The Obsession (8 page)

Her mother should be at work, with Harry and Seth. There was, she knew, a party of twenty-two coming in for a retirement lunch, so it was all hands on deck.

Naomi eased the door open, saw that the curtains had been drawn closed—a bad sign. And saw in the dim light her mother lying on top of the bed.

“Mama.”

She wore the red sweater they’d bought on their shopping spree rather than her white work shirt and black vest.

Kong jumped on the bed—something he was only allowed to do in Mason’s room—licked her mother’s hand, and whimpered.

Her mother lay so still.

“Mama,” Naomi said again, and switched on the bedside lamp.

So still, so pale—and her eyes weren’t quite shut.

“Mama. Mama.” Naomi gripped Susan’s shoulder, shook. Took her hand, found it cold. “Mama! Wake up. Wake up!”

The pills were right there, there by the lamp. No, not the pills, the bottle. The empty bottle.

“Wake up!” Gripping her mother’s hands, she pulled. Susan’s head lolled, fell forward. “Stop it. Stop it.” She tried to get her arms around Susan, pull her off the bed.

On her feet, on her feet, make her walk.

“Hey, Carson, what the hell are you shouting about? You need to chill— What . . .”

“Call an ambulance. Call nine-one-one. Hurry, hurry.”

He stood frozen for a moment, staring as Susan’s limp body fell back on the bed, and her eyelids opened like shades to show the staring eyes behind them. “Wow. Is that your mom?”

“Call nine-one-one.” Naomi laid an ear to her mother’s heart, then began to press on it. “She’s not breathing. Tell them to hurry. Tell them she took Elavil. Overdosed on Elavil.”

Staring, he fumbled out his phone, punching in 911 with one hand, shoving up his glasses with the other, while Naomi did CPR, puffing out her breath as she worked.

“Yeah, yeah, we need an ambulance. She overdosed on Eldervil.”

“Elavil!”

“Sorry, Elavil. Crap, Carson, I don’t know the address.”

She called it out while tears ran down her cheeks, mixed with sweat.

“Mama, Mama, please!”

“No, she’s not awake, she’s not moving. Her daughter’s doing CPR. I-I-I don’t know. Maybe, um, like forty.”

“She’s thirty-seven.” Naomi shouted it. “Just hurry.”

“They’re coming.” Anson dropped down beside her, hesitated, then patted Naomi’s shoulder. “She—the operator—she said they were on the way. They’re coming.”

He swallowed, moistened his lips, then touched his fingers to Susan’s hand.

It felt . . . soft and cold. Soft like he could push his fingers through it. Cold like it had lain outside in the winter air.

“Um, oh jeez, Carson. Ah, man, look, hey.” He kept one hand on
Susan’s, put his other on Naomi’s shoulder again. “She’s cold, man. I think . . . I think she’s dead.”

“No, no, no, no.” Naomi laid her mouth on her mother’s, blew in her breath, willed her to breathe back.

But there was nothing there. Like the pictures of the women in her father’s cellar, there was nothing left in the eyes but death.

She sat back. She didn’t weep, not yet, but smoothed back her mother’s hair. There was no weight pressing on her chest, no churning in her belly. There was, as in her mother’s eyes, nothing.

She remembered the feeling—the same as when she’d swum through the air toward the sheriff’s office on that hot summer dawn.

In shock, she thought. She was in shock. And her mother was dead.

She heard the bell, got slowly to her feet. “I need to go let them in. Don’t leave her alone.”

“Okay. I’ll, um . . . Okay.”

She walked out—sort of like sleepwalking to Anson’s eyes. He looked back at the dead woman.

They wouldn’t get back to school in thirty.

S
he wore the black dress to her mother’s funeral. She’d never been to a funeral before, and this was more a memorial as there would be no burial.

Seth sat down with her and Mason to talk about that. Did they want to take their mother back to Pine Meadows to bury her?

No, no, no.

Did they want to find a cemetery in New York?

It surprised her how firm Mason had been. No cemetery here either. If she’d been happy in New York, she’d still be alive.

