Escape Velocity (14 page)

“Yeah, this is the residents' line. Who did you want?”

“Oh. Um, I'm looking for Heather Summers.”

“No, I don't think there's a Heather. Oh, hang on.” I can hear her shouting to someone but can't make out the words. “Here, talk to Helen.”

An older voice. “Hello? You're looking for Heather?”

“Yes.” I hold my breath.

“There was someone called Heather here, but she moved out a couple of months ago, I guess. I didn't know her last name.”

“Maybe sixty? Long hair?”

“Yeah. Blond.”

“Yes! That's her.” I can't believe this. A needle in a haystack and I am reaching out to grab it.

“I don't know where she is now,” the woman says.

“Can I leave a message in case she shows up?”

“Don't suppose she will.” The woman sounds reluctant.

“If she does? Tell her to call Lou. At Zoe's place.” I hold my breath. Zoe will kill me if she answers the phone, but what else can I do? Dad has my cell.

“Uh-huh.”

I don't think she bothered to write it down. “Thanks,” I say anyway and realize she has already hung up. I hang up and look at Justine, who is staring at me, wide-eyed. “She was there,” I say.

“Seriously?”

“I know. It's incredible. Of all the places she could be.” I glance down at the list in my hand, and my excitement starts to fade. So close, but I still have no idea where she is now. Maybe she got her own place. Maybe she is on the streets. She could be anywhere.

“So now what?” Justine asks.

I shake my head in frustration. “I don't know. I should have asked that woman more questions. Maybe she knew how long Heather was there, whether she said anything that might be a hint as to where she is now.”

“We could go there,” Justine says. “Ask around. See if anyone knows anything about her.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “Quite the junior detective, aren't you?”

She flushes pink. “I didn't mean to be pushy.”

“Kidding. Relax, Nancy Drew.” I chew on my bottom lip. “Should I try these places first?”

“Might as well.”

I look at the long list in my hand and notice how neat Nicole's writing is. Textbook cursive. It surprises me, somehow. Maybe she was one of those kids who liked practicing their letters back in first grade. It is hard to imagine her without the scars and hard edges.

“Well?” She is looking at me expectantly. “Want me to do some of them?”

I shake my head. Then I start calling.

Half an hour later, I have called every one of the places on the list and asked to speak to Heather. No luck. No more close calls. Nothing.

“I can't stand it,” I say.

Justine has lost interest and is picking at her nail polish. “Well, Nicole told you it wasn't likely.”

Knowing that she was at Bedford Manor makes Heather seem more real somehow. I think about the folder still hidden under my mattress, picture the photograph of the young woman holding the baby. I can't go back to school, not with all these questions, not with the constant worry about my dad gnawing at me. Every time I try to sit still, I feel like there is something heavy lodged beneath my ribs. My arms and legs get restless and I get this awful all-over achy feeling.

I have to keep moving. “Let's do it,” I say. “Let's go there and see what we can find out.”

The Bedford Manor is a decrepit old building, grayish beige brick and streaky windows, squatting in the middle of a block lined with empty storefronts.

Justine leads the way. She seems more confident away from school, more sure of herself.

“Have you been here before?” I ask her.

She shakes her head. “Nope.”

I stop a few feet from the front door. “Do you think we just walk in?”

Justine shrugs and steps toward the door. It swings open, and a man in faded jeans and a bright yellow sweatshirt steps out, blinking owlishly from behind crooked glasses.

“Hi,” I say quickly.

He gives a slow nod. “What's up?”

“I'm looking for someone who used to live here,” I tell him. “A woman called Heather?”

“She was here awhile back.”

“Yeah. Do you have any idea where she might have gone?” The man is thin and slightly stooped, even though he doesn't look more than thirty. I can't help wondering what his story is. How do people end up in places like this? How did Heather end up here?

He shakes his head. “You could ask Dani. I think she knew her.”

“Danny? Where would I find him?”

“Her. Dani's a lady. Like Danielle.” He jerks a thumb toward the door. “Third floor. Room twelve.”

Room twelve has a picture of a sunflower stuck to its door, the bright yellow flower accentuating the dinginess of the hallway rather than brightening it. I knock softly.

“Who is it?” a voice calls out.

“My name's Lou. I'm looking for Heather. Someone said you might know where she is.”

There is a silence and then a slow clumping noise, and finally the door opens and a woman peers out at us. She's large, with a square face and rough, reddish skin on her cheeks and nose. She leans heavily on a metal walker and studies us, curious but wary. “So who are you exactly?”

“Heather's, um, I think she's my grandmother,” I tell her.

“Huh.” She shakes her head. “Didn't think she had any kids.”

My heart sinks. “Sixty or so? Blondish gray? Skinny?”

“Blond for sure, but skinny?” She lets loose a long wheezy laugh. “About as skinny as I am.”

“Oh…” I'm not sure what to say to that. “The woman I'm looking for is really skinny. Wears long skirts.”

“Never saw Heather in anything but sweats. Anyway, she didn't have kids. I remember her saying she couldn't get pregnant. Some problem with her inside parts.”

