The Daughter (17 page)

 

Chapter 23

DORSET, 2010

THIRTEEN MONTHS LATER

O
n December 30, tired of missing Michael, I make a plan so as not to leave any gaps into which I might fall: a walk to Golden Cap. From this high point the Jurassic coast spreads wide on either side. In the summer there is the hot coconut smell of gorse, but at this time of year the air will be fresh and salty. I can look for colors, though I expect I will have to wait until the weather is warmer. I could always collect what I need to sketch for the larger work about change that's in my mind. I need leaves, twigs, tiny buds.

Bertie and I start out at seven. The village is still quiet, with a few lights on here and there, glowing from bedrooms where ­couples are waking up, curled around each other. Cups of tea are being passed carefully and set down on bedside tables. The scent of night is still thick in the misty shadows between the cottages. I walk quietly so as not to wake ­people still asleep. In the silence, distantly and then nearer, there are footsteps beyond the corner in the lane. They sound tired and uneven. Perhaps a farm worker coming back to his breakfast after milking, or one of the fishermen returning home to his bed after landing the first catch of the day.

A tall man comes around the corner, a thin, bent shape in the dark. It takes me several moments to recognize Ted. His walk is different, slow and slightly hesitant, not the old purposeful stride. He looks exhausted, as if coming to the end of a long journey.

I'd forgotten his text and feel sick with the unexpectedness of him here, now. If I stand by the side of the road he might walk past me. He would find the cottage dark and locked and perhaps go away again. I lean against a garden wall in the dim morning light; the stone is damp and gritty under my fingers. He won't see me unless he looks in the shadows, but he might hear my heartbeats, which seem to fill the space between us. He is level with me, he is passing. I hold my breath, but then Bertie runs toward him, tail wagging. Ted bends to him and I know he is thinking how like Bertie this dog is, then, realizing it is Bertie, he looks up quickly and sees me. He says my name and there is gladness in his voice. As he steps toward me, I move back, just slightly. I don't look fully at him yet; instead I look behind his head, where ivy is prizing apart the stones of an old wall. He tells me he has left his car in the pub parking lot; he didn't want to wake everyone with the engine rumbling under the windows of the narrow little streets. We walk back to the cottage; Bertie trots between us, looking up at him constantly.

In the kitchen he sits at the table with his coat on, like a visitor who isn't going to stay long. I make a cup of coffee and put it down in front of him, then step back.

“Why were you hiding just now?” he asks me, and even his voice is slow and tired. There are mauve marks under his eyes. His hair is grayer and thinner. His stubble is so long he must be growing a beard. “If I hadn't noticed you against the wall, you would have let me walk by.”

“I wasn't hiding. I was waiting . . .” I make these words effortfully. I would prefer to stand here silently absorbing the strangeness of his presence.

“Waiting?”

My answer shapes itself, unsaid. Yes, waiting to see what would happen, hoping he would walk by, unknowing. All the weeks and months after Naomi went, I waited for him. He passed me by then, leaving me in the shadows on his way to someone else.

“It's all right, you don't have to answer.” Ted shrugs and opens his hands with a little laugh; he has the red palms of a drinker. He sees me looking and closes his hands around the coffee cup. A few drops spill onto the tablecloth and spread into little circles.

“So, you're okay? Here, I mean. Of course I don't mean . . .” He stops.

“I'm okay.”

“You look fine. Good, actually.” He sounds surprised.

“Thanks.”

“I mean you look pretty.” His eyes narrow, appraising.

“Thanks.” If I look pretty it's because of Michael, but I won't tell him, not yet.

“How were the boys?” He shifts in the chair, as if trying to get comfortable. “When you saw them at Christmas?”

“They were fine.” My heart is still racing fast; I can't make long sentences, but words spill out of Ted. After all, this isn't a surprise to him.

“I've missed them so much. I've seen Ed, of course.” He is thinking of seeing Ed with Beth, all the times he took her to see him.

“What about Theo?” he carries on.

“He's fine.”

“I should have been here for Christmas. I'm sorry.”

