Chapter 8 - The Woman Who Came Back
I didn't believe Nora Ellis.
I wanted to.
That was the problem.
I wanted so desperately to believe my mother might still be alive that I was afraid of what the hope would do to me.
"Describe her," I said.
Nora hesitated.
"Emily, I don't think—"
"Describe her."
"Mid-fifties, perhaps older."
My throat tightened.
My mother would have been fifty-eight.
"Brown hair with some gray."
I closed my eyes.
"Dark eyes."
"Yes."
"Scar above her left eyebrow?"
A pause.
"Yes."
My hand flew to my mouth.
Richard stood.
Margaret gripped the filing cabinet.
I forced myself to speak.
"What did she want?"
"She asked about a patient admitted after the Hartford fire."
I stared at the medical report.
"What patient?"
"An unidentified woman."
"Was she asking about herself?"
"I don't know."
I swallowed.
"Did she give a name?"
"Caroline."
I frowned.
"Caroline what?"
"She wouldn't say."
"Where did she go?"
"I don't know."
I felt the first flicker of suspicion.
"Why are you calling me now?"
Nora's breathing quickened.
"Because I saw what happened at the gala."
I glanced toward Richard.
"How?"
"It's everywhere online."
Of course it was.
Alexander standing from his wheelchair had apparently become the most interesting scandal in Boston.
Nora continued.
"I recognized him."
"From the hospital?"
"Yes."
"And you recognized me."
"Yes."
I leaned against the drafting table.
"What aren't you telling me?"
There was a long silence.
Then she whispered:
"I was the night supervisor when the unidentified patient disappeared."
My knees weakened.
"When?"
"Twenty years ago."
"Was the patient my mother?"
"I can't tell you that."
"Why not?"
"Because the admission records had been altered."
I stared at Richard.
"What records?"
Nora lowered her voice.
"She arrived under a temporary identification number."
"Who changed it?"
"I don't know."
"Who ordered it?"
"That's what I'm afraid to tell you over the phone."
Richard reached toward me.
"Emily, ask her where she is."
I moved away.
"Where are you, Nora?"
A shaky breath.
"At home."
"Where?"
"North Quincy."
"Give me the address."
She hesitated.
Then recited it.
I repeated it to Richard.
He wrote it down.
"We're coming," I said.
"No."
Her answer was immediate.
"You can't."
"Why?"
"Because two men have been sitting outside my building since the gala ended."
I felt cold.
"Are you safe?"
"I'm inside."
"Have you called the police?"
"Not yet."
"Call them."
"Emily—"
"Now."
She went silent.
Then said:
"There's one more thing."
I gripped the phone.
"What?"
"The woman who visited me three weeks ago left something."
"What?"
"An envelope."
"Addressed to whom?"
Nora's voice cracked.
"To Rebecca."
My stomach dropped.
I looked at the photograph of the baby.
Then at my father's letter.
"What does it say?"
"I haven't opened it."
"Don't."
I took a breath.
"Call the police and tell them two people are outside your home."
"Will you come?"
"After the police arrive."
There was a pause.
"Emily?"
"Yes?"
"If you're Rebecca, please understand something."
My eyes filled.
"What?"
"That woman was crying when she left."
The line disconnected.
I stared at the phone.
Richard was already calling someone.
Margaret sat down heavily.
I looked at her.
"Was my mother alive twenty years ago?"
She lifted her eyes.
"I believe someone survived that fire."
"Someone?"
"Emily, I have spent years trying not to confuse suspicion with proof."
I turned toward the open storage unit.
"That's what all of you keep saying."
Richard lowered his phone.
"The police have been notified."
I looked at him.
"Good."
"An officer is being sent to Nora's building."
"Then take me there."
"Emily—"
"I'm not going inside until they say it's safe."
He studied me.
Then nodded.
We drove to Quincy through nearly empty streets.
The rain had turned heavier.
By the time we reached Nora's building, two police cars were parked outside.
An officer stood beneath the entrance awning.
I climbed out.
"Are you Nora Ellis's neighbor?" he asked.
"I'm the person she called."
His expression changed.
"Emily Bennett?"
"Yes."
He looked toward Richard.
"Ms. Ellis is being interviewed."
"Is she okay?"
"She's safe."
I nearly collapsed with relief.
"Can I speak with her?"
"Not yet."
I nodded.
For once, the delay felt reasonable.
A woman had been frightened enough to call the police.
The officers needed to establish what had happened.
I stood beneath the awning with Richard while Margaret waited in the car.
After several minutes, a second officer approached.
"Ms. Ellis asked us to give you this."
He held out a sealed envelope in a transparent evidence sleeve.
I stared.
"Can I open it?"
"She's authorized us to release it to you after we document the handoff."
I looked at the handwriting.
One word.
Rebecca.
The letters were rounded and slightly slanted.
Something about them made my chest ache.
My mother had written my lunch notes in the same style.
Richard reached for the envelope.
I pulled it away.
"No."
He looked startled.
"I was only going to—"
"I know."
I stared at him.
"You were only going to help."
He lowered his hand.
The officer finished documenting the transfer.
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
Not of the research building.
Not of the hospital.
Of a little girl standing beside a blue bicycle.
Me.
I was seven years old.
My hair was tied into two uneven ponytails.
I wore a red sweater.
And beside me stood my father.
I remembered the photograph.
It had been taken the morning I finally learned to ride without training wheels.
I turned it over.
There was writing on the back.
Emily, if you are reading this, I know the truth has finally reached you.
I am sorry I couldn't tell you sooner.
Your father didn't steal you.
He saved you.
And the woman you called Mommy loved you more than her own life.
I stared at the words.
Below them was one final sentence.
Ask Alexander what happened on the night your father died.
I turned toward Richard.
For the first time, he had no explanation ready.
I looked down at the photograph again.
At my father's smile.
At the small bicycle.
At a childhood I had begun to question.
Then my phone rang.
Alexander.
I almost ignored it.
But something made me answer.
"Emily?"
His voice was raw.
"What?"
"I heard you went to Quincy."
I froze.
"How?"
He hesitated.
"Richard called me."
I looked at the attorney.
He didn't deny it.
I felt anger rise.
Alexander spoke quickly.
"Listen to me."
I closed my eyes.
"Did you see my father on the night he died?"
Silence.
Then:
"Yes."
I opened my eyes.
"Where?"
His breathing changed.
"At the service station near the interstate."
"Before the crash?"
"Yes."
"Did you follow him?"
"Emily—"
"Did you?"
Another silence.
Then he answered:
"Yes."
I looked toward the dark street.
"Why?"
May you like
He swallowed.
"Because your father had just given me something Mercer would have killed to recover."
