Brass Ring Page 9

  He smiled at the idea. A hundred times over the years they’d talked of going up to that amusement park three hours north of them in Pennsylvania. Somehow, though, they’d never gotten around to it. He would like to see that carousel himself after hearing about it for more than half his life.

  “I’m forty,” Claire said. “And Vanessa is my only sister. How long am I going to put off trying to see her?”

  He wheeled a little closer and touched her knee. “You have a full life,” he said gently, “and she probably has one of her own. Can you just forget it?”

  “That’s what Randy tried to do, and it’s haunting him,” she said. “He didn’t say that exactly, but I could tell.”

  She sounded as if she and Randy were old friends, as if what this stranger thought and felt mattered to her. The disconcerting swell of fear washed over him again. He wanted to end this conversation.

  “Well, I think I’m going up to bed,” he said. “It’s been a long day. Are you coming?” He held his hand out to her, but she didn’t take it.

  “In a few minutes,” she said.

  “All right.” He lowered his hand reluctantly. He didn’t like leaving her alone with the thoughts that were upsetting her, the thoughts that were turning her into someone he didn’t know.

  CLAIRE SAT ON THE sofa for a while after Jon went to bed. She was finished with Margot now, she thought. It was over. Chapter closed.

  The Otis Redding disc came to an end, and the stereo shut off, but still she felt glued to the sofa. The evening had drained her. Ever since leaving the theater, she’d felt as if she were moving through molasses.

  Vanessa. She pictured the little girl everyone had called “Angel.” Blond curls, like Mellie’s. Laughing as she rode the carousel with Claire. Petite and delicate, Vanessa had never quite managed to reach the brass ring chute without some calculated help from Grandpa.

  Claire rested her head back against the sofa and looked at the ceiling, an idea taking shape in her mind. She would write to Vanessa again. If she didn’t hear back this time, she would go to Seattle, try to find her. Well, maybe she would write a couple of times first. Give her every chance to respond. She didn’t understand the hesitancy she’d always felt about getting in touch with her sister. It was way past time. She had taken the easy way out for too long.

  She felt a rush of energy now that she had a plan of action. Upstairs, she took a quick shower and put on her short blue chemise.

  Jon was reading in bed when she walked into the bedroom. He looked beautiful, his eyes big and dark, the muscles of his bare chest and arms well defined. There was very little fat on his body, except for the spot low on his belly, which, given his injury, was impossible for him to tone. He ate carefully. He had an appreciation for his health most people never developed. Jon took nothing for granted.

  Claire hopped onto the bed and straddled him above the comforter. He looked at her, surprised, grinning. She realized it had been a while since she’d seen that grin.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “I’m gonna cheer you up,” she announced. “It’s Wednesday night, and we always do it on Wednesday night.”

  “Yes, well, we always make dinner together and rent a movie on Wednesday nights, too.”

  She was surprised by the hurt in his voice, and her throat quickly tightened. “I’m sorry, Jon.” She bent down to hug him. “I’m so sorry.”

  “No.” He sighed. “I’m sorry.” There was remorse in his voice. “I know you had to see Margot’s brother.” Gently, he pushed her up by the shoulders until she was sitting above him once again. He closed his book, rested it on the night table, and turned off the light. She could still see his face clearly enough to know he was no longer smiling.

  He reached up slowly to touch her cheek with the tips of his fingers, then let his hand run down her throat and over her shoulder before coming to rest lightly against her breast through the satin chemise. She felt the life in her nipples, the life in her groin. Raising herself to her knees, she started to pull the comforter from between their bodies, but he stopped her with his hands on her arms.

  “Claire,” he said. “I want you back.”

  She looked at him in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  He held her arms tightly. “I’m not blaming you. I know this has been hard. But I feel as though you’ve been missing since the night of the suicide.” His voice was thick, and in the faint light from the bathroom, she could see tears in his eyes. Had she put them there? She needed to rid him of them quickly.

