Capturing Angels (13 page)

“That makes sense,” he said, smiling.

He signed the check and put his credit card back into this wallet.

“Thank you again,” I said, and got up.

“I really am glad you came,” he said as we walked out together. We handed our valet parking tickets to the attendant. “I am, too.”

“Really clear out tonight,” Sam said, looking up at the night sky. “I’ll be able to see Catalina.”

“Where do you live?”

“I have an apartment on Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica. Two-bedroom on the top floor facing the ocean.”

“That’s expensive real estate,” I said.

“I know. I solved a murder case that involved the owner of the building, and in appreciation he got me a good deal. It’s still up for grabs whether it was a conflict of interest.”

“Really?”

“No. I’m just kidding. No one complained about it. Besides, it would have been an insult to turn down his gratitude. He’s from the Middle East and takes that sort of thing dead seriously.”

“I don’t know whether to believe you or not,” I said.

My car was approaching.

“Tell you what,” Sam said. “It’s early. Follow me, and I’ll show you the view if you like. I’ll even give you something in the way of an expensive after-dinner drink. Another gift from a grateful citizen.”

“I don’t know.” I looked at the time. John wouldn’t be home for at least two hours, and I liked the idea of continuing to discuss Mary’s abduction.

Or was I just using that as an excuse?

Sam waited, looking at me as if he was holding his breath in anticipation. Whatever caution was spiraling in my chest, I smothered it and nodded.

“Okay.”

He smiled, and when his car arrived, I followed him. Almost at every cross street on the way, I thought to turn off and go home, but I held on to the steering wheel as if the car was really in control of itself. When we reached his address, we turned into an underground garage. Most of the buildings in the area had them, and I knew they all had guest parking spaces. He pointed at one when we entered, and I turned into it and parked while he parked in his own space.

“How many units in the building?”

“This one has only eighteen. They tried to get me to be on the homeowners board but gave up when they realized what a workaholic I was. The truth is, I haven’t attended one meeting.”

“I’m sure they like the fact that a police detective is in the building.”

“Not really any benefit unless there’s a sign stating that outside,” he said, and pushed the button for the elevator.

The moment I stepped in, I felt I should step out. When the door closed, I turned sharply. Sam just stared at me with that soft smile.

“Relax,” he said. “You need to take a break, or you won’t be any good to anyone, let alone yourself.”

I nodded.

When the elevator opened, I followed him to his condo door. He opened it and stepped back.

“Wait,” he said. “I should tell you ahead of time that I’m not sloppy, but I’m not exactly Mr. Neat.”

“That’s a relief,” I said.

“What is?”

“A little disorganization.”

He laughed and switched on the entryway light, and I entered. The entryway had a tan travertine floor that extended into the small kitchen to the right. The living room was straight ahead and had a wide oval coffee-colored Berber carpet. It looked brand new, as did the soft, dark brown, half-circle leather three-piece sofa. There was a round glass-topped coffee table with two matching side tables. To the right of the sofa was a khaki-cushioned recliner. His wide-screen television was mounted across from the sofa, and to the right of that was a walled bookcase not quite filled. Behind the sofa was a curtained sliding door that opened onto a nice-sized balcony.

Sam rushed into the kitchen and began to put some cups and dishes into the dishwasher. There was an opened box of cereal on the kitchen table. I followed him in and smiled at his effort to tidy up. Through the opposite entrance, I saw his dining room. The cherry-finish formal dining-room table was covered with magazines and newspapers, some paper cups and dishes. There was a vase of silk roses in the center. The table had five chairs, and the dining room had a low-gloss warm honey hardwood floor. A matching buffet stood against the wall on the left. I could see that the dining-room guests would have a magnificent view of the ocean through the two large windows.

“Nice furniture,” I said. “You have excellent taste.”

“I cannot tell a lie. The place came furnished.”

“Well, whoever lived here before had good taste. I guess you don’t throw too many dinner parties.”

He looked at the table and laughed. “Not yet, but I have high hopes. If you look to the left in the living room, you’ll see I have a pretty nice bar set up, too.”

“Oh?”

