David Bell - Never Come Back

I thought of my mother—her no-nonsense approach to living, the way things were cut-and-dried for her. She didn’t waste time looking backward. But this man—my mom’s ex-husband—wanted me to believe that my mother, my very loving mother, could just move on from the loss of a child as easily as someone could move on from the loss of a piece of jewelry or a car.

“If what you’re telling me is true,” I said, “I doubt it. How could she just move on?”

“Well,” he said, “it’s not for me to speculate.”

His passive-aggressive tone made me uneasy. He was trying to say something about Mom, to plant some seed of doubt within me, as though I hadn’t had twenty-six years of my life with the woman. I knew her strengths. I knew her weaknesses. A man I talked to for less than an hour wasn’t going to change that. There were things I didn’t know about her, but I did know her. I reminded myself of that— I knew her.

I pointed to my watch again. “What is it you wanted?”

He smiled. “Again, so much like her. So eager to cut to the heart of the matter.”

“I learned from the best,” I said.

“Beth was like that too,” he said, his smile turning wan. “Anyway, your mom was helping me out from time to time with a little money. Like I said, I haven’t had the best of luck, and my health has also had some ups and downs.”

“You want money?” I asked. “I don’t have any money. I’m a graduate student.”

“But your mom has some money,” he said. “I think it’s from the insurance policy when your father died.”

“But her will is set—”

I stopped. If my brain were run on wires and plugs, that moment would have been when it felt like someone had flipped a switch, sending a burst of light to the right part of my head. I hadn’t thought it before, but once I did, it made perfect sense to me.

“Elizabeth Yarbrough,” I said. “The woman named in my mother’s will. Everything my mother owned is to be divided three ways between me, my brother, and this woman named Elizabeth Yarbrough. I don’t know her, and neither does the lawyer. But you’re telling me my mother had another daughter named Elizabeth, right? And there’s a woman in the will named Elizabeth. Is that her?”

Gordon was already shaking his head. “Didn’t you hear the story I just told you?” he asked. “Didn’t you listen to any of that? Beth is dead. Our Beth is gone.”

“But there was no body. No conviction. How do you know?”

“I’d know my own daughter, wouldn’t I?”

“You’ve met her? You’ve met Elizabeth Yarbrough?”

“We’re getting off track here,” he said.

“So you have met her?” I asked. “Is she your daughter?”

“No,” Gordon said. “She’s not. Absolutely not.”

“So why did Mom leave a third of her estate to her?” I asked.

“Your mother fell prey to a… a con artist. Yes, that’s the only term that applies. A con artist. That woman, that Elizabeth Yarbrough, has taken advantage of your mother. She preyed on her and convinced her that she is really our Beth. I had no idea about the will,” he said. “But it doesn’t surprise me in the least. Elizabeth Yarbrough is fleecing your family.”

Just then my phone rang. I knew who it would be. I checked my watch. Still ten minutes to go until the deadline I’d given Dan, but I knew he wouldn’t wait the entire time. He’d grow impatient and nervous, and then he’d call.

I wanted to continue the conversation with Gordon Baxter. I wanted to hear what he had to say about Elizabeth Yarbrough. But I knew if I didn’t answer the phone, Dan would think the worst. The Dover police would be at the door of the McDonald’s almost as fast as he would be.

“Are you going to take that?” Gordon asked.

“I have to,” I said.

I lifted the phone and saw it wasn’t Dan on the other end of the line.

It was Paul.

I had a lot to say to him. A lot. But not at that moment. I answered, though, intending to make sure I could see him sooner rather than later.

“Are you at home?” Paul asked right away.

Something sounded off in his voice. There was an urgency in it, an edge that made it seem on the brink of breaking.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Paul?”

“It’s Ronnie.”

“What happened?”

What else could happen? I wanted to say. What else could possibly happen?

“He got ahold of some pills in the hospital,” Paul said. “Elizabeth, he tried to kill himself. I think you better get over here. I’m in the emergency room of St. Vincent’s. That’s where they brought him.”

I was standing before I could say another thing. And I didn’t say anything else—nothing that I could remember anyway. And I don’t remember what Gordon Baxter said to me before I left either. I rushed to the car in a daze.

I cried on the way to St. Vincent’s Hospital. Not sobbing or hysterics, just quiet tears. They ran from my eyes as I drove, and I spent most of my time wiping them away. As I pulled into the parking lot, the phone rang. I parked the car before I answered. I considered not answering and just running inside, but I thought it might be Paul again.

But it was Dan, checking in.

In the mad rush to get to St. Vincent’s—the other hospital in Dover, the one for physically sick people—I had forgotten all about him. I gathered myself and tried to sound collected and calm when I answered. I didn’t want to have Dan worrying about me any more than he already was.

“Hello?”

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Had he heard something in my voice? Or was he really just making sure I was okay?

“I’m fine,” I said. “I’m not with that person anymore.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at the hospital,” I said. “I have to see Ronnie.”

“Is something the matter?”

I must not have been able to hide my feelings as well as I thought I could. Or I just didn’t care anymore. How much good had it done my mother and me to hide everything from each other? How many messes could have been avoided if we’d just talked to each other?

“Ronnie…” I couldn’t say it. Just as I couldn’t call my mother a murder victim, it was difficult to choke out these words about Ronnie. I took a deep breath and then said it as clearly as I could. “It looks like Ronnie tried to kill himself.”

“Jesus,” he said. “Do you need anything?”

And then, as hard as it was to admit I needed help yet again, I said yes.

“What can I do?”

“Can you just come to St. Vincent’s and sit with me? I’d like to have you here.”

“I’m on my way.”

I found Paul in the waiting room of St. Vincent’s. He was sitting in a plastic chair among the other families and victims of random Saturday afternoon mayhem and maladies. He didn’t notice me until I came within earshot of him and called out his name.

He jerked his head up, his face startled. Then his features relaxed a little and he said, “Elizabeth, it’s you.”

He stood up, but didn’t offer me a hug. He seemed particularly distracted.

“What the hell happened?” I asked.

As I said it—and I’m sure I wasn’t the first person to say that in the emergency room that day—several heads turned in our direction. A middle-aged guy two seats down from Paul held a bloody cloth to a cut on his knee. And a kid in the row behind him hacked with a cough that would give a coal miner a run for the money. They all watched, not even hiding their curiosity.

Paul placed his hand on my right arm and guided me to the other side of the room, where no one was sitting.