by Jackie Walsh
At first Mom didn’t know what was going on, but that quickly changed. When Danny wheeled her out to Dad’s car, and she saw her case put into the trunk, her hands started shaking. She gripped the side of the chair and tried to stand. She wanted to go back inside to her own home but she hadn’t the strength. The fear I saw in her eyes that day will haunt me forever. She cried, sobbed, screamed. And we still put her in the car.
The care home had left instructions that only one of us should go along with Dad, so Danny went. We decided he’d be stronger for Dad when it came to leaving Mom behind. I would have cracked up.
Watching the car drive away down the street, knowing in my head that Mom would never be coming home, destroyed me. It was a whole new kind of pain. The kind only a daughter could have for her mother.
When the car turned out of sight I went back into the house. Everything looked different, empty, pointless. Even the clock on the wall didn’t chime that day. Though I think it might have been broken.
That was two years ago. It feels like only yesterday, and forever, at the same time.
Chapter Eight
Back downstairs I nearly fall over the big box again so I push it over beside the wall. Dad could easily trip over it. His concentration seems to drift with the breeze these days. I look out the window in the hope that the coast is clear but Bert is in his yard, leaning against the gate, looking this way. My God, he must have a sixth sense. I know he’s waiting for me but he can’t see my car from over there. Go back inside Bert. I’m in a hurry. Except for my Dad, who can come and go as he pleases, visiting hours at Oakridge are pretty strict. The rest of us are expected to stick with the program. So I’ll have to leave now if I’m going to get there in time.
I check the time on my phone. No calls. Not from Detective Turner and not from Stephen Black. Maybe Turner is satisfied with my message, and I won’t hear from her again. I doubt it, though. Something is tapping at my psyche, warning me, this is only the beginning.
Eventually Bert goes inside and I make my escape through the side gate. It’s not too far a drive from Dad’s to Oakridge. Mom won’t be expecting me today.
Then again, is she ever?
* * *
The lobby is peaceful. Time moves at a slower pace here. Chopin, or one of those guys, plays softly from the two small speakers hanging from either corner of the papered wall. Below my feet, thick carpet offers more comfort. It’s all about the comfort, the peace, the illusion. I make my way to the reception desk to sign the visitor’s book.
‘Rebecca Wall?’ the woman behind the desk says, looking up at me through red framed glasses. She smiles and stands up.
‘Yes?’
‘Would you mind waiting here for a minute? Doctor Reilly left a message here, she wants to speak with you whenever you come in.’
Lifting the phone, she pushes a button and tells whoever is on the other end that I am here.
‘What’s this about?’ I say.
‘She’ll be along in a… Oh, here she is now.’
Dr. Reilly is young. She wears Van sneakers, tight jeans and a hairstyle that wouldn’t be out of place at the Oscars. Pulled back off her face, the hair sits in ringlets on top of her head, a diamond brooch holding it all in place. Without thinking, I run my hands through my own hair, pushing it back behind my ears. I’m pretty sure I didn’t even run a brush through it this morning.
‘Rebecca Wall?’ she says. ‘I’m Dr. Josie Reilly.’
She holds out her hand. I shake it, wondering what she might want. She doesn’t look familiar. Maybe she’s a new member of Mom’s medical team.
‘Can I have a quick word in my office? I know you’re eager to see your mother, so I won’t keep you long.’
‘I’m not about to discuss Mom’s treatment without my father present,’ I say, stalling her speedy progress down the corridor.
‘Oh this is not about your mother’s treatment,’ she says, continuing to walk to her office. ‘This is about you.’
Now I’m really confused. I feel obliged to follow her even though I haven’t actually agreed to talk to her.
‘And how is your mother?’ she says while punching a code into the keypad beside her office door. One-nine-nine-one, the year I was born. Please don’t tell me this doctor is only twenty-five years old. What the hell have I been doing with my life?
‘She’s okay,’ I say, because what else is there to say about Mom? Surely a doctor knows more than me.
