Waiting For Sarah

by James Heneghan

  Sarah had come back.

  She spotted him and walked deliberately across the room and down the aisle. Nobody saw her, he could tell, for she caused not a ripple in the motionless air; Talbot continued his bleating, and the kids went on with their glassy-eyed listening.

  She was invisible to everyone in the room except him. Unless he was hallucinating.

  But then he heard her voice. “Michael!” Her eyes shone. She smiled, then glanced over her shoulder at the teacher, now writing on the blackboard. “Come outside.”

  “What ...?”

  Talbot said, “Are you all right at the back there, Mike?”

  “Gotta go to the washroom,” he yelled back.

  Talbot blinked and nodded.

  He followed Sarah out of the classroom — nobody looked at her — and along the deserted hallway to his locker and took out his jacket. “It’s damp outside. Wear this.” He handed her the jacket.

  She hung it over her shoulders and followed him out across the foggy school quadrangle, down a misty lane of maples to a row of benches decorated with scatterings of yellow-gold leaves. She brushed away a few leaves and sat on a bench facing him, her outline indistinct and shifting as wisps of fog curled about her.

  She wore a plain blue fitted cotton dress that made her look older. There was something else different: it was in the way she sat, quiet and composed and serious. Gone was the naïve, excited, motor-mouth kid, chattering about music and painting and arguing about nothing. Aware that he was staring at her, but unable to stop, he was noticing tiny details, like the soft dark crescents of short hair behind her ears curling forward onto the pale skin of her neck, the attractive shape of her mouth and the way she had of biting her lower lip when she was thinking. Everything about her was perfect ... her dark hair, shining and abundantly soft ...

  “You’re different, Sarah. Older.”

  She looked pleased. “You promised to wait for me, Michael, remember? I’m hurrying as fast as I can.”

  “I don’t understand, Sarah. Tell me. What ...” Confused and inarticulate, he wheeled closer. “I worried about you, Sarah. You were so ... I wanted to help ...”

  She stopped him with a finger to his lips. “You helped more than you know.”

  She pushed a curl of dark hair back behind her ear The fog drifted closer and surrounded them. Her eyes were the same color as the fog. They were alone.

  “The others in Talbot’s classroom couldn’t see you.”

  She said nothing.

  “Nobody ever saw you, did they; even Miss Pringle in the library, she didn’t see you either.”

  She smiled. “You’re the only one, Michael.”

  “You died in 1982. And I looked for your house on Ash, an old white house with green shutters, remember? It isn’t there.”

  She was silent, looking at him with wide gray eyes.

  “Sarah? What does it all mean? Why are you here?”

  “I came to help you, remember?”

  “Yes, but I don’t understand any of it, Sarah. How can you be here, older, when you were ... murd — ”

  She cut him off. “I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. What matters is I’m here. That’s all; I’m here and we’re together.”

  “Yes.” She was right; that was all that mattered: her joyful smile, his feeling of happiness.

  “Do you like how I look?” She sat up straight as if for an inspection, a remnant of the childish, playful Sarah.

  “You look ... good, Sarah.”

  “It won’t be long, Michael. I’m hurrying for you.” She leaned forward and took his hands in hers. “I’ve missed you. I came back. I wanted you to know.”

  “Who ... did it to you, Sarah? Was he ... did the police ... ?”

  She withdrew her hands. Her eyes darkened and she shook her head. “I told you. It doesn’t matter.”

  “But you know who.”

  She made no reply.

  “Tell me his name.”

  She shook her head, agitated.

  “Why not? If you know who it is then you must tell me.”

  Sarah looked down at her feet.

  The fog slid and shifted, closing thickly about them.

  “Tell me, Sarah, and I will see he pays. Or write his name! Here! Take this branch and write his name in the dirt.”

  “No. Let me show you.” She stood and wheeled him back to the school, through the hallways, to Dorfman’s history class. She stood outside the door. She pushed the chair forward into the classroom. The students raised their heads from their note-taking, watching Mike in his wheelchair. Mr. Dorfman looked up from his lighted projector. “Yes, Scott, what is it?”

