Now You See Her

TWELVE


FOR THE NEXT THREE days, Marcy kept watch on Shannon’s comings and goings. It was too risky to venture back up Adelaide Road in case the O’Connors’ nosy neighbor was lying in wait, so Marcy would sit in the small park until she saw Shannon appear, pushing the baby in her pram, usually at around eleven o’clock in the morning and then again at approximately two in the afternoon, Caitlin’s loud wails always preceding them, as reliable as the bells from St. Anne’s Shandon Church.

In the mornings, she’d follow Shannon up and down the winding roads of the new subdivision, careful always to keep a safe distance between them, only occasionally having to duck into a nearby doorway to avoid detection. The afternoon walk was always the longer of the two outings. Yesterday Shannon had actually ventured all the way into the flat of the city, dutifully pushing the baby’s carriage along the bumpy cobblestone roads while stealing wistful glances at the shop windows along the way. At three o’clock she’d stopped to have tea on the front patio of a small pub, and Marcy had watched from across the street as Shannon had tried, repeatedly and with only moderate success, to balance her hot tea while simultaneously rocking the crying baby in her arms. She’d thought of going to her rescue but ultimately decided against it. Even a girl as naive as Shannon might become suspicious of another close encounter. No, it was better to keep tabs on her from afar, to watch where she went, make note of those she spoke to.

Except she never spoke to anyone.

“I’m getting very discouraged,” Marcy had confided in Liam on the phone the previous night.

“Don’t be. It’s not that big a city. She’s bound to lead you to Audrey sooner or later.”

“I need it to be sooner.”

“What can I do to help?”

“You’ve already done more than enough.”

“Would you like me to go with you tomorrow? I can arrange to take the day off work.…”

“No, I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You don’t have to ask.”

“No,” Marcy had insisted. “It’s better if you stay at Grogan’s. In case Audrey walks by again.”

“Okay. Whatever you think is best,” he’d agreed. Then, “I could come over now.…”

“No,” Marcy said quickly. Much as she’d wanted to see him, much as she was attracted to him, much as she wanted to believe he might actually be attracted to her, she couldn’t afford to let herself be distracted. Not when she was so close to finding her daughter. “I’ll speak to you tomorrow,” she’d said.

“I’ll be here.”

Now Marcy watched as Shannon pushed Caitlin’s carriage across the footbridge over the South Channel and continued up Mary Street toward the busy main thoroughfare that was St. Patrick’s Street. Although it was overcast and familiar clouds were circling the horizon, it was actually warm, Marcy realized, feeling the weight of the trench coat she’d been carrying over her arm for the better part of an hour. Maybe tomorrow she’d actually be able to chance leaving her coat at the inn, she thought, glancing toward the weather vane on the top of St. Anne’s. “Let me guess,” she mumbled into the collar of her blue blouse. “Rain is in the forecast.”

It was at that moment she realized that Shannon had disappeared.

Marcy spun around, her head shooting in several different directions at once. All she saw were storefronts and pedestrians. Shannon was nowhere.

Where could she have gone?

“Okay, calm down,” Marcy told herself. “She’ll turn up.” After all, Shannon had vanished into the afternoon crowds before, only to reappear within seconds, her ponytail swinging rhythmically behind her. Now you see her, now you don’t.

Besides, so what if Marcy didn’t find her? It wasn’t as if she didn’t know where the girl lived. It wasn’t as if Shannon was particularly adventurous, as if she didn’t adhere to a rather rigid routine. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t start again tomorrow.

Start from scratch, Marcy thought, trying not to cry.

“Have you thought of going to the police?” Liam had asked last night.

But Marcy didn’t want to involve the police. What if Devon were in some sort of trouble? What if by alerting them to her whereabouts, she drove her even farther underground? What if her desperate efforts to reunite with her daughter landed Devon behind bars? She couldn’t take that risk.

“I could hire a private detective,” she’d suggested in return.

Liam had agreed without much enthusiasm. “You could, I suppose. But it’s not like in the movies. At least not here in Cork. There’s not really a big demand for their services in these parts. You’re probably better off on your own. At least for the time being.”

Except she was as much a failure at playing detective as she’d been with most of the things in her life, Marcy was beginning to think, checking off each failing as if it were an item on a shopping list. Failure as a daughter—check. Failure as a sister—check. Failure as a wife—check. Failure as a mother—double, triple check.

She’d never even attempted a career. Yes, she’d worked in the marketing department of a small advertising agency when she first graduated college, but that job had always felt temporary and had dissolved several years later along with the company. By that time she was married and she and Peter were already planning a family. Pretty soon she was pregnant with Devon, and then with Darren, so what did she need a job for? She already had her hands full at home.

Devon’s voice wafted toward her, transported from the past by the laughter of a nearby cluster of teenage girls.

“What do I have to finish college for?” Devon was demanding. She’d just informed Marcy she was going to drop out of university one semester shy of her degree.

