by Joy Fielding
She reached for the cell phone in her purse, felt her fist close around it, then released it, brought her hand back to her side. She wanted some time alone with Julia first, time before Tom arrived. It was horribly selfish of her, Cindy knew, but she also knew that once Tom swept onto the scene, she might as well disappear. There was no question where Julia’s first allegiance lay. Cindy wanted—needed—at least a few minutes alone with her daughter before Tom effortlessly assumed control. She needed those precious minutes alone with Julia to touch her, hold her, tell her how much she loved her. Time to stake her claim.
Unless it was already too late.
Unless Tom was already here. Unless they’d called him first—of course they’d called him first—and he’d arrived before her. A five-minute drive, for heaven’s sake, especially at two in the morning with only a few cars on the road, and it had taken her almost three times that long to get here. Imagine taking the wrong turn, heading west on Chaplin when she knew to go east, getting stuck behind some joker doing five miles an hour. Where was the idiot going anyway? Why wasn’t he home in bed? What was he doing out at two in the morning, this middle-aged man with thinning hair and watery eyes, who scowled when she passed him on the inside lane? And then forgetting what side street was quickest, getting lost now, now when her daughter had finally been found.
Tom had undoubtedly proceeded with appropriate calm, had announced himself with the proper politeness to the officer behind the desk, who, of course, had been totally charmed, and who’d immediately ushered him into the backroom without unnecessary prompting. He’d probably asked for a few minutes alone with his daughter, and that’s what was taking so long now.
Or maybe he’d already taken Julia home with him, and that was why it was taking forever to find Officer Madavak or Medicare or whatever his name was. Why wasn’t he here? And where were Detectives Bartolli and Gill? Why hadn’t they been the ones to phone her with the good news?
Unless the news wasn’t good, Cindy realized, her stomach suddenly doing flip-flops, her already sore knees buckling. Unless there was something they weren’t telling her.
The front door opened and Cindy spun toward the sound. A uniformed policeman—surprisingly short, beefy, standard-issue bull neck, crossed the room, smiled, and said hello.
“Officer Medavoy?” Cindy asked hopefully.
“No, sorry. Are you looking for him?”
“I’m Cindy Carver. Officer Medavoy called my house to say you have my daughter.” Had he? Cindy wondered. Or had it been just another crank call? Why hadn’t she thought of that possibility before? Maybe there was no Officer Medavoy.
“Let me see if I can find him for you,” the policeman was saying, his voice cheerily noncommittal, his demeanour friendly and nonjudgmental, as if she looked like a normal human being, and not like some escapee from the Clarke Institute, as if her skin wasn’t ghostly white and her eyes weren’t swollen with worry and fatigue, as if her hair wasn’t sticking out in a variety of weird angles, as if she didn’t smell fetid and stale, her breath heavy with sleep, as if talking to half-crazed mothers at two o’clock in the morning was something he did every day.
And maybe he did, Cindy thought, understanding there was a whole other world that operated between the hours of midnight and 7 A.M., an inverse world where people lived and worked and carried on relatively normal lives. Except what was normal? Cindy wondered, watching the officer disappear into the station’s inner sanctum.
Almost immediately, the policewoman re-entered the main room from another door. “Officer Medavoy will be with you in a moment,” she told Cindy, before returning to her desk and pretending to busy herself with paperwork.
“Can I go in? Can I see my daughter?” It was taking all of Cindy’s self-control to keep from leaping over the counter.
“Officer Medavoy would like to talk to you first.”
“Why? Is something wrong? Is my daughter all right?”
“She’s been throwing up.”
“Throwing up?”
“They’re getting her cleaned up now.”
“I can do that. Please—just let me see her.”
“I’m sorry. You’ll have to wait for Officer Medavoy,” the policewoman cautioned as the other officer reappeared.
“Officer Medavoy will be right with you,” he said, stooping to search for something behind the counter.
