Partings: A Valerie Urniak Mystery, #9

By Rebecca A. Engel

Valerie Urniak Cardonza thinks she is losing her mind. How else can she explain why she sees the same man wherever she goes, yet when she tries to point him out to anyone, he is gone?

Worse, while it has been six years since she lived alternate lives while in a coma, there now appears to be evidence one of her coma lives was real. Or is that another aspect of the problem that she's having?

Valerie's best friend is going through problems of her own. She's experienced some recovered memories, and wants Valerie's help in determining if the events she recalls were real or figments of her imagination. Valerie is willing to do whatever she can to help ease her friend's mind at the same time she is dealing with the possible deterioration of her own.

If Valerie's mental health is intact, the other possibilities for what she's experiencing might be worse than dementia.

PARTINGS is the ninth and final book in the Valerie Urniak Mystery series. This series is set in Chicago, starts in 1974 and ends in 2010. The complete series consists of:

PERMANENT DAMAGE, Book

CONTRIVE TO KILL, Book 2

VARIANTS OF DEJA VU, Book 3

A RING OF TRUTH, Book 4

TOO SOON, Book 5

DANGEROUS UNDERCURRENTS, Book 6

ZUGZWANG, Book 7

ALTERNATE LIVES, Book 8

PARTINGS, Book 9

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rebecca A. Engel
• Release date: May 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386954972

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

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Vince locked the door after our last guests departed, then stood in the doorway of the living room, looking around and shaking his head in disgust.

We should have had the party at a restaurant, he said. This is too much for you to deal with.

I shook my head too, but in disagreement with him. Having it here was nicer. It would have been too hard on the grandkids if we had it in a restaurant. This way they had the terrace to hang out on and blow off some steam. His headshake turned into a slight nod of agreement and I added, Besides, we had it catered so there was very little for me to do.

Until now, he contradicted me, again scanning the rooms that were strewn with party detritus. Both Lorna and Wendy offered to help you clean up. Why didn’t you let them?

I don’t invite people over for a party and expect them to serve as my clean-up crew. Lorna needed to get home anyway; she’s working on a new collection. I wasn’t going to let Wendy help in her condition.

The condition we’re not supposed to know about yet? Vince asked with a grin.

I had confided in Vince earlier in the week that I was fairly certain my daughter-in-law was pregnant again. So you think I’m right?

She did seem kind of pale and tired, and all those times she headed outside, I don’t think it was to check on the kids. She either needed some fresh air to wake herself up or to settle her stomach.

Vince’s first wife had given birth four times; I considered him something of an expert in knowing how a pregnant woman behaved. I wonder why they’re so secretive about telling us, I mused aloud.

Are they superstitious? Could they think something will go wrong if they make an announcement?

I don’t think it’s that. They hadn’t spread the news the first time they were expecting, and look what happened then.

Didn’t you tell me J.J. had told Jacob? Vince asked.

I didn’t remember telling Vince that, but how else would he know unless I’d told him? My late husband Jacob had been suffering from Alzheimer’s, then had a brief period of lucidity during which our son told him of his wife’s first pregnancy. Whether Jacob would have shared that news with me, I didn’t know because he died in his sleep that same night. I didn’t learn about the pregnancy until much later, after my daughter-in-law had been abducted by my son’s birth mother. Do you think that has something to do with it? I asked Vince.

He shrugged. You know what my family was like. Superstitions and curses were a way of life for them. Vince came from a big Italian family. My grandmother wasn’t above giving people the evil eye, and some of my sisters have followed in her footsteps. We were lucky that the ones who showed up today were on their best behavior.

I kept my face passive at that statement, the way I would have if one of my patients said something with which I did not agree. If I had let any expression show, I wasn’t sure if it would have been a grin or a grimace. Perhaps Vince hadn’t been aware of the behavior of one of his sisters today; if that was the case, I wasn’t going to tell him about it.

I better start cleaning up, I said, surveying the room and trying to decide where to start.

My husband left the room abruptly, heading toward the kitchen. Was he planning to grab a snack and seclude himself in his study while I worked?

No. He returned a moment later, a tray in his hands. He loaded it with glasses that had been left scattered around the room. This would be faster and easier, he muttered, if you had used disposable cups.

But harder on the environment, I reminded him and stacked the discarded plates – real plates instead of paper or the even-worse Styrofoam.

We should leave it as it is and move, Vince said as he hefted his already loaded tray and headed for the dishwasher.

I didn’t respond. I kept picking up plates and soon carried them into the kitchen where Vince was finishing loading the glasses. I’ll take care of those, he said as I placed them in the sink. I smiled my thanks.

