I'll Be Seeing You

by Mary Higgins Clark

  Mac was prepared to see a real display of hocus-pocus and calculated fakery. Instead he found himself in grudging admiration of the contained and poised woman who greeted Catherine with compassion. “You’ve had a very bad time,” she said. “I don’t know if I can help you, but I know I have to try.”

  Catherine’s face was drawn, but Mac saw the flicker of hope that came into it. “I believe in my heart that my husband is dead,” she told Fiona Black. “I know the police don’t believe that. It would be so much easier if there were some way of being certain, some way of proving it, of finding out once and for all.”

  “Perhaps there is.” Fiona Black pressed Catherine’s hands in hers. She walked slowly into the living room, her manner observant. Catherine stood next to Mac and Investigator Marron, watching her.

  She turned to Catherine. “Mrs. Collins, do you still have your husband’s clothes and personal items here?”

  “Yes. Come upstairs,” she said, leading the way.

  Mac felt his heart beating faster as they followed her. There was something about Fiona Black. She was not a fraud.

  Catherine brought them to the master bedroom. On the dresser there was a twin frame. One picture was of Meghan. The other of Catherine and Edwin in formal dress. Last New Year’s Eve at the inn, Mac thought. It had been a festive night.

  Fiona Black studied the picture, then said, “Where is his clothing?”

  Catherine opened the door to a walk-in closet. Mac remembered that years ago she and Edwin had broken through the wall to the small adjoining bedroom and made two walk-in closets for themselves. This one was Edwin’s. Rows of jackets and slacks and suits. Floor-to-ceiling shelves with sport shirts and sweaters. A shoe rack.

  Catherine was looking at the contents of the closet. “Edwin had wonderful taste in clothes. I always had to pick out my father’s ties,” she said. It was as though she was reminiscing to herself.

  Fiona Black walked into the closet, her fingers lightly touching the lapel of one coat, the shoulder of another. “Do you have favorite cuff links or a ring of his?”

  Catherine opened a dresser drawer. “This was the wedding ring I gave him. He mislaid it one day. We thought it was lost. He was so upset I replaced it, then found this one where it had slipped behind the dresser. It had gotten a bit tight, so he kept wearing the new one.”

  Fiona Black took the thin band of gold. “May I take this for a few days? I promise not to lose it.”

  Catherine hesitated, then said, “If you think it will be useful to you.”

  The cameraman from the PCD Philadelphia affiliate met Meghan at quarter of four outside the Franklin Center. “Sorry this is such a rush job,” she apologized.

  The lanky cameraman, who introduced himself as Len, shrugged. “We’re used to it.”

  Meghan was glad that it was necessary to concentrate on this interview. The hour she had spent with Cyrus Graham, her father’s stepbrother, was so painful that she had to put thoughts of it aside until, bit by bit, she could accept it. She had promised her mother she would hold nothing back from her. It would be difficult, but she would keep that promise. Tonight they would talk it out.

  She said, “Len, at the opening, I’d like to get a wide shot of the block. These cobbled streets aren’t the way people think about Philadelphia.”

  “You should have seen this area before the renovation,” Len said as he began to roll tape.

  Inside the Center they were greeted by the receptionist. Three women sat in the waiting room. All looked well groomed and were carefully made up. Meghan was sure these were the clients whom Dr. Williams had contacted to be interviewed.

  She was right. The receptionist introduced her to them. One was pregnant. On-camera she explained that this would be her third child to be born by in vitro fertilization. The other two each had one child and were planning to attempt another pregnancy with their cryopreserved embryos.

  “I have eight frozen embryos,” one of them said happily as she smiled into the lens. “They’ll transfer three of them, hoping one will take. If not, I’ll wait a few months, then I’ll have others thawed and try again.”

  “If you succeed immediately in achieving a pregnancy, will you be back next year?” Meghan asked.

  “Oh no. My husband and I only want two children.”

  “But you’ll still have cryopreserved embryos stored in the lab here, won’t you?”

