Capturing Angels

by V. C. Andrews

  “No. That Los Angeles detective, Lieutenant Abraham, has made an appointment to see me around nine. I explained that I had to get to the senior center by eleven.”

  “Did he say why he was returning to speak with you?” John asked.

  “No. Just a few questions, he said.” She looked at me. “I hope I can tell him something new that will help, although I can’t think what.”

  “He’s been inquiring about what occurred between Mary and Bradley Middleton,” John said, his eyes on me. “Molly called Grace this morning about it.”

  “I didn’t know the detective had been questioning Mrs. Middleton about Mary and her son. What can this all be about?” Margaret looked to me for an answer.

  I simply stared back at her.

  “Well, we’ll know soon enough,” John said. “Just answer his questions as best you can, Margaret.”

  “Of course, I will. I was wondering if maybe we shouldn’t see about getting Mary’s picture on milk cartons and such,” she said. “I’ve seen that sort of thing. Don’t know if it’s of any use, but . . .”

  “What do you think, Grace?” John asked. “I could have someone look into things like that, but it will be upsetting to see Mary’s picture around. I know how you reacted to America’s Most Wanted.”

  “I hardly think what might upset me is the priority.” I nodded at Margaret. “It’s probably a very good idea. Thanks.”

  “Okay, I’ll look into it,” John said, but not with any enthusiasm.

  “You don’t really think it will be of any value, do you, John?” I asked.

  “I’ll do some research on the statistics,” he replied. “We don’t want—”

  “To build up false hopes. I know.” I pushed the cake aside. “I’m going for a walk,” I announced, and rose.

  “Really? Well, what do you say to an evening stroll, Margaret?”

  “I’d like to walk alone,” I said.

  “You spend too much time alone, dear,” Margaret said.

  “Surely God will be with me. That’s not being alone, then, is it?” I smiled at the two of them.

  Neither replied.

  I walked out of the kitchen, took my light blue leather jacket out of the entryway closet, and left the house. No one followed. I walked down the driveway and turned left, slowing down once I had gone a good thousand yards from the front of our home.

  We were familiar with most of our immediate neighbors but not close friends with any of them. All of our friends lived in different places in the city, many in Beverly Hills, some in Westwood, and some in Bel Air. Most of the friends we’d made had been introduced to us by John’s business associates. In the beginning, there were planned get-togethers thrown by one wife or another, and gradually a half-dozen or so of us began seeing each other more frequently.

  As I walked past the homes in our neighborhood, I occasionally paused when I saw someone moving past a window, and when I could, I paused to see families seated in their living rooms watching television or even still around their dining-room tables. How insulated and safe they looked to me, and how envious I was. Surely families who watched old television shows in which parents and children went through relatively minor crises but always in the end found security and love felt the way I longed to feel again. How could I become like them? Could I, too, crawl into the glow of that world and never face fatal or serious emotional losses? What was the secret? What had I done to be standing alone out there looking in at them and feeling my insides crumble and shatter?

  I looked up at the sky. City lights made it almost impossible to see any stars, but I knew they were there. I closed my eyes and kept my head back as I whispered a prayer to John’s God.

  “Spare us, oh Lord. Whatever mysterious purpose you have, please reconsider. Bring my baby back to me.”

  The sound of a car horn followed by some shouting around the corner shook me out of my meditation. I lowered my head and walked on. At the end of the street, I turned right and walked to San Vicente Avenue, where there was lots of traffic, people walking, and restaurants buzzing. The world went on, despite the pain and loss of anyone in it. Other people might pause to sympathize and shake their heads, but moments later, just as they had to avoid thinking of their own inevitable deaths, people embraced the comfort in socializing, working, or simply playing at anything that was strong enough to be a distraction. Who could fault them? There was no place for anger, only envy, I thought.

  I sat on the patio of a juice bar and took out my cell phone. For a few moments, I just stared at it, and then I tapped in Sam Abraham’s number.

  “Hey,” he said. “What’s up?”

  “I just felt like calling you. I needed to hear your voice.”

  Was it wrong for me to load all of my hope on him now? Was that too much pressure?

  “Where are you?”

  “I left the house and took a walk.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Yes. I left John and Margaret at the kitchen table. She announced that you were coming to see her tomorrow.”

  “I thought she might.”

  “What are you doing, Sam? Where is this leading? I don’t care whether it will take me to another disappointment. I need something, some hope. Please.”

  He was silent for so long I thought I had lost the connection.

  “Sam?”

  “Where are you, exactly?” he asked.

  I gave him the cross street.

  “I’m ten minutes away. Stay there.”

  I went inside and ordered a juice, then returned to my table on the patio. Looking around, I saw many coeds who were probably attending UCLA. There were many apartments in the area that catered to college students. I told myself I was too young to covet their carefree demeanor, the excitement in their laughter, and their flirtations. They had everything to live for, every dream still a possibility, and every romantic adventure yet to be lived. Of course, some of them would suffer great disappointment, probably even great tragedy, but surely none of that seemed even remotely possible tonight.

