“It’s very astute of you to realize that.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Richmond says with a shrug and a smile. “I don’t think it takes any great degree of insight to know that I’m going to have a hard time adapting to a life shared with anyone else.”
“I think we all have a hard time with that,” I say. “It seems easy at first because you’re so in love with a person, and you feel like you’d be willing to sacrifice anything, do anything, be anything, just so you can be with them. But eventually the shiny finish on that new relationship wears off, revealing the rust and dull metal beneath. And after a while, you start to question how much of yourself you’re willing to give up to make someone else happy.”
“So what is Hurley asking you to give up?”
“Nothing, really,” I say, hedging. “I feel like I won the relationship lottery when it comes to Hurley because he doesn’t really ask much of anything from me. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t things I’ve had to give up or take on that I didn’t necessarily want. I mean, I didn’t see myself as the stepmother to a teenage daughter, but it happened. If I wanted to be with Hurley, Emily was part of that package. I took it on, and was happy to do so at first. But there were moments . . .”
“Yeah, that kid was a challenge for a while,” Richmond says. “But you can hardly blame her. Look how much her life was turned upside down. Look at what she had to give up.”
“I know, and while at times it’s been a rocky road—one of my favorite ice-cream flavors, by the way—to get to where we are today, it was well worth it. I love that girl as if she was my own.”
I feel a certain kinship with Emily because we were both raised by a mother who was flighty and dishonest. Kate lied to her daughter for the first fourteen years of her life by telling her that her father was dead, and she also lied to Hurley fourteen years earlier when she made him think they were divorced, even though she never filed the papers. Things came to a head when Kate discovered she was dying. She reappeared in Hurley’s life by showing up on his doorstep one evening with Emily in tow. Hurley not only didn’t know he was still married to her, but he had no idea that they’d had a child together.
My relationship with Hurley was still somewhat new and very complicated at the time, since I’d just discovered I was pregnant. Kate died a few months after she came back into Hurley’s life, and Emily found herself without the only parent she had ever known, thrust into a living situation with a father she never knew she had, and the threat of the new family that Hurley was starting with me. Talk about feeling like a third wheel. Emily acted out in a predictable fashion, and at one point, I was a bit afraid of the girl. But some counseling, patience, time, and a near-death experience helped Emily come to grips with her new living situation.
“Something is bothering you,” Richmond says. “Is it the kids?”
I let out a little laugh. “I suppose in a way it is,” I say. “Not the existing ones, though.” Then, with a derisive smile, I add, “Although there are days when Matthew pushes my buttons until I’m ready to go off like a nuclear blast. His latest thing is taking off into another room when I’m distracted for even a few seconds and getting himself into trouble. The other day when I was on the phone, he managed to sneak into the downstairs bathroom and unroll an entire roll of toilet paper. He seems to think mealtime is also free art time, because he likes to fling food around the room. If it wasn’t for Hoover cleaning up after him, my kitchen would look like a food abattoir. I bought a couple of those kiddie gates to try to confine him better, for when I’m doing stuff at home, but he figured out how to dismantle them in two days. One of his favorite foods is those goldfish crackers, and he’s smashed so many of them into the carpet in the living room that Hoover spends half his day in there, just licking the rug. I’ve learned not to walk in that room with bare feet, because if you want to avoid the wet spots, it’s like trying to play a game of Twister. He’s a full-time job, that kid. Finding any kind of private time for Hurley and me is practically impossible. We manage now and then, though perhaps not as good as we could. Sometimes sheer exhaustion overwhelms us and wins the day.”
“Well, you’ve certainly made me feel better about not having children,” Richmond says after a moment. “Are you happy?”
I give the question some serious thought, but it only takes me a few seconds to come up with the answer. “I’m probably crazy, but, yes, I am,” I tell him honestly. “Life is good.”
“And yet?”
I shoot Richmond an annoyed look.
“Don’t try to deny it,” he says. “I may not have a lot of experience in the relationship department personally, but I’ve been a detective for a lot of years. I know how to read people. And there is something that’s troubling you.”