  “That’s silly.” She leaned forward again, this time to kiss him, but his lips were cool. “I’m here,” she said. “I know I’ve been distracted lately, but I feel better now that I’ve talked to Randy. I can let it go now. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

  She kissed him again, and after a moment he responded. But as they made love, her mind was filled with images of the snow-covered bridge and a child’s innocent snowball fight. And of Margot flying, lit up like sparkling crystal, above the river. She tried to block the pictures from her mind. She tried to block the scent of pipe tobacco and the taste of milky coffee and the sound of the voice that had held her suspended in the chill air of the old stone chapel. But the images were vivid, the sensations powerful, and the more she tried to fight them, the more they drew her in.

  10

  SEATTLE

  VANESSA HAD THE PHONE to her ear and was about to make a well-rehearsed call to Senator Walter Patterson when Pete Aldrich walked into her office carrying a chart. Pete sat on the corner of her desk, wearing his usual frown beneath the mop of red hair, and Vanessa put the receiver back in its cradle to give him her attention.

  “There’s a kid in the clinic I’d like you to take a look at, if you’ve got a second,” Pete said. “Her school counselor referred her to the AMC program, but I can’t get anything out of her except that she doesn’t want to be here.” Opening the chart, he peered at the notes inside. “Physical exam is unremarkable, except for a bunch of self-induced cigarette burns on her arms. Sexually active, but doesn’t want to talk about it. No alcohol or drugs, so she says.”

  Vanessa took the folder from him. “And does ‘the kid’ have a name?”

  “Uh, yeah.” He rose from the desk, pointing toward the chart, and she looked down at the label.

  “Jennifer Lieber,” she read.

  “Right.”

  “Fine. Thank you.” She waited for him to leave her office and then followed him down the hall to the clinic.

  The girl was waiting for her inside the first examining room. She was strikingly beautiful, willowy, with long, golden hair. She sat on the table wearing the flimsy hospital gown, her arms turned facedown on her lap, hiding the burns from view.

  “Hi, Jennifer.” Vanessa sat down on the stool. “I’m Dr. Gray.”

  The girl mumbled something unintelligible.

  “Dr. Aldrich said that you’re in good shape physically, except for the burns on your arms.”

  Jennifer made a face. “He’s weird.”

  “Is he?” Vanessa kept her tone conversational. She didn’t dare allow this patient to know how thoroughly she agreed with her assessment.

  “Yeah. He’s like Mister Science Project, or something. I thought maybe he was a robot.”

  Vanessa smiled. “I guess he can seem that way sometimes.”

  “He reminds me of Mrs. Kirby, asking questions that are none of his business.”

  “Mrs. Kirby is your school counselor?” She recalled the name from the referral note in the chart.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Vanessa crossed her legs, locking her hands around her knee. “Well,” she said, “when Mrs. Kirby referred you to us, she told us that you had worn a short-sleeved shirt to school. In the middle of winter. What that says to me is that you—very wisely—wanted to make this someone else’s business.”

  “What do you mean, ‘wisely’?”

  “You knew you needed help, and you figured out a surefire way to
get it. You might as well have spelled out ‘help me’ with those burns.” She gestured toward Jennifer’s arms.

  “I don’t need any help.”

  “Mrs. Kirby referred you to the program we have here for teenagers who were abused when they were younger. She must have had a good reason for doing that.”

  Jennifer looked away from her. Her cheeks had reddened, and there was the threat of tears in her eyes.

  Vanessa stood up and moved in front of her. She took the girl’s wrists in her hands and gently turned her arms until she could see the burns. Eight on her right arm, five on her left. Some of them were deep. They would leave ugly scars. Ugly reminders. Vanessa had a few of those reminders on her thighs.

  Jennifer held her breath under Vanessa’s scrutiny.

  “Have you ever done anything like this to yourself before?” Vanessa looked into the girl’s cloudy blue eyes.

  Jennifer shook her head.

