Tell Anna She's Safe

by Brenda Missen

  There was no ventilation in the church. The hundreds of bodies in the pews added their own heat to the already close air. Our entrance had been documented by a row of television cameras out on the sidewalk. Journalists had been requested to stay outside. Those who had come in were requested not to take notes. The only movement in the church was the fanning of leaflets, like so many small white flags.

  I sat close to the front. The two pages of my speech were getting damp between my fingers. Somewhere behind me, Marc sat sweltering in a winter-weight suit, his only one. He had arrived home just the night before—only a day after I had moved out. Had called me in the morning to offer to go with me. “Marc, you don’t have to. I’m sure you need to recover from all that driving.”

  “I’m coming,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at noon.” His words, and his decisiveness, brought me surprising relief. And, after we hung up, tears. I sat among all my unpacked boxes and cried out my frustration. What was I doing here? Was I doing the right thing?

  By the time Marc arrived at the door, I had pulled myself together. I was doing the right thing. I needed time to sort everything out. Not just Marc and me, and Steve Quinn and me, but, most of all, Lucy’s death and the last ten traumatic weeks. I needed my own place to do that from.

  Just as the service was starting, a man with red eyes and a fist of tissues slipped into the pew beside me. We exchanged a sympathetic glance.

  The minister was a woman. She had never met Lucy, even though geography would have put Lucy in her parish. Lucy had not been a churchgoer. Even the United Church would have been appalled at most of Lucy’s beliefs. The minister was appalled at her death. The minister seemed to be appalled at the death of all women, no matter how they met their end.

  “Five thousand women this year will die of breast cancer,” she shouted to the congregation. There was a pause for emphasis. “Five thousand.” Another pause. Then she volleyed another statistic into the church: “One in two women will be a victim of violence.”

  She paused to reload her ammunition. “Look around you. Which woman would you choose?”

  Her words angered me. It was not the anger she intended. Lucy had not died of breast cancer. And this was not a political rally. The men in the congregation had not come to be accused. They had come with the rest of us to mourn the death of Lucy Stockman.

  The man beside me was openly weeping. I reached over and took his hand. He didn’t withdraw it. I let go only when it was my turn to make my way to the front to deliver my distilled memory of Lucy.

  I unfolded the pages, took a breath and spoke in as clear a voice as I could manage. “The story goes that when Lucy was a little girl she danced so much she wore out the living room carpet. Lucy lived her whole life with that exuberance—and with that thoroughness—that made her wear down the carpet….”

  Halfway through my rehearsed speech I relaxed enough to look down into the congregation. In the first row, Anna and Doug, and an older man who was obviously Lucy’s father, sat linked by their hands and the identical expressions of grief on their faces. Beside them were Sergeants Lundy and Roach. Their hands were in their laps, their faces composed. That they were here touched me. I had not expected them.

  My eyes swept over them and beyond, into the throng of anonymous faces that packed the church.

  “She got right into the fight to get Tim Brennan out of prison,” I recited. “And we have to give her credit for her incredible energy and courage and faith, no matter what we might think of her wisdom.”

  At my mention of Tim Brennan’s name, I could almost feel the reporters in the congregation memorizing my words. There was no question I would be quoted in tomorrow’s papers.

  It wasn’t until I was heading back down the steps to my pew that I spotted Quinn. He was sitting directly behind Lundy and Roach. My heart, which had just stopped pounding from nerves, began pounding again. I hadn’t expected to see him here either. Our eyes met briefly—he gave me a half-smile of encouragement—and then I turned to re-enter my pew across the aisle. Would he stay for the reception? Would he and Marc meet? I barely heard the next speaker.

  And then Lucy herself breezed up to the front of the church.

  I didn’t hear the name she gave. She had been, she said, a university friend. She might have been Lucy’s twin. A slightly bigger build, and heavy-rimmed glasses, but the same dark hair and complexion, the same energy. She wasn’t, that I knew of, on the official list of speakers. She had, she said, just got into town. That would explain it. She hadn’t seen Lucy in years, but in university they had been inseparable.

