Familiar Strangers

by Jackie Walsh

  Shit, I just realized what I’ve said. And so does she.

  ‘Rebecca, if the note was taken from your apartment, that would mean you would have seen it. Your mailbox is in the hallway, right? You would have had to collect the note for it to end up in your apartment.’ Think, Becca, think.

  ‘Unless she slipped it under my door.’

  ‘And did she… slip it under your door?’

  ‘I didn’t see any note, detective.’

  ‘Okay.’ Turner stands up. The guy who disturbed us earlier sticks his head in the room again, demanding Turner’s attention. This time she relents.

  ‘You can go now Rebecca, but I need you to keep looking for anything that might relate to Katie Collins’ attempt to contact you.’

  The cold air hits me in the face when I leave the precinct and walk out on to the busy street. People knock off me, rushing past as I move along at a pace too slow for them. I’m in no hurry. I have nowhere to be. I decide to visit Mom, see if I can tease any more words out of her.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Today there is a party at Oakridge. Someone has reached the big eighty, or ninety, or possibly even one hundred. It saddens me that Mom will never reach any of these milestones. She won’t even make it to sixty.

  Everyone is invited to take our loved ones down to the social room and join in the fun. When Mom was first incarcerated here, I used to walk her down to the room, sing songs and laugh, dance and eat cake. Not anymore. Now I push her in a wheelchair, watch her as she looks around the room wondering what’s going on, and crumble bits of cake into her mouth.

  People are huddled in groups in the lobby, waiting for the festivities to begin. Dad doesn’t come anymore. He thinks it’s a pointless exercise. Danny never came. This would be all too backward for his high-flying world.

  Leaving behind the carnival atmosphere, I walk down the corridor and take the elevator to Mom’s room. I don’t make that wish anymore, the one where I hope she knows me. No point setting myself up for disappointment. I have lowered my standards: now I just hope she is comfortable and in no pain. Today I find her strapped into a wheelchair, a nurse tucking a blanket around her useless legs. Her hair is brushed into a shape more suited to an eighty-year-old and someone has put lipstick on her lips.

  ‘Look, it’s Rebecca,’ the nurse says to Mom.

  ‘Hi, Mom.’ I kneel down beside her but she barely notices me, if at all. She is still smiling at the nurse and nodding her head.

  ‘Do you want to go down and sing some songs, Nancy?’ the nurse asks, not expecting an answer. Then she directs her query to me. ‘Are you going to take her downstairs for the party? She’s in good form today.’ The nurse turns back to Mom. ‘You’re feeling good today, aren’t you, Nancy?’

  Christ, it’s like she’s talking to a dog. Good girl, good girl, Nancy.

  The enthusiasm shown by Oakridge staff always amazes me. Their competence in trying to entertain the unentertainable deserves a medal. The excitement is growing as I push Mom into the social room. I will try to relax, forget what’s going on in the outside world.

  Balloons float in every corner. A table of sandwiches, cakes and brightly colored napkins sits in the center of the room. Smiles beam on the faces of every staff member as they help organize seats and spaces for everyone. Their ability to live in the here and now, to make this moment matter for the people in their care, is second to none. One nurse in particular looks like I do after a few too many. She is dancing from chair to wheelchair, holding the hands of each patient before moving onto the next one. A lady, introduced to us as Mae, is giving it socks on the piano, bashing the keyboard like she’s the star attraction at Symphony Hall. Already some of the patients are singing along, bringing smiles and laughs to their families. My mom isn’t. She sits in her wheelchair looking around like she’s just landed on another planet.

  Mae moves on to another song now, I think it’s from a musical. Mom used to love musicals. Chicago. Singin’ in the Rain. She always said Mamma Mia! was her favorite. After hearing a few notes, I realize I know this song. Mom used to sing it when she was cooking, she told me her mom sang it to her. ‘Moon River’. I lean in, put my lips to her ear and croon the opening words to her, hoping that she can hear me through the fog her brain exists in. Then something wonderful happens. Mom turns to look at me and her eyes open wide. I think she knows me. She does, she knows me. It’s as if someone is kissing my heart. Squeezing her hand, tears come to my eyes. Happy tears. Then I notice her dry lips parting. Holding my breath, I wait, leaning in to catch the words as she completes the lyrics, singing in a small, cracked voice. Wiping tears from my eyes, I feel a warmth travel through my body. It’s like a present from an angel.