  The woman agreed. “Yes, I will,” she said. “We’ll pay to have them stored. Who knows? I’m only twenty-eight. I might change my mind. In a few years I may be back, and it’s nice to know I have other embryos already available to me.”

  “Provided any of them survive the thawing process?” Meghan asked.

  “Of course.”

  Next they went into Dr. Williams’ office. Meg took a seat opposite him for the interview. “Doctor, again thank you for having us,” she said. “What I wish you would do at the outset is explain in vitro fertilization as simply as you did to me earlier. Then, if you’ll allow us to have some footage of the lab, and show us how cryopreserved embryos are kept, we won’t take up any more of your time.”

  Dr. Williams was an excellent interview. Admirably succinct, he quickly explained the reasons why women might have trouble conceiving and the procedure of in vitro fertilization. “The patient is given fertility drugs to stimulate the production of eggs; the eggs are retrieved from her ovaries; in the lab they are fertilized, and the desired result is that we achieve viable embryos. Early embryos are transferred to the mother’s womb, usually two or three at a time, in hopes that at least one will result in a successful pregnancy. The others are cryopreserved, or in layman’s language, frozen, for eventual later use.”

  “Doctor, in a few days, as soon as it is born, we are going to see a baby whose identical twin was born three years ago,” Meghan said. “Will you explain to our viewers how it is possible for identical twins to be born three years apart?”

  “It is possible, but very rare, that the embryo divides into two identical parts in the Petri dish just as it could in the womb. In this case, apparently the mother chose to have one embryo transferred immediately, the other cryopreserved for transfer later. Fortunately, despite great odds, both procedures were successful.”

  Before they left Dr. Williams’ office, Len panned the camera across the wall with the pictures of children born through assisted reproduction at the Center. Next they shot footage of the lab, paying particular attention to the long-term storage containers where cryopreserved embryos, submerged in liquid nitrogen, were kept.

  It was nearly five-thirty when Meghan said, “Okay, it’s a wrap. Thanks everyone. Doctor, I’m so grateful.”

  “I am too,” he assured her. “I can guarantee you that this kind of publicity will generate many inquiries from childless couples.”

  Outside, Len put his camera in the van and walked with Meghan to her car. “Kind of gets you, doesn’t it?” he asked. “I mean, I have three kids and I’d hate to think they started life in a freezer like those embryos.”

  “On the other hand, those embryos represent lives that wouldn’t have come into existence at all without this process,” Meghan said.

  As she began the long drive back to Connecticut she realized that the smooth, pleasant interview with Dr. Williams had been a respite.

  Now her thoughts were back to the moment Cyrus Graham had greeted her as Annie. Every word he said in their time together replayed in her mind.

  That same evening, at 8:15, Fiona Black phoned Bob Marron. “Edwin Collins is dead,” she said quietly. “He has been dead for many months. His body is submerged in water.”

  35

  It was nine-thirty when Meghan arrived home on Thursday night, relieved to find that Mac was waiting with her mother. Seeing the question in his eyes, she nodded. It was a gesture not lost on her mother.

  “Meg, what is it?”

  Meg could catch the lingering aroma of onion soup. “Any of that left?” She waved her hand in the d
irection of the kitchen.

  “You didn’t have any dinner? Mac, pour her a glass of wine while I heat something up.”

  “Just soup, Mom, please.”

  When Catherine left, Mac came over to her. “How bad was it,” he asked, his voice low.

  She turned away, not wanting him to see the weary tears that threatened to spill over. “Pretty bad.”

  “Meg, if you want to talk to your mother alone, I’ll get out of here. I just thought she needed company, and Mrs. Dileo was willing to stay with Kyle.”

  “That was nice of you, Mac, but you shouldn’t have left Kyle. He looks forward to you coming home so much. Little kids shouldn’t be disappointed. Don’t ever let him down.”

  She felt that she was babbling. Mac’s hands were holding her face, turning it to him.

  “Meggie, what’s the matter?”

  Meg pressed her knuckles to her lips. She must not break down. “It’s just . . .”

  She could not go on. She felt Mac’s arms around her. Oh God, to just let go, to be held by him. The letter. Nine years ago he had come to her with the letter she had written, the letter that begged him not to marry Ginger . . .

