Time of Departure

by Douglas Schofield

  Rebecca watched her father take his seat. When he saw her looking at him, he gave an imperceptible nod and sat very, very still.

  Thirty-five minutes later, she found him waiting in the lobby.

  November 28, 2008

  Cross Creek, Florida

  She experienced the near death of too much knowledge.

  She wept. She raged.

  But she finally understood.

  She finally understood why her father had insisted she accompany him to Florida for her thirtieth birthday. Why he’d refused to take no for an answer. Why he’d visited her unit while she was off-shift and leaned hard on the OIC until the man agreed to reschedule her leave.

  Her father had wanted her isolated.

  Her father had wanted complete control, so he could manage the fallout.

  That morning, he’d brought her breakfast in bed. Along with the eggs and toast and coffee and orange juice came a dog-eared manuscript. Most of it was typed, but the final pages were written in a looping natural hand.

  In thirty years, not once had her father mentioned the manuscript’s existence.

  While she spent the day, propped by pillows, reading her mother’s impossible story of her impossible life, her father had left her alone. He lay on his bed, as motionless as a stone effigy on a tomb … and waited.

  The story was beyond belief, beyond logic, beyond comprehension, but it explained so much:

  Why she had been raised in Canada by a single American father …

  Why her father had never remarried …

  Why she’d never seen a photograph of her mother …

  Why her father had told her that her mother’s parents were both dead …

  Why there had always been so much mystery about her mother’s death …

  And it explained her father’s impenetrable silences. Silences that had eventually driven them apart.

  * * *

  He found her on the bathroom floor. He carried her to his bed. He held her for hours. He talked to her softly. He sat up all night, watching her sleep.

  By morning, she was shaky but ready to talk. He brought her coffee on the veranda. She was sitting in the old rocker. It had been her mother’s favorite chair. She desperately wanted to feel a physical connection, but it was just an old chair. The story was the connection. She had never believed in out-of-body experiences, but now she was living one. Her body was here, but some other part of her was … somewhere else.

  Wandering and confused.

  “What happened?” her physical self asked. “What happened at the end?”

  Her father was very still.

  Her hand found his. “Dad?”

  He wiped his eyes. “Our last day was a Sunday. Just before dark, I opened a bottle of Margaux. A month earlier, I had called every wine merchant in Gainesville until I tracked one down. It was a ’68—not a great year I later learned, but that wasn’t important. I wanted it to be a Margaux. I brought the bottle and two glasses out here. Your mother was sitting in that chair.” He went quiet for a second. “She must have felt it.”

  “Felt what?”

  “Something … a warning. I remember the screen door banging shut behind me. I remember the panic on her face. She said my name. She reached for me … and then the chair was empty.” He looked at her bleakly. “I have never known such despair. I took your mother’s place in that chair and drank the bottle of wine. If it wasn’t for you, I would have taken my own life that night.”

  “Me?”

  “You were three months old, and you were asleep in our bedroom.”

  “All those trips you took when I was growing up,” she said. “You were coming here.”

  “I watched you both grow up.”

  They were quiet for long minutes.

  He was remembering.…

  Remembering three days in his car in a parking lot, listening to Anne Murray’s heartbreaking chart-topper play over and over on the radio, waiting for Margaret Talbot to carry her infant daughter from the hospital.

  Remembering the playgrounds and the schools and the colleges and the summer jobs.

  Remembering the girlfriends and the boyfriends, the betraying lovers and the lovers betrayed.

  Remembering three decades of grief, of madness, of unremitting sorrow.

  Rebecca’s voice rescued him from his sink of memory and pain.

  “And now, Dad … what?”

  “Soon it will be time for me to reenter her life. I will need your help.”

  “Do I look like her?”

  “Yes. And you have her toughness, which is good. You’re going to need it.”

  “I want to see her.”

  He handed her a folded section of newspaper. “She’s running an extortion prosecution this week.”

  She read the brief account eagerly, her hands trembling, her eyes racing down the column, lingering over the quotes … and then she read it again, slowly, sentence by sentence. He watched the wonder and the fear in her eyes.

  “You can see her today,” he said. “She won’t be aware of us for two more years.”

  Rebecca’s eyes drifted to their rental car, parked in front of the steps. It was a metallic blue Malibu.

  “She kept seeing a white SUV.”

  “I bought it a few months ago. It’s in storage in Jacksonville. I’ll install the taillights on my next trip.”

  “You mean our next trip.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  “Who’s the registered owner?”

  “You, but with a different name.”

  “Which means I’ll need ID.”

  “Just a driver’s license. Don’t worry. I know a guy.”

  “He must be dead by now!”

  “His son isn’t.”

  That afternoon they drove to Gainesville. They parked at a diner on South Main, across from the courthouse entrance. They went in, took a table by the window, and ordered a late lunch. They lingered, killing time, barely touching their food. Just before four, they returned to the car.

  They waited.

  At four forty-five, Marc squeezed Rebecca’s hand.

