Familiar Strangers

by Jackie Walsh

  Well, at least I got the name of a street. Smiling my way back to where Jeff is sitting, I tell him the good news. ‘That woman is one bitter woman, she must have had her heart broken by a nation, but at least I got an address. Well, the name of a street anyway.’

  ‘Great, where did she say she lived?’

  ‘Some place called Houston Street.’

  ‘Houston Street.’ Jeff repeats the name, then calls for the barwoman’s attention and asks her for directions.

  ‘Houston Street or Houston Boulevard?’ she says. Jeff looks at me.

  ‘I’m not sure. I think she said street.’

  ‘Think who said street?’ the woman asks.

  ‘That lady there.’ I nod towards the mad woman. I think she is still muttering, ‘tells the lies.’ The barwoman laughs.

  ‘You don’t wanna believe the time out of her mouth. Carries on like God ain’t looking, that one… Who are you searching for?’ With one hand wiping the counter, her eyes stay focused on me.

  ‘I was hoping to find out where Katie Collins lived.’

  ‘Katie Collins?’

  ‘Yes, the girl who was murdered in Boston.’

  ‘You the papers?’

  ‘No, I’m her cousin.’

  The woman looks away, concentrating on the cloth in her hand for a moment before looking back at me.

  ‘And you’re asking me because…?’

  ‘We didn’t get on, there was a family feud and…’

  Raising her hand, she says, ‘No need to say anymore. You look like her, those dopey eyes, so I’ll tell you.’

  What? I look like her? I look like Katie Collins?

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The house is fronted by a small yard like every other house on the street. There’s no sign of the trauma its inhabitants have endured. Unlike me, every bone I have is shaking. A few steps away from the front of the house I stop, staring at the green wooden gate. If I push it open, I cannot go back. So much has happened in the past few weeks I feel I’m being sucked into the center of a tornado. Don’t drop me.

  ‘I can’t do this Jeff, I can’t go in.’

  Jeff turns, puts his hand on my shoulder. Dark rings circle his eyes. Last night has taken a lot out of him.

  ‘You can do it, Becca. This is what we came here for; this is where you will find the answers.’

  I know he’s right but it doesn’t feel like that. It’s like I’m volunteering to walk into a blazing fire. I want to back out, walk away like I always do when the going gets tough. My mother always told me I needed to see things through to the end. ‘Don’t give up,’ she would say when all I wanted to do was give up. But more often than not, I did give up. I gave up swimming when the lessons got too hard, gave up the guitar at the first sign of sore fingers and gave up college, twice.

  In front of me I see a simple white door with a flyscreen attached. The flyscreen is open.

  Jeff is hovering, his eyes still on me, his arm outstretched to show me the way.

  ‘Come on Becca, what do you have to lose?’

  I don’t know, Jeff. How do I know what I might lose when I don’t know what I’m going to hear? I don’t know why this woman was killed looking for me. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. Before pushing the gate open, I pause. There’s no turning back now. ‘Okay, here goes.’

  The path is only about twenty steps but it feels miles long. Every journey starts with a single step and all that crap. I’m walking slowly so I don’t get there, yet. Jeff walks ahead and rings the doorbell. Eventually I’m standing beside him. There is no answer. Great.

  ‘No one here, we’ll have to come back later.’

  Just as I turn to leave, the door opens. A small dark woman, hair tied back showing her youth, a small tattoo of a butterfly on her neck, stands in front of us. She looks at us cautiously. Words elude me so I look to Jeff.

  ‘Is this Thomas Collins’s house?’ he asks.

  ‘Who’s asking?’ she says, in an accent that isn’t local.

  ‘Well, my name is Jeff and this is Rebecca Wall. We were hoping to speak to Thomas.’

  ‘Thomas is not home, he’s at the base.’ She is about to close the door on me, on my hopes, when I hear a voice calling out from a room behind her. ‘Wait!’

  A tall handsome guy, his face molded by sadness, arrives behind the woman and pulls the door open. His dark, lifeless eyes seem far too old for his face, in total contrast to the photo I’ve seen of him on the internet where he stands tall in his army suit. Honor carved on his happy expression.

