Secret Sister (6 page)

Chapter 6

Saturday, July 23, 11 a.m.

Roxanne’s Apartment

“There are several messages on your answering machine, Roxanne.” Betty Haverty smiled. “By the way, did Dr. Patel mention the police want to talk to you about the accident?”

“Yes. He did.”

“It’s only a formality. I’ll be glad to come with you when you go in to talk to them.”

“I don’t remember anything. So I don’t have anything to tell them. Don’t worry about the cops. I’m not.”

Betty nodded. “I’m not worried.” She looked worried.

I glanced at the phone, annoyed she had listened to my messages at all. Which was dumb. Of course she listened to them. Wouldn’t anybody’s mother listen to messages if their daughter were in the hospital? According to Patel, Betty also looked for a suicide note. I was pissed she hadn’t mentioned that.

Just let it go.

I put down my suitcase and packages and looked around me. 19 Lake Street, Apartment ‘M,’ the home of Roxanne Ruiz for the past three years, felt somehow familiar after just a few minutes. Not familiar as if I remembered living here. But familiar because I seemed to know where the towels and toilet paper were kept, and that the second burner on the stove didn’t work right, and that I bet you could hear voices from the parking lot at three a.m. if you didn’t close the window before you went to bed.

It was a nice, two-bedroom apartment, with some quality furniture: a floral patterned sofa, two upholstered chairs and some lovely antiques. There were flourishing plants and old ceramic vases and fine artwork whose subject was mostly rainy night scenes or still-life prints of French and American Impressionists.

It was also obsessively neat and organized.

As I walked around exploring, I found canned goods in the cupboard lined up alphabetically, the same as the books in the bookshelves and the CDs and DVDs in the entertainment center. The underwear drawers in the bedroom dresser looked like department store display cases in an upscale neighborhood. Nighties in one, bras in another, panties in neat stacks, divided by hip huggers, bikinis and thongs. I picked up a black lacy thong and thought there was no way I would ever wear such a thing.

The closets looked similar; blouses, jeans, dresses and jackets, all in their own groups. Cleaning supplies from short bottles to tall, towels and sheets by color, by set, bundled and tied with satin ribbon.

It gave me pause, this emphasis on neatness.
Roxanne digs control.
A good way to conquer inner fear? Beat it down with organized attack.

Had I read that somewhere?

Even the shoes, mostly flats and sandals, were in neat rows, with color-coordinated purses resting in little plastic boxes above the shoe shelf, next to folded and bagged sweaters on the top shelf of the closet.

I peeked in at them and turned to Betty, who was hovering nearby. “What a neat freak!”

“I can’t claim any credit for the obsessive neatness of the place. You’ve always been like this.” Betty glanced around the bedroom with disdain. “After you were seven years old, I never cleaned your room. You were much more fastidious than I was about the house. Remember?”

She stared at me and I knew she was hoping that at any moment I’d exclaim, ‘Oh, Mother, I remember everything,’ and run into her arms and let her get back to her own life and her own worries.

Instead I murmured, “Sorry, no.”

The two of us continued our small chores. Betty put away groceries we’d grabbed on the way from the hospital, and emptied the clean dishes from the dishwasher. I walked around asking random questions I hoped she would answer without too much baggage attached.

“Your checkbook and mail are on the desk in the bedroom. And your straw bag. I think your set of keys is in there,” she said.

I picked up the purse, which had a huge gash in the side, probably from the accident. I smelled it, but all I could pick up was the whiff of cinnamon gum. No smoke. No gasoline or blood and guts.

Nervously I pulled out the wallet, a red ‘Kate Spade,’ and flipped through it. Ninety-two dollars in cash. Some change, no pennies, in the coin section. A receipt for a dress from Nordstrom’s. A driver’s license (listing my weight as one-ten, which was surely wrong), social security card, two credit cards, an appointment card for Behavior Therapy Center. Dr. Seth was noted as the doctor.

The appointment was for 10:30 a.m. on July 9, the day of the accident. Over two weeks ago.

