The Presence (8 page)

Grandma snorted. "Not on your Nellie. Being polite has nothing to do with it. I've seen him making goo-goo eyes at you."

I shook my head. "Grandma! You've been reading too many romances."

I wasn't sure I even wanted to go tonight, but I didn't know how to get out of it. What would tomorrow bring? Not only would I know if Kirsty forgave me, but I'd see whatever it was that Miss Lovelace was taking from her safety deposit box for me. How could I play-act at having a good time tonight?

"Like to go to
The Nutcracker
in my place?" I asked Grandma, trying to make it sound like a joke. "Collin's the blond hunk type you've been longing for, in person."

Grandma gave me a swat with the newspaper. "We know he'd love that. Go get yourself ready, girl."

When I came back downstairs, she was sitting on the couch, doing the crossword and listening to a Beatles CD. On the couch beside her was a long white coat of the softest-looking wool.

"This is for you to wear tonight. I don't want you sitting on the North Pole at intermission."

I gasped. "Are you sure I can borrow it? It's so beautiful."

"Try it on, love."

I did. It was perfect.

"Turn the collar up," Grandma advised. "A turned-up white collar is very flattering. It frames the face."

Paul McCartney was singing about his troubles seeming far away. Not mine, I thought. They've been hanging around for quite a long time.

I kept the coat on, the collar up, and sat beside Grandma. The coat was as soft as a cloud. I remem bered today in St. Matthew's, the way Noah had given me the blue knitted blanket and told me about talking to Kirsty. There was such an unreality to it, sitting here, the Beatles singing to us, Grandma now and then humming along. Did I actually believe I could talk to someone who was dead? My mind skimmed the surface, not wanting to look at any thought too closely. Kirsty then, crumpled on the grass, blood running out of her mouth, trickling from her ears. Kirsty now ... where?

I squeezed myself into the corner of the couch.

"Catherine?" Grandma's voice was sharp. "What are you thinking about, child? I can see from your face it's nothing good."

I managed a smile. "This and that. Nothing important."

Grandma leaned close to me. "Why don't you call one of your friends back home? Gossipy girl talk always helps."

"I don't have any friends back home," I said. "I stopped talking, wouldn't tell them about how it was...." I swak lowed a sob. "I couldn't. After a while, they shut me out. I didn't care. I wanted to be by myself anyway."

"Nonsense." Grandma took off her glasses and set them on the end table as if she could inspect me better without them. "You can have your friends back, sweetheart. Friends don't stop being friends because something bad happens to you in your life. I think maybe
you
shut
them
out."

I shrugged. Someone had started a memorial for Kirsty. Everyone had come to love her, her humor, her funny ways. They'd left flowers and notes and candles and a tiny Scottish flag at the spot where my father's Taurus, the car we'd borrowed for the party, careered over the edge. I was still in the hospital, and I was glad. Knowing what I knew, I couldn't have faced it.

My parents drove me out there late one night, when I was sure I wouldn't meet anyone. I left the little kiltie doll I'd brought back from Scotland. I'd bought it in Paisley at the street fair. I scattered flowers at the crash site, and cried, and came home, alive, while Kirsty was dead. Her body had been flown back to Scotland.... But I was going to talk with her tomorrow, here, in California. How could she be buried in Kilbarcin and talking to me in Pasadena?

Grandma put her arm around me and pulled me close. "My poor little Catherine," she whispered. "Poor little girl." I felt her cheek, soft as a flower, and smelled her sandalwood perfume.

"I'm OK," I said shakily. "And I know I'm going to be better soon. Tomorrow. When I'm forgiven."

Grandma pulled away a little and looked down at me. "What are you talking about, Catherine?" Then her face brightened. "I bet I know. You're going to talk with Dr. Miller. That would be wonderful. He is so wise and good. You've made an appointment with him for tomorrow?"

"I might see him," I said truthfully.

"I'm glad." We smiled at one another as the doorbell rang. "That sounds like it might be his son, come to call," Grandma said.

And when I opened the door, there he was, wearing dark pants and a leather school jacket, his blond hair sticking up just a little bit in back.

"Hi," we both said at the same time.

