Missing Pieces (5 page)

“It’s not quite as simple as that,” she began, then stopped. I tried to picture her on the other end of the phone, but her silence was distracting. It took several seconds for a mental image of her to take shape. When it did, she emerged as a woman about a decade older than me, ebony-skinned and pretty despite a receding chin line, with short black hair and an engaging smile. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to call you.”

“Is there a problem?” I coached reluctantly.

“We’ve had a few complaints,” she began, “from some of the other tenants.”

“Complaints? About Mr. Emerson?”

“About your mother,” she said.

“About my mother?”

A long pause followed. Then: “There have been some problems over the last couple of months.”

“What kind of problems?”

Another silence. Clearly, Mrs. Winchell was not someone who spoke before she was ready, a trait I’ve always admired in others but never quite mastered in myself. I checked my watch, then my appointment calendar. The name Donna Lokash was scribbled through the one o’clock slot.

“I’m sure you know your mother loves to bake …”

“Yes, of course. She’s a wonderful cook.”

Mrs. Winchell ignored the interruption. “And she’s always been very sweet, making things for her friends and neighbors …”

Get to the point, I wanted to shout, but didn’t, locating an errant cookie on my desk and stuffing it into my mouth instead.

“But I’m afraid that the last few times she’s baked anything for anyone, they’ve gotten very sick.”

My eyes creased toward the bridge of my nose. What was this woman trying to say? That my mother was deliberately poisoning her neighbors, as Mr. Emerson had accused? “I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at,” I said.

There was another lengthy pause. I imagined the woman looking around her office, patting her tight dark curls, rubbing the tip of her nose. “It’s probably just a case of old stomachs becoming increasingly delicate and not being able to tolerate such rich foods,” she offered gently, “but I was wondering if you could suggest to your mother that she not bake anything for anyone for a while.”

Already I could see the wounded look that would ambush my mother’s features when I relayed Mrs. Winchell’s request, and it broke my heart. “I’ll talk to her,” I said.

“There’s something else,” Mrs. Winchell continued.

I held my breath, said nothing.

“It’s about the charges your mother has made with regard to one of our staff.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“She’s never said anything to you?”

I shook my head, then realized I would have to do more. “No, she’s never said a thing.”

“I think this might be too complicated for us to get into over the phone. It’s probably better if we meet in person.
Perhaps we could get together sometime soon, you, your mother, and I. Oh, and you have a sister, don’t you?”

My mind instantly replayed Jo Lynn’s message on my voice mail.
You have to see this man in person, Kate. He’s even better-looking than his photographs, and I’m absolutely convinced he’s innocent.
“Yes, I have a sister,” I said.

“I think she should probably join us as well. We can talk things through, hopefully get to the bottom of everything.”

My mother, Jo Lynn, and I, I thought, picturing Jo Lynn sitting in the courtroom, a one-woman cheering section, probably skipping lunch so she could get a seat closer to the accused for when court resumed in the afternoon. She’d be wearing all white, as usual, to highlight her honeyed complexion, and a short skirt to show off her legs. Not to mention the tightest of little tank tops. There was no way Colin Friendly was not going to notice Jo Lynn Baker. She’d make sure of that.

“The only day I have free is Wednesday,” I told Mrs. Winchell, wondering how I was going to persuade Jo Lynn to come along.

“How’s Wednesday at two o’clock?” Mrs. Winchell offered immediately.

“Fine.”

“I look forward to seeing you then.”

She hung up. I sat cradling the phone against my ear, wondering what was going on. My mother wasn’t a troublemaker, and she’d never been one to complain, even when she had just cause. She’d suffered years of abuse from my stepfather without saying a word, trying to protect my sister and me from things we already knew. Was that what she was doing now? Still trying to protect us?

I shook my head, inadvertently dislodging Sara from the
recesses of my mind. Did a mother ever really stop trying to protect her child?

I returned the rest of my calls, then quickly exchanged my blue dress and flats for a gray sweat suit and sneakers, and stepped on the treadmill, gradually increasing its speed until I was walking a brisk four miles an hour, my arms keeping pace at my sides, my mind peacefully blank. It didn’t take long, however, for my family to join me, their images attaching themselves to my arms and legs, like heavy weights, slowing my step, dragging me down.