  How depressing I am, I thought. It did me no good to think that no one would blame me for it. I hated it. I recalled being at the movies not long ago with John, and him looking around and telling me how statistically at least half of the patrons would experience some kind of cancer, how another percentage would have fatal heart failure at an age younger than expected, and how another percentage would die or be maimed in an automobile accident.

  “Thanks,” I’d told him. “Glad we’re going to see a comedy, at least.”

  He had smiled. He could live with all this depressing information because he didn’t connect real people to it, put faces and biographies with the numbers, and he had that damned tolerance for the inevitable and the real.

  Sam pulled up at the curb. I practically leaped out of my chair and got into his car. He started away.

  “I was just in West L.A. looking for a pimp who is a person of interest in a particularly brutal murder of a prostitute.”

  “I’m sorry I interrupted.”

  He looked at me and smiled. “He’s not going anywhere. I’ll find him tonight, I’m sure.”

  “What do you have, Sam? Why are you interrogating Margaret Sullivan again tomorrow?”

  “Look, this might not go anywhere. I know you said you don’t care, but I want to be sure to make you understand that.”

  “I understand. I understand.”

  “Remember when I told you the FBI was combing its files for anything similar in the way of an MO in the state?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, when you mentioned that story with the Bradley Middleton boy and then I learned about this Laurie James and her child, I put something else into the mix with the FBI search.”

  “What?”

  “Children who were thought to have some miraculous power like the lay
ing on of hands, that sort of thing.”

  “And?”

  “Two came up in Southern California, both girls,” he said.

  I shook my head. “What does that mean?”

  “Someone is out there listening for these stories. You know, like Santa listens to see who’s naughty and nice.”

  If my heart hadn’t actually stopped, it had fooled me.

  12

  Alone

  I didn’t like slinking around, but I asked Sam to drop me off at the beginning of our street. He pulled to the side, and for a few moments, neither of us spoke. I stared ahead at the cul-de-sac and my house. If Margaret was still there keeping John company, I was confident that they were talking about me, about how to handle me. I had gone from a competent and intelligent, caring wife and mother to someone who had to be guided and controlled. Of course, as always, that was for my own good, when in reality, people who were handled were handled so that the people close to them could be more comfortable in their presence.

  I had no doubt that John was very disappointed in me and in almost everything I did these days, not that I did much. Since I continued to avoid socializing whenever possible, I was sure he hated our friends pecking at him with questions about how I was, what my state of mind was, and what they could do to help. A man as self-confident and opinionated as John abhorred being dependent on anyone for anything. Once again, something for which I had first admired him had now lost its polish and glitter. His self-confidence had become arrogance, and his opinions were more bigoted, narrow, and uncompromising.

  As I sat beside Sam, both of us silhouetted by the streetlights and looking more like dark shadows of ourselves, I wished I had the strength to tell him to put his car into drive and take me away. My home was cradled in misery and depression. I could almost see the sadness leaking out of the windows and under the front door, merging with the pockets of darkness to make them deeper and thicker. I had little interest in cleaning or caring for anything in the house. I didn’t even make our bed these days, something that John passionately hated. He threatened to bring back a maid, but then he would go right to the bedroom when he returned home from work and make the bed himself. Sometimes he would rip it down and put on fresh sheets and pillowcases. He would do it all silently, but I was sure he was feeling as if he were Sisyphus in the Greek myth, condemned to push a boulder up a hill just to have it always roll back down.

  Our lovemaking to conceive a new child surely had to seem pointless to him. We didn’t speak or whisper sweet nothings. The foreplay was practically nonexistent, yet he didn’t complain about my lack of enthusiasm and emotion. He simply rolled over and went to sleep like someone who expected everything to be different in the morning.

  Where did that come from, that idea that if you could just pass through another dark night, all your troubles would be gone? There was that old adage doctors were supposed to use, “Take two aspirins and call me in the morning,” because in the morning, you’d be better. I would be the first to admit that any drug right now was tempting. How I wished I could sedate myself and not wake up until Mary was returned. It would seem as if only hours had gone by and not days, weeks, and months. For once, I understood John’s unyielding faith in death being nothing but a sleep, an escape from the cares and woes of our lives, and then a joyful awakening. Was that what I was wishing for, an easeful death?

  “Look,” Sam said, breaking the silence, “I didn’t sleep much at all last night agonizing over what we had done. Don’t misunderstand me. I wanted to make love to you very much. The truth is, I was attracted to you from the moment I first saw you, and I condemned myself for that. I wasn’t supposed to be thinking about anything but what might have happened to your child, but there I was, infatuated like some teenager. I hated leaving the case because I was leaving you. I don’t know how many times I replayed that conversation we had in your bedroom. I’d go to sleep with you on the inside of my eyelids, listening to your voice. But I know, or rather, I fear, that you were with me only because I’m trying to solve this abduction. It’s a horrible case of taking advantage of someone victimized, and I woke up this morning hating myself almost as much as you hate whoever took your Mary.”