I made another round of the living and dining rooms, gathering utensils and napkins. I dropped the utensils into the sink and headed to the laundry room with the napkins, leaving them in a basket there because there weren’t enough for a full load. I returned to the living room, noting that the room was getting close to being habitable again. I veered back to the kitchen and grabbed some cleaning spray and a rag and went to deal with the many fingerprints and smudges left on the all the surfaces. By their size and their locations, it was clear not all had been made by the grandchildren. Between us, we had four, two each, but if our suspicions of Wendy’s condition proved true, mine would soon outnumber Vince’s by one. The chances of Vince having more grandchildren anytime soon were slim. His oldest son Vincenzo, the father of the two grandchildren Vince had, was in prison. His second oldest son Marco was married, but in their brief appearance at our party, he and his wife had been anything but compatible; I expected a separation if not a divorce in their near future. His third son Dario was following in his father’s footsteps; he was the kind of player Vince had been before his first marriage in his early thirties. Bobby, of course, was soon to be off to the East Coast to pursue his post-doctoral work in mathematics, and that, combined with his age ­– barely twenty – made me hope babies would be in his far distant future.

At the thought of Bobby going so far away, a wave of sadness washed over me. I’d managed to keep that thought at bay during our celebration of Bobby’s doctorate, and had sent him off cheerfully with his friends when our celebration was over. His education was important, and the prestigious fellowship he’d been awarded for his post-doctoral work was an opportunity not to be passed up, but I was downhearted at the idea of my second son being half a continent away from me.

I headed out to the terrace on the pretense I would clean up out there, when in fact I wanted a few minutes alone to regain my composure. But when I stepped outside, I found the terrace definitely needed my attention, and I welcomed the distraction. Several plants had been overturned, probably during the vigorous game of catch in which the grandkids had engaged. There was food spilled both on the furniture and on the pavers that would need to be cleaned up lest it attract unwanted birds and insects.

I righted the plants, then went inside for a garbage bag and the broom. There’s cake on the terrace, I murmured to Vince, who was continuing to try to jam as much as possible into the dishwasher.

It surprised me that you served cake, he said, especially after you baked that huge batch of oat bran muffins.

I’d been making those muffins for years, the one ‘sweet’ I had allowed my older son J.J. to eat while he was growing up. When Vince and I married and he and Bobby moved in with me, Bobby had adjusted more easily to the healthy foods that constituted my own diet than his father had.

It was angel food cake, I reminded Vince. It calls for egg whites, so it’s healthier than its counterpart, devil’s food. And there was fresh fruit to top it, not frosting.

I had a piece, Vince admitted. Can you believe I thought it was too sweet and didn’t finish it?

I know how that is, I said. J.J. gave me chocolate long johns for our anniversary one year because I had told him how I once gobbled them up. I’d made a faux pas, because the anniversary had been one with Jacob, not Vince. I ate them, but the sweetness made me ill all day. I glanced at Vince who didn’t look as if he’d been offended or hurt by my recollection. I’d better get to work on the terrace, I said, hoping my quick departure would focus his concentration back to what he’d been doing and not on what I’d said.

Instead of all this cleaning, we should move.

That was the second time he’d brought that up today.

I don’t think it works that way. We’d have to clean before we moved, I countered casually before heading out the terrace door.

As I swept up the cake, I thought about Vince’s suggestion. We had talked about moving in the past, the last time while Bobby was in undergraduate school. I’d been willing to move but in the end it hadn’t happened, in part because in our half-hearted hunting for a new home, we hadn’t found anything remotely suitable. The fact that our current home had been a short drive from Bobby’s campus kept us from pursuing a new home enthusiastically. I’d liked that proximity to my younger son, especially since he entered college at the tender age of fourteen. His ability to speed through academics had made me wonder which would come first, Bobby being allowed his first legal drink or finishing his doctoral dissertation. His dissertation had won by a landslide.

Now I recalled the other time that Vince campaigned to live somewhere else, shortly after we got engaged. He’d seen a house that had caught his fancy. It was on the North Shore, and admittedly gorgeous, but much, much too large for our everyday needs since only Vince, Bobby, and I would be living there. His three older sons were already living on their own, as was my then only son, J.J. At the time I’d suspected that Vince had envisioned our two families combined into one happy family that gathered together each Sunday, the way his own extended family had done when he was growing up. But two things stood in our way. Our visit to our prospective new home uncovered a murder on the premises, which soured me on it completely, aside from its size. And it soon became clear there would be no combined family gatherings. Vince’s three older sons were definitely not going to accept me as part of their lives.

In fact, that turned out to be an understatement where Vince’s oldest boy was concerned. Four years into our marriage, Vincenzo had conspired with my niece to kill me; he was currently in prison for his part in that plot. It didn’t matter that our marriage had made his father happier than he’d been before in his life; Vince’s children, except for Bobby, considered me the wicked stepmother to be barely tolerated when absolutely necessary, and ignored at all other times.

After we married, Vince sold the house where he’d lived with his late wife and sons with nary a qualm – that marriage had been a disaster – and he and his youngest son moved in with me. The condo I’d lived in with Jacob for twenty-five years had been spacious enough for the three of us.

