by Vanished
“He's a nice man. He was very kind to us last night.” She didn't tell him how kind, but it had made a lasting impression on her, in the absence of her husband.
“I'd be more impressed if he found your son. You might keep that in mind, Marielle.” As though she could forget it. She wondered why he was being so cruel to her, except that she knew he was upset, and somehow he seemed to feel that it was all her fault. Or was she just imagining it? Was she feeling responsible again, as she had for Andre and her baby girl? Was everything always going to be her fault? It was that that usually set off the headaches, that and the terrible helplessness she always felt when things went wrong and she couldn't change them. But she couldn't allow herself to think of that now, couldn't allow herself to think of what might be happening to Teddy. She had to be strong. And she knew that before John Taylor returned that afternoon, she had to tell Malcolm.
“Could we go upstairs for a little while?” She looked nervously at her husband, and he glanced at her with a strange expression, as though she had propositioned him and he couldn't believe it. “I have to talk to you.”
“This isn't the time.” He tried to brush her off, he wanted to return the German ambassador's call. He was touched that he had called him.
“Yes, it is. Malcolm, it's important.”
“Can't it wait?” But he could see from the look in her eyes that she meant it. She was surprising him actually. For a woman who seemed to go weak at the knees whenever life became even slightly difficult, she seemed to be holding up remarkably well in this crisis. She looked tired, of course, and pale, but she seemed calm and reasonable, and other than the pathetically trembling hands he had noticed at once, she seemed to be controlling her emotions. What he hadn't seen was the terrible scene in the boy's room only that morning, the crying that seemed to have no end as she held his teddy bear to her and felt terror rise in her throat every time she thought of her son. But she was fighting it, because she knew she had to. If she didn't, she would panic and collapse completely.
“Malcolm, will you come upstairs with me?” She was insistent.
“All right, all right. I'll be there in a moment.” She waited for him in her dressing room, because she didn't know where else to be, and she paced the small room while she waited. She didn't know where to start, or what to say, and she wished she had forced him to listen before she married him, but he hadn't wanted to hear it then, and now he had to.
He came up half an hour later, just as she was ready to go downstairs looking for him. But finally he appeared, and he seemed huge in the small room, as ha took a chair, and looked at her with obvious irritation.
“All right, Marielle, I don't know what you can possibly want to talk about now. I hope it's important, and has something to do with Teddy.”
“It might. I hope it doesn't,” she said quietly, sitting on a small settee across from him. It was odd how far away from him she felt, how distant they were, even in this crisis. In fact, suddenly, it seemed worse than ever. “It has to do with me. And I think it's important. Years ago, when we were getting married, I told you that there were things about me you might not like, and you said that everyone had a past and it wasn't important. You felt it was best left untouched, but I felt I owed it to you to tell you.” She sighed and had to fight for air again. All of this was so difficult that she always seemed to have trouble breathing. But she knew she had to tell him. And this time he had to listen. “Do you remember?” she asked him softly, and for a moment, his eyes gentled. Maybe he was only in pain, she told herself. Perhaps the shock of losing Teddy was so great that he could offer Marielle no comfort, just as she and Charles had been unable to comfort each other nine years before. Sometimes when the common agony is too great one can only struggle alone. She wondered if that was what was happening now, and it wasn't that he held her responsible after all. But she had to go on now.
“I do remember,” he answered her. “But what does that have to do with what is happening now? Or with Teddy?” There was a look of accusation on his face and she forced herself to ignore it.
