“On the forehead?” Marla asked.
“Yes,” Agnes said, opening her eyes.
It was Marla’s turn to close hers. “When I think hard, I think I can taste her. I can remember the feel of her on my lips. And the smell of her. I’m sure I can. And what happened after that?”
“We had to take her away,” Agnes said. “The doctor took her away. And I let you rest.”
“I was very tired. I think I slept for a long time.”
“You did.”
“But you were there when I woke up,” Marla said, and smiled. “I’m sorry about all the trouble I’ve been since then. I know I’m not quite right, that I’ve gone a little crazy.”
“Don’t say that. You’re fine. You’re strong. You’re a good girl and I’m very proud of you. You’re getting your life back on track.”
Marla looked into her mother’s face. “I hope so. I don’t think I’ve given you much to be proud of.”
Agnes leaned over the bed and took her daughter into her arms. “Don’t ever say that. Don’t think that for a minute.”
“But I know,” Marla said, her voice muffled by her mother’s shoulder, “you’ve always been worried about what people think. I know I haven’t lived up to your expectations.”
“Stop it,” Agnes said. “Just stop it.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve told you about my friend. When I was in my teens. My best friend, Vera.”
“Yes, Mom.”
Agnes smiled. “I know. I’ve told you about her many times. About how, when she was twenty-three, and six months from graduating at the University of Connecticut, she got pregnant.”
“I know.”
“I want you to listen. You need to hear this, even if I’ve told you before. It was actually her professor who got her pregnant. Those kinds of things happened back then, professors having affairs with their students. This was before that was seen as inappropriate, before sexual harassment policies. Vera was going to go to medical school after college; she wanted to be a surgeon, but when she got pregnant, everything changed. It was a difficult pregnancy, and she had to withdraw from her courses. And, of course, this professor was hardly going to leave his wife and marry Vera. He tried to get her to end the pregnancy, but her faith wouldn’t permit that. And so she had this child, and was on her own to raise it—her parents pretty much disowned her—and none of her dreams . . . none of them ever came true. Of course, she wanted to have a baby one day, but this child, it came at the wrong time for her. Her life could have been very different, and my heart aches for her every time I think about her. That baby came at the wrong time for her.”
“Mom, I know. . . .”
“What I’m saying is, I know how sad you must be, how devastating this has been for you. But maybe, I don’t know, maybe this is the way it’s supposed to be for you. It wasn’t the right time. Look at you. These Internet reviews, they might lead to something better, more rewarding. You’re moving forward. What happened last night”—and Agnes glanced at her daughter’s bandaged wrist—“is a bump in the road. A big bump, sure, but a bump in the road. You’re going to be okay. You’re moving ahead.”
Marla’s eyes closed briefly. She was drifting off.
Agnes released her daughter and said, “You start getting ready. I’m going to step out into the hall and call Dr. Sturgess to let him know I’m discharging you on my own.”
“Okay.” Marla paused. “I say bad things about you sometimes, Mom. But I love you.”
Agnes forced a smile, stepped out into the hall, walked past the nurses’ station, giving the staff a curt nod, and continued on down the hall until she reached a supply room full of linens.
She stepped in, closed the door, leaned her back up against it to make certain no one would walk in on her, placed her hand over her mouth, and wept.
FORTY-SEVEN
David
FROM Derek’s, I went to the address for Marshall Kemper that I’d gotten from Mrs. Delaney at Davidson House.
It was, as it turned out, around the corner from Samantha Worthington’s place, and was little more than a low white box of a house that had been divided into two. There were two doors fronting the street, pushed to the far ends of the house, and two identical windows set beside them.
Kemper’s apartment was 36A Groveland Street, the other 36B.
I got out of the car, walked up to 36A, and, finding no doorbell, knocked. There was no response, so I knocked again, louder this time.
Still nothing.
I got my face up close to the door and called out, “Mr. Kemper? Are you in? My name’s David Harwood! I need to talk to you!”
Stopped yelling and listened. Not a sound from inside.
I walked over to 36B and knocked. I could hear a TV, so when no one came after the first knock, I decided to try again. A few seconds later, an elderly woman slowly opened the door.
“Yes?” she said.
“Hi,” I said. “I was looking for Marshall Kemper.”