The Presence (5 page)

The nurse had come back, silent in her white nurse's shoes.

"Miss Lovelace called out to me from her bedroom. I told her you were here, and she got frantic. She tried to get out of bed, but I could see she was dizzy and disoriented. She grabbed my hand and wouldn't let go." The nurse fingered her collar nervously. "She said I have to take her to the bank first thing on Monday. She absolutely has to get something out of her safety deposit box." I could see how frazzled the nurse was. "Whatever it is, it's for you," she said. "You're to come for it Monday. It's very important."

"What could it be?"

She shook her head. "I've no idea. Miss Lovelace is very secretive about some things in her life. Secretive and almost scared."

"Well, if that's OK, I'll come by on Monday."

"Fine," the nurse said. "Come after two. I'm going to insist that she have her nap."

I nodded. "Thanks."

" Secretive and almost scared," I thought. That's exactly the way I feel a lot of the time. It's the way I feel right now.

The Presence hummed "O Little Town of Bethlehem" as he painted, his strokes thick and bold on the uneven gray
crumble of wall. He dipped his brush into the can of Midnight Black and swirled it to make the perfect color to match the dark clouds of Catherine's hair. He'd used Midnight Black a lot.

He stood bach and looked along the length of the wall in his den. There they were: Lydia, Belinda, Eliza May, Florence, Lottie, who had actually escaped, Alice, Donna, and now Catherine. Primitive might be the word for his style, though he rather thought of himself as a painter like Modigliani. There was a book of his works in the St. Matthew's library. Yes, they had the same kind of technique.

He looked again along the length of the wall and frowned. The paintings of his earlier loves were beginning to fade. His dearest Lydia's hair looked almost gray. Well, it would be now, of course. She'd be 137 years old, but in his memory she'd always be seventeen, soft and sweet as maple syrup. Maple syrup over pancakes. That had been one of his favorite taste treats. He'd loved Lydia's hair. He'd loved to brush it, smoothing the shine of it.

He walked quickly down to that first painting and gave her hair a black touchup. "There, my darling," he said, and went bach to the incomplete picture of Catherine. He chose a smaller brush, then dipped it in red paint and carefully outlined the tender curve of her lips.

"
Goldarn it," Manuel, the caretaker, had complained to Michael, the gardener. "Someone broke into my storeroom and stole paint again. I've got the place padlocked now, too.
"

The Presence had smiled. As if a padlock could stop him.

He stood back to ponder Catherine's image on his wall. He'd draw her in the jeans and white shirt she'd worn today. Or maybe he should wait and see what she wore to church tomorrow. It might be a dress. He approved of girls in dresses—old-fashioned, he knew, but so much more feminine. On that last day, Lydia had worn a pink blouse and a skirt that
was
white with pink roses sprinkled on it. That's how he'd painted her. He hoped that when he took Catherine, she'd be wearing a dress. Maybe it would be silky and soft, the color of the sky. That would be nice. He'd like being with her forever in a dress the color of the sky.

Sun streamed in my window. I lay in bed, not quite awake, knowing that I was at Grandma's house, sleeping in the room that used to be my mom's. And then I remembered. I sat up in bed, my heart beginning its slow, heavy pounding. Below, in the kitchen, I could hear a Sunday morning talk show on TV. I could smell bacon cooking. Grandma had already started the day.

I got up and put on the robe she had lent me. It was soft and pink and wrapped me immediately in warmth and comfort. "I want to comfort you." Noah. Noah on the phone, in the church. And today, soon, I would be back in St. Matthew's. Would he be there? Would he come up to me, speak about Kirsty? What did he know? I clenched my fists. Stop it, Catherine. Just stop it.

I stood in front of the mirror to brush my hair. No use telling myself not to think about it. That picture yesterday. Lottie Lovelace, who could almost have been me.

What was she going to take out of that safety deposit box? Something about Noah. "Run," she'd warned me. "Run!" In the mirror, my face looked back at me, white and strained and thinner somehow, stretched over my bones. If only I could get through this week.

I went slowly downstairs.

"Good morning," Grandma said brightly. "One egg or two, sweetie?"

"One, please. Can I help?"

