Coming Home (27 page)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

THE HOUSE WAS QUIET and dark inside, as dark as a house with a white interior and tall windows could get, considering the generous display of moonlight. Jessie stood in the entryway for a moment, letting the silence swirl around her. She wasn’t surprised that no one had stayed up to welcome her back, but surely they’d welcome her exit. If she left before daybreak, she could avoid her grandmother but still say good-bye to Bill.

“It wasn’t your fault,”
Andy had said.

No wonder her dad hadn’t left a note. The original autopsy report had indicated an overdose, which according to Andy’s explanation, would be true. Surely Andy’s father would have seen the blood alcohol level and suspected an accident, or maybe he just didn’t read the autopsy report. Maybe he took the coroner’s word for it and didn’t investigate further.

Jessie headed up the steps. When she passed her mom’s room, the door was unlocked, and not just cracked but wide open. She stood there for a moment, staring at it.
Are we done with secrets? Is that it?

She considered going in, then hesitated. If she did so, she might never get to sleep tonight. She pulled the door shut instead, then went to her own room and sank onto the bed, covering her eyes with her arm.
Andy thinks I’m crazy, too,
she realized. No wonder he paid little attention to the accumulating clues. He’d lumped everything into his theory of her mental instability—either that or he thought she was already well on her way to full-blown dementia.

Maybe he had
never
believed her, even as a kid. Maybe he’d always been humoring her, telling her what she wanted to hear, going along for the sake of going along.

Lying on her bed, across from her mom’s room, where Mom once laid awake at night, the idea of having the same disease didn’t seem so bad—more like an undeserved honor, the ultimate gesture of her lifelong loyalty.
We’re together again,
she thought.
We’re inseparable, even in death
.

She was descending into deepest gloom. Oregon seemed an eternity away.
I was never supposed to reach paradise,
she thought.

She pondered tomorrow again. It would be an awkward goodbye. Bill would give her his puppy dog eyes, and when that didn’t work, he’d throw in a wink or two. She smiled thinking about him. If anything good had come of this trip, it was meeting Cowboy Bill.

“Finish the story,”
her shrink had once urged, and she cringed. Regardless of how silly it now sounded to her, in spite of the sheer impossibility of it, she wasn’t sure she even cared to anymore. Regardless of what she uncovered, she couldn’t bring her mother back. If the dreams continued, so be it. They were still the best thing that happened to her, tormenting though they were.

She considered finishing her mother’s letter.
Why do I keep putting it off?
she wondered.
Am I afraid of what I’ll read? Or do I already
know?

Tomorrow,
she thought, repeating the mantra of a lifetime. When her cell phone buzzed from the nightstand, she picked it up, glancing at the ID. Andy.

She pressed the Power key, extinguishing the light and the sound … and any hope that might have existed between them.

Persistent images of the institution haunted her, including the newfound memory of that poor crazy woman standing on the bed and going berserk.

Nothing was as persistent as Dr. Roeske’s words, echoing in her brain:
“Finish the story.”

What was left to do? Nothing had been accomplished anyway. Only more questions had been raised; no satisfying proof of her mother’s death had surfaced. It was a wild goose chase, nothing more.

In spite of herself, she listed what she did know: the absent death records, the lack of cremation records, the unburied urn, the room number mix-up—although Jessie wasn’t sure what that meant anyway. And then there was her grandmother’s slip of the tongue, which of course, meant absolutely nothing except to someone with pathological wishful thinking.

Andy was right and she was wrong.

And yet
it feels right,
she thought. And as a child her instincts regarding her mother had rarely been wrong.

There was nothing left to do but ask her grandmother a series of disturbing questions, which wasn’t going to happen. Besides … ask her what?
“Where are you hiding my mother?”
Jessie grimaced into the dark.
I’d be lucky if she even spoke to me tomorrow
.

And then a strange thought shivered down her spine—
the downstairs office. Grandmother’s papers. That’s ridiculous,
she countered.
What could I possibly find?

Just finish the story,
she thought.
Take it to the end
.

She shook it off as a very bad idea, something akin to breaking and entering. She finally drifted off, then awakened some hours later and wandered to the bathroom for a drink of water.

Back in the room, she sat on the edge of her bed, wide awake. Maybe she had been going about it all wrong. Instead of looking for evidence that her mother was dead, perhaps she should have been looking for evidence that she was still alive. She grimaced.
Maybe I
am
losing my mind
.

It was 3:10 when she dressed in her jeans and a simple blue

T-shirt, the darkest attire she owned. She checked the hall, wondering if Bill was sleeping well tonight. After another moment of hesitation and a few prickly butterflies, she headed down the hall and made it to the steps.

Downstairs, just off the grand room, she reached the office. The door was closed.
What are the chances the door isn’t locked?
she thought, grasping the doorknob of the glass-paned French doors. No chance, she determined.

Wandering back across the room, she slipped into the kitchen and rummaged through the keys hanging just above the high-tech blender. White moonlight scattered across the kitchen, flowing unimpeded through the wispy alcove curtains. Grabbing the entire handful of keys, she also lifted a flashlight from the drawer and headed back. She padded across the living room, relying on the moonlight to keep from stumbling. At the doors, she began testing each key, as quietly as possible, until finally the lock turned. She let out a sigh of relief.

