Miss Me When I'm Gone (21 page)

Chapter 40

“The Darkest Hour Is Just Before Dawn”

Twenty-First Avenue

Nashville, Tennessee

I’m sitting on a bench on the west end of Nashville, on a pleasant little chunk of grass that might be a park or might be part of a condo complex in which I shouldn’t be loitering. Either way, no one’s paying attention. The sky is turning a little gray. I wish it would rain, but it’s been threatening for a few hours.

I’ve been listening to Emmylou Harris and Ricky Skaggs sing “The Darkest Hour Is Just Before Dawn” and “Green Pastures,” alternating between them.

This is really my favorite of Emmylou’s work—her beautiful, respectful treatment of classic bluegrass gospel songs. I particularly like these two, both of which she performs with Ricky Skaggs. “The Darkest Hour” was written by the bluegrass duo the Stanley Brothers. “Green Pastures” was written by Ralph Stanley (half of the Stanley Brothers) and Avril Gearheart—and Emmylou and Ricky Skaggs’s performance feels like the embrace of one big happy country music family, with Willie Nelson playing guitar and Dolly Parton singing backup vocals.

When I listen to either of these songs, I feel like somewhere, someday, somehow, there is a home out there for me.

Is this a sort of Christian thing to say? It might be a little, even if I am not Christian. By “home,” I don’t mean heaven. I don’t mean Jesus’ open arms, necessarily, as I can’t say I’ve understood exactly what they signify. I mean some sense of peace, some sense of being forgiven. I can’t say I know where these will come from, only that when I listen to this music, I feel their possibility as something real.

These songs bring me back to what originally drew me to this music—this music that none of my friends ever listened to (except maybe when Jack White sang with Loretta, or just after
Walk the Line
came out). Music that puts words in my mouth and my head that would embarrass us all.

There is a simple acknowledgment of pain and struggle here that speaks to me. Surely most music has that, but this song is the one that draws me in, that changes my experience of that pain. This one comforts me, sings me home.

The people who originally listened to these songs certainly suffered more than I ever have, but I believe the song’s promise applies to me regardless. It doesn’t require of me a childhood in the cotton fields, wifely obedience, or even Sunday church attendance.

It does require something of me, though. It requires that I be honest about what’s in my heart and my soul. That I stop pretending. That I want to find my way home, and that I understand what that really means. And what that means to me is not necessarily something pastoral, or conservative, or even Christian. It’s just a rare feeling of trust that comes over me when I hear it. Trust not so much in my judgment, but something entirely outside of it. That everything, in the end, will come to rest. That everything will end, and that is okay, too. Rarely do I ever feel that way, and that is the gift of these songs.

Part of the beauty of Emmylou Harris is that she gracefully and unassumingly delivers songs like this to people like me—who never have and never will stand in an old Appalachian country church on a hill, but who need their stark, simple assurances all the same.

—
Tammyland

Chapter 41

Once Ruth had gone back into the library, I sat in my car for a little while.

I thought about “Till I Get It Right,” the piece from a notebook I’d read the night before. There Bruce was mentioned so casually and even a little bit fondly—unlike in their more present encounter, where Gretchen had conveyed him as cagey and odd. In both past and present descriptions, Bruce certainly sounded like one of the men who’d shown up for Gretchen’s reading—tall with a lot of puffy dark hair. I wanted to look back at Gretchen’s more recent description of him, but I didn’t have it with me. Also—I grew anxious as I remembered this, alone in my car—Willingham was pretty near the University of New Hampshire, where Bruce worked.

In any case, I thought again that I might like to just get a look at the guy myself. Just to get a feel for what kind of person he was. Plus a few of the other people Gretchen had interviewed in the last days of her life. But especially him.

Now hungry, I wandered over to the Dragon Buffet.

“How much is it for lunch?” I asked the rail-thin hostess.

“Eight ninety-nine,” she answered. “Just one?”

