Last lullaby

by Alice Walsh

  Mitch closed his eyes momentarily, opened them, and looked at Erika. “You remind me of her, you know.”

  Erika leaned toward him. “I remind you of Professor Ste Denis?”

  Mitch nodded. “She’s an excellent actress.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen her perform,” Erika said, recalling the time Claire played Marsha in The Three Sisters.

  Mitch locked his hazel eyes on her. “You’re the only student in all the years I’ve been teaching who has shown as much promise.”

  She smiled. “I appreciate you saying that.”

  “It’s true. I value your talent and dedication. Such gifts are rare.” Mitch checked his watch and pushed aside his cup. “Well, I should go. I have a lot of work to do.”

  “And I have that paper to finish.” Erika stood up and buttoned her jacket.

  They walked to the front of the café together. Just as they reached the door, Erika nearly collided with Frances Turple, who was stepping away from the counter with two takeout coffees.

  “Dr. Turple?” Erika said.

  Frances gave a curt nod. “Hello, Erika. Mitch.”

  Mitch held the door open, gesturing for the women to go ahead.

  “How are Dr. Chandler and the baby?” Erika asked as they walked outside.

  “Fine. Fine. Thank you.” Frances made her way toward a red SUV parked near the curb. Annabelle was in the driver’s seat. She rolled down the window, and Frances handed her the coffee.

  “Is Dinah Marie with you?” Erika asked, following. Before Frances or Annabelle had a chance to answer, she cupped her face with both hands and peered through the window. The baby was in an infant seat, blankets tucked around her face. Erika glanced quickly at Frances. “I haven’t had a chance to meet her.”

  “Me either,” said Mitch, now standing behind Erika.

  “She’s sleeping,” Annabelle said quickly.

  “She has a bad cold,” Frances said, reaching for the door handle.

  Annabelle nodded. “She’s been to the doctor.”

  “You should bring her by the department,” Mitch said. “We’d all love to meet her.”

  “Yes,” Frances said. “We’ve been meaning to do that.” She climbed into the vehicle and closed the door, then gave a curt wave as Annabelle rolled up the window.

  “They could’ve let us see her,” Erika said as the SUV pulled away. “It’s not like we can contaminate her from a distance.”

  Mitch chuckled. “Overprotective parents.”

  Erika nodded. “Yes, I suppose.” She touched Mitch’s elbow. “Thanks for the tea, Professor Cromwell, and for all your encouraging words. I’ll see you at rehearsals this evening.”

  —

  Mitch watched Erika walk away. Such a talented young woman, he thought. Who would have guessed she harboured so much pain? Carried so many secrets? Well, she wasn’t the only one, he reminded himself. What would happen if people in this town found out what he had been hiding? Erika’s secrets are nothing compared to mine, he thought as he walked toward campus.

  Back at his office, Mitch logged onto his computer and went to ratemyprofessor.com. Why am I obsessed with this? he asked himself. He cast a guilty look at a pile of ungraded term papers on his desk. I have so many other pressing things. But he couldn’t help himself and constantly checked the site for new comments­—not only to check his own postings but also those of his colleagues. The site allowed students to rate professors on helpfulness, clarity, and difficulty. Mitch’s overall rating was 3.5 out of a possible 5. There were three new ratings since he’d last checked. He scanned them eagerly. Not a terrible prof, someone had posted, but I wouldn’t take his class again. The other two comments were not as kind. This guy has no sense of humour, but he is British, after all. Another had posted: God love him. He has a face like a garden gnome, and he’s as crazy as a bag of farts. Mitch felt a wave of anger. What the hell did any of that have to do with his teaching ability? Cyber bullying is what it was. And the cowards didn’t have the decency to identify themselves. No doubt Jonathan Parsons had posted that last comment. Little bastard was probably pissed because he got a C last term. Well, this term he’d get an F, along with a letter from the dean.

  To reassure himself, Mitch scrolled through previous comments. A number of them were positive: Professor Cromwell made me see my potential. He is an amazing prof with a big heart. Dr. Cromwell is very helpful. He cares about his students, and he made me believe in myself. Despite the encouraging posts, Mitch bristled at the negative. A few days ago, someone had posted: He is stark raving mad, and belongs in the mental. I’m sure he buys his clothes at Frenchy’s or the Sally Ann.

