The One I Left Behind (7 page)

“Has she said where she’s been all these years? Or anything at all about Neptune?” Reggie asked, her throat closing around his name. She thought of the phone calls, the sound of his breath in her one good ear.

“Not a word. Nothing that makes coherent sense anyway. And we haven’t been able to piece together much. We know she’s been in and out of the homeless shelter for the past two years. She didn’t disclose anything about her past to any of the staff or residents. She used a false name—Ivana Canard. The staff at the shelter requested that a mental health evaluation be done, but she refused. She’s had a bad cough for some time. When she collapsed at the shelter last week, she was taken here by ambulance. She seems to like her doctor—he’s the one she told her true identity to.”

Reggie laughed out loud. “Let me guess—he’s tall, dark, and handsome?”

Carolyn seemed flustered. “Dr. Rashana? Yes, I suppose, he is,” she said, sallow cheeks turning pink. “She told him she’d been the Aphrodite Cold Cream girl.”

“I’m sure she did,” Reggie said. It was her mother’s standard pickup line.
Did you know I was the Aphrodite Cold Cream girl?
She could just picture this poor doctor’s face; a homeless woman probably twice his age telling him she was once a beauty queen. Shit, he probably didn’t even know what Aphrodite Cold Cream was. The company went out of business in the early 1980s. “It was always her claim to fame,” Reggie explained.

“Now I suppose she’s got a new one,” Carolyn said.

Reggie nodded. Felt her guts coiling like a nest of snakes.

Neptune’s last victim. The only one to survive.

She could only begin to fathom the shit storm that would descend when the media learned Vera was alive. She remembered how ruthless they’d been when her mother’s hand showed up on the steps of the police station: camping out in front of Monique’s Wish, following Lorraine and Reggie wherever they went, asking horribly invasive questions. Some slimebag writer named Martha Paquette wrote a true crime book on the Neptune killings that pretty much portrayed Vera as a prostitute, and you didn’t need to read between the lines to understand that Martha believed she got what she deserved. Martha spent months stalking their family, waiting for Reggie outside of school, saying things like “This must be so hard on you, Regina. If you ever need someone to talk to, just to get things off your chest, you know I’m here.” Right. The very last person Reggie wanted to talk to was Martha Paquette and her goddamn tape recorder.

Carolyn cleared her throat. “According to my notes, your mother disappeared back in 1985?”

Reggie nodded. Her head was starting to hurt.

“She’s been through a great deal since then, Regina.” Carolyn blinked behind her ugly glasses, gave Reggie one of those empathetic therapist looks that must have taken six years of school to master.

Suddenly remembering all the reasons she hated therapists, Reggie found herself struggling not to roll her eyes. Did this woman think she was some kind of idiot?

“It’s Reggie, and I can well imagine. Can we go see her now?” The office was feeling small and airless to her. The gangly green and white spider plants seemed to be growing before her eyes.

“I just want you to be prepared. She’s not going to be the woman you remember.”

No shit. When Reggie last saw her, she was twenty-five years younger and had both her hands. “I’m aware of that.”

“She might not recognize you.”

“The last time she saw me, I was thirteen years old. I don’t expect her to recognize me.” She shifted in her chair, brought her hand up to touch the scar tissue around the prosthetic ear on the left side of her head, but stopped herself. She didn’t want to run the risk of this woman seeing it and giving her another doe-eyed empathetic look.

“I don’t know how much your aunt told you, but your mother has been very agitated, very confused during her stay with us. She’s been paranoid and delusional. There are a number of possible causes for this—underlying psychiatric issues, long-term alcohol abuse, her current illness.”

What about the fact that she’s been held captive by a goddamn serial killer? Wouldn’t that make anyone a little crazy around the edges?
Reggie bit her lip to keep from blurting the questions out. She could picture Carolyn Wheeler jotting down a note that agitation seemed to run in the family. Instead of speaking, Reggie gave her an understanding nod. She wanted to get the head-shrinking crap over with and go see her mother, whatever shape she was in.

“We’ve got her on some meds that have helped her to be more . . . calm, and I’m sure Dr. Rashana will go over all of that with you. I know he’s been on the phone with your aunt and that arrangements are being made for palliative care at home. Your mother will, as we’ve explained to your aunt, need round-the-clock care.”

