Lady Vanishes (16 page)

“You tell her Homer’s keeping her seat for her. She’ll know.”

He got up and went to the door, holding it ajar for me.

“Keep your eyes and ears open. Anything you hear, you let me know.”

He nodded.

Dashiell and I headed for the door, then turned back.

“Homer, were you here when Harry got hit by the bicycle?”

“I wasn’t. I went to the six o’clock meeting, got here about seven-thirty, couldn’t get in right off, because they were looking for clues out front. Never saw so many police in all my days.”

“What about the night before? Did you hear anything then, anything unusual?”

“Sorry, Rachel, I didn’t. I don’t know anything about Mr. Dietrich’s accident.”

I walked back to where he was standing.

“You might, Homer, but you might not know that what you saw or heard has any significance. So if something comes up, if you remember some little detail, no matter how unimportant it seems, you let me know, okay?”

“Okay, Rachel. I knew I was right about you trying to help Venus.”

“You bet I am. And now you are, too. We’re a team.”

It was a fifteen-minute walk to St. Vincent’s, and I was hoping, at least for that short amount of time, I’d be able to let my mind go blank. There wasn’t much hope it would get rest in the normal way that night. After checking in on Venus, I was planning to go back to her apartment and spend the rest of the night reading her correspondence with Harry, hoping for something, anything, that would point me in the right direction.

Digging my hands into my pockets, because it was late enough that I was chilly now, I felt Venus’s necklace and wondered if part of seeing what I had to would mean seeing through David’s eyes.

Or Jackson’s.

And then I wondered if I was up to it.

Sure, sometimes I could see like a dog, I could understand what should be unfathomable. But this was different, David and Jackson were of my own species, yet more baffling than anything I’d run across.

Still, I couldn’t help feeling that part of what I was seeking lay hidden there, with David, Jackson, and Charlotte, maybe with Cora, too—people who were unable to see the world as I needed it seen because they were infinitely more lost and confused than I now felt.

Except for the sound of machines doing the work some people’s bodies had refused to do, and the occasional squeak of rubber-soled shoes on the tile floors, there hadn’t been a sound in the ICU since I’d quietly moved a chair closer and sat next to Venus’s bed. Even the receptionist downstairs had only nodded when I came in, maybe figuring if I was here so late, there must be a good reason for it. The night nurse, too, had merely looked up as I passed her, as if making rounds with a pit bull was a normal part of hospital procedure.

For a while I sat still, not wanting to disturb the quiet. Then I reached for Venus’s hand, sliding mine under it, hers lying limp on mine, palm up. I watched her breathing for a while before I realized she was off the ventilator, doing it on her own. My heart did a little dance in my chest, enough excitement to get Dashiell up from where he’d wedged himself, head and shoulders under the bed, trunk, rump, and tail
sticking out, legs straight back in the frog position. First he looked at me, then at Venus. Head up, nose moving, he began to test the air, going closer to the bed until he had no choice, he had to get up there to get what he was after, and with a quick turn behind me to make sure the curtain was closed, I let him, watched him climb up and stand over Venus, his tail moving slowly from side to side, then suddenly dip his big head and begin vigorously to lick her face. I moved my hand to her wrist to protect the place where the IV needle had been inserted to give her fluids and hoped like hell the nurse wouldn’t pick this particular time to do a bed check.

I had a powerful faith in the wisdom of a sound dog, having seen and heard enough miracles to know that animals sensed things that were beyond human knowledge. So as odd as this scene would have appeared to most of the rest of the human race and probably all of the hospital personnel, I sat there with a wait-and-see attitude when anyone else would have kicked the dog off the bed in no time flat.

Dashiell kept licking, and the speed of his tail revved up, enough so that I had to move a bit to avoid getting hit in the face.

And then I felt it: Venus’s fingers moved, as if she were trying to close her hand.

I felt a flutter in my chest again, but then I thought, who said they didn’t move before? Did a twitch mean anything? I didn’t know, and I wasn’t about to ask the nurse, but now even I thought it was time to get Dashiell off the bed. It’s not that he was doing any harm. It’s just that I wanted to get a better look at Venus, and he was in the way.

Off, I whispered, not wanting to hear the nurse’s shoes squealing as she came running.

Dashiell backed up and got off the bed, standing next to my chair, his tail still going like a runaway metronome.

