The woman is ready to tell me off. I just know it by the glassy look on her face, that universal, blandly polite expression service industry people get when they’re about to tell you no. But in that moment, I hear soft steps of sneakers on linoleum, and a nurse appears in my peripheral vision.
“She’s here to see Marie Fortier,” the woman tells the nurse, utterly ignoring me. The nurse looks from the woman to me and back. She looks hesitant. “Says she’s a friend of the family?”
“My mom is,” I interject, not sure who I’m trying to fool. “I came back into town because of the flood. My mom’s house is damaged, I had to help. Apparently, Marie’s house also got flooded, and—”
“It’s terrible, this flood business,” the nurse says. “I know someone who lost their house altogether. The water reached the windows. The whole place will have to be demolished.”
I nod in deference.
“Come with me,” the nurse says, beckoning. “It’s your luck you’ve arrived in the middle of outdoor time. You can go see Marie in the yard.”
I follow happily on her heels, ignoring the stare of the Cerberus on my back.
“Just not for very long, please,” the nurse tells me. “She’s not in great shape. I don’t even know if she’ll recognize you. She gets so agitated when she doesn’t recognize a visitor. And hasn’t she had enough for one week?”
I let a couple of seconds tick by, and when the nurse doesn’t volunteer more information, I pounce, however carefully. “Why? What happened?”
The nurse sighs. I can only see the side of her face at this angle, so it’s hard to tell if she looks suspicious. But she goes on, in a lowered voice. “The police were here.”
“The police? But didn’t you just say—”
“Oh, I told them as much. Whatever questions they had for poor Marie, she sure isn’t in any shape to answer them, and hasn’t been for some time. But apparently, they weren’t here to ask questions. At least, not only for that. They wanted to swab her cheek—for a DNA sample or something.”
At first, I’m puzzled, but after a moment’s thought, it actually makes sense. They didn’t have DNA in 1979 when Michelle went missing—or, who knows, even if the science existed in a very early form, it sure as hell wouldn’t have been available in our backwater. So now they must get DNA from Michelle’s family to compare to the body so they can officially identify it.
I can’t hold back a shudder.
“I have no idea what they’re thinking,” the nurse fumes. “But she’s been here for almost five years now. I’ve never met a sweeter old lady. Back when she had at least some presence of mind, she was so kind to everyone. The way they treated her, so unceremoniously, it just broke my heart! She’s so gentle, would never hurt a fly. Disgusting people. No respect, no consideration. She was so distressed she spent the rest of the day crying and not really knowing why.”
We go through another set of automatic doors and emerge in a courtyard. The feeling of sadness that coiled in my chest tightens around my heart. The courtyard is exactly that, walls all around. No trees, only the sky above to hint that we’re outside. An array of wheelchairs sits around the central area, which I guess to be a flower bed and fountain in summertime. The nurse leads me to the closest one.
I’ve never seen Marie Fortier in person. By the time I was old enough to remember, she had retreated into her house on the riverbank and hardly ever ventured out. I only know her face from the old photographs my research turned up, so I didn’t expect to recognize her. But still the sight of the frail wisp of an old lady is a little shocking. I take a couple of small steps toward her, and she doesn’t seem to notice me until suddenly she looks up. Her eyes, always deep-set and now sunken, move under papery eyelids. She’s a little over eighty years old, I remind myself.
She blinks slowly. I feel a tinge of nervousness—any moment now, she’ll point at me and shriek impostor and have me thrown out of here. Then I remember that she wouldn’t have recognized me even if I hadn’t lied to the nurse. Nothing to fear.
But the look on her face changes when she sees me. She raises her head. She was beautiful when she was younger, a petite woman with perfect posture and a wasp waist emphasized by those fifties dresses she wore. As alertness momentarily returns to her features, I can see that younger woman there plain as day, which is almost as disturbing as the vacant look from earlier.
“Marie,” the nurse pipes up.
I give a start. I had almost forgotten she was there. She must have been encouraged by the look of consciousness on the old woman’s face.
“Look who’s come to visit you! It’s—” She pauses awkwardly as she realizes I never told her my name.
“I know who it is,” says Marie. Her voice is surprisingly young and melodious, not at all raspy. “Laura! It’s young Laura. Look how you’ve grown.”
The nurse and I exchange a glance.
Marie motions for me to come closer. Her hands are bony and frail, but her nails are perfectly manicured, filed into an almond shape and painted a frosty pink color. Gold rings glitter on her fingers.
Hesitant, I take another couple of steps. “You look better with your real hair,” says Marie with authority. “Laura, I’m so glad to see you. Give my regards to your parents.”
Great. Just great.
“Marie—” I start, not sure what exactly I’m going to say. I’m not actually my mom, my grandparents died more than thirty years ago, young Laura is now a middle-aged alcoholic? Oh, and tell me what exactly you did with Michelle. I don’t really see this happening, so I just trail off.
“I’m so glad you came to visit,” says Marie slowly. Her gaze clouds over once again, her smile fades, and she looks lost in the distance. “So very glad. I wanted to tell you I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive me.”
I gulp. I feel the nurse’s incredulous stare on the side of my face.
“Of course,” I finally choke out. When I glance sideways, the nurse is beaming contentedly. But Marie seems to no longer hear me. Her chin dips toward her chest, the thin, blue-tinted lids lower back over her eyes, and she’s lost in the fine gauze of her own mind.
“I think we should go now,” says the nurse on the periphery of my vision.
I nod.
“I think it did her good to see you,” she adds as we make our way back, past the automatic doors and into the building.
I start to sweat under my hoodie and jacket. I feel like I just ran a marathon.
“See? I told you. What a lovely old lady.”
“Yes,” I echo. “Lovely.”
“Anything else I can do for you?”
I shake off my stupor and force myself to come back to reality. “Maybe. I know Pierre Bergmann is also here. Or so someone told me. I used to be friends with his grandson—”
To my surprise, her face shuts down like someone slammed a book closed. A tense, awkward silence is palpable between us.