“I don't know. I'm not sure. But I must tell you what I do know.” She took a breath and went on, unaware of how beautiful she was. “My father told his closest friends that I had had a youthful flirtation and gone a little mad when I was eighteen and we were on the Grand Tour. And then he told everyone that I'd decided to stay on and study in Paris. Well, some of that was true but very little. I had much more than a flirtation. I ran away, I eloped, with Charles Delauney. I'm sure you must know his father.” Malcolm nodded. He had known him, better than he had known her own. He was a crusty old man, but a smart one, with a huge fortune. But he had never met the son. They said he was a renegade of the worst sort, a writer. And he'd run off to the war when he was fourteen or fifteen, and after that he'd stayed in Europe. Old man Delauney said he was no good, and that was all he'd heard, but now he looked stunned at Marielle's confession. “I married him when I was eighteen, and by the time we came back from our honeymoon and my parents wanted to have the marriage annulled, I was pregnant. So they went home, and I stayed. The marriage was never annulled. And we had a little boy …” She had to fight back tears as she said it. After all these years, to tell the story twice in one day was almost more than she could bear. But she knew she had to tell him. Teddy's disappearance made it all different. “His name was Andre,” she gulped again, “and he looked a little like Teddy, except that he had very black hair, instead of blond hair like you.' She tried to smile, but Malcolm said nothing. He was not finding the recital amusing. And she knew that, for Malcolm, she had to keep it to the facts. He didn't have to know how much she loved him, or how desperately she had loved Charles, or how terrible it had been when Andre died. He just had to know that he did, and that Charles had seen Teddy and gone crazy. He had to hear this from her so he didn't think she was protecting Charles. The only one she wanted to protect now was Teddy. And Malcolm had to hear everything if they were going to find him.
“He died when he was two … in Switzerland. I was pregnant with another child, and that baby died too.”
Malcolm looked desperately uncomfortable for a moment.
“How did they die?”
“Andre drowned.” She squeezed her eyes shut and fought for composure, but unlike John Taylor, the night before, Malcolm Patterson did not approach her. “He ran onto the lake … it was frozen …and he fell through …with two little girls. I saved them.” Her voice was almost a monotone as she went on, trying not to see his face again, trying not to feel his icy face next to her own as she tried to blow life into him, trying not to smell the same powdery flesh she had loved so much …just like Teddy …and if Teddy died too …how would she survive it? She fought to go on as Malcolm watched her. “I couldn't reach him. He was under the ice.” It was a breathless whisper, and then her voice grew stronger again. It was like climbing a mountain just telling him and the air seemed to be getting thinner and thinner and thinner. “Charles always held me responsible for it. He felt it was my fault, because I wasn't watching him. I was, but I was talking to someone …the mother of the two little girls …she said it wasn't my fault, but I suppose it was. And Charles thought so too. He was skiing that day, and when he came back, he tried to kill me … or maybe not …maybe he was just so out of his mind with pain …anyway, I lost the baby. I probably would have anyway, because of the icy water. I had jumped in to get Andre.” Malcolm nodded, mesmerized by the horror of her words, and in spite of himself, his face had gone pale as he listened. “Charles always felt that I had killed both of them, that it was my fault that we lost them. And I …I …” Her voice trembled and she couldn't go on as she bowed her head, and then looked at him, her face filled with anguish, her eyes filled with a horror he could never know and no one would ever take from her. “I suppose you could say I had a nervous breakdown. I was in a hospital … a clinic … a sanatorium … for more than two years. I was twenty-one when it happened, and I tried to kill myself several ti
mes.” She had decided to tell him all of it. He had a right to know now, and there could be no more secrets. “I didn't want to live, without Charles and my babies. I did everything I could to die, and they did everything they could to save me. I never saw Charles during that time …or actually I only saw him once during that first year. He came to tell me my father had died, a few months after Andre. They say the shock of the Crash killed him, and I suppose it did …they didn't tell me that my mother killed herself six months later. I suppose without Daddy, and without me …” Her voice trailed off, and Malcolm understood her meaning. “They didn't tell me that for another year, and by then, I suppose I was better. They said I had to go finally, that I had to go back out in the world and live with what had happened. That it wasn't my fault, that I wasn't responsible, and if Charles still felt it was, then it was something that he had to work out for himself.” She took another breath and seemed a little calmer as she looked unseeingly out the window. “He came to see me once at the end before I left, and he told me how sorry he was, that he had been out of his mind with pain, that it wasn't my fault, and he hadn't meant it. But I could see in his eyes that he did mean it, that he still believed I had killed his children. I still loved him.” She looked back at Malcolm honestly. “I always had, but I knew that if I stayed with him, I would always feel guilty. It would always be between us. I couldn't go back to him. I had to be alone. So I left the hospital, and came back to the States, and that was the last time I saw him. And then I met you,” she sighed, “and you were so good to me. You gave me a job, and you did so many things for me. You took care of me, and you were always so kind to me. And we got married. I never really wanted to get married again. I didn't think it would have been fair to anyone … I had so much on my conscience. But you seemed not to mind …and …” She felt suddenly guilty. “I had no one …and I was so frightened sometimes. And you made me feel safe … I thought I could be good to you too …and maybe make you happy.” She lowered her eyes then, thinking of when Teddy had been born, and the tears began to slide down her face again. She had given him a lot to absorb in a single moment. “I was so happy when Teddy was born.”