I sank into one of the terrace chairs for a short break. Vince was as happy to be married to me as I was to be married to him. But had I done him a disservice by insisting we live in the same apartment I had shared with Jacob? I’d certainly had no desire to live in the house Vince had shared with Claudia, and had been relieved that Vince didn’t want that either. Although Claudia and I had once been friends, she had absolutely terrible, gaudy taste, and the décor of that house reflected it. If I’d had free rein to redo the house, would I have been willing to live in it then? I wasn’t sure of the answer to that. Now I also wasn’t absolutely sure that Vince at some level was entirely comfortable living in the home I’d shared with Jacob, despite our own happiness in these rooms.

I finished my work on the terrace, tied up the garbage bag and carried it through the apartment and to the trash chute. I put the broom away, then sought out Vince, the occasional sloshing noise and hum of the dishwasher soft in the background as I moved through the rooms looking for him.

He was in his study, an open file on the desk before him. He smiled as he looked up when I entered the room.

Do you want to do it? I spoke without thinking, and Vince’s smile became lascivious because of the way he had interpreted my question.

With you, always, Vince said, already getting to his feet.

That wasn’t what I meant, I protested without any heated denial behind it as he walked around his desk and toward me. I reached for his hand and lead him out of the room and down the hallway toward our bedroom. Our discussion could wait.

Lock the door, I said as we stepped into our room. We don’t know when Bobby will be back.

Vince sighed at the reminder. I’ve gotten used to not having him around.

It’s only a couple months before he leaves, I said with a sigh of my own, although mine was at the idea of being without him again.

It’ll be okay, Vince said, wrapping his arms around me. They have flights heading east practically every hour. You know he’ll love to see you whenever you want to visit.

We moved across the room and he eased me down on the bed. My thoughts were mixed: that Bobby probably wouldn’t be happy if I visited every weekend, which was how often I’d seen him during his undergraduate years, and, simultaneously, how wonderful it was that Vince and I continued to have such desire for each other.

Then his lips found mine, and all thoughts ended, replaced by sensations both familiar and exciting. I gave myself over to them.

A light rap on our bedroom door roused me from a doze. Yes? I called as I raised my head from where it had been nestled on Vince’s shoulder.

Should I turn off all the lights, Mom? Bobby asked through the door.

That would be great, honey. There’s plenty of food in the fridge if you need a snack, I added.

Thanks, Mom – and for the party, too. I’ll see you in the morning.

Night, Bobby.

Vince was smiling at me from his pillow. We know who rates around here. Not a word for his old man.

He probably thought you were already sleeping, or out on a job. After he retired from the Chicago Police Department, Vince had founded his own investigative agency, which was world renowned. He sometimes worked rather erratic hours. Now that we have our more urgent business out of the way, I said, splaying my fingers across his bare chest, are you too tired for a little talk?

A little talk? he echoed. Or something I’d want to be wide awake and fully clothed for?

A little talk, I repeated. You said earlier – not once but twice – that we should move. Were you serious?

I might be. Vince looked at me with half-closed eyes. Are you saying you would be willing to move?

I might be, I hedged, echoing his own words. I suppose we could get along with one less bedroom, if we shared a study. Our apartment had five bedrooms, two used as studies, and one as a TV room. But I don’t think I’d want to go back to a master suite with one bathroom. Ours had two separate full baths, Vince’s with an oversized shower stall, mine with a large soaker tub. The idea of going back to sharing a bathroom – even with the man I loved – was not something I wanted to contemplate.

I’ll remember that, Vince said, pulling me back down into his arms.

Does that mean we’re going to start looking?

I’ll keep my eyes and ears open. He reached out an arm and turned off his bedside lamp. But as we snuggled together in the darkness, he spoke again. "Do you want to remain here in Chicago, or does your willingness to move mean you want to move to the East Coast to be closer to Bobby?

I gave a startled half-laugh. I hadn’t thought of that!

Uh-oh, Vince murmured.

Thanks for the terrific idea. The laughter in my tone let Vince know I was kidding. As much as I loved Bobby, as much as I was going to miss him, a boy that age definitely didn’t want his mother tagging along after him. Vince and I also had grandchildren we’d be loath to leave behind.

So staying in the city is okay with you, babe? Vince’s own voice sounded slightly cautious, as if he wanted more reassurance I wasn’t going to insist we move halfway across the country.

This is where our life is, Vince, your business, my practice – or what’s left of it. If we do find another place, it’s going to be here.

Nice to know, Vince said, and yawned. But I think it’s time to go to sleep.

With the excitement of the party and my sadness at Bobby’s imminent departure, I expected to have trouble falling asleep. But sleep came quickly and soundly, until a repetitive pealing noise brought me awake. I stretched a hand toward Vince, but he wasn’t there. The sound of running water was coming from his bathroom. I pushed myself into a seated position and reached for the phone.

Val? Did I wake you?

I couldn’t place the voice at first; it had been punctuated by sobs. Lorna? Is that you?

Yes. A hiccupping sob followed her affirmation.

Lorna, is everything all right? Is it Jeff or one of the boys? I couldn’t bring myself to add, ‘Or one of your grandchildren?’

