Unbreathed Memories

by Marcia Talley

My Little Girl wanted comfort food. Macaroni and cheese.

  Hannah, you are not getting into the proper spirit of things. I tried again, casting my mind back to my childhood. How far back could I remember?

  I slouched in my chair, thinking. San Diego, of course, when I was ten. Before that, Italy. Italy remained in my mind like an impressionistic painting, a kaleidoscope of happy, sunny images. The mountains, the sea. Marita, the maid, young and giggly, not many years older than Ruth and me. Her handsome boyfriend, Paolo, who won our hearts with his silly acrobatic tricks. Before Italy had been Pensacola and that wretched boy next door who always called me Hannah Banana. And before Pensacola? I sucked on the end of my pen, pushing the retractable button in and out with the tip of my tongue. Norfolk was a blur, yet some memories bobbed to the surface, clear and sharp. I remembered building a fort with Ruth in the woods behind our house. I remembered sending a dead raccoon out to sea on a makeshift raft, like a Viking funeral.

  I shut my eyes. An image materialized behind my lids. An image of a backyard wading pool with me lying in it, my hair floating around my head, my eyes staring up into the bright summer sky. I was swishing my head back and forth, feeling the sticks and lumpy lawn under the thin vinyl bottom of the pool. Ruth on a nearby swing, laughing, her legs, ankles crossed, rhythmically slicing across the trees that framed my view of the Virginia sky. Daddy was nowhere in the picture. I knew he’d been at sea.

  I remembered our pets. My mother favored orange tabby cats—Marmalade and Sunshine—and we’d once had a big, galumphing sheepdog named Snowshoes. Had I had a favorite doll? I didn’t remember. Hmmph. If I couldn’t remember my own doll, I doubted I could remember Georgina’s. Besides, I never liked Cabbage Patch dolls; never understood the attraction of those little scrunched-up, withered-apple faces. Emily had been six when the Cabbage Patch mania swept the country. She called me the meanest mother in the world when I refused to scratch and claw my way through the lines at Toys “R” Us or buy a ticket on the Concorde and fly to Europe to buy her a Cabbage Patch Kid like everyone else’s mother.

  I sat up straight. Wait a minute! That had been the Christmas of 1983! Georgina had to have been, what, in her twenties? Cabbage Patch Kids had been fairly new then. Georgina couldn’t have owned one much before then! Nobody could.

  I padded downstairs to the computer and turned it on, fiddling with the mouse while I waited impatiently for Windows to load. When the desktop appeared, I clicked on the AOL icon and went to Lycos.com on the Internet. “Cabbage Patch Kids,” I typed on the query line.

  Almost three thousand hits. People all over the world were collecting the little tykes. One redheaded baby boy doll had been auctioned for three hundred dollars. Holy cow! Seeing stuff like that made me want to turn out the attic. There might be a lucrative market for those old fondue pots and lamps made out of wine bottles that I couldn’t bear to throw away.

  I paged down, clicking on various sites maintained by avid Cabbage Patch Kid collectors. Just as I thought. Even if Georgina had owned an original Xavier Roberts doll shipped straight from Babyland General Hospital in Cleveland, Georgia, instead of a later doll by Coleco, Hasbro, or Mattel, she was still way too old. Cabbage Patch Kids had been invented in 1978, when Georgina was twenty.

  The sooner I talked some sense into my crazy sister, the better. I remembered what Ms. Bromley had said. Maybe this was just the kind of proof I needed to make Georgina see reason. I dialed Georgina’s number, but no one answered. By now I was wondering if Scott had taken his family on a vacation without telling anybody. I left a message saying I would call back, then considered what to do next. I didn’t feel much like talking to my Little Girl again, although I had to admit she’d been extraordinarily helpful about the Cabbage Patch Kid.

  The pages from Dr. Sturges’s appointment book lay where I had left them on the desk. C. Cameron was next on my list. I had jotted down a possible telephone number with an address on Keswick Road. I dialed the number, and when a woman answered, I went into my spiel. “Ms. Cameron, this is Betty Smith from the Baltimore Police.”

  “Yes?” She sounded meek, almost frightened.

  “I’m following up on a few things from the other day.”