‘Good, good.’
Slipping in behind her oak desk, she sits down and indicates that I should do the same.
‘Rebecca, I’ll come straight to the point. We’re looking for volunteers to take part in a clinical trial.’
A clinical trial? Should I know what that’s supposed to mean? Will I sound stupid if I ask?
‘And we’re looking for the children of people suffering from early-onset Alzheimer’s to participate,’ she says.
‘You’re asking me to take part?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘But…’
Is this woman for real? I really do not need any more drama in my life right now, and even though I’d never admit it to him, Danny is right. I don’t want to know if I’m at risk of developing Alzheimer’s, not yet anyway.
‘Let me assure you,’ she says, ‘it will all be very discreet and you don’t need to receive the results if you don’t want to. They can be used anonymously for the trial.’
‘Erm…’ Jesus, Becca, don’t just sit here with your mouth open, say something. ‘What would I have to do?’
‘Very little,’ she says. ‘Give a blood sample to get started. There will be an information meeting to explain everything and to answer any questions you have. Don’t worry, Rebecca, you can pull out at any time if you feel you don’t want to continue. It’s a terrible disease, but these trials help us make progress for the next generation, whom we hope won’t have to endure what your mother and family are.’
Well, she certainly knows how to blackmail a girl.
Handing me a clipboard, to which is clipped a questionnaire, Dr. Reilly continues talking, telling me about the origin of the disease, how it can be traced back to certain countries. Finland, for one. I’ve never met anybody from Finland, don’t know what they’re like. And yet it’s possible my great-great-great and not-so-great ancestors arrived from there. Or Colombia. There is a town in Colombia, Yarumal, where more of its inhabitants have the ‘foolishness’, as they call it, than not. Mom never liked coffee so I’m guessing we’re more likely to have hailed from one of the Scandinavian countries. It’s too late to ask her now. Come to think of it, Mom never spoke about our ancestry. Who was in our family’s past? Where do I come from?
Filling in the questionnaire, I answer what I can. Name, date of birth, health questions, lots of health questions. I realize I’m very healthy. Lucky me. The family history boxes I leave blank. Knowing my grandfather had a medal from the war is not going to help anyone studying gene mutations.
When she asks to take a sample of blood, I buckle a bit. So soon, and with no notice. Not wanting to appear weak, I swallow my fear and roll up my sleeve. This is it. The one that will tell all. Does Rebecca Wall carry danger in her veins? Will she be doomed to the same fate as her mother and half of Yarumal?
After she’s finished, I head for Mom’s room, wondering, yet again, what I’ve let myself in for.
* * *
Mom doesn’t know me today. I’ve been sitting here by her bed watching her play with the lace at the edge of her nightgown. Pulling it and laughing, pulling and laughing. How much more of this can I take? My heart cries just looking at her. And what if I’m carrying the gene? What if this is my destiny? Shit, maybe I shouldn’t have joined that trial. I’ll tell them to keep the results away from me. Or will I? If I’m not carrying the gene, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life worrying about it.
My cell rings. More trouble, no doubt. Rooting in my bag, I locate the phone and answer without checking the i
ncoming number.
‘Hello?’
‘Rebecca Wall?’
‘Yes?’
‘Detective Turner. We need you to come down to the station.’
Chapter Nine
The precinct looks just like a police station does in the movies, except there are no hookers hanging around. My head feels dizzy, nerves drilling through my skull. What does Turner want now?
I thought about asking Jeff to come with me, but decided against it. I also thought about asking Danny, but he’d try to run the show, tell the cop how to do her job. So no, not a good idea. Dad would have come if I’d asked him, but he has enough on his plate with his wife slowly dying. The last thing he needs to know is that the cops are questioning his daughter.
Turner finally arrives. ‘Thanks for coming in so promptly, Rebecca. Come this way.’
