The Shape of Mercy

by Susan Meissner

  “All right.”

  “Bueno. Now I show you Miss Abigail’s files so you can find her lawyer.”

  “Okay.”

  Esperanza started to walk away, but then she stopped and turned to me. “Your father is okay, no?”

  I fell in step with her. “He’s okay. He’s going to be fine.”

  It took an hour, but I found a file that included some legal documents and the name of Abigail’s lawyer, Alexander Helming. The document related to some property Abigail owned in Long Beach and was dated two years earlier. I prayed he was still her lawyer and knew her personally.

  I phoned his office and convinced the secretary who answered the phone that my call was urgent. As soon as she heard Abigail’s name, she transferred the call. I took that as a good sign.

  “This is Alex Helming.”

  “My name is Lauren Durough and I am Miss Boyles’s literary assistant.”

  “Yes?”

  “I think Miss Boyles might be in need of your assistance. Quick.”

  “Oh? What’s the problem?”

  “Do you know about Graham?” I figured that was as good a place as any to start.

  “I’m afraid I do.”

  “Miss Boyles has … taken a vacation. She decided to keep her whereabouts private. Miss Boyles’s housekeeper received a phone call from Graham. He’s coming to Santa Barbara, and he knows Miss Boyles left without telling anyone where she was going. The housekeeper is afraid Graham wants to prove Abigail suffers from dementia and that’s why she’s disappeared. We think he wants to have her declared unfit to manage her affairs.”

  “That’s preposterous. Miss Boyles is old, but she is not senile. That man just wants her estate.”

  “Yes, I know. But he’s coming here. Tomorrow.”

  “So? Let him come. He won’t be able to prove it. When Abigail returns, she can send him on his way.”

  “But Mr. Helming, Esperanza and I don’t know where Abigail is. And when she left she was upset.”

  “Upset? How so?”

  “She’d just returned from seeing Graham, and I don’t think their visit went well.”

  “They never do.”

  “And she was angry at me.”

  “You? What did you do?”

  I sighed. “We had a misunderstanding about a project I was working on. I thought she hadn’t been up-front with me about something. It was my fault.”

  “You were working on a project?”

  “Yes.”

  “The diary?”

  So he knew about the diary, too. “Yes.”

  “And you really have no idea where she is? None at all?”

  “No.”

  He hesitated for a moment. “What is it you’d like me to do?”

  “If she contacts you, will you let her know what has happened? Tell her to come home.”

  “All right.”

  “And can you come over tomorrow in the afternoon sometime? I’d like you to be the one to talk with Graham.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. If I can get away, I’ll call before I come over.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  We hung up.

  I turned to Esperanza. “He’ll try to come.”

  “Bueno.”

  We stood there, unsure what to do next, until the phone rang. I assumed it was Mr. Helming with a last-minute change.

  “Yes?” I said.

  There was a momentary pause. And then a woman’s voice.

  “Who is this?”

  Abigail.

  “Abigail, it’s me. Lauren.”

  “Lauren. Why are you answering my phone?”

  “Listen. You need to come home. Graham is on his way out here. He told Esperanza you’re losing your mind. He might be getting a lawyer. Esperanza thinks he wants you to be found unfit to manage your affairs.”

  She said nothing.

  “Abigail, did you hear me?”

  “I heard you.”

  “You need to come home.”

  Another long pause. “What for?”

  A splinter of panic poked me. “Do you understand what I just said? Graham is coming here.”

  A second or two went by. “You know what? I don’t care. Just let him have it. Let him have it all.”

  Esperanza had been right. I hadn’t seen it. I hadn’t seen anything but my own agenda. We should never have left her alone.

  “You want Graham to have you declared mentally unfit?” I tried to keep my tone businesslike. “You want him to take over your house? Your library? Your books?”

  I heard her sigh. “It just doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “What doesn’t matter?”

  “Any of it.”

  “Please let me come get you.”

