Now You See Her

TWO


WITHIN MINUTES, SHE WAS lost in the labyrinth of lane-ways that twisted around the river Lee. Normally Marcy would have found the narrow streets with their collection of small specialty shops engaging, the Old World asserting its presence in the middle of the bustling new city, but their charm quickly gave way to frustration.

“Devon!” Marcy cried, her eyes pushing through the ubiquitous crowds, straining to see over the tops of black umbrellas that were sprouting up everywhere around her. Two teenage boys walked aimlessly in front of her, laughing and punching at each others’ arms, in the way of teenage boys everywhere, seemingly oblivious to the raindrops grazing the tops of their shoulders.

One of the boys turned around at the sound of her voice, his gaze flitting absently in her direction for several seconds before he returned his attention to his friends. Marcy was neither surprised nor offended by his lack of interest. She understood she was no longer on the radar of teenage boys, having seen that same vague look on the faces of her son’s friends more times than she cared to remember. For them she existed, if she existed at all, as a necessary pair of hands to make them a sandwich at lunchtime or a human answering machine to relay urgent messages to her son. Sometimes she served as an excuse—“I can’t come out tonight; my mom’s not feeling well.” More often, a complaint—“I can’t come out tonight; my mom’s on the warpath.”

“Mom, mom, mom,” Marcy repeated in a whisper, straining to remember the sound of the word on Devon’s lips and picturing her own mother when she was young and full of life. She marveled that such a simple three-letter word could mean so much, wield such power, be so fraught.

“Devon!” she called again, although not as loudly as the first time, and then again, “Devon,” this time the name barely escaping her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears as she circled back to the main road, wet curls clinging to her forehead. Seconds later she found herself at the busy intersection of St. Patrick’s Street and Merchant’s Quay.

In front of her stood the hulking Merchant’s Quay Shopping Centre, an enclosed shopping complex that served as the city’s main mall. Marcy stood staring at it, thinking she should probably go inside, if only to escape the rain, but she was unable to move. Had Devon taken refuge there? Was she wandering through the various stores—or shops, as they were always called here—waiting for the sudden downpour to stop? Was she searching for racy underwear at Marks and Spencer or hunting for an old-fashioned, paisley-print blouse in Laura Ashley? What do I do now? Marcy wondered, deciding against going inside. Large shopping malls tended to make her anxious, even in the best of times.

And this was definitely not the best of times.

Instead, she found herself running down St. Patrick’s Street, her eyes darting back and forth, trying to see between the raindrops, to fit her daughter’s delicate features on the face of each young woman who hurried by. As she approached Paul’s Lane, she heard a tour guide explaining to a bunch of wet, fidgety tourists that until recently the lane had been a wonderful antiques quarter, but that virtually all the shops that had made the street unique were now closed due to high rents and the young population’s lack of interest in anything older than itself. In today’s world, he said, tut-tutting beneath his bright green umbrella, it was all about the new.

St. Patrick’s Street curved gently, like a shy grin, into Grand Parade, a spacious thoroughfare where shops and offices mingled with charming eighteenth-century houses and the remains of the old city walls. Marcy continued south, her eyes scanning the now-empty benches inside Bishop Lucey Park. She proceeded to the South Mall, a wide tree-lined street that was Cork’s financial center, its Georgian-style architecture housing what seemed like an endless succession of banks, law offices, and insurance companies. No chance Devon would be here, Marcy decided. Her daughter had never been very good with formal institutions of any kind. She’d been even less good with money.

Marcy shuddered, remembering the time she’d berated Devon for taking forty dollars from her purse. Such a paltry sum and she’d made such a fuss. You’d have thought Devon had stolen the crown jewels, for God’s sake, the way she’d carried on.

“I was just borrowing it,” Devon had insisted stubbornly. “I was going to pay it back.”

Marcy had protested in turn. “It’s not that. It’s a matter of trust.”

“You’re saying you don’t trust me?”

“I’m saying I don’t like it when you take things without asking.”

“I just borrowed it.”

“Without asking.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think it was such a big deal.”

“Well, it is a big deal.”

“I apologized, didn’t I? God, what’s your problem?”

