by Joy Fielding
It rang immediately.
“Julia?” Cindy felt her heart pounding against her chest, the blood rushing to her ears.
“No, it’s Trish. Just calling to see how last night went.”
“Last night?”
“Your date with Neil Macfarlane?”
“My date with Neil,” Cindy repeated, trying to calm herself down.
“It didn’t go well?”
“No, it went great.”
“Details,” Trish pressed with a girlish giggle. “I need details. Tell me everything.”
“Trish, can I call you later?” Cindy implored. “I’m expecting an important call.”
“Everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine.”
There was a brief pause. “Okay. Call me later.”
Cindy replaced the receiver, glared at the phone. Why hadn’t she told Trish about Julia? “Damn it, Julia. Call me.” As if on cue, the phone rang. “Julia?”
“No. Me,” her sister said.
Cindy felt her shoulders slump toward the floor. “Leigh, can I call you back later?”
“Are you kidding? Your line’s been busy all morning. I’m not waiting around for you to fit me into your busy schedule.”
“It’s just that I’m expecting Julia to call. . .”
“Yeah, and when she does, would you tell her that I rescheduled her fitting for next Wednesday at two o’clock, and that if she doesn’t show up then, there’s no way Marcel can have her dress ready on time, which would mean she won’t be in the wedding party.
“I’ll tell her.” What was the point in saying anything else?
“Tell her Bianca’s counting on her,” Leigh said instead of good-bye.
As soon as Cindy hung up, the phone rang yet again. “Hello? Julia?”
“It’s Meg. How’d your date go last night?”
Cindy felt her knees go weak. She grabbed onto the side of a chair for support. “It was fine.”
“Just fine?”
“Great. It was great.”
“Was he as cute as Trish claimed?”
“He’s very cute,” Cindy said.
“Are you okay? You don’t sound like yourself.”
“Actually, I’m not feeling so hot.”
“Oh no. You can’t get sick now. The festival starts next week.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
“Well, we’re not taking any chances. Don’t come in this afternoon. I can manage the store by myself.”
“Would you mind terribly?”
“Of course not. Just feel better.”
Cindy hung up the phone, wondering why she hadn’t told her two closest friends that Julia hadn’t come home last night, that she hadn’t seen or heard from her since yesterday morning? She’d been desperate to tell them, but something had held her back. What? Embarrassment? Shame? Fear? Fear of what exactly? That if she spoke the words out loud, they might come true, and Julia might be lost forever?
She thought of Lindsey, Julia’s latest, greatest, best friend ever. Who was she anyway? Unlike both Cindy and Heather, Julia was always forming attachments that were as short-lived as they were intense. Men and women flitted around the circumference of Julia’s life, drifting in and out, occasionally penetrating the inner circle, but more likely succumbing to the force of gravity and falling, unheralded, off the ever-rolling curve. Some emerged unscathed, grateful for the ride, however brief. Some left resentful and angry, nursing ugly wounds that refused to heal.
Why hadn’t she kept a closer vigil? What kind of mother was she?
Cindy crossed to the counter on the other side of the room, holding her hands beneath her arms to keep them from shaking. Luckily, there was still some coffee in the coffeemaker, and she poured herself a cup. It tasted bitter, but she drank it anyway, repeatedly glancing back at the phone, silently begging Julia to call, assure her she was alive and well. “This is silly. You’re making yourself nuts,” Cindy said out loud. “Just calm down. Breathe deeply. Repeat after me: there is nothing to worry about, there is nothing to worry about.”
The phone rang.
Cindy lunged at it as if she’d been shot from a cannon. “Hello? Julia?”
“Neil Macfarlane,” the voice announced. “Cindy, is that you?”
Cindy swallowed the threat of tears. “Yes. Neil. Hello.”
“Is this a bad time?”
“My daughter didn’t come home last night,” she heard herself whimper. “I’m so scared.”
“I’ll be right over,” he said.
EIGHT
HAS she ever done anything like this before?”
“You mean, stayed out all night?”
