by Meg O'Brien
“From everything I know, it’s true you were taken care of,” Victoria said. “Saint Sympatica’s had an excellent reputation for that. There aren’t many orphanages that have a resident child psychiatrist, for instance.”
She refilled Rachel’s cup with tea, using a napkin to keep the spout from dripping the rich amber brew onto her desk. “Rachel, your parents chose to adopt you and Angela specifically from Saint Sympatica’s because of their quality of care. They hoped you would not have suffered too much from anything bad that might have happened to you in your first months of life.”
“Then why did Angela get RAD? And why didn’t it happen to me?”
Victoria sighed. “I don’t know if I can answer that. For that matter, Angela was never definitely diagnosed as having Reactive Attachment Disorder. The psychiatrist at Saint Sympatica’s and I felt that her symptoms fit that diagnosis, but there was always a tiny element of doubt. Fetal alcohol syndrome, for instance can result in similar kinds of behavior. And today RAD is still a matter for controversy. Some think it doesn’t even exist, and that there are other reasons for a child to turn out to have little or no feelings for others that one would consider ‘normal.’”
“What kind of reasons?”
“Well, something genetic, or some dysfunction in the brain.”
“You mean a bad seed? Like that old movie where the adopted kid turns out to be a killer because she inherited it from her biological mom, or something? I thought that was just fiction.”
“Rachel, if you’re looking for an absolute answer, I’m sorry, but there are no absolutes here. All I can tell you is that Angela received the best treatment possible at Saint Sympatica’s when your parents took her back there.”
Rachel’s eyes narrowed. “You know that for sure? How could you?”
“I know,” Victoria said patiently, “because at your parents’ request I talked several times during the first year with Dr. Chase, Angela’s psychiatrist. He assured me that she was progressing. Slow baby steps, but progressing, nonetheless.”
Rachel jumped on her words. “That’s all you did? You talked to him on the phone? And just the first year? What about after that?”
“After that, your parents felt they had to let go. Angela began to regress, I’m afraid, and Dr. Chase didn’t feel it was safe for her to be returned to your family. Or any other, for that matter.”
“So she just grew up there, all alone?” Again Rachel’s eyes began to tear. “Didn’t anybody care that she might be missing us? That she might feel lonely and miss the only family she ever had?”
Victoria bristled. “Rachel, your sister tried to kill you! Not only that, but she staged so-called accidents for an entire year before that night. It seems you’ve forgotten that.”
“No.” Rachel returned her cup to its saucer with a clatter. “I haven’t forgotten. I mean, I don’t really remember that night, but I know it happened because you and Mom and Dad told me about it. I just wish…” She hugged herself, feeling cold. “Oh, God, I wish things had been different.”
Victoria said softly, “Your parents wished that, too, Rachel. They had to learn to live with the fact that things were not different. They had to adjust to accepting things the way they were.”
“My parents! Sometimes I wish…”
There was an uneasy silence as Rachel’s face twisted in an expression of anger, then misery.
“What?” Victoria asked softly.
“Nothing.” Rachel shook her head and looked at her watch. “Never mind. My hour’s up, right? I have to get going.”
Pulling on her camel’s hair coat, she shoved her hands into the pockets, looking for her car keys. As she pulled them out, a slip of paper dropped to the floor. Rachel bent down and picked it up. Staring, she began to read. Then, taking a deep breath that came out in shudders, she paled. “Oh, my God.”
“What is it?” Victoria asked, her tone a mixture of curiosity and alarm.
“It’s…it’s a note.” Rachel met her eyes. “God, Vicky. It’s a note from Angela!”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure! It has to be her.”
“May I see it? What does it say?”
Victoria took the note and read aloud as Rachel slid heavily into her chair.
“It says, ‘So you made it through another Christmas Eve. Be careful your luck doesn’t run out.’”
Victoria looked at Rachel. “It’s in block print. And it isn’t signed.”
“No, but it’s her! I know it’s her!”