"You look nice," he told me.

"You, too."

He smiled and called past me to Grandma, "Hi, Mrs. Larrimer."

"Take good care, both of you," Grandma said. "And whatever you do, have fun."

I promised myself I'd try.

The Pasadena Civic was just a few blocks from Grandma's, but Collin brought his truck. As we came close, I saw that the sidewalks were jammed with people, walking, dressed in winter finery, though it wasn't even chilly by Chicago standards. There was celebration in the air.

I glanced sideways at Collin. He wasn't handsome at all, tall and skinny and long-legged. But there was an easiness about him, a confidence. His whole face seemed to crinkle when he smiled. He had nice, small ears. I hoped I wasn't making goo-goo eyes.

Maybe he caught me looking, because he suddenly said, "I bet you were a really cute little kid. I bet you had those long kind of bangs that came right down to your nose." He gave me that infectious grin. That made me grin back.

"I don't think I even had bangs," I told him. "And I was fat."

"Cute, anyway," he said.

I decided it might not be that hard to concentrate on
The Nutcracker
and Collin Miller tonight.

The Civic Auditorium was a big square building sitting like a mausoleum at the top of wide, shallow steps. A scarlet banner was looped above the doors. THE NUTCRACKER, it proclaimed in large gold letters. I was glad we hadn't had to pass St. Matthew's to get there.

Our tickets came with preferred parking that was in a lot half a block away. We walked back together along the busy sidewalk. People, mostly kids, called out Collin's name as we went up the steps. He waved and called back. I sensed the curious looks at me. Who was this girl with Collin Miller? Hadn't seen her around before. Sometimes Collin pointed at me and called, "This is Catherine," in a braggy kind of voice that seemed to say, "See how lucky I am!"

Our seats were perfect, up in the front balcony. I read the program, leafed through the pages, and told myself to make conversation so I wouldn't be a drag.

"Do you have to train a lot for water polo?" I asked in my best, interested voice.

"Yep. I was in the pool all afternoon."

"Brr," I said.

He grinned. "Not too bad."

"I expect being tall, like you are, must make it easier to score goals," I said, searching desperately for something to talk about.

"Yeah. Sometimes I wonder why I'm not a star. Especially with these big feet of mine." He held one up. "They're like built-in flippers."

I laughed. "They
are
pretty enormous. But if they were small, you'd probably tip over."

It was good sitting in the half-dark, saying ordinary things to someone as nice as Collin.

"Here we go," he whispered as the lights dimmed, the red curtains slid smoothly open, and the dancers came on stage.

I'd seen
The Nutcracker
performed many times, but it's the one ballet that means Christmas to me. I was once one of the sugarplum fairies in our fourth-grade production. I knew the music. I knew the dances and the jokes and exactly what was coming next, but I've always loved it. I let the music and the good memories wash over me, and I was glad I was there, not back at Grandma's, waiting for tomorrow to come.

When Collin asked me at intermission to go out on the patio with him, I said, "It's probably as cold out there as at the North Pole," and smiled when he looked puzzled. So I told him about Grandma and her beau and discovered I was almost enjoying myself.

We talked as we stood outside, sipping mugs of eggnog. The stars were as sharp as glass in the night sky, and the cheery spill of conversation around me lifted my spirits.

"So you're going home the day after Christmas," Collin said, and when I nodded, he added, "Too bad." I knew he meant it. He liked me. I liked him, too. I wished he lived in Chicago, that I'd met him there and could get to know him better. I wondered if he'd kiss me good night later, and I let my mind enjoy that possibility.

I looked across the patio then and saw two women, standing together, sipping steaming cups of coffee. One of them was Donna Cuesta's mother. She wasn't looking in my direction, and I was glad. My only conversation with her had been so sad and left me feeling helpless and confused. Was she the one who'd told me about the ring Donna wore? Or had that been Grandma? I remembered the "Missing" card with Donna's picture, CALL 1-800- THE-LOST, and although it wasn't that cold, I shivered inside Grandma's soft white coat.