Neil nodded. He was sitting beside Cindy on one of two tan leather sofas in her living room. Behind them a wall of windows overlooked the spacious backyard. Facing them were three paintings of pears in varying degrees of ripeness. Cindy couldn’t remember the name of the artist who’d painted these pictures. Tom had bought them without asking either her opinion or approval, I make the money; I make the decisions, being pretty much the theme of their marriage. Along with the never-ending parade of other women, Cindy thought, smiling sadly at the good-looking man perched on the opposite end of the couch and wondering if he’d ever cheated on his wife. She ran her hand across the sofa’s buttery surface. Fine Italian leather. Guaranteed to last a lifetime. Unlike her marriage, she thought. The sofas had also been Tom’s decision, as was the checkered print of the two wing chairs sitting in front of the black marble fireplace. Why had she never bothered to change anything after he left? Had she been subconsciously waiting for him to return? She shook her head, trying to excise her former husband from her brain.
“Cindy?” Neil was asking, leaning forward, extending his hands toward hers. “Are you all right? You have this very strange look on your face.”
“Yes, she’s stayed out all night before,” Cindy said, answering his question, wondering how long ago he’d asked it. “But she always calls. She’s never not called.” Except once just after she moved back home, Cindy recalled, when she was making a point about being an adult and no longer answerable to her mother. Her father, she’d argued pointedly, had never placed any such restrictions on her. Her mother, Cindy had countered, needed to be assured of her safety. It was a matter of consideration, not constraint. In reply, Julia had rolled her eyes and flounced out of the room, but she’d never stayed out all night again without first phoning home.
Except one other time when she forgot, Cindy remembered, but then she’d called first thing the next morning and apologized profusely.
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” she asked Neil, trying to prevent another example from springing to mind.
“I take Fridays off in the summer.”
Cindy vaguely recalled him having told her that last night. “Look, you don’t have to stay. I mean, it was very thoughtful of you to come over and everything. I really appreciate it, but I’m sure you have plans for the long weekend. . .”
“I have no plans.”
“. . . and Julia should be home any minute now,” Cindy continued, ignoring the implications of his remark, “at which point I’m going to strangle her, and everything will be back to normal.” She tried to laugh, cried out instead. “Oh God, what if something terrible has happened to her?”
“Nothing terrible has happened to her.”
Cindy stared at Neil imploringly. “You promise?”
“I promise,” he said simply.
Amazingly, Cindy felt better. “Thank you.”
Neil reached over, took her hands in his.
There was a sudden avalanche of footsteps on the stairs, and Heather bounded into view. “I heard the door. Is Julia home?”
Cindy quickly extricated her hands from Neil’s, returned them primly to her lap.
“Who are you?”
“Heather, this is Neil Macfarlane.”
“The accountant.” Heather advanced warily, quick eyes absorbing Neil�
�s black jeans and denim shirt.
“Neil, this is my younger daughter, Heather.”
Neil stood up, shook Heather’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Heather.”
Heather nodded. “I thought maybe Julia was back.”
“No,” Cindy said.
Heather swayed from one foot to the other. “Duncan and I were just going to head down to Queen Street unless you need me for anything.”
“No, honey. I’m fine.”
“You’re sure? ‘Cause I can stay if you want.”
“No, sweetheart. You go. I’ll be fine.”
“You’ll call me as soon as Julia gets home?”
Cindy nodded, looked anxiously toward the front door.
“You know my cell number?”
“Of course.” Cindy pictured a series of numbers, realized they were Julia’s. “Maybe you’d better write it down.”
Heather walked into the kitchen. “I’m leaving it by the phone,” she called back as Duncan came barreling down the stairs.
“Julia home?” he asked.
“Not yet.”
He stared blankly at Neil, crossed one arm protectively over the other. “Are you a cop?”
Cindy blanched. Why would he ask that?
“He’s an accountant,” Heather said, re-entering the room. “We should go.” She guided Duncan toward the front door. “Remember to call me when Julia gets home.”