  “That’s not completely true,” I said. “In fact, I’d be a liar, lying to make myself seem the better person, if I agreed with you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I felt guilty, too, but not because I was committing adultery. I felt guilty because I wanted to enjoy myself, feel like a woman again, and for the time being put aside my sorrow over the loss of my daughter. It was selfish. The fact is, I feel I took advantage of you, used you, and not vice versa.”

  He smiled and shook his head. “You’re saying all that to make me feel better.”

  “No.” I turned to him. “I have no doubt that if we had met under different circumstances and you had flirted with me, I would have responded. I have a hole in my heart a mile wide right now, but let’s just say there was a gap forming already. I mean it, Sam.”

  “You must have been in love with him when you married him, right?”

  “Yes.” His question brought an old smile to my face, one I used to wear knowing that it made me look softer and, dare I say, more beautiful. “John is a very interesting man. Few men look as much like Cary Grant or George Clooney these days, and any young woman out there on the dating scene will tell you that finding a substantial man, someone who really knows what he wants but is also competent, self-reliant, and well balanced, is practically an impossibility. It’s the age of Me. Look at Me. Want Me. Do what Me wants to do. John knew how to build a family, a home, a life, quietly, without the Me overriding every aspect. Everything is carefully constructed, sensible, and logical.”

  I looked at my house and continued, “How many couples our age do you know who already have their final arrangements signed and sealed? A man like John brings great comfort. I guess I always liked being taken care of, always craved the security, but something more than just the loss of my daughter occurred when she was abducted. There was the loss of the illusion that you can be safe. No one has arms that protective.”

  “Superman has his kryptonite,” Sam said.

  “Yes, but I’m just as much to blame. I led him on to believe that I would or could fit neatly into his world, especially his faith. Now I find myself intolerant of his damn refusal to rage at God over what has happened to us. It seems more natural to do so. Everyone blames God for something one time or another, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that many times. Of course, most eventually regret it and go on following whatever spiritual path they had been on.”

  “I can’t imagine doing that.”

  “I’m sorry, Grace.”

  “Yes, I know. I know that when you say that, you really mean it, Sam.”

  “This might come off stupid for me to say,” he began, with his head down like someone about to pray, “but are you absolutely sure that John doesn’t rage in private or question it all? Maybe it’s something he doesn’t want you to see. Maybe he thinks it will cause you more pain.”

  “You’re right. That is something stupid for you to say. Are you trying to drive me away?”

  He shrugged. “Just trying to be—”

  “Don’t say ‘fair,’ Sam. This isn’t a game.”

  “I know. Maybe just trying to be sure.” He nodded toward my house. “You’d better get back.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he whispered.

  “You’d better,” I said, and got out of the car. He didn’t move away from the curb, but I didn’t look back until I reached the driveway and saw him make a U-turn and drive off.

  Margaret was gone. John was in the living room reading. He looked up when I entered.

  “Barb Locken just called. She wants you to meet with her and Netty for lunch tomorrow. I told her you would cal
l her back.”

  I grimaced.

  “You can’t keep driving them away, Grace. If you don’t want to see a therapist, at least try to work yourself back a little yourself. Margaret was right, you know. If, God willing, we ever do get Mary back, you don’t want to be some mental invalid. She’d need you more than ever. Get stronger, for all of us.”

  “Okay, John. I’ll call her back.”

  He set his book down. “I’ve been trying to avoid something, but I really can’t,” he said.

  “What?”

  “There’s a three-day software convention in Vegas that I have to attend on Saturday. I’ll be back Tuesday. I could bring you along, but . . .”

  “No, I wouldn’t go. You go. You do whatever you have to do.”

  “Margaret could stay with you.”

  “Please, John. You can see how she gets under my skin right now. Why did she make us Mary’s favorite cake, of all things?”

  “She thought it was yours, too. It’s one of mine.”

  “It was insensitive. I won’t say anything,” I quickly added. “Don’t worry, but I don’t need her hovering.”

  “Whatever you think,” he said, his voice sounding defeated. “We’re still on for taking my father to dinner tomorrow night, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And maybe when I return from Vegas, we can talk about visiting your parents, at least one night.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good,” he said, and raised his book to return to his reading.

  “I’m going to bed.”

  “I’ll be up in a while,” he said.

  “I’m tired,” I emphasized so he wouldn’t expect me to make love.

  He simply nodded, keeping his eyes on the pages of his book.

  Sam’s words hovered around me, echoing in my ears. It occurred to me that I had been avoiding John whenever I could, and therefore he had much more time alone. Mary wasn’t there for him to talk to and keep him company while I was attending to something. He, just like me, was condemned to more solitary hours than either of us would want, I’m sure.