Now You See Her (2 page)

He couldn’t take any more drama, he’d said when he told her he was leaving.
It’s better this way. We’ll both be better off. You’ll see, you’ll be much happier. Hopefully, eventually, we can be friends
. The cowardly clichés of the deserter.

“We still have a son together,” he’d told her, as if she needed reminding.

No mention of their daughter.

Marcy shivered, gathering the sides of her trench coat together, and decided to join the ranks of those opting for a brief respite and a pint of beer. They’d been on the go since their bus had pulled out of Dublin at eight thirty that morning. A quick lunch at a traditional Irish pub when they’d first arrived in Cork had been followed by a three-hour walking tour of the city, a tour that included such landmarks as the Cork city jail, spelled “gaol”; the Cork Quay Market, pronounced “Kay”; the opera house; and St. Fin Barre’s Cathedral, as well as a stroll down St. Patrick’s Street, the city’s main shopping thoroughfare. It was now concluding with this visit to St. Anne’s Shandon Church and a proposed hike up the steep slope of Patrick’s Hill. Since Cork’s center was located on an island lying between two branches of the river Lee, the city naturally divided into three main sections: the downtown core known as the “flat of the city,” the North Bank, and the South Bank. Marcy had spent the entire afternoon crossing one bridge after another. It was time to sit down.

Ten minutes later, she found herself alone at a tiny table for two inside another traditional Irish pub overlooking the river Lee. It was dark inside, which suited the mood that was rapidly overtaking her. She was crazy to have come to Ireland, she was thinking. Only a crazy woman goes on her second honeymoon by herself, even if the trip had already been paid for in advance, even if most of the money was nonrefundable. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t afford the loss of a few thousand dollars. Peter had been more than generous in his settlement offer. Clearly he’d wanted to get away from her as quickly and with
as little effort as possible. Marcy found herself chuckling. Why should he put any more effort into their divorce than he’d put into their marriage?

“You find something amusing, do you?” a voice asked from somewhere above her head.

Marcy looked up to see a roguishly handsome young man with enviably straight black hair falling into luminous, dark green eyes. She thought he had the longest eyelashes she’d ever seen.

“What can I get you, darlin’?” the young man said, notepad and pencil poised to take her order.

“Would it be too ridiculous to order a cup of tea?” Marcy surprised herself by asking. She’d been planning on having a Beamish, as the tour guide had suggested. She could almost hear Peter admonish her:
It’s just like you to be so contrary
.

“Not ridiculous at all,” the waiter said, managing to sound as if he meant it.

“Tea sounds wonderful,” she heard someone say. “Could you make that two?” Beside her, a chair scraped the wood planks of the floor. “Do you mind if I join you?” The man sat down before Marcy had a chance to respond.

Marcy recognized him as a member of her tour group, although she couldn’t remember his name. Something Italian, she thought, placing him in the window seat three rows from the front of the bus. He’d smiled at her as she’d made her way to the back.
Nice teeth
, she’d heard Peter whisper in her ear.

“Vic Sorvino,” he said now, extending his hand.

“Marcy Taggart,” Marcy said without taking it. Instead she gave a little wave she hoped would satisfy him. Why was he here? There were other tables he could have chosen to sit at.

“Taggart? So you’re Irish?”

“My husband is.”

Vic looked toward the long bar that ran the entire length of the room. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were with anyone,” he said, although he made no move to relinquish his chair.

“He’s not here.”

“Doesn’t like bus tours?”

“Doesn’t like being married,” Marcy heard herself say. “At least to me.”

Vic looked vaguely stunned. “You’re not big on small talk, are you?”

Marcy laughed in spite of her desire not to and pushed at the mop of curls falling into her narrow face.

So much hair, she thought in her mother’s voice, for such a tiny face.

“I’m sorry,” she said now. “I guess that falls under the category of too much information.”

“Nonsense. I’m of the school that believes information is always useful.”

“Stick around,” Marcy said, immediately regretting her choice of words. The last thing she wanted to do was encourage him.

The waiter approached with their teas.