Victoria said calmly, “Well, I do see why you’d think it was from Angela, with that reference to Christmas Eve. But when could she have put a note like this into your pocket? Where have you been that she could have done that?”
Rachel bent forward, resting her elbows on her knees. Burying her face in her hands, she began to cry. “I don’t know. Vicky, where is she? What does she mean, my luck could run out?”
Victoria shook her head. “I don’t know, Rachel. What did the police think about your being run off the road the other night?”
Rachel sat straight, her teeth chattering and her voice low. “They said…they said it was a bad spot for accidents. That tree has been hit before, and they’ve talked for years about taking it down. The Historical Society, or somebody like that, is against it, though—”
She took a deep breath to steady herself. “Do you think Angela was driving that other car? That she drove us into that tree on purpose?”
Victoria set the note down on her desk. “I don’t know, Rachel. What do you think?”
Rachel jumped to her feet. “For God’s sake, will you stop being a psychiatrist for a minute and stop asking me questions? What the hell am I supposed to think? Is she trying to kill me, Vicky? Again?”
Rachel’s face turned an alabaster-white. “Or is it worse now? Is she trying to kill Mom and Dad, too?”
Later that afternoon, Paul, Gina and Rachel sat before Detective Al Duarte in the Seattle police headquarters at Third and James. He had taken the note by a corner and laid it on the desk without touching it further. Looking around, Paul could see other officers sitting at their desks, some of them at computers, some talking amongst themselves. Phones rang incessantly, and people who looked like they’d been pulled in for one reason or another sat beside some of the desks. One played with his long, stringy blond hair, another picked at his nose, then wiped his finger on his dirty khaki pants. A young girl who couldn’t be out of her teens crossed her legs and smoothed the tight red skirt she wore, then tugged at the neckline of her black sequined blouse, as if to make her breasts stand out more for the cop who was typing up a report. Her makeup was thick and dark, and her matted hair looked as if it hadn’t been washed in weeks.
Paul felt his stomach turn and wished he were at home in bed.
“How many people have handled this note?” Detective Duarte asked, looking up.
“My wife and I, and of course, Rachel,” Paul said.
“Vicky, too,” Rachel added.
“Vicky?” the detective asked.
“My shrink,” Rachel answered. “Victoria Lessing. I found it when I was in her office, and I showed it to her.”
Duarte studied Rachel, but said only, “We can dust it, but I don’t know about finding anything.”
Looking back at the note again, he said to Rachel, “So you think your twin sister might have written this? And you say you might have seen her at Berkeley a couple of weeks ago?”
Rachel flicked a look at her mother and father, then wiggled uncomfortably in her seat. “I, uh, I’m not sure. I just thought somebody looked like her. Or maybe how she might look now.”
The detective looked at Paul.
“My wife and I haven’t seen Angela since she was six years old,” Paul said. “That was fifteen years ago, in Minnesota. And Rachel hasn’t seen her since she was five. At least, she hadn’t until…well, we just learned that Rachel thought she saw her on campus. There’s no way to know if it
really was Angela, of course.”
“Mind telling me why you didn’t have any contact with this girl all these years?” the detective asked.
Gina began to speak, but Paul cut in. “It’s like we said earlier, Angela wasn’t well. We weren’t able to take care of her.”
“So you sent her back to this orphanage, this Saint Sympatica’s you mentioned? You left her there?” Detective Duarte looked unconvinced. “Just like that?”
“No, not just like that!” Gina said angrily. “It was an extremely difficult decision.”
The detective leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers over his ample belly. A coffee stain spoiled the otherwise crisp green shirt he wore, and the shoulder holster made Paul nervous. He had always been uneasy around guns, and had never kept one in the house. Every now and then he wondered what he would do if he ever had to defend himself or his family. The baseball bat he kept in a corner of the bedroom would probably not stop the average burglar.