“Um . . . well. I’m not sure. Do you have those little fried doughnuts? Those little puffy appetizer doughnuts with the sugar on them?”

“Sorry? You want sugar?”

“Never mind. It’s okay. Yes, one person for the buffet,” I said.

I discovered, to my relief, that they had the little doughnuts. I piled my plate with five of them and ordered a glass of milk. The doughnuts were gone before I’d had a chance to reconsider. Then I went back and guiltily filled my plate with a bunch of broccoli, plus several strips of chicken breast for protein. I thought of asking about the MSG, but decided I probably didn’t want to know. During this second trip to the buffet, I noticed a woman—about my age, and dining with a toddler—staring at me, watching me carefully as I refilled my plate. Probably she’d witnessed my doughnut run. I stiffened as I returned to my table.

Since becoming pregnant—and particularly visibly pregnant—I’d considered printing up “None of Your Business” cards. I could wordlessly hand them out to people staring at me as I purchased beer for Sam at the grocery store, or gobbled down an order of Wendy’s french fries at my desk at work. I’d have special embossed lettering for acquaintances who feel they can suddenly ask me about personal or medical-type matters—like whether I’m going to breast-feed. A special limited-edition card—perhaps reading
None of Your Fucking Business
—would be reserved for anyone who asks me if I plan to have a water birth.

I ate my broccoli more slowly than the doughnuts, reading one of Gretchen’s notebooks so I wouldn’t feel so self-conscious about being the conspicuous pregnant lady dining alone.

Chapter 42

“Rachel”

D’Angelo’s sandwich shop

Plantsville, New Hampshire

Rachel can’t believe I’m thirty-two.

She’s only ten years older than me, but in her head, she says, I’ve always been the little blond girl—Shelly’s girl, who she saw a couple of times and who disappeared after Shelly died. The little girl she worried about sometimes, asking herself,
Whatever happened to her?

Rachel picks up her jumbo fountain soda, sips, and jiggles the ice before going on.

She can’t believe I’m a writer, that I have a real book. She confesses she’s not much of a reader, so she hasn’t picked it up. Her aunt Laurie—Laurie Wiley—says it’s good, though. And her aunt Laurie’s kind of picky, so that’s saying something.

She doesn’t remark on how much I look like Shelly, which is kind of nice.

She says she’s not sure quite why she and Shelly started a casual friendship that year.

“I was only sixteen. She was . . . what? Like, twenty-four? It was kind of weird at first. It started when she was outside once, watching me walk by her house. I was trying to hold on to my little cousin’s hand while my aunt’s stupid dog was practically pulling my arm out of its socket.”

And so Shelly helped her, and started chatting with her. Asked her about school, about her friends.

“I liked her. And I guess I liked the idea of hanging out with a twenty-four-year-old. It was kind of cool, like. And the fact that she’d had some, you know, pretty serious life experience? That made it cooler.”

Rachel says they talked mostly about Rachel. Rachel was dating a guy named Jay at the time and they talked a lot about him. Rachel often tried to get Shelly to talk about her boyfriend, too, but Shelly didn’t offer much. Only in the last few weeks of their friendship did Shelly give the occasional eye roll when Frank’s name came up, indicating that she wasn’t happy. By then, though, Rachel knew better than to ask.

“She was still a lot older than me and I understood, after a while, that I wasn’t supposed to ask about certain things. If I’d realized how grave it was, I would have asked anyway. The week or two before she was killed, she was different. More serious. Maybe I’m just remembering it that way. But it did seem like something was going on. I was maybe just too young to know how to ask.”

“Now you think it was trouble with Frank?” I ask.

“Probably,” she answers.

“Was there ever any sign that he was violent with her?”

Rachel tilts her oval face to think about this, then raises a sculpted eyebrow.

“No physical sign,” she says. “If that’s what you’re asking. It was all her. She said some things to me that were . . . well, sad, now that I think about it.”

“Which were?”