So they’d had her cremated, and in the spring, they’d rent a boat and send her ashes to the air and the sea.

There were tears, of course, but for Naomi they came from rage as much as grief.

She had to talk to the police. For the second time in her life, the police came to her home, went through her home, asked questions.

“I’m Detective Rossini. I’m so sorry for your loss. I know this is a very difficult time, but I have some questions. Can I come in, talk to you?”

Naomi knew that some cops on TV and in the movies were female
and pretty, but she’d assumed that was mostly made up. But Rossini looked like she could play a detective on TV.

“Okay.”

She’d gone to her room because she didn’t know what else to do, not with all the police, with Seth and Harry talking to them. And with her mother . . .

Rossini came in, sat on the side of the bed, facing Naomi, who sat in her desk chair with her knees folded up to her chin.

“Can you tell me why you came home today, why you and your friend weren’t in school?”

“We got a pass to come home, get my camera. We work on the school newspaper. I’m supposed to take pictures of rehearsal—the drama club. Is he still here? Is Chaffins—Anson—here?”

“My partner already talked to him. We had him taken back to school.”

“He’ll tell everybody.” Naomi pressed her face to her knees. “He’ll tell everybody about my mother.”

“I’m sorry, Naomi. Can you tell me what happened when you got home?”

“Chaffins wanted a Coke, so I told him to go get a couple of them while I went up for my camera. And Kong—our dog—Kong was outside my mother’s room. He kept whining. He usually stays in Mason’s room or in the courtyard when we’re at school, but . . . Her door was closed, and I opened it. I thought . . . I thought she was sleeping or not feeling well. I couldn’t wake her up, and I saw the pills. I mean the empty bottle. Chaffins came upstairs, and I told him to call nine-one-one. I tried CPR. We took a class, and I knew how. I tried, but I couldn’t make her breathe.”

“She was on the bed when you went in.”

“I tried to get her up, to wake her up enough to walk. If she’d taken too many pills, I could make her walk, and get her to the hospital.”

“She’d done that before? Taken too many pills?”

Naomi just nodded with her face pressed against her knees.

“When did you see her last, before you came home from school?”

“This morning. Harry fixed breakfast, but she didn’t come down for
it. I went upstairs, and she was just getting up. She seemed fine. She said she had some errands to run before she went to work, and she’d get breakfast later. She said, ‘Have a good day at school.’”

She looked up then. “My brother. My brother, Mason.”

“Your uncle’s gone to the school to get him. Don’t worry.”

“Do you know who my father is?”

“Yes, Naomi, I do. And I know that for the second time in your life you had to face something no one should ever have to.”

“Will everyone know now? Even though we changed our names, will everyone know?”

“We’re going to do the best we can to keep that out of the press.” Rossini waited a moment. “Do you know how often your mother and your father communicated?”

“She wrote to him, and went to see him a few times, too, since we moved to New York. Mason found out, and he told me. She pretended she wasn’t, but she was. We didn’t tell Uncle Seth or Harry. The movie—she talked to the movie people because he wanted her to. Mason found that out, too. But she’d been trying really hard, and for a couple months or more, she’d been doing good. She’d been happy. Happier. I don’t guess she’s ever been happy since that night I found . . .”

“All right. Your uncle said he’d call your grandparents, and Mr. Dobbs is right downstairs. Do you want me to have him come up, stay with you?”

“No, not right now. Ma’am? You asked about them communicating. Did Mama talk to him today? This morning?”

“I don’t believe your mother and father spoke today.”

“But there’s something. He wrote something to her, didn’t he? Something that had her coming home, after she’d been doing so well, and taking those pills.”

“We’re asking questions so we can give you answers,” Rossini said as she rose.

“You have some. I didn’t see a note in her room. I wasn’t looking. I was trying to . . . I didn’t see a note, but she had to write one. She had to
say good-bye.” The sob wanted to rip out of her chest. “However sad she was, she loved us. She did. She’d say good-bye.”