  She wore a flowing dress of Indian cotton and as she paced up and down at the front of the church it swirled around her, as if imbued with an energy of its own. She regaled us with stories—mischief they’d created, trips they’d taken. She made us laugh, the only laughter the church heard during that service. And then just as quickly she breezed out. I didn’t see her again. I wasn’t even sure she’d been real. It seemed just as plausible that the ghost of the mischievous Lucy we’d just heard described had briefly appeared among us to remind us that life prevailed. But it also seemed a mockery. One so alive, the other so dead.

  By a miracle Marc found me in the mass making its way, as one body, to the back of the church and down the stairs to the reception room. Then we got separated.

  Someone touched my shoulder. I turned to face the man with the red-rimmed eyes. He took my hand. “Thank you for speaking so honestly about Lucy. You were the only one who had the courage to mention Brennan.”

  “You’re Curtis.” His words and responses were still throwing me.

  “Are you doing anything after this?” My hand was still in his. His eyes were holding mine. He was my height, with a lean build and shaggy hair. He kept pushing his bangs back from his eyes. His mouth turned up naturally at the corners. “Would you go for a beer with me? I have a feeling we have a lot to talk about.” His smile went deep into his sad eyes.

  “But I thought you didn’t want….”

  “I didn’t want to talk to a stranger over the phone and have my words twisted in a speech. But,” he smiled again, “you didn’t do any twisting.”

  “I’m glad you think so.” I glanced around and located Marc … talking to Quinn. Shit! Of all the hundreds of people in the room they’d had to find each other.

  Curtis’s eyes had followed mine. He had probably seen my alarm too. He smiled his understanding. “Some other time then.” The smile came from his eyes. Beyond the redness and the obvious pain, there was kindness. This wasn’t the distant, aloof man I had envisioned.

  I wanted to cry then, and it wasn’t just about Lucy. “Yes,” I said. “I’d like that.”

  “I have your number,” he said. “I’ll call you.”

  I disengaged my hand but there was someone else with her hand outstretched to take it, a woman who emanated serenity through her grief. A woman with short brown hair and delicate features. “I’m Trish.”

  Trish Cousins. Lucy’s massage therapist and counsellor—and Marnie’s partner.

  “I couldn’t help hearing what Curtis said. I want to thank you for speaking so honestly too. What you said about Lucy taking risks for Tim. It’s true. She did think life wasn’t worth living if you didn’t take risks. And in Tim’s case she considered them calculated risks—as you said.”

  “And what did you think?” I hadn’t been able to get hold of her when I was making my calls.

  Trish’s smile was as gentle as her voice. “I’m paid to listen, not to judge.”

  “But still—you heard maybe more than anyone else about her relationship, about what was really going on.”

  Trish was nodding. Over her shoulder, I saw Marc and Quinn shake hands and Marc move away.

  “I know this isn’t the time to talk about it,” I added. “But I’ve heard so many theories and o
pinions in the last few days as I’ve been talking to everyone. Would it be okay to call you?”

  “Yes. I think I probably need to talk about it too. You have my number still?”

  “Yes.”

  We smiled at each other. It wasn’t until she had disappeared in the crowd that I thought to wonder if Marnie were here. I turned to scope the room again. Quinn was standing where Marc had left him. But before I could reach him, I came to Lundy and Roach holding small plastic cups of juice.

  I held out my hand to Sergeant Lundy. “I’m sure it means a lot to the family that you came.”

  “We couldn’t not come,” said Lundy. “We feel we know Lucy now too.”

  Yes, I could understand that. I had done them an injustice. Their job was more than theories and investigations and arrests. Their job was involvement with people in unspeakable pain, people they had never met before, and people they would never meet.

  “We’re going to be calling on some people again in light of what we now know,” added Roach.

  “I guess there’s going to be a trial.”