  Rebecca’s throat constricted as she watched a young white woman descend the courthouse steps accompanied by a tall middle-aged black man. In that instant, Rebecca knew it was all true. The angles of the woman’s face … her figure … the way she moved …

  It was as if she were watching a slightly altered version of herself.

  “The man is Edward Carlyle,” her father said. “He’s the State Attorney’s Chief Investigator.”

  “I remember … from the Hauser case.”

  Claire Talbot and Edward Carlyle crossed the street and turned north. They passed in front of the parked Malibu. Carlyle seemed to sense their presence. He gave Marc the once-over. His gaze lingered a little longer on Rebecca, and then he looked away. Claire was lost in thought and didn’t notice.

  Rebecca reached for her door handle.

  “Becks!”

  “I just want to hear her voice! I’ll make something up! I’ll … I’ll ask for directions!”

  “Please, sweetheart! This isn’t the time. You know that.”

  “Dad! Please!” She grabbed at his wrists. “Why can’t we stop this? Why can’t we just fix it?”

  “Fix it?”

  “Why can’t we just keep her off that train? We can do that! She might be running from you by then, but I could help! I could find a way to stop her from getting on the train, and then we could tell her the whole story, and”—in her fervor, her nails sank into his arm—“we can prove it to her!”

  “Prove it? How?”

  “With DNA! My DNA. It will prove I’m her daughter! She’ll have to believe us!”

  “Rebecca…”

  “What?”

  “Your mom and I had this conversation.”

  “You did? You mean … that’s the plan?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? It’s so simple!” Now she was frantic.

  “My
love, it’s the farthest thing from simple. Think it through … if your mother doesn’t go into the past, she can’t save her own mother from Harlan Tribe. If she doesn’t save her, she’ll never be born. And neither will you.” He waited while his daughter processed his words. He could sense her resistance—her mind searching, searching for a way out … for any way out.

  Searching for a solution where there wasn’t one.

  “You’re forgetting something else.”

  “What?”

  “‘Only the future is certain,’ and your mother’s future is in the past.” He was trying to keep his voice calm, but it was a plainly a struggle. “If our future—yours and mine—is to stop her from getting on that train, how could you be sitting here now? And how could I even know she exists? That future would cancel this present.”

  Rebecca’s fortitude suddenly deserted her. She collapsed against her father, her body shuddering with sobs. Marc Hastings wrapped his daughter in his arms and waited for her to cry herself out.

  * * *

  He held Rebecca’s hand as he drove, but they didn’t speak for most of the trip home.

  As they rolled through the last mile into Cross Creek, she heaved a long, rattling sigh and broke the wall of silence between them. “Harrison Ford, huh?”

  He forced a smile. “Guess I’d better get in shape.”

  “Definitely.”

  “What does that mean?” he asked, feigning mild offense.

  “It means if you think you’re going to keep that wall-to-wall sex thing going with a woman half your age, you’d better join a gym!”

  “See here, young lady! That’s no way to talk to your father.”

  She laughed, and then he did.

  They looked at each other in wonder, shocked that they could laugh at all.

  They crossed the bridge over the creek.

  “Do you ever stop at The Yearling when you come here?”

  “Once in a while.”

  “Is Nonie still there?”

  “Yes. She thinks your mom died in a car accident.”

  “So did I.”

  “I’m sorry, Becks.”

  “Does Nonie know about me?”

  “Sure does. I told her you’re one of those legendary red-coated Mounties in the Great White North. She was impressed.”

  “Let’s stop!”

  He slowed the car. “Are you sure?”

  “She knew my mother. I want to meet her.”

  “You’ll have to be careful what you say.”

  “I will, but I’m not worried.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Mom said Nonie never pries.”

  Marc swung the Malibu into The Yearling’s lot. When they entered the building, he led her past the bar, directly to the table closest to the rear exit door.

  “Is this the table where you stopped that beer glass?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who were you with, Dad? Who left the table and went out that door just before Mom came in?”

  “It hasn’t happened yet, remember?”

  “Okay. Who will it be?”

  “You, sweetheart. It will be you.”

  As Rebecca grappled with her father’s reply, a gravelly female voice growled, “About time, Marc Hastings! Where have you been?”

  Rebecca swung around. A white-haired woman was embracing her father.

  “Are you Nonie?” Rebecca asked.

  “I am.” The woman turned to Rebecca. Her jaw dropped. “You must be … Sweet Jesus, you look just like your mother!”

  Before Nonie could react, Rebecca pulled her into a hug. “Thank you,” Rebecca whispered. “Thank you for being her friend.”

  Nonie stepped back. Her eyes were damp. “It was a long time ago, but I still miss her. There was something about her.” Her mind seemed to drift off for a second. Then she wiped an eye and grinned at them. “Let’s get you some drinks. First round’s on me!”

  They stayed for dinner.

  * * *

  The following afternoon, as they waited in the small business terminal at Ocala Regional Airport, Rebecca asked her father the Question.

  The Question. The one that had haunted him for thirty years.

  “Dad?

  “Mmm?” He looked up from his newspaper.

  “What about Tribe?”

