Don't Cry Now

by Joy Fielding

  “How about in an hour?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “See you then.”

  Bonnie hung up the phone, looking forward to Josh’s visit. Of course, only yesterday she’d suspected him of bringing her poison chicken soup, she realized, glancing back at the phone, wondering whether to call him back, tell him not to come. “This is silly,” she said out loud. It wasn’t Josh who’d tried to poison her. It certainly couldn’t have been Josh who killed Diana. What possible motive could he have? Still, she thought, reaching for the phone, it wouldn’t hurt to play it safe until she knew for sure. She’d call her brother, apprise him of the situation, ask him to drop by at about the same time that Josh was due over.

  The phone rang just as she was about to lift it from its carriage.

  “We’re ready,” Lauren said, bounding down the last few stairs, her large tote bag slung over her shoulder, Amanda with a Barbie bag slung over hers.

  Bonnie picked up the phone. “Hello,” she said.

  There was no response.

  “Hello?” she said again.

  Still nothing.

  “Do you want me to pick up anything at the store while we’re out?” Lauren asked.

  “Check if we need milk,” Bonnie said, temporarily distracted.

  Lauren went to the fridge, opened it, peeked inside. “No, there’s plenty of milk.”

  “Hello?” Bonnie repeated into the receiver a third time, wondering why she didn’t hang up, about to do just that when she heard the familiar click on the other end of the line. What was that? she wondered, recognizing the sound from somewhere, unable to place exactly where.

  “Who is it?” Lauren asked, worry etching delicate creases around her huge hazel eyes.

  “Who’s calling, please?” Bonnie said.

  Silence, then another click. Then again.

  Click. Click.

  The breath stilled in Bonnie’s chest. She felt herself adrift in a windless sea, waiting anxiously for the next gust to propel her to shore. She was so close. All that was necessary was a gentle puff.

  Click.

  And suddenly she saw herself turning her car up a long driveway, parking in a busy lot, then hurrying through the front door of a beautiful sprawling white building. Something out of the Old South, she remembered thinking the first time she saw it, watching herself proceed through the front lobby to the front desk, waiting impatiently by the elevators, hesitating outside the door to room 312.

  Click.

  She saw the door open, saw the old woman sitting in the wheelchair, legs like tree stumps, her face pebbled with age, her eyes hooded with boredom, wide delinquent mouth open, balancing her dentures on her rude tongue, then clicking them back into place.

  Click. Click.

  “Mary?” Bonnie asked warily. “Mary, is that you?”

  “Maybe,” the voice replied. “Who’s asking?”

  32

  Fifteen minutes later, Bonnie pulled her car into the crowded parking lot of the Melrose Mental Health Center in Sudbury and raced up the front steps, through the lobby and toward the bank of elevators on the right. There was a crowd already waiting, and Bonnie leaned against the wall, trying to catch her breath and gather her thoughts.

  What was she doing back here? What had prompted her to race out of the house as soon as Lauren and Amanda left for the park? To jump into her car and press the accelerator to the floor? She still wasn’t feeling well. She certainly shouldn’t be risking her life to talk to some crazy old woman who, in all probability, had nothing of any value to say to her.

  She certainly hadn’t said anything on the phone. It was Bonnie who’d done all the talking. Why was she calling? Did she have something to tell her? Did she want to talk to her about Elsa Langer?

  Maybe, had come the immediate response to all her questions. Who’s asking?

  And so, here she was, operating purely on instincts and adrenaline, standing with a bunch of strangers, all of whose faces reflected the intense desire to be somewhere else. And if any of them asked, she wouldn’t be able to come up with one good reason for her being here. What exactly was she hoping to find out?

  A bell sounded, a green light lit up above one of the elevator doors, the door slowly opened. There was a hurried exchange—people pushing out, people pushing in—and soon the elevator was full, the doors closing, leaving Bonnie behind, along with half a dozen others. Together, they stepped back and shuffled over to the next elevator, almost as one. Acting as a unit, she thought. Dr. Greenspoon would be proud.

