Kiss Mommy Goodbye (32 page)

“I’m a big girl.”

Donna nodded. “My big girl,” she agreed aloud. “I love you.”

For the first time in over an hour, Annie looked in Donna’s direction. “Then why are you leaving me?”

“Only for four weeks,” Mel interjected. “And Mrs. Harrison will be with you—”

“Because Sharon and Adam are my children too, and I want them back with me,” Donna answered over Mel’s voice, knowing now that the child was not concerned with time or Mrs. Harrison. “Because I tried to do too much and it just won’t work. I can’t deny my children. They exist. I love them. I want to see them again. I can’t live without the hope that I might. I tried, but I’m just not built that way, I guess.” She paused, taking a deep breath. “It won’t be like it was before, Annie, when I was consumed with them, with finding them. When I shut everything and everyone else out of my life. I’ll never let that happen again. I swear to you.” Annie looked at the floor, trying hard, Donna could see, not to cry. “I love you. I love your father. I’ll never let either of you go. You just try and get away from me—”

Annie flung her arms around Donna’s neck and the two hugged each other almost ferociously, stopping their breath, burying their faces in each other’s hair. “I hope you find them, Donna,” the child said when they finally released each other.

“I hope so too,” Donna acknowledged.

Mel moved toward the door. “We better get going. The plane leaves in less than an hour.”

Annie waved them out of sight as their car sped down the road.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked her, thirty-seven thousand feet in the air.

“That this could all be a wild goose chase,” she answered. “Oh God, there goes the fasten your seatbelt sign! Why is
there always turbulence just when they start serving the food?”

Mel shook his head. “It’s probably some drunk in the aisle.”

“What do you mean?”

“A friend of mine was going on a trip once,” he began explaining, leaning in close to her, “and he happened to know the pilot. In the middle of the flight, the announcement came on that they were experiencing turbulence and would everyone please fasten their belts and stay in their seats. A few minutes later, the stewardess came over to him and asked him if he’d like to see the cockpit—the pilot was inviting him. Well, he protested. No, he said. There’s turbulence. I shouldn’t leave my seat. Apparently, the stewardess was fairly insistent, so he finally went up to the cockpit. His friend, the pilot, was jovial as could be, showed him around, asked him if he wanted to sit in the driver’s seat, the whole bit. My friend couldn’t believe it. What about the turbulence? he asked. Oh that, they said. There is no turbulence. We just do that to clear the aisles so the stewardesses can get the wagons through.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Apparently, they also do it if someone’s being very rowdy or drunk and they want to settle things down a bit.”

“So, all these butterflies in my stomach are for nothing—”

“Some of them.”

She smiled. “Why am I so sure they’re in California?”

“Deductive reasoning. Actually, I’m very proud of you. You were just like Nancy Drew.”

“California’s an enormous state.”

“We only have to worry about the coast.”

“The coast is pretty big.”

“You want to turn around?”

“What happens when we get there?” she asked, ignoring his question.

“We rent a car.”

“I feel pretty guilty about that.”

“About what?”

“You having to do all the driving.”

“It’s supposed to be a beautiful drive.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

The stewardess approached with their lunches. Like Pavlov’s conditioned dogs, Donna and Mel immediately lowered their trays. Donna began unwrapping her salad, picking at it with her fork.

“When we get back,” she said with determination, “I’m going to start driving again. It’s a belated New Year’s resolution. Whatever we find, or don’t find, in California, I’m going to start driving again.”

“Good.” Mel bit into his hard roll. “Meanwhile, you can be the keeper of the keys.”

“What’s your sister like?”

“Nice lady. You’ll like her.”

“It’s very sweet of her to let us stay at her place.”

“She’s thrilled to death. I haven’t seen my nephews in two years. It’ll be nice for everyone.”

“I hope they like me.”

“I don’t think I’d worry about that.”

Donna put her fork back on her tray and looked straight ahead. “The turbulence sign’s gone off.”

“The drunk must be back in his seat.”

“Mel—”

“What?”

She stopped. “I don’t know.”

He looked over at Donna. “You worried about what will happen if we don’t find them?”