What was her problem? Marcy wondered now, her eyelashes so heavy with rain—or was that tears?—that she could barely see the sidewalk in front of her. Why had she made such a nothing incident into such a huge issue? Didn’t all teenage girls occasionally steal money from their mothers’ purses? So what if Devon had been almost twenty-one at the time? She was still a child, still living at home, still under her mother’s protection.

Her mother’s protection. Marcy scoffed silently. Had Devon ever felt protected in her mother’s house?

Had Marcy in hers?

Everything that happened is my fault, Marcy told herself silently, slipping on a patch of slippery pavement and collapsing to the sidewalk like a discarded piece of crumpled paper. Immediately the wetness from the concrete seeped into her trench coat and right through her navy slacks, but she made no move to get up. Serves me right, she was thinking, recalling that awful afternoon when the police had shown up at her door to tell her Devon was dead.

Except she wasn’t dead.

She was here.

Right here, Marcy realized with a start, her head shooting toward a young woman exiting a two-story gray brick building directly across the street. Not only was Devon still alive, she was here in Cork. She was standing right in front of her.

Marcy pushed herself to her feet, ignoring the concerned whispers of several passersby who’d stopped to help her up. Unmindful of the traffic that was coming at her in both directions, she darted across the street, forgetting that cars drove on the opposite side of the road from those in North America and almost colliding with a speeding motor scooter. The driver swore at her, a good Anglo-Saxon four-letter word that exploded up and down the street, drawing the attention of everyone in the vicinity, including Devon, whose head snapped toward the angry expletive.

Except it wasn’t Devon.

Marcy could see immediately that this wasn’t the same young woman she’d been chasing after. This girl was at least three inches taller than Devon, who’d always complained that, at five feet, four and a half inches, she was too short for the current vogue. “Why’d I have to get your legs and not Judith’s?” she’d asked Marcy accusingly, as if such things were in Marcy’s control.

Marcy had sympathized. “I always wished I had her legs, too,” she said, seeking common ground.

“Marcy!” she heard a voice calling faintly in the distance, her name sounding strange, even meaningless, to her ears. “Marcy Taggart,” she heard again, the name expanding like a sponge, gaining weight, becoming more solid, if not more familiar. Someone was suddenly beside her, touching her arm. “Marcy, are you all right?”

A man’s face snapped into focus. He was deeply tanned and his dark hair was graying at the temples. A nice face, Marcy thought, saved from blandness by a pair of unsettlingly blue eyes. Why hadn’t she noticed them before?

“It’s Vic Sorvino,” the man said, his hand lingering on her arm, as if afraid she might bolt again at any second.

“I know who you are,” Marcy said impatiently. “I’m not crazy.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply—”

“I didn’t just lose my memory all of a sudden.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I was just worried about you.”

“Why?”

“Well, the way you took off …” He paused, glanced up and down the street, as if looking for someone. “I take it you didn’t find her.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The girl you went chasing after. Devon, I think you called her.”

“Did you see her?” Marcy demanded. “Did she come back?” Why hadn’t she thought to go back to the pub instead of stumbling down a bunch of blind alleys, chasing uselessly after her own tail?

“No. I didn’t see anyone,” Vic said. “All I know is that one minute you were sitting beside me, sipping your tea and talking on the phone, and the next you were running down the street, shouting, ‘Devon.’ ”

“So you followed me?”

“I tried, but I lost you in the crowd after you crossed the bridge.”

“Why?”

“Why did I lose you?”

“Why did you follow me?” Marcy asked.

“To be honest, I really don’t know. I guess I was worried. You looked as if you’d seen a ghost.”

Marcy stared at him. Was that what had happened? Had the girl she’d seen been nothing but an apparition, a figment of her desperate imagination? That’s what Judith obviously thought. Was she right?

It wouldn’t have been the first time she’d chased after ghosts.

How many times in the last twenty months had she stopped strangers on the street, certain each girl with a passing resemblance to Devon was the daughter she’d lost? And each time, she’d been so sure, so certain that the young woman waiting in line at the grocery checkout counter, the girl hugging her boyfriend on a street corner, the woman laughing with her friends on the outside patio of a local restaurant, was her child.

And each time she’d been wrong.

Was she wrong this time as well? Did it make any sense—any sense at all—that her daughter could be here?

