Whispers and Lies Page 17

He was right, I realized in that instant. It wouldn’t be difficult at all.

  And once I had their money, then what? Was I expected to sign over my own estate to Alison? Was that the plan?

  Was I the lonely old biddy to whom he’d been referring? Was I the real target here?

  Why not? I had a home, a cottage, a retirement savings plan.

  Sounds like a plan to me, I heard Lance say.

  Everything is going exactly as planned, I recalled Alison telling her brother over the phone after Thanksgiving.

  What was the matter with me? I wondered impatiently. Where were these thoughts coming from? Hadn’t I made a conscious decision to banish such silliness from my mind?

  “Terry,” Myra was saying. “Terry, dear, what’s the matter?”

  Instantly, I snapped back into the here and now. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

  “I asked if you could get my purse from the drawer.”

  “Myra, Josh took your purse home with him months ago. Don’t you remember?”

  She shook her head, dislodged several fresh tears.

  “You miss Josh, don’t you? That’s why you’re so depressed.”

  Myra buried her cheek into the side of her pillow.

  “I miss him too,” I said, trying to sound upbeat and cheerful. “But he’ll be back real soon.”

  She nodded.

  I checked my watch. “It’s only five o’clock in the morning in California. I’m sure he’s planning to phone you as soon as he wakes up.”

  “He called last night.”

  “He did? That’s great. How is he?”

  “Fine. He’s fine.” Myra’s voice was curiously flat, as if someone had rolled over it with a tire.

  “Myra, are you sure you’re okay? Does something hurt you?”

  “Nothing hurts. You’re here. My feet are warm. What more could I want?”

  “How about a piece of marzipan?” I pulled a miniature marzipan banana out of my pocket.

  “Oh—I love marzipan. How did you know?”

  “One marzipan lover can always spot another.” I unwrapped the marzipan candy, placed it between her lips, felt her nibble at it like a squirrel.

  “It’s delicious.” Her hand reached toward my face. I leaned forward, felt her fingers trembling against my cheek. “Thank you, dear.”

  “Anytime.”

  “Terry …”

  “Yes?”

  She lifted her mouth to my ear. “You’ve been so kind. The daughter I never had.”

  You’ve been so kind, I repeated silently back at her. The mother I never had.

  “I want you to know how grateful I am for everything you’ve done for me.”

  “I know.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too,” I whispered, burying my tears in the soft threads of her silver hair.

  There was a knock on the door, and I turned, half-expecting to find Josh standing there. If this were the movies, I thought, then Josh Wylie would have flown in as a surprise gift for his mother on Christmas morning. He would have seen me standing beside her bed, recognized me as the great love of his life, and instantly dropped to his knees, begging me to be his wife. But as this wasn’t the movies, when I turned toward the knock I saw, not a love-struck suitor, but an indifferent, gum-chewing orderly. “Yes?”

  “Phone call for you at the nurses’ station.”

  “For me? Are you sure?”

  “Beverley said to tell you it was important.”

  Who would be calling me at work on Christmas morning? It had to be Alison. Had something happened? Was anything wrong?

  “You go, dear,” Myra said. “I’ll see you later.”

  “You’re sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m always all right when you’re around.”

  “Then I’ll be back before you know it.”

  I left the room and headed for the nurses’ station. “Line two,” Beverley said as soon as she saw me. “He said it couldn’t wait.”

  “He?” Josh? I wondered. Calling from San Francisco to wish me a merry Christmas, to say he missed me, to tell me he was coming home early? Or maybe Lance, I second-guessed, calling to tell me there’d been an accident, that Alison had been critically injured. “Hello?”

  “Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas to you,” I repeated, disappointed it wasn’t Josh, relieved it wasn’t Lance.

  “Erica sends her love, says she’s sorry she couldn’t be with you for the holidays.”

  “Who are you?” I shouted, unmindful of the people walking by. “Enough is enough! I don’t know what your game is but—”

  “Terry!” Beverley cautioned from somewhere beside me, lifting a silencing finger to her mouth.