Now Venus’s eyes were moving, the lids still closed, the way Dashiell’s do when he’s dreaming.

I took her hand. I whispered her name. Venus opened her eyes.

I knew I should have called the nurse right away, but I didn’t. I waited to hear what Venus would have to say. She looked at me for what seemed like ages. I thought for a moment she might need time to focus after being out for so long. But her face didn’t look confused. It just looked blank. And then her mouth moved, and Venus whispered something, so softly that I couldn’t make it out.

“Say it again,” I said, getting up and getting closer, bending over her so that I could hear the word Venus had mouthed. And then I did.

“Pain,” she said.

And then her eyes fluttered closed, and her head moved slightly away from me.

I sat a moment longer, my heart pounding, then went out to the desk to tell the nurse what had happened.

It was the middle of the night by the time I left St. Vincent’s. I had wanted to go to Venus’s apartment and read the rest of her letters to and from Harry, but after what had happened, it seemed a ridiculous plan. For one thing, it would take hours and hours to do that. No way could I stay awake that long if I were sitting still and reading. My head ached, my stomach felt hollow, I was punchy with exhaustion. Whatever the nurse had given Venus, injecting something into the IV drip, I should have asked for some myself. But even more pressing than my need for sleep was my need to tell someone about what had happened, someone who knew Venus and would care.

For some reason I can’t explain, halfway back to Harbor View, I changed my mind again. I had been hoping to talk to Homer, maybe have that cup of tea with him and tell him that Venus was breathing on her own, that she’d awakened, even if it was only for half a minute, and only to say she was hurting.

But as I passed the little park at Abingdon Square, empty now, all the old people from the Village Nursing Home snug in their beds, no one else around, not even the pigeons that swoop in and clean the park of dropped food, I decided there was someone else I ought to tell my story to. Even at this late hour, or maybe especially at this late hour, talking about something as emotional as Venus’s “accident” and what looked to me like the beginning of her recovery might open up other topics, might just give me the piece of the puzzle that would allow me to understand the now confusing picture. It could make sense of the jumble of seemingly unrelated facts, like when after a long litany of complaints, a dog owner used to tell me the thing I should have heard first. He was taken from his mother at four weeks of age, they’d say, an aside that had no real significance to them but explained all the aberrant behavior that had led to me being hired.

If only.

She opened her door on the third knock, looking puffy-faced and confused when the light from the hallway hit her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, squinting as she pulled her robe closed around her and tied the belt. She had her slippers on, too, I noticed, ready to go forth and do battle if need be.

“I have to talk to you,” I told her, watching her expression change. She was looking at me now as if I were crazy. “Can I come in?”

“What time would it be?” she asked.

“Two-something,” I told her without looking. “I’ve just come from seeing Venus.”

Molly reached for my hand and pulled me into her dark room, leaving the door open behind us. In the little bit of light that filtered in from the hallway we made our way to her bed and sat, Molly still holding my hand.

“How is she, that poor child?”

“She spoke,” I said. “And she’s breathing on her own.” And then before I could elaborate, I began to cry. Perhaps it was the exhaustion, making my eyes feel as if they were full of sand, making my shoulders sag and ache, my feet feel too big for my shoes, my mouth feel dry and sour. As if she knew all that, Molly reached for the glass of water on her nightstand and handed it to me. Then she slipped an arm around my shoulder and pulled me close.

“All she said was ‘Pain,’” I said, my voice still choked with tears. “But I think that’s a good sign, don’t you?”

“I do indeed. And breathing without the ventilator?”

I nodded.

“I’ve been praying for her, asking our dear Lord to bring her back to us.”

I nodded again.

“She’s the backbone of this place, Rachel. She knows everything, and quietly, never tooting her own horn like some might, she keeps things running smoothly. She’s there for us, too, for the staff. But her way with the patients, it’s uncanny, always knowing when a person can handle more responsibility. She’s always had more faith in them than anyone. I myself tend to baby them. It’s not good for them, she’d say to me. Now Molly, you know they need to do every possible thing, every possible thing they can for themselves. It’s what gives a body self-esteem, she told me many a time. Because I needed to be told it more than once, that’s for sure.

“She was hired to take the phone calls, that one, to see who was coming in the front door. No one knew what else she’d be doing for us all.”

