Whispers and Lies

by Joy Fielding

  When we reached the door, she stopped fighting. Whether it was the drugs or the realization that such struggles were useless, I don’t know. She simply sighed and went limp in my arms. I carried her across the threshold, as a new husband lovingly transports his bride.

  Do they even do that anymore? I don’t know. I doubt I’ll ever have the opportunity to find out. It’s too late for me, just as it was too late for Alison. And it’s too bad, because I think I would have made a fine wife. That’s all I ever really wanted. To love someone, to be loved in return, to make a home, have a family. A child on whom I could lavish all the tenderness I’d been denied. A daughter.

  I’ve always wanted a daughter.

  I carried Alison to the sofa, cradled her in my arms. “Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra,” I sang tenderly. “Too-ra-loo-ra-lie …”

  Alison raised her eyes slowly to mine. Her mouth opened. Whispers filled the air. I think I heard the word Mommy.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Of course, I don’t believe for a minute that Alison was my child.

  She probably heard about how I’d disgraced my family from the Sinukoffs. The name sounds vaguely familiar. Perhaps they were neighbors. Perhaps not. Baltimore’s a big city. You can’t know everyone, despite my mother’s assertion that the whole town knew about my condition, that she was a laughingstock, too ashamed ever to show her face in public again.

  That’s why we moved to Florida. Not because my father’s job demanded it. Because of me.

  I stayed in school until my condition became too obvious to ignore, then I was asked to leave. Nothing happened to Roger Stillman. My shame was his badge of honor, and he was allowed to remain in school and graduate with his classmates.

  I endured almost twenty hours of labor before my mother let my father drive me to the hospital. It was another ten hours before the baby—weighing in at an impressive eight pounds, seven ounces—was born. I never got the chance to hold her. Never even got the chance to see her. My mother made sure of that.

  Of course she was right. What else could she have done? I was only fourteen years old, after all, a baby myself. What did I know of life, of looking after another human being? It was a ridiculous notion, one I’m sure I would have lived to regret.

  And yet, maybe not. Would I have been such a bad mother? I’ve often wondered. I’d secretly loved that little baby growing inside me from the first minute I felt her moving around. I talked to her when no one was home, sang to her when we were alone in my room, assuring her that I would never lose my temper with her, never hit her or disparage her in any way, that I would shower her with kisses, assure her each and every day how very much she was loved. “I’ll take care of you,” I promised her when no one was listening. Instead, she was pulled from my body and banished from my side before her sweet little face had time to register, and I spent my whole life taking care of other people instead.

  Of course Alison wasn’t my child.

  She’d undoubtedly heard about “the fourteen-year-old slut who couldn’t keep her legs together” from someone back in Baltimore, possibly even her older brother, as she’d claimed. Then she and her friends had concocted this elaborate scenario, determined to insinuate themselves into my life. I wanted you to like me. No. I wanted you to love me, Alison herself had admitted shortly before she died.

  I miss her terribly, of course, think of her often, and always with great affection, even love. So maybe Alison got what she came for after all.

  She didn’t suffer. She simply fell asleep in my arms. The rest was easy. There were so many drugs in her system, I doubt she was even aware of the pillow I held against her face for the better part of two minutes. Later, I dressed her in her pretty blue sundress—the one she had been wearing the first day we met—and then buried her in the garden beside Erica. The flowers are especially lush in that corner of the yard, and I think she would have approved.

  K.C. was a different story. I’d never killed a man before, never used a knife, never had to resort to such brutality. It took days for the vibrations to stop echoing through my hand, weeks till I was finally able to scrub all the blood from my living room floor. Of course, I had to get rid of the rug. It was ruined. Alison was right—a white rug in the living room hadn’t proved very practical. At any rate, it was time for a change.

  I didn’t want K.C. polluting my garden, so I waited until the middle of the night, then bundled him into the trunk of my car and drove all the way to the Everglades, where I tossed him into a slime-covered swamp. It seemed fitting, and I’m sure the alligators appreciated my efforts.