Leave me alone, I admonished them silently, trying to shrug them off. This is my time alone, my time just for me, to unwind, to refresh, to tone and relax. I’ll deal with your problems later.

But instead of fading away, their images grew bolder, more insistent. My mother appeared in front of me, like a genie escaped from a bottle, pushing her face just inches from my own, her arms clinging to me in a suffocating embrace; my daughter jumped on my back, knees circling my waist, hands clutching at my throat, riding me as if she were a small child, both women pressing so tightly against me I could barely breathe. Why was my daughter skipping classes? What was going on with my mother? And why were these things
my
problem? Why was I the one caught in the middle?

Don’t expect any help from me, Jo Lynn warned, invisible hands tugging on my ankles, so that it felt as if I were trudging through deep snow. You’re never there for me; why should I be there for you?

I’m always here for you, I said, kicking at her prone image, almost tripping over my own feet. Who stood by you through Andrew, through Daniel, through Peter, through all the men who repeatedly broke your bones and battered your spirit?

Yeah, but what have you done for me lately? she demanded, tightening her grip.

Don’t bother with her, Sara admonished.

You’ll deal with her later, my mother said.

Me first, said Sara.

No, me, my mother insisted.

Me.

Me.

Me. Me. Me. Me. Me.

I closed my eyes, anxiety tightening around my chest like a straitjacket. “This is my time,” I said out loud. “I’ll deal with you later.”

The anxiety suddenly lifted. I smiled, took a deep breath. You see, I reminded myself, sometimes all that’s necessary is to voice these thoughts aloud. Almost immediately, however, the anxiety was replaced by a wave of heat so intense it felt as if someone were aiming a blowtorch at my brain. Perspiration soaked through my sweatshirt; my forehead grew damp; wisps of hair plastered themselves to the sides of my face. “Great. Just what I needed,” I pronounced, adjusting the treadmill’s speed, slowing it down too quickly, so that when it stopped, I almost fell off.

Steadying myself against my desk, I grabbed a soft drink from the fridge, and held it against my forehead until the room stopped spinning and the hot flush grew tepid, then disappeared. When I next glanced at my watch, it was almost fifteen minutes after one o’clock and I was still in my sweats. I quickly peeked into the waiting area, but Donna Lokash wasn’t there. I was grateful, though worried. It was unlike Donna to be late.

My sweatshirt was halfway over my head when the phone rang. I yanked it off and answered the phone, standing there in nothing but my underwear. Donna’s voice on the phone was garbled, crowded with tears. “I’m so sorry.
I know I’m late. I was on my way out the door when the phone rang.”

“Donna, what’s wrong? Has something happened? Is it Amy?” Donna’s daughter, Amy, had been missing for almost a year. I had a special interest in her disappearance, since Amy had attended the same school as Sara and had been in some of the same classes. I recalled the first time Donna Lokash came to my office, several months after Amy vanished. She remembered me from several parent-teacher meetings, she’d whispered, her thin frame hugging the doorway, eyes swollen almost shut from crying, further accentuating the grief-imposed gauntness of her face. She needed help, she said. She was having trouble coping.

“The police just called. They’ve found a body. There’s a chance it could be Amy.”

“Oh God.”

“They want me to go to the medical examiner’s office. They’re sending a car for me. They asked if I could bring a friend. I don’t know what to do.”

I knew that Donna had drifted away from most of her friends since Amy’s disappearance, and that her ex-husband lived in New York. He’d flown in when Amy first went missing, but had gone back after several weeks when Amy hadn’t been found. He had a new wife and family to look after now. Donna had no one. “Would you like me to go with you?”

“Would you?” Her gratitude was so palpable I could almost hold it in my hands. “We’d have to go right now, which would mean canceling your other appointments. Of course, I’d pay you for your time and trouble. I wouldn’t dream of asking you to do this without paying you for your time.”

“Please don’t worry about that. It’s a slow day,” I lied, drawing an invisible X through the rest of the day’s appointments. “Tell me where to meet you.”