“So was I.” His voice was a croak in the small room. “He's all I lived for. I always thought there was some small mystery in your past, Marielle. But I never suspected it was quite so ugly.” She was filled with shame as he said it.
“I know,” she nodded, “that was why I thought you should know. I thought you should hear it before you decided to marry me, but you wouldn't listen.” He nodded his agreement, and she went on. “I never saw Charles again when I came back to the States. I never saw him again until last Friday. I met him at Saint Patrick's Cathedral, by chance. I went to light a candle for the children and my parents. It was the anniversary of our children's death,” she forced herself to say the words she hated, “and he was there. He said he was in New York to see his father.”
“And what did he say?” Malcolm was interested in this part.
“He wanted to see me again, and I said I couldn't.”
“Why not?” He was probing with his words, and she was hurt that he would ask her.
“Because I love you, because we're married. Because of Teddy.”
“And he was angry?” Malcolm almost looked hopeful.
“No, not then … we were both so upset. It's a terrible day every year.”
“And did he call you?”
“No, I ran into him in the park the next day with Teddy, at the boat pond. I think he'd been drinking, or was still drunk from the night before. He was wild-eyed, and he was shocked to realize we had a child … a little boy …and he was very angry,” she admitted. This was the point of the whole story.
“What did he say? Did he hurt the child?” Malcolm looked terrified by what she was saying.
“Of course not. I don't think he's capable of it, and I'd never let him.” She took a quick breath. “But he was very angry. He threatened me, I suppose. He said I didn't deserve to have another chance. And,” she took a deep breath before she told him, “he talked some nonsense about taking Teddy in order to make me come back to him. But Malcolm, I'm sure he didn't mean it. But nevertheless, I felt you had to know. The police asked if anyone had threatened me, or had reason to be angry with me, and for Teddy's sake, I told them.” It surprised Malcolm that she hadn't been more anxious to protect Charles Delauney, and he could see from the look in her eyes when she talked about him that she still cared deeply about him.
“You told this to the police? All of it?”
“Yes.” She nodded slowly. She wasn't ashamed anymore. It was painful, but it was not her fault. She had finally come to accept that.
“That's a lovely tale to tell. I imagine that will make interesting reading in the papers.”
“Mr. Taylor promised me he would do everything he could to keep it confidential. But he's already been to see Charles.”
“You seem to know a great deal about the investigation.”
She didn't answer him at first. “I wanted to tell you this myself. I felt you had a right to know.” He nodded and stood up, still looking deeply troubled, and then he looked at her, and for a moment she wondered if he was angry.
“It would seem that your contact with Delauney may well have endangered our child, Marielle. Have you thought of that?” Guilt again …and responsibility …why was it always her fault? Why did her life, or her failings, or her stupidity, always cause pain to others?
“I have. But I didn't plan to meet him. It just happened.”
“Are you so sure of that? Are you sure Delauney hasn't been following you and wasn't waiting for you at the church?”
