“I don’t know,” Michelle tells him, torn between relief that one son is safe and fear that the other is in trouble. She reaches up to find Lou’s hand and squeezes it.
“Well, what does the test show?” Lou asks, looking from her to the technician.
“The doctor will discuss the results with you upstairs.”
“Can’t you just tell us what you see?”
“I’m afraid I can’t,” the woman says, not unkindly, but in a tone that suggests she’d rather they didn’t pursue the matter.
Michelle knows that it’s her job, that she must have done hundreds, thousands, of these exams, and that it’s against the rules for her to reveal the results and she’s not going to start now. Still, she finds herself suddenly filled with loathing for the ultrasound technician, with her perfect pageboy and her flawless makeup and her slender build and her manicured, polished nails tapping on the keyboard.
“Please lie back,” she tells Michelle again, this time more firmly than before.
I hate you, Michelle thinks irrationally in response.
But she lowers her head and shoulders onto the table again.
As the transducer moves once more over her belly, Lou squeezes her hand and his eyes meet hers.
He offers what Michelle knows is supposed to be a reassuring smile and comes across as anything but.
Michelle squeezes her eyes shut.
CHAPTER TEN
“Do This Little Piggy, Molly!” Ozzie commands, waving his bare toes in her face as she bends past him to turn off the water pouring into the tub.
“Not tonight, Ozzie.”
“Pwease, Molly?”
“Not tonight.”
She wearily braces herself for a tantrum, but, surprisingly, he cooperates as she lifts his naked, chubby little body into the bath and hands him his Sesame Street tugboat.
“Good boy, Ozzie,” she says, patting his head, then reaching for the washcloth.
Good girl, Molly!
Carleen’s voice unexpectedly echoes back through the years.
“You didn’t even cry when that shampoo got into your eyes. You’re so brave! Now turn around so I can finish washing your legs and feet.”
Carleen used to give her baths. She used to do This Little Piggy, and read stories to her, and take her to the playground at Point Cedar Park down the street . . .
The playground?
A thought rushes into Molly’s head, then flits right out again before she can grasp it.
There’s something about being at the playground with Carleen.
Something she should be aware of.
She closes her eyes, probing her distant memory, but whatever it is that she should remember is as elusive as a fleck of shell in a pool of slippery egg white.
Frustrated, she begins to dunk the washcloth into the water and wet Ozzie’s hair.
Carleen used to use a cup to wet mine, she remembers suddenly. You have so much hair, Molly . . . it takes forever to get it all wet.
Her hair is thick and curly, like Rory’s. But it’s dark, like Carleen’s.
Well, she was my mother.
My mother.
My mommy, giving her baby a bath.
Ozzie blinks and rubs his eyes as she grows careless with the washcloth and water splashes into his face.
“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie,” Molly says. “Are you all right?”
“Yup. Water in Molly’s eyes, too,” Ozzie observes, pointing.
“Right. That’s just water.”
She wipes at the tears spilling over, wondering if there’s ever going to be another day in her life that she won’t spend fighting off sobs.
Ozzie goes on playing with his boat, undaunted.
Did she love me? she wonders, pouring a dollop of orangey-pink baby shampoo into the palm of her hand. Is that why she spent time with me? Why she would do This Little Piggy as many times as I asked?
Of course she didn’t love you.
She didn’t even want you.
That’s what Rory said, anyway.
Well, what does Rory know?
She was always jealous of Carleen.
That’s what Kevin had told Molly. He’d said they were always fighting—that, Molly remembers—and Daddy would tell them to stop. Rory would tattle on Carleen, and Carleen would call her a little brat, and Daddy would say they were sisters and sisters should love each other. He even gave them those heart-shaped lockets that time.
Rory still wears hers. Molly glimpsed it inside the collar of the button-down shirt she’d been wearing the first day she arrived. She wouldn’t have known the significance of the lockets Daddy had given Rory and Carleen; Kevin is the one who explained it to her years later. He said that in Rory’s locket, Daddy had put a tiny picture of Carleen, and in Carleen’s locket, a tiny picture of Rory.
“Never take them off,” he’d ordered. “They will remind you that you’re sisters, a part of each other forever. Someday, you’ll be best friends. You’re lucky to have each other.”
Molly knew Daddy was an only child, that he always wished for a sibling. That was why it bothered him so much when Carleen and Rory argued so bitterly.
Kevin told Molly he was pretty sure Rory had worn her locket, but he wasn’t sure about Carleen. “Probably not,” he had said. “She was the one who was always starting most of their fights. I really don’t think she could stand Rory. She thought she was a spoiled brat. She used to do really mean things to her. But I guess that’s what big sisters do. Rory wasn’t always so great with me, either.”
Molly doesn’t remember Carleen being mean. At least, not to her. When she was with Molly, as long as nobody else was around, she was always gentle and patient.
Not like a big sister at all.
And that’s because she wasn’t. She was my mother.
Molly scrubs Ozzie’s hair into a foamy white cap as he splashes with his boat.
