Marcia Talley: Unbreathed Memories

At home, I retrieved the mail from the floor where it had fallen through the mail slot. Nothing but bills, and the U.S. Postal Service had torn the cover of my New Yorker magazine again. I tossed the lot onto the hall table, hung up my coat, draped the strap of my purse over a doorknob, and headed for the kitchen. I pulled some chicken breasts out of the freezer and put them in the microwave to defrost, and had just settled down with a steaming cup of Earl Grey when the telephone rang. I wiped my hands on a towel, sighed, and resigned myself to giving the brush-off to another telephone salesman. Nobody else ever called me at three o’clock in the afternoon.

“Hello.”

I heard a strange, disembodied whispering, like summer wind through the trees.

“Hello?” I said again.

The same plaintive sound sighed down the line, but this time it separated into two recognizable syllables. “Han-nah!”

“What? Who is this?” My heart began to pound.

“Hannah, it’s me, Georgina.” Her voice was so husky I hardly recognized it.

“Georgina! You sound terrible. What on earth’s the matter?”

“Hannah, you’ve got to come and get me!”

“My God, what’s happened?”

“I’ll explain later,” she whispered. “Just come!”

“OK, but I can’t do anything until you calm down and tell me where you are.”

“At my therapist’s.”

“Are you OK?”

“Yes.” Georgina drew a ragged breath. “No! Oh, please hurry!”

“I’m thirty miles from Baltimore. Even if I drive like a bat out of hell it’ll take me forty-five minutes to get there. Will you be OK until then?”

Whatever Georgina meant to say was lost in a noisy snuffle. She began to wail.

“Breathe, Georgina! Breathe.” I could hear her gasping, so I tried to distract her. “Where’s your car?”

“Scott… dropped… me… off.”

“Look, he can get there faster than I can. I’m going to call him right now.”

“No, Hannah, don’t! He’s home with the kids. He’d have to bring them along. They can’t…” Georgina paused as if listening for something, then said, “I think somebody’s coming. Please hurry!”

I knew that Diane Sturges lived on Lake Roland, a city park since 1861, yet one of Baltimore’s best-kept secrets. Georgina had pointed out the back of the elegant, ultramodern Sturges home last fall when we had been hiking with the children along the footpath that ran through the woods and along the lakeshore. We had parked down by the bridge like everyone else and had walked up the dirt and gravel path, holding hands and singing. I wasn’t sure I knew how to get to the house directly.

Georgina’s breathing had steadied, but she began moaning. I found myself shouting, hoping to get her attention. “How do I get there, Georgina? Roland to Lake and turn right on Coldbrook?”

“Pleeeease!”

I could see that I was on my own. I checked my watch. Three-fifteen. If I was lucky, I could beat rush-hour traffic and make it to Baltimore well before dark. After dark, I doubted I’d be able to find a white elephant in the deeply wooded, exclusive neighborhood, even if it were wearing a neon tutu. I threw the packet of chicken into the fridge, scribbled a note to Paul suggesting he nuke a Stouffer’s frozen macaroni and cheese, and headed for my car.

As I sped up Interstate 97, I wondered what on earth had happened. Did Georgina have a difficult therapy session? If so, what? What could be so awful that she couldn’t share it with her husband? Was their marriage on the rocks? Or maybe she had worked herself up into such a state that she didn’t want her children to see her that way. I had pressed Georgina pretty hard for answers, but she only cried harder and pleaded with me to hurry.

I took the ramp to the beltway at thirty miles over the posted limit, exited at the BW Parkway, and broke all speed records getting to the stadium, where I peeled off on Martin Luther King and headed straight through the city to the JFX. At the Northern Parkway exit I darted across three lanes of traffic to make a left turn on Falls Road, then headed east on Lake Avenue. I had reached the Boys Latin School when I realized I must have overshot the turning to Coldbrook Lane, so I U-turned in the school’s drive and headed back down the hill. Coldbrook appeared almost immediately on my right. I turned and drove slowly along the narrow, forested lane, hoping I would recognize the Sturges house from the front, but none of these expensive homes had been built anywhere near the street.

At the end of the lane, I came to a dead end at a wooden gate. I steered to one side, parked my car on the soft earth near a pile of leaves, and climbed out. The Sturges house had to be near here somewhere. I remembered seeing this gate during our hike.

To my left, a driveway angled up steeply and disappeared around a corner. A box containing salted sand and a small shovel stood near the mailbox, but there was no name painted on the mailbox, just a number. Still, it seemed a likely candidate. I looked around, feeling guilty, then opened the mailbox and thrust my hand in. I pulled out a packet of magazines and long envelopes held together by a rubber band. The letter on top was addressed to Diane V. Sturges, Ph.D., and another envelope announced that she was a member of the Mystery Guild book club. Her husband, Bradley, had investments with Salomon, Smith, Barney and read Sports Illustrated and Forbes . I stuffed the mail back in the box, then, leaving my car parked on the street where it wouldn’t get blocked in, I hurried up the drive.

At the top of the hill, the driveway widened enough to accommodate two cars and circled around under an elaborate, pillared portico attached to a substantial, modern, yellow brick dwelling. A spur led to a three-car garage, also made of brick. One garage door stood open. No cars were in sight.

I stepped up to the front door and stood there for a few minutes, my finger hesitating over the bell. What if I rang it and somebody answered? What would I say? Excuse me, but may I use your phone, I seem to be lost? I could always claim to be collecting money for charity. Or be a Jehovah’s Witness. I mashed the doorbell button with my thumb. Silly . I would simply ask for my sister.

When no one came to the door after several minutes, I peered through a window. Everything inside was dark. Where was Georgina?

To the right of the entranceway a flagstone path led around the house, passing through a well-tended garden that, in summer, would be brilliant with color but now contained mostly boxwood, rhododendron, and ivy. I picked my way carefully along the path, hugging the foundation of the house, then stopped. A sign, “Office,” hung on a white-painted door. The door stood ajar.

I pushed it open with my palm. “Georgina?” There was no answer. I stepped into a small, prettily wallpapered entrance hall simply furnished with a small table, an umbrella stand, and a brass coatrack with Georgina’s green winter coat and paisley scarf hanging on it. Ahead of me a short flight of stairs, lushly carpeted, led up to a landing. I took three steps. “Georgina?”

I gasped when Georgina appeared unexpectedly at the head of the stairs, looking like a madwoman. Her hair tumbled loose about her shoulders, and her mascara had melted into black streaks that ran down her cheeks. “Thank God you’re here!” She stumbled toward me and hugged me so fiercely that I thought my ribs would break and we’d go tumbling backward down the stairs together.

I took hold of my sister’s arms and eased her into a sitting position on the landing, keeping one arm around her shoulder. “Now. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Georgina pulled herself into a ball, knees to her chest, and rocked back and forth, sobbing. “Diane’s dead.”