  I dropped the receiver angrily into its cradle. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to raise my voice.”

  “Who was that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I’ve been getting these nuisance calls.”

  Beverley nodded. “You don’t have to tell me about those,” she said, chubby fingers carelessly tapping the desk as she leafed through a small stack of patients’ files. She was thrice-divorced and at least twice her fighting weight. Her hair was too short, too permed, and too many shades of blond. Clearly, this was a woman only comfortable with extremes, possibly the reason for the three divorces, I thought, but then, who was I to judge? I’d always felt vaguely sorry for her. Now I wondered if she felt the same about me. “After my last divorce,” Beverley was saying, “my ex-husband called me fifty times a day. Fifty! I changed my number four times, didn’t do any good. I finally had to sic the police on him.”

  “I guess I might have to do that.”

  “Kind of hard when you don’t know who it is. You have no idea.…?”

  A smiling trio appeared before my eyes—Lance and K.C. flanking the man with the red bandanna. “No,” I said.

  “Too bad. He sounded so sexy, the way he said your name. Real slow. Kind of like he was purring. I thought it might be, you know, someone special.” She shrugged, returning her attention to the stack of papers in front of her. “Probably just some stupid kid getting his jollies.”

  “Well, if anybody else calls, just tell him … I don’t know. Use your imagination.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll think of something.”

  I heard her laughing as I walked down the hall, no clear idea where I was headed until I found myself in front of Sheena O’Connor’s door. I peeked inside, saw her sitting up and talking animatedly on the phone. I was about to withdraw when her voice stopped me.

  “No, wait.” She waved me inside the room. “Come in. I’ll just be another minute.”

  While she finished her conversation, I checked on the many flower arrangements and poinsettias that filled the room, watering several that were in dire need, and silently counting the others, stopping at fifteen. We love you, Mom and Dad. Merry Christmas, Munchkin, from Aunt Kathy and Uncle Steve. Way to go, Love Annie. I paused the longest at the two dozen long-stemmed yellow roses, recalling the roses Josh had sent me for Thanksgiving, wondering if there’d be a surprise bouquet waiting for me when I got home.

  “Smells like a funeral parlor in here.” Sheena laughed as she replaced the receiver.

  She looks beautiful, I thought, brown eyes as soft as sable against the whiteness of her skin. Her face was still swollen from the beating she’d received and her subsequent corrective surgery, but the deep scratches around her mouth had faded into fine lines, and the only sign her nose had been broken was a slight curvature to the left, an imperfection I rather liked, but one she probably wouldn’t.

  “I think it smells nice,” I said truthfully.

  “I guess.” She nodded toward the phone. “That was my parents. They’re on their way over with a truckful of presents.”

  “I bet they are.”

  “I just wish I could go home.”

  “I would think you’ll be going home ver
y soon. You’ve made remarkable progress.”

  “Why don’t you sit down,” Sheena suggested. “Talk to me for a while. Unless you’re busy …”

  I pulled up a nearby chair, plopped down into it. “I’m not busy.”

  “How come you’re working today? Doesn’t your family mind?”

  “They don’t mind,” I said, deciding Sheena wasn’t really interested in the details of my life story. She was just making pleasant conversation as a way of passing the time before her own family arrived.

  “Are you married?” she asked unexpectedly, glancing at my bare ring finger.

  I pictured Josh, his warm eyes and warmer lips. I felt his mouth graze mine as his eyelids fluttered against my cheek. “Yes,” I told her. “I am.”

  “Do you have any kids? I bet you have lots of kids.”

  “I have a daughter,” I heard myself say, and almost gasped at my audacity. What was I doing? I tried picturing Alison as she must have looked as a little girl. “She’s older than you are.”

  “Just the one child?”

  “Just the one.”

  “I’m surprised. I would have thought you’d have at least three.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Just ’cause I think you’d be a really good mother.” She smiled shyly. “I remember the way you sang to me. How did that song go?”

