Gone for Good (18 page)

Dan called while I was driving home from the Grunge. I answered as I drove, one hand on the wheel and the other on the phone. I hoped no cops saw me.

‘I was just seeing how you were doing,' he said. ‘If you need anything.'

Do I need anything?
I thought.
Where do I begin?

I opted for a simple statement of fact. ‘I was at the hospital already this morning.'

‘That's an early start,' he said, trying to sound light. It didn't work. His words hit my ear like a lead weight.

‘There's a lot going on here, Dan,' I said. ‘A lot.'

‘Oh,' he said.

I understood where he was in his approach to me. He wanted to be cool and coy. He wanted to give me space, but he also didn't want to miss the chance to help me if he could. It was impossible, and I couldn't blame him for fumbling it.

‘Do you need anything?' he asked, trying to keep it simple.

My apartment building came into sight. I cut down the small alley and pulled into my designated spot. The sun was bright, the air still cool. I'd cracked the window and let the breeze blow against my face.

‘Look,' I said, ‘this is all going to be in the news soon, so you might as well know. Hell, everybody at school is
going to hear about it too.' That realization just hit me. My life would become an even bigger soap opera, the kind of story passed along to each new class of graduate students.
Yeah, her mom was murdered. And her mentally handicapped brother did it.
‘It's Ronnie,' I said. ‘He confessed to killing my mom this morning.'

There was a long pause. I thought the call had dropped. Then I heard an intake of breath. ‘Jesus,' he said. ‘I'm so sorry.'

‘So am I,' I said.

‘Jesus,' he said again. ‘Where are you? Are you at the hospital?'

‘I'm home now,' I said. ‘Or almost home. I'm in the parking lot of my building.'

‘Do you want me to come over?' he asked.

‘No,' I said right away. I knew my voice sounded sharp, almost harsh. I didn't want to dismiss him. I just needed a moment to … I don't know what I needed to do. I just didn't think I needed Dan there right then. ‘I'm okay,' I said. ‘I have some calls to make. I've already talked to a lawyer for Ronnie. My uncle's going to call and let me know what's happening. And I have to go back to Dover Community later. I'll call you, though. In a little bit, I'll call you.'

‘Okay,' he said. ‘Sure. Call me when you want.'

He put on a brave face, but I could sense the edge of disappointment in his voice. He wanted to be Johnny-on-the-spot for me.

‘I'll call you,' I said. ‘I promise. You know how I am. I have to sort through this first. Give me a little bit of time to absorb all of this.'

‘Sure,'
he said. His voice had some starch back in it. ‘I'll let you absorb. I understand.'

‘Okay,' I said. ‘Bye.'

As soon as my right foot hit the bottom step, I heard someone call my name from behind me.

‘Ms Hampton?'

A man's voice.
Ms Hampton.
A cop? Richland?

But the voice sounded gruff and older.

I turned around, taking my foot off the step.

‘Elizabeth Hampton?' the man said.

The man who faced me was short, almost squat. He looked to be as tall as me, about five feet, five inches. And he was squarely built, his body bulky and thick through the stomach and chest. His legs were short. He wore a dark sport coat and matching pants, a white shirt open at the collar, and no tie. I guessed he was about seventy years old, maybe older. But despite his age, his body gave off a sense of power and strength.

He smiled at me. ‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘Sneaking up on you like this.'

He looked familiar. I had seen him somewhere before, but I couldn't place it. And I didn't know his name.

‘Do I know you?' I asked. I backed up a step, returning my foot to the bottom step. I placed my hand on the banister. My phone was in my hand.

‘Could we talk?' he asked. ‘Maybe in your apartment?'

I shook my head. ‘No,' I said. ‘And if you don't tell me –'

He smiled but didn't show any teeth. He had a small mouth and a weak chin. ‘I get it,' he said. ‘After what
happened to your mother, you're cautious. I understand – I really do.'

When he mentioned Mom, the connections in my brain sped up. That was how I knew him. He had something to do with Mom.

‘Were you – ?'

I stopped. I saw it in my mind. At the cemetery, the man Paul was talking to while I was with Dan. The man who seemed so agitated with whatever Paul was telling him. That was the man standing before me.

‘You were at the cemetery,' I said. ‘You were talking to my uncle.'

‘Paul,' he said. ‘I've known Paul most of my life.'

‘Were you friends with my mother?' I asked.

‘More than friends,' he said. ‘Are you sure you want to do this out here?'

‘Yes, I'm sure,' I said. ‘And what do you mean you and my mom were more than friends? Did you date her?'