His shirt is crumpled; perhaps he slept in it. His coat is too big for him. The smell of stale cigarettes fills the kitchen. What particular thing is he sorry about? Christmas? Beth? The lies?

“Do you think about Naomi much?” he asks abruptly into the silence.

I turn my face to the window, unable to look at him.

He goes on, his words coming faster. “I think about her all the time.”

I glance at his face. Tears run into the gray stubble.

“At the moment it's the feel of her hands, when she was little. They were so soft. She used to put them against my cheeks and pretend that my stubble hurt and then we would pretend to bandage them.” His nose is running; the tears are streaking the dust on his face.

I don't want this unfurling. I hand him a paper towel. He wipes his face. The bunched paper opens itself on the table, translucent with tears and mucous.

“I look for her everywhere I go.” He is speaking so quietly I have to bend toward him to catch the words. “Once, in Cape Town, on my way from the hotel to the hospital, I thought I saw her. I followed this girl into a park. She walked the same way as Naomi.” He smiles up at me. “Remember that little sort of bounce as she walked, as if she could keep going forever.”

“Only she didn't.”

“Didn't what?” He is still smiling, but puzzled.

“Keep going forever.”

“Don't you think so?” He clenches his fist and bangs it softly on the table. “Don't give up. Don't ever give up. I still think we'll find her.”

He stood up. “I've made so many mistakes.”

“I don't want to hear this now, Ted. It's too late for all this.”

He stands in front of me, swaying slightly on his feet, as though he is drunk but he doesn't smell of alcohol. His eyes are closing. His voice slurs.

“Sorry. Just need to sleep for a bit. Couldn't on the plane. Drove all night, must lie down . . .”

I run him a bath, and show him the tiny spare room. He stares at the ivory walls that Dan painted so carefully, the blue-and-gray-striped curtains, and the fire grate full of whitewashed fir cones. He takes in the rough pale blue cotton blanket, and his gaze rests on the little bowl of sea glass next to the bed. His shoulders relax. He takes off his coat and puts it on the wicker chair by the window. “Nice,” he murmurs. “You've done something. Don't know what. It's nice.” He sits on the bed, and then falls sideways with a sigh. His breathing alters almost immediately and becomes slow and deep. I undo his laces and heave his shoes off. He surfaces for a moment.

“Stay here? Sleep next to me?”

I shut the door and empty the bath water out. Then I go downstairs to the kitchen and take off the layers of outer clothes that I had put on earlier. The light is brighter now, but I hear rain starting. We wouldn't have been able to see much up on Golden Cap after all. I slowly unlace my walking boots and pull them off. Bertie rests his heavy head on my feet. He likes the rough feel of the wool under his soft mouth.

BRISTOL, 2009

EIGHT DAYS AFTER

Ted was late, as usual. Supper had long finished by the time he came home with lines under his eyes, and crumpled clothes pulled on after operating. I was glad to see him. He had promised me the episode with Beth was a mistake and I had to believe him. I needed him. I didn't have the energy for anger; in any case, what Ted had done began to fade next to the scouring anguish of Naomi's absence. He was silent as he went to the stove to get the meal, which had been keeping warm. The meat looked dried. The potatoes were shrunken, the greens stringy. I imagined his day and how he might have thought about hot food as he drove home.

“That looks disgusting, Ted. Shall I make you an omelette?”

“You don't have to.” He took a bottle of wine from the cupboard, opened it, and poured out two glasses, and then he sat down heavily with a sigh.

“Sorry I didn't phone,” he said as he sipped wine. “The operation went on all day. I'm later than I meant to be. Where are the boys?”

“Theo's around somewhere. Ed's gone to bed.”

“This early?”

“He needs to catch up on sleep; he's tired all the time. Anya can't even get into his room to clean because he gets up so late. The worry is wearing him out.” I started tapping eggs against a bowl. “Michael came by. Harold Moore told us—­”

“Who the hell is Harold Moore?” He watched the egg mixture slide, frothing, into hot butter.

He listened as I reminded him; then I told him about the blue van.

