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Lydia is dead, but they don't know it yet. At 6:30 in the morning on May 3, 1977, no one knew that Lydia was dead. They only knew an innocuous fact: Lydia had not had time to have breakfast. At this time, as usual, mother placed a sharpened pencil next to Lydia's porridge bowl, as well as Lydia's physics homework. Six problematic areas in the homework had been marked with check marks. Lydia's father was driving to work. He turned the dial on the radio to WXKP, short for "The Best News Channel in Northwest Ohio," and was distraught by the silence that came over the speakers. Lydia's brother yawned as he came down the stairs, looking like he hadn't woken up. Lydia's sister sat on a chair in the corner of the kitchen, staring at the corn flakes in the bowl, sucking each piece into her mouth and crushing it, waiting for Lydia to appear. Finally, she said impatiently: "Lydia is really dawdling today."
Upstairs, Marilyn opened the door to her daughter's room and found that no one seemed to have slept on the bed - under the duvet were sheets neatly folded at the corners, and the pillows were soft and raised, without any trace of mess. A pair of dark yellow corduroy pants and a rainbow-striped sock were littered on the floor. On the wall are ribbons from science fairs and a postcard with Einstein's face on it. Lydia's canvas travel bag lay crumpled on the floor next to the closet, and her green satchel lay spread out on the desk. On the dressing table is Lydia's "Soft Baby" cream bottle, and the unique sweet smell of baby skin care products is still wafting in the air. But Lydia was missing.
Marilyn closed her eyes. Maybe, when she opened her eyes again, Lydia would appear, lifting the quilt to reveal her messy hair as usual. Perhaps, she didn't notice the obvious human-shaped bulge under the bedspread. In her mind, Lydia seemed to be saying: "Mom, I'm in the bathroom; Mom, I went downstairs to drink water; Mom, I've been lying on the bed." Of course, when she really opened her eyes, Nothing has changed. The closed curtains are like a TV screen without images, which is disappointing.
Marilyn came downstairs and stopped at the kitchen door. She grabbed the door frames on both sides with her hands and peered in. Her silence showed that there was no trace of Lydia in the kitchen. After a long time, she finally said: "I'll go outside and take a look. She may be because..." She walked toward the front door while staring at the floor, as if Lydia's footprints would be left on the carpet at the door.
Nath said to Hannah: "She was in her room last night, and at half past eleven, I heard her radio ringing." He stopped suddenly, remembering that he had not said good night to Lydia.
"If you were sixteen years old, would you still be kidnapped?" Hannah asked.
Nath poked the bottom of the bowl with his spoon, and the cornflakes withered and collapsed as he moved, sinking into the cloudy milk.
As their mother walked back to the kitchen, Nath felt a sense of joy and relief in his heart: Lydia was not missing, she was there, safe and sound. No wonder Nath mistook his mother for Lydia. This happened from time to time—the mother and daughter looked so similar that if you looked at them out of the corner of your eye, you might have mistaken them: both had pointed chins, High cheekbones, a single dimple on the left side, and shaved shoulders. Only the color of the hair was different, Lydia's was jet black and her mother's hair was honey brown. Nath and Hannah look like their father—once, a woman stopped them in the grocery store and asked, "Are you Chinese?" When they answered in the affirmative, the woman nodded, looking like she knew everything. . "I knew it," she said. "You can see it in your eyes." She stretched the outer corners of her eyes outwards with her fingertips. Lydia, on the other hand, defied the laws of genetics and somehow inherited her mother's blue eyes. They knew this was one of the reasons why Lydia was her mother's favorite, and of course, her father's favorite as well.
The "Lydia" Nath suddenly saw just now raised a hand, put it on his brow, and transformed back into his mother.
"The car is still outside," she said. However, Ness had expected this outcome. Lydia can't drive, and she doesn't even have a learner's license. Last week she failed her driving test, shocking the family and her father not even letting her sit in the driver's seat. Nath stirred the oatmeal, which had long since turned into mush at the bottom of the bowl. The clock in the front hall ticked, and then the sound of half-past seven was heard. No one moved.
"Are we still going to school today?" Hannah asked.
Marilyn hesitated. She stood up and went to get her wallet, pretending to be calm and finding the keys: "You two missed the school bus. Nath, you drive my car to school and take Hannah to school." Then she said, "Don't Worry, we'll find out what's going on." She didn't look at them, and neither of the children looked at her.