Marcy argued with her, despite the little voice in her head warning her to back off. “Because an education is important.”

“Why is it so damned important?”

“Because it is. And watch your language.”

“You’re upset because I said ‘damned’? What’s the problem with ‘damned,’ for f*ck’s sake?”

“Devon …”

Devon began spouting off profanities. “Shit, f*ck, cock, cunt, son of a bitch.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Prick, bastard, cocksucker, twat, motherf*cker …”

“I’m not having this conversation.”

“You’re the one who started it.”

“And I’m the one who’s ending it.” Marcy turned away before Devon could see her cry.

“Sure, Mommy. Walk away. That’s how you deal with everything.”

“This isn’t about me,” Marcy said, marveling at the fact that her daughter still called her “Mommy.” “Motherf*cker” in one breath, she thought, “Mommy” in the next.

“So I don’t want to finish college. What’s the big deal? It’s my life, not yours.”

“You only have a few courses left. Why not just get your degree and then at least you’ll have options?”

“Options? What kind of options do I have? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a f*cking mess. And don’t you dare tell me to watch my language.”

“Are you taking your medication?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Because this sort of thing always happens when you go off your meds.”

“What sort of thing would that be exactly?”

“The swearing, the moodiness, everything. It all gets worse.”

“Worse for you, maybe. Not for me.”

“Please, Devon.”

“Please, Mommy,” Devon mimicked.

“Okay, enough. I can’t deal with this right now.”

“You never could.”

“I’ve tried.”

“Like you tried with your mother?”

“What?”

“You could have stopped her, you know,” Devon continued cruelly. “Stopped her from jumping off that building.”

“Nothing would have stopped her,” Marcy protested weakly.

“Judith told me what happened.”

Marcy nodded, acknowledging defeat with a long, deep exhalation that quivered its way into the space between them. “All I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy.”

“All you’ve ever wanted is for me to be normal,” Devon shot back.

“Yes!” Marcy shouted at her daughter, feeling the reverberations of that single word even now. “Yes, I wanted you to be normal. Is that so selfish of me? Is it so awful? Does it make me some sort of monster?”

Devon coldly watched the path of her mother’s tears. “I’m the monster,” she said.

“Excuse me,” someone was saying now.

Marcy turned to see Devon’s face dissolve into that of an elderly woman with white hair. The woman was using a wooden cane to navigate the busy street.

“I can’t get around you,” the woman said, her gentle smile producing a series of wrinkles that ran up from her mouth to circle her watery blue eyes.

“Oh. Sorry.” Marcy immediately moved out of the way so that the old woman could pass. How long had she been standing in the middle of the street like that? she wondered, glancing down at her watch. Long enough for Shannon to disappear completely, she acknowledged, deciding to call it a day. In the morning she’d return to Adelaide Road. If Shannon didn’t lead her to Audrey by the end of the week, she’d bite the bullet and confront her directly. Tell her that the girl she knew as Audrey was actually her daughter, Devon. Ask for her help in locating her.

Probably she should have done that right from the beginning, she thought. What had she been thinking?

Judith would undoubtedly tell her she hadn’t been thinking at all, that she’d stopped thinking clearly the day Devon disappeared into the icy waters of Georgian Bay. “Why won’t you take the medication the doctor prescribed?” she’d pleaded weeks, even months after the event.

“Because I don’t need antidepressants.”

“You’re trying to tell me you’re not seriously depressed?”

“Of course I’m depressed. I’m seriously depressed. But I’m depressed for a reason. I should be depressed. Why mask it? It’ll only prolong the misery.”

“Take the pills. At least for a little while. To get you over the hump.”

“Okay, fine.” Marcy had finally acquiesced.

Except the pills had replaced her depression with a stupefying numbness that was far worse, and she’d eventually stopped taking them. Her mother had been right—the drugs did make you feel as if you were doing the butterfly stroke through a vat of molasses—she’d realized when she felt her head starting to clear and her senses, touch, taste, sight, gradually returning to something approaching normalcy.

For the first time she’d understood Devon’s preference for despair over indifference.

Of course, by then such understanding was of little consequence. Another unfortunate example of too little, too late.

Devon had been right, too, she acknowledged now, taking a final look up and down St. Patrick’s Street. She could have stopped her mother from leaping to her death. Judith knew it. They all knew it.

Marcy was turning around when she saw a baby carriage emerge from inside a shop near the corner. Seconds later, Shannon popped into view, one hand pushing the carriage, the other holding a bottle of soda. She maneuvered the carriage into the street, sipping her soda from a straw as she continued in the direction of Merchant’s Quay.

“Okay, you’ve wasted enough time,” Marcy said out loud, glancing around self-consciously in case someone had overheard her. But if anyone had, they’d probably assumed she was talking on her cell phone. It was much easier to be crazy in public these days. “You’ll just tell her the truth,” Marcy continued aloud, finding comfort in the sound of her voice. “Tell her who you are. Ask for her help. Beg for mercy.”