  Sarah raised an arm and pointed at Dorfman. “There, Michael. He is the one.”

  Mike stared at Dorfman. When he turned back to Sarah she had gone.

  29 ... wouldn’t believe me

  He telephoned the police that same afternoon, as soon as he got home, and asked the Homicide Department for information on the Sarah Francis murder of 1982. He was asked to leave his name and number; someone would get back to him.

  It was early; Norma wouldn’t be home for at least two hours.

  An hour later a Detective Inspector Samson called. He could not discuss the case on the telephone, but could Mike come downtown to police headquarters in the morning? Say nine o’clock? Or a detective could be sent to his home.

  Chris drove him downtown the next morning and dropped him off at the Public Safety Building. He would wait for him in Starbucks across the street.

  Samson was a tall thin man with weary brown eyes and bushy gray hair. His clothes were casual: jeans, golf shirt, cable-knit sweater, tweed jacket. The office, or interview room, was small and bare: table, three chairs, picture of the Queen. The detective had difficulty closing the door because of the space taken by Mike’s wheelchair. He perched on the edge of the desk and read aloud from a file, his voice a bass rumble. “The body of Sarah Francis, white female, thirteen, was found in Charleson Park, False Creek, December 1982.” He looked down at Mike. “Is this the Sarah Francis you were asking about?”

  Mike nodded.

  “Well?” said Samson. “What can you tell me about this case?”

  “I know you didn’t catch her killer.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because he’s still out there.”

  Samson said nothing, waiting for him to go on.

  “I know who killed her.”

  “Who?”

  “My history teacher, Mr. Dorfman.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “I do say,” said Mike calmly.

  Samson slid off the desk, opened a drawer and pulled out a tape recorder. “Any objection if we get this on tape?”

  Mike shrugged.

  Samson spoke into the microphone, recording the date, time and place, and Mike’s name, age and address. Then he sat behind the desk. “You’re a senior at Carleton High. You say your history teacher, Mr. Dorfman, murdered Sarah Francis in 1982, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “That would be about the same year you were born, right?”

  “Right.”

  “What kind of marks do you get in history, Mike?”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “I’ve got to rule out ... ”

  “You think I’m a nut.”

  “I didn’t say that. But I’ve got to be sure this information you’re giving me is unbiased.”

  “My marks are not a problem.”

  “Do you like Mr. Dorfman? Is he a good teacher?”

  “I don’t think my opinion of the murderer has anything to do with it. He killed a thirteen-year-old kid and you’re asking me if I like him.”

  “How do you know Mr. Dorfman killed Sarah Francis?”

  “Look, Inspector, let me ask you a question. This isn’t 1982, it’s 2000. Do you have any of the killer’s DNA — from hairs or other personal stuff like blood, saliva, skin maybe — taken from the crime scene?
Because if you’ve got anything at all then all you need is a sample of Dorfman’s DNA, and I guarantee it’ll be a perfect match. That would be enough to convict him, wouldn’t it?”

  Samson ran his hands through his bushy hair, his eyes not weary now but questioning and alert. “Usually, yes. But to obtain a sample of your teacher’s DNA we’d need either his voluntary cooperation or a warrant. And to obtain either we’d need some evidence that he might have committed the crime. The word of a high school kid just doesn’t make it, I’m afraid. There’s got to be a distinct possibility your Mr. Dorfman might have done it. You follow me? In other words: no hard evidence, no warrant.”

  “Sarah Francis was on her way home from debating practice. That much I do know. It was late. Dorfman was the debating coach. He might’ve given her a lift and then tried to kiss or fondle her in his car. Maybe she didn’t like what he was doing and managed to get out of the car and run away and he ran after her to stop her screaming, and maybe he didn’t mean to kill her — look, I don’t pretend to know exactly how it happened, but he did it; that much I know for certain.”