They’re—all—fine, she gasped out. It’s about me, Val. I really need to talk to you. Can I come over?

Of course!

Will Vince be there? I don’t want him to hear what I have to say.

He’s in the shower at the moment. I’m sure he’ll be headed to the office after that. But Bobby is here too.

Bobby told me yesterday he’s going to meet with one of his professors this morning.

I tried not to feel slighted because Lorna had more knowledge of my son’s schedule than I did. Then we’ll be alone here. But are you sure you can drive? You sound upset. Would you rather that I came to your house?

No! Her voice was clear and adamant with that one word. Then she lowered it to a near whisper. Jeff has a sore back and he’s canceled his golf game this morning. I can’t chance he’ll hear me.

Lorna, you’ve got me worried. What’s wrong? Are you ill?

I’ll tell you when I see you, she half-wailed.

I worried again about her driving when she was so clearly emotionally upset. What if we meet someplace midway between our houses? That would lessen the time she would spend on the road.

Absolutely not, she said. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Besides, she added in a half-mutter, you can’t expect me to talk about something like incest in a public place.

She hung up, leaving me to stare open-mouthed at the phone.

CHAPTER TWO

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I managed to keep my composure as I brewed tea and put out a plate of oat bran muffins left over from the party for Vince and Bobby’s breakfasts. They arrived at the table almost simultaneously, both with wet hair showing comb marks, but there the resemblance ended. Vince looked elegant in a suit, while Bobby was in jeans with a graphic tee shirt bearing a mathematical formula I couldn’t begin to decipher. There was less contrast between their coloring these days because Vince’s hair was more white than dark. Bobby’s hair was nearly as fair as it had been when he was a boy. Vince’s eyes were dark, as was his skin tone; Bobby’s eye’s blue and his skin as fair as his hair. It wasn’t all that surprising they didn’t resemble each other much physically. They were father and son in name only, as Bobby was the result of his mother’s affair during her marriage to Vince. Vince had known that, but accepted and loved Bobby as his own from the day he was born. I didn’t get to know Bobby until after his mother’s death, but like Vince, I too had fallen in love with the boy from the first, and adopted him shortly after Vince and I married. Vince’s three older sons had not been happy with that event.

What are you doing today, Mom? Bobby asked me. This isn’t a day you see patients, is it?

I was a psychologist. I had retired once, when my late husband had retired himself so that I could spend more time with him. But after his death and my marriage to Vince, I had resumed my career. I had thought I was going to be forced into retirement about six years ago when the circumstances of my life made me doubt that patients would want to see me again. That proved not to be true. However, I had reached a point where I was gradually letting my practice die of its own accord. I no longer took on new patients when the old ones finished their therapy with me. No, it’s not, I told Bobby now. But Aunt Lorna might drop by. I’m sure we’ll be doing something together.

I thought she was busy with her new collection, Vince said, showing me once again that he paid attention to whatever I told him.

Lorna was a fashion designer, working at a pace that made me tired thinking of it. You know how it is. She’s hit a dry spell, and a little time away will restart her engines again. I didn’t like to tell as much as a white lie to my husband, but until I learned what Lorna’s problem was, and whether it was something I could share with Vince, I wasn’t going to breathe a word about it.

That’s nice that you’ll get to see her again because you didn’t get to spend much time with her yesterday. Auntie Ro was kind of monopolizing her time, Bobby said.

Rosemarie was the youngest of Vince’s five older sisters. I noticed, I acknowledged without further comment.

Bobby snatched another muffin from the plate and stood. This one’s for the road, he said, then took a second. This one’s for Charlie.

Charlie? I echoed. He’d been Bobby’s best friend since grade school.

He’s driving me up to the campus this morning. You know he loves your muffins, Bobby finished with a grin. Later, Mom, Dad. He gave a wave with his free hand and was gone.

Hey, I got a little recognition this time, Vince said, wiping his mouth on a napkin.

I stood behind his chair and slid my arms around his neck. Feeling neglected? I kissed his closely shaven cheek. You know Bobby loves you. There’s a big change coming up in his life, moving so far away from us. He’s got a lot on his mind.

I do know all that, Vince said, turning in his chair so he could kiss me. I also know you love me, and that I’m going to be late for work if I don’t get going.

He got to his feet. I followed him to the door. Normally I would have tried to prolong our conversation to sound out why Vince was acting insecure about his and Bobby’s relationship. But not today. Lorna could be here at any time, and she hadn’t wanted to see Vince. I wanted him gone before she arrived.

But Vince paused in the open doorway and looked down at me, a look of love and tenderness in his eyes. Bobby’s a lucky kid, he said, to have you as his mother. Who knows if his genius would have been recognized if you hadn’t been there to nurture it and make sure he got all the stimulation that mind of his needed.