  Another bell sounded; another green light indicated the imminent arrival of a second elevator. This time, Bonnie broke from the ranks, wormed her way to the front of the line, began moving inside as soon as the elevator doors opened.

  “Excuse me,” snarled a middle-aged woman, whose limp hair accentuated the slackness of her features. “I’d like to get off, if you don’t mind.”

  Bonnie squeezed her body into a corner of the elevator, staring resolutely at the numbers on the panel beside the door, as the elevator filled up. “Could someone press three?” she asked, pretending to look around, as if the voice had come from someone else. She felt hot, dizzy, in danger of fainting, grateful that there were so many others in the small compartment to keep her upright. She wondered if she could survive standing on her own.

  The thought struck her as appropriately symbolic, and she laughed. Immediately, and despite the lack of room, she felt those around her take a step back. When the doors opened on the second floor, those who remained behind inched even farther away.

  Bonnie hesitated when the elevator reached the third floor. “What the hell,” she whispered under her breath, stepping into the corridor. She was here now. She might as well find out why.

  She inched her way slowly down the long corridor toward Mary’s room, pausing for several seconds outside the door.

  “Come in,” Mary called from inside. “What are you waiting for?”

  Bonnie pushed open the door.

  Mary was sitting in her wheelchair by the window, looking out at the grounds below. “They keep it very nice, don’t they?” she asked, still not turning around.

  “Yes, they do,” Bonnie agreed, looking around the room, surprised to see a bright pair of eyes staring at her from Elsa Langer’s bed. “Hello,” she said to the woman, who was slim and dark and almost regal in appearance. Bonnie wondered what she was doing at the Melrose Mental Health Center.

  “How do you do?” the woman said, extending her hand. “I’m Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.”

  “Don’t pay any attention to her,” Mary bellowed from the window. “She’s nuttier than a fruitcake.”

  Bonnie gasped. Wasn’t that the phrase Rod always used when describing his ex-wife?

  “First they gave me a vegetable, now they send me a fruitcake.” Mary turned from the window, angled her chair to face Bonnie. “What’s the matter? Gas?”

  Bonnie cautiously approached Mary’s wheelchair, noting that Mary was dressed in a clean navy-and-white-striped terry cloth robe, and that her brown hair appeared to have been freshly colored and was held in check by a variety of different-sized bobby pins. “What did you want to see me about?” she asked.

  “Who said I wanted to see you?”

  “You did. When you called me. You intimated you had something to tell me.”

  “I did?”

  Bonnie felt her heart sink. Had she really raced out here for this? A pointless conversation with a sick old woman? Of course, if she hadn’t, she wouldn’t have gotten to meet Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, she thought, smiling at the bright-eyed woman in Elsa Langer’s bed.

  “I thought you might have had something to tell me about Elsa Langer,” Bonnie ventured.

  “Who?”

  “Elsa Langer,” Bonnie repeated.

  “Teddy wasn’t to blame,” the woman in bed proclaimed suddenly. “He tried to save that girl. But he was never much of a swimmer.”

  “You say I called you?” Ma
ry asked, her hands tapping her knees with growing agitation.

  “Not more than twenty minutes ago.”

  “Didn’t take you very long to get here.”

  “I thought it might be important. You obviously went to some trouble to get my number.”

  “Nah,” Mary said dismissively. “I just asked the nurse. I remembered you told Elsa you’d leave her your number.”

  “What else do you remember?”

  “About what?”

  “About Elsa,” Bonnie said.

  “She wasn’t any fun,” Mary said, pushing her lips into an unpleasant pout, then twisting them from side to side. “She just lay in that bed all the time, never saying anything. Not that Jackie O here is any improvement.”

  “Christina was a very unpleasant girl,” the woman in bed confided. “I tried to get close to her, but she wasn’t having any of it. She wanted her father all to herself.”

  “Tell me more about Elsa,” Bonnie prodded.

  Mary began pushing at her dentures with her tongue. “Nothing to tell. She just lay in that bed day in and day out, and then one day she died.”

  “That must have been very upsetting for you,” Bonnie commented, thinking she should probably leave, but feeling tired, needing a few minutes to rest, regroup.

