Grace Is Gone

by Emily Elgar

  I was stunned. Clearly Dr. Rossi was interested in whatever Cara had to give her. I still had no clue what it was, but—decision made. I was driving Cara to Plymouth whether I liked it or not.

  Now, a few hours later, with Cara in the passenger seat next to me, I feel less wary about giving her a lift. With my beard and scruffy hair I look different from how I looked six months ago and the chances of us being recognized, especially miles away from Ashford, must be tiny. I’m here to help Grace, but I still feel the reporter in me sit up, pen poised, ready to take notes for any clues. We haven’t spoken much yet, which is fine, I don’t want to push her. She keeps flicking through the radio stations until she stops on a report about Grace’s disappearance. Sitting low in her seat, Cara keeps her eyes fixed straight ahead as she listens to information she’s probably heard hundreds of times already. She listens intently, as if there might be a secret, some code hidden in the reports.

  The car fills with the voice of Simon’s neighbor. I’ve heard it a few times already: “Simon’s always been a quiet bloke, keeps himself to himself sort of thing. Looks like he wouldn’t hurt a fly, but mind, it’s those ones that you . . .”

  I feel uncomfortable listening to this stuff about Simon with Cara next to me. I don’t want her to associate me too closely with him, like everyone else does. I lean forward, changing the channel to a love song, before flicking to the local radio station, and a news bulletin.

  . . . The police are still focusing their efforts on finding Simon Davis, father of the missing Grace Nichols. CCTV footage shows Davis boarding a train to London the morning after the murder, but they haven’t as yet released any further details on his whereabouts. The public is reminded not to approach him but to call the police immediately if they see him. Police and community groups are continuing to search the local area for any sign of Megan’s daughter, Grace Nichols. Now over to Sabrina for the weather. Sabrina . . .

  Cara doesn’t stir; we’ve both heard the updates before. I flick again, on to a program about a group of parents who are teaching their kids how to speak Cornish, before changing back to the love song.

  “So, mind if I ask what it is you want to give Dr. Rossi?” Cara glances down towards the crumpled backpack in the footwell next to her scuffed Dr. Martens boots. With a blunt nail she picks the skin around the nails on her other hand, glancing at me quickly before replying.

  “Grace used to make these personalized thank-you cards for people who helped her and Meg somehow. Mum got one for doing a half marathon to raise money for her wheelchair a couple of years ago. Anyway, I found one for Dr. Rossi that she never sent. She’d written a note in it and everything, so I thought she should have it.”

  That’s it? A thank-you card? I don’t know what I was expecting, but certainly something more significant, more substantial than something she could easily have posted. Cara seems to pick up on what I’m thinking.

  “I was going to send it, but, like you said, I couldn’t just sit around and keep pretending Grace hasn’t been taken. It might not actually help find her, but at least I can do something I know would make her smile.” Cara looks fierce for a moment, defensive.

  I clear my throat, tell myself it doesn’t matter how insignificant it is. Dr. Rossi was still intrigued enough to agree to a meeting.

  Suddenly Cara turns to me and says, “So what was Simon like when you met him?”

  The abruptness of her question takes me by surprise. I decide it’s best to keep things vague.

  “Depressed, lonely, misunderstood, or so I thought at the time.”

  “And now? What do you think of him now?”

  “Well, if he is behind all of this, then I think he’s a brilliant manipulator and I’m even more of an idiot for supporting him in that article.”

  “And if he’s not?”

  I feel my forehead fold into a frown. “I think it’s unlikely he’s not, to be honest. There are no other suspects, no one they knew had any kind of motive, and the chances of this being a random attack and kidnapping are so remote that—”

  “So you think Simon killed Meg? That he has Grace now?”

  She knows I’m stalling, that I’m skirting round the question. Suddenly it’s like I’m the one being interviewed. I fumble for the elastic band on my wrist, forgetting it has snapped.

  “That seems to be the most plausible explanation, yes. Don’t forget his mental health has been deteriorating since Danny died, and he’d been violent in the past. Also I think the fact that he’s not come forward to clear his name is pretty damning.”