  Nothing else matters in this moment. Not Stephen Black or Detective Ivy Turner or Katie Collins. Just ‘Moon River’ and Mom back in her own kitchen singing those words.

  After a while, though, Mom tires. She becomes agitated, twisting and turning in the wheelchair, making strange squeaky noises, drooling. She looks scared, so I release the catch on the wheel and push her out of the room and down the corridor. I’m happy that I came here today, happy I had that moment with Mom.

  Leaning over the back of the wheelchair I whisper, ‘Like the song says, we’re drifters, Mom.’

  The corridor is much cooler than the overwhelming heat in the family room so I decide to push the wheelchair around for a bit to cool myself down. When I find myself outside Dr. Reilly’s office, I see a notice stuck to her door.

  Clinical Trial. Information meeting in progress.

  What’s that about? Shit, I’m probably supposed to be there. I must have missed the email, or maybe it went into my spam. Though I don’t see how, I have been extra careful to read everything since Detective Turner ordered me to monitor my social media. I think I better go in and see what’s going on, explain that I didn’t get the notification. I don’t want her to think I just didn’t bother to show up.

  By now Mom has fallen asleep, her head tilted to one side, her breath slow and shallow. The blanket has slipped slightly, so I tuck it in below her legs and straighten her head. Then I move the chair against the wall and press the lock on the wheel.

  * * *

  Tapping on the door doesn’t elicit an answer so I knock a bit louder. Still no answer. I open the door and stick my head through the gap. The room is in darkness and everyone is staring at the screen on the wall.

  Dr. Reilly is sitting sideways on her desk. There are four other people in the room, all facing the screen. No one turns around at first, but when I open the door a bit wider, Reilly slips down off the desk and walks towards me. She instructs the four women, all of whom are about my age, except for one who looks a good bit older, to continue watching. I step back and wait for her to come out.

  ‘Rebecca,’ she says looking confused. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I didn’t get any notification about this,’ I say, pointing at the sign.

  ‘That’s because I didn’t send you any.’

  ‘Oh.’ Now I feel like an idiot. But then I think, why? Why didn’t I get any notification?

  ‘Is this not the clinical trial I signed up for?’

  Reilly seems nervous, like she doesn’t know what to say. She assumes a forced smile.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about the trial in person, Rebecca, but I didn’t get a chance.’

  ‘Well, here’s your chance. Talk to me in person now.’

  Folding her arms, she says, ‘Rebecca, we won’t be needing you to take part in the trial.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We have enough participants, who are better suited for this particular trial.’

  ‘I thought you said you needed as many participants as possible.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t talk about this right now, Rebecca. Can you call me, and we can schedule a meeting for later this week?’

  ‘Is it my blood results? Was there something wrong with them?’

  ‘It’
s nothing like that, Rebecca. Please, call me and we’ll meet during the week.’

  Then she’s goes back inside. It’s infuriating – why can’t she just tell me the truth? All this see you next week, nothing is wrong, too many participants – it all reeks of deception.

  ‘What is going on, Mom?’ I whisper as I push her back towards her room. The nurse is waiting to settle Mom back into bed when we get there. When she leaves the room, I sit down and pull in close to Mom. Holding her hand, I look into her glossy eyes.

  ‘What did you mean, Mom? Why did you say you took me?’

  She’s smiling now. Her teeth look too big for her mouth.

  ‘Please, tell me.’ I lean in closer, brush my fingers down the side of her face. Mom looks at me but I can tell she does not know who I am or what I’m doing here.

  ‘Mom,’ I whisper. ‘I know you’re in there, Mom… come back to me… What am I to do, Mom? My world is falling apart ever since you said you took me… I slept with my boss, I robbed a bottle of gin from Mattie’s, I haven’t been to work in days. All these things that are so not me. Who am I, Mom?’