Am I crossing the line?
she asked herself.
Most definitely
. Going into her mother’s room had been a different situation. In fact, one might even argue she had a right to look through her mother’s things. But breaking into her grandmother’s office was, at best, a gross violation of trust. Besides, her grandmother’s bedroom was just down the hall from this room. Any noise she made would be obvious.

Jessie closed the door behind her and stood motionless for the longest time, wondering where to begin. Tall dark-wood bookshelves graced the walls, and a similar desk anchored the middle of the room. Maybe Bill had crafted them in his woodshop of miracles. The computer seemed out of place in a room so elegantly furnished.

Tall windows looked out to the backyard and the gazebo, which seemed like a white castle in the moon’s light. The outside world was still and silent beneath the flickering stars. Using the flashlight to sweep around the room—although the moonlight would have been enough—she saw the filing cabinets, and her heart sank. In what kind of fantasy world would they be unlocked? And if locked, where was the key?

Jessie almost sat down at the desk before realizing all kinds of squeaks could emanate from the old chair, and the whole thing was putting her on edge.
I should leave now
.

She took a deep breath and glanced at the cabinet, wondering: where would
she
keep a key? In her pocket? No … too inconvenient. She would hide it someplace in the room, reasoning that locking the doors should be enough protection.

She noticed a slight flicker of motion from beyond the glass doors. She froze, her adrenaline pumping, arms and legs tingling with nerves. Maybe it was an outside tree branch causing the moonlight to flicker. Turning out the flashlight, glancing around the study, she asked herself again,
Where would I put a key?

In the desk? That would make the most sense. Gingerly pushing the chair aside, she leaned over, held on to the knobs, and pulled slowly. Using the flashlight again, she studied the contents—pencils, pens, staples, erasers, markers, letter opener, batteries—but no key. She carefully pushed the drawer shut, and one by one opened the side drawers. More of the same stuff common to any desk—half a ream of paper, a dictionary, index cards, and an address book. Picking up the address book, she flipped through it but found nothing of interest.

She turned her flashlight over toward the cabinet again, and another flicker of motion beyond the French doors nearly stopped her heart.
Tree branches,
she told herself again. She noticed a potted azalea plant at the top of the cabinet and smiled through the goose bumps. Finally, toward the back of the bottom drawer, her fingers found a small key. She held her breath and inserted it into the file cabinet lock. She turned and expelled her breath as it opened.

Working with only one hand free, her other holding the flashlight, she flipped through the top file drawer, perusing a collection of manila files generically labeled Utilities, Phone, Life Insurance, Home Insurance. One file was labeled Brochures. Jessie continued thumbing through the remaining files: Brokerage Houses, Tax Files, Bank Statements.

Opening the bank file, Jessie examined the statements one by one. In the space of an hour, she read through hundreds of canceled checks: grocery, clothing, subscriptions, club fees, restaurants, charities—many charities—Salvation Army, the Episcopal Soup Kitchens, St. Jude’s Hospital, Woodland Park Care Center, Compassion International, Pike’s Peak Hospice. Jessie was floored by the sheer volume of her grandmother’s benevolent giving. When she finally returned the files, she sat at the edge of the desk.
What am I looking for anyway? Hospital bills?

She opened the top drawer of the filing cabinet again and removed the brochure file. Mostly vacation advertisements, some medical, and a brochure from the Woodland Park Care Center. Jessie stared at it for a moment, then thumbed through the pages, realizing that it was a home for dementia patients.

The kitchen light flickered on, and Jessie jumped to her feet in a panic, her heart slamming. Quickly she tiptoed to the side of the French doors and pressed herself against the wall. Bill or her grandmother must be up. What time was it? She glanced at the wall clock. 4:20. She knew Bill was an early riser, but
four
?

When she heard a gentle rapping on the door, her worst fears were realized.
Totally, absolutely, busted.

I’m an idiot,
she thought as slowly the door opened.
Please let it be Bill
. And it was. He peeked in through the door and smiled as if she hadn’t just been caught doing something very foolish. “Hope I didn’t startle you.”

By now Jessie had moved from the wall and was standing by the desk. “Hey, Bill.” Her voice quavered. She didn’t know what else to say.

He chuckled, pointing to a flat little metallic panel in the doorframe. “Next time you need to check for motion detectors.”

Jessie cringed. It must be linked to his room somehow. He’d known the whole time, probably from the very moment she’d walked in. “I wasn’t stealing anything,” she stammered. “I was just … looking for something.”

Bill shrugged. “I knew you weren’t stealing anything. Frankly, if you wanted your grandmother’s money, she’d gladly give it to you, and I didn’t stop you because, well … I didn’t want you to know I knew at first. But then it just seemed that maybe we should talk a bit.”

He gestured to the chair, and she sat down. Bill pulled a small folding chair from the corner. She closed her eyes and let out a muted breath.

“What are you looking for?” Bill finally asked, his tone gentle.

“Information,” Jessie replied, sighing again at how stupid it sounded. She hesitated. There was no way out of this, and since Bill’s expression was receptive, unthreatening, she decided to take a risk, lay the whole thing on the table. What choice did she have? She began with the lack of death records and went from there, including the unburied urn and the errors from the mental hospital.