  “No.”

  “Then let me come, and we can just talk.”

  “I don’t want to talk. I’m done talking.”

  I looked at Esperanza. Her eyes were wide with worry.

  “Okay. What do you want to do, then?” I asked.

  “I just want it to end.”

  The splinter of panic became a rod. I stiffened. “What do you mean? What do you want to end?” I asked.

  She paused. “Everything. Everything I’ve ruined. I want it all to end.”

  “Abigail, please! Please tell me where you are!”

  “Is Esperanza there?”

  “Yes. Yes, she’s right here. Do you want to talk to her?”

  “No. Just tell her there’s a stray cat in the backyard. I’ve been feeding him. And tell her I’ve left her well cared for in my will.”

  “Abigail!”

  “Don’t worry, Lauren. Graham won’t get it all. My will is not to be contested. If he contests, he loses it all. I’ve left him a wealthy man.”

  “Abigail, please don’t do this!”

  “Don’t do what? I’m just letting nature take its course. I’m an old woman. I’ve nothing to live for. I should have died long ago. I am not going to fight it anymore. I can’t make anything right that I’ve made wrong. It’s silly to hang on thinking I can.”

  “But what about the diary?”

  “What about it?”

  I thought quickly. “I can see now why you wanted me to transcribe it. I know how Mercy died. I know you didn’t lie to me. And I think we could get her diary published. Then everyone could know what you and I know—that she gave her life for the man she loved.”

  Abigail was silent for a moment.

  “The diary is yours, Lauren,” she finally said. “You can do whatever you think is best.”

  “Abigail, please tell me where you are. Please?”

  “Good-bye, Lauren. I enjoyed talking with you about books. You were the only enjoyable thing I’ve had in my life in a very long time. You and Esperanza and that cat.”

  “Abigail!”

  “Good-bye.”

  She hung up.

  Esperanza was crying. “What should we do? What should we do?”

  I had no idea.

  Thirty-Eight

  I left Esperanza at the house. She promised to stay in case Abigail called again while I went to the dorm to gather a few things. We decided I would stay at Abigail’s until she returned, starting that night. Neither of us wanted to consider her morbid comments about wanting her life to end.

  Esperanza panicked when I told her what Abigail had said. I had a few panicked thoughts of my own. I wondered for a moment if Abigail had plans to hang herself, as Mercy had done, but quickly dismissed that thought. Abigail had tremendous admiration for Mercy’s last act, misguided though it might have been. I didn’t think she would want to mock Mercy’s sacrifice by copying it and cheapening it. Mercy’s death hadn’t been about ending her own suffering; it had been about lessening someone else’s. Any action on Abigail’s part to end her life would be an insult to the woman she admired most in all the world. And she had said she was just letting nature take its course. I didn’t think she was planning a suicide attempt that night.

  I asked Esperanz
a if Abigail was taking any medication that was critical to keeping her alive. Esperanza said Abigail had a prescription for high blood pressure medicine and that was it. She took over-the-counter calcium tablets and pain reliever for her arthritis. Nothing else. It could take her months or years to die from high blood pressure.

  “Maybe she will starve herself?” Esperanza asked, her eyes glassy with fear.

  “Maybe.”

  “We have to find to her!”

  “We have to find a reason for her to come home,” I said. “Then we won’t have to find her. She’ll come.”

  “What reason? Where can you find this reason?” she asked.

  I didn’t know. I left to gather my things and hunt for an answer.

  Clarissa was in our room when I arrived, typing on her laptop.

  “Hey,” she said when I walked in.

  “Hi, Clarissa. I’m going to stay at Abigail’s for a while. She … she needs me to housesit for her.”

  “Cool.” Clarissa didn’t look up. She popped her gum and kept typing.

  I opened my drawers and closet and began laying clothes in a duffel bag.

  Clarissa finally looked at me. At the amount of clothing I was packing. “Exactly how long are you going to be gone?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  She stared at me for a minute. “You finally had it with ordinary life in the dorm?”