  Mitch pressed his lips together. Julie Langer or Kate Simpson, he guessed. Maybe they were both in on it. Thick as thieves, those two. Just last week, they’d come up to him in the student union building. “Professor Cromwell,” Julie had said, “such a lovely jacket. Where did you get it?” He’d noted the amused look on their faces. He knew they mocked him behind his back.

  Mitch checked Claire Ste Denis’s ratings. Her overall score was 4.5, and most of the comments posted about her were positive: Dr. Ste Denis supports and encourages her students. She is a great prof, nurturing and positive. Another post: She is definitely the best prof I ever had. The only negative comments had to do with Claire’s marking. If you want an A, don’t take Dr. Ste Denis’s course. She’s a hard marker and expects too much.

  Next, Mitch typed Annabelle Chandler’s name. She had a 4.2 average and, like Claire, most of the comments were positive: Professor Chandler is always so helpful. I just love her. This professor is a sweetheart. So kind and caring. A recent comment, however, was unsettling: I had to drop out of Dr. Chandler’s class. What she did is unforgivable. She is not as sweet as she appears to be. I urge students to be very cautious of this professor.

  Mitch reread the post. No hint of what Annabelle had done wrong. Strange, he thought. Usually, if there was a complaint against a professor in the department, it came to his attention. What had Annabelle done to cause a student to drop out of her class?

  Chapter 14

  “More coffee, sir?”

  “Thank you.” Daniel held out his cup to a waitress in a pale blue uniform. For the past half hour he’d been sitting in the hotel restaurant just outside New Wexford waiting for his friend Paul Dionne. Daniel looked anxiously at his watch. Paul should have been here by now. He gazed out the large window overlooking the ocean. The day was grey and overcast, the waves choppy with a smattering of whitecaps. Fishing boats and sailboats bobbed at their moorings.

  Daniel had always assumed that Lauren left Quebec because of the scandal she was involved in at the time. It had hit her really hard, and nearly destroyed her. But it never dawned on him that she might have been pregnant.

  He had wrestled with the decision to tell Paul about Bailey. Not too many priests—or people, for that matter—were as caring or as non-judgmental as Paul. He had cornered Daniel at the reception last evening. “What’s wrong, my friend?” he asked. “You’ve been preoccupied since you arrived. Something is bothering you, I can tell.”

  At first, Daniel denied there was a problem.

  “If you need to talk, you know where to find me,” Paul assured him.

  Daniel traced a finger along the rim of his cup. He’d been preoccupied, all right. All he could think about was the little girl with the red corkscrew curls. Last night, he’d lain awake for hours recalling Bailey’s elfin face, the bright blue eyes that were so much like his own. He should have confronted Lauren before he’d left Paddy’s Arm. Should have demanded to know why the hell she’d kept the child from him. He had been standing at the one-way mirror when Lauren burst into the room. There had been a man with her. An attractive man, Daniel thought. He had wavy dark hair and the build of someone who spent all his free time at the gym. They were laughing and playful. Never had Daniel see
n Lauren so carefree. Bailey ran to her, and Lauren scooped her up in her arms. The man had a child too, a boy about Bailey’s age. Daniel watched as they gathered jackets, hats, toys, and lunch boxes. To approach Lauren would be awkward at any time, but he couldn’t do it while she was with a friend. She could be living with this man. He’d gone back to the inn, packed his clothes, and driven non-stop to New Wexford. But that’s not going to be the end of it, he vowed. He would stop at Paddy’s Arm on his way home. Bailey was his child too, and he had a right to see her.

  “Daniel?”

  Father Paul spoke with a heavy accent and pronounced Daniel’s name Danielle. He was smiling down at him, a giant of a man with a ruddy complexion and mop of grey curls. He wore running shoes and a navy blue jogging outfit.

  “Hi, Paul,” Daniel said, relieved to see him. “Have a seat.”

  “Sorry to be late,” Paul said, sliding into a chair across from him. “Hope I did not keep you waiting.”