I went through the dining room and entered the living room. He did have a nice bar, and for some reason, it had nothing on it, unlike every other counter or table.

“Don’t you use the bar?” I asked.

He came up behind me. “Sitting alone at your own bar is a little depressing,” he said, almost in a whisper.

“Well, let’s make sure that doesn’t happen tonight,” I said, and took a seat on a stool. He walked around and put two snifter glasses on the bar.

“Brandy or a good port?”

“Is everything here gifts from the appreciative?”

He put his hand over his heart and pretended to be fatally wounded. I realized I was really laughing, and it felt good.

“Okay, a little port,” I said, and he poured some for both of us.

“To Mary’s return,” he said, holding his glass out for me to touch with mine.

I did it, and we both sipped.

“What are the chances now, really, Sam?”

“Whatever they are, I’ll work to improve them,” he said.

There was no way to stop the tears. He came around the bar quickly to hold me. I pressed the side of my face against his shoulder, and for a long moment, neither of us moved. I felt his fingers on my hair, and then—maybe I imagined it—I thought he kissed my hair. I didn’t move for another moment. Then I caught my breath and sat back.

He smiled. “So, now I have to prove what I said.”

“What?”

“The view. C’mon.” He moved to the sliding door. He opened it and beckoned for me to follow him out onto the patio.

I did and looked out at the Santa Monica Pier. The Ferris wheel was going and all lit up. We could see a good crowd of people on the pier, going to the restaurants and outdoor games. Most of them were probably tourists. Santa Monica was a big attraction for Europeans. Sam pointed farther out, and I did see Catalina.

“Well?”

“You were telling the truth. It’s beautiful, Sam.”

“Yeah, trouble is, I don’t spend enough time here.”

I sipped my port and looked down at the continuous line of traffic, the pedestrians, and the activity below and around us. For all we knew, whoever had taken Mary was down there. Maybe she was, too. A slight chill ran through me despite the port wine. I shuddered, and Sam, out of instinct or just concern, put his arm around me quickly.

“We’ll go back in,” he whispered.

I started to nod but stopped. I slowly brought my face around. We were inches apart now. Did I truly want it to happen? Was that why I turned and didn’t just break out of his embrace and go inside? And if I wanted it, was I rushing toward it out of some desperate need to feel like a woman again, to feel alive again, and to admit to myself that I did have other needs?

Who moved first?

It didn’t matter. We kissed, and he held me tightly.

I know I should have pulled away then, but I didn’t.

Neither of us moved or tried to kiss again. Finally, he released his embrace, and I turned and walked back inside. It was as if we were both going to behave as though nothing had happened. He followed me in and went behind the bar.

“Do you want some more port?” he asked.

“No. Thank you.” I put my glass on the bar. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. I think I had better start for home.”

He nodded, no argument in him. “Let me come down to the garage with you,” he said, coming around quickly.

We went out and to the elevator in silence.

“Sometimes you can have trouble with that gate,” he offered as a weak excuse for accompanying me to my car.

I nodded but didn’t look at him. As soon as the elevator door opened, I headed for my vehicle. He followed slowly. After I got in, he stood looking at me. I rolled down the window.

“Thanks for the little tour and the after-dinner drink,” I said.

He finally smiled. “Grace,” he said. I shook my head. “I’ll call you,” he added when I started the engine.

I nodded and drove to the garage entrance. I didn’t look back, but I was sure he was still there looking after me. When the gate opened, I drove out and headed for home.

John had not yet arrived. There were only the small lamps lit in the living room and a hall light. I pulled into the driveway and then into the garage. The silence in my home had the effect of thunder. I could feel myself begin to shake. As quickly as I could, I crossed to the stairway and started up. When I reached Mary’s room, I paused and then slowly opened the door. I had my eyes closed, and in my imagination, I saw her lying there, sleeping softly, her golden hair over the pillow, one of her favorite dolls beside her.

When I opened my eyes, the sight of the empty bed felt as if a nail had been driven through my heart. Slowly, embracing myself, I lowered myself to my knees, and there I remained sobbing until my chest and my back ached so much I could no longer stand it.

