Meanwhile the cops had moved on to asking Sean if he’d tried to contact any of her friends and family.
“I’m her friend,” I said. “Her best friend. I’m the one she would tell if—”
Sergeant Molloy cut me off. “Family? Close relatives?”
“Her mom’s in Detroit,” said Sean. “But I’m sure that Emily wouldn’t have gone there. She and her mother have been estranged for years.”
I was shocked. Emily had led me to believe that she and her mother had a loving—though not particularly close—relationship. Emily had been so sympathetic when I told her about my mom and dad.
“Any idea why?” asked Officer Blanco. What relevance could that possibly have to Emily’s disappearance? They must have assumed that their badges and uniforms gave them license to ask any nosy question they wanted.
“My wife didn’t like to talk about it,” said Sean. “There were problems from the distant past that have never been resolved. Anyway, her poor mum is suffering from dementia. According to my wife, she isn’t even always sure who or where she is. She drifts in and out of reality. She thinks her husband—who’s been dead for a decade—is still alive. If it weren’t for her caretaker . . .”
“Even so,” said Officer Blanco. “People in trouble often head for their childhood home, their first place of safety.”
“I can guarantee you that my wife isn’t there. That was definitely not where she felt safe. And why would my wife be in trouble?”
Was it possible that Sean was lying? Emily never mentioned the fact that her mother was in poor health. The only complaint she’d ever voiced was that her mother hated the birthmark under her eye and had campaigned to have it removed. Emily had resisted—mostly to defy her mother—but the conflict had left her with a lifelong complex about that little dark spot.
And I’d always believed that we told each other everything.
The troopers couldn’t wait to get out of there and write up their report. Or maybe they were just eager to resume making out in the patrol car. They told us to let them know if we heard from Emily, and that the detectives would contact us in a day or two if she still hadn’t turned up. A day or two? Seriously?
The doorbell rang again. It was Sergeant Molloy.
“One more thing,” he said, like Peter Falk in old Columbo reruns. I almost laughed. “I hope you aren’t planning any more trips to Europe in the near future,” he told Sean.
“I’ll be right here,” said Sean coldly. “I mean at my home. Taking care of my son.”
After I heard the patrol car pull out of the driveway, I said, “I guess we’ll be wanting that drink.”
“Definitely,” said Sean.
I poured us each a double bourbon, and we sat at the kitchen table, sipping our drinks, not saying anything. It felt almost pleasant, drinking, not talking, having a man in the house after so long. But then I remembered why Sean was there. And I was terrified all over again.
I said, “Maybe you should call her mother.”
At least we would be doing something. And I wanted to be there when Sean called. Either Emily had left out some important information about her life, or she had lied to Sean. Or Sean had lied to the police. None of it made sense. Why would he lie about something like that? Why would she?
“Sure,” he said. “It’s worth a try. At least I can talk to her mum’s caretaker.”
Sean dialed. I wanted to ask him to put the call on speakerphone. But that would have seemed too bizarre.
“Hi, Bernice,” he said. “I do so hate to bother you. But have you heard from Emily, by any chance? Oh, of course. I thought not. No, everything’s fine. I think she’s traveling for the company. And I just got home. Nicky’s fine, he stayed with a friend. I don’t mean to alarm you . . .” There was a silence. Then Sean said, “Sure, I’ll talk to her if she wants. I’m glad to hear she’s having one of her good days.”
Another silence, then, “Good evening, Mrs. Nelson. I hope you’re well. I’m wondering if you might have heard from your daughter?”
Silence.
“Emily. Well, no, I thought so. Do give her my love if you see her. And you take care. Bye-bye.”
There were tears in Sean’s eyes when he hung up. And I felt awful for having been so mean-spirited and suspicious. Whatever mixed feelings I’d had about Sean, Emily was his wife. Nicky’s mom. Sean loved her. And we were in this together.
“Oh, that poor old woman,” said Sean. “She asked me, ‘Daughter? Which daughter?’”
Hearing that, I was almost glad that my mother had died suddenly, mercifully, before I had to watch her disappear in stages.
“What about the family cabin on the lake?” I said. “Up in Michigan. Where you guys went for your birthday. Do you think she might have gone there?”
Sean gave me a swift, searching look, as if he was wondering how I knew about the cabin, as if he didn’t want me knowing about the cabin. Didn’t he remember that I was the one who’d taken care of Nicky when he and Emily stole away for their romantic birthday weekend?
“No way,” he said. “She loved being there. But not alone. Never alone. She was afraid that the place was haunted.”
“Haunted how?” I said.
“I don’t know,” said Sean. “I never asked. Once she said it was full of ghosts.”
I wondered how close Sean and Emily’s marriage could have been if she’d said the family cabin was haunted and he never asked what she meant.
“She told me that her parents were very cold, controlling, rejecting people, and that the tough times she went through in her early twenties were a reaction to what she’d endured in a loveless home. I always thought that was one of the things we had in common. Our childhoods were a mess.”
Emily’s disappearance and, I guess, the bourbon had enabled Sean—normally so British and reserved—to speak more freely than I’d ever heard him speak. Actually, before this, we’d never exchanged more than a few words, so maybe I mean more freely than I’d imagined him speaking. I wanted to say that my childhood had also been a mess. But a different kind of mess. It seemed neat and orderly when I was growing up. It was only later that I learned how messy it had been.
But I didn’t say any of that. Not only because there were things about me that Sean didn’t need to know, but also because I was afraid of seeming as if I was competing with him and Emily for who had the messiest childhood.
One afternoon, not long after, Sean called and asked if I’d pick up Nicky after school. The detectives had asked him to come into the station house in Canton. He was leaving work to get there, but he didn’t know how soon he would get home.
It was six by the time he arrived at my house. He’d been questioned by two detectives, again by a man and a woman, Detectives Meany (Could I believe that was her name?) and Fortas. He said they seemed only marginally more competent than the troopers who had come to my house that night.
At least they’d taken the trouble to contact the police in Detroit, who’d visited Emily’s mother and gotten the same response Sean did. No, Mrs. Nelson hadn’t seen her. No, Mrs. Nelson had no idea where her daughter was. Actually, they’d mostly spoken with her caretaker. Mrs. Nelson was having one of her “bad days” and could hardly remember her daughter’s name.