“Well, there was this one point when I was whining about something my boyfriend had said to me. He didn’t like my new haircut, or whatever. I was implying that he could be kind of mean. And Shelly stops me and says, ‘You have to figure out if you think he was being mean or if you think he was being stupid. And if you think he’s mean, you get rid of him, and don’t give it another thought.’

“And I told her that that was very easy to talk about, but not very easy to do. And she just laughed at me, like, no shit, girl. You think I don’t know that? And then she said something like, ‘You know, this is where it starts. You start at your age, deciding how much crap you’re going to put up with. And if you’re not careful, you’ll end up tolerating a lot more than you should. And you won’t know how to cut it off, because that’ll be what you’re used to, what you’ve convinced yourself you deserve. You want to end up like me? How do you think I ended up where I am now? How old do you think I was when I started taking shit from men?’

“Something like that. I was speechless. Because she’d never talked about herself like that before. We both knew she’d messed up her life big-time, but it was the elephant in the room. We never . . .”

Rachel trails off, blushes, shakes her giant soda cup again. “Sorry.”

It takes me a moment to realize why she’s apologizing. She thinks I’ve never heard before that my biological mother “messed up her life.” Or she’s self-conscious about talking to one of the messes.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I know all about Shelly. I know all about the stuff people said about her.”

“Okay. Well, I’m still sorry.”

“You were saying?” I prompt her.

“Well. It was the first time she talked about me in terms of herself. And it felt like she was talking about her life now. Not just past boyfriends. Like she still felt trapped.”

I hesitate. “I wonder if she really felt trapped, though? She didn’t need Frank for money, really. He wasn’t helping her raise any kids, or anything.”

Rachel shrugs. “Yeah, I don’t know. That’s a good question.”

After some thought, she says, “There was this sadness about her, around then. This one afternoon, I was hanging out with my friend Denise, and we went walking downtown to buy some candy and go to the drugstore, because she had a prescription she needed filled. I was excited that I could introduce her to my cool older friend Shelly, who was working the pharmacy counter. She took Denise’s prescription and asked her a couple of questions about it. I don’t know what the issue was—a minor picking up her own prescription, or something? Is that illegal? Or was it back then? Anyway, the pharmacist came in and helped her resolve the issue, whatever it was.

“And as soon as they were done talking, I leaned over the counter, all casual and girl-talk-like, and I said, ‘So, Shelly . . . how’s Frank these days?’ You know, like she and I talked about our boyfriends all the time, me and this cool friend of mine in her twenties. And she looks up from what she’s doing . . . and the expression on her face. She looked . . . horrified. And she said, ‘Excuse me?’ like she didn’t understand what I was saying. Even like she didn’t know me. And I shut right up. I had crossed some line. I remember walking home feeling embarrassed. Denise saying to me, like, ‘I thought you said she was cool. She seems like kind of a grump.’

“That was the second-to-last time I saw her.”

“What was the last?”

“We did one more dog walk together.”

“Was that friendly?”

“Yeah. We didn’t talk about the drugstore. We didn’t talk about Frank. But she seemed tired. I think we baby-talked to my cousin most of the time, paid attention to her instead of each other. That’s how I remember it.”

“And how did you hear she died?”

“My aunt Laurie called my mother the day it happened. My mother told me.”

“What was your first reaction? When you first heard she was killed, did you think of Frank first?”

Rachel considers this. “Hmm. Right away? No. My aunt claims she suspected him the moment she saw Shelly there all beaten and bleeding that morning. But I didn’t know enough about him to think that immediately. For the first few days, it felt more like a mystery. Scary, in that way. Like, who came into our neighborhood and did this? Could they do it again? But the more we heard, the more it seemed like Frank.”

Chapter 43

I called Shelly’s old friend Judy the following morning.

“You must be about ready to pop,” she said cheerily.

“Oh. No . . . not quite there yet. Still about six weeks to go.”

“You must be excited. Aren’t you excited?”