  “Why now, Jennifer?”

  “I don’t know.” Then, softly, “My boyfriend.”

  “Tell me about your boyfriend.”

  “He’s not anymore. I mean, he stopped calling.”

  “How long had you been seeing him?”

  “Six months.”

  “That’s a long time.” A lifetime when you were fifteen.

  The girl nodded, blond hair glittering in the bright, overhead light.

  “What happened?”

  Jennifer shrugged, lowering her eyes, and Vanessa took a step away from her. She didn’t want to crowd her.

  “I don’t know,” Jennifer said quietly. “Something weird’s been happening to me, and he couldn’t take it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, suddenly I’m remembering these horrible things that I never knew happened to me.”

  Vanessa nodded. She would have to be careful. She was not one of those who questioned the existence of repressed memories; she’d seen too many examples of grotesque, credibility straining, long hidden memories that were later confirmed with proof of some sort. Yet the possibility of an overactive imagination couldn’t be ruled out. First and foremost, though, Jennifer Lieber needed to know she’d be taken seriously here.

  “Sometimes,” Vanessa said, “when things are too painful for us to remember, we block them out.” She’d always thought, actually, that repression was a wonderful trick of the psyche. She wished she’d had a little of it herself. “Did something happen that made you start remembering?”

  Jennifer chewed on her lower lip. “Well, I had…almost had sex with my boyfriend.”

  “Would that have been your first time?”

  The girl nodded. “Only I couldn’t do it, ‘cause when he tried, I remembered…something about my uncle.” Jennifer turned her head away again, and Vanessa opted not to push her for details. There would be time later.

  “Your uncle hurt you,” she said simply.

  “Yes, but I’d completely forgotten. Is that possible?” The words came out in a sudden rush.

  “Yes. It’s possible.”

  “He’s dead now. He’s been dead for two years, and I’d practically forgotten he ever existed.”

  “Did you explain to your boyfriend why you were upset?”

  Jennifer nodded. “I was pretty hysterical, I guess, and he didn’t believe me. He said I would never have forgotten something like that, that I must be making it up to get out of having sex. At first I thought maybe he was right, ‘cause the memories were so fuzzy, but then they got clearer and clearer. I couldn’t get them out of my mind.” She pressed her fists to the sides of her head. “Josh and I were so close. I thought I could tell him anything. But when I tried to tell him more about what I was remembering, he said I was crazy and stopped calling me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “After a couple of weeks I couldn’t stand it anymore. Every time I closed my eyes, more memories would come. I was afraid to go to bed at night. So finally, I tried to tell my mother, except I couldn’t possibly say that I started remembering those things while I was having sex, ‘cause she would’ve shit.”

  Vanessa smiled her sympathy at the dilemma.

  “She got really pissed off when I told her. How could I say something like that about her dead brother, and I’ve been watching Oprah too much. She actually said that, and I’ve never even watched Oprah once in my life. I found a picture I could show her, but—”

  “A picture?”

  Jennifer nodded. “My uncle’s old room is still pretty much like it was when he was living in our house, and I remembered about a shoe box in his closet. I went in there and found a picture he’d taken of me and him together.” She squeezed her eyes together, her cheeks flaming. “I nearly got sick when I found it.”

  Proof. Vanessa felt profound relief. It would make everything easier. No one would doubt this girl now, and she could stop doubting herself.

  “Where is the picture now?”

  “I put it back, though I think I should have burned it. I can’t show it to my mother. She’d blame me for it. I know it. She hardly talks to me. Just shakes her head at me. And my boyfriend’s gone. After he stopped calling, I went sort of numb.” She held up her scabbed arms. “I did this to see if I could still feel anything, and you know what? I couldn’t. It doesn’t matter, though. Nobody believes me anyway.”