It wasn’t that far-fetched a possibility, Marcy quickly assured herself. How often had Devon heard her father extolling the imagined glories of Ireland? The most beautiful country in the world, he’d proclaimed repeatedly, promising to take her there as soon as his busy schedule permitted. Devon had worshipped her father, so it wasn’t that surprising she would choose Ireland as her place of refuge.

Was that why Marcy had really come here? Had she somehow known she’d find Devon?

“I guess I did see a ghost,” she said when she realized Vic was waiting for some kind of response.

“It happens.”

Marcy nodded, wondering what he knew of ghosts. “We should get back to our bus.”

He took her elbow, gently led her along South Mall toward Parnell Place. By the time they saw the pinched face of their guide as he paced impatiently outside their waiting bus, the rain had slowed to a weak drizzle. “I’m so sorry we’re late,” Marcy said as the guide hurried them inside the coach.

“Please take your seats,” he urged, instructing the driver to start the bus’s engine.

Marcy felt the unabashed animosity of her fellow tourists pushing her toward her seat as the coach pulled out of the station. She lost her balance and lurched forward.

“Careful,” Vic said, grabbing the back of her coat to steady her.

What was he still doing here? Marcy wondered, shaking free of his sturdy grip. She was too old for a babysitter, and she no longer believed in knights in shining armor. Shiny armor had a way of rusting pretty quickly, especially in the rain.

“Would you please get settled as quickly as possible?” the guide said as Marcy crawled into her seat at the back and Vic sat down beside her. “In a few minutes we’ll be passing through Blarney, which boasts one of the most impressive castles in all of Ireland,” he announced in the next breath, “although all that remains of it today is a massive square tower, its parapet rising to a height of twenty-five meters, or eighty-two feet. The Blarney Stone is wedged underneath the battlements. Those who kiss it are said to be granted the gift of gab. Clearly, I’ve kissed it many times.” He paused for the chuckles that dutifully followed. “Blarney Castle also boasts a beautiful garden and a lovely dell beside Blarney Lake. Someday I hope you’ll take a tour of the dungeons that were built right into the rock at the base of the castle, and also Badger Cave, for those of you who aren’t too claustrophobic. Unfortunately, we won’t be able to do any of those things today.” A loud groan swept through the bus. The guide continued. “I’m sorry, but I did warn you about being late. You can register your complaints with the tour company when we arrive back in Dublin. Perhaps they’ll reimburse you a portion of the fare, or maybe you’ll be able to make arrangements to return some other time. Despite the crowds, Blarney Castle is well worth the trip.” He glared at Marcy, as if blaming her in advance for whatever tips he wouldn’t collect. Several angry heads swiveled in her direction.

“I’m very sorry,” she whispered to no one in particular, then turned to stare out the window, seeing only her own reflection staring back. I used to be considered beautiful, she thought, wondering when she’d become so tired looking and old. People were always telling her she looked at least a decade younger than she was, and maybe she had at one time. Before, Marcy thought. Before her life had changed forever. Before that awful October afternoon when she’d watched a police car pull to a stop outside her sprawling bungalow in Hogg’s Hollow, her eyes following the two officers slowly up her front walk, her breath catching painfully in her lungs at the sight of their crisp blue uniforms.

She’d always hated uniforms.

“Aren’t you going to answer that?” Peter had called as the doorbell rang. He was in the den, watching some sporting event on TV. “Marcy,” he’d called again. “Aren’t you going to get that? Marcy?” he’d repeated as the doorbell rang a second, then a third time. “Where are you? Why aren’t you answering the door?”

“It’s the police,” Marcy managed to croak out, although her feet had turned to lead and she lacked the strength to move them. She was suddenly fifteen years old again, standing beside her sister in the principal’s office.

“The police?” Peter marched into the foyer and pulled open the front door. “Officers?” he asked, the word suspended ominously in the air as he ushered the two men inside.

“Are you Dr. Peter Taggart?”

“I am.”

“We understand you have a cottage on Georgian Bay,” one of the officers said as Marcy felt her body go numb. She looked away, not wanting to see their faces. If she didn’t see their faces, she reasoned irrationally, she wouldn’t have to hear what they’d come to say.