Excited.
That felt like a good word for a trip to Disney World or a kitchen renovation. For now the feeling felt more akin to anticipating jumping out of an airplane, which required a stronger word. But I was willing to go with
excited
for the sake of comfortable conversation.

“I am . . . but in the meantime, I’m trying to get as much done as I can on Gretchen’s . . . manuscript.”

“I see. That’s kind of you, sweetie. Did you have more questions? It’s funny you called. Dorothy was asking for you just the other day. She wanted to know if I could get your address through e-mail. She’s not on e-mail. I told her I’d write you, it just slipped my mind.”

“My postal address?”

“Yes. She wants to send you a package. I believe she knitted something for you.”

“Oh. That’s sweet, but . . . she doesn’t need to do that.”

“She actually does. She has a sort of knitting compulsion. I think since Gretchen died, she’s picked up even more speed. I guess it’s therapeutic for her.”

“Well, I’m thinking of coming up to Emerson again,” I said. “While I still can.”

“Really? Would you like to meet again?”

While I appreciated Judy’s friendliness, I wasn’t sure I needed to do tea and cookies with her a second time.

“Oh, I don’t want to impose. Unless you want to meet. I’ve come across a lot of interviews Gretchen did with other people from the area . . . and I’d like to touch base with a few of them. I thought I’d stop in and chat with Dorothy, because I had a couple more questions for her. But I wanted to check in first, see if you thought she’d be up to it.”

“Absolutely. She always likes visitors, and she really enjoyed meeting you. Otherwise she wouldn’t have knit you something.”

“Well, should I call her? Or do you want to chat with her?”

“I’ll talk to her. When do you think you’ll come?”

“This weekend, actually.”

“Just a day trip? Last time I was worried about you driving all that way by yourself at night, in your condition.”

“Well, I’m thinking of spending a couple of nights in a motel in Plantsville this time, so I won’t get tired. And I like driving, generally. So that’s not a problem.”

“Do you know where you’ll be staying in Plantsville? Because I’d suggest staying away from the All Tucked Inn. The Motel 6 is probably okay, though.”

“Okay. Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Your husband coming?”

I found this question slightly irritating. What difference did it make?

“I’m not sure,” I answered.

“Oh. I see. Well, do you want my help getting in touch with some of the other folks you want to interview? Anyone I should give a heads-up to?”

“No, that’s okay. Gretchen left pretty clear contact information for most of these people.”

“Okay. Well, good,” Judy chirped. “But let me know if you need anything.”

“Actually . . . there are just a couple of things that have come up in my reading that I was wondering if you or Diane would know about. Um . . . if you have time to talk now.”

“Sure I do,” Judy said.

“First, I was wondering about Shelly’s friend Melanie.”

I heard Judy suck air between her teeth. “Is she one of the people you’re going to talk to?”

“I’m gonna try,” I admitted.

“Well, be careful with that. Did Gretchen interview her?”

“Yeah.”

“Because she didn’t help prosecutors any, during the trial. She said some terrible things about Shelly. And she was supposed to be her
friend.
”

“Things like?”

“Oh, like Shelly sleeping with her boss. About Shelly being into drugs and getting involved with shady characters who supposedly would’ve wanted to kill her. All of that was
over.
Shelly had cleaned up her act years ago. It was like Melanie liked to talk about those things to make herself seem more edgy and interesting. Well, look what it got her—her friend’s murderer walking.”

“So . . . um . . . you don’t think Shelly was involved with Phillip Coleman?”

“Nope. I don’t. Shelly made some mistakes when she was young. And she had some problems. But she was committed to cleaning her life up by that time, for her own sake and for Gretchen’s. She wouldn’t have gotten involved with a man who was engaged. One who had given her that nice job, no less.”

“So you don’t think Melanie was trustworthy?”

“Well . . .” Judy’s voice was high-pitched, hedging. “At the time I just thought she wasn’t very smart. You talk like that about your murdered friend, it’s going to have consequences. She was maybe too naive to know that. I don’t think she had any malice toward Shelly. Maybe she’s improved. Where is she living now?”