  But my words just float above her head like the rest of her world. Out of reach. Taking her hand, I kiss her cheek. ‘I have to go now, Mom. We’re drifters, the two of us,’ I say, echoing the words of ‘Moon River’.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Stale air refreshes me as I walk the dimly lit corridor of Mattie’s. I’m looking forward to working, staying at home doing nothing allows my mind travel into some very dark places.

  Behind the bar, Brian is making a job out of wiping the countertop, rubbing it vigorously with a dirty grey cloth. It’s like he is trying to remove bloodstains from a crime scene before the forensics team arrive.

  ‘How are things, Brian?’

  ‘Good, Becca, good,’ he says, not bothering to look at me. That’s not like him. Brian always stops to say hello. Is something wrong? Please don’t tell me Detective Turner is here again. Everyone gets so obedient when she’s about the place.

  ‘Is everything alright, Brian?’ I say, glancing around to see if I can spot Turner. Apart from the usual early birds drinking beer and ignoring one another at the bar, I can’t see anyone who shouldn’t be here.

  ‘Yes.’ He’s still not making eye contact.

  ‘Brian, what’s going on?’

  Before he has a chance to answer, I hear Mattie’s wheelchair behind me.

  ‘Rebecca.’

  ‘Yes?’

  Mattie looks serious. ‘Can I have a word?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, glancing over at Brian, but by now he has turned his back.

  Mattie doesn’t say anything on the way to his office. His silence is unnerving. Inside, he rolls in behind the desk near the back wall and tucks himself in close. Should I take a seat or stay standing? Mattie is giving no instructions. Why is he being so quiet?

  ‘Rebecca,’ he finally says, in a low deep tone that leads me to believe this is not a prelude to good news. Leaning back into the chair, he taps the top of the table. ‘We have a problem.’

  ‘A problem?’

  ‘Some bottles have gone missing from the cellar.’

  My thoughts freeze. I feel like I’m going to puke. My eyes are locked on his as I pray for someone to beam me up out of here, for the ground to open and swallow me, for the building to blow up.

  ‘Do you know anything about that?’

  What will I do? Lie, Becca, lie. Don’t lie, Becca, don’t lie.

  ‘No,’ I lie.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he says.

  The room seems to be shrinking. I don’t know what I should do. What if someone saw me? But no one saw me, they couldn’t have. Mattie is probably questioning everyone. I guess that’s why Brian practically ignored me, he was probably questioned too. If I admit to this, I’m out of here. I’ll have to take my chances.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure, Mattie. I wouldn’t dream of taking them. Maybe they were broken or misplaced or something?’

  I sound stupid. Which is how I always sound when I’m trying to deny something I’ve done, rambling on with a big guilty sign flashing across my forehead. Shut up, Becca.

  Mattie turns his attention to the Mac on his desk.

  ‘It seems the CCTV says different,’ he says, clicking open a file on the screen. Blood rushes to my head. I try to stay standing but I’m drowning here, drowning in my own thoughtless actions.

  ‘Mattie, I’m sorry, so sorry. I don’t know what I was doing. I thought maybe they were left over and going to be thrown out. I was going to tell you to take the money from my wages but I forgot and…’

  There is no point adding a verse to this crazy song. I’m fucked.

  ‘Please don’t sack me, Mattie. I need this job. I swear I will never take anything again.’

  Tears roll down my face. If I had a gun, I’d shoot myself. How could I be so careless, stealing from the only place that was keeping my life in any sort of order? I am now officially a bad person.

  Mattie sacks me. He says he won’t report the theft, but he never wants to see me near the club again. It turns out he only checked the CCTV because Turner asked him to. She called in and wanted to see everything recorded from Saturday night, which is how she knew I left with Stephen Black. Shit, now she knows I stole the liquor as well. She won’t believe anything I tell her.

