Missing Pieces(27)

“She’s not answering her door,” Sarah explained. “Is her car here?”

“Who’s wants to know?” the woman asked, looking at her suspiciously from behind grimy trifocals.

“I’m Amy’s sister-in-law, Sarah Quinlan. We’ve been having trouble getting ahold of her, and we’re getting a little worried.” Sarah held out her hand in greeting.

“You got some ID?” the woman asked, ignoring Sarah’s outstretched fingers.

“Yes, of course.” Sarah dug through her purse until she found her driver’s license and then handed it to the woman. The woman flicked her eyes back and forth between the license and Sarah’s face until she seemed satisfied.

“I’m Cora Berry,” she introduced herself, and handed the ID back to Sarah. “That’s Amy’s car there.” The woman pointed to a two-door red hatchback with a dented front fender parked beneath the buckeye tree.

“I wonder why she’s not answering the door?” Sarah said.

“My guess is that she probably doesn’t want to talk to you,” the woman said archly.

Sarah retreated down the steps and sidled between the overgrown boxwood hedges that edged the home’s foundation. Using her hands to block the glare of the evening sun she pressed her face against the front window and peered through the narrow opening between the drawn curtains. Gradually the contents of the sparsely furnished room came into focus as her eyes became accustomed to the dim interior.

Directly in Sarah’s field of vision was a flimsy particleboard cabinet that supported an old box television airing what appeared to be a local news program. Sarah’s eyes landed on a wooden coffee table that was covered with the detritus of someone who lived alone: a bottle of vodka, dirty cereal bowls, an overflowing ashtray, an orange prescription bottle tipped on its side. To the right of the coffee table, positioned at an angle, was a grungy taupe sofa draped with a large blanket crocheted in greens and blues.

Cora crowded in next to Sarah. With effort she lifted her heels and placed her hands on the windowsill. Sarah saw that they were speckled with age spots and gnarled by arthritis. “I could have sworn she was home,” Cora said more to herself than to Sarah.

“The TV’s on and her car is here,” Sarah observed. “Maybe she’s in the bedroom taking a nap or maybe she’s taking a shower.”

Cora pressed her nose to the window to get a better look. “What’s that?” she asked.

“Where?” Sarah tried to follow Cora’s line of vision but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

“There, on the couch.”

Sarah squinted, trying to get a better look. “Oh,” she said with surprise. What she had thought were the lumpy cushions of an old sofa was, Sarah realized, a small, slight figure covered in a blanket. “Is she sleeping?” Sarah asked.

“I don’t know,” Cora said doubtfully. “She’s not moving.” From their vantage, Sarah could see what looked to be the pale skin of Celia’s foot peeking out from beneath the blanket. “Amy,” Cora said loudly, pounding on the window with surprising strength. “Amy, wake up!”

She didn’t stir. Sarah stared intently at the form, hoping to see the rise and fall of her back, any evidence of breathing. Nothing. Sarah joined Cora in rapping on the window and calling Amy’s name. A neighbor peeked out to see what all the ruckus was.

“I’m going to see if the door’s unlocked,” Cora said breathlessly, lowering her feet to the ground. Sarah continued to peer through the window, once again noting the vodka and pill bottle on the coffee table. Had Amy, in her grief over Julia’s death, her guilt over not finding her sooner, decided to swallow a combination of drugs and alcohol? But to what end?

Cora jiggled the doorknob. “It’s locked.”

“I’m calling 9-1-1,” Sarah said, already reaching into her pocket for her phone.

“My sister-in-law isn’t moving,” she said when the emergency dispatcher answered the phone. “I’m outside and I can’t get in, but I can see her.” She tried not to panic as the woman on the line asked her a series of questions.

“I’ve got help on the way,” the woman said calmly. Her voice remained calm and businesslike. “What’s your sister-in-law’s name, ma’am?”

“Amy Quinlan,” Sarah said, keeping her eyes on Amy, hoping, praying, for some sign of life.

“Is this Sarah Quinlan?” the voice asked.

“Yes. Yes, it is,” Sarah said, confused as to how the 9-1-1 dispatcher would know this. “My husband asked me to come check on his sister.”

“Sarah, this is Margaret Dooley,” the dispatcher said. “I’ve got an ambulance and sheriff’s car on the way. Can you still see Amy?”

“Yes, I can see her.”

“Tell me what you see.”

“She’s lying on the couch, covered in a blanket. There’s a bottle of vodka and an empty pill bottle on the table next to her.” Sarah’s voice cracked with emotion and tears blurred her vision.

“What else do you see?” Margaret urged. Sarah swiped at the tears, trying to stay focused. What if Amy was dead? she wondered.

A thin, nearly invisible wisp of smoke rose from the pile of cigarette butts in the ashtray on Amy’s coffee table. “I see a cigarette. A burning cigarette,” Sarah relayed with relief. The fact that the cigarette was still smoldering gave her hope that Amy hadn’t been unconscious for too long.