The Girl Who Passed for Normal (14 page)

She remembered that the car was in the garage, and hers now. But she had never driven in Rome, and didn’t think
that this morning was the time to start. It was imperative that she be waiting for Catherine when she arrived; if she wasn’t she couldn’t imagine what the girl would do. And if she got this far, it would be terrible to spoil everything now. Catherine must be destroyed with tiredness, even if she had slept on the planes; she had been having to concentrate now for a long, long time, and the strain must be telling.

Barbara called a taxi, went again to the airport, and prayed that everything would be all right, that the customs inspectors didn’t ask Catherine any questions, and that no one spoke to her.

She looked at the arrivals board. The plane was on time. She went and stood by the exit of the customs hall, with her forehead pressed up against the glass that separated the
meeters
from the met. Her forehead went numb with the cold of the glass, and for what seemed a long time no passengers came into the hall. Finally she saw the first people arriving, showing their passports, waiting for their bags to come through.

She felt frightened. She had forgotten to tell Catherine how to collect her bag after landing; if the girl had lost it at the airport in New York, she might have become upset and caused a scene.

Then she saw Catherine. The girl walked very deliberately over to the long luggage bench and sat down on it, without looking around at all. Suitcases came up on a conveyor belt and were placed on the bench. Barbara hoped Catherine would remember which was hers, if she still had it; but she didn’t move. Other passengers claimed their bags and walked through the customs control and out into the reception area.
But Catherine didn’t move. Barbara wanted to run in and help her, to grab her arm and pull her out; but there was a policeman watching. Then, when almost all the other
passengers
had come through, and there were only two or three pieces of luggage left on the bench, Catherine stood up, went carefully over to her brown leather case, picked it up, and walked straight past the customs men, without looking at them. They didn’t call after her, and she was out. Barbara kissed her on the cheek and took the case. “Did everything go all right?” she asked.

Catherine smiled weakly, and they went to look for a taxi.

They didn’t speak at all until they got home; then, when they were inside, Catherine sat down on the floor and started to cry quietly.

“Come along,” Barbara said gently. “You must be exhausted.”

Catherine looked at her sadly, and whispered, “I hope you’re satisfied.”

That afternoon the search started.

Catherine was in bed; within five minutes of arriving at the villa she had begun crying hysterically. She had started shaking, scowled at Barbara, and seemed not to recognize her, started laughing and then, in mid-laugh, had forgotten what she was laughing about and paused with her mouth open and her eyes blank and turned to the wall as if there she would find a reason for her laughter.

Barbara took her up to her room, made her a cup of hot chocolate, pulled the curtains, and whispered, “Go to sleep now. We’re all right.”

She wondered whether they were, but now, since they had made every possible move they could, there was no way of telling. They were stranded on an island, and had no idea if anyone would come to invade or, euphemistically, rescue them. The only thing they could do now was to try to ensure that anyone who did make contact with them on their island realized that they were happy and safe, with no knowledge of death or corruption; to ensure that anyone who made contact
with them would be prepared to let them stay in their paradise.

The first contact came at two-thirty. Barbara had made
herself
some lunch, had eaten alone in the dining room, had washed up and made herself some coffee, and was sitting in the living room thinking that on a normal day this would be the time Catherine would start her lessons. She had planned four hours of lessons every day. Two hours of movement, an hour of reading, and an hour of drawing, possibly, or
listening
to music. In the morning they would get up at eight-thirty, and have breakfast at nine. Then they might go into the center to do some shopping, or go to a museum or an exhibition. If the weather was bad they could stay home and she could teach Catherine to cook, or sew, or if she was strong enough — and she was, surely — to do woodwork. Then at
twelve-thirty
they would have a light lunch and Catherine would go to rest for an hour, and Barbara herself could write letters, or do the accounts. Then their lessons, and after the lessons dinner, at seven-thirty, and then television, or listening to records, or the evening free for Barbara, if she wanted to go out. Two days a week — Wednesday and Sunday maybe — they would not have lessons in the afternoon, but would drive out into the country, or go to the cinema, or even, if Catherine was well and it was summer, go to the beach. They would not have set holidays, but when they both felt like it, they would simply interrupt their normal program for a couple of days, a week, a month, and take themselves off somewhere.

She hoped Iva would stay on, and not resent her. She liked the shy, gray-haired woman, who never seemed to be put out, who cooked and cleaned and generally ran the house, who talked about her grandchildren, but never about her
children 
or her husband, and who went at Christmas and Easter, and in the summer, to visit her sister who lived in Germany. Barbara had never heard her refer to Catherine’s abnormality in any way; Catherine was always, simply,
la
signorina.
If she spoke to Catherine and Catherine didn’t answer, or if Catherine asked her a question in English, which Iva didn’t understand and which Catherine knew she didn’t understand, she just ignored her, and went on about her business. Barbara thought that perhaps Iva didn’t see that there was anything wrong with Catherine; perhaps the girl seemed as normal as everyone else. But then perhaps Iva simply wasn’t interested, and didn’t think anything at all about Catherine; and Catherine accepted this, and as a result was more normal with Iva than with anyone.