  It’s been three months since Alison died. The season is almost over. Every day there are fewer cars on the roads, fewer tourists prowling the streets. It’s easier to get into restaurants now. There are shorter lines at the movies. Bettye McCoy still walks her two lunatic dogs down the street several times a day, and occasionally one breaks away from her, makes a beeline for my backyard. I’ve erected a small fence to keep them out. Hopefully, that will suffice. Should one of those mangy mutts manage to get into my yard again, I won’t be chasing it out with anything as gentle as a broom.

  Occasionally, I wonder what would happen if Lance and Denise came back, looking for Alison. But so far, there’s been no sign of either of them, so maybe Alison was telling the truth about their taking off together, about her relationship with her ex-husband being over once and for all. I hope so. Still, I can’t let down my guard.

  My job at the hospital continues much as it always has. Myra’s bed has been filled by an elderly gentleman with advanced Parkinson’s. I take very good care of him. His family think I’m the greatest thing since sliced bread.

  Incidentally, I was right about Josh. He did send flowers to the staff several weeks after his mother’s funeral. Actually, the flowers were from both him and his wife. The note thanked everyone on the ward. No one was singled out for special mention.

  The journal he gave me has proved useful, however. It’s nice to have somewhere to record my thoughts, as I’m doing now. A place to set the record straight.

  And who knows? Maybe one day I’ll find true love. Just because Josh proved both weak and unworthy doesn’t mean there isn’t someone out there who’s right for me. It’s not too late. I’m only forty. I’m still reasonably attractive. I could meet someone tomorrow, get married, have the family I’ve always craved. Many women over forty are having babies. It could happen. I’m praying it does.

  And that’s about it. Life goes on, as they say.

  Who are they anyway? I can hear Alison ask, her voice never very far from my ear.

  I turn around, look the other way. She’s right beside me.

  Describe your life since I went away, she whispers playfully. Three words.

  “Uneventful,” I reply obediently. “Unexciting.” I survey the empty shelves that line the kitchen walls, thinking that perhaps the time has come to start rebuilding my collection. “Lonely,” I admit, choking back tears.

  I stare out my back window at the small, empty cottage behind my house. It has been unoccupied for three months now and is starting to look a little neglected. It needs someone as much as I do. Someone who will love it and take care of it, who will show it the love and respect it deserves. After the debacles with Erica and Alison, I’m not sure such a person even exists. But maybe it’s time to find out. Maybe it’s time to bury the whispers and lies of the past, time to start afresh.

  “Afresh,” I repeat out loud in Alison’s voice, deciding to place an ad in the weekend paper. “Good word.”

  SEAL BOOKS

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  JOY FIELDING

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  “Has she ever done anything like this before?”

  “You mean, stayed out all night?”

  Neil nodded. He was sitting beside Cindy on one of two tan leather sofas in her living room. Behind them a wall of windows overlooked the spacious backyard. Facing the
m were three paintings of pears in varying degrees of ripeness. Cindy couldn’t remember the name of the artist who’d painted these pictures. Tom had bought them without asking either her opinion or approval, I make the money; I make the decisions, being pretty much the theme of their marriage. Along with the never-ending parade of other women, Cindy thought, smiling sadly at the good-looking man perched on the opposite end of the couch and wondering if he’d ever cheated on his wife. She ran her hand across the sofa’s buttery surface. Fine Italian leather. Guaranteed to last a lifetime. Unlike her marriage, she thought. The sofas had also been Tom’s decision, as was the checkered print of the two wing chairs sitting in front of the black marble fireplace. Why had she never bothered to change anything after he left? Had she been subconsciously waiting for him to return? She shook her head, trying to excise her former husband from her brain.

  “Cindy?” Neil was asking, leaning forward, extending his hands toward hers. “Are you all right? You have this very strange look on your face.”

  “Yes, she’s stayed out all night before,” Cindy said, answering his question, wondering how long ago he’d asked it. “But she always calls. She’s never not called.”

