Mary Clark - The Shadow of Your Smile

A tired Kristina could visualize her mother warming up to tell her that being a nanny was hard, hard work, and that she should have gone on to get a degree in nursing. Then she wouldn’t be at the mercy of one of these spoiled rich women who only have a child so that they can take it to Central Park occasionally and have the photographer from Page Six of the New York Post snap their picture together.

Kristina stopped the flow before it began. “Mom, I’m really just calling to say I’m obviously not coming home tonight. The one thing you have to admit is that Ms. Carter is paying me double my salary because I’ve been here all week. I’m sure she’ll be back soon.”

“Have you tried to reach any of her friends?”

Kristina hesitated. “I called two of them I know she sees all the time.”

“What did they say?”

“One of them laughed and said, ‘That’s Renée. She must have some new guy on the hook.’ The other one just said that she had no idea where she was.”

“Well there’s nothing you can do except wait it out, I guess. When she left last night do you know who she was meeting?”

“No, but she was in a great mood.”

“All right, but I want you to think about giving up that job. And something else, keep a close watch on that baby. If she’s wheezing, get the vaporizer on. And if she gets bad, don’t take any chances. Call the doctor. Do you have the doctor’s number?”

“Yes. Dr. Farrell called a couple of times checking on Sally. Every time she does, she gives me her cell phone number again.”

“All right. I guess you can’t do anything more for now. But if that woman doesn’t come back tomorrow maybe you’ll have to call the police.”

“I’m sure she’ll be back. I’ll talk to you, Mom.”

With a sigh, Kristina replaced the phone on the cradle. She had called from Sally’s bedroom, the one place where she had managed to keep the dog from entering. It was large and furnished in white wicker. The carpet was a pink and white design. The walls were fancifully painted with nursery figures. The windows were framed in pink and white eyelet draperies. A row of shelves opposite the crib was filled with toys and children’s books. When Kristina saw the room for the first time she had complimented Renée Carter on it. Her response had been, “It should be nice. The decorator charged me a fortune.”

Sally had barely eaten any dinner. She had begun to play with her dolls but now, to Kristina’s concern, she wandered over to her crib, pulled her security blanket from it, and lay down on the floor.

She is getting sick again, Kristina thought. I’ll turn on the vaporizer and I’ll sleep on the sofa bed in here with her. If she isn’t better in the morning, whether or not her mother is back, I’m going to call Dr. Farrell. I’m sure Ms. Carter will be furious. I’ll have to admit to the doctor that she isn’t here but I don’t care.

Kristina walked across the room, bent down, and picked up the sleepy baby. “You poor kid,” she said. “You certainly got one bum break when you were born to that miserable woman.”

Monica had hoped to go home and freshen up before her meeting with Olivia Morrow. It would be cutting it too tight, she decided, as she drove back through the Lincoln Tunnel. I’d rather be in her neighborhood early than run the risk of keeping her waiting. She’s obviously not well.

She claims she knew my grandparents, Dad’s birth mother and father. How did that happen? Dad’s birth mother did everything she could to conceal her identity. The names listed in the birth records in the hospital in Ireland had the Farrells as the natural parents. What did Olivia Morrow mean when she said she wanted to tell me about them before it’s too late? Too late for what? Is she sick enough to be actually dying? If it weren’t for that chance remark to Tony Garcia when he drove her, I would never have contacted her. Would she ever have contacted me?

At twenty minutes of five, after parking the car in a nearby garage, Monica entered the lobby of Schwab House. At the desk she gave her name. “I have an appointment at five o’clock with Ms. Morrow,” she explained. “I’m a little early, so I’ll just wait before you call her.”

“Certainly, ma’am.”

The twenty minutes seemed like hours before Monica went back to the desk. “Will you call her now, please? Tell her Dr. Farrell is here.”

Her anticipation rising to a fever pitch, Monica watched as the desk clerk dialed a number. She saw the expression come over his face that clearly suggested a problem. Then he broke the connection, dialed the number again, and waited for several long minutes before he disconnected.

“She’s not answering,” he said flatly. “There may be a problem. I know for sure that Ms. Morrow has not gone out today. She’s not at all well, and when she came back yesterday, she looked too tired to walk to the elevator. I have her doctor’s number. I’m going to call him. The night clerk told me he was here last evening to see her.”

“I’m a doctor,” Monica said quickly. “If you think there is a medical problem, time may be of the essence.”

“I’ll call Dr. Hadley and then if it’s okay with him, I’ll go upstairs with you now.”

In an agony of impatience, Monica waited while the clerk made the call to Hadley. He was not in his office, but he answered on his cell phone. From what she could hear the clerk saying, he was concise in explaining the situation. Finally he hung up. “Dr. Hadley will be here as fast as he can make it, but he said for me to bring you to Ms. Morrow’s apartment immediately, and if she has the bolt on to break in.”

When the clerk turned the superintendent’s key in the lock they heard a click, and when he turned the handle the door opened. The bolt of the apartment where Olivia Morrow had lived for more than half her life was not on. “I’m sure she hasn’t gone out,” the clerk said again. “Dr. Hadley was here last night. If she was in bed, she probably didn’t bother to get up and slide the bolt closed after he left.”

There were no lights on, but there was still sufficient natural light coming in from the west for Monica to glance at an orderly living room, a dining area, the open door to a kitchen, and then hurry behind the clerk down the hall. “Her bedroom is at the end,” he said, the next door from the den.”

He took a moment to knock on the closed bedroom door, then hesitantly opened it and entered the bedroom. From the doorway Monica could see the small figure, her head resting on a raised pillow, the rest of her body under the covers.

“Ms. Morrow,” the clerk said, “it’s Henry. We’re just checking up on you. The doctor is worried that you may need him.”

“Turn on the light,” Monica ordered.

“Oh, sure, Doctor, sure,” Henry stammered.

The overhead fixture flooded the room with light. Monica walked swiftly to the side of the bed and looked down on the waxy face, the teeth clamped on a corner of her bottom lip, her eyes partially open. She’s been dead for hours, she thought. Rigor mortis has set in. Oh God, if only I had called her earlier! Will I ever know about my birth family now?

“Call the police, Henry,” she ordered. “It is necessary to report a death when someone dies alone. I’ll wait here until her own physician comes. He’s the appropriate person to sign the death certificate.”

“Yes, ma’am. Yes. Thank you. I’ll call from downstairs.” Henry clearly was eager to be out of the presence of the body.

There was a chair in the corner of the room. Monica pulled it over and sat by the remains of the woman whom she had wanted so much to meet. Obviously Olivia Morrow had been very ill. She looked almost emaciated. Had she really known about me, Monica wondered, or was it all a mistake? Now I’ll probably never know.