“I’m sure she loved you. She did leave a note, addressed to all of you. It was in your uncle’s room. She put it on his dresser.”

“I want to see it. I have a right to read it. It was addressed to me. I want to read what she wrote before she took those pills and left us.”

“Your uncle said you would. Wait here.”

What had he done? Naomi wondered, and the rage began to root. What had he done to make her mother so sad, so fast? So fatally?

She stood up when Rossini came back in. She wouldn’t read this last thing her mother said to her curled in a chair, but on her feet.

“You’ll need to read it through the evidence bag. It still needs to be processed.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Naomi took the bag, stepped to the window and the thin winter light.

I’m so sorry. I made so many mistakes, so many bad choices, told so many lies. I told lies to the people who deserved me to tell the truth. I told them because he said I should. No matter how many times I tried to break free, I just couldn’t. Now he has, after all the mistakes I made, all the hurt I caused because Tom said I should. He’s divorcing me so he can try to marry some other woman. One who’s been writing him and coming to see him for more than two years. He sent me papers from a lawyer for a divorce, and a letter that said such cruel and awful things. But some of those things are true. I am weak and stupid. I am useless. I didn’t protect my children when I had the chance. Seth, you did that. You did that, Harry. You gave us a home, and I know you’ll look after Naomi and Mason, do right by them as I never have. Mason, you’re so smart, and you made me proud every day. I hope one day you’ll understand why Mama had to go away. Naomi, I’m not strong and brave like you. It’s so hard to try to be. I’m so tired, honey. I just want to go to sleep. You’ll look after Mason, and both of you will listen to Seth
and Harry. You’ll have a better life now. One day you’ll know that’s true. One day you’ll forgive me.

“Why should I forgive her? She left us because he didn’t want her anymore? She came home and took all those pills because she was
tired?
”

“Naomi—”

“No, no! Don’t make excuses. You’re the police. You didn’t know her, you don’t know me or any of us. But you know what this is?” She threw the bag on her bed, fisted her hands as if she could fight something. “It’s what a coward does. He killed her. He killed her just like he killed all those other women. But they didn’t have a choice. She did. She let it happen. She let him kill her when we were all right here.”

“You’re right. I think you’re right. But there are other means of torture besides physical. I can’t tell you how to feel, but I can tell you I think you have a right to be angry. You have a right to be mad as hell. When some of the mad wears off, I hope you’ll talk to someone.”

“Another therapist. I’m done with that. Done. A lot of good it did her.”

“You’re not your mother. But if you don’t want to talk to a therapist, to a friend, to a priest, to your uncle.” She took a card out of her pocket. “You can talk to me.”

“You’re the second cop who’s given me a card and said that.”

“Did you talk to the other cop?”

“We moved away.”

“Well.” Rossini set the card on Naomi’s dresser, then walked over and picked up the evidence bag. “Cops are good listeners. Detective Angela Rossini. Anytime.”

—

S
o three days later, Naomi put on the black dress. She used the curling iron because her mother had liked it best when she wore her hair long with some waves in it. She didn’t give any of her angry words to Seth—he looked sickly and shaken. She didn’t give them to Mason, not with the
hollow look in his eyes. Or to Harry, who seemed to need to tend to all of them at once.

She kept them inside, where they crawled through her like fiery ants, and went to the restaurant.

They’d closed for the day to hold the memorial. Harry had done most of the work—insisted on it. Putting out flowers and photos, choosing music, preparing food.

Her grandparents came. She and Mason saw them several times a year since they’d moved out of Pine Meadows, and it hadn’t taken long to understand that all the hard things their father had said about their mother’s parents had been more lies.

They were kind and loving—forgiving, she thought. They’d forgiven the daughter who’d cut them out of her life and kept their only grandchildren from them. They’d paid for all the therapy, and never—at least not in her hearing—said an unkind word about their daughter.

They never spoke of Thomas David Bowes.

Everyone who worked at the restaurant came, and so many of Seth’s and Harry’s friends. Some of her teachers, some of Mason’s came. Some parents brought some of their friends, at least for a short time.

