Marcia Muller - Vanishing Point

Let Jennifer and Terry go on from here, I told myself. You’ve done your job. You’re not involved anymore.

Ralph and Alice were waiting in the front hall when I got home. They gave me surprised looks; obviously they were expecting Michelle to show up and feed them. I took my travel bag to the bedroom, then spooned out some of the evil-smelling food they so loved, and told Ralph, “You’ll get your shot when ’Chelle comes over.” Giving insulin shots was not my forte.

Multiple messages on the answering machine. I pressed the play button.

Jim Whitmore of the SLO County Sheriff’s Department. “The DA down here’ll be in touch with you next week. Kev Daniel’s hired top legal talent, and the state’ll need your testimony to make its case. By the way, he wasn’t lying when he said he didn’t kill the dog; apparently it went looking for someone to help its master. Didn’t stay around to fight because it had two broken ribs. Hung around a restaurant near the pier, whining and trying to lead people out there. One of the busboys took it to a vet, and the vet called the guide-dog association number that was engraved on the plate on its halter.”

I’m glad the dog’s okay, but I really don’t need another court appearance.

Hy. “I’m flying back to the city tomorrow. Hope your case is going well. See you at home.”

You bet you will! At home, and in bed.

Ma. “Why are you never there or at the office? You’d better not be out getting in trouble again.”

You ought to be used to me getting in trouble by now, Ma.

Patrick. “I’m still in Crescent City. My piece-of-shit car died. I’ll try to make it in on Friday.”

Junk the thing and buy a new car. Please!

Saskia. “It was so good seeing you, dear, and meeting your lovely family. Please call me when you have time.”

Lovely family. Now that’s a new one.

Ted. “Your cell’s not on, and I don’t know how to get hold of you. Things’re really piling up here, and I’m working overtime. Call me when you get this.”

Go home, Ted. There’s nothing on your desk that can’t wait.

Robin. “My new phone’s finally been installed. Write this number down someplace where you won’t lose it.”

Good God, do I seem incompetent to her?

Jennifer Aldin. “Terry and I have reached an agreement. We’ll meet with our mother, but only if you come along to mediate.”

So you’re not involved anymore? Yeah, right.

It was cool and a light drizzle had started falling when Jennifer, Terry, and I arrived at Laurel’s house in Klamath Falls. The overcast rendered the old tract even shabbier than it had seemed on the sunny day when I’d first visited there. Both women were tense, and their edginess had infected me on the trip up. Jennifer had insisted on sitting with me on the plane, had barely spoken to her sister. Terry acted as if she were being transported to prison. I gathered the “agreement” was more a case of the older sister exerting her influence on the younger one, and I hoped the outcome of today’s visit wouldn’t seriously rupture their relationship.

I pulled the rental car to the curb, turned off the ignition. Then we sat there in silence. After a minute, Jennifer asked, “ This is what she left our home for?”

I said, “I don’t think her life turned out the way she expected.”

“No, of course not,” Terry commented from the backseat. “She probably envisioned a new, rich husband and no bratty kids to bother her.”

“Listen, Terry.” Jennifer’s voice crackled with anger. “We promised not to prejudge her.”

“You mean, you told me not to.”

“Stop that! We’ve got to go in there with open minds.”

Terry didn’t respond.

Jennifer twisted in the passenger seat and glared at her sister. “What happens in there”-she jerked her thumb at the house-“will be something we’ll have to live with for the rest of our lives. Don’t blow it.”

“As far as I’m concerned, our mother blew it the day she left us.”

I closed my eyes, drummed my fingertips on the steering wheel. Why the hell had I agreed to come with them? Oh, yes, I was supposed to be a mediator.

I said, “Look, you can do one of three things: you can sit here arguing all afternoon; you can tell me to turn the car around and drive back to the airport; or you can go in there and deal with her. But if you do go in, you have to be civil-to her, and to each other.”

They were silent. Then Terry said, “Okay, let’s get it over with.”

The two stayed well behind me as we went up the walk and I pressed the bell. Within seconds, Laurel opened the door.

She’d styled her gray-streaked hair carefully and applied makeup, including lipstick. She wore a black pantsuit that once had been elegant but now was shiny from too many dry cleanings. Her eyes were apprehensive, and worry lines stood out between her thick brows.

Another long silence. She stared at her grown-up daughters. I glanced at them: Jennifer’s eyes had begun to tear, but Terry’s were hard and cold.

After a moment Laurel swung the door widely and said, “Please, come in.”

The door opened directly into a small living room, sparsely furnished in what looked to be thrift-shop items. A small TV and VCR sat on a stand, dozens of videotapes stacked on the shelf below them. One wall was lined with bookcases whose shelves sagged under the weight of the volumes. Most of the books were in poor condition, and many of their spines bore library identification stickers, indicating Laurel had picked them up at bargain prices when they were taken out of circulation. Most if not all of Josie Smith’s money must have been gone after Laurel bought this house.

She stood very still, pressing her hands together and studying her daughters, who were similarly frozen. After a moment she motioned at a tattered plaid sofa and said, “Sit down, please. I’ve made coffee. Or perhaps you prefer tea?”

“Nothing-” Terry began.

“Coffee’s fine,” Jennifer said, gripping Terry’s arm.

“Good. Ms. McCone, will you help me?”

I followed her through a dining area and a swinging door into a tiny kitchen. As the door shut behind us, Laurel turned to me.

“You said when you called that Terry was opposed to coming up here. Which one is she?”

“You can’t tell your own daughters apart?”

“Obviously they’ve changed in twenty-two years.”

Saskia had never seen me; I’d been whisked out of the delivery room as soon as she’d given birth. Yet when I first saw her, lying in a hospital bed in a semi-coma, she’d sensed my presence and whispered words that would allow me to unlock the secrets surrounding my adoption.

I said, “Terry’s the one with the attitude and short hair.”

Laurel nodded, busied herself with putting cups and a plate of cookies on a tray. I carried it into the living room while she followed with a carafe of coffee.

Jennifer was sitting on the sofa, her posture very straight, hands clasped primly around her knees. She’d composed herself, and her eyes were no longer tearing. Terry stood by the far wall, studying a group of photographs that were arranged there. I set the tray down, went to join her.

So Laurel had taken keepsakes of her children with her. There were seven photos in all, each framed in silver: Jennifer on a pony; Terry in a wading pool; both girls in front of a Christmas tree. Jennifer mugging for the camera in a Halloween pumpkin suit; Terry hanging upside down by her knees on a jungle gym. Both girls posing in the opening of a drive-through redwood tree. And in the central photo of the arrangement, Laurel kneeling, an arm around each girl, the sea in the background.