“I’m terrified. Going to live in a big city for the first time is a huge step for a country girl like me.”
“Thank God that witch hunt against you is finally over. Because you’re about to commit the worst sin known to an American: moving to France.”
I laughed. And then we lapsed into silence again. Finally Dad said, “Hannah, I know this sounds grim, but you have to prepare for the worst tomorrow.”
“I am prepared.”
The truth was: I was hardly prepared, even though the thought of Lizzie’s death had haunted my every move for months. How can you prepare for the loss of your child?
When it was clear to me that I wasn’t going to sleep, I picked up the phone and called the Onyx Hotel in Boston. The desk clerk said that there was a room available and yes, he’d alert the night porter on duty to expect me sometime around two a.m. I threw a few overnight things in a bag and locked up the house. I backed the car out of the drive and headed south.
I played Maine Public Radio as I maneuvered the car toward I-295. A late-night news bulletin came on before the station switched over to all-night classical music. I couldn’t help but think of the time in late summer when I dodged all news, for fear that the next item would be about me. Just as I remember the dread I had of leaving the house, out of worry that it would be defaced again by the time I came back.
YOU WIN . . . I’M GONE.
The day after The Jose Julia Show was aired, I returned to Maine and found that the graffiti I had asked Brendan Foreman to daub across my front door had been whitewashed over. In fact, the entire front door had been repainted in a perfect high-gloss white. There was a Post-it left on the door:
Told you the next job would be on the house . . . Brendan.
That same afternoon there was a knock on the door. Outside stood Mr. Ames from the Falmouth General Store. He had a big basket with him, wrapped in colored cellophane paper. He smiled a sheepish smile.
“Mrs. Buchan, ma’am, this is a small way of saying sorry to you for my rudeness in the shop some time back. I hope you’ll accept this, just as I also want you to know that we’d greatly like you back as a very valued and honored customer.”
With that, he handed me the basket—filled with gourmet crackers, and a tin of oysters, and jars of exotic chutneys and marmalades. Then with a nervous nod, he headed back to his car.
It still took me three months to start shopping again at his store, but when I finally crossed his threshold, he greeted me as if I had been in yesterday . . . as if nothing had happened.
And that, in general, was how people decided to play my return to the community. Courteous nods in the street. The occasional smile in the supermarket. Little else. When I returned to work for summer school, my colleagues largely said nothing more than “Nice to have you back,” though two of them did pull me aside and tell me how shameful my treatment had been. And when the fall term began and I greeted my class, there was no great moment of Hollywood catharsis where my kids leapt to their feet and cheered as their vindicated teacher entered the room. On the contrary, they kept on talking among themselves as I opened the door. I walked to the desk, opened my briefcase, spread out my papers, and finally got their attention by saying—in a voice loud enough to transcend their ongoing din—“All right. Hope you had a good summer. Let’s start . . .”
Among my students, routine apathy still ruled. Business as usual . . . and there was something reassuringly prosaic about that.
But whenever someone said a nervous hello to me in downtown Portland, or a woman at my gym came up and whispered, “I want you to know that many people thought you were so terribly wronged,” it only seemed to accentuate the hurt and anger I still felt toward Dan. Surely, after Judson’s revelations were exposed as lies, he could have called or sent a note, saying . . .
What? Sorry I left you . . . especially as I now know you were telling the truth . . . Or I know running off with one of your friends was tacky . . . ? What was there to say between us now?
I edged the car onto the interstate and tried to shove Dan out of my head by blasting the car radio. In the past year, I had driven the route from Portland to Boston so often that I seemed to know every minor turn, every small gradation of road surface, every damn billboard that decorated the way south. I was at the hotel by one-thirty a.m. The night guy checked me in, and relieved me of the car keys, and said he’d bring the car down to the adjoining garage. Once upstairs in the room, I tried to sleep. I failed. I channel-surfed, I read, I listened to the all-night jazz station, I attempted to keep my mind preoccupied with things other than Lizzie. I failed.
But around seven that morning, exhaustion finally overcame everything and I did drift off for a few hours. Then there was the jolting sound of the phone. “Good morning—this is your wake-up call . . .” It was ten-thirty a.m.—and after a few seconds of befuddlement, the realization hit me: this is the day when I find out that Lizzie is dead.
I was showered and dressed and in my car by eleven-fifteen. The traffic out to Brookline was diabolical—and I reached the precinct ten minutes late. Leary wasn’t perturbed, as I had called him while stuck in a jam on Commonwealth Avenue and warned him I would be late. When I got there, I found Dan in one of the chairs facing Leary’s desk. He stood up as I entered and extended his hand. I took it briefly, watching Leary watching us—wondering what he made of this stiff formal handshake, and how it spoke volumes about how everything in a thirty-year marriage can come so quickly asunder.
I took the other chair. Leary offered coffee. We both declined.
“All right, then,” he said. “The medical examiner is backed up on the autopsy front this week, on account of that terrible fire in Framingham you probably read about. But he did say that, owing to the body being in the water for over seven months, they would probably only be able to identify it through DNA samples, taken from bones . . .”