  “I think you’d rather I didn’t save this,” he’d said then. He’d put his arm around her then as well, she remembered. “Meg, someday you’ll fall in love. What you feel for me is something else. Everyone feels that way when a best friend gets married. There’s always the fear that everything will be different. It won’t be that way between us. We’ll always be buddies.”

  The memory was as sharp as a dash of cold water. Meg straightened up and stepped back. “I’m all right, I’m just tired and hungry.” She heard her mother’s footsteps and waited until she was back in the room. “I have some pretty disturbing news for you, Mom.”

  “I think I should leave you two to talk it out,” Mac said.

  It was Catherine who stopped him. “Mac, you’re family. I wish you’d stay.”

  They sat at the kitchn table. It seemed to Meghan that she could feel her father’s presence. He was the one who would fix the late-evening supper if the restaurant had been crowded and her mother too busy to eat. He was a perfect mimic, taking on the mannerisms of one of the captains dealing with a cranky guest. “This table is not satisfactory? The banquette? Of course. A draft? But there is no window open. The inn is sealed shut. Perhaps it is the air flowing between your ears, madame.”

  Sipping a glass of wine, the steaming soup so appetizing, but untouched until she could tell them about the meeting in Chestnut Hill, Meghan talked about her father. She deliberately told about his childhood first, about Cyrus Graham’s belief that the reason he turned his back on his mother was that he could not endure the chance of her abandoning him again.

  Meghan watched her mother’s face and found the reaction she had hoped for, pity for the little boy who had not been wanted, for the man who could not risk being hurt a third time.

  But then it was necessary to tell her about the meeting in Scottsdale between Cyrus Graham and Edwin Collins.

  “He introduced another woman as his wife?” There was no expression in her mother’s voice.

  “Mom, I don’t know. Graham knew that Dad was married and had a daughter. He assumed that Dad was with his wife and daughter. Dad said something to him like, ‘Frances and Annie, this is Cyrus Graham.’ Mom, did Dad have any other relatives you know about? Is it a possibility that we have cousins in Arizona?”

  “For God’s sake, Meg, if I didn’t know that your grandmother was alive all those years, how would I know about cousins?” Catherine Collins bit her lip. “I’m sorry.” Her expression changed. “You say your father’s stepbrother thought you were Annie. You looked that much like her?”

  “Yes.” Meg looked imploringly at Mac.

  He understood what she was asking. “Meg,” he said, “I don’t think there’s any point in not telling your mother why we went to New York yesterday.”

  “No, there isn’t. Mom, there’s something else you have to know . . .” She looked steadily at her mother as she told her what she had hoped to conceal.

  When she finished, her mother sat staring past her as though trying to understand what she had been hearing.

  Finally, in a steady voice that was almost a monotone, she said, “A girl was stabbed who looked like you, Meg? She was carrying a piece of paper from Drumdoe Inn with your name and work number in Dad’s handwriting? Within hours after she died, you got a fax that said, ‘Mistake. Annie was a mistake’?”

  Catherine’s eyes became bleak and frightened.

  “You went to have your DNA checked against hers because you thought you might be related to that girl.”

  “I did it because I’m trying to find answers.”

  “I’m glad I saw that Fiona woman tonight,” Catherine burst out. “Meg, I don’t suppose you’ll approve, but Bob Marron of the New Milford police phoned this afternoon . . .”

  Meg listened as her mother spoke of Fiona Black’s visit. It’s bizarre, she thought, but no more bizarre than anything else that’s happened these last months.

  At ten-thirty, Mac got up to leave. “If I may give advice, I’d suggest that both of you go to bed,” he said.

  Mrs. Dileo, Mac’s housekeeper, was watching television when he arrived home. “Kyle was so disappointed when you didn’t get home before he fell asleep,” she said. “Well, I’ll be on my way.”

  Mac waited until her car pulled out, then turned off the outside lights and locked the door. He went in to look at Kyle. His small son was hunched in the fetal position, the pillow bunched under his head.