  “Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra,” I sang softly. “Too-ra-loo-ra-lie …”

  “That’s it. It was so beautiful. It was calling to me.”

  I stopped singing. “What was it like?”

  “Being in a coma?”

  I nodded.

  She shook her head. “I guess it was like being asleep. I don’t really remember anything specific. Mostly voices off in the distance, like if I was dreaming, except there were no pictures. And then the sound of someone singing. You,” she said, and smiled. “You brought me back.”

  “Do you remember anything about the attack?”

  A shiver swept the smile from Sheena’s face.

  “I’m sorry,” I apologized immediately. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “No, that’s all right,” Sheena said quickly. “The police have asked me about it a hundred times. I wish I had something to tell them. But the truth is, I don’t remember a thing about the attack itself. I just remember that I was lying in my backyard, working on my tan. My parents were out and my sister was at the beach. I was waiting for a phone call—this guy I liked at school—so I didn’t want to leave the house. I stretched a blanket across the grass and lay down on my stomach. I remember undoing the back of my bikini top. It’s pretty secluded in my backyard. I didn’t think anyone could see me. I was almost dozing off when I heard it.” She stopped, her eyes coming to rest on a large red poinsettia behind my head.

  “Heard what?”

  “There was this sound. The leaves were rustling. No,” she corrected immediately. “It wasn’t as strong as that. It was quieter.”

  “They were whispering,” I said, my own voice hushed.

  “Yes! That’s exactly what it was.” Her eyes fastened on mine. “I remember thinking it was so strange that the leaves would be moving when there was no wind at all. And then I felt someone standing over me, and it was too late.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “My instincts were trying to warn me, but I didn’t listen.”

  I nodded. How often we ignore our instincts, I was thinking. How often we ignore the whispering of the leaves.

  “Will you sing to me again?” Sheena asked, lying back against her pillow and closing her eyes.

  “Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra,” I began softly.

  “Too-ra-loo-ra-lie,” Sheena sang with me.

  “Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra,” we sang together, our voices steadily gaining strength. And I was able, for a few fleeting minutes, to pretend that the leaves had stopped whispering, and all was right with the world.

  SEVENTEEN

  “He called again,” Beverley said as I returned to the nurses’ station at the end of my shift.

  I didn’t have to ask whom she meant. “When?”

  Beverley glanced at the large, round clock on the wall. “About forty minutes ago. I told him you were dead.”

  I laughed in spite of myself. “What did he say?”

  “Said he’d catch you later.” She shrugged, as if to ask, What can you do? “Holiday season brings out all the crazies, I guess.”

  “I guess,” I repeated, moving like an automaton toward the elevators, pressing the button repeatedly until the doors opened. Was that all it was?

  My instincts were trying to warn me, I heard Sheena O’Connor repeat, but I didn’t listen.

  The elevator was already pretty full, and I had to squeeze in between two middle-aged men, one of whom smelled of liquor, the other of poor personal hygiene. I watched the doors drag to a close and steadied my feet as the elevator lurched into its slow, almost painful descent. “Merry Christmas,” one of the men said, the smell of whiskey overwhelming the small space, like fumes of poisonous gas.

  I held my breath, nodded, and prayed the elevator wouldn’t stop at every floor. Of course it did, and even more people crowded inside. “Merry Christmas,” the man beside me greeted each new occupant, at one point even attempting a courtly bow. He promptly lost his balance and fell against me, his hand brushing against my breast as he tried to right himself. “Sorry about that,” he said with a stupid grin as I fought back the urge to throw up all over him. Unlike Alison, I had no phobias in that department.

  The elevator finally reached the lobby, bouncing several times on its arrival, as if it were surprised it had landed in one piece, and its doors yawned open. Everyone folded together as one, pouring from the elevator like water from a glass. I felt a hand on my rear end and initially dismissed the intrusion as an unavoidable consequence of so many people being squished together like sardines, until I felt stray fingers trying to worm their way between my legs. I angrily swatted the hand away and glared at the drunk beside me, whose stupid grin had now settled across his entire face. “Jerk,” I muttered. I stepped into the lobby, releasing the trapped air from my lungs and brushing another phantom hand from my backside, feeling its illusion linger, invisible fingers continuing to probe.

