November 22

The weekend. Everything's at loose ends. Joanne has not called back. Alice has not reappeared.

Around eight o clock, Mrs. Wallace calls and asks if it's okay if she drops Lindsey off at my house today. "Lindsey's been asking about you."

Mom and Dad aren't too happy about the idea, but I tell them I'd like Lindsey's company. Lately all I've done is lie around and watch TV. They finally relent.

Lindsey arrives by herself. Mom is appalled at the idea of Lindsey roaming around the neighborhood by herself with "that dangerous man" on the loose. That's what she calls Michael Myers; she refuses to utter his name or the word "killer." If she mentions him at all, he's "that dangerous man."

"Here," Lindsey hands me a yellow and purple striped bracelet. "This is for you."

"Thank you," I say. I tie it on my bare wrist. After I successfully contain my tears, I ask if she liked Chelsea.

"She's weird," Lindsey says.

"How?" I ask, as casually as I can manage.

"She always talks. She knows a lot about famous people, which is pretty cool. We played this game where we acted like we were in the Tudor court. I got to be Lady Jane Grey."

"Wow." I'm impressed that Lindsey knows who Lady Jane Grey is. I barely do.

"Not for too long. Jane Grey was a very dull person. Very deep, but dull. My favorite was Zelda Fitzgerald. Chelsea said she was a writer like her husband."

Lindsey wants to continue the game. So we scrounge through my closet for suitable costumes. I don't have much beyond typical school clothes: jeans, T-shirts, and sweaters. I find a couple of garments from when I was Lindsey's age and played dress up. Lindsey pulls out a black gypsy skirt and my white button down shirt and becomes Georgia O'Keeffe. Then we scrounge for art supplies. We have to make do with markers instead of paintbrushes, but for authenticity's sake, Lindsey pretends to dab her markers on a palette (actually a clipboard with a piece of paper over it.)

I prepare the palette, inking different hued spots onto the clipboard paper, then I try my own painting. I have no artistic bent, and furthermore, I have no idea what I want to "paint." Lindsey carefully traces large floral shapes on her paper, with intense concentration in every stroke. Her flowers looks recognizable, at least. All I have in my painting is a purple blotch.

Dad comes home late in the afternoon and suggests we all watch a movie together.

Lindsey studies our video collection. She shakes her head, dismayed at all the silly comedies and science fiction movies we have. "Don't you have Gone With the Wind or Roman Holiday?"

"No," I say.

"What about Antony and Cleopatra?"

"We have The Princess Bride." From what I can survey, it's the closest thing to an epic romance (that's appropriate for an eight year old.)

"That's a kid's movie," she says, wrinkling her nose.

"Lots of adults like it." I remember that The Princess Bride is one of Alice's favorite movies.

Lindsey, who as the guest has complete vote over the movie, decides The Princess Bride is the best option. Mom pours microwave popcorn into a large bowl and passes out cans of ginger ale.

I have seen The Princess Bride before, but it seemed funnier than usual. Dad guffaws through the whole thing, particularly the parts with Inigo Montoya. Eventually, Lindsey is won over. After it ends, she admits it is pretty romantic "for a kid's movie."

"I'd say it's one of the best romantic movies of all time," Mom agrees.

The doorbell rings. Mrs. Wallace has come back to pick up Lindsey.

Lindsey, who is still wearing her Georgia O'Keeffe outfit, runs upstairs to change, and my parents clear away the mess in the living room.

"I'm sorry to hear about your attack, Stella," Mrs. Wallace says to me, once we're alone in the room.

I mumble something about how Sheriff Brackett is still keeping watch for Michael Myers. A look of disbelief crosses her face.

"It must be hard," she sympathizes. "Remembering everything after all those years."

I don't know what to reply to that. It turns out I was right. Mrs. Wallace knew all along. She is convinced I was Judith Myers.

"You knew her," I say.

This is probably a mistake. Mrs. Wallace takes it as proof that I am reincarnated. She has no way of knowing that Chelsea and I were snooping through her high school mementos.

"Nobody really knew her," Mrs. Wallace sighs. "Judith was so distant. Like you. There were things going on in that house that nobody knew. Nobody could have guessed she would have turned up dead like that."

I don't answer. I am too busy in my mind, protesting. Me, distant? Judith, distant? Judith had been fairly open with her life, aside from a few personal issues. And up until Halloween this year, I've led a boring life, so there is no reason for me to announce it to the world.

Lindsey burst back into the room. She pauses, like she is unsure if she interrupted something.

"You can keep the skirt," I tell her.

"Really?" She doesn't sound as thrilled with the gift as I expect.

"Sure. I'll get it," I volunteer. I don't want to return to the conversation about Judith.

Lindsey cheers up. I run upstairs to fetch the skirt and send it on with Lindsey as she leaves.