I rose and went to Mary’s bed to stroke her pillow, and then I curled up on her bed as I had done too many times since her abduction. It helped me to feel close to her again, but I was hoping that somehow, wherever she was, she sensed me, too. Perhaps she curled up in whatever bed she had and pretended I was there. I embraced her pillow and closed my eyes.

That was where John found me.

He didn’t wake me, nor did he mention it the following morning. It was as if he believed that if he denied what he saw, it would not have happened.

Maybe that was what Sam Abraham and I had done the night before.

For a moment, there was some comfort in thinking so, but that went away when I found myself wanting to remember.

10

Je Ne Regrette Rien

Molly Middleton called me just before noon the following morning. Sam had just finished interviewing her. She sounded surprised that anyone was still looking to solve Mary’s disappearance, which annoyed me at first.

“Grace, a Los Angeles detective investigating Mary’s disappearance came to see me today to ask questions about Mary and Brad,” she began, gasping, her voice straining with excitement as if she had been running in a marathon.

I was surprised but delighted that Sam had gotten right to it.

“Oh, really? What did he want to know?” The calmness in my voice only served to put more tension into hers.

“He asked about Brad’s illness and what people thought after his amazing recovery. He wanted to know what I told people about Mary and who I had told, stuff like that. He was polite and all, but he made me feel like I was in court on a witness stand.” She lowered her voice as though she didn’t want anyone nearby to hear. “He wanted exact times and places. I did my best to remember, but I wasn’t exactly keeping a diary.” She paused to catch her breath and added, “I hope I didn’t do anything wrong. I mean . . . what could I have done wrong?”

I smiled to myself, picturing Sam Abraham standing before her with his little pad opened, his pen poised, and those scrutinizing eyes of his raking over her face and her every gesture. Molly was a nervous person normally. I imagined she always panicked when she didn’t have enough milk or bread. I couldn’t blame her, however. After all, she had lived through nearly losing her child, only hers was abducted by a disease.

When I was silent, she continued. “I mean, even Brad’s oncologist called his recuperation a miracle, so why shouldn’t I say that when people at church asked me about Brad and Mary? I’m sure you knew what I thought, right? John was never upset about me talking about it.”

“Yes, we both knew what you believed, Molly.”

“Right. I don’t care what anyone else thinks. I know Brad’s recovery is a miracle, and I couldn’t think of anything else he had done or we had done with him except visit you and Mary. You know I always thought Mary was special. I hope you’re not angry about it. Did I do something wrong? I would just hate myself if I had, especially after what a wonderful thing happened for us. I mean, why would the police come to see me?”

“No, Molly, you didn’t do anything wrong. No one is angry. The detective is just trying to find something to help him understand what’s happened. No one’s blaming you for anything,” I said. “How could they?”

“Well, I’m glad of that. I couldn’t live with myself if I was in any way—”

“I told you, no one is thinking that.”

Now that I had relieved her fear of being accused of anything, she became more indignant. “I mean, why would a police detective come to me, of all people, to talk about Mary’s abduction? My goodness, I’m almost as upset about this as you are, Grace. Mary was special to me, too. And I don’t mean just because of Brad’s recovery. I loved your little girl. We’ve always dreamed of having a daughter like Mary. Who wouldn’t?”

“I know that.”

“That detective was so . . . so insistent about the smallest details.”

“Well, that’s what they do, need to do. I’m sorry he upset you.”

“He didn’t exactly upset me. He was very nice about it, but shouldn’t he be looking elsewhere for some answers?”

“He’s looking everywhere, Molly. We should all be grateful someone’s still looking,” I added, perhaps a little too sharply. I found myself as defensive of Sam as I was of anything.

“Yes, yes, you’re right. Of course. I didn’t mean to imply anything else.”

“Well, thanks for cooperating with him,” I said. “How’s Bradley?”

“Oh, he’s doing great.” She paused. “There was something else, something I never told you myself. I’m sure you knew about it, but I thought I should tell the detective since he was asking about it all so intently, and I was afraid if I didn’t tell him and someone else did and said I knew that—”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“Well, it was during one of those Sundays you didn’t come to church,” she began, and then paused like someone who had said too much.