  Roach nodded. “Like I said. We’ll be calling you.”

  Marc arrived at my side at that moment and I introduced him to the two detectives. And then stood beside him not hearing the conversation. Looking again for Quinn.

  “I’m going to go get a juice,” I murmured to Marc. I turned and bumped against someone coming up right behind me. “Oh, sorry,” I said and then I looked up. “Oh!”

  Close up, Quinn looked tired and slightly on edge. I wished I could get him to open up to me. Something was going on in his life. I wasn’t making that up.

  But his smile was so obviously filled with pleasure at seeing me I hoped Marc didn’t suddenly turn around to see it. “I was hoping I’d bump into you here,” he joked. “You did a good job up there.”

  I felt myself blush in the awareness of Marc behind me, his arm brushing against mine. “I was speaking for a whole bunch of her friends.”

  “But you were the one who pulled it all together.”

  I made a gesture of assent.

  “So we can add speaking to your many talents.”

  I acknowledged the compliment. We’re not back together, I wanted to say. But the unconscious pressure of Marc’s arm against mine paralyzed me.

  But then I looked Quinn in the eye and willed my face to remain its normal colour. It didn’t matter if Marc heard my next words; they were “legitimate.” “I didn’t get a chance to tell Sergeants Lundy and Roach. I’ve just moved. They said they’d be calling me. Maybe I could give you my phone number to pass on to them.”

  Quinn’s eyes glinted in amusement. He gave a brief nod. “Give me a call at the station on Monday. I’ll make sure they get it.” His voice was brisk.

  “Are you ready to go?” It was Marc, beside me.

  “Oh. Not quite. I haven’t spoken to Lucy’s family yet.”

  I nodded good-bye to Quinn. His whole demeanour had stiffened up at Marc speaking to me. But they seemed to have been talking amicably enough earlier. I looked at Marc to see if he had noticed, but he was looking as relaxed as ever, holding out his hand again to Quinn. Quinn shook it, unwillingly it seemed to me. Perversely I was enjoying this display of—what had he called it before?—male territoriality.

  “I’ll speak to you Monday, Ellen,” he said in his stern cop’s voice and turned away. I hid my smile from Marc. In any case, the sight of Anna and her father erased my momentary amusement. Anna’s face was tear-streaked but calm. She was playing the consummate hostess, maintaining her poise, speaking a few words to each person. She emanated control, calm, decorum. She would probably remember nothing tomorrow.

  There was nothing controlled about Mr. Stockman. It was impossible to tell what sort of a man he was in normal circumstances. Grief had taken up residence and torn down all the retaining walls. But I remembered Lucy describing him as a stern, austere man. She resembled him in features, though his complexion was fairer. What had she said? Her mother had been the Hungarian; her father was English. A typically self-controlled people. Not today. Maybe not ever again. His tears fell without restraint. He seemed to hear nothing that was said to him. His response was the same for everyone. “Thank you for coming.” It was a recorded message for someone who couldn’t be there in person.

  I half expected Anna not to recognize me, but she stretched out her hands when I approached, thanked me for my words.

  I hugged her close and spoke in her ear. “She’s safe now,” I heard myself say. We drew apart. Her eyes gleamed with tears.

  Out on the sidewalk, a reporter called my name.

  “Ignore them,” said Marc. His arm around my shoulders was a shield.

  I leaned into it. I was exhausted.

  In the truck, we wound down the windows to let in the hot breeze.

  “What were you talking about with Sergeant Quinn?” I asked. No beating around the bush.

  “You.”

  “What about me?”

  Marc kept his eyes on the road. “I was telling him how freaked out you were—that that’s why you came to Thunder Bay. He said you didn’t seem the type to freak out. I told him I had never seen you like that before.”

  “I’m fine now,” I said to his profile. “I’m not acting from fear anymore.”

  He glanced at me. “I never said you were.”

  “Marc, I’m not running away.”