After the children went out, Marilyn took a mug out of the cupboard. A long time ago, when Lydia was a baby, Marilyn once spread out a quilt in the living room and let Lydia play on it while she went to the kitchen to make tea. Lydia was only eleven months old. When Marilyn took the kettle off the stove, she found Lydia standing in the doorway. She was startled, but her hand touched the hot stove, and her palms were immediately burned red. Marilyn put her red and swollen hand to her mouth and looked at her daughter with tears in her eyes. Lydia was very wary because it was her first time setting foot in the kitchen. Marilyn didn't realize she'd missed her daughter's first steps, or how much she'd grown. The thought swirling in her mind was not "Why did I miss it?" but "What else do you have that I don't know about?" Nath staggered and learned to walk right under her eyes, but she couldn't remember when Lydia learned to stand. But now, Lydia was standing there firmly with bare feet, her little toes exposed under the pants of the jumpsuit. Marilyn often turned her back to Lydia while doing household chores, such as opening the refrigerator or flipping clothes in the washing machine. Lydia may have learned to walk weeks earlier, while Marilyn may have been too busy cooking to notice.
She picked up Lydia, stroked her hair, praised her for being smart, and said her father would be very proud when he came home. But at the same time, she also had the feeling of "a familiar room, but the door was locked": the young Lydia actually had a secret. Marilyn still had to feed her, bathe her, and tuck her calves into her pajamas, but some parts of Lydia's life had been curtained away. She kissed Lydia's face and pulled her closer to her, trying to cling to her daughter's little body for warmth.
Now, Marilyn, who was drinking tea from a mug, suddenly remembered the surprise many years ago.
The contact number of Lydia's high school was pinned on the note board next to the refrigerator. Marilyn took off the card with the number written on it, dialed the number, and waited with her fingers wrapped around the phone cord.
"Midwood High School," the school secretary answered the phone on the fourth ring, "I'm Dottie."
Marilyn remembered Dottie: built like a sofa cushion, with faded red hair that towered atop her head. "Good morning," she asked hesitantly. "Did my daughter go to school this morning?"
Dottie coughed slightly and politely expressed her impatience: "Who are you?"
Marilyn was stunned for a moment before she remembered her name: "Marilyn. Marilyn Lee, my daughter is Lydia Lee. She is in tenth grade."
"I checked her class schedule. The first class in the morning is -" the other party paused for a while, "Eleventh grade physics?"
"Yes, it's Teacher Kelly's class."
"I'm asking someone to go to the classroom and take a look." After saying that, the school secretary put the receiver on the table with a bang.
Marilyn studied her mug and the stain it had left on the counter. A few years ago, a little girl crawled into a storage unit and suffocated. Afterwards, the police station sent a leaflet to every household: If your child is missing, please look for it immediately. Check washers and dryers, car trunks, tool rooms, and anywhere children might crawl in, and if you can’t find one, call the police immediately.
"Mrs. Li," the secretary said, "your daughter didn't go to the first class. Do you want to ask for leave for her?"
Marilyn hung up the phone without answering. She put the card back in place, and the sweat from her fingers smeared on the card. The ink smeared and the number became blurry, as if it had been blown by a strong wind or fallen into water.
She checked every room, opened every cupboard, and glanced at the empty garage. There was an oil stain on the concrete floor, and there was a faint smell of gasoline in the air, but nothing else. She wasn't sure what she was looking for. Suspicious footprints? A stray crumb? When Marilyn was young, an older female classmate disappeared. Her name was Ginny Barron. Marilyn had always been envious of the saddle shoes Ginny wore. Ginny went to the store to buy cigarettes for her father and disappeared, and two days later her naked body was found on the side of the road about half a mile from Charlottesville. She was strangled.
At this moment, Marilyn started to have random thoughts. This summer, the serial killer "Son of Sam"—although newspapers have only recently started calling him that—has been on a killing spree, with headlines even in Ohio featuring his latest shooting. In a few months, the police will catch this guy named David Berkowitz, and Americans will be paying attention to other news: Elvis Presley's death, the debut of the new Atari game console, the TV character "Fonky" "One jump from the shark, but now, the criminal has not been caught, so dark-haired New Yorkers are still rushing to buy light-colored wigs①. This makes Marilyn think the world is a scary and chaotic place, but she also reminds herself that such things don't happen in Midwood. Although Midwood calls itself a "city", it is actually just a small university town with only about 3,000 residents. It takes an hour to drive from here to Toledo; on weekends, locals can only Spend time at the skating rink, bowling alley or drive-in movie theater, and even Lake Midwood in the city center can only be regarded as a pond. (She was wrong about that last bit; Lake Midwood was actually a thousand feet wide and deep.) Still, she felt a sting in her lower back, as if swarms of beetles were crawling across her spine.
