Searching for Celia (6 page)

I drop my backpack on Celia’s bed and study the small white envelope that has BB Travel–London/Cardiff as the return address. Inside the envelope is a one-way ferry ticket for Marguerite Alderton, from Holyhead in Wales to Dublin, Ireland, leaving on April 2. I had planned to return home to Chicago a day earlier—April 1.
What the hell?

I tear open the second, larger envelope, which has no return address. At first I think it’s empty, but suddenly something glides out and drifts to the floor. I pick it up and gasp. It’s a fuzzy eight-by-ten-inch photograph of Celia standing outside her building, fumbling in her purse as if looking for keys. The photograph appears to have been taken from several yards away with a zoom lens. Across the bottom of the photo someone has scrawled in black marker:
We can make you disappear.

Wednesday

12:31 p.m.

Stumbling across the room still clutching the photo and envelope, I sink to the bed as my knees give out beneath me. The woman in the photo is definitely Celia, but it’s Celia as I’ve never seen her: rail thin and haggard, looking ten years too old, with ragged hair bleached brittle-blond and dark shadows beneath her eyes. Celia. What kind of friend allows this to happen? I have been so consumed with my own grief that the rest of the world fell away.

The envelope has no return address, but it was postmarked in London on March 11. Twelve days ago, so it should have arrived last week. Did Celia not know she was in danger? Or had she received other threats, prior to this one?

Instead of calling the police, I phone Celia’s therapist, Dr. Fiona Whitaker, whom Celia saw weekly when we lived in Clapham. I never met Dr. Whitaker myself, but I know Celia found her treatment invaluable. Maybe the doctor can tell me if Celia had been receiving threats.

Once I explain what’s happened, Dr. Whitaker agrees to see me right away. Before leaving Celia’s flat, I stash the ferry ticket, credit card, cell phone, and cash in my backpack and sling it over my shoulder. Better with me than in an unlocked apartment, I decide, especially in light of the threatening photo.

*

When the Tube to Holland Park stops at Marble Arch, the stuffy, overcrowded carriage empties enough that I think I see, spilling out of an aisle seat at the opposite end of the car, the man I saw earlier, behind me in the bakery window. Even in multicultural central London, his looks are striking. He appears to be a Pacific Islander—Samoan, or perhaps Polynesian. About six foot six and 340 pounds, he has olive skin, a round face, deep-set eyes, and jet-black hair. Dressed in a black trench coat, he balances on his lap a black umbrella, slick with rain.

He looks out the carriage window at a poster for my conference plastered to the rounded station wall, upon which a photograph of my face appears above the words: Keynote Address by Best-Selling Novelist Candee Cronin, Author of
Assignment: Sao Paulo
.

The man glances rapidly from me to the poster and back again. Maybe he’s a fan, just trying to figure out if I am Candee Cronin. Maybe.

*

Dr. Whitaker’s office is located on the ground floor of a large semidetached house on a residential street about a quarter mile from the Holland Park Tube. What was once the home’s living room has been transformed into a reception area with powder-blue walls, an overstuffed sofa, and fluffy pastel cushions. The receptionist, a cheerful young woman with a Caribbean accent, asks if I’d like coffee or tea, both of which are freshly brewed, and points to a table with paper napkins and a plate of neatly stacked chocolate biscuits. Celia must have hated this place, I realize. Which shows just how desperately she must have felt she needed help.

I take a seat on the sofa and leaf through the glossy pages of
Hello!
magazine, where minor royals are busy marrying their distant (or not-so-distant) cousins, professional soccer players whose names mean nothing to me show off their mansions in Marbella, and an aging ’70s rock star cuddles his second Viagra baby. I’m anxious as I wait; the day is passing quickly and there’s no sign of Celia. If she is alive, I will find her.
If…

Dr. Whitaker emerges from her office to greet me and she’s younger than I expected. She must have been fresh out of college when Celia first started seeing her. The doctor is pale-skinned and solemn with wire-rim glasses shielding placid green eyes. Her straight, wheat-colored hair is cut plainly, framing her face. “Dr. Fiona Whitaker. A pleasure,” she says, extending a small hand from the folds of her long beige sweater.