He’s right, and I silently curse his ability to suss this out. I don’t have to discuss it, of course, but I find that I want to. I need to. “You have to promise me, you won’t repeat anything I say to Hurley.”
“My lips are sealed. Besides, your husband and I don’t talk about personal stuff much anyway.”
“Hurley wants to have another kid.”
There is a tick of silence before Richmond says, “And?”
“No ‘and.’ That’s it. He wants to have another kid.”
“Oh. And you don’t?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m kind of split on the issue, though I have to admit that the split is about seventy percent no to thirty percent yes. Actually, it’s thirty percent ‘I’ll think about it.’ ”
“I see. How hard is Hurley pushing the issue?”
“Not real hard, but he keeps bringing it up. He’s been bringing it up since shortly after Matthew was born. At first, I thought he was just mesmerized by the wonder of fatherhood and all that, but Matthew has revealed the ugly behind the mask by now, and Hurley still keeps bringing it up.”
“Okay, so he definitely wants another kid. What makes you not want one?”
I blow out a breath that makes my lips vibrate. “Where do I start? To begin with, being pregnant is no real treat.”
“I thought you women loved being pregnant,” Richmond says. “Getting to eat for two, the whole Madonna thing, the glow everyone talks about—”
“Puking for several months, not being able to drink any alcohol, having to pee all the time, not being able to have coffee, swollen ankles, not that you can see your ankles toward the end when you look like a beached whale.”
“Well, there’s the wonder of bringing a new life into the world, of feeling it grow and move inside you,” Richmond counters, jumping on the pro-and-con wagon with enthusiasm.
His voice is reverent, and it makes me flash back to those moments during my pregnancy with Matthew when I felt him kick, or hiccup, or stretch out, and what a feeling of wonder and joy it gave me. Richmond was there when I delivered Matthew in the bathtub of Izzy’s cottage, which is where I lived at the time. I remember him telling me how gratified he was to have had the privilege of seeing it.
“Yeah, there is that,” I admit to Richmond. “But pregnancy is not kind to one’s body, and when all is said and done, there’s this tiny little life that is cute and adorable and the sweetest thing you can possibly imagine, but it also robs you of sleep, good hygienic practices, and your sanity. It’s not that I wouldn’t want to have another kid with Hurley, it’s that I don’t know if I want to go through the whole pregnancy thing again, or those early months of infancy. Plus, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a spring chicken anymore, Richmond. I’m pushing forty and the risk of birth defects increases with every year that goes by. If I could just snap my fingers and have some healthy and delightful little girl appear who is already toilet trained and done with her terrible twos I wouldn’t hesitate.”
“A little girl, eh?” Richmond asks, arching his eyebrows. “You’d like to have a daughter?”
I shrug. “Not necessarily,” I say. “I’d be content with another boy. Though I have to admit, this whole penis t
hing has been a real eye-opener for me. I grew up with a sister and a mother. I had no idea how early the penis fascination starts.”
“Maybe you should consider giving up your job,” Richmond says. “The stress of trying to balance motherhood with a career may be part of the problem.”
“I don’t want to give up my job. I love what I do. And I only do it part-time.”
“Does Hurley help you out?”
“He does,” I say with a smile. “In fact, I think he helps out a lot more than most husbands and fathers do. He’s very hands-on with Matthew, and he’s always chipping in around the house with errands and cleanup.”
“That’s good.”
“I know.” I let out a deep sigh. “What should I do, Richmond? Should I go ahead and give in? I mean, I don’t think Hurley is going to let the matter drop. Clearly, it means a lot to him. Am I being too selfish?”
“Oh . . . no,” Richmond says in a cautionary tone. “I can’t answer that for you. No one can. You need to resolve this in your own mind. Weigh all the pros and cons, and decide where you fall on the issue. Once you know that, you need to be honest with Hurley about your decision.”