He smiled again, but his eyes looked sad. It seemed put on, forced, as if he wanted to play the role of sad puppy dog.

‘What do you mean?' I asked again.

‘Your mom and I were high-school sweethearts, and we were married for more than fifteen years.'

I remained frozen in place, one foot on the stairs, one foot on the ground. I might have blinked a few times or shaken my head, like someone confronted with something that simply didn't make any sense.

‘My mother was only married once,' I said. ‘To my father.'

The man in front of me, the man whose name I still didn't know, only smiled. And his smile looked self-satisfied and smug. Even as I said the words and issued the denial about my mother's past, I understood that I was stepping out on a limb. I thought of my trip through her house looking for documents after my meeting with Mr Allison. I remembered the lack of pictures from the past, the lack of mementos or artifacts that might explain her life to me.

But that was just because Mom was private, right? Or because she simply didn't have much of a life before I was born?

She didn't even tell me about Ronnie … About the police coming … About any of it …

The man's smile loosened. ‘I'm sorry that I'm the one who has to tell you about this,' he said, although he didn't look sorry at all. ‘I know it would have been better coming from your mother or your uncle.'

‘I don't believe you,' I said, my voice quiet from lack of conviction.

The man sighed a little. I was the thickheaded and
exasperating child who refused to see the lesson right before her eyes.

‘It's all true,' he said. ‘Are you sure we can't talk somewhere? Somewhere more private maybe?'

I looked down at the phone. ‘I'm calling my uncle,' I said. ‘I'm calling Paul.'

‘You can do that,' the man said. ‘But he and I don't exactly get along. He may say some awful things about me.'

‘What's your name?' I asked.

‘Gordon,' he said. ‘Gordon Baxter.'

Paul's phone rang. It rang and rang and then went to voice mail. I didn't know if I wanted to leave a message or not.

Then the man said, ‘Really, I'm happy to tell you whatever you want to know about me or about my relationship with your mother.'

Relationship?

The word froze me. My mother didn't have relationships. She was married, yes. Once. To my father. But that was a marriage. It was simple and clear-cut. They married and they had children and then Dad died. And Mom lived her life until she was murdered. That was it.

Relationship? No, my mom had relationships only with Dad and her children and her brother.

I hung up the phone.

‘Have you been to my apartment before?' I asked, thinking of the robbery. The man before me possessed the same short, squat figure as the man who'd brushed past me on the stairs the night my apartment was broken into.

He didn't bat an eye. ‘I came by a day last week, but you weren't home.'

‘Did
you let yourself in?' I asked. ‘And trash everything?'

‘That sounds pretty brazen, doesn't it?'

But you haven't denied it, have you?

‘How did you find me?' I asked.

‘Your name was in the obituary online,' he said. ‘And you're listed in the phone book. I'm a curious man, that's all. Curious.'

I was in the phone book. As ‘E. Hampton.' Why did women think using an initial protected them?

I brought my foot down off the step again. ‘You can't come in my apartment,' I said. ‘I don't know you. I won't be alone with you.'

‘I understand,' he said. ‘But I don't bite.'

‘Do you have a car?' I asked.

‘Yes.' He pointed to the street. ‘It's that blue Ford over there.'

‘Do you know the McDonald's on Grant Street?' I asked. ‘The one by campus? It's always crowded.'

‘I know where it is,' he said. ‘I don't live in Dover, but I've passed it.'

‘I'll meet you there in ten minutes,' I said.

As I drove the short distance to McDonald's, I called Dan. ‘I need you to do me a favour,' I told him when he answered.

‘Sure.'

‘I also need you to not ask me a bunch of questions about it.'

‘Okay,' he said, his voice cautious.

‘I'm going to call you in an hour,' I said. ‘If you don't hear from me in an hour, call me back. Or just come to the McDonald's on Grant. One hour.'

‘What
the hell is going on, Elizabeth?' he asked.

‘Okay,' I said. I couldn't just keep him in the dark. ‘I'm going there to talk to someone who says he knew my mother. I don't know this person, and he might be a lunatic, but he might also know things I need to know. That's why we're talking in a crowded restaurant, and that's why I need you to check in with me later. If you don't hear from me, assume he's an axe murderer.'

‘Great,' Dan said. ‘What a relaxing hour this will be.'

‘I need you to do this for me,' I said. ‘I know I can trust you.'

‘You know I'll be your loyal pup,' he said.

‘Something like that.'

The restaurant came into sight. The parking lot was full, and through the large windows I saw a number of diners sitting at the tables. I wouldn't be alone, not by a long shot.