  “Frankly, I didn’t even notice,” Mary said, and laughed, temporarily abandoning her fight with her dentures. “It was the nurse who realized she was in a coma.”

  “At least she didn’t suffer,” Bonnie said. “I guess that’s good.”

  “I guess.” Mary swiveled her chair back to the window. “You should tell that to the little girl. It’ll make her feel better.”

  “Little girl?” Bonnie walked to the window, stared down at the woman in the wheelchair.

  “Her granddaughter. What was her name?”

  “You mean Lauren?”

  “Yes, I think that was it. Well, you should know. You brought her here the first time.”

  “What?”

  “I kept telling her to go on a diet,” Mrs. Onassis announced from her bed. “But she wouldn’t listen. She hated me. Did right from the word go.”

  “What do you mean, the first time?” Bonnie asked.

  “You brought both those kids here, the boy and the girl.” Once again, Mary’s mouth started twisting, as if she were gargling.

  “Yes, I know,” Bonnie said. “But I only brought them once.”

  “The girl came back,” Mary said matter-of-factly.

  “What?” Every hair on Bonnie’s body stood on end.

  “She came back. Brought Elsa some custard she said she made herself. Sat on the bed feeding it to her. Wouldn’t let me have any. Not very nice, if you ask me,” Mary pouted. “I just wanted a taste.”

  Bonnie grabbed hold of both arms of the wheelchair, forced Mary’s eyes to hers. “Think very carefully, Mary,” Bonnie instructed, trying hard not to panic. “How soon after Lauren was here did Elsa slip into her coma?”

  Mary flipped her dentures in and out of her mouth. “That night,” she said.

  Bonnie felt her body sway, her fingers digging into the soft rubber of the chair’s arms to keep from falling. “Oh God.” What did it mean? Bonnie looked helplessly about. Could Lauren have poisoned Elsa Langer? And if she’d poisoned Elsa Langer….

  “It can’t be,” Bonnie said. “It can’t be.”

  “I thought the least she could do was give me a little taste of her custard,” Mary said. “But no, she insisted that her grandmother eat it all.”

  “I left Amanda with her. She’s alone with my little girl.” Bonnie bolted for the door.

  “I tried to be her friend,” Bonnie heard the woman who fancied herself Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis cry out as she ran down the hall. “I could have helped that girl, if only she’d let me.”

  Bonnie drove like a maniac along Route 20, watching as Boston Post Road became State Road West, then State Road East back into Weston, where once again it became Boston Post Road. She was shivering, sweating, crying, shouting. “No, it can’t be,” she kept repeating. “It can’t be.”

  Bonnie recalled how eager Lauren had been to visit her grandmother, how touched she’d been when the old woman spoke her name, how loving she’d acted toward her, sitting beside her on the bed, feeding her lunch. Could she have returned at a later date to feed her poison? When? The girl had school all day. When would she have had the opportunity?

  “She stayed home from school one day,” Bonnie said out loud, remembering the day that Lauren had felt queasy, thought she might be suffering a relapse of the flu. Except that it wasn’t the flu. It was arsenic.

  Unless she hadn’t been sick at all. Unless she was merely pretending.

  “No, that’s impossible,” Bonnie said. “I saw how sick she was. I held her head for hours while she threw up. That was no act. She was really sick.”

  But she got better, Bonnie thought. While I got sicker and sicker. And she was always there. She was always there.

  But why? Bonnie wondered, screeching to a halt at the red light at the corner of Boston Post Road and Buckskin Drive, looking around impatiently, tapping her foot against the gas pedal. “Why would she want to kill me?”

  Bonnie thought back to the afternoon she and Rod first went to Joan’s house to tell Lauren and Sam about their mother’s death. She remembered Lauren’s violent outburst, felt the sharp jab of Lauren’s shoes against her shins, the hard smack of her fist against her mouth. She hates me, Bonnie recalled thinking.

  But surely that had changed. Surely over the ensuing weeks, they had moved closer, forming a bond of respect and friendship. Unless that too had been an act.

  But even if she hates me, Bonnie thought, does she hate me enough to want me dead? And why would she want to kill her grandmother, a helpless old woman who barely remembered who she was?

