Blind Sight by Meg Howrey Page B

Pearl were home for Christmas last year, they spent a whole week curled up on the couch rereading all of the books. Aurora said that she realized she was old enough now to feel nostalgic about her childhood. Pearl said that Nana’s prose was actually quite good.
    Sara wasn’t exactly thrilled that the girls were having a
Mountjoy Girls
revival. We had a conversation about it, in the kitchen, where I was helping prepare the tofurkey.
    “It’s nice for Mother,” Sara said, “to see the girls reading her books and enjoying them so much.”
    “Uh-huh,” I said.
    “Of course, I could probably quote the whole series to them, if I wanted to,” Sara said.
    “Oh,” I said. “Yeah.”
    “ ‘
Sally pinned her hat so that the brim covered one eye,
’ ” Sara quoted. “ ‘
She felt this gave her an air of mystery, an air somewhat at odds with her eager smile, which Sally could never quite remember to suppress.
’ ”
    “That sounds like Sally,” I agreed.
    “For mother, the Mountjoy Girls were the paradigm of the childhood experience. She wanted us to have all those same experiences. She wanted to create a world for us that didn’t exist anymore, and she wasn’t prepared to accept that it didn’t. And you know, we just couldn’t be Mountjoy Girls, or live Mountjoy Girl lives.”
    “Well, no,” I said. “For one thing, in the beginning they are still mostly riding around in horse and buggies.”
    “It didn’t help that she all but named us after her own fictional characters,” Sara continued. “It was like there was a blueprint already made for us. That’s why I’ve been careful to give all of you room to be yourselves,” Sara said. “Not put expectations on you.”
    I reassured her that we all felt very free to discover ourselves, without a blueprint, but come on. At the very least, there is a twelve-generation ghost posse of three sisters hanging around, wondering why I’m here. That’s one of the reasons I never liked Nana’s books. I’ve got enough women around without adding the Mountjoy sisters.
    I mean, seriously, even the dog we had was female. It was Nana’s dog, Freida, a totally nervous cocker spaniel. She spent most of her time underneath things. When she died, Nana said she was with her Maker, and Sara said she might be reincarnating into a new animal and I was like, “Yeah, probably a mole.” No, I didn’t say that, of course.
    I always wanted a dog of my own.
    I think I should do my walk-through now.
    • • •
    Luke moves away from his desk—flees from it, really—and steps lightly down the hallway.
    “Well, that’s what really drew me to James, as a character,” Mark is saying. “He has a lot of demons, but he’s been taught to hide those, to wear this mask of control. What’s interesting about James, about anybody really, is what’s underneath the mask.”
    Luke takes the last few steps that lead around to the living room.
    “Hey there,” Mark calls out.
    Mark is sprawled in one of the dark leather chairs. The interviewer, an older woman wearing a good deal of makeup and jewelry, sits on the couch, one plump leg crossed over the other, knees angled toward Mark; a large yellow notebook nestled in her lap. As Luke gets closer, he notices a recording device on the coffee table in between two glasses of iced green tea. The woman’s glass is almost empty.
    “This is Angela Hewson,” Mark says. “Angela, this is my son, Luke.”
    Angela gives Luke her fingers to shake, as if Luke might not know how to deal with her entire hand. Bits of lipstick are missing from her lips. Luke can feel Angela’s eyes raking him over.
    “It’s nice to meet you,” Angela says. “You’re about to start senior year of high school, right? And you’re already working on your college applications? That’s pretty impressive.”
    “Oh, well … I’m not working that hard, actually,” Luke says.
    “Luke is a very disciplined guy,” Mark says. “Self-disciplined.”
    “So