“Dayle Salvesen,” I reply as we shake. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

“Not at all.” She motions me into her office and turns to the receptionist. “Lucinda, please hold my calls.”

Once inside her office, I take a seat on a small green sofa while she sinks into a big leather chair behind her wooden desk.

“Dr. Whitaker…” I begin.

“Please, call me Fiona,” she implores, leaning forward. She slips off her shoes and curls her feet beneath her, cradling a mug of tea.

“Okay, Fiona.” I wonder if Celia called her Fiona. Celia would have hated that forced familiarity, dubbing it too American, shorthand for most things she despised.

“Go on,” Fiona encourages, raising the mug to her lips and blowing across the surface.

I quickly relate what I know—that the police found Celia’s car, with a suicide note inside, early this morning near Waterloo Bridge. They believe Celia jumped to her death, but I found items in Celia’s flat that suggest she planned to run away. Then, a threatening message that should have arrived days earlier appeared in today’s mail. After summarizing the facts, I ask the doctor what she thinks happened.

“Well, what do
you
think?” she poses, still clasping her mug.

“You mean do I think Celia’s still alive?”

“Do you?”

“I’m not sure. You probably remember that Celia and I were once very close…” I stumble, assuming the doctor must have known that, but unsure how much Celia had told her about our relationship. “But we hadn’t spoken for several months when she phoned just before Christmas.”

“And she rang you then because…?”

“She heard I’d be in London for this conference and she invited me to visit.” I have a strange feeling that the doctor knows all this already and is just humoring me.

“Go on,” she encourages, sipping her tea.

“I spoke to Celia briefly last week—five, ten minutes to confirm my travel details—and she seemed fine.”

“Hmm.” The doctor shifts, raising a hip and repositioning her feet.

“Doctor Whitaker—Fiona—in your professional opinion, was Celia suicidal?”

She pauses thoughtfully before replying. “At Celia’s last session she seemed positive, upbeat.” She pauses again before adding, “She was looking forward to your visit.”

“Did she mention receiving any threats?”

“No.”

“And nothing in her demeanor made you think she was suicidal?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “But suicidal individuals don’t always reveal their intentions.”

“That’s true.” I grab a pillow from the sofa and twist it between my fists. “I know Celia attempted suicide twice in the past year, but nothing…”

“I’m sorry—twice?”

“Yes. She slit her wrists last year after her father died. Two months ago she OD’d on sleeping pills.”

The doctor looks shocked. “That’s not correct. Slashed her wrists, yes, but never overdosed.”

“I was told that she had.”

“No. I would have known.”

My heart lurches. “I can see where Dot Crawford might be mistaken, but Edwina confirmed the story. Celia was taken to the hospital, so it must have been serious.”

Fiona appears rattled. Setting down her mug she rises from her chair, grabs an appointment book from atop a rolling cart, and quickly pages through it. “When was this supposed overdose?” she asks, not looking up.

“Two months ago, so…January?” I offer.

Fiona flips several pages back and forth, her pale forehead now deeply furrowed. “I saw Celia twice in December, twice in January, twice last month. She hasn’t missed a session, so I would have seen her within two weeks of this supposed overdose. She never said a word.”

My mind races. “So either Celia didn’t tell you she overdosed, or Dot and Edwina lied.”

Fiona taps her bottom lip, then returns to her chair and sits down, craning forward with hands in her lap. “There is another possibility.”

“What’s that?”

“Maybe she wanted to be
perceived
as suicidal.”

“A cry for help?”

She nods. “Possibly.”

“But then why not tell you about it too?” I pose. “Wouldn’t that have lent credence to the attempt?”

“Perhaps. But if the attempt were not genuine, she might have feared I’d see through the ruse. In that case, better not to tell.”

“But that sounds so…deceptive,” I argue. “Celia is probably the most honest person I know.”

“But we all have secrets, Dayle.” She toes the ground softly, spinning slightly in her chair. “Sometimes even from ourselves.”

We speak for another twenty minutes, but I’m frustrated that the doctor can’t, or won’t, provide much insight into Celia’s mental status or recent state of mind. Realizing that I can probably find out more on my own, I thank Dr. Whitaker for her time. As I rise from the green sofa, she motions for me to stay seated.

