orange cake recipe. I lock the door, sit on the floor, and prepare to meet the dismembered body parts of my past.
    I spread a bath towel and lay everything out—door knocker with fangs, greenish jade piece, compass, wrist rest, incense box. I pry the bottom with a nail file and, sure enough, there’s a flat red package underneath. Ralph has left the twine in a knot that requires tweezers to undo. I arrange the pictures in a line facedown—the gory game of solitaire Gone Mom has dealt me.
    Each has the same Chinese word and the year 1934 written on the back.
    I hold my breath and flip the first picture over. It’s blurry, but I can see it’s a hand. A pale, drooping hand, chopped above the wrist, with long, stiff fingers and a handcuff exactly the way Ralph described. The index finger sticks up as if the person was pointing to his killer at the time of his death. The background is plain white.
    I sit back, shiver, and turn the next picture. It is a headless person’s bare back with a hole dug out between the shoulder blades. For a sickening moment I imagine it’s Tom Bradford with his arms hanging limply. There is something in the hole—bones or stringy guts or sticks. I don’t know. I don’t want to know. In the background is a fence with other body parts propped against it.
    The third is what look like two bloated, severed toes. I flick it away, my shoulders hunched to my ears, and swallow hard.
    One of the remaining pictures is going to be the head. I dread the head. I need Ralph for it. I gather everything back in the box, turn off the bathroom light, slip into my room, and hide it in the closet.
    *  *  *
    Later, after Dad is snoring, and Mother’s cold cream has gone to work for the night, I sneak into Ralph’s room, shake him. “Wake up!”
    He stirs, grabs for his flashlight. “Have you become nocturnal?”
    â€œShh! Bring your magnifying glass.” I tug his pajama shirt. “Stalker feet. Please. In my room.”
    We sit together on the floor. Ralph rubs his eyes. He’s all pudgy and alive with bad breath and stinky feet. I tell him how I crawled through the attic. His eyes get wide. I can tell he’s impressed.
    â€œBut I can’t look at the head by myself.” I put the unviewed photos facedown.
    â€œBy the way, the word on the back of these is ‘Shanxi,’ ” Ralph says.
    â€œ What? How do you know that? Did you show these to somebody? The Chows?”
    â€œNo. I just copied down the word on a little piece of innocent paper and I showed it to them. I didn’t do anything bad. It’s okay. Really! Shanxi is a province in the north of China. That’s all.” He turns to the pictures. “Okay, you pick.”
    I turn one over. We lean down. It’s the head all right, gray and dusted with snow. The blank eyes are partly open. There’s a blurry bullet hole in the forehead.
    I drop the picture and start crying. “It’s Gone Mom. It has to be her.”
    Ralph shines his flashlight, positions his magnifier. After a long moment he taps my leg. “How could your first mother put a picture of herself