Pretty Girls Dancing(16)

She’d looked up once to see Janie framed in the doorway, watching her silently, an anxious expression on her face. That had shaken her. Although diagnosed in kindergarten with selective mutism, Janie had come a long way with the anxiety disorder, rarely showing symptoms at home, and only then if they had visitors. But Claire hadn’t been able to go to her, to reassure her. How could she tell her daughter that everything would be all right when Claire knew nothing would be? Not ever again.

Hours into her task, Marta had joined her without a word. Kelsey was a clever artist and each of her drawings had been rehung on the wall. Every trophy precisely positioned on the shelves. The other woman had known even better than Claire where each object belonged. That single act had cemented a relationship between them that had never been acknowledged verbally. It never needed to be.

Her cell rang then. Claire considered not answering it. But withdrawing it from her robe pocket, she saw it was Barbara. Her friend had been known to come over if there was no answer, to check on Claire personally. It was a habit forged in those early days after Kelsey was taken.

“Barbara.” She forced a note of cheer she wasn’t feeling into her voice. “Hello. I’m afraid you’ve caught me in the middle of something. What’s up?”

“Nothing much.” Claire could imagine her friend sitting in her sunroom, with her second oversize mug of coffee and the morning paper. “I haven’t talked to you since the luncheon and thought I’d check in.”

Her earlier sense of contentment vanished. Claire rose to sit on the bed again and brought the glass to her lips, taking care so her friend wouldn’t hear the ice cubes clinking together. “I’m just fine.” The lie tasted bitter on her lips. “Trying to summon the ambition to go grocery shopping. I swear Janie inhales everything I bring home and never seems to gain an ounce. If I could clone her metabolism, I’d be set for life.”

Barbara laughed, as expected, but seemed distracted. “That’s good then. I was afraid . . . after the talk at the luncheon . . . I was just hoping you weren’t worrying yourself over the DeVries girl.”

Claire clutched the phone so tightly, the sides of it cut into her palm. “Oh, well . . .” Not even Barbara knew the extent of the state of panic and emotional turmoil she went through whenever she heard news like that. It was important to Claire that she didn’t. Better to keep up at least the pretense that she’d moved on, rather than the rest of the world passing her by while she remained frozen in the past. “Hearing news like that is always difficult. How are the parents holding up? Have you heard anything?”

“You can imagine, I expect. Helen said Shannon is beside herself. I’m not sure how much support Brian is for her. I always thought he was sort of a hard man. Not that I’m judging,” her friend hastened to say. “But you and David . . . all through your ordeal, I was just so thankful you were there for each other. That you pulled each other through the worst experience parents can endure and came out closer than ever.”

Claire stared hard at the melting ice in her glass. “Yes.” Her voice was flat. “We’re very lucky that way.” She should be grateful that the farce she worked so hard to present to the world was readily accepted. But the knowledge just made her feel empty. People saw what they wanted to see. Whatever was most comfortable to believe.

That tightness was back in her chest. Setting the glass on the bedside table, she fumbled in the pocket of her robe for a pill. After a moment’s hesitation, she withdrew a second and swallowed them both, chasing them down with a gulp of vodka.

“I know this is terribly presumptuous of me. But I was wondering . . . if you feel up to it . . .” Something in Claire stilled in anticipation of Barbara’s next words. “Maybe if it wouldn’t be too terribly painful for you, could you talk to Shannon? I’d come along, of course. But I’m sure she’d take a great deal of comfort in discussing things with you. As I said, I’m not sure how helpful Brian is, emotionally speaking, and of course, he’s going through hell, too. Perhaps even David . . .”

There was more, but Claire stopped listening. The phone was still clutched in her hand. Still pressed against her ear. But Barbara’s voice was very far away.

Other noises had intruded. Supplied by memory, honed excruciatingly sharp by years and pain. The sound of voices, Claire’s raised, Kelsey’s shouting. The anger and contempt, so hot and pulsing that it seemed to reverberate in the air. The stomp of her daughter’s feet down the stairs, the slam of the door. And then the quiet. The awful, echoing silence that had enveloped Claire, as she was left to replay the hideous scene over and over, grappling with shock and sorrow while her mind frantically searched for comprehension. For options.

Memory was sly that way. It had gotten harder and harder to cling to the exact sound of her daughter’s laugh, the smell of her hair. But that final scene was branded indelibly in her mind. It often sprang forth unsummoned, an emotional ambush.

Dimly, she was aware of the cell vibrating in her hand. She didn’t remember disconnecting the call. The screen didn’t show Barbara’s number this time but Janie’s school.

Claire made no move to answer it. She couldn’t. The past was rising up again, rushing in and dragging her back into the darkness.





David Willard

November 4

2:48 p.m.