Authors: Joy Fielding
“You’re asking me about the weather?”
“It rains here almost every day.”
“What the hell are you doing there?” Darren asked.
“I don’t know,” Marcy admitted.
“Weren’t you supposed to go there with Dad, like a second honeymoon kind of thing?”
“Yeah, well, that didn’t exactly work out as planned, did it?”
“Is Aunt Judith with you?”
“No.”
“You’re alone?”
“Yeah. It’s kind of nice, actually. I’ve never really spent any time alone before.”
“What’s going on, Mom?”
“Nothing’s going on.”
“Are you having a nervous breakdown?”
“What? No, of course not.”
“You’re in Ireland,” her son told her. “You’re calling me at camp at one o’clock in the morning.”
“I’m not having a nervous breakdown.”
“You’re not thinking of doing anything crazy, are you?” He immediately qualified his statement. “Crazier than what you’ve been doing, I mean.”
“I’m not thinking of killing myself, Darren.”
“Are you sure? Because it kind of runs in the family.”
“Your sister didn’t kill herself.”
“Dad says she did.”
“Your father is wrong.”
“Mom …”
“Look, I really should get going, let you get back to sleep.”
There was a second’s silence, then, “Sure,” Darren said. “Whatever.”
“I love you,” Marcy said.
“Yeah. Good night, Mom.”
Marcy hung up the phone. So, she thought. Her son couldn’t say “I love you,” even when he feared she was on the verge of suicide. Could she blame him? She hadn’t been an active presence in his life in years. Devon had sucked up all her energy, drained her motherly juices dry. And even then, Marcy had managed to fail her. I’m an awful mother, she thought.
Oh, please
, Judith said impatiently, appearing without warning.
Enough with the self-flagellation. You weren’t an awful mother. Do I really have to remind you what a truly awful mother looks like?
She tried her best, Marcy argued silently.
So did you
.
My son hates me. My daughter is …
Is what?
her sister asked, as clearly as if she were standing right beside her.
Your daughter is what, Marcy?
What have I done? Marcy wondered. What am I doing?
Slowly, as if her feet were encased in cement, Marcy walked to the desk across from the bed and retrieved her purse. Then she sank to the carpet and opened it, pulling out the by-now-tattered envelope inside and placing the pictures of Devon in a semicircle around the lone picture of her mother, running her fingers lovingly across their cheeks.
Then she withdrew the second envelope, unfolded the letter inside it, and began to read.
My beautiful Mommy
, she began, then stopped. Could she really do this? Did she have any choice?
Marcy began again, hearing Devon’s voice filtering through each word.
My beautiful Mommy, I don’t expect you to understand what I’m about to do. Please don’t be mad, and understand that this is not a decision I’ve made lightly. I know how much pain I’ve caused you. Believe me when I say I have no desire to cause you any more
.
Marcy pictured herself racing down the hall to Devon’s bedroom right after the police had left, finding the letter addressed to her that her daughter had placed carefully on her pillow, and quickly pocketing it before Peter could arrive and demand to see what it was. “No note?” he’d asked, standing ashen-faced in the doorway moments later.
“No note,” she’d lied, waiting until later when she was alone to open it again. Those first awful lines, lines that seemed to suggest …
“No,” Marcy told herself now, as she’d told herself then, returning the letter to its envelope, then pulling it out again with her next breath, forcing herself to continue.
These last few years have been a mix of heartache, pain, and despair. I wish with all my heart it was otherwise. I know how hard it’s been for you. I hope you know how hard it’s been for me, too. Sometimes it has taken every ounce of strength I have just to put one foot in front of the other, to make it through each endless day. It’s gotten to the point where even saying good morning hurts because I see the hope in your eyes that simple greeting elicits. Then I have to watch that hope die as the day drags on and on and on. One day bleeds its poison into the next. Each day is worse than the day before. Nights are the worst time of all
.
I feel as if I’ve descended into a bottomless pit of sadness, and there’s no way I can climb out, no matter how far down your hands reach, no matter how desperately they try to pull me up. The well is too deep, the water too cold. I feel myself sinking farther and farther below the surface. I now realize that giving in is the only way out
.