Donna turned and focused her eyes directly on Mel. “It’s been eleven months,” she said. “Adam will be almost six; Sharon will be almost three. They might not even remember who I am. They might not want me anymore. And Victor. Every day for almost a year now, I’ve been praying for that man to die. Every godawful disease or accident that could possibly happen to anyone, I’ve wished on him—the more horrible the better. What happens if I see him? What do I say? What do I do? Mel—”

“What?”

“This is really crazy. I’m not worrying about what will happen if we don’t find them. I’m worrying about what will happen if we do.”

As if on cue, the plane gave a sudden lurch and the pilot’s voice came back on to announce more turbulence—would everyone please fasten their belts and stay in their seats.

I
f anything, the scenery was even more spectacular than the books described, the Pacific Ocean on one side, the Santa Lucia Mountains looming large, pushing close, on the other. Donna looked out the car window, letting her eyes feast along the ninety-mile stretch of rugged and awesomely beautiful coastline, known as Big Sur, that ran between San Simeon to the south and Carmel to the north. It was as breathtaking a sight as anything she had ever seen—rugged yet somehow intangible, spiritual almost. A rough spindle of land that had managed to remain apart from the rest of this most populous state, it reminded all who traveled into its often dangerous terrain that there were still areas in this world where man had not been entirely successful in leaving his mark.

According to the guidebooks, the name Big Sur was derived from the Spanish
el pais grande del sur,
meaning “the big country of the South.” Donna ignored this interpretation. The name, she told herself, sprang from a feeling, an
almost drug-induced rush—the rocks, the ocean, the mountains, the incredible sight and sound of the surf.

Donna let out a slow, deep breath of air. Mel looked over at her.

“Everything okay?”

“Fine,” she said. “It’s so beautiful here.”

“Yeah, it is,” he agreed. “Getting hungry?”

“A little.” She looked out at the narrow strip of highway on which they were traveling, and smiled. “Do you think there are any good restaurants around?”

“We should be approaching that little gallery soon,” he reminded her. One of the real-estate women they had conferred with while in San Simeon had told them to be sure to stop at a little art gallery hidden in the woods along the coast. The people who ran it were very friendly, she had told them, kept a ready supply of sandwiches on hand, and had a good memory for faces and bits of overheard gossip. Donna and Mel kept a sporadic lookout for the small rustic gallery. They didn’t expect much from it—perhaps only the sandwiches and use of the telephone. It was time again for them to check in with Los Angeles.

The gallery was even smaller and more hidden away than they had expected, so secluded in fact, that they almost drove right past it. Only the odor of smoke emanating from a wood-burning stove gave it away. Mel drove the rented white Buick up into the gravel driveway which was almost submerged by the surrounding foliage, and both he and Donna jumped instantly out of the car, Donna pulling her sweater tightly around her. She hadn’t been fully prepared for how cool it was up in the mountains. Los Angeles had been warm, much like Florida. Donna had only been
persuaded to take a sweater at all by Mel’s sister, Brenda, who argued that she would need one, especially in the early mornings. Donna thought fondly of Brenda, whom they had left exactly one week ago today. She had been very helpful, very supportive, always there with a good word and a hot meal at the end of one discouraging day after another.

They had spent ten days in Los Angeles, had driven through every hamlet and borough, combed the beaches of Malibu and Pacific Palisades, walked the streets of Newport Beach and Long Beach, talked endlessly and tediously with the residents of Palos Verdes and the other ocean communities. It was an impossible task. There were too many variables—it had been a Saturday when Victor had called, after all; it was entirely possible he and the kids had driven to the beach for the day, possibly the weekend, or to visit friends who lived there. They could be living anywhere, perhaps in Westwood or Beverly Hills, or even the San Fernando Valley. To that end, they checked with all the major realtors in greater Los Angeles—had anyone of Victor’s description either purchased or rented a house approximately a year ago? Here again, there were too many variables—too many agents, too many houses, not enough time, not enough interest. They checked with all of L.A.’s insurance companies—did anyone of Victor Cressy’s description work in any of their offices?

