by Chris Mooney
Mike saw himself leaning forward in his chair, as though he had slipped out of his skin and was now watching this unfold from the sidelines.
“It was a mistake,” Jess said, her face crinkling, about to break into sobs any second now. “Everyone should be allowed one big mistake in their life. You shouldn’t have to pay for it forever, but I did. The doctor screwed up the procedure—it was a miracle Sarah was even born—and then God punished me and took my baby away. My baby. My Sarah.”
Mike couldn’t stand up fast enough. The top of his thigh hit the underside of the table; it tipped, and before he caught it, the wine glass and the coffee cup fell onto the floor and shattered. Jess hadn’t moved.
“I forgave you that day at the cemetery. Now it’s your turn. Tell me you forgive me.”
Stumbling forward, Mike plowed his way around the spaces between the chairs and tables and into the street. He looked left, then right, unsure of which direction to go, his legs wobbly, weak.
“Say you forgive me,” Jess screamed. “Say it.”
He picked a direction and moved.
“Say it,” Jess screamed. “Don’t leave without saying it.”
Don’t look back, a voice said. Whatever you do, just keep walking forward and don’t look back.
CHAPTER 40
When Mike stopped walking, beads of sweat were running down his face, and his back and armpits were soaked. He didn’t know how long he had been walking or where he was. He was standing next to a bank, and the streets were surprisingly free of foot traffic, the afternoon sun shielded by tall buildings and skyscrapers.
What had just happened with Jess was exactly what had happened with his last visit with Lou: Mike had gone there expecting to uncover one thing only to get sucker-punched with something much, much worse. He had expected Jess to confirm what he saw in the pictures, but the pregnancy?
The first pregnancy he had discovered by accident. They were renting out the second floor of a duplex and he was using the spare room as an office. He misplaced a good-sized check that he needed to deposit to cover their rent, and when he tore up his office and failed to find it, he thought the check might have been accidentally mixed in with the trash. He went out to the garage and started picking through his trash bags and found the check stuck to the bottom of one bag along with three boxes for pregnancy tests. He found one of the plastic test strips, then the other two. All three were positive. He knew this from the pregnancy scare they had back in high school, Jess driving to his house and saying that her period was three weeks late. They bought two pregnancy tests—“They’re not always correct,” Jess had told him—and then drove to her house, since her mother wasn’t home. Both tests came up negative. No pregnancy. Jess’s period came two days later.
Now he was holding three pregnancy tests that read positive.
He remembered feeling moderately surprised. They had talked about starting a family at some point, wanting three, maybe even four kids, but they hadn’t started trying yet. Then again, they weren’t exactly being careful. And Jess had never been on the pill, had some sort of allergic reaction to it.
Miscarriages happen, she had told him later that night—nervously, he now remembered. During the first trimester, especially when you were pregnant for the first time, it wasn’t that uncommon to have a miscarriage. She had taken the tests and wanted to wait a few more weeks before telling him. And then, as if by some great omen, she had a miscarriage.
Only that was lie. She was pregnant, yes, but not with their baby, and the baby hadn’t miscarried at all. She had lied to him, and he bought the lie.
You had no reason not to believe her.
Right, because when you came right down to it, how could you ever really know another person? Say your vows in front of God and pledge to each other that you would be honest and open, but the real truths were the ones you didn’t speak to anyone, maybe not even to yourself. What the other person saw was what you allowed them to see: truths mixed with half-truths, little white lies and sometimes all-out fabrications. In the end, you had to buy into the whole smokeand mirror show, roll the dice and give it your best shot—unless you wanted to spend the rest of your life alone.
The moments sealed inside those pictures weren’t about cheating; they were about comfort. Rodger wasn’t kissing her; he was hugging her, consoling her after her … procedure.
Mike reached inside his shirt pocket for his cigarettes, took one out and lit it, thinking about what would have happened if he had seen those pictures years ago. Would he have stuck around? No way. No fucking way. There are some things in life you can’t forgive.
But she forgave you.
Mike thought about Sam’s comment about people being messy. No shit. Everyone he knew leading double lives and burying these sharp-edged secrets—even someone like Rose Giroux, Rose as holy as they come and admitting to having an—
Mike stopped walking.
Two women with missing children had their pregnancies terminated.
Clue or one hell of a coincidence?
He removed his cell phone from his belt, cycled through all the numbers he had programmed, found Rose’s number and hit the speed-dial button.
“I’m so glad you called,” Rose said. “I feel so horrible about the other night.”
“We’ve all been there, Rose. The reason I’m calling has to do with that … you know, that thing you had done. I know this is going to sound like an odd question, but can I ask you where you had that done?”
He heard her take in a long breath.
“I know this is personal, Rose, but it might be important.”
“I don’t mind you asking. It’s just since I blurted it out the other night, I’ve been trying to forget about it.” Her voice sounded stiff, cold. There was a long pause, then she said, “Concord, New Hampshire.”
“Describe the place to me.”