You had a part in it too, I reminded him. But it had been my late husband Jacob who had first discovered Bobby’s ability in chess, which had sparked all that had followed, the transfer to the gifted program, his acceleration through grammar school in weeks, and high school in months. Undergraduate school went by in a blink an eye, and he had earned his doctoral hood when most students his age were deciding on a major. But I said nothing of Jacob’s contribution, not because I thought a mention of Jacob would hurt Vince, but because Lorna was due and I needed Vince to leave.

He bent his head and kissed me again. Lock up behind me, he said as he stepped into the hallway, as if I needed that reminder. Locking the door was a long-engrained habit.

I closed and double-locked the door, knowing Vince was standing in the hallway listening for the sound of the locks clicking in place. Then I raced to my bathroom for a quick shower, hoping Lorna wouldn’t ring the bell while I was in there and couldn’t hear it over the running water. Apparently she hadn’t or the phone would have been ringing when I exited the bathroom. I quickly dressed, headed for the kitchen, dumped out the tea I had made earlier and brewed a fresh pot. Whatever Lorna had to tell me, I was certain tea was going to be a necessity.

Lorna wasn’t there by the time the tea was ready, and I was becoming concerned. Her emotional turmoil could be such she shouldn’t have been driving and drove anyway. She could have been in an accident. I wished there were someone I could call to ask about accident reports, but all my old contacts on the police force were long retired. I couldn’t call Vince and ask him to use his contacts on my behalf because then I’d have to explain why I was concerned about Lorna. I couldn’t do that.

Finally the doorbell rang. I hurried to the foyer and pressed the intercom.

It’s me, Lorna said, her voice tinny but nonetheless sounding choked.

I hit the buzzer to release the lobby door, then had an interminable wait while the building’s single elevator car made its way to the top floor with all the speed of a glacier. The elevator alone was a good reason to move from this building, I thought with a smile. I’d been enduring its slowness for decades, and often took the stairs though we lived eight floors up. It was faster that way.

My smile faded when I looked out the peephole at the sound of the elevator arriving on my floor. Lorna emerged from it. She had on oversized sunglasses, unusual for her, and both her head and her shoulders drooped.

I opened the door before she had a chance to knock.

Are you alone? were her first words.

Yes. Vince and Bobby have already left.

Lorna pulled off her sunglasses, revealing red-rimmed, swollen eyes. Her face was pale, her cheeks stained from dried tears.

Lorna, what’s wrong? What happened?

I need to see you professionally.

You want me to be your therapist? Lorna, I can’t do that. We’ve been friends far too long. It wouldn’t be right. She’d been my sister-in-law first, when I’d been married to John Wilson. He and I had been married five months when he was killed. It would have been easy for Lorna and me to drift apart, for our budding relationship to end before it had a chance to bloom.

But that hadn’t happened. She’d become my best friend. My relationship with her was far closer than it had been with my biological sister.

Lorna brought her hands up to her face and rubbed at her eyes.

Do you want a cold compress for your eyes? Do you want to lie down on the couch for a while? You look like you didn’t sleep last night.

I didn’t.

Didn’t Jeff ask what was keeping you awake?

He didn’t know. He was snoring his head off all night. She sighed. Most of the time I find that noise comforting, but it annoyed me last night. At one point I thought I’d smother him. The corner of her lips twitched in mini-smile to show she wasn’t serious.

Didn’t he notice your eyes this morning? Her husband was probably the least observant man I’d met; it was possible Lorna’s altered appearance hadn’t made an impression on him.

He did, but I told him it was a bad reaction to the perfume Rosemarie had on yesterday. That stuff reeked!

Her smile was bigger this time. I had a frisson of hope that whatever was bothering her wasn’t all that serious, that she’d had some kind of overreaction after a sleepless night. But her next statement shattered that hope.

If you can’t be my therapist, can I pick you brain about some stuff? When I nodded, she asked, What can you tell me about memory?

That wasn’t what I’d expected, though I’d had no idea what to expect. Do you mean about my own personal experiences?

Oh, my god, Lorna gasped. How could I have forgotten about that?

When Vince’s oldest son Vincenzo and my niece, who was completely unknown to me, had conspired to kill me, I’d received a blow to my head that had left me in a coma for several days. During that time my mind had created alternate worlds in which my life had played out in ways that differed from reality. In neither of those faux lives had I become involved with Roger Carter, who’d unfortunately been my first husband in a marriage that had been annulled. In one alternate life, I had met John Wilson, the man I considered my first real husband, at a much younger age. We’d married and had a child. In the other alternate world, I had not met John at all but had met and married Jacob Harris, in reality my second husband, while I was in college. We’d had two children. We’d also had twenty-five blissful years together, as we had in real life. But in my coma world, he had been murdered. Vince Cardonza had been the detective who investigated his case. I had been on the verge of getting involved with him when I came out of my coma. Vince was at my bedside when I did, but I didn’t know him as my husband, only as the police detective in that other life that I’d thought was real. When I emerged from the coma, I thought he had aged greatly, as I had myself; in my alternate world we had been twenty years younger than we actually were. It had taken a while until my real memories had restored themselves.

I’m guessing my experiences aren’t what you want to hear about, I said to Lorna.