She thinks about how Rory acted when she was here this afternoon. She was gentle. And patient. When she came back downstairs after a long time, which must have meant she searched thoroughly, she told Molly, “There’s no one there. You were right. It must have been your imagination.”
Relieved, Molly had thanked Rory, then impulsively asked her if she wanted to stay for a while, maybe have some ice cream.
To her surprise, Rory said yes.
As they sat eating ice cream with a sticky Ozzie, they talked. Not about Rebecca, or Mom, or the secret Rory had inadvertently revealed to Molly.
Just about . . .
Stuff. The kinds of things Molly and Kevin talk about. Wondering whether ice cream tastes better with hot fudge or plain old chocolate syrup, discussing the “new evidence” that Princess Di’s death was a conspiracy, and speculating about what was going to happen when Friends resumes in September.
Mundane, everyday stuff that Molly desperately needs to focus on after the traumas of the past two days. Molly had realized, as she and Rory talked, how much she misses Kevin, and how nice it would be if Rory were always around.
Then she reminded herself that she doesn’t want that. No, she hasn’t forgiven Rory for telling her about Carleen being her mother, and she certainly hasn’t forgiven her for leaving years ago and never bothering to look back.
You don’t forgive a person for something like that. Ever.
She hears a car door slam someplace out the open window. Are Michelle and Lou home? They’d called from the hospital a while ago to say that the ultrasound results appeared to be okay, but the doctor wanted to keep Michelle a few more hours for observation.
“Just a second, Ozzie,” Molly says, standing and peeking out the window.
There’s no sign of the Randalls’ Ford Explorer. Their driveway is empty. But, Molly sees, Kevin’s red Honda is backing out carefully past Sister Theodosi
a’s car next door.
Rory had mentioned she was going out for coffee later, with a friend.
What friend? Molly had wanted to ask, curious, but she didn’t, because by then she was back to sulking about Rory’s abandoning the family.
Now she thinks about the handsome guy who had been talking to Rory out in front of Rebecca’s house, and who had later shown up at their house. Is he the friend Rory is meeting tonight?
Who the heck is he, and why did Molly think she knew his voice for a moment there?
He must be an old friend of Rory’s, from high school or something, she decides. That would explain why he seemed familiar.
She turns back to Ozzie in the tub. “Come on, kiddo,” she says, crouching and picking up the washcloth again. “Let’s clean your hands. There’s dirt under your fingernails.”
“Dirt,” Ozzie agrees. “Dig again later?”
“No, not tonight,” Molly tells him, quickly adding, “Maybe tomorrow, though. But I won’t be here to help with the buried treasure. Your mommy will be here with you.”
She’ll have to remember to tell Michelle about that old bike tire buried in the yard, she thinks, scrubbing Ozzie’s hands.
“Rough day, huh?”
Rory glances up at Barrett Maitland, watching her from across the small round table. “Why do you ask?”
“You just sighed. And you look exhausted.”
“I am exhausted.” She realizes her thoughts must have drifted from their conversation, which hadn’t been about much of anything—just pleasant small talk, really.
“How’s your sister handling this thing with her friend?”
“You mean Rebecca’s disappearance?”
He nods.
“Molly’s pretty shaken up by it, but she’s a tough kid. She’s baby-sitting for the people next door. I should call over there in a little while and make sure she’s okay,” she adds, checking her watch. It’s past eight-thirty.
Outside, shadows are beginning to lengthen on the street as dusk sets in once again. Rory wonders if Molly’s okay in that big old house now that night is falling. While she and Rory were eating ice cream and chattering at the table, she seemed to have forgotten all about the footsteps she’d thought she heard. But then her mood had suddenly shifted again, and she withdrew, and there was no trace of the sisterly camaraderie they’d shared for the first time.
“I hope Rebecca turns up alive,” Barrett says.
“Do you think she will?” Rory looks up from her espresso to see a solemn expression in his dark eyes.
“I don’t know.” He fiddles with a wooden coffee stirrer, using the tip to trace a drop of moisture along the edge of the table.
“Do you think this is connected to what happened in Lake Charlotte ten years ago?”
His gaze shifts up to meet hers. “Do you?”
She shrugs. “All I know is that I don’t want my kid sister to lose her best friend. Like I did,” she adds, suddenly wanting to tell him—tell anyone, really—about Emily.
I need closure, she thinks, just as she did back in the hallway of the old Anghardt house. If Barrett Maitland’s book can somehow solve the mystery of what happened a decade ago, then maybe she should help him with his research.
It might be painful to talk about Carleen and Emily, but is it any less painful to live with not knowing?
“Emily Anghardt,” he says, watching her intently.
She nods. “She was my best friend. You knew that,” she realizes.
“Mrs. Shilling told me the two of you were inseparable. Do you . . . want to talk about her?”
“Sure . . . about Mrs. Shilling?” she asks, and grins at the look of dismay that flashes over his face. “I’m just kidding,” she says. “I’ll talk about Emily. If I have to. If it’ll help you with your book.”