He’s right, of course. And while I’m no closer to having an answer than I was when we started our trip, the simple act of talking about it has helped.
Further discussion on the matter has to be waylaid, however, because we have arrived at the house in Necedah where Kurt Paulsen lives, and once again I’m reminded of how petty and unimportant my issues are in comparison to the devastating happenings in other lives.
CHAPTER 10
Kurt Paulsen looks like a man who has dedicated his life to a family farm. His skin is tanned and weathered, creased like an old leather chair. His hair is dark blond with sun streaks of yellow, and cropped short. One of the fingers on his left hand—the little one—is missing from the first joint up, and I’d bet money that he lost it in a farming accident. His arms are long and sinewy beneath the rolled-up sleeves of a plaid flannel shirt that has seen better days. The jeans he is wearing hang a bit loose on his lanky frame, and I wonder if he’s recently lost weight.
While his face bears the markings of a man who has worked hard and spent a lot of time outdoors, it also has the look of someone who is haunted. His cheekbones are sharp and chiseled, the flesh beneath them hollow. The corners of his mouth are turned down, the lower lip sticking out almost defiantly. His eyes are an interesting shade of spinach green, or at least it would be interesting if they didn’t look so dead.
What little life might have been hiding in Kurt Paulsen’s face flees the moment Richmond identifies himself. He stares at Richmond, not blinking. For a second, I think perhaps he has stopped breathing, but when I look at his chest, I see the faint rise there. A little higher up, I see his pulse throbbing in his neck, and watch it speed up as the seconds tick by. The only other movement I can detect is the twitching of a muscle in his jaw, the result of him clenching his teeth, no doubt bracing himself for the blow I can tell he knows is coming.
“May we come in?” Richmond asks. He has introduced the both of us as being from the Sorenson Police Department, most likely not wanting to broadcast the bad news by announcing the presence of someone from the medical examiner’s office. But I can tell it won’t matter to Mr. Paulsen. He knows he is about to get some of the worst news of his life.
He hasn’t answered Richmond’s question, and he hasn’t moved, either.
“Mr. Paulsen,” I say, reaching over and taking hold of his right hand, which is hanging limply at his side. “We need to talk with you about your daughters.” I keep my voice low and even. “Can we go inside to do that?” He shifts his gaze from Richmond to me, but nothing else moves. I take a step closer and then slide past him on the left, still holding on to his right hand. This forces him to either pull loose of my grip or turn with me. He turns.
This little bit of movement seems to awaken him from his shocked state. He strides ahead of me, pulling his hand free of mine. We follow him down a hallway, past a stairwell on the right, a living room on the left, a bathroom beneath the stairs, and a dining room on the left. At the end of the hallway is the kitchen, and he walks over to an old wooden table in the center of the room and indicates the chairs around it.
“Sit,” he says. “Can I get you a drink of some sort?”
Richmond and I both decline, confirming our choices by shaking our heads. We sit—me at one end of the table, Richmond on the side—and once we are settled, Mr. Paulsen pulls out the chair across from Richmond and sits. His movements are controlled and unhurried, and his face is utterly blank, without expression or emotion of any kind. The man is an automaton, a robot, and I know that this is the only way he can maintain control for the moment.
Richmond opens his mouth to speak and gets out, “Mr. Paulsen,” before he’s interrupted.
“Are they dead?” Paulsen asks. His outer visage may not show signs of stress, but his voice does. It cracks slightly, and I suspect he is only a beat or two away from breaking down.
Richmond hesitates, and I can tell he’s rehearsing his response, searching through the many platitudes and aphorisms we are taught to use in times like this. But I sense that Mr. Paulsen needs the stark truth now, blunt and up front.
“Only one of them,” I tell him. “And we aren’t a hundred percent sure it’s her, sir.”
He looks at me and his shoulders sag visibly. His eyes close ever so slowly. “Which one?”
“We think it’s Liesel. I’m so very sorry.”
He opens his eyes and looks at me, his head nodding almost imperceptibly. “I want to see her.”
