?Some days it?s easier than others.?
She folded her hands and tensed, her thin shoulders rising under the halter.
?Have you come to tell me something??
?I?m afraid not, Madame Trottier. And I don?t really have any specific questions for you. I thought there might be something you?ve remembered, perhaps something you didn?t think important earlier??
Her eyes stayed on the lemonade. A dog barked outside.
?Has anything occurred to you since you last spoke with the detectives? Any detail about the day Chantale disappeared??
No response. The air in the kitchen was hot and dense with humidity. It smelled faintly of lemon disinfectant.
?I know this is awful for you, but if we?re to have any hope of finding your daughter?s killer, we still need your help. Is there anything that?s been bothering you? Anything you?ve been thinking about??
?We fought.?
Again. The guilt of nonclosure. The wish to take back words and substitute others.
?She wouldn?t eat. She thought she was getting fat.?
I knew all this from the report.
?She wasn?t fat. You should have seen her. She was beautiful. She was only sixteen.? Her eyes finally met mine. A single tear spilled over each lower lid, and trickled down each cheek. ?Like the English song.?
?I?m so sorry,? I said, gently as I could. Through the screened window I could smell sun on geraniums. ?Was Chantale unhappy about anything??
Her fingers tightened around her glass.
?That?s what?s so hard. She was such an easy child. Always happy. Always full of life, bubbling with plans. Even my divorce didn?t seem to upset her. She took it in stride and never missed a step.?
Truth or retrospective fantasy? I remembered the Trottiers had divorced when Chantale was nine. Her father was living somewhere in the city.
?Can you tell me anything about those last few weeks? Had Chantale altered her routine in any way? Had any odd calls? Made any new friends??
Her head moved slowly in continuous negation. No.
?Did she have trouble making friends??
No.
?Were you uneasy about any of her friends??
No.
?Did she have a boyfriend??
No.
?Did she date??
No.
?Did she have problems at school??
No.
Poor interrogation technique. Need to get the witness to do the talking instead of me.
?What about that day? The day Chantale disappeared??
She looked at me, her eyes unreadable.
?Can you tell me what took place that day??
She took a sip of lemonade, swallowed deliberately, set the glass back on the table. Deliberately.
?We got up around six. I made breakfast.? She clutched the glass so tightly I feared it would shatter. ? Chantale left for school. She and her friends rode the train since the school is in Centre-ville. They say she went to all her classes. And then she . . .?
A breeze teased the gingham off the window frame.
?She never came home.?
?Did she have any special plans that day??
?No.?
?Did she normally come right home after classes??
?Usually.?
?Did you expect her home that day??
?No. She was going to see her father.?
?Did she do that often??
?Yes. Why do I have to keep answering these questions? It?s useless. I?ve told all this to the detectives. Why do I have to keep repeating the same things over and over? It doesn?t do any good. It didn?t then, it won?t now.?
Her eyes fixed on mine, the pain almost palpable.
?You know what? All the time I was filling out missing persons forms and answering questions, Chantale was already dead. She was lying in pieces in a dump. Already dead.?
She dropped her head and the thin shoulders shuddered. She was right. We had nothing. I was fishing. She was learning to bury the pain, to plant tomatoes and live, and I?d ambushed her and forced an exhumation.
Be kind. Get out.
?It?s all right, Madame Trottier. If you can?t remember further details, they are probably not important.?
I left my card and standard request. Call if you think of anything. I doubted she would.
Gabby?s door was closed when I got home, her room quiet. I thought of looking in, resisted. She could be so touchy about her privacy. I got into bed and tried to read, but Genevi #232;ve Trottier?s words kept jamming my mind.
27
I WOKE TO THE SOUND OF THE MORNING NEWS. JULY 5. I?D SLIPPED through Independence Day and not even noticed. No apple pie. No ?Stars and Stripes Forever.? Not a single sparkler. Somehow the thought depressed me. Every American anywhere on the globe should stand up and strut on the Fourth. I had allowed myself to become a Canadian spectator of American culture. I made plans to go to the ball park at the next opportunity and cheer for whichever American team was in town.
I showered, made coffee and toast, and scanned the
Brennan. Stow it. You?re surly because you have to take the car in.
It was true. I hate errands. I hate the minutiae of making do in a techno-nation-state in the closing years of the second millennium. Passport. Driver?s license. Work permit. Income tax. Rabies shot. Dry cleaning. Dental appointment. Pap smear. My pattern: put it off until unavoidable. Today the car had to be serviced.
I am a daughter of America in my attitude toward the automobile. I feel incomplete without one, cut off and vulnerable. How will I escape an invasion? What if I want to leave the party early, or stay after the M #233;tro stops? Go to the country? Haul a dresser? Gotta have wheels. But I am not a worshiper. I want a car that will start when I turn the key, get me where I want to go, keep doing it for at least a decade, and not require a lot of pampering.
Still no sounds from Gabby?s room. Must be nice. I packed my gear and left.
The car was in the shop and I was on the M #233;tro by nine. The morning rush was over, the railcar relatively empty. Bored, I grazed through the ads. See a play at Le Th #233; #226;tre St. Denis. Improve your job skills at Le Coll #232;ge O?Sullivan. Buy jeans at Guess, Chanel perfume at La Baie, color at Benetton.
My eyes drifted to the M #233;tro map. Colored lines crossed like the wiring on a motherboard, white dots