  Except once just after she moved back home, Cindy recalled, when she was making a point about being an adult and no longer answerable to her mother. Her father, she’d argued pointedly, had never placed any such restrictions on her. Her mother, Cindy had countered, needed to be assured of her safety. It was a matter of consideration, not constraint. In reply, Julia had rolled her eyes and flounced out of the room, but she’d never stayed out all night again without first phoning home.

  Except one other time when she forgot, Cindy remembered, but then she’d called first thing the next morning and apologized profusely.

  “Shouldn’t you be at work?” she asked Neil, trying to prevent another example from springing to mind.

  “I take Fridays off in the summer.”

  Cindy vaguely recalled him having told her that last night. “Look, you don’t have to stay. I mean, it was very thoughtful of you to come over and everything, I really appreciate it, but I’m sure you have plans for the long weekend.…”

  “I have no plans.”

  “… and Julia should be home any minute now,” Cindy continued, ignoring the implications of his remark, “at which point I’m going to strangle her, and everything will be back to normal.” She tried to laugh, cried out instead. “Oh God, what if something terrible has happened to her?”

  “Nothing terrible has happened to her.”

  Cindy stared at Neil imploringly. “You promise?”

  “I promise,” he said simply.

  Amazingly, Cindy felt better. “Thank you.”

  Neil reached over, took her hands in his.

  There was a sudden avalanche of footsteps on the stairs, and Heather bounded into view. “I heard the door. Is Julia home?”

  Cindy quickly extricated her hands from Neil’s, returned them primly to her lap.

  “Who are you?”

  “Heather, this is Neil Macfarlane.”

  “The accountant.” Heather advanced warily, quick eyes absorbing Neil’s black jeans and denim shirt.

  “Neil, this is my younger daughter, Heather.”

  Neil stood up, shook Heather’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Heather.”

  Heather nodded. “I thought maybe Julia was back.”

  “No,” Cindy said.

  Heather swayed from one foot to the other. “Duncan and I were just going to head down to Queen Street. Unless you need me for anything.”

  “No, honey. I’m fine.”

  “You’re sure? ’Cause I can stay if you want.”

  “No, sweetheart. You go. I’ll be fine.”

  “You’ll call me as soon as Julia gets home?”

  Cindy nodded, looked anxiously toward the front door.

  “You know my cell number?”

  “Of course.” Cindy pictured a series of numbers, realized they were Julia’s. “Maybe you’d better write it down.”

  Heather walked into the kitchen. “I’m leaving it by the phone,” she called back as Duncan came barreling down the stairs.

  “Julia home?” he asked.

  “Not yet.”

  He stared blankly at Neil, crossed one arm protectively over the other. “Are you a cop?”

  Cindy blanched. Why would he ask that?

  “He’s an accountant,” Heather said, reentering the room. “We should go.” She guided Duncan toward the front door. “Remember to call me when Julia gets home.”

  Cindy nodded, watching them leave. “Do you think I should call the police?”

  “If you’re worried, yes,” Neil said.

  “It’s only been twenty-four hours.”

  “That’s long enough.”

  She thought of Tom. Probably she should wait for him to return her call, discuss the matter with him before she did anything rash. “I should probably wait a little longer.”

  “Have you checked with the place where Julia had her audition, to make sure she showed up?”

  “I don’t know who to contact,” Cindy admitted. “I mean, I know the audition was for Michael Kinsolving, but he’s probably just renting some space, and I don’t know the address or the phone number.” I don’t know anything, she wailed silently. What kind of mother am I, who doesn’t know anything? “Tom will know,” she said. “My ex-husband. Julia’s father. He arranged the audition. He’ll know.” All the more reason to wait until she spoke to him before calling the police, she acknowledged to herself.

  Neil walked to the fireplace, lifted a Plexiglas frame from the mantel. “Is this Julia?”