I glanced over at Dan. He was sitting there with his head bowed, staring at the floor.
“Under the circumstances,” Leary said, “I would strongly recommend that you do not see the body . . . even though it is your right to do so. I have seen what is left of it. If I was a family member—her parents—I’d find it far too traumatic. But again, I am legally bound to inform you that, should you insist on seeing the body, a viewing will be arranged.”
I glanced again over at Dan. This time he did meet my eyes and quickly shook his head before turning away again.
“We won’t be wanting a viewing,” I said to Leary.
“I think that’s wise,” he said. “Okay, then . . .”
He reached over to a large envelope on the desk and picked up two plastic Ziploc bags. He opened the larger of the two and pulled out a large, faded piece of denim.
“This is the only bit of clothing they found on the body. I know it’s probably ridiculous to be showing you a piece of old denim, but . . .”
“She did wear jeans,” Dan said.
“Everybody wears jeans,” I said.
“So there’s nothing in this item of clothing that absolutely jars the memory?” Leary asked. We both shook our heads. He now reached for the smaller envelope. Then, laying a piece of plain white paper on his desk, he opened the other Ziploc and tipped its contents out onto the paper.
“This is the cross they found on the body,” he said, holding up a small, elegant diamond cross attached to a silver chain. I felt a kick to the stomach. It was exactly the same cross that Lizzie had bought herself a year or so ago.
“The cross has a Tiffany hallmark,” Leary said. “We contacted the Tiffany shop here at Copley Plaza. They sell them there.”
“Lizzie bought hers there,” I said quietly.
“Are you sure?” Dan asked.
“She told me afterward that she’d gone over to Copley Plaza to buy it.”
What I didn’t mention was that Lizzie informed me that she’d bought the cross because she was feeling “a little down, a little blue—so hey, there’s nothing like treating yourself to a $2,600
piece of jewelry to chase away the Black Dog.”
“I’m sure it’s a beautiful cross,” I had said.
“Isn’t there something really sad about buying a piece of jewelry for yourself?”
“Hardly, Lizzie.”
“When have you ever done that, Mom?”
I didn’t know what to say—and she interpreted my silence as my answer.
“See, my point entirely,” Lizzie had said.
“Well,” Detective Leary said, “Tiffany’s checked their records for us, and they turned up Lizzie’s credit card payment for a necklace like this. Still, it could have been that she bought it as a gift for someone, which is why we didn’t want to immediately jump to the conclusion . . .”
“She wore the necklace all the time,” I said. “She loved the necklace.”
Long silence.
“Well, that’s very helpful,” Leary said. “As of now, there’s nothing more to say until the DNA tests come through. The trail has, otherwise, gone cold. I’m sorry to have dragged you both all the way down here for this, but we did need to know if the necklace was hers.”
He stood up, letting us know that the interview was over.
“We’ll be in touch as soon as we have conclusive data.”
Dan and I walked outside together. The day was cold, gray, cheerless.
We said nothing until we were clear of the precinct. I looked up at Dan and saw that his face was awash with tears.
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” he whispered.
“I think so, yes.”
His face tightened and I could see him doing everything possible to avoid breaking down. I took his hand and held it as he fought to regain his composure. When he felt he could talk again, he said, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For holding my hand.”
A beat. He looked up at the gray sky, then glanced at his watch.
“I’ve got to get back to Portland now,” he said.
“I see.”
“I had to reschedule a hip replacement for late this afternoon, so I could come down here.”
“It’s good that you came.”
Another beat.
“Hannah . . .”
He tried to look at me, but couldn’t.
“I miss you,” he said.
I said nothing.
“I miss you and . . .”
“Aren’t you happy in your new life?” I asked.
Another beat.
“No. Not at all.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Does that mean . . . ?”
“What?”
“I miss you.”
“So you said.”
“Could we maybe talk this over?” he asked.
“Talk what over?”
“The possibility that . . .”
“There is no possibility of . . .”
“I was wrong. So damn wrong.”
“I see.”
“And I now see that . . .”
He reached for my hand, but I put it out of his range.
“You terminated me, as if I was an employee,” I said, my voice calm. “You wouldn’t believe my side of the story, even though I begged you to. You left me for one of my friends. And after I was publicly vindicated, you didn’t once call to—”
“I meant to call . . .”
“Meant means nothing.”
“I was feeling shame and—”
“You still couldn’t bring yourself to call me.”
“I should have called you. I know that now.”
Another beat. He said, “Please . . . let’s try to meet up and just talk.”
“I don’t think so, Dan.”
“I’m not asking for anything . . .”
“You know, in the first couple of weeks after you left, if you had called me and said, ‘I’ve made a terrible mistake, I want to come home,’ I would have been stupid enough to have taken you back. Because you just don’t throw away thirty-four years like that. But you did throw them away—and you abandoned me when I needed you most. And now . . .”
I shrugged. And said, “Now I’m going to Paris.”
“You’re what?”
“Right after Christmas. I’ve negotiated a six-month sabbatical with the school. And I’m going to Paris.”
“To do what?”
“To be in Paris.”