Even more nerve-racking were the questions they were having to answer now. They had avoided bringing in the police sixteen years ago by telling the doctor in the emergency room that it had been an accident, that Rachel had fallen on the knife while playing. If Angela’s attack on Rachel came out here, the fact that they hadn’t reported it could be difficult to explain. Paul thought that there must be a law against that, and wondered what the statute was on it.
The detective went on, “So now you think this twin of your daughter’s has come back all these years later, and wants to harm you? What would be her motive? To get even for you taking her back to that orphanage?” His tone was doubtful. “That was a heck of a long time ago.”
“We were run off the road on Christmas Eve,” Paul said tightly. “An officer took the report. Haven’t you read it?”
“Got it right here.” Duarte tapped a small file on his desk. “I gotta tell you, though, a hit-and-run seems more likely to me. Some drunk, maybe, it being Christmas Eve. Funny how that holiday brings ’em out.”
Paul thought quickly. If they let it go at that—a drunk driver who just didn’t stop to help them—this whole thing would be so much easier. He, Gina and Rachel could go home and return to their lives again. It would be as if the accident, the note and their coming here, had never happened.
After all, the detective could be right. It could have been a simple hit-and-run. Gina had insisted on contacting the police once she heard about the note, but now it felt as if they might have jumped the gun. Why stir things up anymore?
Gina broke the small silence by saying, “Maybe you’re right about that accident, Detective Duarte. But what about this note? Clearly, somebody wants us to at least think they ran us off the road.”
The detective looked at her. “Problem is, the note doesn’t give us much to go on. Look, we can dust for some fingerprints that don’t match yours, your husband’s, your daughter’s, or the shrink’s. If we find any, we can run them through the computer banks. But if nothing comes up, and since you don’t have this Angela’s prints…” He shrugged.
“You’re right, it hardly seems worth the effort,” Paul said. “Look,” he turned to Gina and Rachel. “I think we should go home and forget this.”
“No, I want the fingerprints done,” Gina argued, shaking her head. “I want to know who sent my daughter that note. If there’s any chance at all of finding out, we should take it.”
Rachel was silent. When the detective looked at her, she mimicked his shrug. “I guess I want to know, too.”
“Okay.” He sighed and picked up the receiver of the black phone on his desk. “Give me a number for that shrink. I’ll send somebody over there, and while we’re waiting, we’ll get the three of you printed.”
The Bradleys’ prints had been taken and they were back at Duarte’s desk, waiting for Victoria Lessing’s prints to arrive and the computer search to be completed. Duarte, standing behind his desk, reminded them, “Like I said, you don’t have to stick around. I could call you.”
“I’d like to wait,” Gina said. “Paul, you can take Rachel home—”
“No way,” Rachel interrupted. “I’m staying right here.”
Duarte sighed and everyone fell silent as the detective sank heavily into his chair, leaning back in his hands-laced-over-the-belly position, staring at the ceiling. Into the silence burst a loud gastric growl. He rubbed his stomach and met Rachel’s grin. It was the first she had smiled since arriving at the police station, over two hours ago.
“You hungry?” Duarte asked.
“Starved,” she admitted. “I missed lunch.”
Duarte looked at his watch. “Dinner, too.”
He called over to a cop across the aisle. “Hey, Joey. Got a minute? Get these folks some doughnuts or something, will you? Maybe some coffee?”
“Sure, Al,” the cop answered. “I came in today just to wait on you.”
“Aw, c’mon. I’m busy with these people.”
“It’s about time you were busy with something,” the other cop said. But he got up and left, saying with a sigh and a smile, “I thought the days of slavery were over.”
“Not for you, newbie,” the detective called after him. “I already paid my dues, totin’ that barge and liftin’ that bale for the boys upstairs.”
After a few minutes, the young officer came back with a tray. There were four cups of coffee on it, and a paper plate piled high with oatmeal cookies. He set the tray on Duarte’s desk.
“Rosie made them,” he said, nodding toward a female cop across the room. “She was up all night. Worried about her kid, you know.”