The two women set down their coffee cups and went up the steps. I thought they were going inside, but then I saw Mrs. Cuesta stop by the door, take a bundle of leaflets from her big purse, share some with her friend, and begin handing them out. I knew they had to be about her daughter, and I looked at her anxious, desperate face and felt my heart ache for her. I went in by the door where the friend stood, which took less courage.

"Thanks," I said as I accepted the leaflet and kept on walking. I stared down at it.
HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL
? was printed across the top in heavy black letters. Underneath, but larger, was the same picture of Donna Cuesta that had been on the I-800-THE-LOST card and a phone number that was probably her mother's.

It was Collin who said, "She looks kind of like you. Really pretty."

I nodded. "I was thinking the same thing. I mean, not the pretty part. Just the same type." Those words were getting to be so familiar.

I folded the paper small and slid it into the pocket of Grandma's coat. Donna Cuesta, I thought, where are you?

"Poor Mrs. Cuesta," I said. "Did you know her daughter?"

"A little. She was in the youth group at church for a while. After ... well ... after her friend's death, she quit coming."

"Her friend's death?" Something frightening here. "What happened?"

I could tell Collin didn't want to talk about it. He stood, looking down at his feet, scuffing a toe along the cement. "I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't be getting into this."

But ... a friend's death.

"Please tell me," I said. Whatever this was, I felt a quick rush of sympathy for Donna. I knew how it felt to lose a friend. And how odd that she and I, who looked a little alike, had had a similar experience.

"Well." He glanced at me. "There were drugs involved. The paramedics got to Donna in time. They were too late for her friend. After that, Donna went kind of psychotic." He stopped. "You don't want to hear about this, Catherine."

"But I do," I said.

"The rumor was that Donna had supplied the drugs, so you can see why she felt so guilty."

I nodded.

"Then she met some guy, and he helped her a lot. He was good to her, she said."

The bell was ringing for the end of intermission, and people were moving in laughing, talking groups toward the entrance.

I put my hand on Collin's arm. "Wait a sec. Who was this guy? Was his name Noah? Was Noah the one who gave her the ring?"

Collin had started walking toward the auditorium, quite quickly. I could tell he didn't want to go on with this conversation, but I had to know. "I have no idea what the guy's name was," he said. "And I never noticed any ring."

"Did you talk with Donna at all? I mean, after she met this—this person?"

Collin shook his head. "Ryan Murphy talked to her the day before she disappeared. She told him she was happy now, that everything had been cleared up." He glanced down at me. "Ryan told her mother what she'd said. He told her Donna probably just took off with the guy, which is bad enough, I guess, but could be worse."

I walked beside him, looking up into his face, already knowing in my heart what must have happened.

Oh, Noah! You helped Donna. I don't think she went off with you, because you're still here. But you gave her peace and courage and helped her get past her shame and guilt. You cleared everything up for her. Will you do that for me? Or am I believing just because I want to believe? No. It's possible. Really possible. I was so filled with hope and excitement that I felt like skipping and dancing like a child. Without meaning to, I clapped my hands.

Collin laughed. "You
are
getting into the Christmas spirit."

I smiled up at him. Should I try to tell Mrs. Cuesta that I thought Donna was probably OK? It would help her so much. But how could I explain my thinking? I needed time to come up with a way to do this.

We were back in our seats. The orchestra was playing, the curtains sliding soundlessly open. The auditorium filled with applause.

"Here come the mice again," Collin whispered to me, and he took my hand as if he thought the giant mouse king would freak me out. And when the mice went offstage, he kept my hand warm and safe in his, and I was happy.

Later, he kissed me good night, standing under the Christmas lights on Grandma's porch.

"I had a good time," I told him shakily.

"Me, too. I'm wondering if I could tag you for tomorrow night." He turned down my coat collar in an absent-minded way. I left it like that even though my face probably didn't look as nice without its frame.

"I know it's kind of pushy, and I know your grandma probably wants to have you to herself for some of the time you're here, without me horning in. It's just..."

"It's just?" I prompted.

"Well, I've only got four more days to..." He stopped again and then said, with that nice grin, "four more days to make an impression."

"I'm impressed," I said. "But about tomorrow night—I'll have to see first if Grandma has anything planned." And I thought, by tomorrow night, I might even have more of that Christmas spirit.