  I smiled at her. “No. That is so far from the reason I am doing this.”

  “What’s the reason?”

  I decided to tell Clarissa everything. I told her how Mercy had died. I told her about my argument on the patio with Abigail, the stolen thumb drive, the conversations I had with Professor Turrell and Esperanza. I even told her about Tomoharu Kimura and Edward Swift. And Graham.

  And I told her Abigail had gone somewhere hoping to hasten her death.

  When I was done, Clarissa blew a bubble with her gum, and for a moment I thought she found the whole thing trite and uninteresting.

  “I know what you should do,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I know what you should do to make her want to come home.”

  “What?”

  Clarissa turned back to her keyboard. “Find the gardener’s son. See if he’s still alive. She wants to fix a mistake, right? She wants to make something right. Well, if you can find him, she can tell him she’s sorry. That she’s regretted her decision her whole life. Even if the guy had a great marriage and hardly thought about her at all in the last sixty years, he won’t mind hearing the girl he proposed to first has always wished she’d said yes. His current wife may not like it, but hey, that’s life.”

  It was an outlandish idea. Completely crazy.

  “He’s probably dead,” I whispered.

  “She’s still alive and kicking. Lots of people live into their nineties. You won’t know if he’s dead until you start looking.”

  “But where would I start?”

  “The Internet white pages, of course. What’s his name?”

  Clarissa opened an Internet browser on her computer. She typed in a Web address and then looked at me. “Name?”

  There was no way it would be this easy.

  “Um. Tomoharu Kimura.”

  Clarissa typed it in. “Hmm. No results found. You don’t think he went back to Japan, do you?”

  “He was never in Japan. He was born here.”

  “Well, there aren’t any Tomoharu Kimuras listed in the U.S. Unless he has an unlisted number. Or he’s dead.”

  I thought for a moment. “Try Tom Kimura.”

  Clarissa’s fingers flew over the keys.

  “Bingo,” she said.

  I leaned in to look at her screen. There were seven results. All of them included telephone numbers.

  “I don’t believe it,” I whispered.

  Clarissa turned to me, her eyes wild with excitement. “Let’s call them!”

  “I can’t just call them!”

  “Why not?”

  “What in the world am I going to say?”

  “Well, the truth works for most people.”

  I sank into my desk chair. “I can’t just call some stranger and say, ‘Hey, you don’t know me, but I’m wondering if you’re Tom Kimura, the son of a gardener who worked for the Boyles family in Santa Barbara in the 1940s.’”

  Clarissa snapped her gum. “Sure you can.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  She held out her hand. “Give me your phone.”

  “No, Clarissa!”

  “Yes. You’ve got tons more minutes than me. Give me your phone.” Clarissa wiggled her fingers.

  “But—”

  “Do you want this Abigail chick to come home?”

  “What if he doesn’t want to see her?”

  “What if he does?”

  “But what if he doesn’t?”

  Clarissa shrugged. “She’ll never know, will she?”

  I said nothing.

  “Give me your phone.”

  I reached into my purse. “Maybe I should do it.”

  “No, no, no,” Clarissa said, swiping the phone out my hands. “You’re too emotionally involved. I’ll do it.” She pressed the first set of numbers.

  She winked when someone answered. “Yes, my name is Demetria Howe and I’m researching landscaping in southern California in the 1940s. I’m looking for a Tom Kimura whose father was a gardener for a wealthy family in Santa Barbara in the 1940s. Would he happen to be at this number? No? Oh, sure, of course not. Well, thanks anyway.”

  Clarissa ended the call and immediately punched in the next set of numbers. “That Tom Kimura is thirty-six.”

  I listened as she gave the same story to the second Tom Kimura, who barely spoke English, and the third, who was two years old when Japan attacked Pearl Harbor. She tried the fourth. A Portland, Oregon, telephone number.