“He probably thinks we’re crazy, ordering tea in a pub,” Marcy said, following the handsome young man with her eyes as he returned to the bar, watching him flirt with several of the women clustered on high stools around him. She watched him fill half a dozen mugs of draft beer and slide them with a flick of his wrist across the dark polished wood of the bar toward a group of noisy young men at the far end. His female admirers broke into a round of admiring applause. He can have any woman he wants, she thought absently, estimating his age as early thirties and wondering if her daughter would have found him attractive.

“Actually, Americans have the wrong idea about Irish pubs,” Vic was saying, his easy baritone pulling her back into the conversation. “They’re not bars, and they’re as much about socializing as drinking. People come here to see their friends and neighbors, and lots of them choose tea or soft drinks over alcohol. I’ve been reading the guidebooks,” he admitted sheepishly, then, when Marcy remained silent, “Where are you from?”

“Toronto,” she answered obligingly.

“Toronto’s a lovely city,” he said immediately. “I was there a few times on business.” He paused, obviously waiting for her to ask: When? What business? When she didn’t, he told her anyway. “It was a few years back. I was in the manufacturing business. Widgets,” he said.

“You manufacture midgets?” Marcy asked, realizing she’d been listening with only half an ear.

Vic laughed and corrected her gently. “Widgets. Small, mechanical devices whose names you usually can’t remember. Gadgets,” he said, explaining further.

Marcy sipped her tea and said nothing. I’m an idiot, she thought.

“I sold the business and retired last year,” he continued. Then, when no further questions were forthcoming, “I’m from Chicago.”

Marcy managed a tepid smile. She’d always liked Chicago. She should have gone there, she was thinking as her cell phone began ringing in her purse. Chicago had wonderful architecture and interesting neighborhoods. It didn’t rain almost every day.

“Is that your phone?” Vic asked.

“Hmm? Oh. Oh,” she said, locating it at the bottom of her purse and lifting it to her ear. “Hello?”

“Where the hell are you?” her sister demanded angrily.

“Judith?”

“Where have you been? I haven’t heard from you in over a week. What’s going on?”

“Is everything all right? Has something happened to Darren?”

“Your son’s fine, Marcy,” her sister said, not bothering to mask her impatience. “It’s you I’m worried about. Why haven’t you returned any of my calls?”

“I haven’t checked my messages.”

“Why the hell not?”

Because I didn’t want to speak to you, Marcy thought, but decided not to say. Judith was obviously upset enough already. Marcy pictured her sister, older by two years, pacing the marbled floor of her new luxury condominium. She was undoubtedly dressed in her standard uniform of black yoga pants and matching tank top, because she’d either just finished working out or was just about to start. Judith spent at least half the day exercising—a thirty-minute swim first thing in the morning, followed by an hour or two of spin classes, then an hour and a half of “hot yoga” in the afternoon. Occasionally, if time allowed and she was in the mood, she’d throw in an additional Pilates class, “for my core,” she insisted, although her stomach was already as hard and flat as steel. Possibly she was munching on a piece of raw carrot, Marcy thought; her sister’s diet consisted solely of sushi, raw vegetables, and the occasional spoonful of peanut butter. Judith was on husband number five. She’d had her tubes tied when she was eighteen, having decided when she and Marcy were still children never to have any of her own. “You really want to take that chance?” she’d asked.

“Something’s not right,” she said now. “I’m coming over.”

“You can’t.” Marcy allowed her gaze to drift toward the pub’s large front window.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not there.”

“Where are you?”

A long pause. “Ireland.”

“What?”

“I’m in Ireland,” Marcy repeated, knowing full well Judith had heard her the first time and holding the phone away from her ear in preparation for Judith’s shriek.

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I’m not joking.”

“Is someone with you?”

“I’m fine, Judith.” Marcy saw a shadow fall across the front window. The shadow stopped and waved at the bartender. The bartender acknowledged the shadow’s wave with a sly smile.

“You aren’t fine. You’re off your rocker. I demand you come home instantly.”

“I can’t do that.” The shadow stepped into a cone of light, then turned and disappeared. “Oh, my God.” Marcy gasped, jumping to her feet.

“What is it?” Vic and Judith asked simultaneously.

“What’s going on?” her sister added.

“My God, it’s Devon!” Marcy said, slamming her hip into a nearby table as she raced for the door.

“What?”

“I just saw her. She’s here.”

“Marcy, calm down. You’re talking crazy.”