“Yes? So? What?” I felt as if I was pumping a well handle to get it out of her.

“Laurie James’s son Samson has type one diabetes. Did you know that?”

“I think so, yes. So? What does that have to do with anything?”

“She knew about Bradley, and she knew what I believed, of course. She had Samson sit with Mary in church. I found out that Laurie told him to hold Mary’s hand.”

“Hold her hand? I don’t understand, Molly. What exactly are you telling me?”

“She was hoping for a miracle similar to Bradley’s. You know, that Samson would be cured of his diabetes because of his contact with your Mary. Like what they call the laying on of hands. It’s in the Bible, you know.”

“My God,” I said. “Did John know what Laurie James was doing?”

“I don’t think Laurie said it in so many words to him, but I can’t be absolutely positive. I know she arranged for Samson to sit next to Mary, and no one objected. I mean, Mary was sitting right beside Margaret. She wouldn’t let anything unpleasant happen to her. I thought they were just being nice to humor her. I didn’t really expect anything would come of it. Well, I shouldn’t say it like that. It makes me sound selfish, but as my husband, Morty, is fond of saying, lightning rarely strikes twice in the same place, and what happened to Bradley was like lightning to us, good lightning.”

I almost didn’t want to ask, but I knew I had to. “What about Samson James. I mean, since that day?”

“His doctor says it’s too early to tell, but he sees big improvement. No one said anything to you about it?”

“No.”

“Well, I don’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s all right.”

“No, I hear it in your voice. Oh, dear, I don’t think I can do anything right when it comes to any of this. I’m just so clumsy with words sometimes.” She was fishing for some forgiveness, but if there was one thing I wasn’t going to do, it was feel sorry for Molly Middleton now. She had her child, healthy and happy, beside her. I had empty chairs, an empty bed, and clothes hanging in my daughter’s closet like flags of surrender.

“I’m not upset,” I said in clipped tones. “Thanks for the call, Molly, and thanks for cooperating with the police.” I hung up before she could respond.

For a few moments, I sat fuming despite what I had just told her. I wasn’t upset; I was enraged. Why had neither John nor Margaret ever mentioned this incident to me? How could they keep such an event from me? What if it had resulted in some emotional or psychological trauma for Mary? Were there other similar incidents being kept from me? Why hadn’t Mary said anything about it? She always talked about church and what went on there, especially if I hadn’t gone. It was as if she didn’t want me to be denied the pleasure. Had John told her not to say anything? Had he told her it would upset me? He was right. It would have.

When I had awoken that morning, I had almost immediately begun sinking into a pool of guilt because of what I had done the night before. The memory of the kiss on Sam’s balcony was so vivid that it was as if we had just done it. I battled my way out of the guilt and then lay looking up at the ceiling, luxuriating in the memory of that kiss—defiantly, in fact. John hadn’t kissed me that way for some time, not even before Mary’s abduction and not even when we were making love because of his determination that we have another child as soon as possible. Whatever guilt I had felt dissipated and was replaced with anger.

John had left for work nearly an hour earlier. He had made no attempt to wake me to join him at breakfast. Perhaps he’d had breakfast out. He did that from time to time when there was some client or associate to meet. I knew that my falling asleep in Mary’s room must have annoyed him. I was confident that he’d be at me again about my seeing the therapist. Apparently, he hadn’t followed up yet by calling her, but I was more determined than ever not to do it. It was painful and agonizing to face each day without Mary and to worry about where she was and how she was being treated, but I couldn’t let go of the feeling that if I did see a therapist and she put me on some medication, resulting in my becoming zombielike, I would be accepting defeat.

What was pain, anyway, both physical and mental, if not a constant reminder that something was wrong? Ironically, if it weren’t for pain, we would die from the most minor injuries, traumas, cuts, and internal issues. Pain caused us to seek treatment and cure. I suddenly realized that was why I hated John’s religious philosophy. Accepting any tragedy by thinking of it as God’s will was essentially denying yourself the emotional and psychological pain. Following that theological logic, how could you seek a cure? It was blasphemy to challenge what God had decided in His wisdom, a wisdom that John was fond of saying was beyond human understanding. Didn’t he see the basic contradiction in that?