  I’m trembling, blood rushing to my head, legs weakening. This is him, it’s Thomas Collins. The man whose wife lost her life while looking for me is standing right in front of me. The man who can tell me why Katie Collins was looking for me is within my reach. Don’t give up, Becca.

  ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Becca. Rebecca Wall.’

  Thomas Collins stares for what feels like a day before speaking again.

  ‘I’ll take this,’ he says to the woman, who walks away towards a room at the back of the house.

  ‘Rebecca Wall,’ he says.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I… I…’ I don’t know what to say, I never prepared a pitch. What do I say? Jeff notices me buckling.

  ‘Rebecca came here to find out why Katie was looking for her,’ he says, loud and clear, like he is reciting from the bible. No nerves Jeff. I nod in agreement.

  ‘You don’t know then,’ Thomas says. ‘I guess you better come in.’

  The house is small but quaint and well maintained. He leads us down the hallway to the room where the woman went. There is a kitchen at one end a couch and TV with computer games stacked beneath it at the other end.

  My eyes are drawn to the baby crib in the corner. I want to go over and have a peek at the child who is motherless because of me. But I don’t, I can barely move. Jeff’s shadow is my map, I’m taking every step he takes as we walk to the center of the room. I don’t think I’d have got this far without him.

  Thomas nods at the woman and then to the baby, giving some sort of telepathic order. She lifts the baby from the crib. The little girl’s head sticks out of the top of the blanket. She has pale pink skin with a dusting of fair hair at the sides. I think of Liam, his tiny head. What would happen to Liam if Joanna was killed? I don’t want to think about it.

  ‘What’s her name?’ I say.

  The woman looks at Thomas, like I’ve asked an off-limits question. She doesn’t answer and continues to walk out of the room with her head nestled into the baby’s bundle, leaving me feeling like I’ve just been punished.

  ‘Louise,’ Thomas says. ‘Her name is Louise.’

  ‘That’s a nice name.’

  ‘After Katie’s sister, Louise Johnson,’ he adds. ‘The sister who was abducted when Katie was three years old.’

  My body shuts down. I can’t feel myself; where have I gone? I hear my mother’s words loud and clear crashing against the wall of my soul.

  ‘I took you, Becca.’

  Stumbling a few feet to the nearest seat, I collapse. Is this really happening or am I dreaming? I pinch myself to make sure I’m here. I’m here. This is happening.

  Jeff follows. Kneeling down in front of me, he says, ‘Are you okay, Becca? What’s wrong?’

  Thomas rushes to the faucet and fills a glass with water.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  I can hear him, but I can’t answer him; can’t think, can’t move. Stuck in this thing, this fear. Jeff hands me the glass which I attempt to sip from.

  ‘What are you thinking, Becca?’

  I lift my face to look at him. My thoughts must be etched onto it because Jeff says, ‘It’s not you, Becca. Don’t think like that. You are not Katie’s abducted sister.’ Jeff is trying to reassure me, but what does he know? Nothing.

  There’s no face now, just a blur. Someone is speaking but I do not understand the w
ords.

  * * *

  Eventually the world becomes familiar again, the room, the noise, the smell. In the distance a baby cries. In front of me is Thomas Collins. He looms above me, a tornado approaching. It doesn’t make sense, none of this makes sense. I’m panicking, creating something that doesn’t exist. I’m not the abducted girl. I can’t be. I have a birth certificate, photos of Mom pregnant with me, and I know it’s me because Danny is there too. Then there’s the photo of me two hours old, in hospital, in my Dad’s arms. Well I always thought it was me, was told it was me. But what if it wasn’t me? What if that baby was somebody else?

  Relax, Becca. Stop building a world that doesn’t exist.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘It must be the heat.’

  ‘Can I get you something else?’ Thomas says.

  ‘No, I’m okay now.’

  I need to ask him the question. That’s why I’m here.

  ‘Thomas,’ I say. ‘Did you know I’m the person your wife was looking for?’