  Mac tucked the covers around him, bent down and kissed the top of his head. Kyle seemed to be just fine, a pretty normal kid, but now Mac asked himself if he was ignoring any signals that Kyle might be sending out. Most other seven-year-olds grew up with mothers. Mac wasn’t sure if the overwhelming surge of tenderness he felt now was for his son, or for the little boy Edwin Collins had been fifty years ago in Philadelphia. Or for Catherine and Meghan, who surely were the victims of the unhappy childhood of their husband and father.

  Meghan and Catherine saw Stephanie Petrovic’s impassioned interview at the Manning Clinic on the eleven o’clock news. Meg listened as the anchorman reported that Stephanie Petrovic had lived with her aunt in their New Jersey home. “The body is being shipped to Rumania; the memorial mass will be held at noon in St. Dominic’s Rumanian Church in Trenton,” he finished.

  “I’m going to that mass,” Meghan told her mother. “I want to talk to that girl.”

  At eight o’clock Friday morning, Bob Marron received a call at home. An illegally parked car, a dark blue Cadillac sedan, had been ticketed in Battery Park City, Manhattan, outside Meghan Collins’ apartment house. The car was registered to Edwin Collins, and appeared to be the car he was driving the evening he disappeared.

  As Marron dialed State Attorney John Dwyer he said to his wife, “The psychic sure dropped the ball on this one.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Marron was telling Meghan about the discovery of her father’s car. He asked if she and Mrs. Collins could come to John Dwyer’s office. He would like to see them together as soon as possible.

  36

  Early Friday morning, Bernie watched again the replay of the interview he had taped at the Manning Clinic. He didn’t hold the camera steady enough, he decided. The picture wobbled. He’d be more careful next time.

  “Bernard!” His mother was yelling for him at the top of the stairs. Reluctantly he turned off the equipment.

  “I’ll be right there, Mama.”

  “Your breakfast is getting cold.” His mother was wrapped in her flannel robe. It had been washed so often that the neck and the sleeves and the seat were threadbare. Bernie had told her that she washed it too much, but Mama said she was a clean person, that in her house you could eat off the floors.

  This morning Mama was in a bad mood. “I was sneezing a lot last night,” she told him as she dished out oatmeal fr
om the pot on the stove. “I think I smelled dust coming from the basement just now. You do mop the floor down there, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do, Mama.”

  “I wish you’d fix those cellar stairs so I can get down there and see for myself.”

  Bernie knew that his mother would never take a chance on those stairs. One of the steps was broken, and the bannister was wobbly.

  “Mama, those stairs are dangerous. Remember what happened to your hip—and now, what with your arthritis, your knees are really bad.”

  “Don’t think I’m taking a chance like that again,” she snapped. “But see that you keep it mopped. I don’t know why you spend so much time down there anyhow.”

  “Yes, you do, Mama. I don’t need much sleep, and if I have the television on in the living room, it keeps you awake.” Mama had no idea about all the electronic equipment he had and she never would.

  “I didn’t sleep much last night. My allergies were at me.”

  “I’m sorry, Mama.” Bernie finished the lukewarm oatmeal. “I’ll be late.” He grabbed his jacket.

  She followed him to the door. When he was going down the walk, she called after him, “I’m glad to see you’re keeping the car decent for a change.”

  After the phone call from Bob Marron, Meghan hurriedly showered, dressed and went down to the kitchen. Her mother was already there, preparing breakfast.

  Catherine’s attempt at a cheery “Good morning, Meg” froze on her lips as she saw Meg’s face. “What is it?” she asked. “I did hear the phone ring when I was in the shower, didn’t I?”

  Meg took both her mother’s hands in hers. “Mom, look at me. I’m going to be absolutely honest with you. I thought for months that Daddy was lost on the bridge that night. With all that’s happened this past week I need to make myself think as a lawyer and reporter. Look at all the possibilities, weigh each one carefully. I tried to make myself consider whether he might be alive and in serious trouble. But I know . . . I am sure . . . that what has gone on these last few days was something Dad would never do to us. That call, the flowers . . . and now . . .” She stopped.