  “I believe you,” Vanessa said. “And I’ll listen to you. And there are other people who will listen and believe you, other people here who are trained to know how to help people who are going through what you’re going through. And there’s a group here of girls—and some boys, too—who are your age and who’ve had similar experiences, and they’ll believe you. They’ll let you know you’re not alone and you’re not crazy.”

  She told Jennifer a little more about the program and used the examining room phone to make an appointment for her with the social worker. She was about to leave the room when the girl said, “I just couldn’t talk to that other doctor.”

  Vanessa stopped, her hand on the doorknob. “Well, at least he knew that. We’ll give him a few brownie points for knowing when to come get me, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Vanessa stepped back to the table to give the girl a hug, then left the room and walked down the hall to her office. She understood Jennifer’s fears. She no longer identified with every speck of these kids’ pain; it had happened to her so long ago. Still, she understood.

  And she had something to offer Jennifer. Before she’d created the AMC program, she couldn’t have offered much. She dreaded returning to that state of professional helplessness.

  Walking back to her office, she remembered the phone call she’d been about to make to Walter Patterson. She had spoken to the key members of the network and they’d decided that she would contact Patterson, while the others would begin to pull together case histories and statistics they could use to make their case for funding. Very sympathetic sounding guy, this Patterson. Terri Roos in Sacramento had heard that he particularly liked innovative programs, programs that helped people who weren’t being reached in any other way. That fit their kids, all right.

  Once inside her office, she closed the door, took a moment to collect her thoughts, then dialed Patterson’s number on Capitol Hill. She didn’t even hear a ring before someone answered.

  “Walter Patterson’s office.” The voice was male, surprising her.

  “This is Dr. Vanessa Gray at Lassiter Children’s Hospital in Seattle, Washington,” she said. “I’d like to speak with Senator Patterson, please.”

  “What is this regarding?”

  Vanessa sat up straighter in her chair. “I’m director of a program for adolescents who were abused as young children, and I understand he’s the person to speak with about generating support for that type of program.”

  “Right. Hold on a second.”

  Vanessa heard the man ask someone else in the office, “Is Zed in yet?” and her heart froze.

  “Excuse me.” She spoke into the phone,
but the man must have had the receiver away from his ear. “Excuse me!” She stood up, as if that could give her voice more power.

  “Yes?” The voice was back on the line.

  “Did I hear you say ‘Zed’?”

  “Oh, right. Walter Patterson. He goes by Zed.”

  Vanessa said nothing. She couldn’t have spoken if she wanted to.

  “He’s in,” the man said. “If you hold a moment, I’ll see if he’s free to pick up now.”

  “No,” Vanessa said quickly. “No. I’ll call back.”

  She hung up the phone, staring at it as if it were some futuristic contraption that had carried her into the twilight zone.

  Zed Patterson.

  Could there be more than one man with that name?

  11

  VIENNA

  IT HAD BEEN A week since Claire’s meeting with Randy and nearly three weeks since the incident on the bridge, but she was still having trouble keeping thoughts of Margot at bay. Each time she caught herself recalling that night in Harpers Ferry, she tried to substitute some other thought—about work, or Jon, or Susan. But Margot kept creeping in.

  She’d put the Chopin CD in its case and tucked it into the box of old records in the family-room closet. But just yesterday, while on hold during a phone call to a physician’s office, the nocturne filled her ears. She thought of hanging up on the music but gave into it instead. She could hum along with it now. She knew the subtle shifts in the melody and could anticipate the parts that would make her throat tighten. There was a conspiracy afoot, she thought. Margot didn’t want to let her go.

  She didn’t talk about Margot anymore, though, and she tried to be her old self around Jon. He didn’t know that she occasionally woke up in the middle of the night with a start, imagining herself on the edge of the bridge. And she didn’t tell him that once, before she’d gotten out of bed in the morning, she saw again that bizarre image of smooth white porcelain smeared with blood. There was pain accompanying the image this time, a searing pain deep in her gut. She lay very still until the pain passed and the vision faded, and within minutes she had convinced herself that she had dreamt them both.