Who Are You? (9780307823533) (13 page)

Sixteen years ago Roger was in the honors program at the University of Houston. So was my mother.

Why did my mother tell me she didn’t know Roger?

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

I
t’s a quarter to five when I reach home. I pick up the telephone and stare at it. Maybe everyone in the offices at the University of Houston has gone home by this time. Then again, maybe not. It’s worth finding out.

To my surprise I reach the director of the honors program without any trouble.

“Barry Jenkins here,” he says.

“Hi,” I say. “I need to ask about someone who was at the University of Houston in the honors program a number of years ago.”

“I may not be able to help you,” Mr. Jenkins answers. “I’ve been in this job for only three years.”

“Oh.” Disappointment rises in a lump and clogs
my throat. “Well, this was sixteen years ago. Thank you very—”

“Hey, wait,” he says. “You’re in luck. I was a student in the honors program at that time, so maybe I can answer your question. So tell me, what’s your name and what do you want to know?”

Hope fills my body like helium. I introduce myself. “My mother was in the honors program then. Callie Evans. Do you know her?”

“You bet I do. We were good friends. How is Callie?”

“She’s fine, thanks.”

“What do you want to know about her that she can’t tell you herself?”

“It’s not about Mom,” I tell him. “It’s about someone named Roger Merson.”

“Oh, gosh, yeah,” he says. “Roger. You know he committed suicide.”

“Yes.”

“It really got to your mother. He was a badly mixed-up kid—drugs and alcohol—and Callie had taken him under her wing. She did her best to turn his life around. When he died, Callie blamed herself She thought she hadn’t done enough.”

In shock I stammer, “Sh-She knew him? She knew Roger Merson?”

“Sure. Except she didn’t know him as Roger Merson. None of us did. He’d broken away from his family. I think they lived in California. At least his mother did. There was a lot of anger on Roger’s part, especially with his father. Roger refused to use his name. But I found all this out later. At the time we knew him as Chip Blair.”

“When he died, didn’t you learn his real name?”

“No. Chip had mailed a letter to the director of the honors program. He told him who to contact. After the first story about the suicide on the back pages of the newspaper, there wasn’t another word. I guess the police must have notified his family, and they took care of everything. We did have a memorial service for Chip. That’s all we knew to do.”

“When did you all find out that Chip was really Roger?” I ask. I’m still puzzled about Mom’s denial.

“As I told you, we didn’t,” Mr. Jenkins says. “I’m probably one of the few of our group who knows the facts, and that’s because I went through the former director’s files after I took this job.”

“So Mom really doesn’t know.” I must have spoken my thoughts aloud, because Mr. Jenkins answers me.

“It happened a long time ago. Is there some reason Callie should be told about it now? It might just bring back a lot of unhappiness.”

“You’re right,” I mumble. He’s waiting for some kind of explanation, but I don’t know what else to say.

“Call me if you need me,” he says.

“I will,” I answer. “Thank you for your help.”

We say goodbye, and I hang up. Telling Mom that she really does have a tie to the Mersons is going to be tough. I can’t rush into it. I’ve got to think it out. What am I going to say? How am I going to put it?

Mom. Guess what I found out.

No! That’s awful. I shudder. I’ve got to come up with a better idea.

Mom. I’ve got something to tell you … something sad to tell you.

That might work. I’ll start by saying,
Sit down, Mom. I’ve got something sad to tell you.
I sigh and lean back in my chair. That might prepare her for what she’s going to hear.

I’m so busy trying to decide just how to break this news to Mom that I forget all about starting dinner. I don’t give it a thought until Mom and Dad walk through the kitchen door.

Mom stops in the middle of the kitchen and stares around the room. “What happened to dinner?” she asks.

“Dinner? Oh, no! I forgot about dinner.”

“You forgot to make dinner? Kristi, what’s wrong? Something’s happened, hasn’t it?”

“Mom, sit down,” I begin. “I’ve got something sad to tell you.”

“What is it, Kristi?” Mom’s voice rises, and she clutches the back of a chair. “It’s not your grandma, is it? Oh, please, no! Not your grandma!”

The color in Mom’s face drains to a sickly gray. Dad grabs her and helps lower her into the chair.

I panic and shout, “It’s not Grandma. Grandma’s fine. Mom, I found out today that your friend Chip Blair wasn’t really Chip Blair. I mean, that wasn’t his name. He had told everybody that was his name because he’d made a break with his family. His name was really Roger Merson.”

Some color has come back into Mom’s face, but she stares at me with blank eyes. Her lips are parted. Her mouth hangs slightly open.

It’s taking Dad too a few moments to figure out what I’m talking about.

“Mom … Dad … I tried to figure out a way to tell you without getting you upset. I even practiced what I’d say. But I did it all wrong. I’m so sorry.”

Mom gives a huge sigh and slumps in her chair. “Chip Blair was really Roger Merson? Are you sure? How did you find out, Kristi?”

“I talked to the director of the honors program at the University of Houston. His name is Barry Jenkins.”

Mom perks up at this. “Barry is director now? Good for him.”

“I wish I’d asked him to tell you about Roger. He would have done a better job.”

Mom slowly gets up and wraps her arms around me. “Honey, you did your best. I jumped to conclusions, that’s all. I made it more difficult for you.”

Dad puts an arm around Mom’s shoulders. Pretty soon we’re into a three-way hug. “Your mother tried to get Chip into rehab,” Dad says, “and she did. During his senior year he was completely drug free. Callie helped Chip study so he wouldn’t flunk out. She tried to get him to make peace with his family. She never gave up.”