Cindy watched in growing amazement as the two officers went about their business. What’s the matter with everybody? she wondered again. Why are they so calm, so blasé, so indifferent? Why won’t they let me see my baby?
Something isn’t right here, she decided. Why such a lack of concern, especially if Julia was sick and throwing up? Didn’t they realize who she was? Where were Detectives Bartolli and Gill? Why weren’t they here?
“Are Detectives Bartolli and Gill here?” Cindy asked, louder than she’d intended.
The two officers exchanged glances, although neither head turned. “I don’t believe so,” the woman officer responded. “No.”
“Why not? Why hasn’t anybody called them? What’s going on here?”
Both officers approached cautiously. “Mrs. Carver, are you all right?”
“No, of course I’m not all right. I want to see my daughter.”
“You have to calm down.”
“Calm down? You expect me to calm down? What’s the matter with you people?” Had she dreamed the phone call after all? Was this whole episode nothing but a cruel hoax?
Another door opened at the back of the room, and a tall, heavyset man stepped inside. He was about forty, with brown hair, a square jaw, and a nose that had been broken several times. “Mrs. Carver?”
“Where’s my daughter?”
“I’m Officer Medavoy,” the man answered, coming around the counter, extending his hand.
Cindy shook his hand because it was obviously expected. What she really wanted to do was swat it aside and push the imposing figure out of her way. Why all the formalities? Why couldn’t they just take her to Julia? Why the need to talk to her first? What grim reality were they preparing her for? “Please, Officer Medavoy. I need to see my daughter.”
He nodded. “You understand she’s not in the best of shape.”
“No, I don’t understand. I don’t understand anything. Where did you find her? When did you find her?”
“We picked her up about an hour ago in an underground parking garage off Queen Street.”
“An underground parking garage?”
“She’d been in a fight with some other girls. They smacked her around a bit.”
“A fight?”
“Apparently over some guy.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, she was pretty drunk.”
“Drunk?”
“She’s been throwing up for the last ten minutes,” Officer Medavoy said matter-of-factly, leading Cindy around the counter toward one of the backrooms. “Maybe you should go easy on her. At least until morning.” He opened the door.
“Julia!” Cindy cried, rushing toward the young girl who sat, battered and wan, on a gray plastic chair in front of a dull brown desk.
Tear-soaked blue eyes stared back at Cindy. “Sorry, Mom,” Heather replied, her voice breaking as she wiped a thin line of spittle away from her bruised chin. “It’s only me. Sorry,” she said again.
“Heather! My God—Heather!” Cindy didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so she did both. Heather, not Julia. She hadn’t even considered the possibility it might be Heather. “Oh, my poor baby,” she said, falling to her knees in front of her younger child. “What happened? What did they do to you?” Her fingers fluttered nervously in front of Heather’s trembling chin.
Heather turned her head away, revealing a large scratch on her left cheek. “It’s nothing. I’m okay.”
“The police said you were in a fight with some girls. . .”
“It was so stupid. I was at this club. There were these girls—I thought we were g
etting along great. They offered me a lift home. We got to the garage, and next thing I knew they were all over me, saying I was flirting with one of their boyfriends. It was so ridiculous. He wasn’t even cute.”
“Did you arrest the girls?” Cindy asked the officer.
“They took off before we arrived. Your daughter claims she can’t identify anyone.”
“Heather. . .”
“It was dark. It’s no big deal.”
“Of course it’s a big deal. Look at you.”
“I’m okay, Mom. It’s not important. Please, can we just go home?”
Cindy looked to Officer Medavoy for help, but he only shrugged. “Maybe you should take her home, let her sleep on it. Her memory might improve after a good night’s sleep.”
Cindy put her arms around her daughter, helped her to her feet. “Are you okay to walk?”
“I’m fine,” Heather insisted, clinging to Cindy’s side as mother and daughter staggered out into the night.