‘Are you sure you don't need to call the police?' Dan asked.

I guided the car into an empty space. I looked around and didn't see Gordon Baxter anywhere. For all I knew, he wouldn't make the trip. He could have been a crazy coming out of the woodwork just to antagonize a crime victim's family.

‘It's okay,' I said. ‘But make sure you check in with me in an hour.' I paused. ‘I appreciate it. Really. I know I can be a pain, but I need you to do this for me. Please?'

‘Of course,' he said. ‘One hour. Got it.'

I hung up and climbed out of the car.

Gordon Baxter sat at a table near the door of the McDonald's. A Styrofoam cup of coffee rested in front of him, the steam rising towards his face. I bypassed the counter and went to the table, but I didn't sit. I didn't know what I was going to hear from this man. I didn't know whether I wanted to hear it at all.

He looked up at me, his face benevolent. He pointed at the empty chair across the table. ‘Have a seat,' he said. ‘Or are you getting something to eat?'

I sat down. I kept the phone in my hand. I wanted it to remind me of my deadline with Dan. One hour.

It was lunchtime, and the tables on either side of us were occupied. The chattering buzz of conversation went on all around us, punctuated by the occasional scream of a child or a shout from an employee in the kitchen. Gordon Baxter sipped from his cup.

‘What would you like to know?' he asked.

‘You're the one who showed up on my doorstep,' I said. ‘You must have something you want to say to me.'

‘Fair enough,' he said. ‘But in order to tell you why I came by your apartment, I'm going to have to give you some background. Maybe we'll both get the information we want.'

I didn't say anything. I waited for him to go on.

‘Like
I said, your mom and I were high-school sweethearts.'

I interrupted him before he got going. ‘And just so you know, I told my friend where I am right now. He's going to come looking for me in an hour if I don't call him.'

Gordon Baxter considered me. Some of the benevolence drained out of his face, and he tilted his head to the left. ‘Your mother wasn't very trusting either,' he said. ‘She had that streak in her, that quality that told her a person had to prove their trustworthiness to her.'

‘That's fine,' I said, standing up. ‘I don't want to hear this stuff.'

‘So you don't want to hear about your mother's past?' he asked. ‘You don't want to know her?'

His questions stopped me. I hated that it had worked. I settled back into my chair.

‘Your mom told me that about you,' he said. ‘She thought you were tough to get through to.'

‘You talked to my mother about
me
?'

‘Sometimes.'

‘You were in touch with her recently?'

‘I'll get there,' he said. ‘But you're going to have to let me get there the way I need to.'

‘Fifty-five minutes now,' I said, looking at my phone.

‘Okay,' he said. ‘Like I said, we were high-school sweethearts. And we got married around graduation. We were young and dumb, but young and dumb people used to get married back then. Our generation did that a lot. We were living over in Haxton, where we both grew up. That's how I know Paul as well. We all grew up over there and went to
school together. It sounds really quaint and all-American, and I guess it was.'

‘Why didn't Mom ever tell me about you?'

‘I have my guesses.'

‘There's no shame in being divorced,' I said. ‘You got married young and you split up, right?'

‘It's more complicated than that.'

‘Why did she hide that from me?' I asked, pushing him for the truth.

‘You would have to ask her, but I guess you can't do that now.'

‘How do I even know you are who you say you are?' I asked. ‘I see no proof.'

‘I know about you being in graduate school,' he said. ‘I know about your brother, about Ronnie. I know your mother had high blood pressure. I know about Paul and how he's retired and has a bit of a heart condition.'

I was already shaking my head. ‘Most of that stuff you could learn in the newspaper. This is a small college town. Everybody knows something about somebody. So what?'

‘You're right,' he said.

He stopped with that simple statement, and I didn't know what he meant.

‘Right about what?' I asked.

‘What I'm saying,' he said. ‘It doesn't prove anything.' He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. He brought out a small white rectangle, and only when he held it up did I realize it was a photograph. A fragile, yellowing snapshot. He held it in the air between us, the plain white back facing towards me. ‘You could wait and ask your uncle,' he said. ‘Or you could look at this.'

I
lifted my hand, but he pulled the photo back from me.

‘Not so fast,' he said. ‘I want you to look at this, and if you accept it as proof, then I want to know you're really going to listen to everything I have to say.'

‘Just show it to me,' I said. ‘And you're down to fifty minutes.'

He held the photo out, and I took it.

