Breaking the Silence (12 page)

L
AURA
W
AS ABOUT TO KNOCK ON
S
ARAH
T
OLLEY
’
S APARTMENT
door when Carolyn, the attendant, spotted her from down the hall.

“Oh, Mrs. Brandon,” she said, rushing up to her. “I’m glad I bumped into you.”

Laura was instantly worried. “Is everything all right?” she asked.

“Oh, yes.” Carolyn was a bit winded. “I just wanted to thank you for your visits to Sarah. They’ve made such a difference.”

“Have they?” Laura asked, surprised.

“She’s always telling people about her walks. ‘Well, when I was on my walk, I saw this and that,’ she’ll say.”

“Really? We’ve only been out twice.”

“It means a lot to her.”

“She barely seems to know who I am, though.”

“Well, that’s typical of someone in her condition. But believe me, getting out of here once a week means the world to her.”

Laura hesitated, then pulled the cryptic letter from her purse. She’d thought of showing it to Sarah, but decided against it on the drive to the retirement home, not wanting to upset her. She handed the letter to Carolyn.

“I got this in the mail the other day,” she said. “Do you have any idea who might have sent it?”

Carolyn studied the one line with a frown. “God, no,” she said with a shiver. “This is creepy.”

“I couldn’t imagine who sent it, either,” Laura said, “but now that you’ve mentioned the fact that Sarah’s talking about our walks…” She looked at the other doors. Well-worn pink ballet slippers were attached to one of them, a picture of a St. Bernard on another. “Do you think some other resident here might be envious and want to put an end to Sarah’s outings?”

Carolyn studied the ceiling as though sorting through the residents in her mind. “I can’t imagine who it would be. It’s true that there are some women here who envy Sarah, because she dresses so nicely and is…well, a cut above some of them. But I can’t see any of them having the wherewithal to type this up and mail it to you.”

“Besides,” Laura remembered, “it was sent from Philadelphia.”

Carolyn shook her head. “I don’t think it’s from one of ours,” she said, handing the sheet of paper to her. “But listen, please don’t let it scare you off from seeing her.”

“You really care about her, don’t you?”

“I care about
all
my patients,” Carolyn said quickly, then added, “but yes, there’s something special about Sarah.”

They spoke a few more minutes, then Carolyn continued down the hall, and Laura rang the buzzer next to the apartment door.

Sarah opened the door, and her eyes lit up. “I’m ready!” she said, and Laura noticed that, once again, she had her walking shoes on.

“Sarah,” she said, “let’s sit down for a minute first.”

Sarah looked surprised and a bit disappointed. “All right.”
She walked across the small living room and took a seat on the couch. Laura sat in one of the chairs.

“I was wondering if it would help you to know exactly when I’m coming,” Laura said. “That way you’d know when you’re going for a walk. It wouldn’t be a surprise. And you wouldn’t be disappointed if you think I might show up one day but I don’t.”

“That would be good.” Sarah nodded.

“Today’s Wednesday. What if I come every Wednesday? Unless it’s raining?”

“Wednesday is Bingo.”

“Oh. So, Wednesday is a bad day for you?”

“Bingo is at night.”

“Is Wednesday okay, then?”

“Yes.” Sarah still didn’t look too certain. “Isn’t today Saturday?” she asked.

“Oh. No, dear.” She surprised herself with the word
dear
. She didn’t think she’d ever used it before in her life. “No, today is Wednesday. Do you have a calendar?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’ll get you one, and we can circle the Wednesdays. Then you’ll know when I’m coming.” She hoped Alison would be able to watch Emma every Wednesday afternoon.

“Good. Can we go now?” Sarah sounded like a child, and Laura smiled.

“Absolutely.”

On their way to the door, Laura noticed a calendar on the kitchenette wall, the pages turned to the previous month. She said nothing.

Once outside the retirement home, Sarah began her springy step.

“Do you remember last time we talked, I told you about
my little girl’s birth father, Dylan?” Laura asked after they’d walked a short distance.

There was a crease between Sarah’s eyebrows. “Dylan?” she asked.

Sarah had no idea who she was talking about, Laura realized. “He flies hot air balloons,” she said. “Remember, you told me about the train crash?”

“Ah, the train crash,” Sarah said. “I was a stranger on a train.”

“That’s right.” She felt disturbed by Sarah’s confusion but knew how to turn it around to hear the older woman sound lucid and in control. And maybe that’s why Sarah loved her walks, it gave her a chance to go back to a time when she was exactly that—lucid. In control.

“I’ve been wondering about the train crash,” Laura said. “What happened afterward?”

Sarah, 1955–1956

Sarah had finished dispensing medications to the patients in her ward when the receptionist arrived at the nurses’ station, carrying a vase filled with red roses.

“Sarah Wilding,” she said. “These are for you.”

For a moment, Sarah wondered if it might be a joke of some sort. She had never, not once in her life, received flowers from a delivery service, and today was not even a special occasion. Her parents had given her a beautiful arrangement of poppies and baby’s breath when she graduated from nursing school—to make up for the fact that they had not been with her in person, she figured.

“For me?” she said, accepting the vase. She carried it behind the desk of the glass-enclosed nurses’ station, and a few of her
co-workers gathered around her. Even a couple of patients peered through the glass to see who had received the flowers.

“Who are they from?” Pauline, one of the other nurses, asked.

Sarah plucked the envelope from among the flowers. There was no card inside, merely a ticket to
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
for Saturday night. Seat 32, row F. She showed the ticket to her friends wordlessly.

“Who on earth sent it?” Pauline asked.

Sarah shook her head. “I have no idea,” she said. But actually, she did. She was afraid she might be wrong, though, and she didn’t dare hope.