  “It’s okay.”

  No sooner was Paul seated than a waitress returned with the coffee carafe. “Ready to order?” she asked, filling his cup.

  Paul picked up a glossy menu and gave it a quick glance. “I will have some toast—whole wheat.”

  “And you, sir?”

  “I’m fine,” Daniel told her.

  “Did you ’ave a good time at the reception?” Paul asked after the waitress left.

  “It was wonderful seeing so many old friends. Still, it was bittersweet.”

  “That’s so true, mon ami.” Paul said. “Poor Phillip.”

  For the next few minutes they chatted about the reception, their parishes, friends they hadn’t seen in years.

  The waitress brought Paul’s order and refilled Daniel’s cup. Paul reached for the jam and busied himself with his toast. He added cream to his coffee and stirred. “So,” he said, giving Daniel a level look. “What is on your mind?”

  A lump filled Daniel’s throat, making it difficult to talk. “You know…I was seeing a woman some years ago,” he began.

  “Lauren?”

  “Yes, Lauren,” Daniel said, surprised Paul remembered her name. He swallowed. “She’s living in Paddy’s Arm now. She’s a lawyer, involved in a high-profile case, and I…I saw her on the news. On the way here, I decided to drop by and see her.”

  Paul took a bite of toast, nodded for him to continue.

  “I didn’t get to see her…well, I did see her, but I didn’t actually talk with her.” Nervously, Daniel twisted his linen napkin. “But that’s not the point…you see, I…” He realized he was rambling, probably not making much sense. “Lauren has a child,” he said, taking the plunge. “My child.”

  Paul looked at him, a curious expression on his face. “Are you sure the child is yours? You said you did not actually speak to Lauren.”

  “Oh, she’s mine all right,” Daniel said, relieved to be able to talk about it. He explained about going to Lauren’s office, visiting Bailey’s school. “Paul, there’s no doubt she’s my child. She has my eyes, my face. Her hair is red and curly just like my sister, Maddie’s. And she’s beautiful.” Daniel became aware of the pride in his voice. “I have a beautiful little daughter.”

  Chapter 15

  Lauren threw the newspaper onto the kitchen table. “I’m sorry you have to deal with this, Claire,” she said, pursing her lips in disgust. In his scathing article, Stephen Coleman had completely undermined Claire’s competence as a parent. He had also revealed very private, personal information about her.

  “I have no control over the media,” Claire said. “Ever since I was charged they’ve been harassing me. It’s gotten worse since I got out of jail. I don’t know why they find this case so intriguing.”

  “I know,” Lauren said. Reporters were digging up everything they could on Claire’s early life. Old photographs of her were on the front pages of newspapers, and on the nightly news. Everyone had something to say about the case. Psychologists and psychiatrists who had never met Claire freely offered their opinions about her mental state. They diagnosed her as having an attachment disorder, abandonment issues, and various other problems. Some of her students and former babysitters had also given interviews.

  “I have no idea where Coleman dug up the story of my adoption.” Claire folded her hands on the table. “I have to admit, he did a good job of making me look like an unfit mother. It doesn’t matter if things he said about me aren’t true, it still looks bad in print.”

  “Unfortunately, most people believe whatever they read in the newspaper or see on television,” Lauren said.

  “Did you see the Daily News? The interview they did with Megan Dares?”

  Lauren nodded grimly. Megan was a former student of Claire’s who had been asked to leave the program because of her failing grades. However, she told a journalist that she’d quit because of Claire’s violent temper. “I was scared to death of her,” Megan claimed. “I didn’t know what she would do from one day to the next.”

  “I just hope Megan’s not called to testify in court.”

  “The truth always comes out,” Lauren said. Still, she couldn’t help but worry the prosecutor would make Claire’s past an issue.

  “My parents sent me to a psychologist at an early age,” Claire said. “I don’t know if they were afraid the abuse had damaged me, or if they thought I carried the same evil in my DNA as my biological mother.”

  “Your friends and family know who you are, Claire. We know you’re not capable of harming anyone.”

