“Do you still paint?”
“No. I gave it up that day. I’d read about how to disappear. If I was to make a new life, I had to give up everything from the old. I left my VW bus with the canvas and all my painting supplies in a public parking lot in Morro Bay, put on the wig in the restroom, so the people at the self-storage place wouldn’t think a stranger was taking the van. Then I walked up the hill, and drove away from there.”
“And never looked back.”
“Oh, I’ve looked back. Believe me, I have.”
“Santa Rosa was just a temporary stopping point. It looked like a nice place, the hospital was hiring, and it was far enough away that I didn’t think I’d run into anyone who might recognize me. But I didn’t like the summer heat there—too much like Paso Robles—and then I heard that Sutter Coast Hospital in Crescent City was opening its new facility and hiring. I loved Crescent City. Cool and gray a lot of the time, like the coastal areas down south. And I wasn’t so lonely. I made a friend there.”
“Debra Jansen.”
“You talked with her?”
“She told me you were in Klamath Falls.”
“How . . . ? Oh, the Christmas card I sent her. A stupid, sentimental gesture. Probably the last I ever made. And since that’s how you found me, the worst. Trouble was, it was the Christmas season, and I was depressed. I had good reason to be.”
“Because of what happened a year before to Bruce Collingsworth?”
“. . . You have done your homework, damn you.”
“Debra Jansen says his death was an honest mistake. That during the confusion in the ER you started an IV with the wrong bag of solution.”
“That’s the truth. I grabbed a bag out of the wrong cabinet.”
“But it wasn’t the usual ER confusion that rattled you.”
“Have you ever worked on an ER? Even a good nurse like I was—”
“Come on, Laurel. You couldn’t have helped but recognize Collingsworth. What really happened?”
“A mistake! That’s all—a mistake! Bruce was in terrible pain, but conscious. We were stabilizing him, and he looked up and recognized me. He said, ‘Laurel, you’re alive.’ That’s what threw me.”
“And you’re sure giving him dextrose instead of saline was an accident?”
“Of course it was! I’m . . . I was a nurse. I would never deliberately kill anyone. Never! . . . No, don’t you give me that look. Bruce Collingsworth’s death was an accident!”
“I decided to settle in Klamath Falls because my van broke down here, and I’d run out of the energy to keep going. The first year I lived in a cheap apartment, hoping I’d get it together and move on. Then I realized I wasn’t going anyplace, so I bought a house. For the past ten years I’ve worked in a nursing home. Just grunt work—changing beds, wheeling the patients outside to get some air, cleaning up after them. I don’t mind it. I like helping people. And I volunteer for our hospice. Easing the last days of the terminally ill, it’s rewarding. And, I suppose, something of an atonement for the things I’ve done—to Josie, to my family, to Bruce Collingsworth. I live very quietly. One of my neighbors has been kind to me, and tried to forge a friendship, but I find I’ve lost the ability to function socially. I’m only good with the dying.”
“All right—I’m sorry I haven’t asked about Roy or the girls. How are they?”
“Roy died seven months ago. Of pancreatic cancer. Terry’s married and teaches at a cooking school in Davis. Jennifer is a textile designer; she was living in Atherton, but now is separated from her husband and temporarily staying with Terry.”
No reaction to that news. “You said it was Jennifer who hired you to find me?”
“Yes.”
“That makes sense. She was always the inquisitive one.”
“And she loved her mother.”
“Did she? I wouldn’t know. Children are such voracious creatures. What we think of as love is often pure need. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with satisfying a child’s need. Someone has to fill it.”
Until it becomes inconvenient or difficult, and then you just walk away.
“So now are you satisfied? You’ll go away and leave me alone?”
“Yes, but I’m required to report any evidence of wrongdoing that I find in the course of an investigation to the authorities.”
“You promised—!”
“I said I wouldn’t bother you again. I can’t speak for the police in San Francisco or Crescent City. Or the state board of nursing.”
“You lied! You’re going to turn me in to them, even though I’ve told you everything.”
“It’s the law, and if I don’t comply, I’ll lose my license. Even if you can convince them that your version of what happened is true, there will be consequences. You’ve committed fraud, practiced nursing under another person’s credentials.”
“I’ll lose my livelihood. The nursing home will fire me. The hospice will turn me away.”
“As I said, consequences.”
“But my work is my whole life. I have nothing except helping dying people.”
“You have something else, Laurel, or have you forgotten why I’m here?”
“What? Oh, my daughters.”
“Yes, your daughters.”
“. . . Do they want to see me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you talk with them? Ask? At least do that for me before you go to the authorities.”
“All right, if that’s what you want.”
“It’s what I want. When will you do it?”
“I’ll make a verbal report to Jennifer tomorrow. If they agree to a meeting, probably my office in San Francisco would be the best place.”
She considered. “No. Not down there. Please. Ask them to come to Klamath Falls, to my house.”
“Why?”
“Because maybe a visit there will explain a few things to them. Maybe it will be a new beginning for the three of us.”
“You’d better not be using this as a delaying tactic so you can run again. Because I guarantee I’ll find you.”
