“The night Samantha disappeared. What if it had been me?”
“Oh, God. Michelle…”
“Would you have spent fifteen years mourning my loss every damn second of every damn day? Would you have let your marriage fall apart? Would you have flown off to Miami…to Tacoma…to Calgary? Would you have been so desperate to believe the word of an obvious con artist? Tell me, Mother. Would you have given a shit if it had been me?”
“You can’t be serious.”
“And you haven’t answered my question.”
“Because it’s so ridiculous. I love you more than anything in the world. You know that.”
“Still not an answer.”
“What do you want me to say? I would have been distraught, for God’s sake…”
“As distraught as you were when you discovered Samantha was missing?”
“I don’t understand. This was never a competition.”
“No, it certainly wasn’t.” Tears filled Michelle’s eyes, and she raised her chin to keep them from falling. “A competition is when everyone has a shot at winning. And I was always going to come in second, wasn’t I?”
“That’s not true.”
“It is true. Samantha was the golden girl. It was true fifteen years ago, and it’s even truer now. Just the remote possibility you might see her again makes you happier than I ever could.”
“That’s so unfair.” Caroline lowered her head. The next thing she heard was the sound of the front door slamming.
“When did she check in?” Caroline asked.
“Yesterday morning,” Peggy said.
“Why didn’t you call me right away?”
“I couldn’t until she gave me permission.”
“I had no idea she was even back in town.”
“I don’t think anyone did except your brother.”
“Steve knows?”
“He was here all morning.”
“Really?”
Peggy shrugged, as if to say, Go figure.
“How is she?”
“She’s here, isn’t she?”
“Here” was the Marigold Hospice on Harney Street in Old Town, a block from the Old Abode Chapel. The hospice was a two-story red brick building that had once served as a drop-in center for the homeless. It had been converted into a facility for the terminally ill two years ago, and Peggy had left her job at San Diego Hospital to become its first director.
“How long does she have?” Caroline asked.
“No way of knowing for sure. The average length of stay is anywhere from three days to two weeks. But you never know. Some last months; others don’t last a day. We’ve had one resident here for almost a year. You just never know.”
“Did you tell her I was coming?”
“I did. She seemed pleased.”
The phone at the reception desk rang. The young Asian volunteer picked it up at the end of its first ring. “Good afternoon. Marigold Hospice,” she announced. “Amy speaking. How can I help you? Yes. I’ll transfer your call.” She pressed a series of buttons on the keypad, then replaced the receiver.
Seconds later, a buzzer sounded, signaling that someone was at the front door. Amy stretched toward the big red button on the wall that released the lock and admitted a family of four to the glassed-in foyer. She promptly rose from her seat and opened another door into the beautifully appointed reception area, where Caroline and Peggy were standing in front of four large, overstuffed chairs. The chairs were grouped around a coffee table, in front of a gas fireplace and a large-screen TV. “Would you mind signing in, please?” Amy directed the man and woman to the guest register.
“Why do we have to sign in?” asked their son, a towheaded boy of about five.
“Safety precaution,” Amy told him. “In case of a fire, we need to know how many people are in the building.”
“Come on, kids,” their mother said. “Let’s go see Grandpa.”
“Do you know what room he’s in?” Amy asked.
“Oh, yes. Thank you.” The family disappeared down the interior hallway.
“You allow children?” Caroline asked Peggy.
“Children, dogs, cats. You name it. Whatever makes people feel more at home. You’re doing a great job, Amy,” Peggy told the young volunteer.
“Thank you, Mrs. Banack.”
“So are you,” Caroline told her friend.
Peggy brushed off the compliment. “Speaking of jobs, I should get back to mine. Becky’s in room 104.” She sighed. “Just be prepared. She doesn’t look quite the way you remember.”
Caroline took a long, deep breath and entered the interior hallway. Standing in front of the closed door to room 104, she took another deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and knocked.
“Come in,” called the weak but familiar voice.