“I’m not crazy.” Marcy pushed open the pub’s heavy front door, tears stinging her eyes as her head swiveled up and down the tourist-clogged street. A light drizzle had started to fall. “Devon!” she called out, running east along the river Lee. “Where are you? Come back. Please come back.”

“Marcy, please,” Judith urged in Marcy’s ear. “It’s not Devon. You know it’s not her.”

“I know what I saw.” Marcy stopped at St. Patrick’s Bridge, debating whether or not to cross it. “I’m telling you. She’s here. I saw her.”

“No, you didn’t,” Judith said gently. “Devon is dead, Marcy.”

“You’re wrong. She’s here.”

“Your daughter is dead,” Judith repeated, tears clinging to each word.

“Go to hell,” Marcy cried. Then she tossed the phone into the river and crossed over the bridge.

W
ITHIN MINUTES, SHE WAS
lost in the labyrinth of lane-ways that twisted around the river Lee. Normally Marcy would have found the narrow streets with their collection of small specialty shops engaging, the Old World asserting its presence in the middle of the bustling new city, but their charm quickly gave way to frustration.

“Devon!” Marcy cried, her eyes pushing through the ubiquitous crowds, straining to see over the tops of black umbrellas that were sprouting up everywhere around her. Two teenage boys walked aimlessly in front of her, laughing and punching at each others’ arms, in the way of teenage boys everywhere, seemingly oblivious to the raindrops grazing the tops of their shoulders.

One of the boys turned around at the sound of her voice, his
gaze flitting absently in her direction for several seconds before he returned his attention to his friends. Marcy was neither surprised nor offended by his lack of interest. She understood she was no longer on the radar of teenage boys, having seen that same vague look on the faces of her son’s friends more times than she cared to remember. For them she existed, if she existed at all, as a necessary pair of hands to make them a sandwich at lunchtime or a human answering machine to relay urgent messages to her son. Sometimes she served as an excuse—“I can’t come out tonight; my mom’s not feeling well.” More often, a complaint—“I can’t come out tonight; my mom’s on the warpath.”

“Mom, mom, mom,” Marcy repeated in a whisper, straining to remember the sound of the word on Devon’s lips and picturing her own mother when she was young and full of life. She marveled that such a simple three-letter word could mean so much, wield such power, be so
fraught
.

“Devon!” she called again, although not as loudly as the first time, and then again, “Devon,” this time the name barely escaping her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears as she circled back to the main road, wet curls clinging to her forehead. Seconds later she found herself at the busy intersection of St. Patrick’s Street and Merchant’s Quay.

In front of her stood the hulking Merchant’s Quay Shopping Centre, an enclosed shopping complex that served as the city’s main mall. Marcy stood staring at it, thinking she should probably go inside, if only to escape the rain, but she was unable to move. Had Devon taken refuge there? Was she wandering through the various stores—or shops, as they were always called here—waiting for the sudden downpour to stop? Was she searching for racy underwear at Marks and Spencer or hunting for an old-fashioned, paisley-print blouse in Laura Ashley?
What do I do now? Marcy wondered, deciding against going inside. Large shopping malls tended to make her anxious, even in the best of times.

And this was definitely not the best of times.

Instead, she found herself running down St. Patrick’s Street, her eyes darting back and forth, trying to see between the raindrops, to fit her daughter’s delicate features on the face of each young woman who hurried by. As she approached Paul’s Lane, she heard a tour guide explaining to a bunch of wet, fidgety tourists that until recently the lane had been a wonderful antiques quarter, but that virtually all the shops that had made the street unique were now closed due to high rents and the young population’s lack of interest in anything older than itself. In today’s world, he said, tut-tutting beneath his bright green umbrella, it was all about the new.

St. Patrick’s Street curved gently, like a shy grin, into Grand Parade, a spacious thoroughfare where shops and offices mingled with charming eighteenth-century houses and the remains of the old city walls. Marcy continued south, her eyes scanning the now-empty benches inside Bishop Lucey Park. She proceeded to the South Mall, a wide tree-lined street that was Cork’s financial center, its Georgian-style architecture housing what seemed like an endless succession of banks, law offices, and insurance companies. No chance Devon would be here, Marcy decided. Her daughter had never been very good with formal institutions of any kind. She’d been even less good with money.