I can honestly say I feel better, lighter, more energized, than I have in years. I’m actually happy, strange as that must sound. Knowing what I have to do has freed me to remember all the good times we shared: the mornings we spent drawing at the kitchen table, the nights you spent patiently sitting beside my bed, waiting until I fell asleep, the afternoons we spent curled up together on the sofa watching
Sesame Street,
and then later
, The Young and the Restless.
How grown-up that made me feel! I remember the time you took me to the ballet when I was barely four years old and let me dance in the aisle as the Sugar Plum Fairy danced on the stage, and how you clapped so proudly when I was done. I remember shopping for shoes when I was fifteen and you bought me a pair of boots that were more expensive than the ones you bought for yourself because you saw how much I loved them. I remember you sitting in the audience of every painful high school play I was in, cheering me on at each and every swim competition, the pride I saw in your face whether I won or placed a distant fourth
.
Most of all, I remember our wonderful summers at the cottage, the days spent canoeing and lying in the sun, the long walks through the woods, the barbecues at sunset, the mother-daughter confidences we shared before the darkness in my soul made such confidences impossible. You were always so wise, so patient, so loving. How I wished I could be just like you
.
Please forgive the awful things I said to you. I know there was nothing you could have done to save your mother. Just as there’s nothing you can do for me now. You did everything you could. This isn’t your fault
.
Please know how much I love you, how much I’ve always loved you, and how much I always will
.
And know that I’m finally at peace
.
Devon
.
“Oh, God,” Marcy whispered, tears pouring from her eyes and streaming down her face. What did it mean? That her daughter had indeed paddled her canoe into the middle of Georgian Bay that cold October morning almost two years ago and purposely disappeared beneath its frigid surface? That no matter how hard she’d tried to convince herself otherwise, nothing could distill the terrible clarity of Devon’s words? Was that why she’d stubbornly refused to show the letter to anyone else? Because then she’d have been forced to acknowledge that Peter and Judith were right, that Devon had taken her own life?
I now realize that giving in is the only way out
.
“Oh, God,” she said again as the phone beside her bed began to ring. She stared at it without moving. Her daughter was dead. Marcy couldn’t deny it any longer.
In truth, she’d known it all along.
The ringing stopped in the middle of the fifth ring, only to start up again seconds later, as if whoever was calling knew she was there.
Exhausted by the sound, Marcy crawled toward the phone and picked it up. “Hello,” she said.
“Hello, Mommy,” the voice announced curtly. “I understand you’ve been looking for me.”
I
T WAS ALMOST NOON
when Marcy left Hayfield Manor and headed toward the grounds of St. Fin Barre’s Cathedral, located in the city’s South Bank. She’d spent the morning in a state of restless anticipation, unable to eat or sleep, pacing back and forth for a full half hour only to sit resolutely still for the next, afraid to leave her room until the appointed hour, jumping each time the phone rang, going over the conversation with her daughter again and again and again, hanging on her every word.
“These instructions must be followed to the letter,” Devon had told her in an angry whisper. “One slip, one misstep, and I swear you’ll never see me again.”
“There won’t be any missteps. I promise,” Marcy had said.
Devon continued. “You don’t go anywhere; you don’t talk to anyone; you don’t tell anyone where you’re going.”
“I won’t.”
“Don’t even think of calling the police.”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t—”
“And not a word to that sexy young boyfriend of yours.”
“What? No. He’s not my … Devon, please …”
“Be in front of St. Fin Barre’s Cathedral at one o’clock.”
“St. Fin Barre’s Cathedral,” Marcy repeated, trying to place its exact location in her mind. “One o’clock.”
“And remember—we’re watching you.”
And then nothing.
“Devon? Devon, hello? Are you still there? Wait. Don’t go. Devon? Devon?” Marcy sat on her bed, staring blankly out the window toward the garden, knowing their connection had been severed but waiting nonetheless, the phone poised at her ear for the next twenty minutes on the off chance there was something wrong with the line and her daughter was also waiting patiently on the other end. She’d remained in this posture—waiting, hoping, praying for the sound of her daughter’s voice.
We’re watching you
, Devon had told her.