  ‘One of them,’ he says.

  ‘One of them?’

  ‘Yes, it was ongoing. Every year there was someone new. “It has to be her, she’s my sister… or maybe this one,” she’d say, showing me a picture from some magazine or the laptop.’

  A warm gush of hope sweeps through me. This is not just about me, there are others.

  ‘I can show you her room if you want,’ he says.

  I want, of course I want.

  ‘If it’s not too much trouble,’ I say.

  Thomas takes us upstairs. He continues to talk, telling us Katie had become obsessed with finding her sister ever since they got married. Apparently Boston wasn’t the only cross-country trip she’d taken. She’d been to New York, Senora Virginia, chasing down girls she thought were her sister. The strain the search put on both of them became unbearable, almost ending their marriage. Then it stopped; after a lot of therapy and tablets, Katie stopped the search. Two years later Louise was born and it all started up again.

  I should not be happy to find out that this woman was on the edge, but I am. The realization that I was not her only target makes me feel a lot better. I’m breathing normally now.

  Then he opens the door.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  I can’t believe my eyes. The walls are covered in charts, dates, pictures of women. All types of women – young girls, women my age, some with dark hair, blonde hair, one with no hair. It’s like walking into one of those horror movies where the psycho has thousands of photos of their victims pinned to their bedroom walls.

  Some of the photos have a large x marked across them. A desk against the far wall is deep in scattered papers, except for an empty square where I guess the computer stood before the cops took it away. The room reeks of desperation. It seeps from the floor and the walls, the curtains opened on the large window to the left. The light has no effect. This room is dark.

  Through the window the Mississippi flows by, a prospect for the strong, temptation for the weak. Large barges creep up on the city, crawling through the constant waters, laden with produce. Along the riverside two boys cycle their bikes, stopping to wave at a barge, maybe it’s their daddy, maybe it’s a stranger.

  ‘Wow,’ Jeff says, leaning in close to my ear. ‘Nut job.’

  Thomas is standing by the door. I’m tapping Jeff on the arm, telling him to hush, when I see myself.

  The page has been pulled from a magazine and is pinned right above the desk. The photo is mainly of the band taken at Mattie’s club, but I’m there at the bar, in the background. Excited and terrified, I move closer. The cameraman did not catch me at my best; in fact, I look fat, the uniform shirt is far too big on me. It’s hard to see the expression on my face from the distance, which I’m glad about; I doubt it’s flattering. I haven’t seen this picture before. But Katie Collins has managed to track it down and she has drawn a big red circle around me.

  I beckon Jeff, show him the picture.

  ‘Not your finest hour,’ he says.

  I want to thump him, say something smart, but I’m aware the bereaved Thomas Collins is standing in the room with us.

  ‘How long has she had this?’ I say.

  ‘I don’t know. I lost interest in her quest a long time ago.’ Pushing his hand through his hair, he moves over to the desk and lifts a few of the papers in his hand, throwing them back down before adding, ‘Katie was challenged by reality. It wasn’t her fault, she had a rough start.’

  ‘Where did she grow up?’

  ‘In a hellhole at the edge of Maine. They lived in a trailer for the first few years. When I say they, I mean her mother, her sister and herself. She didn’t know her father, and when her sister was abducted the mother lost all capacity to carry on and drank herself to death. That left Katie with a foster couple, who apparently she was very fond of. She stayed with them until she moved to New York at eighteen. I met her when she was twenty-one. She was working in childcare at the time. She seemed normal to me and I loved her, still love her. It was when we married that the cracks began to appear.’

  Thomas is becoming weary talking to us but I have to keep going.

  ‘Was there more?’

  ‘More what?’

  ‘Well, any more pictures of me. Stuff like that.’

  Making for the door, he says, ‘Not that I know of. Like I told you, I paid no heed to what she was at over the past few years. Maybe I should have been more helpful.’

  I feel under pressure to leave this man alone, to stop stirring his pain. Walking towards the door, I see every picture and note covering the room and wonder, did Katie Collins put those thoughts into Mom’s head the day she visited Oakridge?

