Last lullaby

by Alice Walsh

  Lauren was in bed by eleven but was unable to sleep. The phone call from Daniel had unsettled her more than she cared to admit. What could he possibly want to talk with her about?

  No sooner had she fallen asleep when the ringing telephone jolted her awake. Groggily, she switched on the table lamp. Squinting at the clock, she saw it was 1:56 a.m. Her caller ID displayed Andrew’s name and number. Why would he be calling her in the middle of the night? “Hello,” she said sleepily, a touch of annoyance in her voice.

  “This is Constable Taylor with the RCMP.”

  Rebecca? Lauren was too confused to say anything.

  “Could you identify yourself, please?”

  Identify herself? Rebecca had called her. Why was she calling so late and from Andrew’s phone? “It’s Lauren LaVallee,” Lauren said. “Is something wrong?”

  “Lauren. I’m sorry to bother you at this late hour,” Rebecca said, the formality in her voice dissipating. “Apparently, you were the last person to call Dr. Collins’s cellphone.”

  Lauren pulled herself to a sitting position. “Is Andrew okay?”

  There was a moment’s hesitation “I’m afraid not,” Rebecca said. “We have a, um…situation here. Why did you call Dr. Collins this evening?”

  “We were supposed to have dinner, but he didn’t show.”

  “Have you talked with him this evening?”

  “No, I tried to reach him but—”

  “We need to come by and talk with you.”

  “Now?”

  “We will see you shortly.”

  “What—”

  Rebecca had already hung up.

  Twenty minutes later, Lauren watched through parted curtains as a police cruiser pulled into her driveway. Rebecca got out, followed by Kyle Harrison, the officer who had come with her to arrest Claire. She went to the door.

  “Come in,” Lauren said, trying to quell the knot of anxiety that curled in her stomach. Lauren led them into the kitchen, where they sat around the table. Rebecca pulled a notepad from her pocket.

  “What’s going on?” Lauren asked, her voice wobbling with nervousness.

  “Earlier this evening, you called Dr. Collins’s cellphone,” Harrison said. “Do you mind telling us the nature of the call?”

  “As I explained to Reb—Constable Taylor, he…we had a dinner date, and he didn’t show. I called to see if he was okay.”

  “Why did you think he wouldn’t be okay?” Harrison asked.

  “He said he’d be here between seven-thirty and eight. When he didn’t show, I…I assumed there was an emergency at the clinic or at the hospital.”

  “You didn’t speak with him at all this evening?” Rebecca asked.

  “I already told you I couldn’t reach him.” Lauren looked from Rebecca to Harrison. “Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?”

  Harrison ignored her request for information. “Were you and Dr. Collins a couple?” he asked bluntly.

  As much as she resented the question, Lauren knew he was only doing his job. “No,” she replied. “I barely knew him.”

  Harrison cocked an eyebrow. “But you invited him to dinner.”

  “He said he had information I might be interested in.”

  “Information?” The officer looked at her with interest.

  Lauren shrugged. “I assumed it was relevant to a case I’m working on.”

  “The Claire Ste Denis case?” Rebecca asked.

  Lauren folded her arms across her chest. “Did something happen to Andrew?” she demanded, her frustration building toward anger.

  The officers exchanged a quick glance.

  “Earlier this evening, Dr. Collins was taken to the hospital,” Rebecca said.

  Lauren felt a cold sensation spread through her chest. “What happened?”

  Leaning toward her, Rebecca took a deep breath. “He was shot in the head.”

  Chapter 20

  When Claire awoke in the darkness, her first thought was to check on Ariel. Then, like a sharp jab to the heart, she remembered Ariel was dead. Grief crashed down. The ache was unlike anything she’d ever known. It always crept up on her. Nighttime was the worst. She was often startled awake from a fitful sleep filled with nightmares. She had an overwhelming yearning for her baby. Would she ever get used to the fact that Ariel was gone forever?