  Brian is nowhere to be seen when I drag myself back out to the bar. And even Al, who I’m sure has some unsavory background stories of his own, isn’t there to see me off. Out in the parking lot I wave goodbye to the big old building and cry. What now, Becca Wall? What now?

  Jeff is going to hate me, Danny is going to judge me, Dad is going to worry. Mom… well, at least Mom, stuck in her prison of bad genes and good medicine, won’t know a thing about it.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  ‘Not going out tonight?’ Ms. Cannister says, stepping out of the elevator, her red coat buttoned tightly around a velvet scarf. An explosion of perfume assaults my nose, forcing me to hold my breath for a few seconds while she moves past.

  ‘Later,’ I say, not wanting to admit that I have nowhere to go and no one to go with. She probably wants me to ask her where she is going, but I don’t want to discover that even the oldest woman in the building has a better social life than I do. Pressing the elevator button, I watch her walk towards the exit, her head held high, a lightness in her step.

  Ignoring the door to my apartment, I go straight to Jeff’s. The sound of my knocking echoes through the corridor, begging. But I get no answer. Everything is still. It’s like the world has been put on pause and I’m walking through it, searching for my space. For where I’m supposed to be.

  Back in my apartment I finally confront what losing my job at Mattie’s means. Not only will I miss the friendships and the laughs, but also the money. How the hell will I pay my rent now? How to pay for that big glass wall that allows me spy on the world? I place my hand on the pane and look out at the darkening night. Shadows paint the buildings as couples walk hand in hand on the street below. In the distance I see the red coat chaperoned by a grey suit. Ms. Cannister and her date walk to the end of the street, then turn down Holden Street, which houses all the restaurants and bars, dreams and possibilities.

  The silence is broken by the rumble the refrigerator makes every now and then. It’s beckoning to me from the corner of the kitchen but I know it’s just teasing, there is nothing inside. The only thing I ate today was a chunk of chocolate cake I couldn’t get into Mom’s mouth. Her eyes welcomed it but she’d forgotten how to open her lips.

  In the cupboard I find a half eaten bag of Lay’s chips and sit on the sofa feeding myself, hoping to hear Jeff’s footsteps passing my door. I scrape the crumbs from the end of the bag then toss it in the trash before looking around the room that eight months earlier promised me a new life. A new beginning. It was supposed to be great; the new job at Bridgeway and King, the part-time job at Mattie’s, dreams of a love life. One by one it has all turned
to shit, starting the day Katie Collins came to town.

  Switching on the TV, I flick through the stations, but nothing holds my attention. Nothing is more engaging than my own disastrous life. So I turn it off and go to bed.

  The following morning, I wake up, surprised that I have managed to complete a full night’s sleep. I remember it’s Sunday, ‘let’s play happy families’ day. Pulling the duvet around me, I close my eyes. I don’t want to be awake, don’t want to face the music.

  After sleeping for another few hours I pull myself out of the bed and take a shower. I have to be at Dad’s in an hour.

  * * *

  Bert’s front door is open when I arrive outside Dad’s so I walk over and tap on the door.

  ‘You in here, Bert?’ I say.

  Bert sticks his head out from a door halfway down the hall.

  ‘Becca,’ he says. ‘Come in.’

  Before entering I glance across the street. Danny and Joanna haven’t arrived yet and Dad’s house looks empty. Hoping I haven’t come all the way out here for nothing, I check my phone to make sure I haven’t missed a message from them. I haven’t.

  Bert is in Edith’s room, the room where she sat out her last few months in her own home by the fire. Her chair sits in the same spot, empty. As empty as empty can be. I know that empty; it’s the same kind of empty that kicks me in the head when I’m at Dad’s house. When I look at where Mom used to sit, where Mom used to stand, or where Mom used to sing while she baked. Two drifters. That same implosive empty, like the whole world lived in that one spot and now that whole world has disappeared.

  ‘Is there anything I can do for you, Bert?’ I say, knowing there is absolutely nothing I can do for Bert. It is his turn to be tormented by loss; there is no sharing the agony.

  ‘No, Becca,’ he says, lifting clothes out of a bag. ‘I have everything I need.’