Underlying psychiatric issues. Palliative care.

The words banged around like pinballs in Reggie’s brain, ringing bells and buzzers, making her head and jaw ache.

“There’s nothing they can do?” Reggie asked, hating how little-girlish her voice sounded. She cleared her throat and spoke in her best professional tone, each word carefully enunciated, “I mean as far as treatment for the cancer?”

“That’s really a question for Dr. Rashana. But my understanding is the disease is far too advanced, and at this point, it’s really a matter of keeping her comfortable. And safe.”

It’s a little late for that
, Reggie thought, but bit her lip instead, this time so hard she tasted blood.

Chapter 6

May 27, 1985

Brighton Falls, Connecticut

“W
AKE UP
, W
ORRY
G
IRL
.”

“Mom?”

“Maybe. Or maybe I’m someone else. Old Scratch coming to get you.”

Reggie smelled gin, cigarettes, and Tabu perfume. Her mother had crawled under the covers, curling herself around Reggie’s sleeping body like a snake seeking warmth. Vera squeezed Reggie tight, pressing the breath out of her.

Reggie opened her eyes. “Very funny.”

“Don’t turn around, you might catch a glimpse of my horns. Feel them poking you?” She jabbed a pointed fingernail into Reggie’s back.

“Ow! Quit it.”

Vera let out a breathy cackle. “Did you know that you frown in your sleep?” she cooed, pressing her lips against Reggie’s cheek. Vera’s hair hung down, tickling Reggie’s neck. “Now come on, wake up or I’ll have to get out my cloven hooves.”

“Whattime’sit?” Reggie moaned, squinting at the red numbers on her digital clock. 2:15. Sometimes rehearsals would go late, then Vera would go for drinks with the cast and crew. Often she’d spend the night on someone’s couch or at Rabbit’s loft.

Reggie touched the scars and metal nubs on the side of her head. She’d taken the ear off and put it in the drawer of the bedside table, unable to sleep with it on. The two titanium posts reminded her of the end of a battery. Like she was a robot who had to be plugged in and recharged.

“I have a secret,” Vera said, stroking Reggie’s forehead gently. “Do you want to hear?”

Vera’s voice was bright and bouncy, like a kid’s Super Ball.

“Mmm,” said Reggie, struggling to keep her eyes open. The charge had run out. “Tired robot,” Reggie mumbled.

“I’ve met someone. Someone special. I think he could be
the one
.” She said this the way she pronounced the names of famous people, in an excited whisper.

“Nice, Mom,” Reggie said, letting her eyes close.

Reggie started to drift. She heard only a few words of what her mother said:
important, two houses, the cleanest car you ever saw.

“But what about Rabbit?” Reggie asked, struggling to stay awake, to understand what her mother was saying. Vera sounded so excited, so happy, Reggie wanted to be a part of it.

“He’s not in the picture anymore,” Vera said.

Reggie doubted that. Rabbit was always in the picture, even if he was way in the back for the moment. Vera dated lots of other men, but Reggie didn’t know many details about them. There was Sal, who was a professional photographer and might just be the ticket to getting her modeling comeback off the ground; a man named Jimmy, who worked in a restaurant; and once in a while a handsome young man in a VW bus would pull up in their driveway and beep twice for her. Reggie didn’t know his real name, but called him Mr. Hollywood because Vera said he’d been an extra in a couple of blockbuster movies—she’d promised Reggie she’d rent the videos one of these days and they’d sit down and watch them together.

“It’s someone new,” Vera said.

“Mmm,” Reggie said, drifting.

“This is the man who’s going to change everything,” Vera said. “I can feel it.”

Reggie dreamed of machines. Of cogs and wheels and batteries. Things that clicked and popped and smelled of grease and electrical charges.

When she woke up, it was after ten. “Shit,” she mumbled, realizing she was already late to meet Charlie and Tara downtown.

Her mother was gone. The only trace of her was a smudge of lipstick on the pillow.

Reggie sat up, snapped the ear in place, and opened her closet. The clothes her mother had bought for her were all tucked to one side—skirts and dresses, designer jeans, tight nylon parachute pants, shirts with necklines cut too low. She never had the heart to say no to her mom when they were out shopping, and Vera held up one outfit after another, saying, “This would be cute.”