“Manchester.”

“Hmm.”

“And what did you think of Shelly’s boss? Phillip Coleman.”

“Nice guy. He was a friend of the Brewers, I believe. Which, I think, is how Shelly got that job. I know his wife a little bit. Our sons are the same age. You going to talk to him?”

“Um . . . I’m not sure. Gretchen documented her interview with him pretty well. At some point, if it looks like her book is publishable, I’ll probably have to talk to all of her sources and verify everything. But I’m not at that stage yet.

“Also, there’s something that’s come up a couple of times in Gretchen’s notes that I’m not sure how to interpret . . . And in some of the recordings she did.”

“Excuse me. The recordings?”

“Yeah. Some of her sources. Like Melanie. She recorded her interviews with them.”

Judy was quiet for a moment. “I see. That’s interesting.”

“I’m not sure if she always told her sources she was recording. I can’t tell.”

“Did she record anything with me and Diane? Or Dorothy?”

“Not that I’ve found, so far.”

“Uh-huh,” Judy said.

“Anyway, there are a few people who come up and I’m not sure how they’re connected to Shelly or anything. There’s some vague stuff related to prescriptions . . . which I assume has something to do with Shelly’s last job. But then there are a few mentions of a couple of doctors. Pediatricians, I guess. She has notes about a Dr. Platt and Dr. Wright. And they seem to come up elsewhere in her . . . research.”

“Oh. Hmm.”

“Do you know either of them?” I asked.

“Dr. Platt was my own pediatrician. I mean, when I was a kid. Not for my own kids. I imagine he was Shelly’s, too. He was basically everybody’s my age at that time in Emerson. He was here forever.”

“According to Gretchen’s notes, he died in 1985.”

“Hmm . . . That sounds about right.”

“Do you know if it was before Shelly died, or after?”

“That I can’t remember. Gretchen wrote about him?”

“Um. A little. I just can’t figure out why. Was he practicing right up until he died?”

“Yes,” Judy said. “I believe he was.”

“Because I’m thinking maybe he treated Gretchen at some point, so she had some memory of him . . .”

“I guess that’s possible, if she got sick while she was visiting Shelly, or something. But I’m sure Linda had a regular pediatrician for Gretchen at home.”

“Yeah. It was just a thought. The other thought was that maybe he was still Shelly’s doctor when she got pregnant.”

“Hmm. You know, he probably was. That’s kind of how it was around here. No one went to the adult doctors till after high school. I mean, usually. Things are a little different now, of course, but—”

“Is it possible that Shelly told him who the father was?”

Judy was silent for a moment.

“I never would have thought of that. I suppose it’s possible. But not likely. He was a nice old man, but not the sort of person you’d confide in about that kind of thing. And I know that after the initial discovery, Shelly, of course, went to an ob-gyn. I remember her dreading it. Riding into Plantsville with her mother every month. She said they were all very disapproving there at the doctor’s office.”

“I’m just throwing ideas out there,” I admitted. “I have no idea. Maybe it’s none of those things. And she made a note of the doctor who replaced Dr. Platt. A woman named Katherine Wright.”

“That name rings a bell, too. She’s not around anymore, though.”

“Interesting that Dr. Platt died the same year as Shelly, though.”

“Hmm. I suppose. But he had a heart attack. He was quite old. He probably shouldn’t have been practicing anymore. But everybody loved him, so no one complained. You know, Dr. Skinner knew him pretty well. I can ask Diane about all of this, if you want.”

“Okay. Sure. You can give her my e-mail if she remembers anything.”

“Sure thing. Anything else?”

“Not for now. Thanks for talking.”

After we hung up, I got on the computer and started making my plans for the weekend. I made a motel reservation near Emerson, wrote to Kevin Conley, and started a list of other people I planned to drop in on—like Bruce, Melanie, and Phillip Coleman.