  It took Claire a moment to realize Bram was not beside her. Glancing at the clock, she saw it was nearly one. Trembling, she got out of bed and started toward the nursery. In this room she felt close to Ariel. She sometimes came here just to sit quietly. Outside the window it was pitch black as if someone had smothered the light. Nights were always darker now, the house more silent.

  After some time, Claire went downstairs. Bram was in the living room staring at the television, the sound barely audible. His eyes were bloodshot, his face stubbly from a two-day-old beard. On the table beside him was a glass of whiskey. Bram had never been a heavy drinker, but since Ariel’s death Claire had noticed the bottles in their well-stocked liquor cabinet rapidly disappearing. She knew how much Bram had loved Ariel. She had witnessed his grief, watched him toss through sleepless nights.

  Claire stood in the hallway for a few moments watching the man she’d been married to for seven years. Was she imagining it, or did he look older? His hair had more grey, and deep lines had set in around his mouth. They’d both been mortally wounded, she realized. Will we survive this, she wondered, or will we become another statistic? Sometimes it seems that this house is too small to hold all of our grief.

  The television was tuned to the CBC. On screen, a picture of Ariel popped up. Bram, who was staring off into space, didn’t seem to notice. Claire strained to listen to the newscaster. “Bombshell today in the baby Ariel case,” she said dramatically. “It’s been learned that the mother, Claire, has a history of psychiatric problems.”

  Claire shook her head. Pundits, psychologists, lawyers, even psychics—all had judged her. Most of the time there was no basis for their claims.

  “We also learned that she has a violent temper,” the newscaster continued. “With us tonight is Megan Dares, a student who claims she had to leave her university studies because of Dr. Ste Denis’s bad temper.”

  Claire blew out a breath. Megan Dares again. Is there anyone that girl won’t talk to? She walked into the living room, picked up the remote, and turned off the television. Only then did Bram notice her. He gave her a sad smile.

  She sat beside him on the sofa. “Bram,” she said, “we need to talk about our baby.”

  Bram regarded her with haunted eyes. “I love Ariel dearly,” he said.

  Present tense. She recalled her grief counsellor’s warning: In order to heal, you must mourn and accept your child’s death. You must learn to say goodbye. Don’t get caught up in what-ifs. Don’t fantasize about how things could have been. In the days following Ariel’s death, Bram had become sullen and unapproachable. Claire understood how he felt. Whenever she looked at her husband, she was reminded of their loss. It had to be the same for Bram.

  “Bram, I need to ask you something.”

  He turned to look at her. “What is it?”

  Claire swallowed before asking the question that had been on her mind since their child died: “Do you blame me for Ariel’s death?”

  Bram hesitated for a beat. His eyes were full of pain and something else—reproach, Claire realized. The look cut her to the core. “No, of course not,” he replied.

  The momentary pause told Claire all she needed to know. “I know I haven’t been the best wife.”

  “You were not available,” Bram said shortly.

  Again, his words, even if he had not meant them to be cruel, cut deeply.

  “I was not well,” Claire said, hating how defensive she sounded.

  Instead of answering, Bram reached for h
is glass. “Would you like a drink?”

  “It’s late. Don’t you have surgery in the morning?”

  Bram shrugged and looked away.

  Claire folded her arms across her chest as if to shield herself from her husband’s callousness. A chilling loneliness filled her. It was like a part of her had been amputated. New wounds opened as the cold truth crept in, carving a hollowness within her. Not only does he blame me for Ariel’s death, but he no longer loves me. It was something she’d believed for a while but could only now admit.

  Taking a deep breath, Claire got up from the sofa. She couldn’t do this anymore. She couldn’t stay in this house another minute. For her own sanity, she had to get away. She went upstairs, found a small bag, and threw in a nightgown, toothbrush, and change of clothes. It was not the first time she’d considered leaving. Things had been falling apart for a long time. Even before Ariel’s death.