  “Terry,” a voice said from somewhere behind me, and I found myself staring at an attractive, olive-skinned woman about five years younger than I, whose name stubbornly refused to materialize. “Luisa,” she said, as if sensing my predicament. “From Admitting. I thought I recognized you when you got in the elevator, but it was so crowded …”

  “And smelly.”

  She laughed. “Wasn’t that awful? Were you working today?”

  I nodded. “You?”

  She shook her head. Several black curls fell across her wide forehead. “No. I was visiting my grandmother. She tripped on a tiny crack in the sidewalk last week and broke her hip. Can you believe it?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “This getting older is for the birds.”

  I thought of my mother, of Myra Wylie, of all the sick and helpless men and women who’d exceeded their “best before” dates.

  “Well, have a merry Christmas,” Luisa said. “And if I don’t see you before, have a healthy and happy New Year.”

  “The same to you.” I watched her turn and walk away. “Luisa,” I called out suddenly, the unexpected urgency in my voice stopping us both dead in our tracks. Luisa eyed me quizzically as I ran to catch up to her. “Sorry, I just remembered something I need to ask you about.”

  Luisa said nothing, waited for me to continue.

  “A friend of mine is trying to locate a woman who used to work here. Rita Bishop.” Why was I bringing this up now? I wondered. Hadn’t Alison herself told me not to bother?

  Luisa raised thick, black eyebrows, furrowed her wide brow. “Name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “She left about six, seven months ago.”

  “Do you know what department she worked in?”

 
; “I think she was a secretary or something.”

  “Well, I’ve been here for three years and I’ve never heard of any Rita Bishop, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Would you like me to check the files?”

  “I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

  “It’ll only take a minute.”

  I followed Luisa to the main office, waited while she unlocked the door. This is silly, I told myself, watching while she flipped on the lights and quickly activated the computer on her desk.

  But my conversation with Sheena O’Connor had left me a little unsettled. My instincts were trying to warn me, she’d said, and I’d nodded understanding, realizing how successfully I’d buried my own instincts, feeling them stubbornly reasserting themselves now, refusing to be ignored any longer.

  “I’m pulling up the personnel files,” Luisa explained, her eyes on the screen. “I don’t see anyone by that name. You said she left about six or seven months ago?”

  “Maybe eight,” I qualified.

  “Well, I can’t find anyone by that name at all.” Luisa paused, typed in some further information. “You said Rita Bishop, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I show a Sally Pope.”

  I laughed. “Close, but no cigar.”

  “Let me check something else.” She pressed a few more keys. “I’ll enter her name, let the computer run a search.”

  I nodded, although I already knew what the outcome of that search would be. Mission Care would have no record of Rita Bishop ever having worked here. In fact, it was highly doubtful that anyone named Rita Bishop worked anywhere, that she existed at all. Alison hadn’t shown up at Mission Care looking for an old friend named Rita Bishop. She’d shown up at Mission Care looking for me.

  There was no other plausible explanation.

  The only remaining question was why.

  “No.” Luisa shook her head. “There’s nothing. I’m not sure where else to look.”

  “That’s okay. Don’t bother.”

  “Sorry.” Luisa shut off the computer. “There’s an assisted-living community not far from here called Manor Care. Maybe your friend got the name confused.”

  “Maybe,” I said hopefully, grasping at proverbial straws, still trying to ignore my instincts, to silence the whispering of the leaves by convincing myself that Alison was exactly whom she claimed to be, that she hadn’t lied to me, that she wasn’t lying to me still. “Thanks for trying,” I told Luisa, offering her a lift home. But she had her own car, and we wished each other a final merry Christmas in the parking lot. Ten minutes later, I was still sitting in my car, trying to figure out what it all meant, and more importantly, what I was going to do next.