“It looked like a house. That’s the first thing I remember. And there wasn’t a sign out front. Back then, if you had that … done to you, you had to do it in secret. It’s not like it is nowadays, where you can pick up the yellow pages and find places proudly advertising it. The inside was so cold, and the people there—”
“Describe the outside. What did the outside look like? Was it blue?”
“White,” she said without hesitation.
“You’re sure?”
“I remember everything about that day. I had to climb this really steep set of concrete steps. I’ll never forget those steps. It was like I was climbing up a mountain. When I came out, I was in so much discomfort and still woozy that Stan had to hold onto me, help me down the steps. I kept feeling like I was going to fall.”
Just like in the picture. Rose was describing the same place.
Mike said, “Rose, do you know Cindy Gillmore’s phone number?”
“Her last name isn’t Gillmore anymore. It’s Clarkston. She changed her name when she remarried—even changed her first name to Margaret. Margaret Ann Clarkston.”
“Right, I forgot. You have the number?”
“She won’t talk to you, trust me. When Jonah died, I wanted to call and tell her I was sorry. I knew she had an unlisted number, and I knew she probably wouldn’t want to talk to me.”
“But you called her anyway,” Mike said. Rose the constant mother, wanting to make sure people were doing okay.
“I know it was wrong of me, but I had a friend from the phone company give me her new number. I called her to … I guess I wanted to reach out, talk to her the same way I talked with you. She nearly bit my head off. Said that this number was unlisted for a reason and hung up on me.”
“Give it to me anyway.”
“Can I ask you why? You’ve never wanted to talk with her before.”
“I know, but …”
“Does this have to do with Jonah?” Rose’s tone jumped, brightening.
“Look, I’m probably grasping at straws here.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“I need to speak w
ith Cindy first. If what I’m thinking pans out, I’ll call you first thing tomorrow.”
“Can you hold on for a moment? I have to go searching for it.”
“Take your time.”
Rose opened the door and clunked the phone down on something hard. As he listened to the soft, slightly faraway sounds of her shoes clicking across the floor, of drawers being opened and shut, he thought about how he would approach Cindy Gillmore/Margaret Ann Clarkston. Everything pointed to the fact that she didn’t want to talk about what had happened to her daughter. If she had caller ID, she would have recognized Rose Giroux’s name when it flashed on the caller ID screen. But Cindy had picked up and ripped Rose a new one.
Cindy wouldn’t have that attitude if a police officer was calling.
Merrick wouldn’t do it. In his mind, the case was closed. Slow Ed might. It probably went against some sort of rule, but maybe—
Rose came back on the line. “Here it is,” she said and gave him the number.
“Thanks, Rose.”
“Promise you’ll call me if you find out anything.”
“Cross my heart,” Mike said and hung up.
By the time he found a pay phone two blocks away, he had formed a solid—and hopefully, workable—story. He dialed the number
(this is insane)
relieved when the phone on the other end picked up.
“Hello,” the breezy female voice asked.
“Mrs. Clarkston?”
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Clarkston, my name is Detective Smits. I’m sorry to bother you, but I need to speak with you for a moment. I just have a quick question.”
“I don’t want to talk to you people anymore. You’ve been here day after day, and I told you everything I know about that goddamn monster. I’m done with all of it. Do you understand? I’m done.”
She didn’t have caller ID. She was assuming he was calling her from whatever city she was living in.
But your face—your voice—has been all over the TV, even CNN. What if she recognizes your voice?
Too late to turn back now. He launched right into it:“Mrs. Clarkston, are you Catholic?”
“That’s your question?”
“I know it’s an odd question, but it’s important.”
“I was Catholic. Emphasis on was.”
“Did you … I know this is extremely personal, but I need to know if you ever had an abortion before Caroline was born.”
A dead, ringing silence came from the other end of the line.
“I know this has been an extremely difficult time for you,” Mike said. “Believe me, if there’s anyone who understands what you’re going through, it’s me. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t extremely important.”
“My daughter’s been dead for twenty-four years.” The tough edge to her voice was gone; now it was teetering between crying and full-blown anger. “I’m not reliving it anymore. I’ve had it with you people. I changed my name for a reason. You’re not going to steal this life away from me too.”
“So that’s a yes?”
The sting of the dial tone came next. Mike dropped the phone and moved out to the street, one hand in the air to wave down a taxi, the other on his cell phone, dialing Merrick’s number.
CHAPTER 41
So you told Merrick,” Bill said to Mike. “Let him take it from there.”
“I’m pretty sure he’s going to blow it off.”
“Sully, he said he’d look into it.”
“I’m not holding my breath.”
Bill went back to working a sudsy sponge over the hood of Patty’s new bright yellow Ford Escape. He wore shorts, flip-flops and a short-sleeve shirt that showed off the biohazard tattoo on each meaty bicep. The silk shirt was imprinted with hundreds of miniature covers of Playboy magazine.