No. I think I had pushed that awful time out of my own mind. I mean, I couldn’t believe that you didn’t remember me after all we’d been through together.

Once my true memory was restored, I had trouble remembering all the details of those coma worlds. That too had eventually righted itself. I did remember you, but as a teenage girl.

You didn’t know me as a teenager, Lorna reminded me. I was – what, thirty? – when we met, with all my kids already.

I know that. We met at that cookout at your parents’ house—

The first time John brought you home to meet them, Lorna finished for me. Gosh, that must have been an ordeal, meeting us all at once. I know it was for me when I met Jeff’s family. Her half-smile faded at the mention of her husband’s name. Jeff, she said, shaking her head sadly. I don’t deserve him.

I would have thought it was the other way around, but I refrained from saying so. Lorna, I said gently, what is it you want to know about memory? How the brain works? Where it’s stored, the clinical aspects of it?

She shook her head. I want to know how you can tell if a memory is real. I remember reading something about false memories and repressed memories. How do you know if what you remember is false, or if it’s something that happened? She drew in a shuddering breath. Because it certainly feels real.

I kept my composure, but inside I was sure that whatever was going on with her, it wasn’t going to be good. So it’s a memory of some sort that’s causing your upset?

She nodded and her face crumpled into tears. She shielded her eyes with her hand, and I waited until her tears were reduced to sniffles. She pulled a tissue from her pocket, wiped her eyes, blew her nose, then half glanced in my direction. Sorry, Val, I can’t stop crying. I need help.

I had to proceed with caution. I’ll help you all I can, as a friend. But if you’re looking for professional help, I’ll have to refer you to someone else. We’ve been too close too long for it to be ethical for me to act as your therapist, if that’s the kind of help you want.

"It’s what I want, but I want it from you! she half-wailed. I can’t talk to some stranger about this. I can barely bring myself to tell you, and think of all we’ve been through together. Why, that thing with my mother alone—" She dissolved into tears once more.

I patted her shoulder as I got up and headed for my study to get the box of tissues I kept there. It was clear she was going to need more than the one already sodden and crumpled tissue in her fist. I put the box next to her on the couch, then sat down there myself. Repressed memories and false memories are a bit—controversial could be too strong a word, but there are certainly disagreements among therapists as to whether they are legitimate syndromes. False memories, as I recall, are not included as part of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, or they weren’t the last time I looked. I think that’s because in a lot of cases, repressed or recovered memories turn out not to be true at all.

Her head came up and she gaped at me, breathing through her mouth because her nose was congested. Are you just saying that?

No, that can be true. The matter would have to be explored on the basis of each individual case. Sometimes – and this was true for me when I came out of the coma – the memories that seemed real were based on something imagined, in my case, the dreams I had during the coma. I thought they were authentic memories when I came to.

How did you find out they weren’t?

It helped that my memory – my real memories – eventually came back. But before it did, I discovered that those coma-dream memories didn’t always stand up to scrutiny. When my memory did come back, I had no memories of the coma-dreams for a while. The memories of them came back, too, eventually, but they’re like any dream now, faded and blurry.

I wish that was how my memories were. But now that they’ve come back, I can’t stop thinking about what I remembered. She shuddered, her expression a study in distaste.

In the decades I had known Lorna, she’d always been sweet, kind, and generous, unfailingly cheerful, talented, and deserved all the success she’d had in the fashion industry. She’d married the man she’d met during her first week in college, bore him three children she adored, and had four grandchildren she absolutely doted on. I couldn’t imagine anything in her past that could cause such a reaction in her.

Except... Lorna had been adopted when she was two years old. My late husband John Wilson had told me he remembered her toddling through the door, dressed all in pink, her dark hair sleek and shiny. He had thought she was the prettiest thing he had ever seen. Lorna herself had no memory of the time before she became part of the Wilson family. Or possibly it was recently that she had memories of that time...

After her adoptive mother’s death, Lorna had asked me to help her find her birth mother. Jacob was alive, about to retire, and, unknown to me, already descending into dementia. I’d advised her to ask Vince to handle it as he was a private investigator. But his caseload had been particularly heavy at that time; he promised to get to it once things slowed down. Lorna wasn’t willing to wait any longer to find out who her birth mother was and whether she was alive. She’d again asked me to help.

It turned out that it didn’t take much effort on my part. Lorna introduced me to an old neighbor of her adoptive parents, a malicious old woman who was eager to share the secret she’d been keeping for years: Lorna’s adoptive father was more than that; he was also her biological father. Her mother was a teenage girl from the neighborhood with whom he’d had an affair and had supported for almost two years after Lorna’s birth. But then, for a price, her birth mother had given their baby over to him. He had not revealed to Lorna during his lifetime that they were related more than through adoption alone.