Another beat. I could see he was trying to take this all in.
“And what made you decide to . . . ?”
I could have given him a detailed answer to that question—how, one morning, around five weeks ago, I walked into my classroom, looked out at that sea of bored faces, and thought: I want out for a while. Two hours later, I was in Carl Andrews’s office, telling him, without embellishment, that I needed a break from teaching and wanted the forthcoming winter and spring terms off. A year earlier, Andrews would have told me this request was completely out of the question. But his residual guilt, coupled with the fact that, as he intimated to me on one occasion, the school board was very relieved when I didn’t sue them for damages due to wrongful dismissal, garnered a different response.
“Given what you’ve been through recently, I think it’s a very sensible idea. When the school board meets next week, I’ll raise it with them. I can assure you they’ll not only approve it, but insist that it is a sabbatical on full pay.”
The following week, Andrews made good on that promise. And I started working the Internet, finding a short-term sublet in a central Parisian arrondissement. Eventually, the good old New York Review of Books came through for me—and after several phone calls and looking at some photographs of the place that the owner (a professor of French at Columbia) emailed to me, I agreed to a six-month lease on a small but well-furnished studio right near the Sorbonne. I would take possession of it on December 27.
“What made me decide to go to Paris?” I said, filling in the rest of Dan’s question. “It’s simple, really. I’ve always wanted to live there. Now I will for a while.”
“There are a few weeks before Christmas,” he said. “We could meet for a meal . . .”
“Dan . . . no.”
He bowed his head and said nothing. Then, “I have to get going,” he said.
“Okay.”
“As soon as Leary has the DNA report . . .”
“We’ll deal with that when it happens.”
A small nod from Dan. Then he squeezed my hand briefly and said two words, “Good luck,” before walking off toward his car.
Leary called me four days later with some news. Strange news. He said, “I’ve just learned that the DNA sample taken from the body’s bones does not match the DNA taken from the hairs found on Lizzie’s brush in her apartment. Which means the case is still open.”
“So she’s still alive?”
“Theoretically, yes. The medical examiner did point out that months in salt water can break down much of the DNA in the body—so it’s difficult to conclusively say that the body we found wasn’t Lizzie’s. And, face facts, over two hundred thousand people go missing in this country every year. And though none of the local women missing were the types who had the wherewithal to buy a Tiffany diamond cross, who’s to say that it couldn’t be someone from out of state who came to the Boston area without anyone’s knowledge and threw herself in the river? When it comes to working out human motivation, I’ve come to learn one thing: anything is possible. Just as I also know that you can never really put yourself into the mind of another person. It’s always too damn murky.”
“So she’s alive and dead at the same time?”
“As I said: everything is possible; everything is murky.”
I expected to hear from Dan after this, especially as Leary told me he was going to call him after me and tell him the news. But no call came from my ex-husband. Nor did he make any attempts at contacting me before the holidays, except by way of his official Christmas card—Dr. Daniel Buchan wishes you and your family a peaceful Christmas and a wondrous New Year—below w
hich was scribbled, “I hope you have a great sabbatical in Paris . . . Best . . .”
Just before I closed up the house and packed my one suitcase and left for Burlington and then Paris, I did receive one more communiqué from Dan: As of January 1, 2004, Dr. Daniel Buchan will be living at . . .
It gave the address of a condominium apartment on the waterfront in Portland. Jeff called on the twenty-third to say that his father would be spending the Christmas holidays with them.
“And I guess you know that he’s broken up with Alice?”
“I hadn’t heard the news, but his change-of-address card did seem to imply that.”
“I’ve kept trying to get him to call you, but he says that he knows what your response will be. So . . .”
“If he wants to call me, he can call me,” I said.
“Really?” Jeff said, suddenly interested.
“I’m just saying he can call. Nothing more.”
“And if he wants to call you in Paris?”
“I will take his call.”
“That’s great, Mom. When you’re back in the States, we will have you over. I promise . . .”
I said nothing.
“And I really would keep telling yourself that Lizzie is alive. Because where there’s hope . . .”
“There’s always ambiguity,” I said. “Everything is possible, everything is murky.”
And ambiguity does rule most things, doesn’t it? Dan tells Jeff he wants to speak with me. I offer to take his call, and in the days that follow, there is silence. An opportunity opens, an opportunity closes. I wonder what the hell is going on in Dan’s mind. Does he want me back? Is he too scared to call? Does he fear rejection? Is he still feeling so damn guilty that he can’t bring himself to face me? Has he decided he wants to try living on his own for a while? Or maybe he wonders what I’m thinking.
And the truth is: I can’t figure out what my actual viewpoint is here, because it’s such a jumble. Love, hate, anguish, betrayal, despair, fury, self-righteousness, self-doubt, self-loathing, self-appeasement, ego, arrogance, optimism, gloom, doubt, doubt, doubt . . . and then, more doubt.
But what’s wrong with doubt? How can anyone hold a black-and-white view of things when, in the end, most human interaction is so profoundly gray? Those closest to us do things that are baffling. We, in turn, do things we don’t totally comprehend. Because we never really understand others, let alone ourselves.
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