  Suddenly her voice became guarded. “Haven’t I talked with you before? Your voice sounds familiar.”

  Strangely, she sounded familiar, too. Suddenly the faceless voice on the other end of the line acquired plump cheeks and a dark brown ponytail held back with a red barrette. Claudia from All Hallows! I tried to make my voice sound like a cross between Debra Winger and Lauren Bacall instead of the Minnie Mouse range I sometimes slip into when I get excited. “No, you talked with Officers Williams and Duvall.”

  “I could have sworn …”

  I moved on quickly, not giving her the leisure to think. “Do you know of anyone who had a grudge against the doctor?”

  “No one. She was helping us!”

  “Irate husbands? Angry fathers?”

  “How would I know that?” She became wary. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Smith, Betty Smith. Baltimore Homicide.”

  “Look, Ms. Smith. I already told you. Dr. Sturges was the kindest, most generous woman I’ve ever known. I can’t think of anybody who’d want her dead.”

  A gravelly voice in the background wanted to know how long she was going to be on the telephone and demanded lunch. “Look,” she said, “I gotta go. Why don’t you give me your telephone number and I’ll call you back if I think of anything.”

  Oh, hell. The only Baltimore telephone number I knew by heart was Georgina’s. I improvised a number recklessly and hung up, practically throwing the receiver into the cradle. I wondered whose number that was and hoped that Claudia would never have occasion to use it.

  I added a line for Claudia Cameron to my list. Next to her name I wrote “Father?” After that evening at All Hallows, Claudia’s description of her abuse made me wonder where her father had been on the afternoon of January 15. He could have just as much motive as our father for getting rid of Dr. Sturges.

  I studied the names in the doctor’s appointment book, looking for other possible matches with members of the group at All Hallows, but other than Claudia and JoAnne, none seemed likely.

  I was so lost in thought that when the phone rang, I dropped my pen. I could see from the caller ID that Scott was on the line, calling from his cell phone.

  “Hi, Scott.”

  “It’s not Scott. It’s me, Georgina.”

  “Oh, Georgina! Hi!”

  “I hate it when you do that, Hannah. That caller ID of yours is spooky.”

  “It wasn’t my idea. It was Paul’s. He likes to know when someone is calling from the academy.”

  “Well, it’s weird.”

  I guessed she was speaking from her car, because her voice kept fading in and out. I needed to find out, because I didn’t want to say what I was about to say if she was in control of a moving motor vehicle. “Where are you?”

  “In the backyard, picking up the kids’ toys.”

  So far so good. “Georgina, I want to tell you something and I want you to think about it.”

  “How mysterious! What?”

  “Cabbage Patch Kids were invented in 1978.”

  The line hissed and crackled for an eternity before Georgina spoke again. “So?”

  “You were twenty years old in 1978.”

  “I honestly don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Hannah.”

  “Just think about it, Georgina.”

  I wondered how I could ask this next question without letting on that I knew more than I ought to about her therapy group. And then I thought, so what if she knows? Maybe it would help the truth get through her thick skull. “When you weren’t home last night, I went by the church looking for you.”

  “I wasn’t there. Choir rehearses on Tuesday and I usually practice on Friday.”

  “But I ran into Lionel.”

  “Lucky for you.” She s
norted.

  “Doesn’t he ever go home?”

  “From time to time. His wife’s something of a battle-ax.”

  “Lionel told me about a therapy group that meets at the church and mentioned that you used to attend it.”

  “What a tattletale!” She sighed. “I did go for a while, but I was finding the private sessions with Dr. Sturges much more helpful. Besides, I was practically living at that church. I needed a break.”

  “Did you get involved with that group because it met at the church?”

  “Quite the other way around.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I heard about the organ job from one of the members in the group.”

  I nearly dropped my cup. “So, how did you find out about the group itself?”

  “Through the children’s pediatrician, Dr. Voorhis. After Julie I was going through a spell of depression, and during one of Julie’s well-baby visits, he recommended Dr. Sturges. In a way, that’s why I called.”

  “Huh?”

  “I think I’ve found a new therapist. Dr. Voorhis recommended him, too.”