Could the memory Lorna experienced have something to do with those two years she had spent with her birth mother? That woman had been evil. She had charmingly wheedled her way into her daughter’s affections, taken out a large insurance policy on Lorna, and planned to kill her while they took a ‘get acquainted’ cruise, then collect the money. That plan had been foiled when Lorna invited Vince and me, then newlyweds, to join them on the cruise. When Vince couldn’t make it due to the press of his work, I went by myself, and have always been glad I did.

Had that evil woman done something – or allowed something to be done – to her own child? Something sick and perverted?

Lorna... Her sobs had finally subsided to little gasping breaths. Why don’t you tell me what brought on your memory?

I don’t want to, Lorna said, her voice small. She drew in another shuddering breath, then squared her shoulders and sat up taller. You remember at Bobby’s party how I got stuck talking to Ro?

I wanted to get you away from her, but every time I headed your way, someone stopped me and either wanted to talk or needed something.

I wish you had made it across the room and got me away from her! Lorna wiped at her eyes. Believe me, I know for a fact that ignorance is bliss.

What did Ro talk to you about?

For once it wasn’t the same old saw. I mean, I sympathize with her, I do, but how many times can you hear that story?

I nodded my agreement. Ro loved to recount the tragedy of her widowhood. At the party, she’d told it to at least three people who had already listened to the tale multiple times in the past before Ro had approached Lorna. What was she talking about to you?

Bobby.

I hadn’t expected that, nor could I think of how anything connected to my wonderful, gifted son could bring Lorna such pain and suffering.

You know how Ro moved in with Vince and Claudia after Bobby was born. I nodded. Vince’s late wife had been detached and neglectful of the changeling child she’d brought into Vince’s home. Rosemarie had helped raise Vince and Claudia’s three older boys, and Vince had asked her to return to help with Bobby.

She was talking about what a cute baby he was, so easy and happy, and wasn’t it funny how he was so fair when all the other boys were so dark. Lorna frowned for a second. Ro doesn’t know that Bobby had a different father?

I shook my head. Vince kept that to himself. You’re the only other person who knows besides Vince and me. Go on. I didn’t want her to use Bobby’s parentage to go off on a tangent to avoid what she needed to tell me.

She talked about how cute he was as a boy with that mop of blond hair and about how he’d been scared of thunderstorms. She said if there was a storm in the night, she could count on Bobby coming down the hall and crawling into bed with her. With that statement, Lorna began to shake. When she said that, it made me remember. I know it wasn’t the same thing because Bobby was a scared little boy. He wasn’t scared or little, but that’s when I remembered what happened to me, that he would crawl into bed with me every chance he got. She looked at me with tear-filled eyes. Val, I remembered that I’d had sex with my brother.

CHAPTER THREE

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My years as a therapist kept me from allowing my emotions to show on my face. I wasn’t sure what would have shown otherwise: horror, fear, or sympathy, none of which would help Lorna. My heart was pounding hard in my chest as I tried not to think that she was talking about my late husband John, the man I had loved so much that his death had nearly destroyed me. Had I loved a man who had forced an incestuous relationship on his sister? It that was true, I hadn’t known him at all.

As much as I was trying to keep my composure, Lorna must have sensed something, for she said quickly, It wasn’t John. It was Brian.

I was surprised that my relief at her words didn’t cause me to melt into a puddle as tension left my body.

I should have known it wasn’t John. Brian’s whole life was a series of inappropriate behaviors. He—

I stopped that train of thought. It was true that Brian exhibited inappropriate behaviors, but I was already assuming Lorna’s memories were based on reality. Thus far we had done nothing to prove or disprove that, which was what Lorna wanted to know.

Do you want to tell me about what you remembered? I asked her.

I don’t, but I will. She tried for a grin and failed, then fell into silence.

Ro was telling you how Bobby would crawl into bed with her. Is that how your—experience with Brian started?

Lorna shook her head. Not exactly... It was innocent, or I thought so at first... She chewed on her lower lip and fell into silence once more.

How old were you?

Fourteen.

I shuddered inwardly as I said, "Which would have made Brian, what? Sixteen?’

Lorna nodded. If he wasn’t already sixteen, he was close to it. She dropped her head and turned it to the side. I don’t think I can talk about this.

You can, Lorna. Just start at the beginning. What happened first?

Lorna sighed. He was going to a party. Johnny had already gone out someplace. I was going to be home with Mom and Dad. A lot of times I babysat on the weekends, but mostly in the afternoons. Mom didn’t think I was old enough to be alone in a house with kids at night. Anyway, Bri came into my room before he left. I remember thinking he was acting kind of nervous. He told me there were going to be games – kissing games – at this party, and he said he wanted to kiss me to find out if I thought he was a good kisser.

And you agreed?

She shook her head. I said no, that he was my brother, and doing that would be gross, but then he said it wasn’t like we were actually related. I hadn’t given much thought to being adopted before then. You know that Mom and Dad treated the boys and me the same, but when Brian said we weren’t related, it was kind of strange. It hurt my feelings, but it also made me think of how I lived in that house with two really good-looking guys, and they weren’t actually my brothers, and— She pressed her lips together.

And you said it was okay for him to kiss you?