My hand shook a little as I turned it around. I didn't know what I would see. The photo showed a man and a woman. She wore a plain wedding dress, short sleeved. It flared at her waist. The man wore a dark coat and tie. They stood close to each other near a three-tiered wedding cake, each holding a glass of champagne. I recognized both of them despite the passage of time. The man was a younger and thinner version of Gordon Baxter. His hair was fuller and darker, the face less round. But it was him.

And the woman was Mom. Unmistakably. She looked young, even stylish. Her skin smooth, her eyes bright.

She looked like me.

She wore a half smile, one that spoke of something between insecurity and fear. Gordon had his arm around her, pulling her close to him with his free hand. She wasn't hugging him back. She couldn't – her upper arms were squeezed close to her body, her free hand clutching the champagne.

It was Mom. So young, so beautiful. I'd never seen her quite like that before.

‘What do you think?' Gordon asked.

I kept staring at the photo. I tried to keep it together despite the emotion that slowly rose in my throat. My
vision started to swim a little. I blinked my eyes a couple of times, fighting off my feelings.

Gordon reached out and took the photo.

‘Do you believe me?' he asked.

I couldn't speak. The photo confirmed everything I had been thinking – that I really didn't know my mother. Not only had she not told me about her recent life, but she hadn't told me about any of her life. She was a stranger to me.

But why?

Gordon slipped the photo into his pocket. I wanted to reach out for it and take it back. I wanted to study it longer. What if there was something there that told me what I needed to know about my mother?

‘So you'll listen now?' he asked.

‘I still don't know if whatever you tell me is the truth,' I said.

‘You can confirm it all with your uncle,' he said. ‘I'm sure you called him on the way here, right?'

I didn't answer. I looked at the top of the table.

‘Do you want to remind me of how much time I have left now?' he asked.

‘What happened with you and my mom?' I asked.

‘You're not married, are you?' he asked, but didn't wait for an answer. ‘You're not. I know your mom was worried about that, about whether you'd ever settle down and have a normal life.'

‘Jesus,' I said. ‘I'm only twenty-six.'

‘Your mom worried about it. I could tell. When you're married to someone and you share certain experiences, a
bond forms that really never goes away. You're tied to that other person whether the relationship is the same as it once was or not. That's what happened with your mom and me. Even after all those years, there was still something there. A connection, something we shared. That was there for us, even in the time before she died.'

‘You were in touch with her?' I asked. ‘Recently?'

‘Yes. We stayed in touch off and on over the years. Even during the time you were growing up. Like I said, we're from the same place. We know many of the same people.'

‘Did my dad know about you?' I asked.

‘He did. He had to. When you get married, you have to disclose any previous marriages you may have had.'

‘Did you ever meet my dad?' I asked.

‘In passing once,' Gordon said. ‘I even met you one time, although I'm sure you don't remember.'

‘When was this?' I asked.

‘You must have been about five, maybe six. You were out with your mother and your brother. It was in the shopping mall here in Dover. I was there, and by chance we all ran into each other. Your mother introduced me to you as an old friend. Do you remember?'

I thought about it but couldn't summon the memory. Who knows how many times I went out with Mom? And even though she didn't have a lot of friends, she still knew people. As a child, I always felt as if I was being introduced to some new person, usually with my mother gently nudging me to remember my manners, look people in the eye, and say, ‘Pleased to meet you.'

‘I don't,' I said.

Gordon
took a sip of his coffee, apparently draining the cup. He pursed his lips as though the dregs of coffee at the bottom of the cup were particularly bitter.

‘That was tough for me,' he said. ‘Seeing your mother with her children.'

I didn't immediately process what he was trying to say. Then I thought I understood. ‘Is this because you and Mom didn't have any kids?' I asked.

He looked into his empty cup. ‘I should really get some more coffee.'

‘Is that it?' I asked.

He didn't say anything. I knew he wanted me to think he wasn't saying anything because whatever was on his mind was too troubling to talk about. But I sensed there was something else at play as well. There was a practised quality to his reluctance, something that told me he wanted me to ask the question. That he needed me to press more.

I gave him what he wanted only because of my intense desire to know.

‘Did you try to have children?' I asked.

‘We had a baby girl,' he said, his voice low.

I tried to let that sink in. ‘A baby?' I said, repeating the word, my voice low and husky.

Gordon nodded. ‘Yes.'

‘Did –' I stopped. Then I went on. ‘Did you lose the baby?'

‘She wasn't a baby,' he said. ‘Not any more. I think of her that way, though. As my baby.'

‘How old was she?' I asked.

‘She was fifteen years old,' he said. ‘She was fifteen when she was taken away and murdered.'