  “That’s great!” I said, hoping that it was. If the new therapist was from the same school as the old one, though, Georgina could be looking at years more of the same expensive nonsense.

  “Scott’s taking me to interview him tomorrow afternoon, but I need your help.”

  “Oh?”

  “Could you watch Julie for me?”

  “How about the boys?”

  “They’re in school. I’ll only need you to pick them up if we’re running late.”

  Tomorrow would be Friday. I would have to miss my morning at St. John’s. I thought about telling her to get a baby-sitter, but I didn’t want to do anything to discourage her from seeking treatment. Besides, I adored my niece, and it wasn’t Julie’s fault her mother wasn’t always playing with a full deck. “OK, what time?”

  The relief in her voice was apparent, even over the bad connection. “Thanks, Hannah! I don’t know what I’d do without you. Can you come around ten-thirty?”

  I said I’d see her then and hung up.

  I sat there for a while, thinking. One woman had found her way to Dr. Sturges’s group via a notice in Fresh Fields. Georgina got there through Dr. Voorhis. Some of the women were undoubtedly church members. But then I remembered something Mindy had said about a tent revival. Tent revivals didn’t sound very Anglican to me. I wondered how Mindy’d gotten involved. I trotted upstairs to the entrance hall, found my purse, and rummaged through it, looking for the business card Mindy had given me.

  Amanda Glover was CEO of a management consulting firm in Towson. After two intervening gatekeepers, one of whom must have been paid extra for her mellifluous British accent, Mindy came on the line.

  “Hi, Hannah. I’m glad you called.”

  “Look, I’m sorry to bother you at work, but I was wondering about something.”

  “What?”

  “Who recommended Dr. Sturges’s group to you?”

  “Our pediatrician. Why do you ask?”

  “I, uh, I just realized that I didn’t know anything about her, except what Georgina told me. I guess I just wanted to make sure the methods she used with the group were, well, orthodox.”

  Mindy chuckled. “You can be certain of that. Diana was licensed by the state of Maryland.”

  “So,” I asked, “is someone else qualified going to take over?”

  “I should think so. Joy is trying to find another therapist by the end of the month.”

  “Who is your pediatrician, by the way?”

  “Dr. Voorhis. You got kids? He’s absolutely the best.”

  Bingo! Two votes for Dr. Voorhis. “If I were in the market I’d sign up right now, Mindy, but my daughter is twenty-two and lives in Colorado. I have a one-month-old granddaughter.”

  “No way! You? A grandmother?”

  “Yup.”

  “Honestly, Hannah, you don’t look old enough to be a grandmother.”

  “Sold my soul to the devil in exchange for eternal youth,” I quipped.

  There was a long silence, and when Mindy spoke again, her voice was cool and measured. “A word to the wise, Hannah.”

  I wondered how I had stepped on her toes.

  “Don’t mention the devil in group session.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You had no way of knowing. It’s Gwen. Her parents were involved in a satanic cult.”

  I gulped. “The dairy farmers?”

  “It takes all kinds.” While I was digesting this, another line began to buzz, saving me from having to come up with a coherent reply. “Look, gotta go,” Mindy chirped. “Thanks for calling. Will I see you on Wednesday?”

  “Probably.”

  “Good!” She sounded like a cheerleader. “Keep journaling!”

  “I will.”

  After I hung up, I stared at the wall for a while, then looked at the yellow pad in front of me. I’d written Dr. V in big, square capital letters and drawn several circles around it. What connection did the pediatrician have with Diane Sturges? Not her husband. I’d read in the Sun that Sturges had been married to an architect. That certainly explained the geometric roofline and cantilevered wings of their fashionable Lake Roland home. Was Dr. Voorhis her lover? Or was it just a case of one medical colleague helping out another? I sat there, puzzling, idly drawing additional boxes around his name and decorating the results with superfluous circles and arrows. How was I to know that in less than twenty-four hours I’d be face-to-face with the man, under totally unforeseen circumstances?

  chapter

  12

  At a few minutes after ten-thirty, I finally found a parking space for my car near the cul-de-sac at the end of Colorado Avenue. I strolled up the sidewalk on the sunny side, savoring the sensation of warmth against my cheek while the rest of me was freezing in the inadequate windbreaker I’d tossed over my jeans and T-shirt.