Not quite, not at first. I told him I couldn’t be any kind of judge of kissing because I’d never been kissed before. But Brian said that was all right because I’d know if I liked it or not. I thought about it for a minute or so. I wanted to find out what kissing was like, so I nodded, and he kissed me. Her cheeks reddened at the admission.

I take it that it wasn’t a little peck.

She shook her head, eyes down, not meeting mine. It was a full-fledged kiss, she said, a French kiss. Do they call it that these days? My friend Susan had already been kissed and she told me how the boy practically got her whole face wet and she could have used a towel afterwards. Brian’s kiss wasn’t anything like that. I told him it was a nice kiss, and I liked it, which was true. He thanked me and left for the party.

But it didn’t end there.

No. Her voice was small. He came to my room after the party and said nobody had complained about his kissing so I was a good judge. Then he said nobody there kissed as good as I did.

My stomach turned over at those words. Was that when he got into bed with you? I forced myself to ask.

She shook her head. That wasn’t for a couple more weeks. We kissed some more that night, and every chance we got after that. Then Bri got interested in this girl – I forget her name, but it was a girl Johnny had gone out with for a while and then dropped.

That figured. Brian had been pathologically jealous of his older brother and always wanted what John had. Brian’s first wife had been a young woman who’d been so desperate to marry John she had told his family they were engaged when they weren’t. John had dropped her, and Brian had married her instead; he acted as if winning her hand was some sort of prize. She had shot John in a fit of jealous rage after John and I married. If Brian hadn’t married her and kept her in John’s life that way, John could have been with us to this day.

Bri had gone out with her a couple times. Lorna continued without my prompting, and drew my attention back to the present. I guess I was kind of jealous about it. He wasn’t as interested in me once she was around... Her voice trailed off.

If this was an actual memory, Brian was running true to form for sexual abusers, conditioning Lorna to want him, and withholding affection to make her more compliant.

But then one night after a date, he came to my room. He was kind of upset, and I asked him what was wrong. He didn’t want to tell me at first, but then he said that the girl, whatever her name was, was kind of a prude, and...

What?

He was shivering. He said he’d walked home from her house, and that he’d left his jacket there because he was so ticked off at her he forgot it. He said he was kind of chilled and asked if he could get into bed with me. Lorna herself shivered at the memory.

You let him into your bed.

She nodded.

Did he rape you?

Almost imperceptibly, Lorna shook her head. We were kissing the way we usually did, but that time, because he’d been cold, we were both under the covers, instead of me under them and him on top of them. He was touching me, and I knew the right thing was to tell him to stop, to leave my room, but I didn’t want to do that. I was curious, and he was telling me how wonderful I was, and... it happened.

But it wasn’t rape.

She shook her head more forcefully this time. It was awkward. I don’t think either of us had any real idea what we were doing, but we managed.

I waited to see if she would tell me more, but she sat there, lost in thought. What happened after that?

He went to his room.

I suppressed a smile because it occurred to me that was the type of literal answer a fourteen-year-old girl would give. I meant, after you had sex with him the first time, did it occur often after that? Or was it that one time and no more?

It wasn’t the once; it was as often as we could manage it. If Mom and Dad went out together, like to the store or to visit someone, we would do it then, but mostly it was in the night, when everyone else was asleep.

How long did this go on?

Until Brian went to college.

Two years?

She nodded.

What about after that?

That was kind of the end of it for us. He went away to college, and when he came home during breaks, we didn’t start up again. It was almost like it hadn’t happened.

Possibly because it hadn’t? This could be a fantasy.

Lorna again grew quiet, and I was quiet as I mulled over what she had told me. Do you want some tea? I asked her. I’d forgotten to offer her anything when she came in. I brewed some earlier, but it’s probably cold by now. I can brew fresh. I wouldn’t mind, and it doesn’t take that long.

I’d like some tea, she murmured. I won’t mind if it’s reheated.

In the kitchen I found my teapot stone cold. I’d left the tea infuser in the pot, so it held tea that was stewed and undrinkable to a tea lover. I poured it out and made another pot.

Ten minutes later I was carrying a tray with the teapot and cups, and a plate of my oat bran muffins into the living room.

I’m surprised you’ve got any of those left, Lorna said when she spotted the muffins, what with J.J. and Bobby both here yesterday. Those boys eat like horses.

Like your boys didn’t. Lorna had spent several years with three teenage boys in her household. I had always been amazed that she managed to keep any food in the house at all.

I poured the tea and we each sat with a cup in our hands, neither of us touching the muffins. We both drank in silence. I hoped the warmth of the tea was as comforting to her as it was to me.

I didn’t speak until my tea was half gone. Lorna, do you mind if I ask you some questions about what happened?

She put her cup down and sat up straight, like a schoolgirl about to be quizzed by a teacher. Go ahead.

You said the relationship went on for two years, at a frequency of—? I looked at her quizzically.

A couple times a week, more if we could manage it.

What do you mean by manage it?

"Like if Mom and Dad