Her eyes grew bleak and she looked away at the lake. “Run? How could I? I have no place left to go.”
After I’d promised again—against my better instincts—to ask Jennifer and Terry to meet with their mother, Laurel went inside to her room. I remained on the veranda, staring out across the lake at the fiery sunset.
Given her character as I understood it, Laurel’s demeanor had seemed natural throughout our talk. None of it had been scripted; it couldn’t have been, given the circumstances.
But I wondered.
Her involvement in the death of Josie Smith. Her alleged mistake that had cost Bruce Collingsworth his life. Her desertion of her daughters.
I was the one who had had to prompt her to ask about those now grown children, and suddenly she wanted to see them.
I feared for Jennifer and Terry, should they decide to reconnect, but they were adults, and it was their prerogative to say yes or no to a meeting with their mother.
Momentarily I banished the investigation from my mind. Accepted the glass of wine I’d ordered from a passing waiter. Above the towering outcroppings on the far side of the lake, the sky blossomed with the last violent protests of the dying sun; purple clouds outlined in pink and gold billowed above them.
The end of a day for me.
The end of a reconstructed life for Laurel Greenwood.
Wednesday
AUGUST 31
“I am not going to meet with her!” Terry Wyatt exclaimed. She stood in the living room of her Davis home, hands on hips, eyes flashing.
From the sofa where she and I sat, Jennifer watched, wary of her sister’s anger. I kept my expression noncommital; I was the messenger, bearing bad tidings.
But Terry’s rage wasn’t directed at me. It was aimed at her mother, and she vented it with full force. “What she did is unforgivable! And now she wants a new beginning? What does she think? That we’ll just pick up wher
e we left off? Maybe she wants to tuck me into bed and read me a Littlest Lamb book? Where the hell does she get off?”
Jennifer cleared her throat and said in a tentative tone, “Terry, I think we should give her a chance, hear her out.”
“No, we should not! For years I’ve believed she’s dead, and as far as I’m concerned, she can stay dead.”
“But she had her reasons—”
“Oh, yeah, she had her reasons. She killed Cousin Josie and was afraid she’d get caught.”
“She told Sharon it was an accident.”
“I don’t believe that for one minute. And neither should you. This is all your fault, you know. You should’ve left well enough alone.”
“But Terry, just think—we could be a family again!”
I studied Jennifer, frowning. She certainly was cutting her mother a lot of slack. Of course, her life had been torn apart in the wake of her father’s death and my investigation; it was natural that she’d cling to what shreds were left—one of them being her image of Laurel as a flawed but good person. It was an image with which she deeply identified, as evidenced by last week’s journey back and forth across the territory where her mother had vanished.
“Jesus Christ!” Terry exclaimed. “Family! I can’t believe you said that.”
I stood up. Time for the messenger to depart before she became a target. “This should be a private discussion,” I told them. “When you come to a decision, let me know.”
I’d flown down to Sacramento that morning from Klamath Falls, rented a car, and gone directly to Terry’s house. Now I got onto Interstate 80 and drove south. I’d drop off the rental at Oakland, where my MG was parked at North Field. It seemed like years since I’d left it there and flown for the second time to Paso Robles.
I was tired, mildly depressed, and looking forward to getting home, taking a long, relaxing bath, and going to bed. One of the downsides of my work is the toll other people’s emotions take on me.
Let Jennifer and Terry go on from here, I told myself. You’ve done your job. You’re not involved anymore.
Ralph and Alice were waiting in the front hall when I got home. They gave me surprised looks; obviously they were expecting Michelle to show up and feed them. I took my travel bag to the bedroom, then spooned out some of the evil-smelling food they so loved, and told Ralph, “You’ll get your shot when ’Chelle comes over.” Giving insulin shots was not my forte.
Multiple messages on the answering machine. I pressed the play button.
Jim Whitmore of the SLO County Sheriff’s Department. “The DA down here’ll be in touch with you next week. Kev Daniel’s hired top legal talent, and the state’ll need your testimony to make its case. By the way, he wasn’t lying when he said he didn’t kill the dog; apparently it went looking for someone to help its master. Didn’t stay around to fight because it had two broken ribs. Hung around a restaurant near the pier, whining and trying to lead people out there. One of the busboys took it to a vet, and the vet called the guide-dog association number that was engraved on the plate on its halter.”
I’m glad the dog’s okay, but I really don’t need another court appearance.
Hy. “I’m flying back to the city tomorrow. Hope your case is going well. See you at home.”
You bet you will! At home, and in bed.
Ma. “Why are you never there or at the office? You’d better not be out getting in trouble again.”
You ought to be used to me getting in trouble by now, Ma.
Patrick. “I’m still in Crescent City. My piece-of-shit car died. I’ll try to make it in on Friday.”
Junk the thing and buy a new car. Please!
Saskia. “It was so good seeing you, dear, and meeting your lovely family. Please call me when you have time.”
Lovely family. Now that’s a new one.
Ted. “Your cell’s not on, and I don’t know how to get hold of you. Things’re really piling up here, and I’m working overtime. Call me when you get this.”
