The One I Left Behind (15 page)

Vera was sitting up in bed, having her second slice. The medical supply store had delivered an electric hospital bed, a walker, and a bedside commode and set everything up in Vera’s old bedroom. Reggie and Lorraine had dragged two dining room chairs up and were eating greasy Domino’s Pizza off of good china plates balanced on their laps. It was only seven o’clock and Reggie was exhausted. The pizza was the first solid food she’d put into her stomach all day, and she was starting to wonder if it had been the greatest choice.

Reggie had offered to cook, only to discover the fridge was empty except for skim milk, margarine, some limp carrots, and a freezer full of Stouffer’s macaroni and cheese. “I’ll go shopping first thing tomorrow,” Reggie had said.

The live-in nurse Lorraine had hired was due to arrive any minute.

Reggie had been very skeptical of her aunt’s ability to hire someone qualified. “Did you find her through a service?”

Lorraine smiled tightly. “She’s someone I know.”

“But she’s experienced, right?” Reggie pushed. “You asked for her résumé and references?”

“She’s a registered nurse with hospice experience. More importantly than that, she’s someone we can trust.”

Reggie imagined one of the dowdy old women Lorraine knew through her work at the Historical Society, probably hadn’t worked for fifteen years. It couldn’t hurt to explore other options.

But she had spent nearly an hour on the phone with Medicaid, the county home health and hospice service, and a private duty nursing agency. In the end, she hadn’t been able to find anyone who could start right away. There was all kinds of bullshit about Vera not being a Connecticut resident, and Reggie had to agree to give her aunt’s candidate a try. She’d meet her, ask for references, and make different arrangements as soon as possible if necessary.

The doorbell rang and Lorraine shot up excitedly. “She’s here. I’ll show her in.”

Reggie stayed in the bedroom, pulling her phone out to check for messages. There was one from Len. Reggie smiled, listening: “Hey. Just checking in to see how Worcester’s going. I miss you. Call me when you get back to town.”

The truth was, she missed him, too. She wished she could call him, tell him everything that had happened to her today. Soon, she promised herself. When she had a better handle on things. Once things with the nurse were squared away, maybe Reggie would drive back home for a couple of days to catch up on some work and see Len.

Reggie stuck the phone back in her bag and grabbed another slice.

“Good pizza, huh, Mom?”

Vera said nothing but took another bite.

“Who am I kidding? It’s crap. But anything’s better than hospital food. And whatever they fed you in the shelter. Did you have meals there at the shelter? Or did you have to go someplace else? A soup kitchen or something?”

Her mother smiled. “Sister Dolores made sure I got enough to eat. Ham on Tuesdays. Fish on Fridays. Learn and clean and serve.”

Reggie set down her plate. “Sister Dolores, huh? Did she work at the shelter?”

What the hell was
Learn and clean and serve
? It occurred to Reggie that she should have asked the broccoli-in-her-teeth social worker for a few more details about where her mother had come from. Reggie had Carolyn Wheeler’s card in her bag—she’d give her a call in the morning.

“Regina?” Lorraine said from the doorway. “Everything okay?”

“Peachy,” Reggie said, plastering a nice fake smile on her face as she prepared to meet the stodgy old nurse whom she could hear shuffling down the hall toward them. Reggie visualized a woman in an old-fashioned nurse’s uniform, complete with a little white cap. White chunky shoes, maybe, with orthotics and support hose.

Behind Lorraine, a figure appeared in the doorway who was neither old nor dressed in anything resembling a nurse’s uniform. She wore jeans, knee-high biker boots, and a Jackson Browne T-shirt with a hooded zip-up sweatshirt over it. She had long coppery hair in a braid and a pierced nose, and was shouldering a black backpack.

Reggie did a double take.

“Tara?”

“Mrs. Dufrane,” Tara said, going straight for Vera’s bed and touching her lightly on the arm. “It’s so good to see you again.”

Reggie would know her anywhere, even without the thick black eyeliner, spiked hair, and hourglass necklace (which Reggie herself now wore, hidden under her shirt). Tara ignored Reggie, her gaze focused on Vera. Reggie flashed her aunt a what-the-hell-is-this? look and Lorraine responded with a big, proud smile.

“I’m not Mrs. Dufrane,” Vera complained, dry lips pursed in a tight little bow. “I’m not Mrs. Anyone.”