Ted tilted his head. “I think I did see a blue car, maybe a van, parked outside the theater, actually. Once or twice, perhaps.” He shrugged; he obviously didn't think it was important. “We'll probably find it belonged to the drama teacher or someone,” he went on flatly. “I wouldn't have said that having Down's syndrome makes you very reliable.”

“I think Harold would be a good witness. He watches everything. He was very focused on his drawing.”

Ted didn't reply. I put the omelette in front of him and he began to eat it quickly.

“Michael is working on it.” I sat down opposite Ted. “He is going to organize some kind of reconstruction. You know, a girl leaving the theater late, getting into a blue van.”

“It was late and dark, so it may not help. What else?”

“Ted, couldn't you miss your Saturday schedule and stay at home tomorrow? If you think we are on the wrong tack with this, then what can you think of instead?” I paused, forcing myself to stay calm. “I made this kind of plan on a card. I want your input.”

Ted pushed his empty plate away. “Show me.”

We bent over the table, looking at the circles surrounding her name. Home. School. Neighbors. The theater.

“We need another circle,” he said slowly. “Enemies. Grudge holders.”

“You don't have those kinds of enemies at fifteen.” I looked at him incredulously.

“Not her enemies. Ours.” He spoke quietly.

“I thought that once, about Jade's father, even Anya's husband, but I was wrong. Do you really think anyone could hate us that much?”

Ted's eyes were thoughtful. “My registrar had his tires slashed once. He wondered if someone had a grudge. I mean, who knows what we do or don't do, by mistake. Doctors playing God.”

“Christ.” Something seemed to shift and loosen in my resolve. I began to cry.

Ted's arm came around me tightly. I smelled the familiar, slightly scented smell.

“Reminds me of summer,” I murmured, my head against his shoulder.

“What?” He stepped back and looked at me.

“Lavender.” I stood near him, unwilling to walk away. We hadn't touched for days. “Not criticizing. I like it.” I took his hand.

He freed his hand and patted my back. “The nurses get to choose the operating room scrub, so it's scented, probably expensive as well.” He bent closely over the cardboard.

“Speaking of cost”—­I remembered the piles of banknotes in Ed's room—­“have you been giving the boys cash instead of transferring their allowance online? Not sure it's a great idea to be so generous.”

“Have I been generous?” He wasn't listening. He turned away, pulling out his cell phone.

“I saw that money, a pile of bills. You don't have to do that.”

“Not sure what you mean, Jen. I haven't given the boys any cash for months. I set up a bank transfer to their accounts, remember? Let me just text my registrar. He needs to find the scans for tomorrow's list of patients.”

I was so tired my feet throbbed and my eyes stung. Of course he couldn't miss the list, I shouldn't have bothered asking. Where the hell had all that money come from? I was too exhausted to think any more about the money tonight. I'd have to ask Ed in the morning. Ted went up to bed ahead of me and was asleep before I got in beside him. I tried to curl into him but he was lying on his front, head turned away. I rested my head on his shoulder. In spite of my tiredness, I stayed awake, trying to think what enemies I might have, hoping to block the images that swam toward me when I was tired and the waves of utter despair and dread that lay in wait for me everywhere.

BRISTOL, 2009

NINE DAYS AFTER

Ed was tipping cereal into his bowl at breakfast and some spilled over the edge onto the surface of the kitchen table.

“Why do you always have to come into my room?”

His voice was cold.

“Ed, you'd fallen asleep with all your clothes on. I just took off your shoes and covered you up.”

“I'm not a child.”

“So, the money?”

“None of your business, Mum, is it, really?” There was a pause. He shrugged. “If you must know, I'm doing a sponsored rowing event, a sort of gala. It's on Monday. I'm in charge of the money. That's why I've been late so much. I've been training.”

It made sense. The tiredness, late nights at school.

Ted was still asleep upstairs; his operating schedule started late today, and I let him sleep on while I paced around restlessly. The fear was always worse in the morning, moving sharply under my skin. I could never be still or concentrate on anything for long.

I phoned Michael. He told me that they had checked all the regular and student actors who used the school theater. All had alibis.

“What next, Michael?”