  Cara nods, turns her dark head to stare out of the window, the countryside a blur.

  “So, did you tell your mum I was giving you a lift today?”

  Cara snorts. “No! She thinks I’m working at the pub. But she’s so wired with everything, she won’t know I didn’t go in.”

  Great. Cara lying to her mum will give Susan and her mates another reason to hate me. But I remind myself that Cara’s an adult, she can make her own decisions and, besides, Cara instigated all of this. I haven’t done anything wrong.

  “And you? How are you doing ‘with everything,’ I mean? Walking into a murder scene is pretty rough, especially when you know the person.” I glance over at Cara. Her eyes widen, her pale skin blushes, she looks like she’s about to be sick, but she just shrugs.

  “I feel better when I’m busy,” she says.

  “So, what does your dad reckon about all of this?” There’s been plenty about Susan in the news reports, but nothing about Cara’s dad. Cara glances quickly out of her window before looking straight ahead. She keeps picking the skin around her fingernails.

  “I have no idea, he hasn’t been in touch. He lives in Scotland with his new family, they’re kind of hippies—don’t have a telly, that kind of thing—so he probably doesn’t even know what happened.” Cara pauses, before she adds, “He’s nothing like the dads in your article, if that’s what you’re getting at. I don’t have a restraining order against him or anything. He just kind of opted out of being my dad a long time ago.”

  Before I can say anything she turns to face me and asks, “What about you? How’s your son?”

  I feel her eyes move. I know she notices my jaw tighten. I force a lightness I don’t feel into my voice.

  “He’s good, just made the school football team actually, he’s playing—”

  “So he doesn’t have cancer anymore?” Cara interrupts. She’s not interested in hearing about Jakey’s football. I let her question hang for a moment. She’s skilled, I’ll give her that: deflecting my questions, turning me into the subject, but nevertheless I don’t like it. She’s looking at me like I owe her something. Perhaps she’s right. What was it Dr. Bunce said that made Ruth snort with laughter? “Honesty demands reciprocity” or something like that. If I want Cara to be honest with me, I need to choose what to give her in return. I want her to trust me. I shift in my seat.

  “So you read my article about Grace and Megan?” I say, and out of the corner of my eye I see her watching me.

  “Of course: everyone in Cornwall’s read it. I looked it up again last night.”

  I nod and try to swallow the thick, familiar lump of anguish that lifts to my throat whenever anyone mentions that article.

  “I’d forgotten the bit about ‘A parent’s job is to lay the foundations for their child to flourish as much as possible—and sometimes this means making hard decisions, ones we would rather not make, for the child’s happiness.’”

  “You memorized it?”

  “It almost read like you resented Meg, when all she was doing was her best in really shitty circumstances.”

  I nod. I know. I know all of this. I’m glad I’m driving, that I have an excuse to avoid eye contact. My hands have become moist where they grip the steering wheel.

  “You’re right. I was angry. I’m not trying to justify anything, but the doctors said Jakey only had a fifty-fifty chance of surviving and my marriage was falling apart. I think I
was going through some sort of delayed shock. Ruth and I were barely talking, it was all so painful. I felt like I was losing them both: Ruth and Jakey. So I suppose in some crazy way when I met Simon I felt sorry for him and pissed off that Meg was able to keep Grace so close and Simon so far away.” As I say the words I feel the thudding truth of them. I’d never told anyone that, never even been able to admit it to myself. The ball in my throat softens.

  Cara doesn’t say anything for a moment and I panic that I’ve said more than I should. I try to think of a way of making it all sound better, making me sound better.

  “I’d always worked for big national papers. If I’d known that article would affect the community in the way it did I would never have sent it to the editor.”

  “Well, I suppose the editor shouldn’t have published it, should they?”

  I swerve into the slow lane, too close to the front of a truck. The driver beeps but we both ignore him. I glance over at Cara. She’s still looking at me.

  “I’ve been looking into being a journalist,” she says, shy suddenly. “I read that the editor is ultimately responsible for what they publish, not the writer.”

