Now You See Her (21 page)

“Really?” Liam’s green eyes sparkled. “You want the guided tour?”

“Knock yourself out.”

“Okay. But it’ll cost you.”

Marcy smiled as Liam cleared his throat and pushed back his shoulders.

“Youghal is the county’s major coastal town and leading beach resort,” he began. “Basically, it’s a fishing and market village whose main claim to fame is that Sir Walter Raleigh was once its mayor, way back in 1588. Supposedly he planted Ireland’s first potatoes here, as well as introducing tobacco to the locals.” They turned a corner. “We are now entering the city
center,” Liam continued in his most sonorous voice. “Like many coastal villages, Youghal residents are quite fond of brightly colored houses, like the ones you’ll see lining the quaint, narrow streets leading down to the water.” He directed her around a line of compact cars that were parked along the sidewalk. “Straight ahead of you is the famous clock tower, which was built in 1777 as a jail to imprison renegade Catholics. It was routinely used as a torture chamber and was long regarded as a symbol of terror and tyranny.”

Marcy stared at the beautiful, gray stone, five-story structure with well-stocked flower boxes adorning its eight small windows. A high arch allowed cars to pass right through the clock tower’s center.

“Not so scary anymore, is it?” Liam said.

“It’s very beautiful.”

“Yes, I guess it is. This way,” he said, leading her past a series of shops and sandwich bars painted a host of garish colors—green trim on blue stucco; orange shutters in the middle of canary-yellow walls; bright, butterscotch-colored door panels and turquoise columns surrounding tomato-red front doors. “See that sign?” He pointed to a sign in the shape of an arrow that said
SHOPPING
in large bold letters. Directly beneath it was the Irish word
“Siopadóireacht.”

“What’s that?” Marcy asked.

“I believe you would call that a return to our roots,” he told her, explaining that while most people in Ireland still preferred to speak English, there had been an enthusiastic revival of the Irish language in recent years.

Marcy thought of the time she and Peter had taken their kids on a short holiday to Quebec City, where French was the predominant language and all storefronts and street signs were written solely in French. Her son, Darren, had taken it all in
stride. Devon, however, was indignant. “Aren’t we in Canada anymore?” she’d demanded impatiently, struggling to understand where she was. “What happened to English?” Marcy wondered how her daughter was managing here in this small coastal village, where ancient Gaelic was enjoying a hardy comeback.

They veered off the main street, immediately finding themselves on a street so narrow they could barely walk side by side. Still, cars somehow managed to squeeze by them at impressive speeds. “Watch yourself,” Liam said, cautioning her, on more than one occasion.

“Are we almost there?”

“Almost.”

Tiny row houses lined the cobblestone street, each a different vibrant hue. Most were one-story homes containing a single upstairs bedroom above the front door. “Charming” was probably the word most often used to describe them, Marcy thought. Still, Devon had grown up in a spacious house in Hogg’s Hollow, a decidedly upscale residential area of Toronto. Her bedroom alone was probably the same square footage as most of these homes. Even then, she was always complaining about not having enough room, enough space, enough privacy. Could she really be content in such confined quarters?

One narrow, ancient street twisted effortlessly into the next. Occasionally someone opened a window to yell something across the street at a neighbor. Bicycles frequently whizzed by, ducking between cars both moving and parked right up against the houses. “Careful,” Liam warned again.

“Which way?” Marcy asked when they stopped for traffic at a busy intersection.

“Down this street.” Liam pointed to his right.

“Amazing how much traffic there is.”

“You don’t have traffic in Toronto?”

“Oh, we have plenty of traffic. Just that the streets are wider.”

“And paved with gold?” Liam asked playfully.

“Yes, absolutely. All Toronto streets are paved with gold.”

“I think I’d like to see that,” Liam stated. “Would you be my tour guide when I come to Toronto?”

When
, Marcy noted. Not
if
.

“Okay, here we are,” he was saying in the next breath, stopping in front of a pale blue, two-story house at the corner.

“This is it?”

“No. That one over there.” Liam pointed with his chin across the street at a pink house with green trim and a purple front door.

“That’s where she lives?” Pink was Devon’s least-favorite color. Too girly, she’d always proclaimed, even as a child refusing to wear the pink dresses Marcy had bought her.

