by Joy Fielding
A few more months and this hill would be as treacherous as a mountain of ice. Cindy remembered winters when this stretch of road became almost unnavigable, when cars on the ascent stalled and faltered, their wheels spinning aimlessly before succumbing to the pull of gravity and sliding back down the hill, colliding with other automobiles powerless to get out of the way, causing traffic tie-ups all the way to Queen’s Park.
Cindy passed an elderly couple strolling hand in hand, the wife using the handrail that ran along the side of the street to help her manage the incline, then scooted past a jogger in bright orange shorts and the latest in running shoes. What was she doing? she asked herself. She wasn’t a jogger, let alone a long-distance runner, yet here she was running much too fast down a steep hill, wearing jeans that were way too tight and sandals that offered no support at all, a rambunctious and unpredictable terrier at her feet. She’d be stiff as a board in the morning, she thought, and laughed out loud, the sound scraping at the darkness, like a pick through ice. Oh well. At least that would keep her from barging into people’s homes and offices, from interfering with the police investigation. Hah, she thought, and laughed again.
At the bottom of the hill, she turned right, running along Cottingham, glancing at the semidetached brown-stones that lined both sides of the wide street, wondering what mayhem was being unleashed behind thin venetian blinds and antique lace curtains. She slowed her pace as she drew near two young women who were talking beside a low, white picket fence. Both were blond. Neither was Julia.
“What’s your favorite film so far?” one was asking the other.
“It’s between The Magdelene Sisters and L‘Homme du Train. They were awesome.”
“Am I wrong, but is the quality of films better this year?”
Cindy resumed her former pace, passing the two young women, then turning left, then left again, and running briskly down Rathnelly, a quirky little avenue whose even quirkier inhabitants had once declared their street a republic. She turned left again, Elvis beside her, somehow knowing not to stop, to keep running, to keep turning left, then right, then left again, then right, watching one familiar street blur into another. Cindy kept on going, hoping to disappear, to lose herself in the welcoming darkness.
She ran beside the railway tracks along Dupont, past the tiny Tarragon Theater on Bridgeman, where she’d once had a subscription, past majestic old Casa Loma, where Meg had held her wedding reception, then across the bridge at Spadina, back up to St. Clair, and finally back down Poplar Plains to Balmoral.
She reached the corner in time to see Ryan and Faith Sellick pulling into their driveway, climbing out of their car, and carrying their infant son up the front steps, before disappearing inside their home.
Home, she thought, coming to an abrupt halt.
All her running, and where had it gotten her? Back where she started.
She couldn’t get lost if she tried.
AT JUST AFTER two o’clock in the morning, Cindy’s phone rang.
“Is this Cindy Carver?” a voice asked, jolting her awake.
“Who is this?”
“It’s Officer Medavoy from Fifty-third Division. We have your daughter, Mrs. Carver,” the officer began.
He was still speaking as Cindy threw down the phone and raced for the door.
THIRTY
THE Fifty-third Division of the Metropolitan Police Department is a vine-covered, redbrick building with a dramatic glass atrium over its entranceway, located on the southwest corner of Eglinton and Duplex, across from the Eglinton subway station. Cindy pulled her car into the narrow lot at the rear of the building, parking it between two black-and-white police cars, and running along Duplex to the front of the three-story structure. Her legs were cramping as she reached the glass double doors, and she stopped to rub behind one knee, taking several deep breaths in an effort to calm herself down.
They’d found Julia. She was alive.
“I’m Cindy Carver,” she announced as she burst through the front door and threw herself at the long counter that cut across the middle of the large, high-ceilinged room. “Where’s my daughter?”
A dark-haired woman with a wide forehead and a long, pinched nose was sitting at one of four desks behind the counter. She immediately jumped to her feet, glancing anxiously over one shoulder, before returning wary eyes to Cindy. “I’m sorry?” she began, absently smoothing the creases of her police uniform.
“My daughter, Julia Carver. Someone called me.… Officer Medavak.…”
“Medavoy,” the policewoman corrected.
“Where is he?”
“I’ll see if I can find him.”
Cindy nodded, her eyes quickly scanning the bulletin board to her left, crowded with pictures of missing children, as the policewoman shuffled slowly toward a door at the back of the room. Cindy had to bite down on her tongue to keep from yelling, Move!
The officer suddenly stopped, turned back to Cindy. “I’m sorry. Your name again?”
“Cindy Carver.” What’s the matter with her? Cindy thought. Doesn’t she know who I am? Doesn’t she read the papers? Hasn’t she seen Julia’s photograph plastered across the front pages for weeks now? Although there’d been no pictures of her for several days, not since the police arrested Sally Hanson’s boyfriend for her murder and eliminated the likelihood of a serial killer on the loose. Was it possible Julia had already been forgotten? That Tom had been right—out of sight, out of mind?
“Tom,” she thought, saying his name out loud. Was he here? Had anyone thought to phone him?
Certainly she hadn’t, she realized guiltily, although she hadn’t been thinking too clearly when the police officer called. It had been all she could do to remember to put on some clothes before tearing out the door. She looked down at her black V-neck sweatshirt, hoped it was clean, that she didn’t smell. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d done any laundry. Not since her sister left, she thought, thinking she should call Leigh, tell her the good news. And her mother. She should phone her. And Tom. Somebody should phone Tom.
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 noncommital, his demeanor 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 reentered 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 getting 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.