  She watched her father’s eyes turn to chalk. “That’s something we need to discuss.”

  “I may not be here to help you. I mean, if you get Mom pregnant before she goes … back.” Rebecca didn’t elaborate. She didn’t have to.

  “You’ll be here. You were definitely conceived back then.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Your Mom saw you … from the train.”

  “But … her manuscript! She didn’t know me!”

  “Not then. But before she was gone, she realized it must have been you.”

  “She said that?”

  “She asked me to tell you. She hoped that, maybe—knowing that—it won’t hurt as much when you see that train leave.”

  Rebecca watched her father. Something wasn’t right.

  “You’re not sure. You would have told me sooner.”

  He sighed. “No, I’m not sure. I’m counting on a mother’s intuition. But it’s your mother’s intuition, so I’d bet my life on it.”

  “And my life?”

  “Yes, dear Becks.” He touched her cheek. “And your life.”

  The pilot of their chartered jet appeared at the security desk. He signed some paperwork and then nodded to them.

  Rebecca rose and picked up her bag. “That’s good enough for me,” she said, and started walking to the plane.

  March 1, 2011

  Palatka, Florida

  It was her second visit. The first one, ten days ago, had been to get her bearings.

  Not that those bearings were needed. The Amtrak Rail Station at Palatka was not much larger than a house in suburbia. The covered portion of the ground-level platform was a twenty-by-fifty rectangle of worn and cracked concrete under split sections of tiled roof supported by four metal uprights. The uncovered portion consisted of a narrow asphalt sidewalk that yielded to a level road crossing a few hundred feet to the south and gave way to roadbed gravel and patchy grass a hundred feet to the north.

  She took a position on the grass near the northwest corner of the station.

  She ticked off the minutes in her mind, waiting.

  There it was.

  The distant sound of a train’s horn. Two short blasts, then a long one. Ten seconds … twenty … then a distant light … clang, clang, as the barriers lowered at the level crossing … clang, clang, as the sleek engine rolled past her position … a second engine … a baggage car … sliding past the platform, braking, squealing … the long shimmer of the passenger cars slowing, slowing …

  The train stopped.

  Seconds passed. A minute, then another.

  A family disembarked … mother and father lugging suitcases, two mop-headed boys.

  Next, a man, twenty-something, alone, T-shirt, cargo pants, slinging a knapsack.

  Then, from the next car down, an older woman, fifties, maybe sixties, with a small wheeled bag and an agitated expression.

  Rebecca moved fast, marching across the platform, double-timing down the asphalt extension. She seized the woman by the arm.

  “Are you Gertie Hopkins?”

  The woman recoiled, startled. Her brow knitted. “That was my maiden name. How did—?” She fixed on Rebecca’s face, and her eyes widened. “My goodness, you look like—!”

  “—Claire Talbot. I know. Show me where she’s sitting!”

  “Why?”

  “Show me!”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Please … just show me.”

  The woman pointed at a window in the car next to them. It was about twenty feet away. Rebecca’s eyes took a millisecond to focus, and then she saw her mother watching them through the darkened glass. In that same instan
t, the train started to move.

  Rebecca released her grip on the woman’s arm and started jogging, trying desperately to keep pace.

  Her eyes locked on her mother’s eyes. Her mother looked puzzled, then … disturbed.

  All the anguish and longing that Rebecca Hastings had kept sealed off deep at the center of her being finally welled up and overwhelmed her.

  “Mommy!” she cried. “I love you!”

  The train departed on its final journey.

  Rebecca fell to her knees.

  Gertie Hopkins approached. She stood off a few paces, silent and respectful.

  Rebecca rose to her feet. She faced the old nurse. “Claire Talbot just saved your life.” Her voice was flat, hollow, empty.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because she told me she would.” She rubbed away her tears. “She saved mine, too.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Her daughter.”

  “But … that’s impossible!”

  “I know.”

  Rebecca turned and walked away.

  March 2, 2011

  Gainesville, Florida

  Tribe checked the street as he drove toward his house. There were no vehicles that didn’t belong. He swung into his driveway and nosed the car up to the garage door. When he got out, he glanced around warily. With luck, the media hounds had moved on to the next big story, and the driveway ambushes were over.

  Maybe, at last, he could get back to his life.

  He scuttled to the rear of his station wagon and dropped the tailgate. As he lifted out the bags of groceries, he congratulated himself on his brains and his luck. Brains because the cops hadn’t found the photographs, and luck because that young prosecutor and her ex-cop pal had done such a flawless job of tainting the evidence.

  Young prosecutor …

  That one made no sense.…

  It made no fucking sense at all!

  He pushed the perplexing thoughts away.

  His attorney had told him the search of his residence at the time of his arrest would have been tougher to challenge. “Search incident to arrest,” Bannister had called it. When he’d admitted, obliquely, that there might be some evidence in the house connecting him to the missing girls, he’d been confident that attorney–client privilege would prevent Bannister from ever repeating that to anyone. The lawyer had told him—through clenched teeth—that if the cops had found that evidence, he would definitely be facing a jury.