And Detective Rossini came.

“I didn’t know the police came to funerals like this.”

“I wanted to pay my respects. And to see how you were doing.”

“I’m all right. It’s hardest, I think, on my uncle. Even harder than it is on my grandparents. He thought he could save her. He thought he had. He tried, every day. Harry, he tried, too. But right now he’s mostly worried about his Seth. About Mason and me, too, but mostly about his Seth. Harry worked hard to put all this together, to make it look so nice, to try to make it that celebration of life people talk about. But she didn’t have much of a life to celebrate.”

“I think you’re wrong. She had you and Mason, and that’s a celebration.”

“That’s a nice thing to say.”

“It’s a true thing. Did you take that picture?”

Naomi glanced at the photo of her mother dancing with Seth. “How did you know?”

“I’m the police.” Rossini smiled a little. “It’s a happy moment, and you knew how to capture it. But that’s my favorite.”

Rossini stepped over to the photo Naomi had taken with a timer. Her mother flanked by her children. Harry had set it in front of a big vase of pink roses, because her mother had favored pink.

“You can see she was proud of you and your brother.”

“Is that what you see?”

“Yes. Cops are good listeners, and they’re trained observers. She was proud. Hold on to that. I have to get back to work.”

“Thank you for coming,” Naomi said, as she’d said to everyone.

Surprised, she stood where she was as Mark Ryder came up to her.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

He was tall, great-looking with big brown eyes, glossy hair that curled just the right amount at the ends.

“I’m really sorry about your mom and all.”

“Thanks. It’s nice you came. It’s nice.”

“I’m sorry, you know? My mom died when I was a baby.”

“But . . . I met your mom.”

“My dad married her when I was about three. She’s great—and she’s, like Mom, but my, you know,
mom
died.”

“I didn’t know. I’m sorry, Mark.”

“Yeah, well, it’s hard, you know, and I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

Touched, she stepped closer, hugged him. Realized the mistake when he hugged her back—with a hand sliding down to her butt.

She pulled back. “It’s my mother’s memorial.”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. I just thought . . .” He shrugged, managed a half laugh. “Whatever.”

“Thanks for coming,” she told him. “You can get a soft drink at the bar, if you want.”

“Yeah, maybe. See you around.”

Alone, Naomi turned. She could sneak into the storeroom, get some quiet, get some time alone before anyone noticed she wasn’t there.

But she nearly walked into Anson Chaffins.

“Um. Hey.” He shoved up his glasses, then stuck his hands in his pockets. “I guess it’s weird but I was, like, you know, there, so I thought I should come and say . . . whatever.”

“Let’s go sit over there. People won’t bug me if I’m sitting down with somebody.”

“I saw some of the guys from school. But I kind of hung back until they went off. It’s weird, like I said. People want to know, you know, what it was like, and don’t want to ask you. Well, plus, you haven’t been back to school. Are you coming back?”

“Yeah, next week.”

“It’ll be weird.”

She gave a half laugh—he wrote better than he talked, she thought. “I need to keep up my grades—Mason, too. We have to think about getting into college.”

“I’m heading to Columbia next fall.”

“You got in?”

“It looks good for it. I got a couple backups, but it looks good. I’m going to study journalism.”

“You’ll be good at it.”

“Yeah.” He shifted. “So. I heard a couple of the cops talking. You know they had to take my statement and all that? And I heard a couple of them talking about Bowes. Your mother being his wife. Thomas David Bowes.”

Naomi clutched her hands together in her lap, said nothing.

“I knew the name, because of the movie. And I read the book, too. You’re that Naomi.”

“Does everyone know?”

“Like I said, I heard the cops talking, and I knew who they were talking about, and I’d read the book. I did some research—more, I mean. You’re Naomi Bowes.”

“Carson. That’s my legal name.”

“Yeah, I get that. Look, I didn’t say anything to anybody.”

“Don’t. I just want to finish school. Mason needs to finish school.”