It was closing on six, the sunlight fading but the air still warm. Mike had just returned from Merrick’s office. After touching down at Logan, Mike had gone straight to the police station to see Merrick, who had agreed to a meeting, Mike telling the detective everything except the part about playing a police officer.
“Nice color,” Mike said. “The pink ones all sold out?”
“Patty picked it out,” Bill said, his voice flat. “I had nothing to do with it.”
“That the reason you’re pissed off?”
“It’s been a long day. The twins.” Bill shook his head. “There are moments when I wish I had been sterile.”
“I’ll bet anything Margaret Clarkston had that procedure done in New Hampshire.”
The strained look on Bill’s face was the same one Merrick wore just moments ago: Don’t talk, just nod, and hopefully this person will shut up and walk away.
Mike put down his Coke on the driveway and walked over to Bill. “You don’t find it the least bit odd that all three women had abortions?”
Bill shrugged. “It happens more than you think.”
“And if all three women had it done at this same place?”
“Okay. Let’s say what you’re saying is true.”
“Let’s.”
“What’s the connection to Jonah?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I forwarded it to Merrick. It’s called a clue.”
Bill dropped the sponge in the bucket and picked up his bottle of Sam Adams from the hood.
“Say it.”
“I was just thinking back to Friday night when you came down to the kitchen all dressed to the nines. The next morning, Grace comes up to me and says ‘Uncle Michael’s smiling again.’”
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“Yeah, you did.” Bill pointed the beer bottle at Mike as he spoke. “You were the one who went to Lou and kept squeezing his cherries until he spit up this stuff about your mother. So now you got that bouncing around your head, and if that isn’t enough, you go to New York and dig up all this crap on Jess. Bottom line? It’s got nothing to do with nothing.”
“I think it’s worth something.”
“Yeah. It’s a nice distraction.”
“From what?”
Bill propped both forearms on the Escape’s hood. He picked at the beer label as raindrops of water dripped off the SUV.
“What I say, I say out of love. Let Sarah go. You want to cry, scream—you want to go and get drunk, fine, you name it and I’ll be there with you, if that’s what you want. But all this digging … it’s got to stop, Sully. At some point you’ve got to move on and enjoy your life.”
Mike lit a cigarette, turned his face away to the front lawn where Grace and Emma sat, playing with their Barbie dolls. Paula sat on the front steps, a cordless phone pressed against her ear, her free hand rubbing Fang’s belly, the dog on his side, passed out.
Paula saw Mike staring at her, waved hello. Mike waved back.
“She’s really grown up, hasn’t she?”
“I’m sorry, Sully. I know that’s not enough, but that’s all I can say.”
“I’m going to head out for a bit.”
“Stay for dinner.Patty’s making steak tips. No Alka-Seltzer needed.”
“Another time. Thanks again for watching the dog. Enjoy your night with your family,” Mike said and walked over to get Fang.
CHAPTER 42
Mike was on the way home when, for a reason he couldn’t explain, he felt a need to go over to the cemetery. Without questioning it, he turned around, and he now stood in an almost trance-like state at Jonah’s grave. Fang remained in the truck, too tired to move.
The morning he had lost it out here on the phone with Jess—he had cried for Sarah, absolutely, but he hadn’t been able to release her. Even later, when he listened to Merrick more or less say that Sarah was dead, a part of Mike still refused give up hope. When he packed up her room, a cry of hope rose up and told him that what he was doing was wrong. Now, as he stood here at the gravesite, he found the hope still there, still digging in its heels. I’m not leaving and guess what? You can’t make me.
Maybe Bill had a point. Maybe dig
ging up all this stuff was a distraction.
Jonah lay six feet under, sealed behind wood, preserved in embalming fluid. The grass had recently been cut. Mike saw wet grass clippings stuck to the sides of his shoes, and he remembered how Sarah loved to run around barefoot and would sometimes come back in from outside with the bottom of her feet stained green, clippings all over the carpet, driving Jess crazy. He remembered how she loved to scoop the cheese off pizza—“Daddy, it’s the best part, and I only want to eat the best part”—and he remembered how she would throw a fit if she wasn’t allowed to pick out her own clothes or decide the amount of blueberries she wanted in her pancakes or put in the number of chocolate chips she wanted in the cookies she and Jess baked together. When he thought of Sarah, it was always these moments of toughness that came to him, these small ways she had of trying to control her world, to prove that she was independent and had a mind of her own and God help you if you got in her way. Remembering Sarah in this way—this spirited toughness she used to move through life—maybe that was a distraction too. Maybe he didn’t want to see her as willingly walking off with Jonah, no matter how upset she was.
Why didn’t you kick and scream when Jonah picked you up, Sarah? Why didn’t you have one of your patented meltdowns? I would have heard you. Why did you just walk away and leave me?
That coffin held not one body but four. And it would be that way forever—unless he wanted to hold a separate service for Sarah, maybe bury her snow jacket and snow pants when the police released them. Only you didn’t bury things. You buried people. You prepared them for their journey into the ground and whatever lay beyond it. You didn’t say goodbye to a snow suit. He couldn’t.