She was within half a block of Shannon when she saw a young man ride up on a bicycle. She saw Shannon smile as he approached, her blush as strong as a red traffic light. The boy stopped and dismounted, touching her arm as he dutifully admired the baby in her charge. That’s kind of sweet, Marcy thought, as she wormed her way between two slow-moving pedestrians. It wasn’t until she was almost on top of them that Marcy realized she was staring at the same young man whose bicycle had sent her flying a few days ago.

“No, that’s impossible,” she exclaimed, stopping abruptly, causing the man behind her to crash into her.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize …,” he began.

“My fault,” Marcy told him. “I thought I … It was my fault.” Surely she was imagining things. This couldn’t be the same boy who’d run her down.

Could it?

She moved closer.

“So, does she ever stop cryin’?” the young man was asking Shannon over the sound of Caitlin’s constant wails.

“The doctor says she has colic,” Shannon explained.

“Does he say how long it’s gonna last?”

“He says he doesn’t think it should go on much longer, but I don’t think he knows, to be honest.”

“God, it must get on your nerves. Is there nothing you can do?”

“Believe me, we’ve tried everything. Holding her, taking her for long walks, going for rides in the car. She won’t take a pacifier. Nothing works. Except for this one woman I met in the park the other day. All she had to do was pick her up and Caitlin went dead quiet. It was like some kind of miracle, I tell you.”

“Sounds more like witchcraft,” the boy said, and laughed, then spit on the sidewalk, as if to ward off the evil eye. “You’re sure she wasn’t a witch?”

I’ve been called worse, Marcy thought, edging closer still. “It’s him,” she whispered.

What did it mean? Was it a simple coincidence or something more sinister? What was his connection to Shannon? And if he was connected to Shannon, did it necessarily follow that he was connected to Devon as well? “Okay, calm down. Think this through. Don’t go jumping to conclusions.” Except how could she help it? She’d been searching for Devon, had just miraculously spotted her standing on the footbridge over Bachelor’s Quay, was in fact racing toward her, when at that exact moment his bicycle had appeared from out of nowhere, barreling toward her and sending her sprawling. His prolonged solicitations had delayed things even further, and by the time she’d extricated herself from his clumsy concern, Devon was gone. Marcy had assumed it was a combination of bad timing and worse luck. But maybe something more deliberate had been at play. Maybe her accident hadn’t been an accident at all. Maybe the boy had purposely knocked her down, alerting Devon to her presence and giving her time to get away.

Which meant what? That Devon knew she was here?

Was it possible?

Or was she reading too much into things? After all, Cork wasn’t that big a city. It made perfect sense that Shannon and the boy might know each other, that their relationship—if you could call stopping to chat on a busy street corner a relationship—was as innocent as it was innocuous. Just because Shannon was also friends with the girl she knew as Audrey didn’t necessarily mean anything. The boy might not know Audrey at all.

Or he might.

Which meant what?

“What does it mean?” Marcy demanded of the concrete at her feet. “Damn it, what does this mean?”

“Marilyn?” she heard someone calling from a distance. Then closer, “Marilyn? Yoo-hoo.”

Marcy looked up to see Shannon crossing the street, waving furiously and heading in her direction.

“It’s me. Shannon. From the park,” she announced over Caitlin’s loud cries. “I thought I recognized you.”

Marcy fought hard to control her emotions. She wanted to grab hold of Shannon’s elbows and demand answers: Who is that boy you were just talking to? What is his connection to Audrey? Is there one? How much can you tell me about my daughter? Instead she said, “Shannon, of course. It’s nice to see you again.”

“What an amazing coincidence! I was just talking about you, and suddenly here you are.”

“You were talking about me?”

“Yes, to this friend of mine. Well, more an acquaintance really. I was telling him how amazing you were with the baby.” She looked to the now vacant spot where she and the boy had been standing, then back to Marcy. “Are you feeling all right? You look a little pale.”

“Just tired, I guess.” Marcy suddenly realized how true that statement was. “I’ve been doing a lot of walking.”

“Busy sightseeing, are you?”

“I hadn’t realized Cork was such an exciting city.”

“People are always amazed by how much there is to do here. Do you fancy a spot of tea?”

“Tea sounds wonderful.”

Shannon checked her watch. “I still have time before I have to head back. Why don’t we head over to Grogan’s?”

“Grogan’s?” Marcy felt the name stick to the roof of her mouth, like an unwieldy piece of bubblegum.

“It’s just up the way a bit, across St. Patrick’s Bridge. It has a nice outdoor patio. Makes it easier with the carriage and all.”

Marcy smiled, trying to collect all her conflicting thoughts into one place, make them more manageable. She gave up when that proved impossible. Instead she smiled even wider, revealing the two rows of perfectly straight white teeth Peter had once found so irresistible, and said, “Lead the way.”