"Sit down and eat," she said. "I've been trying to figure out what time it is in Paris. It's the same day, isn't it?"

"Same day," I said, "but tonight."

I unfolded my napkin and stared at the plate of food Grandma had placed in front of me. My stomach heaved. How could I eat this? How could I eat anything?

"It sounds as though those parents of yours are having a wonderful time," Grandma said.

"Yes." They'd called last night. I'd tried to sound normal and happy. What point was there in worrying them? But my mom has some kind of sixth sense. "Is everything all right, Catherine?" she'd asked.

"Fine," I'd lied.

"I don't think so," Mom'd said. "You sound ... I don't know. Something. You're not doing playbacks, are you?"

"Playbacks" was Mom's word for going over and over what had happened that awful night.

I'd hesitated, not meaning to. "Not really," I said at last, because this ... awfulness wasn't a playback, it was a new terror that was somehow connected through Noah. It wasn't worse—nothing could be worse—but it was unknown and frightening.

I forced myself now to take a bite of toast and chew and chew and chew.

Grandma had the Sunday
L.A. Times,
and she gave me the comics section. The colors blurred in front of my eyes.

I nodded, not knowing, not caring.

"So," she added, "that's my signal. Time to get ready for morning service. Aren't you going to eat any more of your breakfast, love?"

"I'm actually not hungry," I said and carried my plate to the sink.

"All right, then. No point in eating when you don't want it. That just puts on weight. I always figure our bodies know best."

I smiled. This wasn't a grandma who made you eat everything on your plate!

I had a quick shower in the little bathroom off my room, made my bed, and got dressed. Black pants, the raspberry red cashmere turtleneck sweater Mom and Dad had bought me for Christmas.

I had a quick thought that I'd see Collin Miller again today. I'd hardly remembered him through all the terrors of yesterday. But now I remembered perfectly.... He'd been so nice. Nice-looking, too, with that tousle of blond hair and that quick smile.

And Noah? What did he look like? I knew absolutely that he would try to contact me today. How could I stay away from him when I wouldn't recognize him? And did I want to stay away? Did I want to keep wondering what he knew and how he knew, wondering forever what Kirsty had told him?

I gripped the edge of the dresser. Of course, I didn't wholly believe he could put me in touch with Kirsty. Still, I had to explore all possibilities. I had to. But Lottie Lovelace had told me to run.

"You look nice," Grandma said when I came downstairs.

"You, too," I told her, and she really did, in a black velvet suit and a white ruffled blouse.

"I like to wear a skirt now and then to show off my legs," she said, extending a leg in sheer black hose. "The legs are the last to go, you know. So why not give them an airing every now and then?"

I grinned. "Nothing on you has gone, Grandma."

She patted my head. "Nice child," she said.

We drove through the Sunday-quiet streets and parked in the church lot. I recognized Collin's truck.

"I guess he can never skip a Sunday morning," I said to Grandma. "Being the pastor's son, I mean."

Grandma made a face. "I guess not."

The heavy front doors of the church were wide open, and I could see that the vestibule was crowded with people. The Sunday before Christmas and probably the whole congregation turning out. As soon as we went inside, I saw Maureen and Rita.

They waved. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," I called.

"Hi," someone said, and I spun around, as nervous as a cat, and there was Collin Miller.

"Everything all right?" he asked, and I knew he'd seen how jittery I was.

"Fine," I said. "Perfect."

"Will you be OK, then?" Grandma asked. "I just have to dash in the office for a second. Collin will keep you company."

"I have to leave, too, for a minute," Collin said when she'd gone. "My dad wants me to go in back and check the tree lights. Do you want to come with me and watch me be a genius at work?"

"Not really," I said. "I'll wait here. Grandma might come back and wonder where I'd disappeared to. She won't be long."

When he'd gone, I looked around at the people standing in clusters, talking in loud, happy voices. "Is Santa going to be good to you this year?" "Marlene won't be home. She's going to her fiance's parents' for the holidays." "I know how that is. You have to share." "I got Bill a sweater. Seems like I always buy him a sweater." Everything normal and ordinary.

A woman standing close to the door was looking intently at me. I smiled uncertainly, but she didn't smile back.