  There was a two-kilometre pause. “Is there someone else?”

  The question took me aback. My response was quick. Maybe too quick. “No.”

  Back at home, I peeled off my damp dress, twisted the cap off a beer, and stretched out on my new futon couch with a fan aimed at my feet.

  I stared out the window at the imposing rock cliff on the other side of the river. In the bright afternoon sun, it seemed harsh, unyielding. A wall of rock, not a rock of comfort. Marc had invited me to come over before he dropped me off. I had been tempted until he’d asked if I would take the dogs for the next few weekends and a week in August when he was going paddling down the Dumoine. No, nothing was different. I asked him to take me right home.

  I took large swallows of the beer, felt it cool my throat and dull my brain. Had that service helped? The Minister, certainly, had not helped. Lucy’s “ghost” had helped—maybe for a minute. And we had all got to tell our story. Even if some people had done it vicariously through me.

  I thought back to the opinions I’d heard expressed on the phone. As I’d told Trish, everyone had a different theory.

  “She was incredibly dynamic. A bombshell. She attracted men to her like a magnet. But she was also incredibly stubborn. She refused to admit when she was in trouble. I had no idea what was going on. If I’d known I would have called the police months ago. Now I look back and it’s obvious she was in trouble. If only she had confided in me.”

  “She was a rescuer. She emanated this aura that she knew what she was doing, but she was being naive. She believed all those lies he told her. She didn’t see what he really was. He was unredeemable. I have to admit I’m not surprised it came to this.”

  “She was taken in. We were all taken in. It’s pretty scary, when you come right down to it. How come none of us saw it?”

  “I don’t know what happened to her, but Tim didn’t do it. Someone has tried to frame him. She and Tim had an incredible love for each other. She’d found her soulmate. It wasn’t easy, they had so many differences. But they were working it through. They had a bond most of us yearn for. They’ve got the wrong guy. I’d stake my money on it. Not my life, but my money.”

  Everyone, it seemed, had a reason why they’d lost touch with her in the last year. Or seen her only sporadically. Had no one really known Lucy? Had she confided in no one? Did even Trish know the truth? Lucy, it seemed, had isolated herself from
everyone. Or had everyone abandoned her, the way I had?

  Abandoned. It had been what she called her “core wound.” And her ultimate fear. Had she ended life the way she had begun it—abandoned by everyone she loved?

  *

  SHE WAS FLOATING AROUND THE living room. Her arms had become wings. She was a note of music suspended in the room. The tips of her toes touched the ground only long enough to lift her off again. She rose and fell, as notes do, within the confines of their song. Her own confines—self-imposed—were the parameters of the kilim carpet that covered the living room’s hardwood floor.

  When her father was home, no music was tolerated. It was understood that this was because it disturbed her mother. This made no sense: the records were her mother’s own Hungarian dances. And when her father wasn’t home, she could turn up the volume as loud as she liked; she never got a negative reaction. She never got any reaction at all. As if her mother weren’t home either.

  But there was someone who occupied the dining room most late afternoons when she arrived home from school. The dining room was separated from the living room by a set of French doors left permanently open. In spite of the open doors, it was hard to see in the room. The north-facing lead-paned windows did not let much light in, and the gumwood wainscotting and heavy oak furniture gave the room an even darker, gloomier air.

  This did not seem to bother the occupant. She sat, straight-backed, on the edge of a dining room chair at the table, close to the windows. Her dark hair was captured in a chignon at the nape of her neck. She wore a linen sheath dress. It fit close about her knees, which were pressed together. Her long legs were pulled in under her and at an angle to the side. In one hand she held a fountain pen. In the other she held the stem of a small glass, cut in such a way that it appeared to be filled with glinting diamonds. Amber-coloured diamonds. Liquid diamonds.

  Except for the arm that raised the glass to her lips, the woman didn’t appear to move. Today, the paper on the table before her remained blank. She stared straight ahead but seemed to see nothing. Nothing in the room anyway.