Marianne Wiggins - The Shadow Catcher

Cardiac , hello?

Hello. To whom am I speaking, please?

Nurse Furth. To whom am I speaking?

Ma’am someone purporting to be from your hospital has been calling my home in Los Angeles all day long, regarding a patient who was brought into your unit this morning? John Wiggins?

I’m not at liberty to divulge patient information over the telephone.

Well, can you tell me if someone called Emily Rosen works there?

Oh yes — she’s in Admitting. Are you the daughter we were trying to find earlier?

(I’m too stunned to form an answer.)

I tried to find a number for you earlier, when your dad came in. We’ve got him stabilized, but I think you’ll want to get here a.s.a.p.

Ma’am: my father’s dead .

Oh god, is that what they told you—? Oh lord no, no, Mr. Wiggins is still unconscious, but—

Mr. Wiggins is dead . My father is. My Mr. Wiggins. I don’t know who your so-called Mr. Wiggins is, but my Mr. Wiggins died in April 1970. So this is some mistake.

Well I apologize, Miss Wiggins. But I don’t see how that’s possible.

— you don’t ? It’s not like JOHN and WIGGINS are low-probability NAMES. Don’t you run I.D. checks? Go online. Check the Social Security Death Index. My father’s facts are in there. Anyone with reading skills and a computer could have stolen his identity.

Well only if they’re eighty-four years old .

(She’s got a point. Absurd as it may sound.)

How old does your guy look?

Eighty. Eighty- ish . Plus he had a Universal Donor card in his pocket with you listed as his next of kin.

(I stare out my kitchen window at the sunset. And blink a couple times.)

Miss Wiggins—?

Yeah I’m thinking.

Let me transfer you back to Mrs. Rosen so she can run that DMF for you.

(I wait. DMF, I know, stands for Death Master File . I know this because I logged onto it, myself, researching Curtis.)

— Miss Wiggins?

(I recognize Rosen’s voice.)

I apologize for hanging up on you before, Mrs. Rosen, but I needed to verify your call.

I’m running that DMF check right now — yup. Well golly. Here he is. Just like you said. JOHN F. WIGGINS. Died April 1970. Sorry about that. We don’t normally check to see if someone’s already dead when they come in with valid I.D. and a warm body. Don’t know how this happened. I’ve never had a situation quite like this.

Are you going to notify the police? I’d appreciate knowing who this imposter is — how he got his information. You say I’m listed as the next of kin? Was mine the only name?

Yep.

— because I have a sister and she should have been listed, too.

Well, Identity Theft . There’s no explaining how it works. It’s everywhere. I don’t suppose…? there’s any chance…?

(What?)

That your father had a twin?

No, Mrs. Rosen.

— or that he might still be alive?

None .

— had to ask. — alrighty, then. — let’s stay in touch.

(I check the time — eight thirty on the East Coast, in Virginia. I dial my sister, and she answers.)

— hey, little bird (I say.)

— hey! I was just thinking about you!

Am I interrupting?

Heck no we’re just crashed out in front of the TV.

(It’s unusual for me to call her at this hour, during family time, and she intuits something.)

Listen — something weird just happened: I got a call from a hospital in Las Vegas. They say they’ve got an eighty-year-old man who claims he’s daddy.

You’re joking.

No. Someone’s posing as him. Swear to god. Some eighty-four-year-old with daddy’s name and Social Security number…And the thing is — (We both fall silent. Until J-J asks:)

Why are you doing this?

This isn’t my idea, J—

Somebody’s using his old I.D. So what?

Some eighty-year-old-man . I think I oughta go and see.

Thirty years, and you’re still—

— don’t you ever wonder?

No .

Well I do.

Well you shouldn’t.

Don’t you ever dream that — I don’t know — he went somewhere? — instead ? I dreamed once he showed up and told me he’d been living in another city all this time. It was really strange. I woke up strangely…confused…but sorta happy.

(She doesn’t answer, but it sounds like she’s breathing funny. Then finally she says,) That’s a childish fantasy.

I know, but—

Please don’t do this, Cis.

— we never saw the body.

Marianne—

Uncle Nick went to identify him. You probably don’t remember. And I think Nick took George or Mike or Archie with him. Now they’re all dead.

— just stop this, will you?

(I stop.)

It’s morbid.

(She may be right.)

I mean, Las Vegas! (she says, as if that , in and of itself, should settle any argument.)

I think I should go find out what this guy’s story is (I say.)

(J-J doesn’t answer.)

What do you think? (I finally ask.)

You know what I think, (she says.) I think this is all some hoax you’re buyin’ into. For whatever reason.

You’re not curious?

I didn’t get the so-called call . So I’m not so curious. But you do what you hafta do.

Well, I’m gonna drive to Vegas.

— you’re going to drive?

I think that’s the point .

— how far is it?

Five, six hours.

— you’re gonna go alone? Take someone (she argues. My sister’s version of directions.)

“I’ll be fine, don’t you worry.”

“Call when you find out. Call me — promise.”

“I promise.”

“I love you, Cis.”

“I love you back.”

But still I want to tell her that for someone as used to chasing shadows for a living, used to searching history’s mists to tell a story, how can I refuse this chance to face this ghost ?

Clara could hear them moving in the room next to hers, on the other side of the thin wall, their morning sounds discreet as dawn, and just as purposeful.

Even in the dark and through the wall she could distinguish between the two of them — the dowager, the slower of the two, coughing up deposits from her lungs, spitting, while the other one, younger and more eager to begin the day’s adventure, tiptoes to the chamber pot, delivering the sound of liquid streaming against porcelain. Then she hears the older woman positioning her pot, followed by an almost inaudible hiss and the sharp inglorious smell — even through the wall — of urine.

This business of waking down among the elements still rankled her. It was barely civilized, she thought, this so-called house — a wooden shelter, as makeshift as their pretended family was. Their pretense of putting forth the myth of an extended clan bound by duty and devotion. That myth was as wormy as the floor joins and the crossbeams, but Edward had built it up around him out of nothing, cleared the land and raised the timbers, tarred the roof and seamed walls. It might as well have been a shantytown, she’d thought when she’d first seen it. She might as well be living in a tree. Or in a tipi . Half an inch of timber backed by tar black and rough paper was all that stood between her bed, her being, and the untamed Wild. There was a floor and a stone fireplace in what was called the kitchen, but the walls were less a solace than a taunt that they were all an inch away from living like some primitives. All six of them. An inch away from being Indians.