The cop shook his head and smiled sympathetically. “She calls these ‘aggression cookies.’ Says you have to use your hands to mix ’em, and you get all kinds of tensions out.”
“Yeah,” Duarte said. “I wonder how much sleep is lost every night by parents up worrying about their kids.”
“Well,” the young cop said, “along with waiting hand and foot on you, I guess I’ve still got that to look forward to.” He smiled. “Get you anything else?”
“Nah, this’ll do it,” Duarte said. “Okay, kid, dig in.” He pushed the plate toward Rachel.
She picked up a cookie and wolfed it down.
“Help yourselves,” Duarte said to Paul and Gina.
They both shook their heads. “Thank you, no,” Gina said, sipping her coffee.
“You, uh, you must have other things you need to do?” Paul said to Duarte, putting it in the form of a question.
Duarte shrugged. “I was about to take a break, anyway. I don’t mind.” Cookie crumbs fell on his shirt, and he brushed them off.
“You like these cookies, kid?” he asked Rachel.
“They’re okay,” she answered. “When you’re away at school you start to like anything that’s food.”
“Yeah, I guess. These that Rosie made are pretty good, though. Maybe not quite as good as the sugar cookies my wife used to make.” He sighed. “I sure do miss that woman.”
“Is she, uh—” Rachel let the question dangle.
“Dead? Nah. Just gone. It’s not a good life, bein’ married to a cop. Shoulda known that before I married her, but you know, when you’re young, you tell yourself it’ll all work out.”
He looked at Paul. “So you’re an antiques dealer?”
Paul nodded. “Soleil Antiques.”
“Oh, yeah, I drive by it all the time. It’s a good business, then? You do pretty good financially? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“I’ve done well off and on over the years,” Paul said. “I started out right after college, furnishing the homes and offices of CEOs. Then the dot.commers came along, and the ones who got rich wanted the best of everything. That was before the market tanked a while back, of course.”
“Pretty lucky timing,” Duarte commented. “You must’ve inherited some money? To get a business like that started, I mean.”
Paul wondered what all the questions were about. In fact, he wondered why the g
ood detective didn’t have more to do than sit here and wait with them. “Well, my wife,” he nodded toward Gina, “is an interior decorator. We’ve worked together for years. She furnishes houses with many of the antiques I stock. We started slowly, but it’s worked out well.”
The detective looked at Gina. “My wife used to say she wished she could get a decorator for our house. But then she’d say it’d be a waste of money because I’d be messing it up all the time, leaving my shoes around, eatin’ in front of the TV…”
“Well, I think that even when a house is professionally decorated, it should be comfortable for whoever lives in it,” Gina said.
“I guess. Trouble is, what’s comfortable for one isn’t always what’s comfortable for the other.”
“How true,” Paul said. Gina gave him a swift look, and Paul said uneasily, “I mean, people do have different ideas about how they like to live. Some people feel too stiff if they can’t toss things around. Others get crazy if a house isn’t neat all the time.”
“I like a smooth, neat look,” Gina replied in a tone that sounded half apologetic, half defensive. “It calms me if everything looks orderly.”
“Like a showroom,” Paul agreed.
“Was that a criticism?” Gina said sharply.
“Hell, no,” Paul said tiredly, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Why on earth would I ever criticize you, dear?”
It was a moment before either of them noticed that Duarte and Rachel were staring.
“Sorry,” Paul said, getting to his feet and beginning to pace. “I guess I’m more tired than I realized. How much longer do you think this will take?” He looked at his watch.
“I told them to hurry it,” Duarte said, “but you know, it’s not like this is a life or death situation.” He paused. “At least so far as we know.”
“Maybe I overreacted,” Rachel said. “Maybe the note was from some nut, somebody who heard about the accident somehow, and decided to play games. Like, maybe when we stopped at Starbuck’s this morning. Mom, you remember that guy who kept staring at us? Maybe when we were standing in line he slipped the note into my pocket.”