Tara smiled. “How about Vera, then? Would that be okay? And you can call me Tara. I’m not Mrs. Anyone either.” She gave Vera a wink. “I’m an old friend of Reggie’s. Do you remember?”

Vera nodded, but there was no recognition in her eyes.

“I had crazy hair back then, black with blond tips.”

Vera smiled. “Did you know I was the Aphrodite Cold Cream girl?”

“I did. And you know what—I remember seeing the old ad. I’m going to see if I can find a copy and we can frame it and put it right on your wall. Would you like that, Vera?”

Vera smiled.

“Now I’m going to go put all my stuff away and get settled while you finish up your dinner. Then I’ll come in and make sure you have all your medicine and maybe help you get ready for bed. That sound like a plan?”

Reggie’s mother gave a little nod and went back to picking at her pizza.

Tara turned toward Lorraine, adjusting the backpack on her shoulder. “Which room am I in?”

“Father’s old room,” Lorraine said, smiling. “I’ve fixed it up for you, put on clean bedding.”

Reggie stepped between them. “I’ll show you,” she said. Tara looked at her for the first time, a familiar mischievous sparkle in her eyes.

“Good idea,” said Lorraine, gathering the china plates they’d eaten on. “You go help her get settled.”

R
EGGIE’S HEAD WAS SPINNING.
“You’re a nurse? For real?” She sounded like an awkward thirteen-year-old. So much for the third degree she was planning to give Lorraine’s candidate.

“Yep. For the past fifteen years. I worked on the oncology floor at Hartford Hospital for a few years, then for a home health and hospice agency. I still do that some, but mostly it’s private duty these days. I like it. I’m on my own, no one breathing down my neck. You want to see my license?” Tara said. She’d laid her backpack out on the neatly made single bed and was unzipping it. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” she said with a teasing grin. “If architects even have licenses.”

“How’d you know what I do?”

Tara gave a barking laugh. “Shit, Reggie! You think that just because you move away and never come back that you’re off the radar completely? That you don’t exist anymore?” Tara took out a stack of neatly folded T-shirts and carried them to an open drawer. Reggie noticed an ornate tattoo on Tara’s right wrist—a black bird with a wing that was all wrong—bent and broken. It circled Tara’s wrist like a strangely macabre bracelet. Reggie imagined the sleeve of Tara’s hoodie pulling up, wondered if she’d still be able to see traces of the scars. Tara caught her looking and Reggie’s face flushed.

“No,” Reggie said, looking away. Then she faced Tara again, telling herself it was ridiculous to feel the same childish awe, the familiar sense of being undone and entirely at Tara’s mercy. “It’s just that—”

“You’re not just any architect, though, are you?” Tara cocked one eyebrow. “You’re one of the top green architects in the Northeast according to
Four Walls
.” There was a slight mocking tone to her voice.

“How did you—”

“Have you heard of the Internet? Google? Amazing the shit you can find on there.”

“Mmmm, very funny, Tara.”

Tara gave a little nod and a smirk—an acknowledgment—
yes, that was funny, thank you for noticing
.

“But believe it or not, I actually subscribe to
Four Walls
. I like to read, and I have this thing for magazines, especially all those glossy house mags. They help take my mind off the fact that I live in a hovel. They’re full of such promise, aren’t they? I mean, they’re selling you the actual magazine, but it’s more than that—it’s the fantasy of the ideal life you’ll have once you get a perfect kitchen with classic triangle work area and stainless steel appliances. It’s kind of sickening, but fascinating and addictive, too.”

Reggie smiled. “You haven’t changed at all.”

Tara took another pile of clothing from her bag and gave Reggie a sly grin from over the top of it. “Do any of us really?”

Reggie liked to think she’d changed, morphed into a new self-confident woman who was in charge of her own life. But standing there, she felt like she was thirteen again, and Tara was in control of whatever happened next.

“I still can’t believe you’re a nurse,” Reggie admitted.

“What, you don’t think I’m the
nurturing
type?” Tara laughed. “Yeah, it’s weird. But I love it. I can’t imagine doing anything else. I don’t know . . . probably a shrink would tell me I got into nursing because of what happened with Sid. Because part of me is still trying to save him, to fix what happened.” She looked at Reggie, who turned away. Reggie had locked so many memories away in boxes in the back of her mind; she couldn’t open them all at once.

