For the most part, mom lived in the present. But then she would drift back. When she returned to the present as if waking from a long sleep, she would say, "Dad's gone, isn't he?" But there would be the confusion, a hesitation in her speech as she tried to remember when or how it had happened.
"Thank you, Lynne," she said now. "I'm so lucky to have such a wonderful daughter. But don't you have to…"
Her voice trailed away and she frowned in that way she had, deep, intense, and Lynne saw her mental struggle. She's unsure if I'm married, or working or still in school, home for lunch. She probably doesn't remember Joe right now, though they'd become great friends over the years.
But she always remembers me. As soon as she saw me at the door today, she said, "Lynne, dear, I'm so glad you're here." Lynne feared the day she would look at her as if she were a stranger.
But today she knows me. She knows something is happening to her mind, and is terrified. That was the worst part; her knowing, feeling helpless and afraid. Unable to change the course she was on. Her mother had been so strong, so in control of things. She was Lynne's rock, growing up, always there for her. Now Lynne wanted to be there for her mother.
Lynne set the two pieces of white filleted fish on the counter and turned to look at her mother, now sitting at the kitchen table, contemplating her hands that lay in her lap, the fish forgotten. Perhaps even daddy. But then she saw she was twisting her gold wedding band round and round on her finger
Lynne looked at her mother with helplessness and sadness. Yet on the surface she looked the same, an attractive older woman, tall, statuesque, her white hair arranged in soft waves. Every Thursday she had it done at the beauty shop just down the street. Lynne had always felt proud when people told her she looked like her mother. It was only her mother's eyes that were sometimes vague or fearful.
Caroline Hill's eyes used to look like that when she first came on the ward. Once they took her off the drugs, her eyes cleared, and her mind became more lucid. Of course Caroline didn't have a brain disease like her mother. And she was barely more than a girl, not only chronologically but emotionally. But according to reports, she was doing well, and Lynne was glad to know her concerns hadn't been justified.
She washed the potatoes in the sink, feeling the icy water on her hands, cold as the knowledge that there was no good solution for her mother. It will get worse and it's bad now. I can't leave her alone anymore. But the last time Lynne suggested she sell the house and come live with her and Joe, her mom was adamant that she would not be leaving her home, the only home she had known since she was eighteen years old, and married Walter Raines. She'd been furious (and frightened) at the mere suggestion. In that moment, Lynne was the enemy.
But it's dangerous for her living alone here, Lynne thought, as she ran cold water over the fish, dried each of the filets with a paper towel and rolled them in the bread crumbs, sprinkled with dill. Another woman was found murdered. Older than the other two. A deviation in the killer's pattern.
Anyone could be next.
She wondered if Caroline knew that one of the murdered women had once lived in her building. Yes of course she would know that. The murders were the talk of the town. And Caroline was a working woman now, out in that world. She was also very bright.
Thoughts of her former patient gave her a twinge of guilt. I must call on Caroline, she told herself with resolve, as she set the potatoes on a rack and slid it into the oven. She would go see her. Soon.
"How about we go into the living room, Mom, and watch the afternoon movie. They're running an old Jerry Lewis flick." She was tired of thinking about death and dying—the many kinds of dying. Jerry was medicine for the soul.
Twenty-Five
"Hi, Caroline."
She was sitting on her favorite park bench, engrossed in a scene between Pip, Mrs. Haversham, and the lovely Estella when the voice broke through to her. She looked up to see Harold Bannister grinning down at her. He was removing his knitted cap, stuffing it into his pocket, as if he had just entered a room and came upon a grand lady. Harold was always so nice and respectful.
"Hi, Harold." She looked around, and not seeing his bike, which he always rode, said, "You don't have your bike with you."
"Someone cut the lock and took it from in front of the bakery. Left a whole bunch of other new bikes and took mine."
She thought he seemed more puzzled than angry. "That's awful. Maybe the thief thought no one would come after him if he took an older one."
He shrugged his shoulders. He was wearing new jacket, one she hadn't seen before. Dark green, quilted and shiny.
"Yeah, I guess," he said. "Uh, okay if I sit down?"
Behind Harold, a small blond boy tossed a rock into the fountain, where it made a light splash. A startled pigeon took flight, descending seconds later onto the branch of a chestnut tree, causing its leaves to shiver.
"If you're…uh…really into your book," Harold stammered, "I don't want to bother…"
She closed the book reluctantly. "No, it's okay. Sure. Please sit down." She shifted over to give him room. Usually, she sat in the middle of the bench to discourage strangers from sitting beside her. "That's a nice coat. Looks warm."
"Yeah, it is. You look nice, too." His hand whispered down the front of his nylon jacket. "But you always look nice. Aunt Greta gave this to me for my birthday." He sat down. "It's got a detachable hood but I don't need it yet."
"Oh, it's really lovely. Happy birthday. How old are you? I'm sorry," she said at once. "I guess that's not a question a person should ask of someone."