The telephone rang; New York was on the line. A woman’s voice. Asking for Mary.

“She’s not here,” Barbara said. “She left for New York yesterday afternoon.”

“She actually left?”

“Yes, yesterday afternoon. I went to the airport with her.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m looking after Catherine.”

A moment of silence. “Oh, yes. Catherine.”

“Why? Hasn’t Mrs. Emerson got in touch with you?”

“No. She was coming to stay with me. I was expecting her yesterday evening.” A laugh. “She’s too much.”

“She left on the 2:45 plane. TWA.”

“I thought she’d missed it maybe.”

“No. We were in plenty of time.”

“How very strange. Even for Mary.”

Barbara said, “Yes, it is. Do you think she’s changed her plans and gone to see her son?”

“I guess she might have. But you’d think she would have called, or gotten in touch somehow.”

“It’s strange,” Barbara said. “Are you Mrs. MacDonald?”

“Yes.”

“On her way to the airport Mrs. Emerson was talking about you, saying she was going to stay with you.”

“Well, I guess she’ll turn up. Mary can look after herself.”

“You didn’t go to the airport to meet her? I mean, on the spur of the moment if she didn’t see you there she might have got straight on another plane for San Francisco. I don’t know, but —”

“No, I didn’t go to meet her. She told me not to. Oh, she’s in New York or San Francisco. She’ll turn up. Thank you anyway.”

“Do get in touch if — well, I don’t know. If she doesn’t turn up I don’t know what I can do.”

“Oh, don’t worry. She’ll be here.” A pause. “It’s been a pleasure speaking to you, and I hope you have a Merry Christmas.”

“Thank you,” said Barbara. “Same to you.”

It was the afternoon of the 28th, and Barbara and Catherine were doing exercises on the floor of the living room, when the phone rang; San Francisco was on the line.

The operator said, “Mr. Emerson is calling for a Miss Michaels.”

“Yes,” said Barbara. “That’s me.”

“Hello,” a young man’s voice said.

“Hello,” Barbara said. “Have you found your mother all right?”

“No. You’re Barbara Michaels, aren’t you? David spoke about you — and mother. I’m sorry you were away when I was in Rome.”

“Yes, so am I,” Barbara said. “I’d have liked to meet you. But you say you haven’t found out where your mother is?”

“No. She’s doing some damn fool thing, I guess. Gone off somewhere without telling anyone.”

“But it’s almost a week now, isn’t it? Her friend rang from New York on Christmas Eve and asked me if she’d left. I said yes — I thought perhaps she’d gone straight on to
California
to see you.”

Luke Emerson laughed. “No. She spared me that. I wonder where she is.” He didn’t sound worried.

“Perhaps she’s staying with some friends.”

“Mother doesn’t have too many friends here. And Sally MacDonald, who called you, has been calling everyone mother knows. No one’s heard a word from her.”

“The plane didn’t stop anywhere on the way, did it? I mean, somewhere unscheduled? She couldn’t have got off and — ?”

“No, I checked. The flight was nonstop, Rome to New York. And mother was on it. She reached New York and then vanished.”

“She left most of her luggage here. She wasn’t quite sure where she was going to be, and she was going to send me
her address so I could have her trunks sent on. She only took two small cases with her. She can’t have many clothes with her.”

“It is sort of strange. Even for mother.”

“The other day,” Barbara said slowly, “just before she left, she said something about being so happy she was free. She said she didn’t actually have to go to New York. She said she could go anywhere — Japan, Brazil — she was saying how excited she was.”

Luke laughed. “Yeah, that’d be fine. But she came to New York. I don’t see why she should come to New York if she’s going to go somewhere else. Why not go direct from Rome?”

“Yes,” Barbara said weakly. “You don’t think you should get in touch with the police? See if they can trace her?”

“I don’t know. I guess if mother hasn’t showed in another couple of days I’ll have to. And you’ll see, as soon as I get the police on to it mother will turn up. Jesus!”

“She could have had a car accident on her way from the airport to her friend’s place in New York. Or she could have lost her memory — I don’t know.”

“Sally MacDonald’s checked the hospitals and accident records, but there’s nothing there. I guess if she had lost her memory she might be anywhere. But I sort of don’t believe in people losing their memories. Especially not my mother. No — the only thing I can think of is that she wanted to disappear.” He laughed. “It’s in the family. Did mother tell you about our father?”

“Yes. But honestly, I feel quite worried.” And in fact, although it was absurd, she did. By searching for Mary Emerson they were almost making her exist, and therefore making it worrying when they didn’t find her.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Luke said. Then, in a different tone, sounding almost embarrassed, he said, “How’s David? I keep on meaning to write him but I never get around to it.”