“Before you go, there is something else.” She winces as if she’s said too much.

“What is it?”

“It might not mean anything, but until we know for certain…” She fiddles with a ballpoint pen, scribbling circles on a notepad.

“What?”

“Very well.” She rises from her chair and steps across the room to a tall metal cupboard, then withdraws a key from her sweater pocket and unlocks the cupboard door. Standing on tiptoe she reaches to the top shelf and pulls down a stuffed manila folder, sealed with tape. I rise from the sofa and walk toward her.

“I’m not certain I should give you this.” She holds the folder tightly to her chest and crosses her arms, almost daring me to take it.

“What is it?”

“Celia’s manuscript,” she says, just above a whisper.

“What kind of manuscript?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I didn’t open it. Celia asked me to store it here.”

“Was that unusual?”

“Not at all. I gather that her flat is rather a shambles and she felt it best to keep a backup copy somewhere off-site.”

“When did she give this to you?”

She purses her lips, deep in thought. “About a month ago? Late February.”

Dr. Whitaker hands me the folder and I am silent, allowing its weight to register in my wrists as I absorb its special resonance, its embryonic heft. For a writer, a manuscript is a sacred object, an article of faith, not to be touched by another without permission. As close as Celia and I once were, I know, instinctively, that I should never put my hand on her book without asking her first.

“And you have no idea what’s inside?” I softly stroke the folder with my fingertips, wondering when Celia herself last touched this surface.

“I’m sorry, no.” Dr. Whitaker looks away sadly, shaking her head. “I wish now that I had questioned her, probed a bit deeper as to what she was feeling. But as I mentioned, she seemed fine at the time. Busy, optimistic, upbeat. Things were going well. I saw no reason to be concerned.”

“Can I take this with me?”

“Please do.” She nods vigorously. “Perhaps it contains some clue as to what’s happened to Celia.” She pauses, raising her narrow shoulders. “At least one can hope.”

*

I return to the Holland Park Tube, and while waiting for the train I take the folder from my backpack and peel open the seal. Inside is a document of about 350 unbound pages of A4 paper, single-sided and double-spaced, printed in a 12-point Courier font. I see only text, no graphics or photos, and nothing inserted between the pages. This appears, at first glance, anyway, to be nothing more than an ordinary manuscript.

When the train arrives I climb aboard, grab a seat, and begin reading:

AMONG THE UNCONSOLED

A Novel

by Cecelia Frost

She lifted her hand, she knocked on the door, and then she died. Her last actions were just that simple—battering her frostbitten fingers against the half-inch-thick plate of glass, leaving her last breath ghosted onto the shiny surface like an icy museum piece, where it would remain undisturbed until spring.

It was the middle of the night and I might have mistaken the knocking for the sound of the windows rattling in the wind, the bitter wind that sweeps in from the North Sea, unbidden and unimpeded, and weaves itself into dreams…

I recognize the text, albeit not the title. This is Celia’s first novel, never published, that she worked on in graduate school. At that time it had been called
The Harmony Argument
and it concerned a young musician whose personal life fell apart just as her career took off. Rupert Hawes-Dawson had been particularly critical of the novel-in-progress, both inside class and out, and eventually Celia put the project aside to focus on writing short stories, ultimately collected and published to great acclaim in
West of Blessing, North of Hope
.

Scanning the manuscript, I remember enough of the earlier draft, even after several years, to realize that this is a substantially not just different, but improved version of the text. Did Celia rewrite the novel in hopes of finally getting it published? I didn’t think she had written any fiction since her second book and first novel,
The Pursuit of Sorrow
, was a critical and commercial failure three years ago.

Was there something within the text of this revised manuscript, a note or a clue, that Celia hoped we’d find in the event that something happened to her?
Come on, Celia. I’m here for you. Let me help you. Tell me what I need to know.

*

I leave the Central Line at Tottenham Court Road and wait on the Northern Line platform for the next train back to Hampstead. Still absorbed in Celia’s novel, I am reminded of what a gifted writer she is, of the pristine beauty of her sentences and her ability to convey, in just a few words, depths of despair and utter desolation.