“Fifteen Goat Street,” Liam said, pulling a scrap of paper out of his pocket and checking the address. “That’s what I’ve got written down.”

Marcy took a deep breath, feeling her legs grow weak.

“Are you all right?”

“I just can’t imagine Devon living in a pink house on a street named Goat.”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out.” He stepped off the curb.

“Wait. What if she’s not home?”

“Then we’ll go somewhere for a cup of tea and come back later.”

“What if she won’t see me?”

“We won’t give her that choice. Marcy,” he said patiently, “what is it? What’s the matter?”

“I’m scared.”

“Don’t be.” He took her hand, led her across the street to the red front door. “Do you want to knock or shall I?”

“I’ll do it.” Marcy lifted the shamrock-shaped brass knocker and banged it against the door.

No response.

“She’s not home,” Marcy whispered, fighting back tears.

“Try again. I thought I heard something.”

Marcy put her ear to the door. “I don’t hear anything.”

“Try again.”

Marcy knocked louder.

Still no response.

“What if she looked out the window and saw me?” Marcy asked. “What if she saw it was me and now she won’t answer the door?”

In response, Liam took the knocker from her hand and banged it adamantly against the wood.

“She’s not here,” Marcy said, deflated.

“Wait,” Liam said. “I’m sure I hear someone moving around.”

“She won’t answer. She won’t see me.”

“Just a minute,” a woman’s voice suddenly called from inside. “I’ll be right there. Hold your horses.”

“Oh, God,” Marcy said, holding her breath as the door fell open.

A young woman with short blond hair and wide, questioning eyes stood on the other side. She looked from Marcy to Liam and then back to Marcy. “Can I help you?” she asked.

Marcy opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

“We’re looking for Audrey,” Liam said in her stead.

“She in some sort of trouble?” the young woman asked.

“No,” he replied. “We just want to talk to her.”

“What about?”

“Who are you?” Liam asked.

“Who are
you?”
the girl asked in return.

“My name’s Liam. This is Marcy Taggart, Audrey’s mother.”

The young woman’s eyes shot to Marcy. “Audrey’s mother, is it?”

“Yes,” Marcy said, more a sigh than a word. Then stronger, “I’m Dev—Audrey’s mother.”

“Well, fancy that. Audrey,” she called toward the dark center of the house. “You better get over here. There’s someone to see you.”

“Yeah? Who is it? I’m a little busy at the moment, trying to rescue your muffins.”

“Been cooking,” the girl explained sheepishly, her eyes never leaving Marcy. “The muffins can wait,” she called back. “You’ve got a visitor.”

“Who is it?” Cautious footsteps approached.

“See for yourself.”

A young woman stepped out of the dark hall into a warm spotlight of sun.

Marcy took one look at the girl’s long brown hair and sad dark eyes. Then she fainted in Liam’s arms.

“
WE NEED TO
talk,” Marcy said to her daughter.

She was standing in the doorway to Devon’s bedroom. Outside, a cold rain was coming down in sheets and a strong October wind was blowing the remaining orange and red leaves off the tall maple tree on the front lawn and splattering them across the windows of Devon’s room.

“I don’t want to talk,” Devon said, plopping down on her unmade bed.

“Then you don’t have to,” Marcy said, stepping gingerly into the room and navigating her way carefully around the discarded clothes covering the beige carpet. Marcy recognized some of the items as recent purchases from a shopping trip she’d taken Devon on, hoping to cheer her up. The clothes now lay crumpled on the floor, their price tags still in place. “I’ll talk. You listen.”

Devon shrugged. She was wearing a pair of yellow flannel pajamas that Marcy had bought her the previous Christmas. The clerk had forgotten to remove the plastic tag filled with dye that stores often affixed to clothes in an effort to cut down on shoplifting, but Marcy had somehow made it out of the store without setting off any bells and whistles. The tag now clung to the cuff of Devon’s pajama bottoms. Devon had never bothered taking them back to the store and asking someone to remove it. Marcy had once remarked that it looked like one of those electronic ankle bracelets the courts sometimes made people wear when they were placed under house arrest, which seemed prophetic, even appropriate, she thought, under the circumstances.

“You’re in a lot of trouble, Devon.”