I wondered about Dr. Seth. Patel mentioned he knew him professionally. Betty had not brought him up by name, but she had told me a couple of doctors were treating me before the accident. We had picked up a pain medication at the market, but I’d refused her suggestion to refill my antidepressant.

She wasn’t happy about that, but avoided causing a scene. Since I didn’t feel depressed, other than not knowing a
single thing about my life
, I didn’t see the logic of taking meds until I clearly needed them. Which proved I was either completely sane or deeply neurotic, but that was still open for discussion.

At the bottom of the duffle Betty had brought to the hospital, I found the plastic bag the hospital clerk had given me when we checked out. It had a gold signet ring with RLR on it, and a turquoise and silver earring that was found at the accident scene.

I closed my hand around the jewelry and stuffed it in my pocket, not wanting to ask Betty about them. I hugged my arms around my chest. The room smelled musty, like old candles and dust. I pulled back the drapes and opened the windows, then collapsed on the bed. It was very, very firm.

I like soft beds
.

I rolled over on my back and looked around. Quality stuff in here, too; not too girly. Tasteful. A comfortable leather chair and ottoman that looked about fifty years old stood beside a small trunk across from the bed. A serious looking halogen light and a stack of novels on top of the trunk indicated a lot of reading took place there. I checked out the books, but saw nothing I wanted to skim through.

There was a huge fichus in the corner, in a terra cotta planter, and a good print of a Van Gogh painting over the bed. A swarm of purple, sinewy irises were huddled in a large gang, menacing a slender white flower cowering on the far left side of the canvas.

I knew it was called ‘Irises,’ and I knew Van Gogh painted it at the asylum at
Saint Paul-de-Mausole,
the year before his death. I knew it was said he thought by painting it that he would keep himself from going insane. To my eyes, it hadn’t helped. The masterpiece was a depiction of vulnerability on the verge of surrender.

I thought it should have been titled, ‘Massacre in the Garden,’ and smiled. Did my opinion mean I was depressed?

My brain started to flood with images of paintings. When it came to the Impressionists, I knew I’d always liked Renoir. That splash of red to lift the spirits. So romantic, if a little sentimental. But my greatest love was Claude Monet. Outdoor scenes, as painted by God. I looked around the bedroom, but did not see any of his work on the wall.

As I shut my eyes, a painting bloomed in my brain. Was this a memory of a specific occurrence, or a random, masquerading thought? I concentrated on the details of the image. A stone bridge, warm dappled light on a dirt path leading to an unseen river, a woman and a child moving away from the viewer. They’d missed their chance to follow the glorious sunlight beckoning them to turn off the sidewalk and slide their toes in the water. In my mind, I saw the picture hanging somewhere I liked to be, on a papered wall with crown molding. Near a window with a lace curtain.

Where is this?

Did this place exist outside my imagination? Sudden tears flooded my eyes. Would I ever remember?

“Would you like something to eat?” Betty asked loudly from the doorway.

I kept my face averted. “No, I’m good. I’m thinking a nap might be the ticket.”

“Do you want me to stay a couple of days? It’ll be no problem. I’ve slept on your sofa many times before.”

Oh, really
?

There was a lot of drama there, but I wasn’t up to diving into it now. This whole ‘spending time with Betty Haverty’ was uncomfortable. I didn’t want to hurt the woman, but I truly didn’t want to find out who I was from her. I wanted to
remember.

I faced her. “Dr. Patel thinks I need to spend time alone, resting, getting familiar with things. I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

“Jesus, Roxanne, I’m your mother. It wouldn’t be putting me out in the least!” She sat at the foot of the bed. She had a picture album in her hands. “I brought this from home. I was going to show it to you at the hospital, but Dr. Patel said to wait a bit. I thought you might like to have some faces to go with the names I’ve been talking about.”

“Thanks.” My heart raced. I sat up and took the photos from her and listened as she narrated snaps of Cathy and Nick Chance, school and work friends, pictures of me with Michael, several from my childhood with Betty and her mother, Ruth.

There was one in particular she wanted me to look at. “You were five years old, Roxanne, the first time I took you to see Santa.” The photo showed a beautiful child, curly headed and chubby, with candy cane smeared all over her face. Santa’s beard was stuck to the child’s candied cheek. Santa looked resigned, the little dark-haired girl frightened.