  Cara’s just said what I’ve never dared say aloud in case it sounded like I was trying to pass the blame on to the young, inexperienced editor of the Cornish Chronicle. But she’s right. Cara turns back to face the road and we’re both silent for a moment before she asks, “Did you ever find out who posted the photo of your son on Facebook?”

  My neck prickles as I picture Jakey as he was then; skin translucent, his head hairless, his body so thin he looked like he would break at the slightest touch. He’s smiling in the photo, giving a brave thumbs-up, but he was in Ruth’s arms in tears again straight after it was taken. The image still haunts me. I press my window down and breathe in the highway air. It is acrid and chemical, like sickness, but I breathe it in anyway. I need it to shift the memory of Jakey in his hospital bed. I close my window, clear my throat.

  “A copy of the photo was found on a computer at the hospital where Jakey was being treated. It could have been one of the nurses who set up the account and posted the photo, or someone else working there. Someone Megan and Grace knew who took offense on their behalf, probably.”

  “You don’t like talking about it, do you.” It’s a statement, not a question, and I know it’s her way of telling me to stop trying to get her to talk about finding Megan’s body. She knows I don’t want to talk about Jakey; she’s just trying to make a point. I lean forward and turn the radio up.

  The children’s play area, just behind the office where Nina Rossi suggested we meet, turns out to be a broken seesaw, a slide covered in graffiti, and a couple of chain swings that look like they could easily split a child in two. Unsurprisingly, it’s empty. Cara kicks away a couple of cider cans and we sit on a damp bench facing the back of the office. Cara carefully takes an A5 envelope out of her backpack and says quickly, “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but maybe you should wait in the car?”

  “What?”

  But she knows I heard what she said, so she keeps talking. “It’s just I think maybe on my own it’ll seem less kind of . . . confrontational, I suppose.” She looks at me, can tell I don’t know what to say, and shrugs. “This is all just quite private, you know, it might be emotional for her. I don’t mind if you want to talk to her on your own after, I just don’t want her to think you’re writing an article, that’s all.”

  Suddenly, I realize Cara is worried about being associated with me as much as I am about helping her. But still, there’s no way I’m waiting in the car.

  “Cara, I organized this, and besides I didn’t drive all this way to . . .” but I stop talking because Cara isn’t listening, she’s watching a woman walking towards us at an efficient clip. Dr. Nina Rossi has the upright, steady walk of someone who knows exactly where they’re going. She’s wearing a two-piece suit, the type favored by civil servants and politicians, and has short, neat, gray hair. As she approaches I see there’s a dullness in her eyes, her mouth leaden and unsmiling like it’s been that way for so long you’d need a chisel to change it.

  We both stand and she nods at us, putting her hand out to Cara first.

  “You must be Cara,” she says, and Cara, rather sweetly, does a tiny deferential bow of her head as she shakes Dr. Rossi’s hand.

  “Yes, hi.”

  “I’m sorry you’ve been caught up in such an awful tragedy,” she says, before turning to me.

  “Hello, Jon.” Her eyes narrow, like my name is an aggravation. Her skin is smoother than most women’s her age, perhaps from care, but more likely from lack of any real sadness or joy. She looks like she plateaued long ago, her feelings a hand of cards she holds carefully away from other players’ prying eyes.

  “So, you said Grace had something for me?” She looks directly at the envelope Cara’s clutching in front of her. “Is that it?” she asks, looking from Cara to me like a hassled teacher needing a quick answer.

  “It’s from Grace,” Cara says, trying to smile at Dr. Rossi, who looks blankly back at her. “A thank-you card she made for you, for helping her and Meg.”

  Dr. Rossi turns to me, her tone skeptical as she asks, “You drove all this way to give me a thank-you card?” I lift my shoulders, shrug, and Dr. Rossi’s eyes become small, glinting from me to Cara and back again as she says, “What do you know?”

  Before I can think of the right way to respond, something that will make Dr. Rossi reveal why she’s so on edge, Cara jumps in.

  “Nothing! I just thought you should have it, since Grace made it for you. She must have been grateful to you.”