*
THEY DROVE HOME in silence. Several times Cindy turned toward her younger child and tried to speak, but the words froze on her tongue, like pieces of dry ice.
(Flashback: Heather, at eight months, her cherubic little face aglow as she sits on her bedroom carpet watching her big sister dance around the room; Heather, at thirteen months, a proud smile filling her cheeks as she sits on the potty, happily chanting, “Pee pee, pee pee”; Heather, three years old, listening intently as Cindy reads her a bedtime story, the second and fourth fingers of her right hand stuffed inside her mouth, her index finger rubbing a disintegrating pink blanket against the tip of her upturned nose; Heather, at six, dressed as an angel for Halloween; Heather, age twelve, tears filling her eyes as she watches her mother watch Julia drive away in her father’s car.)
“Can I get you anything?” Cindy asked as they walked through the front door, Elvis jumping all over them. “Some hot chocolate? Tea?”
“It’s three o’clock in the morning,” Heather reminded her mother, as she bent down to let Elvis lick the scratches on her cheek.
“Maybe you shouldn’t let him do that,” Cindy cautioned.
Heather straightened her back, headed for the stairs, stopped. “Is Leigh still sleeping in my room?”
“She went home for a few days,” Cindy told her. “Grandma too.”
Heather looked relieved. “Then I think I’ll take a bath, if that’s all right.”
“Do you want me to get it started?”
“I can do it.” Heather was already half out of her clothes by the time she reached the top of the stairs.
“Why don’t you use my tub?” Cindy offered.
Normally Heather jumped at the chance to use Cindy’s bathtub, with its extra leg room and high-powered Jacuzzi. Tonight she just said, “Okay.”
“Maybe tomorrow you should see the doctor,” Cindy said over the sound of running water. “Make sure nothing’s broken.”
“Nothing’s broken, Mom.”
Cindy watched her daughter shed the last of her clothing, then climb into the still-filling tub. “Don’t make it too hot.”
“I won’t.”
“You want some privacy?”
Heather shook her head. “You can stay.”
Cindy lowered the lid on the toilet seat, sat down, gazed at her daughter’s wondrously slim body through her reflection in the mirror, a million questions free-floating around in her brain: What were you doing at that club alone? What were you drinking? How much were you drinking? Why were you drinking? Instead she asked, “Still feeling sick?”
“No. I’m okay now.”
“You’re sure?”
“I don’t usually get drunk, you know.”
“I know.”
“I don’t usually drink at all.”
“That’s good.”
“Are you going to tell Dad?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you seen him since . . .?” Heather’s voice evaporated along with the steam rising from the tub.
“No.”
Heather turned off the taps, then pressed the button on the side of the tub to start the Jacuzzi. Instantly, water began flooding into the tub from several strategically placed openings.
“What about your blind date? Have you seen him again?”
Cindy pictured Neil’s handsome face, tried not to picture it between her legs. “He was here last night.”
“Yeah?”
“Does that upset you?”
“Why would it upset me?”
“Because I know that children of divorce are always kind of hoping their parents will get back together one day.”
“I’m not a child, Mom.”
“I know that.”
“I just want you to be happy,” Heather said.
“Isn’t that supposed to be my line?”
“You can use it too.”
Cindy smiled. “Have you heard from Duncan?”
“We had a long talk. You were right. We’re too young to be so settled. We should be out sleeping around. Like you said.”
Dear God, Cindy thought. Of all times to start listening to me. “How about sleeping with me tonight?”
It was Heather’s turn to smile. “About you and Neil . . .”
“What about him?”
“Just that I have a good feeling about the two of you.” Heather closed her eyes, didn’t open them again until the automatic timer turned the Jacuzzi off.