Would be. If you were a different girl.

Reggie passed over those clothes and went for the old standby: Levi’s and a faded T-shirt that Lorraine had bought for her.

She dressed quickly, checked out her new haircut and ear in the mirror, and headed into the kitchen. Lorraine was there, lightly buttering a piece of wheat toast. It’s what she ate for breakfast every morning—weak tea and nearly dry toast.

“Mom up?” Reggie asked.

Lorraine shook her head, pursed her lips. “I heard her come in last night,” she said.

Reggie opened the fridge, grabbed the orange juice, and poured herself a glass.

“You should really start locking your door,” Lorraine said.

“Huh?” Reggie closed the fridge and turned to face her aunt. Lorraine’s hair had been gray since Reggie could remember, and she wore it pulled back in a tight bun. She had pointed, birdlike features, murky blue eyes, and thin lips that seemed to always be chapped and peeling. She worked in the office at Brighton Falls Elementary School. She typed up memos, filed, and kept track of who was absent. During the summer, she worked only two afternoons a week. Today she was dressed in her usual at-home attire: baggy pants and shirt, and the stained and worn fishing vest and hat that had belonged to her father and were much too large for her, making her seem strangely little-girlish for a woman of forty-one.

“It’s not right,” Lorraine said, making her best sour-pickle face. “Waking you up when she’s in that state.”

“She was out late at rehearsal,” Reggie said. “They must have gone out for drinks after. You know what Mom says—it’s all part of life in the theater.”

Lorraine scowled. “Lock your door at night, Regina.”

Reggie chugged her juice, nodded, and hurried out of the kitchen.

S
HE GRABBED HER TEN-SPEED
from the garage and started off down the driveway. The Memorial Day parade would have already started by now—it was the biggest event of the year in Brighton Falls and marked the beginning of summer. Poor Charlie was stuck scooping ice cream in the park with the Lions Club. His uncle Bo, who owned the local Ford dealership, had roped him, along with Bo’s son Sid, into it. Charlie’s dad would be driving one of the police department’s new Crown Victorias in the parade.

As Reggie rode she imagined Charlie’s reaction to her new haircut—he’d do a double take, unsure it was even her at first; then he wouldn’t be able to take his eyes off her. The haircut was chic, her mother had told her. “For once in your life, you’re not hiding behind your hair.”

Reggie turned left at the bottom of the driveway onto Stony Field Drive, then right onto Country Club. The thin tires of her bike bumped as she crossed the railroad tracks. The breeze ruffled her short hair, the sun warmed her new latex ear.

She passed the town garage, Millers’ Farm, and went under the railroad trestle that was painted each year by the graduating class:
CLASS OF 1985, ROCK AND ROLL FOREVER
, said the letters in dripping red paint.

Main Street was lined with people in lawn chairs. Reggie could hear the high school marching band as she approached, sweat gathering between her shoulder blades. They were playing “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” Little kids were waving tiny American flags. A guy on the corner was selling balloons, plastic swords, and popguns, which went off like champagne corks as boys fired at each other across the street.

Reggie zigzagged her way through the crowd, heading south on Main, along with the parade, toward the park. She felt the rush of excitement from the crowd and had this sense that she was a part of something so much larger than herself. This was her town. These were people she knew. People her grandfather had made shoes for. People her mother and aunt had gone to school with. She held her head high as she rode, wishing for someone in the crowd to recognize her, to say what a lovely, chic haircut she’d gotten, how grown up she looked now.

She reached the park and hopped off her bike. At the edge of the grass a one-legged old man in a wheelchair was at a table collecting donations for disabled veterans and giving away bright red artificial poppies. Reggie smiled at him, reached into her pocket for a quarter, and wrapped the wire stem of the poppy he gave her around the handlebars of her bike.

The Lions Club had set up tents in the park with long tables underneath. They were grilling hot dogs and slicing watermelon. Reggie spotted Charlie down at the end, scooping ice cream. He was wearing a Lions Club apron and looked totally miserable. His cousin Sid was next to him, and Reggie thought the two couldn’t have been more different. Charlie was small and wiry with his too-short hair and huge brown eyes that reminded Reggie of a lemur. And there was Sid—a tall, muscular boy with pale, shaggy blond hair and a slack-jawed expression that gave him a look of content bewilderment.