Now she was coming toward me.

"I'm sorry to stare at you like that," she said. "I'm Connie Cuesta. My daughter, Donna, is..." She stopped and bit her lips. "My daughter, Donna, has left home. I'm not sure where she is right now."

"My grandma mentioned her," I said. "I'msorry." Why was the woman telling me this?

"The thing is..." She seemed to be searching for words. "The thing is, you remind me so much of her. From the back—same hair, same height. When I really look at you, of course ... of course you're not Donna. But just for a minute."

"I look like her?" I asked nervously. I looked like Miss Lovelace, too, when she was my age.

"You do look like her. Of course, I think I see her in every beautiful young girl. But ... wait a second." She opened the purse she was carrying and pulled out a leather photo holder. "This is Donna." There was a sudden catch in her voice. "And this." Before I could open the photo holder, she handed me a long postcard that had a brightly colored advertisement for carpet cleaning on it.

"Other side," she said.

I turned it over. There was a postage stamp-sized picture on it, a girl with long dark hair. She stared out at the camera, a small smile on her face.

"High school yearbook," Mrs. Cuesta said. Above the picture, in heavy black print, were the words HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL? In smaller print, underneath, it said:
Name:
Donna Lee Cuesta.
Age:
16.
Height:
5 ft, 5 in.
Weight:
126 pounds.
Hair:
black.
Eyes:
brown.
Sex:
F.
Date missing: 2/25/2002.

My hand was shaking. It could have been a description of me. At the bottom of the card it said CALL I-800-THE-LOST.

The Lost! They were the saddest words I'd ever heard, echoing and echoing in my head like some faraway gong.

"These went out in the mail. It's an advertisement, you see. But the company gets to mail them free if it does this public service." She spoke in short, jerky sentences, as if she couldn't hold onto her thoughts.

I nodded. How many times had I seen postcards like this, and I'd just given them a quick glance and tossed "The Lost" out with other junk mail?

"This is a better picture of her," Mrs. Cuesta said. "You can really see that she does look like you." She touched the photo holder gently.

I opened it, and there she was, serious now, gazing out at me. Donna Cuesta. Head and shoulders only. No chance to see if she was wearing the serpent ring. She did look a little like me. Same type.

Who had said that before? Lottie Lovelace's nurse.

My hands were suddenly so sweaty they left fingerprints on the dark red leather.

I handed it back. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Cuesta." Sweaty hands and a mouth that felt as dry as bone. "Have you ... have you heard anything at all from her?"

She tucked the picture carefully back into her purse. "Nothing. She just vanished. And I don't know why I'm telling you all this. I guess because you reminded me. Just looking at you. And to be honest, I do bother people a lot with my story. Maybe one of them has seen her and forgotten. You know, strange things happen?"

And at that minute I saw him. He was sitting on the stairs, watching me. He wore a white shirt, the long sleeves rolled up above his wrists. His dark hair curled over his collar. When he smiled at me, there was so much brilliance and light, it almost took my breath away. There was such a grace about him, such an ease as he lounged there, long legs stretched out in front, one arm casually draped across the banister. He was definitely and absolutely the most handsome man I'd ever seen in my life. And definitely and absolutely I knew he was Noah.

Mrs. Cuesta was folding the "Missing" card along the crease and tucking it back in the side pocket of her purse.

I touched her hand. "Mrs. Cuesta? The guy sitting on the stairs. Do you know him? Who is he?"

She turned to look, turned back. "On the stairs?"

"Yes." Over her shoulder, I could see him, still sitting, still smiling.

"Do you mean the man standing by the table?"

"No," I said nervously. "On the stairs."

Collin was weaving his way toward us. Before she could answer, he said, "Hello, Mrs. Cuesta. How are you?"

"Fine." She gave me a puzzled look and drifted away.

"Too bad you weren't there to see the way I took care of those Christmas tree lights," Collin said. "First there was a bang. Then a lot of smoke." He spread his hands. "And now a tree without any of those flashing, irritating red and green bulbs. Much more peaceful, right?"

"Right," I muttered, watching the guy who was maybe Noah—who was definitely Noah—coming in our direction. I moved a step closer to Collin.