  “I’m afraid it’s no good. That’s guesswork, not evidence. So back to my original question: How do you know for certain — as you put it — that Dorfman murdered Sarah Francis?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Try me.”

  “She told me.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Sarah Francis.”

  “Sarah Francis told you that Dorfman murdered her.”

  “That’s it.”

  “In 1982.”

  “Right.”

  “She told you when you were, what...?” He glanced at his notes. “... a five-month-old baby.”

  “She didn’t tell me in 1982; she told me yesterday.”

  “Yesterday.” Voice flat and suddenly tired.

  “Right.”

  “Seventeen years after she died.”

  “That’s right. I said you wouldn’t believe me.”

  Samson’s eyebrows rose in mild astonishment. “She was, what — a spirit, a ghost? Something like that?”

  “I don’t know much about spirits or ghosts, Inspector. But she was definitely Sarah Francis.”

  “A real flesh-and-blood human being.”

  “That’s right. I can tell you what she was wearing when she was murdered. I’ve checked the newspaper stories. The reports made no mention of what she had on, and there was no way I could’ve been there, so how would I know, right, Inspector?”

  The detective said nothing. His black eyes glittered shrewdly at Mike as he waited for him to continue.

  Mike could feel his heart pounding. “Her clothes and everything were muddy. And there was blood. She was wearing a red nylon ski jacket, and it was ripped in the back, a long tear, and her dress was torn, too, and she had only one shoe, a Nike runner.”

  Inspector Samson glanced through the file. “What color was the dress?”

  “Blue. It was a light blue ... with white buttons down the front, most of them torn off and the dress was ripped ... and I bet a blue denim tote bag was found at the scene ...”

  “How long you been in the wheelchair?”

  Mike could feel himself flushing. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  Samson smiled apologetically. “I’ll switch off the tape, okay? But I need to know a few things about you, Mike. Put yourself in my place; you’re a detective, okay... ?” He leaned over and switched off the tape recorder. “And a seventeen-year-old high school kid comes in and tells you he knows who murdered a girl in 1982, the same year he was born. How does he know? Why, the murdered girl told him, that’s how. This seventeen-year-old kid is in a wheelchair because he’s lost his legs; looks like he might’ve had a rough time of it. Life can’t be easy for a kid in a wheelchair, who looks around him and sees other kids walking and running, snowboarding, hitting the ski slopes, mountain-biking, going out with girls — you know, regular stuff — so, wouldn’t you want to ask the kid about how he feels? About his teacher — who he says is a murderer — and about his girlfriend, if he’s got one? And about his family, and how he got to be in a wheelchair? How else you gonna know whether he’s telling the truth? You with me, Mike?”

  Mike gave a sigh and relaxed. Samson was okay. He was only doing his job.

  When he finally got outside, the Lincoln was parked in the handicap slot and Chris was climbing into his wheelchair. “I was just coming in to get you,” said Chris. “You’ve been in there almost two flaming hours.”

  30 ... nightmare

  He had his legs back again, but it was in a dream, or a nightmare more like.

  Sarah was playing a grand piano up on a stage in a concert hall full of people dressed in their best. Full orchestra. She was playing a concerto. He sat listening to her, watching her long white fingers flying over the keys. Next, inexplicably, she was by his side, running, and he was running with her — no wheelchair — from the street into the same concert hall, as the orchestra tuned up before the concert. Her hair hid the side of her face closest to him, but he knew it was Sarah. He held her hand.

  “It’s so late,” said Sarah, worried.

  “Don’t worry,” he heard himself say. “Our seats are reserved.”

  The orchestra was still tuning up as they reached their aisle. The piano stood waiting for the soloist to appear on the stage.

  “It’s along here. You first, Sarah.”

  She released his hand and they excused themselves as they pushed past faceless patrons until they reached their seats. There was a man sitting in Mike’s seat. The man said, “You just made it, Sarah. I’ve saved you a place right here beside me.” It was Dorfman, eyes magnified twice as much as usual and gleaming behind his glasses, wet mouth — like in an Alien movie — dripping a viscous saliva onto the seat beside him.