  At Scott and Georgina’s, I reached over and unlatched the gate, then hurried up the walk that bisected the front yard. Ragged remains of summer flowers waved desultorily in the crisp breeze. I passed an overturned tricycle, probably Julie’s, a basketball squashed flat, and a plastic softball bat that, judging from the crack along the seam, might have been used to squash the former.

  I pulled open the screen door and rapped sharply with the knocker.

  “Come in.” Scott sounded so close, I thought for a minute that he’d hollered at me through the mail slot.

  I turned the knob and pushed the door open with two fingers, nearly bumping into my brother-in-law, who was shrugging into a khaki trench coat. He snatched a wool golf cap from a hook near the door and laid it flat on his head, like a pancake.

  Unlike the last time I saw him, Scott was positively charming. He had changed so much, in fact, that I wondered if he’d had a personality transplant.

  “Thanks, Hannah. You are a gift from heaven.” He kissed the air next to my cheek.

  I cringed. After what he’d said about my parents the other day, I didn’t feel like having anything to do with the jerk.

  Scott waved vaguely. “The boys are at school and Julie’s in watching TV.”

  “Fine,” I snapped, and hung my coat on a hook next to Georgina’s familiar green one. It swung in the breeze like a ghost, reminding me of the day I had found Georgina at Dr. Sturges’s. I turned to face him. “And when may I expect you, Scott?” I hoped he’d notice my icy tone, but the man was oblivious.

  “We’ll pick the boys up at school and be back around four.”

  I looked around. “Where’s Georgina?”

  “I’m coming!” Georgina appeared in the door of the living room looking radiant. Her auburn hair was piled up on her head in an elaborate twist and her makeup was cover-girl perfect. I’d dressed in five minutes that morning and didn’t dare pass a mirror for fear that I’d die of fright. Or shame.

  I grabbed both of Georgina’s hands in mine and squeezed. “It’s great to see you
looking so well, Georgina.”

  She smiled weakly. “I’m a mess, Hannah, but I’m hoping that this new doctor can help straighten me out.”

  I had to agree, Georgina was a mess. A beautiful mess, like a freshly painted Victorian house consumed by termites and riddled with dry rot. I pulled her to me and hugged her hard. “God, I hope so, baby!”

  “C’mon, Georgina!” Scott had opened the door. A cold breeze whistled up my pants legs and a dry leaf skittered across the hardwood floor.

  Georgina grabbed her coat and handed it to Scott, who draped it carefully around his wife’s shoulders. She stepped out onto the porch, turned her head, and graced me with a Mona Lisa smile. “Wish me luck!”

  “Good luck.” I waved and stood in the doorway until Scott started his engine. As I closed the door, I heard the SUV roar away.

  “Hey, Julie!” I called. “Where’s my favorite niece?” There was no answer, but I could hear the TV blaring. When I entered the TV room, Julie appeared flushed and listless, curled up on the sofa with Abby. The blue-gray afghan Mother had crocheted for Georgina two Christmases ago was tucked loosely around her knees. Sally Jessy Raphael was interviewing a former stripper. Clearly no one did any prescreening on the cable box in this house. I found the remote and clicked over to Channel 22. Arthur was just ending and Wishbone would be coming on soon.

  Julie took her thumb out of her mouth and glared at me contemptuously. “I was watching that, Aunt Hannah!”

  “That’s a grown-up show, Julie. Not for kids.”

  “But it was in-ter-rest-ing,” she whined, pronouncing every syllable. “That lady’s a proseltude.”

  I tried hard not to laugh. “What does Abby like to watch?”

  Julie lifted her toy rabbit and stared at her, nose to nose. “What do you want to watch, Abby?” Abby’s whole body nodded, and Julie looked at me with serious eyes. “Silly Jessy,” she translated. “Abby wants to watch Silly Jessy.” She clicked back to the network show.

  I sat down on the sofa next to my niece. One of her taffy-colored ponytails had come loose; the other was bound with a fat green rubber band like the kind that holds celery stalks together in the grocery. I reached out to tuck her hair behind her ear and was surprised to find that she had a fever.