“I always loved that one,” Betty said. For a moment she looked far away and, for the first time since I’d known her in my current state of abbreviated memory, happy.

The photo session went on for several minutes. These pictures unsettled me. Opinions buzzed in my brain. And I was absolutely certain that I had never sat on a Santa’s lap.

The only photos that didn’t make me feel panicky were images of Cathy Chance, always a glint of fun in her eyes, freckled, blue-eyed, smiling and cute. I didn’t remember her. But something inside missed her, or rather, wished she were around so I could talk to her, ask her what to do.

She looked like the kind of girl you could depend on. She looked calm.

We’d been friends for a long time, Betty had told me. Since middle school. And the pictures showed proof of a real friendship, gawky girls hugging each other, self-conscious teenagers in tiny skirts and crop tops, standing side by side, though Cathy towered above the other school kids from the earliest snaps.

Betty had masses of pictures of the friends in their graduation robes at high school and college celebrations, and one at what must have been Cathy’s wedding. She looked gorgeous that day, short white dress and long legs, sparkling eyes and blonde hair, like a princess.

Surprising both of us, a question popped out of my mouth. “Can you tell me about the memorial service?”

“Cathy’s?”

I nodded.

“It was very moving,” Betty began. “It was held at Everlast Cemetery in Sierra Monte. All your fellow teachers from school were there, and a lot of the kids and their parents. And her husband and his family. His sister Zoë, who seems a little peculiar. I think she’s adopted. Anyway, she doesn’t look at all like him. I think she’s still in high school. She started crying and yelling at the end of the service that she didn’t want Cathy’s ashes to be buried.”

My mouth went dry. “What about Cathy’s parents?”

“They’re gone. Her mother died when she was in grade school. The father left when she was an infant. The stepfather hasn’t been around for years.”

“What happened to Cathy’s father?”

Betty pursed her lips. Just then she looked old, and tired. Maybe even ill?

“Heart attack, I understand. He was so young. A tragedy, to leave young children behind.”

“Were you friends with Cathy’s mother?”

Betty paused for a couple of moments. “Yes, I knew her. When you and Cathy were in third grade, before you started hanging out together, we were on a PTA committee.”

“What was she like?”

“Nice enough. She took me aside one night and asked me if I knew an attorney. To handle her will. She was dying of ovarian cancer.”

“How horrible for Cathy,” I whispered. “Did you send flowers from me?”

“Yes. From all of us. A huge spray. Roses and lilies. And we sent food over to the house. Nick’s mother stayed with him for a few days and organized the reception afterward.”

“How was that?” I flashed on an image of a Spanish-styled house, with a shady back patio. I didn’t know if it was real.
It might be
.

“I didn’t go. Grandma Ruth did. She took the food.”

“You should have gone. We both should have gone.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You were in and out of a coma! I couldn’t leave you alone at the hospital. Nick and his family understood that.”

“Really? I think it was a terrible mistake to have missed the service.”

“Please, Roxanne. It wasn’t possible.”

“It might not have been easy, but it was possible.” Tears filled my eyes. “I hope you realize Cathy’s family surely blames me for all this. I bet they hate me.”

“Of course they don’t hate you. You were Cathy’s best friend. You helped her a million times during the years.  They know how close you two were. It’s because of you she finished college at all. You helped her with her studies, her papers. She wasn’t a very good student.”

Betty looked down at her hands. “No one blames you for what happened that day, Roxanne.”

I thought of the police. I wondered if the detectives had talked to Cathy’s husband, Nick. What would he think if the police told him the accident that killed his wife wasn’t an accident?

“I think they do blame me. I haven’t heard a word from Nick. Not a card or a visit, or even a call. Has he called you? Asked about me?”

“No. But I’m sure you’ll hear from him eventually. Give him some time. Nick’s a sensitive guy. Kind of weak, I’ve always thought, but he’s in mourning, Roxanne. And, well, he’s been an alcoholic for years. It’s under control now, but he’s taking Cathy’s death very hard.”