  When Claire went back downstairs, Bram was asleep in front of the television. She scribbled a note, telling him she would return tomorrow for the rest of her things.

  —

  Claire drove around for nearly an hour, thinking about her encounter with Bram. Did he really hold her accountable for Ariel’s death? Maybe I’m being paranoid, she told herself. Maybe it’s about the guilt I feel for not protecting my baby. In any case, she needed to get away. She still loved Bram; that hadn’t changed. But she couldn’t live with him if he resented her.

  At 2 a.m., Claire turned onto a side street near the college. Mitch had turned his attic into a bachelor apartment that he rented to students. His last tenant had moved out weeks ago. With any luck the apartment might still be available.

  Except for the light above the door, the house was dark. Maybe I should have called first, she thought as she strode up to the front door and rang the bell. In the stillness, she could hear chimes echoing through the house.

  A few minutes later, a light came on. Through the frosted pane of glass in the door, Claire saw a figure moving down the hallway. The door opened, and Mitch stood in the foyer wearing a red silk robe. “Claire?” he said groggily, squinting though the blackness.

  “I’m sorry to barge in this late,” she said, feeling a surge of guilt for waking him.

  “It’s quite all right, my dear. Are you okay?”

  “Well…not exactly,” she admitted.

  Mitch waved her inside and helped her with her coat. He led her down the hallway to an old-fashioned kitchen. “I’ll make us some hot chocolate.”

  Claire sat at the large wooden table while Mitch poured milk into a saucepan. He got mugs and envelopes of hot-chocolate mix from the cupboard. “Did you hear the sirens earlier?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Claire said. “Not another accident, I hope.” Just a few months ago, a car carrying a load of students had crashed into a truck. One student was killed, two others seriously injured.

  Mitch added the mix to the milk and stirred. He filled two mugs and brought them to the table along with a plate of homemade cookies. “Now tell me,” he said, taking a seat across from Claire, “why are you here at this hour?”

  “I’ve left Bram.”

  Mitch nodded as if he’d known this all along.

  “Since Ariel’s death things have not been right between us.”

  “I can see why that would put a strain on your relationship.” Mitch took a sip of hot chocolate and put down his cup. “Can you work it out? I always thought you and Bram were good for each other.”

  “We’re making ourselves miserable,” Claire said. “Bram has retreated into himself. We’re not much comfort to each other.” She didn’t tell Mitch that she feared Bram no longer loved her.

  “Maybe you both need some time apart.” Mitch reached across the table and covered her hand with his. “I care about you, Claire. You’re the daughter I never had, and I can’t bear seeing you unhappy.”

  “Thank you,” Claire said, already feeling better. “I have to find a place to stay. Is your apartment still available?”

  “A young lady came to look at it yesterday. She said she’d get back to me. If you like, I’ll call her and tell her it’s taken.” Mitch shrugged. “It’s kind of small.”

  “It’s perfect,” Claire said. “Maybe I can move in tonight.”

  “It will take a day or so to get it ready. Stay here tonight.” Mitch got up from the table and put a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll make up the guest room.”

  Chapter 21

  In the faculty lounge the following morning, Lauren found a discarded copy of the Daily News. As she expected, Andrew’s shooting was front-page news. Paddy’s Arm Doctor Shot in Head ran the two-inch headline. With shaking hands, she spread the paper on the table. The details were sketchy, outlining the barest of facts, information she’d already learned from the police: The thirty-five-year-old family physician was found in his office by a cleaning crew. Police believe the shooting was the result of an armed robbery. Any persons with information are asked to call the Paddy’s Arm RCMP detachment.

  Lauren folded the newspaper. Was the shooting random, as the police believed, or was it something more personal? Andrew had information he’d wanted to share with her. She recalled how determined he had been to speak with her at the memorial service.

  “Lauren?”

  “Emma.” Lauren put her hand over her heart. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

  “I didn’t realize you had a class this morning.”