They spent ten days pursuing every available course of action, checking all elementary and nursery schools, visiting all parks, playgrounds and local tourist attractions. Nothing.

Several times, Donna thought she saw a child who might be either Adam or Sharon. In each instance, she was proved wrong. Finally, at Brenda’s urging, they agreed to hire
another private detective who could aid them in their search, and they themselves took off for their slow crawl up the coastline, visiting every small town along the way, checking daily with the detective, whose name was Marfleet. Had he turned up anything new? Similarly, they reported on their own progress, kept the detective posted as to where they were, where they were headed. If he had any leads, any sources, he directed them in the proper direction. So far, Mr. Marfleet, Dr. Segal and Mrs. Cressy were all tied at zero.

“Hmm, it smells good here,” Donna said, stuffing the car keys Mel had handed her inside her purse, feeling the dampness through her cardigan. Mel walked several paces ahead of her toward the two-story log cabin. “Oh, look, Mel,” Donna called. Mel turned to her in time to see a large German shepherd lumber up to her side and thrust his nose against her palm, indicating a great willingness to be stroked, which Donna immediately obliged him with. “Oh, you’re a nice dog,” she purred, nuzzling him close. After several seconds, Donna gave the dog a final pat and followed Mel inside.

It was as Donna had always imagined such houses would be—a genuine log structure, both inside and out, with irregular wood planking across the floor and a high wood-beamed ceiling from which hung several large, circular wood lamps. The scattered rugs were woven and oval in shape, the furniture all colonial and pine. It would have perhaps been even more interesting, she thought, had the occupants worked against the natural setting, done the interior with chrome and Plexiglas—modern man versus the elements and so forth, but perhaps such a decor would
have taken away from the number of paintings and sketches that hung at neat intervals around the room. At the bottom of each drawing was a price tag, the scale seeming to range between a low of sixty dollars and a high of two hundred. The paintings themselves were unexceptional, obviously deriving most of their appeal from that of their setting.

“Like anything?”

The voice was friendly, almost plump. The woman from whom it emanated was likewise, a large woman of perhaps forty, with an almost mannish build and long brown hair worn plainly, deliberately so, and pulled back into a careless ponytail. She wore no makeup and her skin spoke of teenage acne and still abundant freckles. It was a kind yet very determined face, one that continued the mood of the wilderness and the home she had built in it. In the background, Donna could see a man of approximately the same age, in jeans and cowboy boots, still living the myth of the Western man.

Mel was the first to speak. “This is a lovely place,” he said. Donna let him do the talking. She was becoming increasingly poor at small talk, preferring to let Mel amble along gently, almost stumbling into the areas they wanted explored. People were suspicious of strangers, of too many questions. It was necessary to get to know them first, in however superficial a manner. Not so much what you did, she thought, but what you appeared to be doing.

“We don’t get too many people stopping here,” the woman said. “Our own fault, I guess. We’re kind of hidden away. Can we get you anything to eat? Some sandwiches? Coffee?”

Over sandwiches and coffee, Donna and Mel learned
that this couple, David and Kathy Garratt, had run this little gallery from their house—their bedroom and another room were upstairs—for over fifteen years now. The paintings were either their own or those of friends, and they made just enough money to keep themselves going, David also working at various odd jobs—he was a carpenter by profession—in the surrounding territory. They had hit upon the idea of opening their house to interested tourists because they liked people and it gave them the chance to keep in daily contact with the outside world. Because not too many people stopped by on any given day, it usually provided them with about as much outside human company as they wanted. On days they preferred to be alone, they merely hung a closed sign on the front door.

Donna listened with an intermingling of impatience and interest. Only when the former began overtaking the latter, did she interrupt. “Would you happen to remember any of the people who have stopped here?”

Kathy Garratt regarded her with curiosity. “Anyone in particular?” she asked, knowing there was.

“A man. His name is Victor Cressy. He’s thirty-nine, tall, dark—”

“Handsome?”

Donna nodded with a measure of defeat. She pulled a picture of Victor from her purse. “Here he is. This picture is a few years old, mind you. He may have grown a moustache or a beard—”