“Albert, don’t,” she said. “The cancer’s eating me up. If it weren’t for all the damn painkillers they give me I wouldn’t be able to have this conversation.”
“You never know,” Albert said. “It could go into remission. You’d have more time. More time to be with all of us.”
“Not all of you,” Elizabeth said.
She closed her eyes for several seconds, as though the conversation, barely under way, had already exhausted her.
“I know,” Albert said.
“Dying isn’t the worst of it. It’s dying without knowing.”
“Mother, we all feel the same way.” He paused, then, “What about that letter? Last December?”
Elizabeth did a feeble raspberry with her lips. “That nut who wrote a letter claiming to be her? Please. Police get stupid things like that all the time. Bogus psychics, someone saying they saw her beamed up into a spaceship.”
She closed her eyes briefly, pinching out a tear on each side. “Even to know, for sure, that she was gone, that’d be something, I suppose. If I believed in heaven, that might be some comfort. The idea that we’d be reunited.” Elizabeth shook her head. “But all there is, is this. When you’re done, you’re done.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Albert said. “We’d all give anything to know where Brie is. If she’s alive... or not.”
Elizabeth’s gaze had turned back briefly to the television. “Facts,” she said. “The world no longer has any interest in them.”
She looked back at Albert, smiled weakly, and patted his hand. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be difficult. I know you, and Izzy, you’re both trying to say and do the right thing. There is no right thing. I’m very proud of you. I’m proud of all three of my children. You and Izzy. And Brie. There’s never been a moment when I haven’t wondered where she is.”
“I know.”
“Izzy’s never moved on, either,” she said. “I’m not saying you have, understand, but it’s different with her. It’s the hate, her wanting to get even, that’s consumed her. It’s devouring her. She hates Andrew so much, she’s so convinced he did it, that he did something to Brie. I say to her, where’s your proof? Give me something, other than a feeling. I think, sometimes, not about whether he really might have done it, but about what if he didn’t? What if Izzy’s wrong? And if Andrew didn’t do it, think how horribly we’ve treated him all this time. He’s suffered, too, you know. He lost his wife. He lost the love of his life.”
Albert gave his mother’s hand another squeeze. As the cancer spread and the end grew near, she spoke of little else but Brie. Would knowing what happened to Brie really bring Elizabeth any comfort if it turned out her daughter was dead?
Albert had his doubts.
“I think,” he said tentatively, “if Brie were alive, and knew what condition you’re in, she’d find a way to get here, to see you.”
The door opened and a male nurse walked in.
“Hey,” he said with false cheer. “How are we doing today, Mrs. McBain?”
She looked at her son, rolled her eyes, and said, “Just peachy.”
“Just wanted to see if you’d like to get wheeled down to the atrium for a change of scenery?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No, thank you.”
“I’ll check in on you again later in case you change your mind.” The nurse spun on his heel and left.
Albert leaned over his mom and gave her a kiss on the forehead. “I’ll come back and see you this afternoon. Is there anything you want? Anything I can bring you?”
“You know what I want,” she said, and her eyelids slowly descended.
Seven
Andrew
I’ll admit, looking at that image of the woman standing in the driveway did give me something of a jolt, prompting me to involuntarily let the son of God’s name slip from my lips.
But the image was by no means conclusive.
Did this woman — this blurry woman, at that — bear a passing resemblance to my wife, Brie? Yes. She was about the right height. She had dark hair and wore it roughly the same way. Above the shoulders, and curled around her face. The way she moved from the driver’s door to the tailgate, I couldn’t really say whether her gait was similar to Brie’s. It was only a few steps. Not enough to really tell.
The clearest shot was when she stood looking directly at the house, when she dropped her groceries, seemingly stunned by what she was looking at.
The house that was supposed to be there was gone.
If Brie were to miraculously return after six years, and if those six years for the rest of us had somehow seemed to be no more than a day to her, well, for sure, stepping out of some kind of time machine, finding your house gone and another one in its place, would certainly throw you for a loop.
But the very idea seemed preposterous.
Impossible.
Whoever this woman who’d shown up here this morning was, it could not be Brie.
How could it be? Unless...
“You done?” asked Brian Feehan, holding out his hand.
“I want to email myself this image.”
Brian seemed to be trying to think of any reason he should say no, and, not coming up with one, slowly said, “Fine, go ahead.”
It took me a second to figure out how to export the photo, but once I had, I typed in my own email address and hit send. A couple of seconds later, I heard the ding of an incoming message in my front pocket.
I gave him back the tablet. “Thanks.”
“Well?” he said. “Who is that?”
“No idea,” I said.
“But you want the picture anyway,” he said.
“Sorry to trouble you.”
As I started heading back to my ride I got out my phone to check that the pic had arrived intact. And it had, from Brian Feehan’s email address. I opened the email, made sure the picture was at least as good as the image from Feehan’s tablet — which was not saying a lot — and then closed it.
And wondered what the hell I should do with it. What I was supposed to feel about it.
Shocked? Bewildered? Hopeful? Worried?
Bewildered, certainly. I hardly knew how else to react to the picture without knowing what it really meant. Was I meant to believe that Brie was back, after six years?
I had questions, but wasn’t sure what they were or to whom they should be directed. But I needed to talk to somebody. I got out my phone, opened my contacts, and scrolled down to the R’s. I tapped on a name, put the phone to my ear, and waited for the pickup.
“Hey,” he said. “What’s happening?”
“Greg,” I said. “It’s me. How’s it going?”
“Been worse. Still buying lottery tickets, though, so I can become a man of leisure. What’s up?”
“Need to talk.”
“Yeah, sure.” His voice went low. “You in a bad place again, man?”
“No, it’s not that.”
“’Cause you sound sober.”
“I am.”
“Good, good, that’s good. I never want to see you like you were that time. So what’s happening?”
“I got something I need to show you. Where are you?”
“You know the old TrumbullGate Mall? The one they mothballed?”
I had to think. Maybe fifteen to twenty minutes north and west of Milford. “Yeah, and I can GPS it if I have to. What are you doing up there?”
“Picking over the bones. One of the owners, an old friend, is letting me go through it, recovering all kinds of stuff I can use before they hold a proper auction. From pipe to shelving to railings and fire extinguishers. All kinds of shit.”