Go home, Ted. There’s nothing on your desk that can’t wait.
Robin. “My new phone’s finally been installed. Write this number down someplace where you won’t lose it.”
Good God, do I seem incompetent to her?
Jennifer Aldin. “Terry and I have reached an agreement. We’ll meet with our mother, but only if you come along to mediate.”
So you’re not involved anymore? Yeah, right.
Friday
SEPTEMBER 2
It was cool and a light drizzle had started falling when Jennifer, Terry, and I arrived at Laurel’s house in Klamath Falls. The overcast rendered the old tract even shabbier than it had seemed on the sunny day when I’d first visited there. Both women were tense, and their edginess had infected me on the trip up. Jennifer had insisted on sitting with me on the plane, had barely spoken to her sister. Terry acted as if she were being transported to prison. I gathered the “agreement” was more a case of the older sister exerting her influence on the younger one, and I hoped the outcome of today’s visit wouldn’t seriously rupture their relationship.
I pulled the rental car to the curb, turned off the ignition. Then we sat there in silence. After a minute, Jennifer asked, “This is what she left our home for?”
I said, “I don’t think her life turned out the way she expected.”
“No, of course not,” Terry commented from the backseat. “She probably envisioned a new, rich husband and no bratty kids to bother her.”
“Listen, Terry.” Jennifer’s voice crackled with anger. “We promised not to prejudge her.”
“You mean, you told me not to.”
“Stop that! We’ve got to go in there with open minds.”
Terry didn’t respond.
Jennifer twisted in the passenger seat and glared at her sister. “What happens in there”—she jerked her thumb at the house—“will be something we’ll have to live with for the rest of our lives. Don’t blow it.”
“As far as I’m concerned, our mother blew it the day she left us.”
I closed my eyes, drummed my fingertips on the steering wheel. Why the hell had I agreed to come with them? Oh, yes, I was supposed to be a mediator.
I said, “Look, you can do one of three things: you can sit here arguing all afternoon; you can tell me to turn the car around and drive back to the airport; or you can go in there and deal with her. But if you do go in, you have to be civil—to her, and to each other.”
They were silent. Then Terry said, “Okay, let’s get it over with.”
The two stayed well behind me as we went up the walk and I pressed the bell. Within seconds, Laurel opened the door.
She’d styled her gray-streaked hair carefully and applied makeup, including lipstick. She wore a black pantsuit that once had been elegant but now was shiny from too many dry cleanings. Her eyes were apprehensive, and worry lines stood out between her thick brows.
Another long silence. She stared at her grown-up daughters. I glanced at them: Jennifer’s eyes had begun to tear, but Terry’s were hard and cold.
After a moment Laurel swung the door widely and said, “Please, come in.”
The door opened directly into a small living room, sparsely furnished in what looked to be thrift-shop items. A small TV and VCR sat on a stand, dozens of videotapes stacked on the shelf below them. One wall was lined with bookcases whose shelves sagged under the weight of the volumes. Most of the books were in poor condition, and many of their spines bore library identification stickers, indicating Laurel had picked them up at bargain prices when they were taken out of circulation. Most if not all of Josie Smith’s money must have been gone after Laurel bought this house.
She stood very still, pressing her hands together and studying her daughters, who were similarly frozen. After a moment she motioned at a tattered plaid sofa and said, “Sit down, please. I’ve made coffee. Or perhaps you prefer tea?”
“Nothing—” Terry began.
“Coffee’s fine,” Jennifer
said, gripping Terry’s arm.
“Good. Ms. McCone, will you help me?”
I followed her through a dining area and a swinging door into a tiny kitchen. As the door shut behind us, Laurel turned to me.
“You said when you called that Terry was opposed to coming up here. Which one is she?”
“You can’t tell your own daughters apart?”
“Obviously they’ve changed in twenty-two years.”
Saskia had never seen me; I’d been whisked out of the delivery room as soon as she’d given birth. Yet when I first saw her, lying in a hospital bed in a semi-coma, she’d sensed my presence and whispered words that would allow me to unlock the secrets surrounding my adoption.
I said, “Terry’s the one with the attitude and short hair.”
Laurel nodded, busied herself with putting cups and a plate of cookies on a tray. I carried it into the living room while she followed with a carafe of coffee.
Jennifer was sitting on the sofa, her posture very straight, hands clasped primly around her knees. She’d composed herself, and her eyes were no longer tearing. Terry stood by the far wall, studying a group of photographs that were arranged there. I set the tray down, went to join her.
So Laurel had taken keepsakes of her children with her. There were seven photos in all, each framed in silver: Jennifer on a pony; Terry in a wading pool; both girls in front of a Christmas tree. Jennifer mugging for the camera in a Halloween pumpkin suit; Terry hanging upside down by her knees on a jungle gym. Both girls posing in the opening of a drive-through redwood tree. And in the central photo of the arrangement, Laurel kneeling, an arm around each girl, the sea in the background.
Terry said, “She kept them all these years.” When she looked at me, I saw her expression had softened.
“Okay,” she said, “I’ll hear her out.”
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