“Molly, do you think she’ll be—”

“Hush, you. Don’t you even think anything else. What
would happen to the lot of us without her? Of course she’ll be all right. She’ll be returned to us. And look at you, shaking like a leaf. What are you doing up all night, worrying about everyone else and not taking a lick of care of yourself?”

I couldn’t answer. I drank some more water instead.

“He knows what’s best,” she said. I thought she was talking about God again, our Lord, but when she stopped talking, all there was besides the whir of the air conditioner was the wheezy sound of Dashiell snoring, and I knew that Dashiell was the
he
she’d been referring to because she was laying me down in her bed, still warm from her body, and pulling the blanket over me. I thought I should be asking her where she would sleep, but I don’t think I did. All I remember was the sensation of going backward, as if I were falling in my sleep.

When I opened my eyes, I could see the little room, neat as the dollhouse of an obsessive-compulsive child, light coming in from the windows washing over the pale blue cotton blanket that covered me. There was a small bureau covered with framed photographs opposite the bed, a rocking chair with a small table and a lamp in the corner, and not an article of clothing or a scrap of paper anywhere to be seen.

I lay there for a moment, just gathering my thoughts, and when I stretched my arms and legs, I felt something large and warm at the end of the bed. Molly wasn’t here with me, but Dashiell was.

I pushed the blanket back, saw my shoes lined up next to the bed, and, ignoring them for the moment, walked over to the bureau in my stocking feet to look at Molly’s photo collection, which turned out to be pictures of the boys: Nathan graduating from college, holding his diploma and looking straight at the camera, Nathan the serious; and Samuel, his
eyes closed, his brow covered in sweat, leading an orchestra, or more likely, a small band of developmentally disadvantaged singers. Samuel with rabbit ears?

I took the photo with me and turned on the lamp as the door opened and Molly appeared, still in her robe, holding a tray of food.

“I thought you might be hungry,” she said.

“Where did you sleep?”

“On the couch in Venus’s office. It’s very comfortable, and there’s a blanket and pillow in the cabinet because sometimes Venus stays over. You’re not to worry about putting me out, Rachel. I was fine, and I’m glad you didn’t go back out in the night at that hour. It’s not safe out there.”

It’s not safe in here, either, I thought as Molly turned to put the tray down in the middle of the bed.

“Come and sit here with me. We’ll have some tea. Do you feel a bit better, child?”

The photo still in my hand, I walked over and sat at the foot of the bed, next to Dashiell, who hadn’t gotten up.

“I’m sorry about this. He does it at home, so—”

“You’ve nothing to apologize for, neither one of you. It’s where Lady slept, and no doubt he knew that. She slept right where Dashiell is, keeping my feet warm, the dear thing.”

Molly sat at the head of the bed. The tray was between us. I thought she’d pour the tea, but suddenly her face screwed up, and she was reaching under her hip, fishing around, and then pulling something out she’d sat on, holding it up so that the light of the lamp made it glitter and shine.

“What’s this?” she asked.

For a moment, I froze.

Clearly, it hadn’t been in Molly’s bed before I’d spent part of the night there.

But had she ever seen it on Venus?

There was only one way to go with this, I thought, leaving the necklace in Molly’s hand instead of reaching for it. Instead, I looked down at the tray, then poured a cup of tea.

“Is this yours?” she asked.

“No,” I told her. There was no cream or sugar on the tray, so I held out the cup of black tea, meeting her eyes now. “It belongs to Venus.”

“Is that so?” she asked, taking the heart between two fingers and turning it over. “It’s hers, Venus’s, you say?”

“That’s right.”

Molly looked up at me, still holding the diamond heart, the chain dangling down from her hand, the cup of tea between us in my outstretched hand.

“It’s very much like one Mrs. Dietrich had.”

I put down the cup and glanced at the photo I’d put on the bed next to me, at Samuel, in what I’d thought were rabbit ears, perhaps doing Easter songs with the kids. Then I poured a cup of tea for myself, taking a sip and reaching out for the necklace.

“It is hers, Mrs. Dietrich’s,” I said. “Rather, it was.”

“But how did—”

“Harry gave it to her.”

“I don’t—”

“They were in love, Molly. They were married.” I watched her doughy cheeks flush and tremble, saw the disbelief in her eyes.

“Venus and Mr. Dietrich.”

I nodded. If Venus thought it was Molly who might be listening when she was on the phone, well, unless she’d studied at the Actors Studio, I’d say it wasn’t.