“Sarah has a secret admirer!” Pauline said, giving her a hug.

“There are only eleven roses,” said one of the nurse’s aides.

“That’s strange,” Pauline said, counting the roses herself.

Sarah stared at the ticket. She’d wanted to see this play for so long, and there were only two people to whom she’d recently confided that fact.

She had thought about Joe Tolley ever since that night on the train. After reading his article about the crash, she’d kept her eyes open for other articles he had written, checking the
Post
from front to back every day. She’d thought of calling the paper and asking for him, just to hear his voice again. It was silly. She had a crush on someone who was clearly out of her reach. He had to be at least several years younger than she to begin with, and he was attractive. She was popular, spirited, smart and capable, but beauty was not one of her attributes. The lighting, though, had certainly been poor in that overturned train. Still, it was ridiculous to think that the ticket and flowers might be from Joe Tolley. Perhaps they were simply a show of kindness from that dear social worker, Ann. Or maybe they
were
from Joe, and she was reading too much into the gift. Maybe it was simply a greeting from him, and she would go
to the theater and sit alone as
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
played out before her. After all, he’d already seen it. And he had carefully sent only eleven roses rather than the romantic dozen. Yet they were red. Oh, she was driving herself mad trying to think through all the possibilities! She would go to the theater Saturday night, and she would look her very best, just in case.

He was already in the seat next to hers when she arrived at the theater. The twelfth rose was in his hand, and he held it out to her with a smile. Her heart beat wildly as she took her seat.

“What a lovely surprise,” she said, smoothing the skirt of her borrowed black chiffon dress over her legs.

“Didn’t you know who had sent the ticket?” he asked.

“I was hoping it was you,” she said, unable to believe her bravery in making that statement.

He lightly touched the back of her hand. “I was hoping you were hoping,” he said.

The play began, but Sarah could barely concentrate on it, so aware was she of the man sitting next to her. He smelled wonderful; the sleeve of his jacket rested against her bare arm.
This is a miracle
, she thought.

At intermission, they strolled around the halls of the theater, chatting about the play and describing what each of them had been doing since the train crash. They wondered how Ann was doing, and the little boy, Donny. Sarah felt perfectly comfortable walking next to him, but when they stopped, when he turned to face her and she knew he could see her in the clear light from the lobby, she was consumed with discomfort.

Still, Joe looked at her with warmth in his face. His smile was ever-present and it lit up his eyes. He was looking at her, directly at her, and he seemed to be
captivated
with her looks.
She began to feel lovely. By the end of the play, she’d been transformed.

After the play, he took her to a little café for coffee and dessert. They talked about movies and plays they’d seen. He was the first person Sarah had ever met who had seen every single one of her favorites. She told him she’d read his articles and offered her opinion about each one. He was clearly taken by her thoughtful critiques, jotting down her words from time to time on his notepad. “You are even more interesting than I thought you’d be,” he said at one point.

The café closed rather late, although Sarah could not have said what time it was. All she knew was that she and Joe were not finished talking. She had so much more she wanted to say to him, as though she’d been saving it up all her life for this evening. And the amazing thing was, he seemed to feel the same way. By the time she told him she was thirty-two, she had no fear that news would put him off, even though he’d already told her that he was only twenty-five.

They left the café. The spring night air was warm, and they walked across the street to a park, where they sat on a bench under the stars and talked until early morning. They stopped only for Sarah to call the woman with whom she shared her apartment to tell her she was fine, not to worry, and for Joe to call his mother to do the same. His mother was not at all happy with the call, he said. But he’d told her he was working on an important story. “Maybe the most important story in my life,” he’d said.

She learned that Joe’s father had died a few years ago and that he lived with his mother and older sister, both of whom sounded quite dependent on him. “They are wretchedly conservative,” he said. He had been raised Catholic, and his mother and sister were devout, although Joe himself rarely attended
church anymore. Organized religion was not important to him, he said. It was more important how people behaved in their daily lives than what they did on Sunday. She had been raised Methodist, Sarah told him, and although she did go to church most weeks, she agreed with him wholeheartedly.

She told him about her own family. Her father had died a decade ago; her mother shortly after. Except for a few cousins, she had no family.

He pulled a pipe from his jacket pocket and lit it, and she knew then why he emanated that rich, dusky scent. He let her try it. She loved setting her lips where his had been only a few seconds before, but she accidentally inhaled before he’d warned her not to. She choked, laughing, and relished the feeling of his hand on her back as he tried to help her.

He wanted to travel all over the world, he said. Africa enticed him more than anywhere else because it sounded so exciting and primitive, and Sarah immediately pictured herself there with him, floating on a river, like Hepburn and Bogart in
The African Queen
. Joe had a wild streak. She liked that about him.

He drove her home to her apartment. She had trouble leaving the car, leaving
him
. She wondered if he would kiss her, and to her own amazement, she leaned toward him without waiting for him to make the overture. There was no need for games here. No need for cat and mouse. She wanted him. She wanted every part of him.

He kissed her lightly, then pulled back to smile at her. “So, do you want to skip church tomorrow?” he asked. “We can go for a hike in the mountains.”

That was the beginning. They spent every weekend together, except for a few hours each night when they gave in to propriety and returned to their respective homes. They saw
each other frequently during the week, as well, and spoke on the telephone every day. Together, they visited the theater and the museums, saw nearly every movie that opened, hiked in the mountains and rode a tandem bicycle around the city. Joe was a risk-taker, hiking away from the well-marked trails, dodging traffic on the bike, yet she felt completely safe with him. Their relationship developed into the sort of intimate, passionate and loving union Sarah had never hoped to experience.