Gail Bowen - The Nesting Dolls

“I took the coward’s way out,” Delia said. “I wrote to him. I knew he’d retired suddenly and moved back here. He was no longer a judge, so that particular barrier to communication had been removed, but to be frank I didn’t want to face him. I didn’t know how he’d react. Anyway, I sent him a letter setting out the facts. I relayed Abby’s request and told him that he could do as he wished, but that I thought it was fair to convey the medical information his biological daughter requested, and I believed her when she said she had no wish to have further contact with either of us.”

“Did you get a response?” Zack said.

“I did. One line typed on monogrammed stationery. ‘The matter has been taken care of,’ and then Theo’s initals, ‘T.N.B.’ ”

“Were the initials typed or handwritten?” Zack asked.

“Handwritten,” Delia said. “I should have just let it go, but the ambiguity was unsettling. I decided to arrange a face-to-face meeting. I wrote a note addressed to Theo and Myra. I said I understood they had moved back to Regina and that Noah and I were having a gathering on December 5. There would be people there whom they would find congenial, and we’d be delighted if they could join us. I gave them my contact information, and I received an e-mail accepting the invitation.”

“Was the e-mail from Theo or Myra?” Zack asked.

“It was signed ‘Theo and Myra,’ which of course means nothing. Noah always signs both our names when he responds to invitations. The Brokaws’ note was cordial but it was just the usual. There was certainly no mention of Theo’s health problems.” Delia stood and walked over to the window. “And here’s something that puzzles me. Doesn’t Alzheimer’s take time to develop? After our party I had calls from lawyers who’d appeared before the Court last spring, and according to them, Theo was fine. Nobody, including me, had ever heard of a case where the disease moved that quickly.”

“It isn’t Alzheimer’s,” I said. “Theo had a fall. He was shingling their cottage roof last summer, and he fell. He suffered a traumatic brain injury that’s left him in a state similar to advanced Alzheimer’s.”

Delia bit her lip. “Just one false step, and an entire life changes.” Her eyes moved to me. “How do you know all this?”

“NationTV is considering a show about the Supreme Court. It would be part of a series they’re doing explaining the institutions that affect our lives. When I heard Theo was retiring here, I thought he’d be a good fit, and I e-mailed him. Myra responded for him, but I didn’t think anything of it. I just assumed he was busy and she handled his correspondence.”

“I sent my letter towards the end of November,” Delia said. “Myra would have handled it, too.”

“Presumably,” I said.

“And given Theo’s state, she would have been the one to decide whether or not to get in touch with Abby.”

I nodded.

“And we’ll never know whether they did.” Delia’s eyes dropped. “There’s so much we’ll never know.”

She went to Zack. “You look as if you’ve had enough,” she said. “I know I have.” She bent and kissed his forehead. “I’ll call you in the morning.”

I walked her to the door. She put on her boots and jacket and draped around her neck the scarf that she’d knit when she was trying to quit smoking. The scarf trailed to her knee on one side. “I feel so guilty about this, Joanne.”

“Zack’s flu was probably incubating before he went to Port Hope.”

She tried a smile. “But you won’t deny that the trip made a bad situation worse. I seem to have developed a reverse Midas touch. I’m losing confidence in my decisions, and that’s always fatal.”

“And futile to dwell on,” I said. “There’s no going back. Given the circumstances at the time, we do the best we can.”

“I still believe that giving Abby up was best for her. She had a good life. I don’t know why everything fell apart.” Delia’s eyes filled with tears. “The first time I saw my daughter’s face was in that parking lot. The men who found her had left the door open. I got in. It was so cold. The key was in the ignition, so I turned on the heat. After she was born, I told them I didn’t want to see her, and when I got in the car with her, I knew it was my last chance. It was like looking in a mirror. I held her hand and talked to her. I knew she was dead, but I kept on talking. I promised her I would make things right.” Delia wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I usually can, you know.”

Pale, tense, her slight body seemingly dragged to one side by the weight of her scarf, Delia was a forlorn figure. “I’ve always known how to cut my losses and move along, but I can’t forget her,” she said. “Suddenly, I can’t forget anything.”

I didn’t relay any of Delia’s conversation to Zack that night, but I slept fitfully, haunted by Delia’s account of sitting with her dead daughter, concerned about my husband’s laboured breathing and the appearance of his pressure wound, and wondering whether I’d made a grave error by offering to pick Nadine up at the airport. In the small hours I went down to my office, turned on my laptop, and checked out the appearance of pressure wounds that were non-threatening and those that were dangerous. I couldn’t tell the difference.

The next morning, for one of the few times in my life, I had to drag myself out of bed. It was an effort to complete my morning run with the dogs. When I got back to the house, all I wanted to do was sleep, but real life had its demands, and its unsettling surprises.

Nadine called when I was making the porridge. The fact that she was calling on her cell while she waited in line at Pearson International in Toronto might have accounted for her curtness, but the chill in her voice was undeniable.

“I’ve just been speaking to my lawyer in Regina,” she said. “He’s going to pick me up at the airport. Thank you for your offer, but Mr. Colby feels it would be ill-advised for you and me to spend time together.”

I tried to defuse the situation. “I understand,” I said. “Mr. Shreve feels exactly the same way.”

“Well, Mr. Shreve is certainly the master of the game,” Nadine said, and she hung up.

Henry Chan came by just as the porridge was ready. “That looks good,” he said.

“Would you like some?”

“Thanks, but I’ve got appointments starting in half an hour. I just thought I’d check on my poker partner. How’s he doing?”

“No worse, but no better. He still has a fever. That pressure sore we were concerned about still looks angry. And he’s dealing with a case that’s really gnawing at him.”

Henry shrugged off his coat and went to the sink to wash his hands. “I can’t believe that a firm the size of Falconer Shreve doesn’t have somebody who could at least assist Zack with his case.”

“It’s not that. The case involves one of the partners, and they want it kept confidential.”

“I’ll talk to Zack about priorities if you want.”

“It wouldn’t do any good,” I said. “If he wasn’t in charge of this case, he’d be fretting about it.”

“If that’s what you’ve both decided… ”

“We didn’t both decide,” I said. “Zack did.”

Henry looked at me closely. “And you’re unhappy.”

“I did a little Internet reading last night.”

Henry’s chuckle was dry. “That would make anybody unhappy,” he said.

“The article I read was about the danger of pressure sores. The writers focused on Christopher Reeve’s case. He had the best possible medical care, but he had a pressure sore that became infected; the infection became systemic; he had a heart attack, went into a coma, and died. There was nothing anyone could do. He was fifty-two years old.”