  ‘I suppose her computer would have more information but the cops have that now,’ Thomas says, moving into the hallway. Jeff and I follow. Closing the door behind us, he leads us back downstairs to the hallway.

  ‘I don’t know what more I can tell you,’ he says, making his way towards the hall door. The baby’s cry echoes down the hallway; the whole atmosphere is surreal and creepy. Pulling the strap of my bag across my shoulder I thank Thomas for his time. I ask him to get in touch if he thinks of anything else he might want me to know and then I give him my number. I also wish him the best of luck in finding out who killed his wife; probably not the best language to use, ‘Good luck finding out who killed your wife.’

  But what do you say in situations like this? I’m a novice. He doesn’t seem to register my inappropriateness and I don’t think finding the killer is going to bring any peace. The woman is dead. Her life has come to an end without her finding her sister and that’s a pity, a big pity, especially when there’s a new Louise starting out in life without her mommy.

  The child must be asleep now, the crying has ceased. Moving towards the door, Jeff looks at me and says, ‘All done here?’

  I feel like I came all this distance for nothing. Even though I now know why Katie Collins was looking for me, I’m a bit disappointed. I don’t understand why I feel like this. Did I want to be the sister she was looking for? But I was just another photo, another prospect, another failure in her quest for an answer that she never got.

  Zipping up my jacket I nod at Jeff. It’s over, we can go home now. I’ll put all this behind me.

  I’m about to step through the door when I turn and look at a picture on the wall. At first it doesn’t register with me; it’s just a family picture. Two young girls with their mother. The woman is holding a baby in her arms. The older child is standing by her side near the open door of a trailer.

  My heart shrinks. The baby is wearing a pink coat. With a button missing.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  ‘Come on, Becca. There must have been thousands of pink baby coats.’

  Jeff is trying to calm me as I sit on a wall down the street from Thomas Collins’ house. I’m so weak I can’t stand up.

  ‘Surely every little girl has a pink coat,’ he continues, but his words hold no comfort. I know t
hat coat, I have seen that coat, I have held that coat. Bert Ryan gave that coat to Danny for a reason. Bert Ryan knows something.

  I can’t reply to Jeff, can’t seem to be able to digest this finding. It’s like a fishbone stuck in the back of my throat preventing me from concentrating on anything else. What am I to do? How do I find out?

  The first thing I need to do is call into Bert and ask him where he got the coat and why he gave it to Danny. That is the first thing I will do. Lifting my head, I look at Jeff’s concerned face. He’s as confused as I am.

  Who is the baby in the pink coat? The missing Louise? And why is that pink coat in Danny’s house right now? Is the baby in the pink coat me? Did Katie Collins find her sister? From where I’m standing it’s looking that way.

  ‘I need to get home, Jeff,’ I say, unable to move. My body feels lifeless, like I’ve no blood left. My questionable blood. I know I will keel over if I stand up. Lifting my head towards the white clouds moving without worry across the blue sky, I inhale deeply. Once, twice, three times. Stand up, Becca.

  ‘I need to get home.’

  * * *

  The journey is a silent one. Jeff attempts conversation but to me he is speaking in a different language. Nothing feels right and I’m about two watts of willpower away from screaming my head off. But I won’t, I don’t think JetBlue would appreciate the drama. I’ll hold it together until we land at Logan. Then I will scream my head off.

  To my surprise the three hour flight seems shorter than it did coming out. Having refused the alcoholic support Jeff was promoting, I feel calmer. I need to take control.

  We get outside the airport, hop in a cab and travel back to the apartment. Jeff rushes in to make sure Bill and Hillary have not passed away from a day without greens. They haven’t. The two fluffy heads look as uninterested as ever and this makes Jeff happy. Dropping my bag onto the couch, I walk over and gaze out the window at the starry night. I have always found solace looking up when I feel down. The vastness of the unknown tends to put my small issues into a bigger world and shrink their value. But it’s not working tonight. I feel the burden of finding out the truth pushing down harder on me.