“Yes. That’s right,” Peter answered. “Our daughter is up there for the weekend with some friends. Why? Has something happened? Did she set off the alarm again?”

“Your daughter is Devon Taggart?”

“Yes, that’s right. Is she in some sort of trouble?”

“I’m afraid there’s been an accident,” the policeman said. “Perhaps you’d like to sit down.”

“Perhaps you’d like to tell me what’s happened.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Marcy saw the police officer nod, then look toward the floor. “Neighbors saw your daughter climb into a canoe at around ten o’clock this morning. The water was pretty rough and they noted she wasn’t wearing a life jacket. When they saw she still hadn’t returned some three hours later, they called the police. I’m afraid they found her overturned canoe in the middle of the bay.”

“And Devon?” Peter asked quietly, his skin turning the color of parchment paper.

“They’re still searching.”

“So you haven’t found her,” Marcy interrupted forcefully, still refusing to look their way.

“Not yet.”

“Well, that’s good. It means she probably swam to shore.”

“I’m afraid there’s little chance of that,” the officer told her, his voice so low it was almost inaudible. “The canoe was miles from anywhere.”

“It could have drifted,” Marcy said stubbornly.

“Yes,” he acknowledged. “I guess that’s possible.”

“Devon’s a very strong swimmer.”

“The water is extremely cold,” the second officer stated. “It’s doubtful—”

“You said she went to the cottage with friends?” the first officer interrupted to ask Peter.

“Yes,” Peter said. “Carrie and Michelle. I can’t remember their last names,” he added helplessly, looking to Marcy.

Because you never knew them, Marcy thought angrily. When did you ever take the time to learn the last names of any of your daughter’s friends? You were always so damn busy with work or golf. Although that never seemed to matter to Devon. “Stafford and Harvey,” Marcy informed the officers. “I’m sure they’ll be able to tell you where Devon is.”

“According to your neighbors, your daughter was at the cottage alone.”

“That’s not possible. She told us she was going up there with Carrie and Michelle. Why would she lie?”

Why did she usually lie? Marcy thought now, brushing aside a tear.

“Are you all right?” Vic asked immediately, as if he’d been watching her every move.

Marcy didn’t answer. She burrowed down in her seat and closed her eyes, pretending to be asleep.

“Do you know if your daughter has been depressed lately?” she heard one of the policemen ask.

“You’re saying you don’t think this was an accident?” Peter said, avoiding the officer’s question. Marcy had to grab her hands to keep from slapping him, twist her fingers to keep from scratching out his eyes. How dare he even entertain such a suggestion, let alone say it out loud?

“I have to ask: Do you think it’s possible your daughter took her own life?”

“No, it’s not possible,” Marcy said adamantly, fleeing the room and racing down the hall before Peter could contradict her. She flung open the door to Devon’s bedroom, swallowing the room in a single glance.

The note was propped up against Devon’s pillow.

“Despite our not being able to visit Blarney Castle,” the guide was saying now, “I hope you have enjoyed our little tour today.” Marcy opened her eyes to see that they had arrived at Dublin’s city limits. “As you no doubt observed from our brief visit, you really need more than one day to fully appreciate Cork. The library is well worth a visit, as is Cork’s Butter Museum and the Crawford Art Gallery. And don’t forget the wonderful university, whose campus is home to more than seventeen thousand students from all over the world.”

Over seventeen thousand students from all over the world, Marcy repeated silently, thinking how easy it would be for someone like Devon to blend in. To disappear.

“Have you ever just wanted to disappear?” Devon had asked Marcy one day not long before her overturned canoe was found in the frigid waters of Georgian Bay. “Just go somewhere and start all over again as someone else?”

“Please don’t talk that way, sweetheart,” Marcy had said. “You have everything.”

What a stupid thing to say, she thought now. She, of all people, should have known that having everything guaranteed nothing.

They’d never recovered Devon’s body.

“That was you I saw,” Marcy whispered under her breath.

“Sorry, did you say something?” Vic asked.

Marcy shook her head. “No,” she said out loud. But inside a voice was screaming, “You aren’t dead, are you, Devon? You’re here. I know you are. And whatever it takes, however long it takes, I’m going to find you.”