Cindy nodded, watching them leave. “Do you think I should call the police?”
“If you’re worried, yes,” Neil said.
“It’s only been twenty-four hours.”
“That’s long enough.”
She thought of Tom. Probably she should wait for him to return her call, discuss the matter with him before she did anything rash. “I should probably wait a little longer.”
“Have you checked with the place where Julia had her audition, to make sure she showed up?”
“I don’t know who to contact,” Cindy admitted. “I mean, I know the audition was for Michael Kinsolving, but he’s probably just renting some space, and I don’t know the address or the phone number.” I don’t know anything, she wailed silently. What kind of mother am I, who doesn’t know anything? “Tom will know,” she said. “My ex-husband. Julia’s father. He arranged the audition. He’ll know.” All the more reason to wait until she spoke to him before calling the police, she acknowledged to herself.
Neil walked to the fireplace, lifted a Plexiglas frame from the mantel. “Is this Julia?”
Cindy stared at the picture of Julia that had been taken several days after her eighteenth birthday. She was smiling, showing a mouthful of perfect, professionally straightened and whitened teeth, elegant shoulders thrust proudly back in her new cream-colored Gucci leather jacket, a present from her father. Diamond studs sparkled from each ear, another present from Daddy. The night this picture was taken, Cindy had presented her daughter with a delicate necklace with her name spelled out in gold. Less than a month later, Julia had broken it while trying to pull a turtleneck sweater over her head. I forgot I had it on, she’d announced nonchalantly, returning the necklace to her mother to be fixed. Cindy dutifully had the necklace repaired, only to have Julia lose it a few weeks later. “That’s an old picture,” Cindy said now, taking the photograph from Neil’s hands and returning it to the mantel, one finger lingering, caressing her daughter’s cheek through the small square of glass.
“She’s a very beautiful girl.”
“Yes, she is.”
“Like her mother.”
The phone rang. Cindy raced to the kitchen, tripping on the large sisal rug in the front hall, banging her hip against the side of the kitchen door. “Damn it,” she swore, lifting the phone to her ear. “Hello?”
“Well, damn it yourself,” her mother replied. “What’s the matter, darling? Forgot to put on your makeup?”
Cindy raised a hand to her bare cheek, realized she had indeed forgotten to put on any makeup. Still Neil had said she was beautiful, she thought gratefully, shaking her head as he approached, signalling the caller wasn’t Julia. “I’m fine, Mom. Just a little busy at the moment. Can I call you back?”
“You don’t have to bother. I’m just checking in. Everything all right? Your sister said you sounded pissy, and I’m afraid I have to agree with her.”
Cindy closed her eyes, ran her free hand through her hair. “Everything’s fine, Mom. I’ll call you later. Okay?”
“Fine, darling. Take care.”
“My mother,” Cindy said, hanging up the phone and immediately checking her voice-mail to make sure no one else had called. “My sister told her I sounded pissy when she called earlier.”
“I’m sure she meant pithy,” Neil offered.
Cindy laughed. “Thanks for coming over. I really appreciate it.”
“I just wish there was something more I could do.”
Something clicked in Cindy’s mind. “You can take me to see Sean Banack,” she announced suddenly.
“Who?”
“I’ll explain on the way.” Cindy grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled a note for Julia, leaving it in the middle of the kitchen table, in case her daughter should return while she was gone. On the way out the door, she called Julia’s cell phone again and left another message. There’d been something in Sean’s voice when she’d talked to him earlier, Cindy thought, replaying their conversation in her mind, word for word. Something more than cigarettes and alcohol. Something more than fatigue and impatience and hurt feelings.
Anger, she realized.
He’d sounded pissy.
*
“IS SEAN HERE?”
“He isn’t,” the young man said, standing in the doorway, blocking Cindy’s entrance to the small, second-floor apartment that was situated over an old variety store on the south side of Dupont Street near Christie. The man was tall and black, with an athletic build and a shiny, bald head. A silver loop dangled from his left ear. A set of earphones wrapped around his neck, like a noose. He was wearing a sleeveless white T-shirt and black sweatpants, and his left hand clutched a large, plastic bottle of Evian.