I follow her through a set of steel doors and down a corridor. Turner directs me into an interview room. There’s a table, four chairs, and a glass window for people to observe from the other side. Turner sits down on the other side of the table. The blunt fringe drawing a black line across her forehead makes her look harsh. Christ, why am I here? What does she think I’ve done?
Taking the photo of Katie Collins out of a file, she places it on the desk in front of me, then moves her hand to the left and without even looking, presses a button on the recording machine. Her dreary voice informs the machine of the day, date, time, and my name. It all seems very official, like I’m a suspect. I wasn’t expecting this. Maybe I should have an attorney with me. Fuck.
‘Rebecca,’ she says, shaking her head slightly, her fringe landing back into the straight line, ‘when we last spoke you told me you had never seen Katie Collins except on the TV.’ Her fingers are resting on Katie Collins’ blonde hair. I nod. Pointing at the machine, she asks me to speak up.
‘That’s correct,’ I say.
‘Never heard from her or made contact with her.’
I nod again. Oh shit, the machine. ‘Yes. I mean, no. I’ve never heard from her.’
‘Is that still your statement, Rebecca?’
‘It is.’
The file on the desk is open and she is moving her head from left to right, left to right, scanning the page in front of her. My mouth is as dry as burnt toast.
‘Ms. Wall,’ she says. When did I become Ms. Wall? ‘Katie Collins’ husband told us that during his last conversation with his wife, when she rang him from Boston, she told him she had sent you a note, which you replied to. She said she was going to meet you on Saturday night, which was last Saturday night.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never heard, saw, or spoke to this woman.’
‘Did you get the note?’
‘I didn’t get any note.’
‘She told her husband she left it at your home, addressed to you. That you then texted the number she left and arranged to meet her.’
I can feel the blood rushing to my head, flushing my face, which I’m sure, makes me look guilty.
‘I never got any note,’ I say.
Should I ask for an attorney? But that would make me look like I have something to hide. Christ, is this a nightmare? Wake up, Becca. Wake up.
No, I’m awake for sure, this is real. Somehow I have become a suspect in the disappearance of a woman I know nothing about.
‘Why me?’ I say. ‘I don’t understand. How come Katie Collins is looking for me? I’m entitled to know.’
Turner sits back in her chair, staring me down again, her eyes covering every inch of my face.
‘You have no idea, do you?’ she says.
‘None.’
* * *
I still have no idea by the time I leave. Too late, all the questions I wanted to ask but didn’t, come rushing into my head. As if they were hiding behind my nerves while I was in there. It’s the same at the doctors. I never go home from a doctor’s visit satisfied. It’s always, I should have asked this, I should have mentioned that.
Anyway, the bitch wouldn’t tell me why Katie Collins is looking for me. Gave me some bull about it being an ongoing case, then wrapped up the interview by saying I was to contact her if I heard from the mysterious, missing woman.
Same old, same old, and I am none the wiser.
The sun blinds my vision as I leave the precinct. Should I go back and tell Turner about the break-in at my apartment? How the note could have been taken? No. She’ll think I’m making it up, especially as I didn’t report it at the time. Well, how could I? ‘Hello, 911? Someone moved my clothes and disturbed a photo.’ Even Jeff thought I was losing it.
There is only one thing to do. Find out everything I can about Katie Collins.
Chapter Ten
Stephen Black is a bastard who is going to be a daddy. I know this because his wife is standing beside me in the elevator, pregnant. I try to ignore her, but the beautiful Grace Black has other ideas.
‘Rebecca, isn’t it? How are you getting on working with Stephen, I hope he’s being nice to you?’ If only she knew how nice he’s being to me. Her perfect skin glows like she just stepped out of an ad for L’Oréal, because she’s worth it.
How does she even know my name? Oh God, I knew I shouldn’t have come back into work today. I’m going to be sick.