  Cindy stared at the picture of Julia that had been taken several days after her eighteenth birthday. She was smiling, showing a mouthful of perfect, professionally straightened and whitened teeth, elegant shoulders thrust proudly back in her new cream-colored Gucci leather jacket, a present from her father. Diamond studs sparkled from each ear, another present from Daddy. The night this picture was taken, Cindy had presented her daughter with a delicate necklace with her name spelled out in gold. Less than a month later, Julia had broken it while trying to pull a turtleneck sweater over her head. I forgot I had it on, she’d announced nonchalantly, returning the necklace to her mother to be fixed. Cindy dutifully had the necklace repaired, only to have Julia lose it a few weeks later. “That’s an old picture,” Cindy said now, taking the photograph from Neil’s hands and returning it to the mantel, one finger lingering, caressing her daughter’s cheek through the small square of glass.

  “She’s a very beautiful girl.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “Like her mother.”

  The phone rang. Cindy raced to the kitchen, tripping on the large sisal rug in the front hall, banging her hip against the side of the kitchen door. “Damn it,” she swore, lifting the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

  “Well, damn it yourself,” her mother replied. “What’s the matter, darling? Forgot to put on your makeup?”

  Cindy raised a hand to her bare cheek, realized she had indeed forgotten to put on any makeup. Still Neil had said she was beautiful, she thought gratefully, shaking her head as he approached, signaling the caller wasn’t Julia. “I’m fine, Mom. Just a little busy at the moment. Can I call you back?”

  “You don’t have to bother. I’m just checking in. Everything all right? Your sister said you sounded pissy, and I’m afraid I have to agree with her.”

  Cindy closed her eyes, ran her free hand through her hair. “Everything’s fine, Mom. I’ll call you later. Okay?”

  “Fine, darling. Take care.”

  “My mother,” Cindy said, hanging up the phone and immediately checking her voice-mail to make sure no one else had called. “My sister told her I sounded pissy when she called earlier.”

  “I’m sure she meant pithy,” Neil offered.

  Cindy laughed. “Thanks for coming over. I really appreciate it.”

  “I jus
t wish there was something more I could do.”

  Something clicked in Cindy’s mind. “You can take me to see Sean Banack,” she announced suddenly.

  “Who?”

  “I’ll explain on the way.” Cindy grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled a note for Julia, leaving it in the middle of the kitchen table, in case her daughter should return while she was gone. On the way out the door, she called Julia’s cell phone again and left another message. There’d been something in Sean’s voice when she’d talked to him earlier, Cindy thought, replaying their conversation in her mind, word for word. Something more than cigarettes and alcohol. Something more than fatigue and impatience and hurt feelings.

  Anger, she realized.

  He’d sounded pissy.

  “Is Sean here?”

  “He isn’t,” the young man said, standing in the doorway, blocking Cindy’s entrance to the small, second-floor apartment that was situated over an old variety store on the south side of Dupont Street near Christie. The man was tall and black, with an athletic build and a shiny, bald head. A silver loop dangled from his left ear. A set of earphones wrapped around his neck, like a noose. He was wearing a sleeveless white T-shirt and black sweatpants, and his left hand clutched a large, plastic bottle of Evian.

  “You must be Paul,” Cindy said, pulling the name of Sean’s roommate from the recesses of her subconscious. She extended her hand, gently pushing her way inside the stuffy, nonair-conditioned apartment, Neil following right behind.

  The young man smiled warily. “And you are?”

  “This is Neil Macfarlane, and I’m Cindy Carver. Julia’s mother.”

  The expression on the young man’s face altered ever so slightly. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Carver, Mr. Macfarlane. Excuse the mess.” He looked sheepishly toward the cluttered L of the living-dining room behind him.

  Cindy’s eyes followed his. Books and papers covered the light hardwood floor and brown corduroy sofa in the middle of the room. A deeply scratched wooden door balancing on four short stacks of red bricks served as a coffee table. Several old copies of the Toronto Star lay stretched across the small dining-room table, like a linen tablecloth. HUSBAND PHONED WIFE AFTER BEHEADING HER screamed an inside headline. MAN STALKED VICTIM FOR THREE DAYS BEFORE FATAL ATTACK announced another.