I wanted to bring his high and mighty logic down to the ridiculous. Why brush your teeth? If God wanted you to have cavities, all the brushing in the world wouldn’t matter, not to mention vaccinations to prevent polio, smallpox, typhus, or the flu.
No, I will not accept anything,
I thought. At dinner, I wanted to recite Dylan Thomas’s “Do not go gentle into that good night; rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

For a while, I walked around the house having this imaginary debate with John and babbling to myself. I was sure that anyone observing me would think I had gone mad. When I opened a drawer, I slammed it closed almost instantly. I practically took the refrigerator door off its hinges going after something inside and nearly shattered a coffee mug when I slapped it down on the table. I welcomed the rage. It seemed to bring relief from my sorrow and make me feel stronger. When the phone rang, I ripped it off the cradle before the first ring had completed.

“What?” I said as if someone had interrupted me.

“Grace, dear, are you all right?” Margaret asked.

“That’s a pretty stupid question, Margaret,” I replied. My tone took her completely by surprise. She was silent. I could see her standing in her kitchen, holding the phone to her ear with her mouth locked open. “How can I ever be all right?”

“No, no, I didn’t mean that. You were gone so long yesterday and didn’t come home until the evening, and then, when I saw John this morning, he said you were still asleep so I wondered . . .”

“What do you do, Margaret, sit by the window watching me go to and fro?”

“Oh, you know better than that, Grace.” She paused, but I didn’t rescue the conversation. “Well, I was heading to the senior center and just wanted to see if you needed anything before I left.”

“No, thank you.”

“Okay, but don’t hesitate to call me if you do need anything. You can call me on my cell phone, and I’ll check on you later.”

“I don’t need anyone to check on me,” I snapped back, like someone biting the hand that fed her. Again, she was dead quiet. It had a calming effect on me, and of course, I felt guilty. How could anyone have a better neighbor? “Look, I’m suffering, Margaret,” I said in a much softer tone of voice, “but I’m not an invalid, at least not yet.”

“Of course you’re not. You know I pray for you every day, dear.”

“And for Mary.”

“Of course. Well . . .”

“Wait, Margaret.”

“Yes?”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me about Samson James?”

“Who?”

“Samson James, Laurie James’s son, the boy who has diabetes and who was placed beside Mary in church one Sunday when I wasn’t with you and John.”

“Oh . . . oh yes. What a sweet little boy. Why didn’t I tell you what, dear?”

“That his mother wanted Mary to touch him so he would have a miraculous cure just like Molly Middleton’s son, Bradley. You remember that, Margaret, don’t you?”

“Oh, well, John didn’t think much about it, so I just assumed you knew. I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to keep anything from you. It was a harmless little gesture.”

“Right, a gesture.”

“Is there any particular reason you’re asking about it now?”

I hesitated. I didn’t feel like going through my conversation with Molly, and besides, I didn’t even know why I was so upset. “No, no reason,” I said. “Thanks for calling, Margaret. Enjoy the day.” I hung up.

Not long after, John phoned from his office. “Are you all right?” he asked after I had said hello.

“Yes.”

“I didn’t want to wake you this morning. You looked like you needed to sleep. Did you take a pill?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t home earlier last night. You know I hate leaving you alone, but . . .”

“I was fine, John.”

“What did you have to eat?”

“Why this cross-examination, John?”

“I’m not conducting a cross-examination. I’m just trying to see how you are doing, Grace. Why are you taking this belligerent tone with me?”

“I just spoke with Molly Middleton this morning. She told me about Laurie James asking to have her son Samson sit next to Mary in church one Sunday so she could touch him and cure him. You never said anything about it.”

“What’s there to say? If she wanted to believe that God might work a miracle for her son through Mary, fine. I never discourage anyone from approaching God, regardless of their beliefs. Besides, Mary wasn’t disturbed about it. In fact, she welcomed the attention, as I recall.”