  “I appreciate your loyalty,” Claire said. “And I appreciate how hard you worked to get me out of jail in time for Ariel’s memorial service. My parents are arriving this week. All of this has been very difficult for them.” Claire bit her lip. “They wanted to stay here to support me, but I urged them to go home. Dad has a heart condition; he had an appointment scheduled with a specialist. I didn’t think he should miss it…they’re both getting up in age.”

  “I’m just sorry it took so long to get you out of that place. It must have been hell in there.”

  “It’s hell no matter where I am.” Claire’s beautiful eyes, which once held so much vivacity, were now clouded with so much sorrow that Lauren found it difficult to look at her. Claire absently picked at her fingernails. “I have dreams where I’m searching for Ariel. Last night I dreamed I left her at the mall. I went back and searched every store, but couldn’t find her anywhere.” She levelled her gaze at Lauren. “And then I wake up to find that reality is worse than the dream.” She shook her head. “There’s no waking up from this.”

  Lauren struggled for words to lessen Claire’s sorrow, but nothing came.

  Claire forced a thin smile. “Enough about my problems. You said you had something to tell me.”

  “Yes,” Lauren said, relieved to change the subject. “As you know, Emma and I have been investigating. We’re hoping to find something the police might have overlooked. A couple of weeks ago, we went to see your neighbour Flo Spencer. She told us about a lady who came to your door the day Ariel died.”

  “A lady?”

  Lauren nodded. “Mrs. Spencer says she was a platinum blonde, about six feet tall, wearing a red coat with fur on the collar. Do you know anyone fitting that description?”

  Claire stared at Lauren, somewhat taken aback. “It’s not unusual for strangers to come to the door,” she said. “They come around trying to sell subscriptions, restaurant vouchers, long-distance bundles. And we get religious groups dropping by.”

  “None of your neighbours met this woman. If she was trying to sell something, I’m sure she would have stopped at other houses.”

  Claire shrugged.

  “We’ll continue to search for her,” Lauren promised.

  Claire rubbed her chin. “Mitch told me Frances and Annabelle adopted a baby.”

  Lauren nodded. “A little girl
. I’m so happy for them. They had their hearts set on adoption. I haven’t seen the baby, I don’t think anyone has, actually—they’re very protective.”

  “Annabelle and Frances were patients of Anya’s. But Bram said that after the baby came they switched doctors, had their medical records transferred to the clinic in Jackson’s Harbour.”

  “More than an hour’s drive now that Annabelle and Frances have moved to Deep River,” Lauren said. “Why would they stop seeing Dr. Kaminsky? From what I hear, she’s an excellent physician.”

  Claire gave a derisive snort. “That’s stretching it.”

  Lauren glanced up at her.

  “Maybe I’m being unfair,” Claire admitted, “but I really resent Anya for prescribing me so many drugs. Had I not been so drugged the day…that day…well, things might have been different.”

  “I’m sure Anya had your best interests at heart, Claire.” She looked skeptical. Lauren tried another track. “How does Bram feel about it?”

  “In hindsight, he feels the prescribing might have been excessive. But she said it’s not unusual to prescribe large doses for patients with PPD.” Claire shook her head. “Anyway, that’s beside the point. If Frances and Annabelle didn’t like Anya, there are other good doctors in the area. No need for them to go so far away.”

  “True,” Lauren agreed.

  Claire glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. “I wonder what’s keeping Bram.”

  “You never know with doctors,” Lauren said. “He could have been called out on an emergency.”

  “Yes, I suppose,” Claire said, not sounding entirely convinced. “Bram’s been staying away from home more and more these days.”

  Lauren wasn’t sure how to respond to this news.

  “He’s such a private person,” Claire continued. “He doesn’t show emotion, and it’s difficult to know what he’s feeling. His childhood experience has had a profound effect on him. He doesn’t trust readily.”

  Lauren nodded. “For sure, it hasn’t been easy for him.” Bram’s parents and two sisters had been killed in a car accident when he was ten. Bram, the only survivor, had spent a year in a rehabilitation centre recovering from his injuries. Relatives had taken him in, only to squander his inheritance and educational fund. With no family, Bram had moved out on his own when he was just sixteen.