Who was watching her? Were they out there even now?
In response to this disturbing thought, Marcy dropped the phone into its carriage and jumped from her bed, pulling the curtains closed, then returning to the bed, then quickly returning to the window and reopening the curtains, staring into the shifting gray mist.
Was anyone out there?
“Who’s watching me?”
She’d showered and dressed in her new black pants and crisp, blue-and-white-striped cotton blouse, taking extra time and care with her hair and makeup, wanting to look beautiful for Devon. She’d even ordered room service so that she wouldn’t run the risk of fainting again when she saw her, but
when breakfast arrived, she’d been unable to swallow anything but the coffee.
Liam had called her cell phone several times to tell her he’d yet to hear from Shannon and to ask how she was holding up. Did she want company? He had a few hours before he had to be at work, he’d suggested hopefully. Desperate as Marcy was to tell him about her daughter’s phone call, she’d said nothing.
And not a word to that sexy young boyfriend of yours
.
“I was up most of the night,” she’d told him instead. “I should probably try to get a little sleep. In case Shannon calls later.”
“Good. Now you’re starting to take care of yourself,” he’d said enthusiastically. “I’ll phone you as soon as I hear anything.”
“Liam …”
“Yes?”
I spoke to Devon. She called. We’re meeting at one o’clock
. “I hope you know how much I appreciate everything you’ve done.”
“I know,” he’d said, a smile in his voice. “Now get some rest. I’ll talk to you later.”
I hate lying to him, but what other choice did I have? she wondered now, walking purposefully toward the South Bank, pushing her way through the still-dense fog that draped the sides of College Road like dusty old curtains. Located south of the river Lee, the South Bank encompassed not only St. Fin Barre’s Cathedral but also the city’s seventeenth-century city walls, the remains of Elizabeth Fort, and the relatively new city hall, built in 1936. Despite the distance from her hotel to the magnificent church, she’d decided to walk rather than take a cab and risk getting stuck in traffic. She’d been hoping some fresh air would clear her head and calm her nerves, but the air
was heavy and stale, and she jumped each time she heard a car horn, making her more nervous than ever.
Marcy continued along College Street, feeling the damp air seep underneath her new navy peacoat and trying to ignore the dull ache spreading through her fingers. She should have bought gloves, she was thinking, burying her cold hands inside her pockets. Although who thinks of buying gloves in July?
“For God’s sake, what were you thinking?” Peter had shouted in her ear less than an hour ago.
Marcy had been just about to leave her room when the hotel phone rang. Thinking it might be Devon, she’d flung herself toward it, answering it before it completed its first ring.
“Peter,” she’d sputtered when she could find her voice. It was barely seven o’clock in the morning, Toronto time. “How did you find me?”
“Your sister phoned. As did our son. You scared him half to death, you know. How could you call him like that, in the middle of the night? For God’s sake, what were you thinking?” His fury had grown stronger, louder, with each word. “And how could you leave that ridiculous message on my answering machine? Have you completely lost your mind?”
“I can’t talk to you now,” she’d said in response, dropping the receiver back into its carriage as if it had suddenly burst into flames. She’d glanced out the hotel window, searching for faceless shadows in the fog as, seconds later, the phone began ringing again.
“Did you just hang up on me?” Peter demanded as Marcy lifted the phone to her ear.
Her response was to hang up again. She had neither the time nor the energy for his outrage. Nor could she tell him the truth—that Devon had contacted her, that she was an hour
away from meeting up with their daughter. Not that he’d believe her in any event. But you will, she thought as the phone began ringing again. Then she’d grabbed her purse and her new jacket and fled the room, the phone’s persistent ring following her out the door and down the stairs into the lobby.
It was half an hour later when Marcy finally turned onto Bishop Street, the three giant spires of the French Gothic cathedral rising out of the fog to impose themselves on the skyline. Four large tour buses were parked across the street. “The current building, which sits on the exact spot St. Fin Barre selected for his church and school in 600 AD, dates from 1870 and is especially noteworthy for the highly ornamental mosaic of its interior,” Marcy heard one tour guide expound as he tried to herd those in his charge toward the main entrance.