*
ELVIS WAS ALREADY asleep on Cindy’s bed when Cindy guided Heather between the covers. Grudgingly, the dog moved over to accommodate them, eyeing them warily, as if remembering the acrobatics of the other night. Cindy threw her arm across her daughter’s hip, and hugged her close, Heather’s round little bottom snug against the inverse curve of her mother. They lay together in silence for several minutes, like spoons in a drawer, one breathing out as the other breathed in, two parts of the same whole. My baby, Cindy thought. My beautiful, beautiful little girl. “I love you,” she whispered.
And suddenly Heather was sitting up and sobbing in her arms, her slender body convulsing in unexpected anguish. “Oh, Mom, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. I’m so sorry.”
“What are you talking about? Sweetheart, there’s nothing to forgive.”
“I’ve been such a brat.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“I wasn’t thinking clearly when I gave the police your phone number. I didn’t realize you’d assume it was Julia they had in custody. Of course you’d assume it was Julia. What else would you think? And that awful look on your face when you saw it was only me, how disappointed you were. . .”
“No, sweetheart, no. You just caught me off-guard.”
“I said such awful things to her that day, Mom. I told her I never wanted to talk to her again, that the sight of her made me sick.”
Cindy thought of her recent altercation with Leigh. “We all say things in anger that we regret. Julia knows you didn’t really mean them.”
“Does she? I told her I was sorry she’d ever come home, that I wanted her to get out and never come back. Mom,” Heather wailed, “I told her I wished she was dead.”
Cindy slowly pushed Heather away from her side, held her at arm’s length, stared deep into her eyes. “Heather, listen to me. This is very important. No matter what happens, no matter where Julia is or what’s keeping her from us, it has nothing to do with you. Do you understand? You do not have that kind of power. You are not to blame. Do you hear me? You are not to blame.”
Once again, Cindy folded her daughter into her arms, rocking her gently until eventually, Heather drifted into a restless sleep. Through a steady stream of tears, Cindy watched the minutes tick away on the digital clock radio on the nightstand beside the bed. Occasionally Heather muttered something in her sleep, and Cindy strained to make out the words.
“I’m not to blame,” she was saying. “I’m not to blame.”
THIRTY-ONE
AT exa
ctly seven o’clock the next morning, Cindy got out of bed, sliding up and out from between her daughter and the dog, and tiptoeing into the bathroom, where she showered, brushed her teeth and hair, put on a little makeup, then headed for the closet, where she dressed in a pair of coffee-colored chinos and a crisp white blouse. It had been a long time since she looked crisp, she knew, and it was important that she start keeping up appearances. For Heather’s sake, as well as her own, she decided. She had two daughters after all. Not just one.
Heather was still sound asleep when Cindy returned to the bedroom. Elvis had shifted his position, and was now curled up on Cindy’s pillow. He lifted his head as Cindy approached, as if to question what she was doing up after so few hours sleep, then lowered it again as she walked out of the room.
Cindy also questioned what she was doing up so early, but the truth was that she’d never really fallen asleep, and she was getting stiff just lying there in bed. It was better to be up and moving, to try behaving like a functioning adult, to make a pretense at normalcy. When Heather woke up, she would find her mother dressed and presentable, fixing her pancakes, and eager to hear her plans for the upcoming weekend.
But for now, she would let her daughter sleep.
Cindy walked down the stairs and into the kitchen, prepared a pot of coffee, then sank down at the kitchen table and stared out the sliding glass door. Outside was another perfect day. Leaning back in her chair, Cindy studied the early-morning sky. A large pink cloud, backlit with just a hint of yellow, hung heavy over the Sellicks’ backyard, its lilac underbelly exposed and friendly, like a puppy sleeping on its back. Several wisps had broken free and were drifting to her right. The drifts were purple and in the shape of a woman’s mouth, imprinted on the air like a blot of lipstick on a tissue. Cindy watched the stray fragments gradually fade, then get lost in the deepening blue of day.
Everything disappears, she was thinking. Clouds, people, entire civilizations. Human beings were as fragile, as fleeting, as cool wisps of air.