  “Run, Sarah, run!” Mike cried, pulling at her arm.

  The first pounding piano notes of the concerto sounded as they fled back up the aisle, Dorfman in pursuit. Mike tried to look back to see who was playing the piano, but Dorfman was blocking the view. Dorfman reached out and Sarah screamed.

  He woke in a lather of sweat, crying and thrashing about and falling out of bed onto the floor.

  31 ... letum non omnia finit

  Chris drove him to St. Augustine’s and let Mike out at the lich-gate. It was early evening, cold and raw, with a wind that moaned in the church eaves and tossed the bare branches of the graveyard trees.

  “I’d rather go alone,” said Mike.

  “Looks pretty spooky to me. You sure you’ll be okay in there?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “If you’re not back in ten minutes, I’ll come looking for you.”

  The graveyard was well cared for, with paved pathways. There was nobody else about, nobody to observe him, which was the way he wanted it.

  Most of the graves were very old, their granite slabs cracked and eroded by wind and rain. Many were blackened or clothed in a patina of mossy green. He searched for a fairly new one, a grave only seventeen years old.

  He soon found it, a neglected little plot tucked away at the back behind the church, with an un-weathered stone. He left the paved path and struggled to push his chair over the wet grass. Breathing heavily from the effort, he stopped his chair in front of the polished granite grave marker, beside which, fallen onto its side, was an empty, discolored glass jar that had once held flowers.

  He could not read the inscription on the gravestone. He struggled to move his chair in closer.

  SARAH STEPHANIE FRANCIS

  b. July 14 1969

  d. Dec 17 1982

  That was all it said. Nothing else.

  He didn’t know why, but he wanted to take a look at the back of the stone. He pushed himself around, grunting with the effort.

  Engraved in the granite were four words:

  LETUM NON OMNIA FINIT

  It was Latin, he knew that much. Non probably meant none or not; omnia
was all and finit probably meant finish or end. But he was guessing. He had no idea of the meaning of letum. He read the inscription over several times, memorizing it, then he bowed his head in a brief prayer.

  He righted the toppled jar before he left.

  With the help of Norma’s Latin-English dictionary he translated the grave inscription that same evening.

  LETUM NON OMNIA FINIT

  NOT ALL ENDS WITH DEATH

  He started reading the book Norma had given him for Christmas. The title of the book was Fight for the Sky. It was an autobiography of Squadron Leader Douglas Bader, a W.W. II air ace who flew Spitfires and Hurricanes. Douglas Bader had no legs.

  32 ... all that lives must die

  She came at the end of February.

  Robbie pushed Mike through the wind and rain to the Granville Island Market after school and Mike asked to be left there. He felt restless, didn’t want to go home yet, wanted to sit alone for a while out on the deck with the huddled pigeons, away from the shoppers and the lights and the warmth. He felt a need for turbulence: the wind whipping his hair, the sight of the churning sea.

  Robbie said, “You can’t stay out here in this storm.”

  “There’s a sweater under my raincoat. I’ll be okay.”

  Robbie left him alone.

  He sat facing the far shore of English Bay with the wind tearing at him, watching the boats in the marina roll and pitch. Rain lashed his face. He sat for a long time, ignoring the cold creeping into him. The wilder the weather became the calmer he felt. And then he became aware of her presence: he could feel her near.

  An overhead light came on, a dull yellow smudge.

  She appeared out of the rain, smiling and happy. “Michael!”

  For a moment he hardly recognized her, then his heart lifted. “Sarah!”

  She laughed and threw her arms about him. “Oh, Michael!”

  The same laugh, the same voice, the same, yet not the same. She was taller, more lovely than ever in a raincoat, green or gray — it was impossible to tell under the yellow light — its collar turned up against the wind and rain. She had no hat or gloves, but a scarf fluttered at her neck.