“But I don’t understand.”

“There’s a lot going on here that’s hard to understand,
Molly. The fact that two lonely people with the same devotion fell in love is the easiest thing to comprehend. Why he’s dead and she’s in the hospital, that’s another story.”

“But—”

“Here’s the question that I believe you could answer best, Molly. I found the necklace in David’s hand last night. He was holding it in his sleep.”

“David?”

I nodded.

I could see Molly struggling with all the new information.

“Nathan says David is the one who hit Venus, that he’s been violent before. Venus also told me that he gets violent sometimes. In fact, she said that if he made me uncomfortable, I didn’t have to work with him.”

“But he’s never hurt anyone intentionally. With the exception of himself, that is.” Molly picked up her cup and drank some tea. “He’s pushed people, who’ve then fallen. But it was only to defend himself from what he thought was danger. Not too many people can understand how easily he goes on overload, how frightened he is most all of the time. I suppose he
could
have pushed Venus,” she said, as much to herself as to me. Then she looked me right in the eye. “No—impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because Venus knew him better than anyone. She’d never go that route with him.”

“I don’t understand.”

“She’d never pressure him. It’s when he’s pressed that he reacts.”

“Like when he was questioned by the police?”

“Exactly. And who did he hurt? The officer? No—himself.”

“So he’s never attacked anyone.”

Molly shook her head.

“Then how do you explain the fact that he had this?” I held up the necklace.

“Well, I can tell why he’d want it, but not how he got it.”

“Go on.”

“It’s the sparkle. That’s why he stands at the front door all day, looking up. It’s the stained glass he loves, the way the light comes through the colored glass. It seems to mesmerize him. Perhaps it gives him a way to block out all the rest, the jumble that makes no sense to him.

“All of them, those with autism, they create rituals, patterns of behavior that give them a little peace. For David, it’s watching the light dance. That’s what works for him. That, and the dog.”

“You mean Lady?”

“Yes. She helped, too. She was the best thing that ever happened in that man’s life.”

“So you don’t think David would have struck Venus? Not even to get the necklace?”

“No, Rachel, I don’t.”

“Would he have taken it from her after she was hit, when she was lying on the ground?”

“The catch looks broken. Pulled apart.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Then your answer is no. He wouldn’t have pulled it from her neck like that. But if he saw it on the rug, if the light hit it and made it shine, then he would have picked it up and taken it, yes.”

“Nathan didn’t tell you it was David?”

“No, he didn’t. He said she’d fallen. He’d know better than to tell
me
a story like that.”

I nodded. The story had been for my benefit. What did
that mean? Was it part of the policy of protection? If so, and it wasn’t David who’d hit Venus, then who was Nathan protecting?

I reached behind me for the picture of Samuel in his rabbit ears.

“He made those himself,” Molly said. “Anything to make the music sound better.”

Easter songs, I’d thought. Rabbit ears. So they were headphones with antennae sticking up from each ear. That’s what the artist had drawn in that funny-looking picture on the back of Venus’s door, the one in which I thought someone had spoons sticking out of his or her head.

I looked at the picture and smiled. It’s amazing what you can come up with when you don’t know what you’re looking at.

“He should have studied music, not medicine,” Molly said. “But like most boys, he wanted his father’s approval. He wanted to be like him, anything to get closer, to feel accepted.”

“And Nathan? What did he do to win his daddy’s heart?”

“Nathan? Why, not a thing. It was always his. He was always the favorite. You know how that is.”

I put down the photograph and picked up my tea, cold by now, and bitter too. Then I opened my hand and looked at Venus’s necklace, seeing something I hadn’t seen before. I got up and moved over to the lamp, holding my hand right in the light. Yes, there was a part of the chain that wasn’t shiny. It was dark.

“Do you have a tissue, Molly?”

“I do,” she said.

She opened the top drawer of her nightstand and took one out. I took it, dipped it in the water glass, and pulled the damp tissue along the dark part of the chain, Molly and I both watching closely as the chain got shiny again and the tissue came away brownish red.

“Molly,” I said, “how is it you recognized this necklace?”

“It was her favorite, Rachel, Mrs. Dietrich’s. Leastways, she wore it all the time.”

“But I thought she hardly ever came here.”

“She didn’t. But she and Mr. Dietrich used to come to the house, in Brooklyn, back when I lived there and took care of the boys.”