“I do,” said Jack. “That’s the main reason I came all the way over here.”
“What, to tell me to keep my chin up?”
“No. To convince your wife that we need her help.”
“No, absolutely not,” said Mrs. Laramore. “I won’t leave Celeste to go sit in a courthouse all day.”
Jack and the Laramores were inside the ICU, standing right outside Celeste’s room. The hallway was as far away from Celeste as Mrs. Laramore would go. They kept their voices low, mindful of other patients with open doors.
“The plan is for you to be our first witness,” said Jack. “You can head straight back to the hospital as soon as you finish. Two hours, tops, including travel time.”
“And what if that two-hour window is when Celeste finally opens her eyes?” Her upper lip trembled, and Jack wasn’t sure if she could finish her thought, but he gave her time. “What if Celeste looks out and doesn’t see her mother, doesn’t have anyone to calm her fears or hold her hand and give her strength to wake up?”
Jack had no answer, and she wasn’t looking for one anyway.
“I can stay here,” said Ben.
She glared at her husband, clearly unhappy with the solution. “Celeste needs her
Ben glanced at Jack, then took his wife’s hand. “Honey, this is so important.”
“I wouldn’t ask,” said Jack, “but you, more than anyone, can make this judge see what kind of person Celeste is.”
Her eyes welled, and her lip began to tremble again. “You want to see what kind of person she is?”
Before Jack could answer, she pushed open the door, popped in and out of the room, and emerged with a photo album. She opened it and showed Jack. “I’ve been going through this all day with her, talking to her, pointing things out, trying to trigger her memories. This is her senior year of high school and graduation,” she said, pointing. “This is when we took her to college. This is Celeste and her roommate.” She flipped the pages. “And this is her just a couple of months ago. Mother’s Day.”
Jack looked at each of the photos, casually at first, then more carefully. He was struck by a theme that ran through the time period represented by the photos, not sure it could even be called a theme. But he didn’t want to discuss it then and there, especially as distraught as Mrs. Laramore was.
“May I borrow this album?” asked Jack.
“No!” said Mrs. Laramore, clutching it. “I don’t mean to be rude. But we can’t lose this.”
“I can e-mail JPEGs to you, if you want them,” said Ben.
“That would be great, thanks.”
“I need to get back,” said Mrs. Laramore, and she disappeared into Celeste’s room. Ben led Jack down the hallway toward the secured entrance and pushed the button on the wall to open the doors.
“I’ll talk this out with my wife. And I’ll get you those photos.”
“Thanks, please do that.”
Jack exited the ICU, and the doors closed automatically behind him. He continued to the elevator, confident that Mrs. Laramore could be talked into testifying. His mind was more focused on those photographs. Flashes of brilliance sometimes didn’t seem so brilliant upon second look, but he was beyond certain that his more careful review of the photos, once e-mailed to him, would confirm his initial impression:
With each photo since high school-with the gradual passage of time, starting roughly with the death of Sydney’s daughter-Celeste Laramore looked more and more like Sydney Bennett.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The funeral home was open until ten o’clock. At 9:55 P.M., Jack pulled into the parking lot and killed the engine. That was as far as he could go. He was frozen behind the wheel, shrouded in darkness, unable to open the door.
It had been Jack’s intention to stay away from any memorial service for Rene. After his meeting with the Laramores, however, he’d spotted the notice posted on the bulletin board in the hospital lobby: REMEMBERING RENE FENNING, MD, LINCOLN FUNERAL HOME, FRIDAY, 6 P.M. TO 10 P.M. The Jackson Memorial family had lost one of its own. Jack wasn’t part of that family, and Rene’s boyfriend had nearly broken every bone in his right fist trying to make Jack understand that he was most unwelcome. Jack couldn’t blame him for feeling that way. The sight of Rene’s body on a slab in the morgue had made Jack want to punch himself in the face. Twice. Once for Rene’s having ended up as “someone you love.” A second time for the hurt he’d caused everyone else who had ever loved her.
It was a typical humid summer night, and the stale air inside the closed car changed from warm to stifling in a hurry. Rolling down the window to cool things down would have been pure procrastination. Jack had to do what he’d come to do-or he needed to leave. There was always a spare necktie in his console, and with the help of the rearview mirror he tied a quick double Windsor. A shave wouldn’t have hurt, but the best he could do was run a comb through his hair. He drew a breath, clutched his keys, and stepped out of the car.
Jack’s heels clicked on the asphalt as he crossed the parking lot. Several visitors passed him on their way out of the funeral home, then a few more. One older woman was sobbing and dabbing away tears. Others appeared numb, or at the very least at a loss for words. Jack looked away, only to catch sight of the black hearse parked beneath the porte cochere alongside the building. The thought of Rene heading to the cemetery in the morning was almost incomprehensible. A random memory came to him of the way Rene had surprised him one weekend and shown up at his front door direct from Abidjan-in her words, “a sex-starved expat willing to traverse the globe in search of quality horizontal time.” It was a nice combination, someone who could crack you up and turn you on at the same time. It all left a knot in his stomach. He walked faster to the door, and on his way inside, a woman at the front step seemed to recognize him but said nothing. Jack tried not to make eye contact with her or anyone else, fearful that he might be asked to leave.
There was a small gathering of guests at the sign-in register in the lobby. Jack decided that he wouldn’t sign. Several other clusters of quiet conversation dotted the room. Bouquets of white roses and chrysanthemums adorned antique tables. It was all very subdued and traditional, except for the life-size photographs of Rene that flanked the entrance door to the parlor where she lay. On the left was a younger and dust-covered Rene, the volunteer pediatrician whom Jack had met in western Africa. Only a handful of people knew that period of her life. On the right was Dr. Fenning, a more current shot that was recognizable to all who had come to grieve.
“Swyteck?”
Jack turned. It was Rene’s boyfriend.
“I asked you not to come,” said Dr. Ross.
The perfect response was trapped somewhere between his brain and his tongue, but damned if Jack could get it out. “I didn’t come to make a scene,” said Jack, “and it wasn’t my intention to go inside and see Rene without your blessing.”
“Walk with me for a minute.”
Dr. Ross started toward the main entrance, and Jack followed. He led Jack all the way outside and across the driveway, to a patch of grass that was just beyond a stand of bushy palm trees in front of the funeral home. There were crushed cigarettes on the ground, and the night air still hinted at a recent smoke.
“I can’t say that I was going to invite you,” said Dr. Ross, “but in a way I’m glad you came. There’s something I need to tell you.”
Jack braced himself.
“Don’t worry,” the doctor said. “I’m not going to hit you.”
“That’s a step forward.”
It was too dark to tell if the doctor had cracked a semblance of a smile, but it would have been a sad one. “When we lost Rene, she was on her way to meet you.”
“Yes, unfortunately, that’s true.”
“Do you have any idea what she was going to tell you?”