“I’m not in trouble.” Devon leaned back against her pillows, her eyes already glazing over with boredom. “Our lawyer’s going to get me off.”

“We don’t know that for sure.”

“He got me out on bail, didn’t he?”

“That’s different.”

“It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t know about the drugs.”

“I don’t believe you,” Marcy told her.

“Naturally.” Devon sniffed dismissively.

“Even if I did believe you, it’s irrelevant. The fact is you were there. You were with a man the police have identified as a known drug dealer—”

“His name is Tony and he’s not a drug dealer.”

“I don’t care what he is. You’re not to see him again.”

“What?”

“This is not up for discussion.”

“The hell it isn’t.”

“I’m talking. You’re listening. Remember?” Marcy told her.

“I’m over twenty-one. You can’t tell me what to do.”

“As long as you live in this house, I can and I will.”

Devon jumped off the bed, flew toward her mother, arms flailing. “Then I guess I’ll just have to move out.”

Marcy didn’t flinch, her toes digging into the bottoms of her shoes as if to root her in place. “I remind you that one of the conditions of your bail is that you continue to live at home.”

“So now you’re my jailer?”

“I’m your mother.”

“Yeah. Great job of that you’re doing.”

“This is not about me.”

“No? This is your fault, you know. It’s your rotten genes I inherited.”

“And I’m sorry for that. I really am. Yes, you got dealt a rotten hand. Believe me, I wish I could wave some sort of magic wand and have all your pain disappear. But I can’t. And you’re not a child anymore, Devon. You’re an adult. At some point you have to play the cards you were given, you have to start taking responsibility for your own life.”

“Which is exactly what I’m trying to do.”

“How? By hanging around with losers, by getting arrested, by doing drugs?”

“I thought you wanted me to take drugs.”

“Taking your medication is hardly the same thing.”

“You’re right. Your drugs make me feel bad. My drugs make me feel good.”

“Devon, this is ridiculous. You’re acting like a twelve-year-old.”

“I
am
twelve years old! Like it or not, Mommy, that’s all I am.”

“Well, I don’t like it!” Marcy shot back, her patience spent. “I don’t like it one damn bit. I’m tired of being the mother of a twelve-year-old child. I want to be the mother of a twenty-one-year-old woman. Do you hear me, Devon? Do you understand? I’m tired of parenting.” She burst into a flood of angry, bitter tears. “I’ve been a parent since I was a child, and I’m sick of it. I can’t do it anymore. I don’t
want
to do it anymore. Do you hear me?”

She braced herself for Devon’s fiery response, another war of words she’d inevitably lose, leaving her limp and exhausted, her body covered with invisible scars and bruises. Instead Devon wrapped her arms around her mother and held her close. “I hear you, Mommy,” she said softly.

“
CAN YOU HEAR
me?” a voice was asking from somewhere in the distance. “Marcy, can you hear me?”

Marcy opened her eyes to find two worried faces staring down at her. She pushed herself up onto her elbows and looked around. She was lying on a small, brown velvet sofa in the middle of a tiny room. There was a fireplace on the opposite wall and a faded orange chair in the far corner. A standing lamp with a pleated shade and a water-stained coffee table completed the decor. The walls were covered in beige-flowered wallpaper. Matching curtains covered the front window. “What happened?” she asked warily.

“You fainted,” Liam told her.

Marcy swung her feet onto the worn wool carpet of the
floor. “Where’s Audrey?” she asked the young blond woman standing beside Liam.

Audrey suddenly appeared in the doorway, the tray in her hands holding a steaming pot of tea, four mugs, and a plate of freshly baked muffins. “I’m right here,” she said.

S
O, HOW LONG HAVE
you been living in Youghal?” Liam asked as they sipped their tea. He was sitting on the sofa beside Marcy. The blond girl, who was about thirty and whose name was Claire, had pulled the orange chair closer to the coffee table and was curled up inside it. Audrey sat on the floor at her feet.

“Just a few months,” Claire answered. “There’s still a lot we want to do with the place—get rid of this awful wallpaper for a start—but we’ll just have to take it one step at a time. How are the muffins? They any good?”

“Delicious,” Liam said.

“We still haven’t quite got the hang of the oven. It’s very temperamental. Isn’t it, Audrey?”