  She tossed out the same lie she’d given the others, and then her eyes grew wide. “Really?” she said. Her eyes locked onto mine.

  We’ve got him! she mouthed. I almost fell out of my chair.

  “So Tom Kimura is your dad?” she continued. “Wow. How wonderful to have found you. I actually have someone with me who works for the Boyles family here in Santa Barbara. She sees those gardens every day. Yes. Oh, yes, they’re still as lovely as ever.” Clarissa crossed her eyes. Small talk she mouthed. “Yes, that’s so true. Say, would it be possible to speak with Mr. Kimura about his father’s landscaping? No? Oh. Oh, I see. Um, perhaps you could speak with Miss Durough about that? I think she’d like to hear this from you. Okay. Here she is.”

  Clarissa’s animated demeanor had vanished. She handed me the phone. Something was wrong. I took the phone, keeping my finger over the mouthpiece.

  “What? What is it?” I whispered.

  “Rotten luck, Lars. He’s dying. Cancer. End stage. He’s getting hospice care at home.”

  The man Abigail still loved was dying. I brought the phone slowly up to my ear.

  “Hello. This is Lauren Durough. I work for Abigail Boyles.”

  “Hi. I’m Ken Kimura. Tom Kimura is my father.”

  “Mr. Kimura, I know the timing is terrible, but would it be possible to visit your father for a few minutes? I just need to ask him something. I promise it won’t take long.”

  “About the gardens? You know, my father didn’t work in landscaping after the war. My grandfather lost his business, and he never went back to it. My father taught English. He really can’t tell you much about my grandfather’s landscaping.”

  “Actually,” I said, “it’s not about the gardens. It’s about someone he knew when he lived at the Boyleses’ house.”

  “Oh, really? Who?”

  I hesitated a second. “Mr. Boyles’s daughter. Abigail.”

  “Oh.”

  “Is your father up to seeing visitors? It’s … it’s really important.”

  “What’s this about?” Ken’s voice had shifted from polite to protective.

  “I
t’s about something that happened a long time ago, when your father and Miss Boyles were young. Before the internment camp.” Before your father met your mother. “May I see him?”

  A long pause followed.

  “Well, I guess that’s up to him,” Ken finally said. “Hold on a second.”

  Clarissa looked hopeful. “Well?”

  “He’s asking him.”

  Let him say yes, let him say yes.

  A minute later, Ken Kimura returned.

  “My father says he would like to see you. He wants to know when you can come.”

  My thoughts somersaulted. Tom Kimura wanted to see me. “I … I’ll get there as soon as I can. Later this week, maybe?”

  Clarissa began to dance in her seat.

  “I don’t think you’ll want to wait that long, Miss Durough. Do you understand?”

  I understood. I couldn’t wait until after I’d spoken to Graham. I had to go now.

  “I’ll find a way to get there tomorrow.”

  “You need our address?”

  “Yes, please.” I scribbled the address on the back of a biology quiz.

  “Perhaps you could call before you come over,” Ken said.

  “Sure.”

  We said good-bye and I closed my phone.

  “See! What did I tell you?” Clarissa raised her hand to give me a high five. I met her hand with mine. “I can’t believe you’re really going to go there tomorrow. You really think you can get a flight on such short notice? Your dad own an airport or something?”

  “Very funny.”

  “And you’re playing hooky three days in a row. I must be a bad influence on you, girl.”

  I couldn’t think about the classes I was missing. There was too much to do. I had calls to make.

  I had to call Esperanza and tell her I wouldn’t be staying at Abigail’s that night and she’d have to find a way to keep Graham at bay until I got back. I hoped he didn’t have a key or Esperanza’s phone number. She would have to stay away from the house so he couldn’t make her let him in.

  I needed to call home and make sure Dad was still doing okay. And to tell my mom where I was going. Someone should know.

  And I had to call Cole. I had to convince him to let me talk to Raul.

  I needed a favor.