  And who else? Bonnie wondered, her foot flooring the gas pedal as the light turned green, the car streaking across the intersection, as if someone had inadvertently pressed the fast forward button on a VCR.

  Bonnie tried desperately not to think at all, to concentrate on the road ahead. Her thoughts were too bizarre, too crazy, more like drug-induced fantasies than anything connected to reality. Was she actually thinking that Lauren might have had something to do with her mother’s murder, with Diana’s death?

  “No, this is ridiculous. You’re being absolutely ridiculous.”

  Lauren was at school the day her mother was murdered. She was at home the morning Diana was killed. Wasn’t she?

  She could easily have skipped a class or two, Bonnie realized. The police wouldn’t have bothered to check. Who would suspect a fourteen-year-old girl of killing her mother? And she could have easily slipped out of the house to kill Diana while Rod was asleep. She knew where Diana lived. She’d certainly been there before.

  But why? Why would she want to hurt Diana? And what motive could she have had for wanting her mother dead?

  You’re in danger, Joan had warned her. You and Amanda.

  Was Lauren the danger Joan had been trying to warn her against?

  “Oh my God.” Bonnie pictured her daughter’s innocent hand inside that of her half sister’s. “Don’t you hurt my baby. Don’t you dare hurt my baby.” She turned right onto Highland Street, the scenery blurring into a green fog as she accelerated along the clear road. “Please don’t hurt my little girl,” she prayed out loud.

  How could she have left her daughter alone with Lauren? Hadn’t Joan cautioned her enough times never to use her children as baby-sitters? Maybe those pronouncements hadn’t been the drunken ramblings of a jealous ex-wife at all. Maybe Joan had been trying to warn her even then.

  But why?

  Always why.

  It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t possible. Lauren couldn’t have had anything to do with either her mother’s death or Diana’s, with Elsa Langer’s poisoning or her own. Yes, she had access to her mother’s gun; yes, she must have known where her mother kept the rat poi
son. But that didn’t mean anything necessarily. So did Sam. So did Rod.

  Except that both Sam and Rod were at the police station, and Lauren was with her little girl.

  Lauren had taken Amanda to the park, but which park? There were several in the area, and they could have gone to any one of them. “Where are you, damn it?” Bonnie demanded. “Where did you go?”

  She drove past Brown Street, inadvertently glancing toward Diana’s house, saw the now-familiar yellow tape cordoning off the house. Crime scene. Do not cross. “Don’t panic,” she told herself, turning right on South Avenue, seeing the little park at the corner of South and Wellesley, slowing to a crawl.

  Some children were playing on the swings and slides, watched over by several bored-looking women, but Lauren wasn’t among them, and neither was Amanda. Bonnie thought of stopping, of asking the women if they’d seen her child, but she didn’t recognize anyone, and didn’t want to waste any time. She doubted she would be able to speak with any coherence anyway.

  Where else might they have gone? There was a little park back on Blueberry Hill Road, but it was tiny and had only a few swings, and Amanda didn’t like it much. And there was the playground behind her school, the playground beside the small alleyway that was Alphabet Lane, where someone had emptied a pail of blood over Amanda’s head. “Oh God,” Bonnie moaned. Surely, Lauren wouldn’t try to hurt her now, not so soon after Diana’s murder.

  Bonnie sped up Wellesley Street to School Street, turned left. She tore up the long driveway of the combination school—day care center, jumping out of the car in the same second she pulled the key from the ignition, running along the small walkway to the back of the school, the fully equipped playground popping into view.

  There was no one there. Bonnie spun around. “Where are you?” she cried. “Goddamn it, Lauren, where did you take my baby?” And then she saw it, discarded in the sand at the foot of one of the swings. She raced toward it, bent down, scooped the bright pink Barbie bag into her hands. So, they’d been here. Been and gone. Was it possible they’d returned home?

  Bonnie raced to her car, almost skidding into a tree at the side of the road as she backed it onto the street. “Slow down,” she told herself, easing her foot off the gas pedal as she made a sharp right turn onto Winter Street. “You’re almost there.”