“He was as surprised as I was. And the boat pond is just into the park from his father's house.”
“Then you shouldn't have gone there.” Malcolm's voice was stern, he was accusing her. And it was clear now that he did reproach her. “You shouldn't have done anything to risk my son,” not their child, but his son, “and given your history, I'm surprised that you would take him to the boat pond at all, particularly in this weather.” It was the cruelest thing he could have said. It had taken her years to be able to do something like that, and she hadn't let him near the water.
“How can you say that?” She was shocked. His words hit her like a blow, but he didn't care now. He was too worried.
He began to pace the room as he spoke to her. “How can you tell me this story and expect me to forgive you? You were involved with this terrible man, who you admit yourself tried to kill you, and may well have killed your unborn child, and you expose my son to him, you admit to me that he threatened you, that he threatened to take him, for whatever reason …and what do you expect from me, Marielle? Sympathy for your children who died? Or for my child who's been kidnapped? You brought this man into my life, you brought him right to my doors, you took my son to the park where they could meet, you exposed Teddy to him, and provoked this lunatic until he took our child, and what do you expect from me now with all this …forgiveness?” There were tears in his eyes and rage in his voice as Marielle stood in front of him, helplessly weeping.
“We don't know that he took him,” she said in an agonized voice, she had told him everything and now she knew he would never forgive her. “We don't know anything.”
“I know that you've been involved with people over the years who may well have cost me my only child …and you, your last one.”
“Malcolm,” she closed her eyes and almost swooned at his words, “how can you say that?”
“Because it's true,” he roared at her, “because Teddy may be dead by now, buried in a shallow grave we'll never find, or if he isn't yet, he may be at any moment. You may never see your child again.” He bore down on her like a nightmare with his booming voice and terrifying accusations. “And what you have to understand, what you have to tell yourself, is that you brought Teddy to him, you provoked this man, you brought Charles Delauney into our life …it's you, Marielle, who did it.” She gasped at th
e pain he caused, but she couldn't tell him he was wrong. Perhaps she had done all that he said. Perhaps it was all her fault again, and as she listened to him, she sank into a chair, and the migraine came crashing through her brain so hard she could barely keep her balance. She heard all the voices again, felt all the familiar pain, and just as she used to, she heard the sound of the rushing water beneath the ice, and as she heard Malcolm leave the room, she was barely conscious.
It seemed hours later when she heard a sound, and she was startled to look up and see the little maid who had been bound and gagged by the kidnappers the night before. It was Betty, bringing her her laundry. Mr. Patterson had sent everyone back to work in an attempt to get the house back to normal, with the exception of Edith and Patrick, who had been warned not to leave town. The FBI was still very interested in their stories.
“Mrs. Patterson, are you all right?” Betty hurried to her side, she looked as though she had fainted, and she was halfway out of the chair toward the floor, when Betty found her. The sound of her voice roused Marielle to consciousness again, and she looked around, through the blinding pain, remembering all too quickly what had happened and what Malcolm had said … it was all her fault …she had brought Charles into their midst …and he had taken Teddy …but had he? And why? Did he really hate her that much? Did they all? …and were they right? …she suddenly wished she had died years before, when she should have … perhaps even under the ice, with her babies.
“Mrs. Patterson …”
“I'm fine …” Marielle murmured, struggling to her feet, trying to straighten her dress and smooth her hair, as the frightened young girl watched her. Marielle looked as though she had died she was so pale, and she looked sick as she struggled to keep her balance. “… I'm not very well …just a headache …nothing to worry about. …” She walked slowly into her bedroom as Betty followed. She had been through her own ordeal the night before, but the police had reassured Betty that it wasn't her fault, that she couldn't have done anything to stop them, and if she had tried they probably would have killed her. So she no longer felt guilty, only lucky. Unlike Marielle, who felt guilty for everything in her life for the past nine years. It was an awesome burden.