Marilyn opened the shower curtain, and the hanging ring rubbed against the pole, making a harsh sound. All she could see was the white curve of the bathtub. She rummaged through the kitchen cabinets, checked the pantry, the armoire, the stove, then opened the refrigerator and looked inside: olives, milk, chicken wrapped in pink Styrofoam, a head of head lettuce, a bunch of green grapes. She touched the cold peanut butter bottle, closed the refrigerator door, and shook her head, as if Lydia would hide in the refrigerator.
The morning sunlight filled the room, with the delicate texture of lemon chiffon cake, illuminating the interior of cupboards, empty wardrobes and the smooth floors. Marilyn looked down at her hands. Under the sunlight, her empty palms reflected a soft light. She picked up the phone and dialed her husband's number.
In the office, James tapped his teeth with a pen. For him, today was just another ordinary Tuesday. There was a typed document in front of him. One of the lines read "Serbia is one of the most powerful countries in the Baltic States." The handwriting was dirty and crooked. James crossed out "Baltic Sea" with a pen and changed it to "Balkan Peninsula." , then turned to the next page and read: "The 'Black Hair Party' assassinated Archduke Frans Ferdinand." He thought: "It should be 'Franz' and the 'Mafia.'" Could it be that these students Have you never opened a textbook? He imagined himself standing in front of a lecture hall, a coach in hand, and a map of Europe hanging behind him. He teaches an introductory history class with the theme of "The United States and the World War"; he does not expect students to have profound knowledge or amazing insights. As long as they understand the basic historical facts and can spell the place name "Czechoslovakia", it is enough. That’s it.
He closed the paper, scored the first page—sixty-five out of 100—and made a circle. As summer vacation approaches, students rush to prepare papers, sparks of resentment bursting out against the clock and banging off the walls of windowless lecture halls. Their articles are written carelessly, cut corners, and often have sentences cut off at the midpoint, which makes people feel that their thinking is discontinuous and disconnected. What a waste, he thought. The class notes he had distilled himself, the color slides of MacArthur and Truman he had made himself, and the map of Guadalcana were all in vain. For students, besides laughing at the funny names that appear in history textbooks, this course is nothing more than one of the stumbling blocks on the road to graduation. What else could one expect? He stacked the graded papers with the rest and tossed the pen onto the pile of papers. Through the window, he could see the green campus courtyard, where three children in blue jeans were playing Frisbee.
As a young man, James was already a junior teacher, but he was often mistaken for a student. However, this hasn't happened in years. He will be forty-six next spring. He has now received tenure, and his jet-black hair has a few silver strands in it. Yet sometimes, people still mistake him for someone else. Once, a receptionist in the provost's office thought he was a visiting Japanese diplomat and asked him if he had enjoyed his trip. He loved the look of disbelief on people's faces when they heard him say he was a professor of American history. "I'm an American," they all blinked in surprise when he said it, his tone laced with an edge of self-defense.
There was a knock on the door. His teaching assistant, Luisa, walked in with a stack of papers.
"Professor Li, I didn't want to disturb you, but your door is open." She put the papers on his desk, paused and said, "These papers are not very good."
"Well, the corrections I made were not good. I thought you had all the high-scoring papers."
Louisa smiled. The first time he had met her, in graduate seminar last semester, Louisa had startled him because from behind she looked so much like his daughter. Their hair is almost the same length, both are dark, smooth and shiny, and hangs down to their shoulder blades. When they sit, their elbows are tucked in and close to their bodies. However, when Louisa turned around, she looked completely different from Lydia. Her face was narrow, while Lydia's face was wide. Her eyes were brown, and her eyes were steady and firm. "Professor Li," Louisa stretched out a hand, "I am Louisa Chen." After teaching in Midwood for eighteen years, he thought that she was his first Oriental student. Thinking of this, he smiled unconsciously.
Then, a week later, Luisa came to his office. "Is this your family photo?" She leaned over to look at the photo on his table and studied it in silence for a while. It happens to everyone, which is why he was willing to show this photo publicly. He saw her eyes move from his face in the photo to the faces of his wife and children and back again. "Oh," she said after a moment, and he could tell she was trying to hide her confusion, "your wife—isn't Chinese?"
Everyone will say that. However, he expected Louisa to react differently.
"No," he said, moving the photo closer to her so that the frame formed a perfect forty-five-degree angle with the table. "She is not Chinese."
By the fall semester, he asked Louisa to grade undergraduate lectures he was organizing, and the following April, he asked her to be a teaching assistant for his summer course.
"I hope the summer batch of students will be better," Louisa said. "However, a few students insist that the railway from Cape Town to Cairo is in Europe. As college students, they obviously lack geographical knowledge."