“Carleen, too?” he asks cautiously.
She hesitates, then nods. “But not right now. Okay? Not yet. I can talk about Emily. Not . . . Carleen.”
“Why did you suddenly change your mind about helping me?”
“Because of what you said about the book maybe bringing some new detail to light—something that will help to solve the mystery. I just want to know what happened,” she says, her voice raw with emotion.
“I understand.”
There’s a pause.
She looks up at him. “So, do you want to . . . I mean, do you need to ask me questions and take notes or something?”
“Why don’t we just talk about Emily? If there’s anything I need to write down, I will later.”
She nods. “What do you want to know about her?”
“When did you meet her?”
“The day she moved in. I remember seeing the moving van pull up, and then I noticed her sitting on the front steps. She had her chin on her hands, you know, looking kind of sad and so alone—”
“The lonely new kid on the block.”
“Exactly. A total cliché. I went right over and introduced myself to her.”
He smiles. “So you weren’t the shy type even then.”
She feels her face grow warm under his gaze “No, I was never shy.”
“Were you instant friends?”
“Pretty much. I helped her unpack the stuff for her room. She had this big stuffed animal collection. And she loved books. She had so many books. And trinkets and things like that—she was a pack rat. And she loved jewelry.”
“So it makes sense,” he murmurs thoughtfully.
“What does?”
He looks her in the eye. “Did you know that Emily once tried to shoplift a ring from Chance’s Department Store on Main Street?”
She blinks. “What are you talking about?”
“Mr. Chance didn’t press charges. She was only twelve at the time. Her records were sealed.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Mrs. Shilling told me.”
“How does she know?”
“Apparently her son was a Lake Charlotte cop.”
“Bucky Shilling?” She remembers him, a beefy guy with a wicked overbite. “Is he still around here? Did you talk to him?”
“No, he moved away. But apparently, back when he was on the force, he knew about your friend being arrested, and he didn’t keep it to himself.”
“God . . . I can’t believe it,” Rory says, shaking her head. “Emily shoplifting. That just doesn’t go with my memory of her. If you had said Carleen did something like that, I would believe it. But Emily . . . she wasn’t the rebellious type.”
“Maybe you didn’t know her as well as you thought.”
“I guess not. But when you’re a girl that age—twelve, thirteen—you tell your friends pretty much everything. I can’t believe she never told me. You said it was a ring?”
He nods. “And when you said she loved jewelry, I figured that was why she took it. I know her father didn’t have much money.”
“No, he didn’t. That was part of the reason she made such a big deal every time he gave her something.” Rory pauses. “On the other hand, I wonder if it was her father giving her those things at all. Maybe she was shoplifting them for herself. Maybe she lied to me.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Who knows?”
Oh, Emily, she thinks. Were you trying to convince me that your father loved you? Or were you trying to convince yourself?
“What was he like?”
“Her father? You know . . . removed. He wasn’t around that much, and when he was, he was sleeping. He worked nights. I hardly ever saw him.”
“What about her brother?”
“What brother?” She takes a sip of her espresso, sets the cup down, tells him, “Emily didn’t have a brother.”
Barrett frowns. “Yes, she did.”
“No, she did
n’t. I’m sure about that, at least. It was just her and her father.”
“She never mentioned a brother?”
“Nope. You must be thinking of somebody else.”
“No. I’m positive about this . . . So you never knew?”
“What are you talking about?” Her heart is starting to pound.
“Emily did have a brother, Rory. I was looking into their family’s past as part of the research for my book and I came across her mother’s obituary. It listed a twin son and daughter as surviving children. He was Emily’s twin. His name was David.”
“There’s no way. How could I not have known about something like that? She was my best friend. I was in her house all the time. Believe me, there was no twin brother there!”
“That’s because he didn’t live there,” Barrett says with maddening certainty. “David was mentally retarded, Rory. I did some checking and I found out that when Emily and her father moved to Lake Charlotte, he was placed in St. Malachy’s home for special-needs children and adults, down in Poughkeepsie. He’s still there.”
“All right, Michelle, I’m going to release you,” Dr. Kabir says, looking up from his clipboard with a smile. “Everything looks good.”
“What about the baby being breech?” she asks, wondering, as she has repeatedly in the past few hours, how she could not have noticed that obvious detail when the ultrasound was being performed. She had just been so distracted—and of course the woman doing the test hadn’t said anything about it.
“The breech position is something we need to keep checking, but at this point, there is still the possibility that he’ll turn again before you deliver. That’s been known to happen, although it isn’t necessarily common in the last few weeks of a pregnancy. If he remains breech, we’ll talk about your options.”
“But his position has nothing to do with the cramps I was having?”
Dr. Kabir shakes his head. “As far as I can tell, those were just some very strong Braxton-Hicks contractions, Michelle—maybe compounded by the tension in your body. Your cervix hasn’t begun to dilate yet.”
She nods and glances at Lou, who has risen from his seat by the bed and looks anxious to get out of here.
All the Way Home Page 19