  “Well, I can’t think why. I was never Grace’s or Megan’s doctor; they saw a colleague of mine.” There’s something rehearsed about the doctor’s tone, as though she’s been practicing, reciting the sentence over and over.

  Dr. Rossi holds out her hand towards Cara, waiting for the envelope, but Cara doesn’t move. Instead she says, “Grace wrote a note—she wanted to thank you for getting Meg a job.”

  Dr. Rossi drops her outstretched hand.

  “Ah, I interviewed her for a part-time admin role here. It must have been that.”

  Why does she sound so relieved?

  “We didn’t know Meg worked here,” Cara says.

  “Only for a few months. It wasn’t worth my time training her up, to be honest.” Dr. Rossi glances at her watch. “Look, I said I only had a few minutes. I’m very sorry about what’s happened to your friends but I need to be getting back to my patients.”

  Cara looks downhearted. This wasn’t the meeting she’d hoped for. “So why didn’t they send it to you years ago?” she asks, confused.

  Dr. Rossi looks briefly up towards the heavy sky, exasperated, as though it’s Cara’s fault the clouds have gathered.

  “I honestly have no idea, now please . . .” Dr. Rossi reaches for the envelope again and Cara slowly places it in her hand.

  “Right,” Dr. Rossi says, like she’s rounding off an appointment with a patient. “Thank you.” She speaks curtly, glancing at me one last time. We watch as she walks quickly away, pausing only to open and read the card before she scrunches it into a ball and drops it into a trashcan.

  “What a bitch,” Cara says, stalking after Dr. Rossi. I’m worried she’s going to charge into the office after her but instead Cara stops at the trashcan, takes out the card, and is straightening it out in her hands by the time I catch up.

  “She’s a strange woman, Cara.”

  “She’s a cow.”

  Cara sounds more angry than hurt.

  “I thought she’d be happy to have the card, that we’d chat a bit about Grace maybe. I never thought she wouldn’t give a shit, chuck it away. God, I feel like an idiot.”

  “Hey, you’re not the idiot, she is,” I say. My hand is suddenly on her shoulder; it feels important she believes me. She glances at it before I pull it awkwardly away. “But I think you’re wrong about one thing—she
clearly did give a shit.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yeah, you heard how defensive she was, asking us what we know.” It’s like hearing the old me talking when I’d just had a breakthrough on a story. A familiar feeling, like bubbles bursting, lifts into my stomach.

  Next to me, Cara’s biting her lip, and frowns towards the office as she says, “She was a bit weird, wasn’t she? It was like she was hiding something and was worried we’d find out about it.”

  “I think you might be right. You’ve got good instincts.”

  She tries to smother the smile that flickers across her face but she’s not quick enough. “You think so?”

  I nod. “You need sharp instincts to be a decent journalist, and instinct is something that can’t be taught.”

  Cara glows a little and I feel the first drops of rain on my cheek.

  “Shall we get going?” I say.

  Cara nods and we start walking in silence, but before we get to the car she stops by another bench and asks, apropos of nothing, “Why are you doing this?”

  “I told you already: I want to find Grace, or at least help if I can.”

  “Because you messed up before?”

  “Partly, yeah. But mostly because I just want to help.”

  “And you’re not helping because you want to write an article?”

  I lift my gaze to the sky so I don’t have to look her in the eye. “I want to find Grace. I want to find Grace soon, while she’s still alive.”

  Cara looks directly at me as she says, “Will you let me help?”

  “Cara, I’m not sure that’s such a good—”

  “You said yourself just now I’ve got good instincts.”

  “Cara, I don’t want to get you involved in all of this . . .”

  She looks crestfallen, thin, and dejected standing in the rain.

  “It’s really going to bucket down. We should get back to the car.”

  Cara blinks a few times, as though trying to chase a thought away, before she shrugs and starts walking towards the car.

  The traffic looks heavy all the way to Resthaven Nursing Home, the roads like blocked arteries. We join the queue as raindrops hammer the windshield. Cara turns the radio on again and is staring out of the window when my phone starts vibrating. I shuffle it awkwardly out of my pocket, balancing it on my thigh as I hit the speaker icon.