  “I was waiting for you.” Lauren held up the paper. “Have you read this?”

  Emma squinted at the headlines, her eyes widening in surprise.

  A couple of students came into the staff room, talking and laughing. “Let’s go to my office,” Emma whispered, “so we can talk in private.”

  They walked in silence down the hallway. Emma took off her coat and hung it on the rack in the outer office. She unlocked the door, flicked on the lights.

  Lauren sat across from Emma in a chair reserved for visitors. “My God, girl. What happened?” Emma asked. “Didn’t you and Andrew have a dinner date last evening?”

  “That was the plan.” Lauren explained about the late-night visit from the RCMP. “They informed me that someone had shot Andrew.”

  Emma stared at her. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “The police believe it was an armed robbery. A glass cabinet in Andrew’s office had been broken into. They assume it was someone looking for drugs.”

  “Is Andrew going to be okay?”

  “I’m not sure,” Lauren answered. “His condition is critical. I called the hospital and left a message for Gina.” Andrew’s older sister taught design at the college and Lauren had met her a handful of times.

  “My God….”

  “I guess he was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Lauren said.

  Emma leaned back in her chair. “Lauren, you should go home and get some rest. You look like something the cat dragged in, sure.”

  “I couldn’t get back to sleep after the Mounties left.”

  “No wonder, after what happened.”

  “That wasn’t the only reason.” Lauren took a deep breath. “Daniel called last night from New Wexford. He wants to see me before he returns to Quebec.”

  Emma looked shocked. “And you agreed?”

  Lauren folded her arms. “I’m meeting him this afternoon. I want him to know that our relationship is over.”

  “What about Bailey?”

  “There’s no reason he has to know about Bailey.”

  Emma eyed her skeptically. “You’re not afraid the good father will lead you once again into temptation?”

  “We’re meeting for coffee,” Lauren said with a hint of annoyance. But deep down she knew Emma was right.

  On the drive back to Beck Hayes, Lauren chided herself for being so foolish. Why on earth would she allow Daniel
to come back into her life again? She needed to move on, she told herself. How could she do that with Daniel around?

  —

  Back at the firm, Lauren found a message on her voice mail from Andrew’s sister: “Lauren, Gina here. Just wanted to let you know that Andrew is in a medically induced coma. It’s to help decrease the swelling on his brain.” Her voice faltered. “They want to prevent any brain damage from occurring. His condition is still critical…but we are all trying to stay positive. Thanks for your concern, Lauren. I’ll keep you updated.”

  This sounds serious, Lauren thought. She sat down at her desk, exhaustion enveloping her like a net. The events of the past twelve hours were taking a toll. She looked at her calendar. Her eleven o’clock client had cancelled. Since she didn’t have to be in court until one, she decided to go home and grab a nap. She was relishing the thought of snuggling under her down comforter when the receptionist approached her. “I got a call from Josephine Shaw,” she said. “Her son was taken into custody this morning. She asked if you could meet her at the police station.”

  Lauren groaned inwardly. “Tell her I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Which one of Josephine’s boys is in trouble now? she wondered as she reached for her coat. Justin, most likely. Poor Josephine. A single mom with five sons, three of them teenagers. And trouble seemed to follow sixteen-year-old Justin wherever he went.

  Despite the traffic, it took only a few minutes for Lauren to arrive at the police station. She was walking up the concrete steps to the front entrance when she spotted Josephine through the glass doors. A short, heavyset woman with spiked white-blond hair, she gripped the handles of a stroller that held her youngest boy, Noah.

  “Thank God you came,” she said, grabbing Lauren’s arm.

  Lauren studied Josephine’s anxious face. “What’s wrong?”

  “They’ve arrested Patrick.”

  “Patrick? What happened?” Of all the brothers, mild-mannered Patrick was the one Lauren least expected to be in trouble. She had gotten to know and like him in the months since he started his internship at Kiddy Academy.