I’ve only ever spoken to the woman once, just for a minute at an office party. I remember how fabulous she looked, slim and groomed. But how do I say hello to a pregnant woman whose husband I just screwed? It would be hard enough even if she wasn’t pregnant. I didn’t expect to ever meet her again, or at least not so soon. The word ‘fool’ must be engraved on my destiny.
‘Hi,’ I say without making eye contact. Should I mention the bump? I’d better – she’s holding it with both hands, as if she’s afraid it might fall off. ‘Congratulations, by the way.’
‘Thank you.’ She sounds calm and happy, like nothing could ruin her day. I bet I could.
‘When is the baby due?’
‘Two weeks.’
Two weeks? Is she for real? That’s got to be the smallest bump ever. Joanna looks like an elephant by comparison. The elevator door will not open quick enough – open, please, open. I’ve just found out I cheated on a baby. I’m going to hell.
When we finally step out of the elevator, the man of the moment is walking down the corridor towards us. His eyes are focused on his beautiful wife. Not me, the bit on the side. I doubt he even sees me.
Hoping to avoid the happy couple’s embrace, I quickly turn and walk the opposite way. My head is spinning. I’m the worst person in the world. What happened to your standards, Becca? I berate myself. Are you going to let your mom’s illness ruin you completely?
At my desk, I open the computer and hope my face doesn’t look as guilty as I feel. Keep your head down, Becca. Don’t look up. Just do your job.
* * *
When I first started working here, my position was described as ‘assistant to the assistants'. Anyone can ask me to do anything. Which means everyone in this vast, open-plan field of dark suits and bright teeth is more important than me.
A lot of Bridgeway and King’s clients are insurance companies. So some of the things I get asked to do can be interesting. Like searching social media sites to see if a person taking a case against one of our clients is telling the truth about their injuries. Sleazy, isn’t it, stalking sites. But it suits me, and anyway I’m under instruction from the more important. I have no say in the matter, no need to get in touch with my conscience.
Last week I discovered a video of a young man gliding with the grace of a Russian ballet dancer down the slopes in Aspen. The video had been uploaded to his friend’s website two days after he was wheeled out of our negotiations office, with a date stamp on the video showing it was recorded after the accident. The guy is not going to enjoy the next soirée at settlement room number two. I hope he arrives in his wheelchair. Can’t wait for the miracle to unfold. With a bit of luck, I’ll be in the room. I’m often called on to br
ing in some water or coffee or a can of WD40.
Another, but more boring, part of my job is data entry, which is basically updating client files with the latest information that the important people receive at a rate of $350 per half-hour. That’s $700 dollars per hour, which is… well, I can’t work it out right now, but it’s a hell of a lot of money for a day’s work. Imagine earning that sort of money. I can only think of one part time job that could compete with that.
* * *
A crowd has gathered outside the door of Stephen’s office. Stephen has a door with its own office. That’s how important he is. They are all wishing the pregnant couple the best of luck. Smiles, pats on backs, giggles and hugs for the princess. She doesn’t come into the office often. In fact, I think it’s only the second time she has been here since I took up my role as assistant’s assistant.
Peeking over, I notice him looking my way. Is he nervous? Does he think I’ll say something, tell someone else about our night together? He needn’t worry about that. I have no intention of letting anyone know what I did. It’s nothing to brag about, screwing your married boss. Looking away, I stare at my computer and decide to distract myself by Googling Katie Collins. I need to find out who she is and why the cops think she sent me a note.
According to Google, there is a Katie Collins for everything, from photography to baking, keeping fit to planting flowers. If I knew what the woman was interested in, I might be able to narrow down the search a bit. Entering ‘New Orleans’, which is where the news report said she came from, doesn’t help either. I still can’t find a Katie Collins that matches my girl.
After a few more searches my phone starts flashing. Pushing a bunch of files to the side, I see the number on the screen. Shit, it’s him. Stephen Black. What to do? Should I go to his office? When I glance in his direction I see the crowd has dispersed. Stephen is standing alone now, staring out the window. Staring at me.