“I still don’t understand. How did Lorraine come to hire you?”

“We ran into each other a few months back. I was taking care of a friend of hers from the Historical Society. She stopped by for a visit and I was there working. We talked a little then, mostly about you. Then, when she got the phone call about your mom this morning, she looked me up and asked if I was available. How could I refuse?”

Reggie shook her head. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m still in shock. I didn’t expect that you’d still be in town, much less that you’d be the nurse Lorraine hired to look after my mother.”

Tara grinned. “Funny how things work out, isn’t it?” There was that mischievous little sparkle in her eyes, giving Reggie the absurd idea that Tara had been expecting this all along, planning for it, maybe. Reggie pushed the thought away—there was no way Tara could have predicted Vera’s return. But wasn’t it a little odd that Tara didn’t seem at all surprised by this new turn of events? Here she was unpacking, settling into Monique’s Wish like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Reggie, for the first time in years, thought about her mother’s theory about everyone on earth being connected by threads, making this great big spiderweb. Maybe some connections were stronger than others and pulled people back into one another’s lives when they least expected.

“So, do you have a family?” Reggie asked. “Husband? Kids?”

Tara shook her head. “Are you kidding? Who would I find to put up with me?”

Reggie laughed a little too loud.

“How about Charlie?” Reggie asked. “Have you heard anything about him?”

Tara nodded. “He’s still in town. Sells real estate. He has an office downtown, near the green. You should stop in and say hi.” Tara looked directly into Reggie’s eyes, gauging her reaction to this news.

Reggie gave a careful poker-faced nod, thinking how bizarre it would be to pop into Charlie’s office. She tried to imagine what he might look like now: Charlie the Realtor. Had he gotten married? Did he have a house full of little Charlie Juniors with a tree house in the back? Did he ever sit with them there in the afternoon, feeling the tree sway, and tell them,
I used to have a friend with a tree house. . .

Tara continued unpacking. Reggie felt like she was spinning through time: here one minute, then back to her thirteen-year-old self the next. And there was Tara: the sun Reggie orbited around.

“What’s that?” Reggie said, her eye catching on the paperback that was clearly visible now that Tara had unpacked the last of her clothing. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

“What?” Tara said, looking down into the bag. Her face reddened. “Oh, this,” she said, pulling out a dog-eared copy of
Neptune’s Hands: The True Story of the Unsolved Brighton Falls Slayings
.

“What are you doing with it?” Reggie snapped. It felt like another one of Tara’s tests, one of her games. The book was there in plain sight—she was just waiting for Reggie to notice, waiting to see what Reggie would do next.

“Like I said, I read.” Tara held the book out and Reggie leaned away from it, as if it were a venomous snake.

This was bullshit. Bringing that book into Monique’s Wish was a completely fucked-up thing to do.

“But that woman . . . the things she said about my mother . . .”

“I know,” Tara said. “She crossed the line.”

“Why do you even have it? And what were you thinking, bringing it here?”

Tara looked down at the old paperback, running her fingers over the cover—a raised shiny silver trident dripping blood.

“When your aunt called, told me about your mom, and offered me the job, I didn’t hesitate. You remember how things were with my own mom—working all the time, drinking, hardly even noticing if I was living or dead. Your family was like my second family, my real family, the one that mattered. The one that cared if I ate dinner or how much I swore. Remember that? The way Lorraine would always get so flustered and offended when I even said the word
damn
?”

Reggie nodded, feeling like she was being manipulated, like Tara was doing what Tara did best. There was a familiar comfort in being pulled along, told just what she wanted to hear.

“Anyway, when I got off the phone with Lorraine, I remembered the book. I bought it when it came out, haven’t read it since. But I thought I might reread it now. I know it’s shitty, the way she wrote about your mom, but this Martha Paquette lady did her research. She got a lot of the facts of the case right. There are police reports and interviews in here. Dates, times, facts about the victims. It’s full of clues, Reg.” Tara’s eyes were all lit up and she was rocking on the balls of her feet. Then suddenly, as if realizing that Reggie noticed her building excitement, she toned it down a notch. “Anyway,” she said, clearing her throat, “I was thinking that I should brush up. You know, in case your mom says anything. Or remembers anything.”