I sneak a sideways glance at Justine—
inside parts
— and look back at Dani. “You're sure? I really hoped—”

“Yeah, I'm sure. Sorry I can't help you girls.” She smiles at us. “Good luck. I hope you find your grandma.”

I don't even make it down all three flights of stairs before I start to cry. Justine reaches out and puts her hand on my shoulder. “Hey…”

I shake her hand off and run down the last stairs two at a time, out the front door and down to the empty sidewalk. It's my own fault, this disappointment. I shouldn't have let myself get my hopes up. Needle in a haystack.

“Look…” Justine stops a few feet away. “If you want me to leave, I'll leave. None of this is my fault, you know.”

I nod and try to swallow my tears. “Sorry. I'm not usually like this.”

“Whatever.”

“Justine. I am sorry, really. Don't get pissy, okay? I can't deal with that right now.”

She looks annoyed. “How come you're so obsessed with this woman? I don't get it. Your mom must have a reason for not wanting her around. She's probably a total fuck-up.”

“Yeah. I've actually figured that much out, thanks.”

“Fine. Whatever.” Justine buries her hands in the pockets of her long black coat. “I guess I'll get going then.”

She doesn't move though.

A bird flies overhead, cawing loudly, and perches on a telephone wire. It looks around as if it is wondering where it is, and then it flies off again. I watch it disappear over the rooftops. I let out a shaky sigh and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “Okay. I don't know if this will make sense.” I take a deep breath and spill it out in one long rush of words. “My mother left me and my dad when I was born. And I've never really understood why.”

“Did you ask her?”

“We don't talk about that stuff.” What an understatement that is. We don't talk, period. “Dad says she wanted to be free to pursue her career.”

“What does she do?”

“She's a writer.” I look at Justine. Her round eyes are soft with concern, her face open and unguarded. “She wrote this book,” I say. “
Escape Velocity
. It's about a woman called Claire who leaves her husband and children because she wants to be…I don't know. Sort of free, I guess.”

“Huh. That's kind of intense.” Her eyebrows lift like slender dark question marks. “So you kind of know how your mom felt, even though you guys haven't talked about it?”

I nod. “Exactly. She didn't want to be a mother. Kids were like the last thing she wanted. She describes them as clingy and needy. Parasitic.”

“Parasitic? She actually uses that word?”

“Yeah.”

“Christ. That's harsh.”

My eyes are burning with caustic tears. I blink them away. “The worst thing is, there's some parts of the book that are written by the girl she leaves behind.”

“So that's you?”

“Well, she's called Alice in the book, and my mother's made her hair blond instead of dark, but yeah, basically. And she makes the girl sound really messed-up and cold and self-centered. Like she was destroyed by her mom abandoning her.” I make a face. “And she never really gets over it.”

“You think that means your mom sees you that way?” I curl my fingers into my palms. “I know she doesn't like me.”

Justine purses her lips thoughtfully. “Maybe she wrote Alice that way because she feels guilty? About leaving you, you know? Like maybe she's worried that might screw you up?”

“I don't think so. Because Claire in the book says she never regretted leaving. She said she had to escape to save her own life, and that sometimes you have to sacrifice things to survive.”

“Things, sure. Not your kids. That's horrible.”

I nod and pick at my hangnail, which is bleeding again.

“So where does your grandmother fit into all this?” Justine asks, frowning.

I sit down on the curb and wrap my arms around my knees. “I never knew I had a grandmother until Saturday. There was this event at a bookstore, and my mom was reading from her book. And this old woman showed up, really rough-looking, and started clapping. I mean, she kept on clapping for ages and everyone stared at her. And later when I asked my mom who she was, she told me it was her mother.”

“Wow. But you didn't get to talk to her?”

“No. She disappeared right after.”

“Huh.” Justine sits down beside me and arranges the folds of her black skirt and coat over her legs. “And your mom didn't tell you anything else about her?”

“Right. She says that her mother isn't part of her life and she doesn't want to talk about it.” I make a face.

“I guess this is sort of dumb, but I have this idea…I think, maybe, if I knew what went wrong between her and her mom, I'd understand why my mother left. Why she is the way she is.”

“The main character in your mom's book…”

“Claire.”

“Yeah, Claire. Does her mother come into the story at all?”

I frown, trying to remember. “I don't think so.”

“So no clues there.”

“That's kind of strange, isn't it? I hadn't thought about that before.” I sigh. I can't make all the pieces fit together. “Maybe I'm wrong, and my grandmother isn't important at all. I found an old photograph of her. Did I tell you that? As a young woman, holding my mom when she was a baby. At least, I think that's who it must be.”

Justine doesn't say anything for a minute. Then she sighs. “For what it's worth, I don't think you're wrong.

Even if she didn't include it in the novel, I think your mom's mom has to be an important part of the story.”

I look up at her. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Mothers are always important.”

“Even if they aren't around.”

She nods and looks away from me, off down the street. “Especially if they aren't around.”

Sixteen

J
ustine goes back to school, but I decide to head to my mother's apartment. I need to know that Dad is okay. I need to hear his voice.