“You must be Paul,” Cindy said, pulling the name of Sean’s roommate from the recesses of her subconscious. She extended her hand, gently pushing her way inside the stuffy, non-airconditioned apartment, Neil following right behind.
The young man smiled warily. “And you are?”
“This is Neil Macfarlane, and I’m Cindy Carver. Julia’s mother.”
The expression on the young man’s face altered ever so slightly. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Carver, Mr. Macfarlane. Excuse the mess.” He looked sheepishly toward the cluttered L of the living-dining room behind him.
Cindy’s eyes followed his. Books and papers covered the light hardwood floor and brown corduroy sofa in the middle of the room. A deeply scratched wooden door balancing on four short stacks of red bricks served as a coffee table. Several old copies of the Toronto Star lay stretched across the small dining room table, like a linen tablecloth. HUSBAND PHONED WIFE AFTER BEHEADING HER screamed an inside headline. MAN STALKED VICTIM FOR THREE DAYS BEFORE FATAL ATTACK announced another.
“Sean’s doing research on aberrant behavior,” Paul explained, following her eyes. “For a script he’s writing.”
Cindy nodded, remembering Julia had once boasted that Sean was writing a script especially for her. As far as Cindy knew, Sean had yet to find a producer for any of his efforts. He supported himself by bartending at Fluid, a popular downtown club. “Has Julia been around lately?” she asked, straining to sound casual.
“Haven’t seen her since . . .” There was an uncomfortable pause. “You should probably talk to Sean.”
“Do you have any idea when he’s coming back?”
“No. I wasn’t here when he went out.”
“Do you mind if we wait?” Cindy immediately plopped herself down on the sofa, moving a well-thumbed copy of a paperback book to the cushion beside her. The book was called Mortal
Prey.
Paul hesitated. “The thing is . . . I have to be somewhere by noon, and I was just gonna hop in the shower. . .”
“Oh, you go right ahead,” Cindy instructed. “We’ll be fine.”
“Sean could be a while.”
“If he’s not back by the time you’re ready to leave, we’ll go.”
“All right. I guess it’s all right,” the young man muttered under his breath, perhaps sensing Cindy’s determination, and not wanting to make a scene. “I won’t be long.”
“Take your time.”
As soon as Cindy heard the shower running, she was on her feet.
“What are you doing?” Neil asked. “Where are you going?”
The second question was by far the easier of the two to answer. “To Sean’s room,” she said, trying to decide which of the two rooms at the back of the apartment was his, opening the first door she came to, grateful when she saw a row of high school football trophies bearing Sean’s name lined up in front of the open window.
Posters from popular movies covered the walls: Spider-Man; Invasion of the Body Snatchers; From Hell; The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Cindy winced at the image of a horrifying, leather-faced figure brandishing a chainsaw in front of him like a giant phallus, a helpless young woman secured to the wall behind him. She remembered that movie, hated herself now for enjoying it. What was the matter with her that she liked such things?
“I don’t think this is such a good idea,” Neil said, his voice a strained whisper as he followed her inside the tiny bedroom.
“Probably not,” Cindy admitted, looking from the unmade bed to the water-stained desk on the opposite wall. An empty picture frame sat to one side of a bright blue iMac in the middle of the desk; a neat stack of blank paper was piled on the other.
“What is it you’re looking for?”
“I don’t know.” Cindy took a step back, her ankle brushing up against the wastepaper basket on the floor. Her attention was immediately captured by the torn and crumpled remains of an eight-by-ten glossy. She bent down and scooped the battered picture of her daughter into her shaking hands. “It’s Julia’s most recent head shot. She just had it taken a few weeks ago.” Cindy tried vainly to iron out the creases of the black-and-white photograph, piece together the smile on her daughter’s face. Obviously Sean had torn it from its frame in a fit of fury. Was it possible he’d attacked her daughter in a similar rage?