“The morning they found Chip’s body, someone told us. I don’t even remember now who it was,” Mom says. “I do remember how devastated I felt. I’d thought I’d been helping Chip, and I hadn’t.”

“You can’t blame yourself,” Dad and I say, practically together.

“Chip was as mixed up as anyone could get,” Dad says.

Mom goes on. “Chip and I became friendly. It was nice for me, since college was a big adjustment from working. He needed a friend too. He had terrible arguments with his father, who was a dominating, difficult person. The man wanted to control Chip’s life. Chip’s father had decided he should be an architect. He had arranged for the right contacts for Chip so as soon as he had his degree he’d have the perfect job. He’d even handpicked a wife for Chip and talked to him about how much he wanted an heir.

“Chip needed someone to talk to. He said he loved his father, yet at the same time he hated him. He went back and forth between trying to please him and defying him. I never met Chip’s father. I didn’t know he was …”

Mom breaks off. We all stare at each other. “Douglas Merson,” Mom says.

She backs toward the chair and sits down again. “Is all this mysterious behavior on Mr. Merson’s part some kind of revenge? Does the man blame me for what happened to his son?”

“It couldn’t be that,” I tell her, although I’ve got chills up and down my backbone. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so confused. “Mr. Merson has been very nice to me, Mom.”

I grab my bag and pull out the sheet of paper with the drawing on it. I show it to them and say, “He drew this of me today.”

Mom takes a closer look. “It looks just like you! Kristi, he’s a real artist. Did you know this?”

“I just found out this afternoon,” I answer.

“He’s a professional artist, all right,” Dad says. He takes another look at the sketch, then places it carefully on the table. He turns and looks at me. “Now let’s get down to basic facts, Kristi. How did you happen to call the director of the honors program? What information did you have that led you to do that?”

That’s the way Dad’s mind works. Facts. X equals whatever and proves to be correct. Everything nice and tidy and mathematical. Well, maybe that’s what’s needed right now—a good mathematical mind.

“Mr. Merson showed me a photograph of his son, taken while he was in high school,” I answer. “He told me—”

“Told you?” Mom interrupts. “He can speak?”

“
Wrote
, not told. On a pad of paper. He wrote that his son was in the honors program at the University of Houston sixteen years ago. Later I remembered that you were there at the same time, Mom. But you said you didn’t know Roger Merson, so I called, not even thinking anyone was there. I just needed to find out why.”

Mom and Dad look at each other. Then Mom turns back to me and says, “You went to the hospital to see Mr. Merson today.”

“Yes.”

“After what we said?”

“You didn’t actually tell me I couldn’t.”

Dad’s gaze is like a drill. “Kristi, is there anything you haven’t told us? Anything we should know about?”

“No,” I say. “Except that Mr. Merson has a bodyguard now. His name is Gurtz. And the hospital is letting him go home tomorrow. And he invited us to come and see him in his home on Sunday afternoon.”

Mom puts her head in her hands and groans. “I don’t want to see him. Not Sunday. Not ever.”

Dad rests one hand on her shoulder. With the other he smoothes back her hair. “You don’t have to, Callie. I’ll go alone. At least one of us should talk to him. We need to find out why Mr. Merson has such a strange interest in Kristi.”

Mom sits back and looks up at Dad. “You’re not going by yourself,” she says. “I’m going with you.”

“I’m going too,” I tell them. “I’m just as eager to know the answer as you are.”

“Kristi, I don’t want you to go with us Sunday,” Mom says. “I don’t want you to have anything more to do with Douglas Merson.”

I’m so shocked I gasp for breath. “But I have to go, Mom! Detective Balker said we all should go. And Mr. Merson invited me to come and bring my parents. Me, Mom. He won’t like it if I’m not there. Maybe he won’t tell you anything.”

Dad says quietly, “Kristi may be right, Callie. Maybe she should go. I don’t think there will be a problem. We’ll be with her.”

It’s hard to breathe as I wait for Mom’s answer. Finally she says, “All right. On Sunday. But, Kristi, no more trips alone to visit Mr. Merson. Understand?”

Relieved, I nod. “I understand.”

Dad sighs, and I say, “Please don’t let this make you unhappy.”

“I’m not unhappy,” Dad says. “I’m hungry. Let’s put this aside for now and run over to Luby’s Cafeteria for something to eat.”

Mom pulls herself together and gets to her feet. “Give me a couple of minutes to get ready.”

While I’m waiting I start thinking. For the first time it occurs to me that on Sunday we’ll be inside Mr. Merson’s home. I can stand in front of Kupka’s painting and soak in the colors. Maybe Mr. Merson has other paintings. Mr. Merson is an artist. I wonder if any of his own work is on display in his house. I wonder what he paints. On Sunday I may find out.

For just an instant I see myself as a successful artist in an elegant home. It would take years of practice and study and … lessons. And some way to pay for them. Or someone. A benefactor.

Absolutely not. No way. I push the tempting offer from my mind. I don’t even know who Douglas Merson is.

On Friday afternoon I drive Lindy downtown to the Child Advocates offices on Main Street. The receptionist greets us pleasantly and picks up the phone to notify someone that Lindy is there for her appointment.

“You’ll be talking with Ms. Taylor, one of our volunteers. She’ll be with you in just a few minutes,” the receptionist tells Lindy. She gestures
toward a grouping of upholstered chairs. “You can wait over there.”

“Thanks,” Lindy says.

As we sit down, two women stroll into the reception room from the hallway. “I know another case even more heartbreaking than the one you’re working on,” one woman tells the other one. “Maybe you read about it or saw it on the news last year.”