She was getting better at not blurting things out, at thinking before she spoke, but sometimes she forgot. Harold had settled in beside her. He smelled of the baked cookies he often bought her. Cinnamon, she thought.
"I don't mind," he said. "I'm twenty-four."
"You look younger. I thought you were eighteen or nineteen."
"It's the zits," he said.
She didn't think so. "You don't have many. Just that one on your chin, and it's not too bad."
He laughed at that, and she did too. Not exactly sure why. Harold had a nice laugh. She had never thought of Harold as being nice looking, but in that moment he was. Not that he was ugly or anything. In fact, she had thought he looked like a poet the first time she saw him.
"I know how old you are," he said, smiling, proud that he knew. "You're twenty-six."
It surprised her that he knew her age, but then she supposed his aunt would have told him.
Harold asked her where she lived before she went into the mental hospital, and the question made her pause. Then, "With my parents. But that was a long time ago. They're dead now. Did you always live with your aunt?"
A squirrel began chattering from a nearby tree and Caroline took the bag of peanuts from her bag and tossed a peanut on the ground; the red squirrel with its big fluffy tail came warily down the tree, black eyes glittering, ventured close enough to snatch up the peanut and scurry back up. But not very far. Making a raspy, scolding noise. Hurry up! Feed me.
She smiled and tossed another as Harold said, "I've been with my Aunt Greta since I was twelve, after my parents divorced. I have a learning disability and I think that made my dad feel ashamed. He never said, but I could tell. Anyway, I bounced back and forth between them for awhile. Then I moved in with Aunt Greta, and I stayed. She's great, but I'd like to get my own place someday. You're more independent than I am."
"No, I'm not."
"Sure you are. You have your own place, upstairs."
"Oh, well. The hospital arranged it for me. I could never have rented a room on my own."
She asked him about his job. About how long he'd been there. Three years, he told her. "I pour the mixed batters from the vats into the bake pans, and I clean up and stuff. I guess I told you about that."
"Yes. It sounds interesting."
He shrugged. "I won't be pouring the batter much longer. It's all going to auto…automated. A big machine will do it."
He said he might go to the community college and learn a trade. "I think I could learn something new if I liked it."
"Sure you could. I learned to work the electric dishwasher at Frank's," she said. "You could learn anything you wanted to. I think you're very smart, Harold."
He looked pleased at that and smiled his shy smile at her. "Maybe you would like to go to a movie or something—sometime. I don't have a car but we could take the bus downtown. Maybe next Saturday…"
"No, thank you." The words were not out of her mouth when she wished she could snatch them back. Once more, she had spoken too quickly, too bluntly. Harold looked as if she had slapped him. She felt her heart sink in disappointment at herself. But she did not want to go to a movie with Harold.
She had liked going to the movies once, though they were forbidden to her. She and William had sneaked off to see Rosemary's Baby, and he had put his arm around her at the scary parts. She hadn't wanted to move in case he took it away. She could feel its weight even now across her shoulders, the excitement of his nearness. She recalled the smell of popcorn, the shifting of feet in the warm darkness. A movie about the devil's spawn, her father would have said. Which indeed it was.
She had not thought of that in years. Doctor Rosen had promised her the memories would return, like snatches of dreams, he said, as she settled into her new life.
She knew it sounded crazy to say you were afraid to be in a movie theatre, so she said nothing, just sat there feeling bad inside herself that she had hurt Harold's feelings, who was already on his feet, his face pink, the zit on his chin glowing. Trying to look like her rejection didn't bother him, he tugged his knit hat over his head and looked around him, at everything but her. "I'll let you get back to your book. I guess I'll… see you around."
After he was gone, she opened her book again, but she couldn't concentrate on the story because she couldn't stop seeing the hurt on Harold's face. She sighed and let the book rest on her lap.
And it was at that moment she became aware of someone watching her.
Twenty-Six
A gust of wind came and lifted the pages of the book in her lap, and blew her hair around her tam and into her eyes. She finger-combed the hair away.
Searched the now deserted park, past the fountain, the trees, the swings, but saw no one.
She closed the book and slipped it into her bag and stood up, stiff from sitting so long, her backside numb. Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was nearly five o'clock, which surprised her. She hadn't realized she'd been here so long.
Shaking the last of the peanuts onto the ground, she scrunched the bag up in her hand and tossed it into a nearby trash bin. A heavy purple black cloud passed over the sun and another gust of wind chased ripples across the water in the fountain and rattled the leaves in the trees.
As she headed for the park's exit, she glanced to her right and noticed a man standing on the far side of the park, looking in her direction. She couldn't be sure if he was looking at her because he was wearing dark glasses, and his hat was pulled low on his forehead. Yet every instinct in her told her he was, and that behind those glasses lived cold, hard eyes.