“At the medical examiner’s office on Gun Club Road. West of Congress. In front of the jail.”

“I’m on my way.” I hastily rescheduled the rest of my afternoon appointments, taped a note of apology to my office door for those I hadn’t been able to reach, and left the office, heading for the county morgue.

T
wenty minutes later I pulled into the large entranceway of the Palm Beach County Criminal Justice Complex, an impressive array of sand-colored buildings that included the sheriff’s office, various administrative offices, and the jail, a towering structure at the rear, nicknamed the Gun Club Hilton. Were it not for the rows of barbed wire that ran along the top of the prison gates, the complex might be mistaken for just another series of offices, like the South Florida Water Management District buildings directly across the street.

The medical examiner’s office, a squat one-story structure at the front of the complex, had the look and feel of a building that didn’t quite belong, like an old portable classroom that’s been tacked on to a brand-new school, necessary but vaguely unwelcome. I found a parking spot nearby, switched off the car’s engine, then sat staring out at the pond that stretched along the side of the road, my mind racing ahead to a sterile room smelling vaguely of chemicals. I saw myself positioned slightly behind Donna, my eyes carefully averted, my hands on the sides of her arms, bracing her as the coroner pulled back a white sheet from a steel slab, exposing the gray face of a teenage girl, possibly her daughter. I heard her cry out, saw her sway
backward, felt her collapse into my arms. The full, horrible weight of her grief fell on me, pressing against my nose and mouth like a pillow, robbing me of air, taking my breath away. I can’t do this, I thought.

“If she can do it, you can do it,” I admonished myself, scrambling out of the car and hurrying along the concrete walkway to the side entrance of the unimpressive building, pursued by another unwanted image, more terrible than the first: the coroner pulling down the sheet, the body of my own child staring lifelessly up at me. “Sara,” I said, and gasped out loud.

A sharp quack sent the image scattering in all directions, like a bullet through a pane of glass, and I turned toward the sound. There, in a corner of the building, close to the door, a large Muscovy duck sat watch over a bunch of freshly hatched ducklings, their recently discarded eggshells lying broken and empty on the grass around them. I stared at the unexpected scene in amazement, afraid to approach too closely, lest I frighten the baby ducks and antagonize their mother. I watched them for several seconds, marveling at the fragility and resilience of life, and then I took a deep breath, and opened the door on death.

Donna Lokash was sitting in one of two steel-and-vinyl chairs along the off-white concrete-block wall of the small reception area, a uniformed police officer at her side. She was even thinner than the last time I’d seen her, and the lines under her clouded hazel eyes had deepened, forming large dark semicircles. Her brown hair was brushed back into a ponytail that spoke more of convenience than style, and the flesh around her fingernails had been picked raw, the nails themselves bitten to the quick. Donna jumped up, lunged toward me. “Did you see the baby ducks?” she asked, her voice giddy, incipient hysteria bracketing her words.

“I saw them.”

“It’s a good omen, don’t you think?”

“I hope so,” I told her. “Are you all right?”

She cast an unsteady glance around the room, dropped her voice to a whisper. “I feel a little sick to my stomach.”

“Take deep breaths,” I told her, then did the same.

The uniformed officer approached, extended his hand. He was of medium height with reddish-blond hair and a barrel chest. “Mrs. Sinclair, I’m Officer Gatlin. Thank you for coming.”

I nodded. “What happens now?”

“I’ll tell them you’re here.”

“And then what? Do I stay here or do I go inside with Mrs. Lokash?” I motioned toward the back room with my chin.

“Nobody’s allowed back there,” Officer Gatlin said.

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s not like you see on television,” Officer Gatlin explained gently. “We never allow anyone to actually see the body. A few of the more modern facilities in the country have special viewing rooms, complete with soft lighting, where you can view the body through a glass window. But this is an old building, and a small one. We don’t have the space or the facilities.”

“Then how … ?” I broke off, bit down on my lower lip.

“They’ll bring out a photograph for you to look at.”

“A photograph?”

“They won’t let me see my baby,” Donna said.

“We don’t know yet that it’s Amy,” I told her.