She wondered if he was bluffing; perhaps David was with him now, sitting by the phone, listening to her voice, running his hand through his fair hair and grinning at Luke, whispering to him, “Don’t forget to ask how I am.”

“I honestly don’t know how David is,” she said. “We’ve split up, you see. David’s gone back to America.”

Luke said, “Oh,” and it sounded, to Barbara, ambiguous. Then he said, “I’m sorry.”

Barbara shrugged her shoulders, and suddenly wanted to cry. “Yes,” she said. Then, thinking that it was a risk worth taking, she said, “You don’t think — I mean this is probably ludicrous, but — well, your mother told me she was very fond of David. You don’t think she could, possibly, have gone to join him and —”

Luke Emerson laughed. “You better believe she was
fond
of him. She could hardly keep from touching him. But you’re not serious, are you?”

Barbara suddenly wondered what David would do if he was waiting somewhere for Mary Emerson. Stop waiting quite quickly, she guessed. And then, “I don’t know,” she said. “Honestly.”

Luke Emerson, his voice heavy with compassion for her, or with suppressed laughter — she couldn’t tell which — said, “Well, I guess you know David much better than I do. But do you really think he’s the type?”

“David was the type who’d do anything just to make sure he wasn’t typed. Even something he didn’t want to do.” Then, passionately, and believing it in a way, she said, “That could
be it. Your mother knows what David’s like and doesn’t think she’s got a chance and doesn’t want to look a fool, so she’s gone off after David. If it works, she can turn up in a couple of weeks with David. And if it doesn’t work she can turn up and say that she wanted to be alone for a couple of weeks.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Were they both there, laughing at her? With tears in her eyes, she said, “Luke, you don’t know why David left me, do you? I think I know why, but he didn’t say anything to you, did he?
Anything
about me? I’m sorry.”

“No,” Luke said. “He didn’t say anything.” Barbara heard that if David was with him, they didn’t consider it a game anymore.

She bit her lips. “You don’t have to hide anything from me. I would like to know. Marcello — David’s friend, you met him — said that you and David were together a lot when you were in Rome and —” She was crying. She felt ashamed, but she couldn’t help it. She was crying for herself, and she was supposed to be covering up a murder.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Luke said. He sounded slightly angry. “I don’t know anything at all. I mean, it’s nothing to do with me.” Barbara imagined David scowling, whispering, “Hang up, hang up.” “But, I’m pretty certain that mother hasn’t gone after David,” he said.

“No.” Barbara sniffed. “I just thought it might be an
explanation
. I’m sorry.”

“That’s O.K.,” Luke said. “I’m sorry too, about David. But — look, I’ll be in touch if I hear anything about mother. And you do the same if you hear anything. Why don’t you look through the things she’s left behind? Perhaps she left
some papers or letters or something that might give us a clue where she’s gone.”

Barbara said, “I don’t know what she’s left. I’ll have a look.”

There was a silence on the other end of the line.

“I hope you have a happy birthday,” Barbara said.

“Oh, Jesus, yes, I’d forgotten. It’s Catherine’s birthday too on Thursday, isn’t it? I guess I should have sent her
something
.”

“She hasn’t sent you anything,” Barbara said. “Whic is my fault, I suppose. But I do think she’d be happy if you sent her a telegram or something.”

“Sure, I’ll do that. And tell her I’ll send her a present — it’ll arrive after her birthday. What’s she doing now?”

“She’s asleep.” She didn’t want Luke to speak to his sister, who was sitting, waiting, in the living room, Barbara hoped.

“How is she?”

“She’s fine.”

“Mother said how much she likes you. Catherine, I mean.” He laughed. “And mother, too, of course. But I must say there was a fantastic difference in her this time, since I saw her last. You’ve done wonders.”

“Thank you,” Barbara said, slightly prim.

“What did you do for Christmas?”

“Not much. We went out to a restaurant for lunch.”

“Did Catherine behave herself?”

“Yes, perfectly. Then her mother gave her a beautiful bracelet before she left.”

Mary Emerson hadn’t given Catherine the bracelet herself. On Christmas morning Barbara had remembered that Mary
Emerson’s last hours alive had been spent buying Catherine a present. She had looked in the woman’s bedroom, and found, on the top shelf of the closet, two small packages wrapped in gold paper, one with “Catherine” and the other with “Barbara” written on the little gold labels tied to them. So Barbara gave Catherine her present, which was a gold and diamond bracelet with an extra-secure, Catherine-proof clasp. For her Mary Emerson had bought a gold bracelet without diamonds and with a simpler clasp. Barbara had said, “Your mother asked me to give this to you.” Catherine had looked at her bracelet and said, “You can wear it if you want to.” But Barbara didn’t — it made her feel hand-cuffed — so she put it away in a drawer in her room.