“You may,” I tell him. “In fact, we need you to confirm her identity for us. We don’t have any dental records or fingerprints we can use. Though if you can point us to a dentist the girls went to . . .”
Paulsen looks away, his expression pained. “We didn’t have a dentist,” he says. “Did when the girls were little, but when he died, we never found another one.” He winces and adds, “Couldn’t really afford one.”
“Did Liesel have any birthmarks?” I ask.
Paulsen taps a nervous finger on the table, his expression thoughtful. “Sort of,” he says. “She has two small moles on her upper belly, one below each nipple. The doc said they were accessory nipples. We used to tease her about being a changeling.” He smiles at the memory for a few seconds, and then the smile fades and he looks back at me. His eyes hold my gaze, refusing to release me, searching for the truth. In any other situation, or with any other person, the intensity of that gaze would be uncomfortable. But for whatever reason, Mr. Paulsen’s stare doesn’t bother me.
“How?” he asks after several seconds.
I wince, and his eyes flit away from mine for a millisecond. I know he senses that what I’m about to tell him won’t be easy to hear, but the return of that steady, unflinching gaze tells me he wants to . . . needs to hear the truth.
“Severe trauma,” I say as gently as I can. “She was brought into the emergency room, and—”
“Who?” Paulsen asks through clenched teeth, his face a maelstrom of emotion. “Who brought her to the hospital?”
Richmond finally finds his voice. “A man. We don’t know who he is, because he gave a false name and left shortly after dropping her off. But we have some leads and we’re working tirelessly to find out who and where he is.”
Paulsen, his facial muscles twitching and his finger still tapping out a beat on the tabletop, stares at Richmond. Then he drops his gaze and says, “Give me a moment.”
He pushes back his chair and stands. Slowly, methodically, he walks around the table and shuffles down the hallway toward the front door. Richmond and I exchange a questioning look, both of us frozen to the spot for the moment. We hear the steady plod of footsteps climbing the stairs, and then the fall of his feet overhead.
“Should we go after him?” I say. “You don’t think he’d hurt himself, do you?”
Richmond looks back
at me, indecision stamped on his face. We hear the sound of a door closing overhead, then more footsteps. A second later, we hear Paulsen begin his descent on the stairs. In some form of unspoken understanding and agreement, Richmond and I both get up and hurry down the hall to meet him.
Paulsen rounds the newel post and looks at us, a coat draped over his arm. “I just need my car keys,” he says. He shrugs his coat on and then reaches over to a small table by the door, where he grabs a set of keys.
“I’d feel better if you would let us drive you,” Richmond says. “We’ll bring you back home again afterward.”
Paulsen looks at him, considering this. I half expect him to object . . . or perhaps explode suddenly. His quiet, robotic movements are unnerving, like the stillness in the air just before a storm hits. But in the end, all he does is nod and open the front door. He steps aside so we can exit the house ahead of him, and as soon as we are out, he follows, pulling the front door closed behind him, and then using the keys he picked up to lock it. He drops the keys into his coat pocket and falls into step behind us. I can see gloves sticking out of his coat pockets, but he doesn’t put them on. Nor does he bother to button up his coat. It’s freezing outside, but you’d never know it from looking at Paulsen. I suspect he’s numb at this point.
Richmond opens the front passenger door, holding it for Paulsen. Without a word, the man settles inside and goes about putting on his seat belt. Richmond eases the door closed and heads for the driver’s seat, while I climb into the backseat behind Paulsen.
* * *
The first five minutes of our drive go by in a silence heavy with emotion and meaning, like a storm cloud about to burst. Paulsen stares out the side window at the passing scenery, and though what little I can see of his face appears impassive, I sense a churning just below the surface. I can only imagine the thoughts going through his mind and consider letting the silence reign. But after seeing Richmond shoot me an uncomfortable look in the rearview mirror, I decide to try to engage Paulsen. His surface stoicism concerns me; I want to see some level of emotion in that craggy face.
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