Even from here she sensed something familiar about him, in the way his stood, in the menacing thrust of shoulders. Apprehension crept over her and she looked quickly away. Hitching her bag up higher on her shoulder, she walked on, her hurried step making her new shoes click eerily on the paved pathway.
The wind came up again and she had to clamp a hand over her hat to keep it from flying off. Cold burrowed down the neck of her new coat, and she buttoned the top button and drew up the collar, wishing she had worn her new scarf. Yet the deepest chill that had burrowed into her bone marrow had nothing at all to do with weather, but came from the eyes hidden behind those glasses that, even now, seemed to follow her.
By the time she reached her building, she was gasping for breath and sweaty inside her coat. She rummaged in her bag for her key with fingers that felt like thumbs, at last finding it. Sliding the key into the lock, she glanced over her shoulder, saw only an elderly lady rushing along the sidewalk, her black poodle on a leash, leaves skittering after the little dog.
Not until she was inside her room with the door locked, did she let out a long, shaky breath and sag down on the sofa.
The man wasn't watching you. It was only his dark glasses that made you think that. But she wasn't convinced.
She hung up her coat, wandered to the window and was surprised to see Harold standing down on the sidewalk, looking up at the window. Seeing her, he immediately dropped his head and disappeared inside the building.
She had thought Harold left the park before she did. Had he been following her?
Twenty-Seven
It was not the first time in these past weeks that Caroline had sensed she was being followed, but she told herself it was just her imagination, triggered by knowing a killer was on the loose. Last night, after seeing Harold standing on the sidewalk looking up at her window, she wasn't so sure. It had made her suspicious of him.
Putting on the teakettle to make a cup of tea to calm herself, she caught a glimpse of her pale, frightened face in the shiny chrome, and that frightened her even more. She'd better get herself together, or they'd be sending her away again. Harold was mad at her because she wouldn't to the movies with him, but he wouldn't hurt her. Harold was her friend. And that's how she thought of him. A friend.
When she arrived at work that morning, Ethel told her one of the waitresses called in sick, and that they were shorthanded. She would have to fill in. She gave her an order book and tossed her a clean uniform and apron. White, with burgundy trim. "Change into this, Caroline. Just smile your sweet smile and be yourself, and you'll do great. C'mon, now, don't look like I just asked you to jump off a cliff."
"But I can't, Ethel. I don't know how…"
"Of course you can. What's to know? You take the order and come back here and yell it out. I'm here, if you have any problem. But you won't. It'll be good for you, honey. You've come a lot farther than you realize since you started working here."
Ethel found her a pair of white nurse's shoes a waitress had left behind when she quit. They looked near new. "There'll be a lot more comfy on your feet if they fit."
They did. Perfectly. Like they'd been waiting for her. She was both excited and terrified at the prospect of going out there.
"I figured they'd fit," Ethel said. "You got dainty feet. The shoes are yours, then. They don't fit anyone else around here."
For the first half hour, Caroline was a nervous wreck, getting her orders confused, once tripping and spilling a full cup of coffee on the floor. But after awhile she settled down and actually surprised herself by enjoying waiting tables. Ethel was giving her the confidence she needed to do this. Each time she went through the swinging doors into the kitchen and called out a new order just the way she'd heard other waitresses calling out theirs. Ethel would wink and smile at her, and give her order special attention.
Aside from the pleasure of serving customers, being out in the restaurant got her away from Mike, who was becoming more and more uncomfortable to be around. Everything he said and did seemed deliberate, a taunt, mocking her.
Once when he called her Carrie, she explained as pleasantly as she could that her name was Caroline, after her grandmother. She hoped he might understand, but the look he gave her was hardly apologetic. Turning away, he made a comment she didn't catch, but knew it wasn't anything nice.
Surely she had a right to be called by her proper name, didn't she? Why would that make him angry?
And why was she making so much of it?
She must learn to ignore him. Let him call her Carrie, if he wanted to. What did it matter? It's not as if it was a bad name. Maybe if he thought she didn't care, he'd stop. But she knew this was just wishful thinking. He wouldn't stop. Just like he wouldn't stop brushing against her every chance he got, or accidentally touching her breast when he reached for a plate on the
shelf. Had Ethel noticed? Was that part of the reason she was out here waiting tables this morning?
She wasn't complaining. The customers were all nice to her, and if they noticed she was a little hesitant or awkward, no one said anything. Maybe because so many were caught up in talking about the recent murder. You couldn't escape it.
"Hope you don't have to walk home after work, darlin'," one heavy-set woman with a dimpled smile said to her, as Caroline handed her the menu. "Not with that madman running around loose."
She took the menu from Caroline's hand and scanned the specials. "Of course that actress he strangled had her own car, didn't she, and it didn't save her." One crimson fingernail tapped the plastic-covered menu. "I'll have the extra-thin pancakes with maple syrup and sausages, and a glass of orange juice." She flashed her deep dimples. "And a coffee now, dear. Extra cream on the side."
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