The Raising: A Novel Part 30

"But he doesn't want the truth. The kind of girl he thinks I am, he's never going to find anyway."

"So, you just figured out what kind of girl Craig wanted, and decided you'd pretend to be that?"

"Isn't that what everyone does?"

"What? No!"

"No? What was all that cla.s.s-ring c.r.a.p with you and Mary about? Seems to me like you had her game all figured out, and played it pretty well for a nice long time."

Perry sat up. He put his hand to his Adam's apple, where she'd bit him. It was damp, and when he looked at his fingers, he was surprised to see a drop of blood on them. "What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?" he asked. "Mary's the one who had me figured out."

"No," Nicole said, shaking her head, still smiling. "You knew she wanted that whole Eagle Scout thing. Small-town boy. Good daddy someday. Gonna work at the Edwards and Son Lawn Mower Shop in Bad Axe and tinker with the minivan on weekends. She thought all that ambition-the scholars.h.i.+ps and the grades and the SAT scores-was all about making sure you could buy her a nice little house on the outskirts of town and an engagement ring a year or two after you got your high school diploma, and started with the babies. And that game worked out really well for you, didn't it? You had the sweetest girl at Bad Axe High for three years, and then you ditched her. Did you ever once tell her the real story-that your actual plan was to go to a fancy university, maybe study something like philosophy? Go to school for about ten more years, and then maybe travel around Europe with a backpack for a few more? Jesus Christ. Poor Mary must still be lying awake at night wondering what the h.e.l.l happened, who the h.e.l.l she was actually dating all that time she was dating you."

Perry's heart was pounding-not just in his chest, but in his throat, throbbing against his Adam's apple. It was pounding in his wrists, his legs, his temples. He was out of the bed without knowing he'd stood up, looking down at Nicole, who was looking up at him, still with that f.u.c.king little smile-and he wanted to say something horrible to her, something that would change her life, something that would scare her, something-but he couldn't. He never would. Looking down on her smiling up at him, he couldn't even maintain the desire to say it.

Jesus.

No wonder Craig was such a dupe and he himself was such a chump, a backstabber, a lying a.s.shole.

She was so beautiful. Plato's ideal, as he now knew from Philosophy 101. She always had been, but now he could see it for what it was, even knowing that it wasn't what it appeared to be: Her face was tilted sweetly, like that of a sparrow or a kitten, and she wore that ludicrously girlish smile, and Perry was suddenly reminded of what must have been her second-grade school photograph. Pigtails. No front teeth. Frozen in black and white wearing a little bit of lace around her collar and a silver cross, and then he remembered with perfect clarity sitting behind her in fourth grade, Mr. Garrison's cla.s.s. They were talking about sanitation, and Nicole had raised her hand and asked Mr. Garrison, "What happens to the p.o.o.p after it's flushed down the toilet?" and all the other kids, especially the boys, were doubled over with laughter at the sound of the word p.o.o.p coming out of the pretty little mouth of Nicole Werner, who turned around to Perry then, horrified, blus.h.i.+ng two bright spots on her cheeks, looking straight at him, as if for help, and Perry was incredibly relieved that he'd reacted, himself, too slowly to laugh, and was able now to look her in the eyes, shrug his shoulders, as if to say, Who knows what these idiots are laughing about? Who cares?

Now he was looking at her, lying half-naked on his bed, the strap of her silky top slipping over her beautiful, womanly shoulder, and Perry couldn't open his mouth, but he knew by her expression that he was asking her with his eyes to tell him, Is that who I was? Is that who Mary thought I was? Is that what I did? How did you know when even I didn't?

Instead of answering, she stood, gathered her jeans off the floor, slid them up, and he watched, remembering only a few months before, when he'd found her standing on the front steps of G.o.dwin Hall wearing that bulky sweats.h.i.+rt-homesick and sad-and how she'd put her head on his shoulder and cried, and the helpless way his mouth had opened, and nothing had come out. Had she really been homesick and sad? Or had that, too, been some kind of test?

Now Nicole put her arms on either side of his face and kissed him (a quick, sweet, nons.e.xual parting kiss) and said, "Hey. It's okay. We come from the same place, Perry. I know who you are, and you know who I am. I'll see you around, okay?"

70.

Sh.e.l.ly found them on the Internet with no trouble: the parents of Denise Graham, the Omega Theta Tau "runaway." As the desperate tended to do in a computer age, they'd created a website: BringBackDenise.com.

There she was on Sh.e.l.ly's computer screen-a blond beauty with big blue eyes. If it hadn't been for the coloring, she could have served as Josie Reilly's stunt double. The same straight, s.h.i.+ny, shoulder-length hair. The smoky eye makeup. The perfect gleaming teeth.

In this photograph, Denise Graham was wearing a lacy tank top. She was sitting in a plaid armchair that had the look of family room furniture. There was a longhaired cat in her lap. Denise Graham was petting it, smiling.

PLEASE! DENISE GRAHAM IS OUR BELOVED, BEAUTIFUL, BRILLIANT DAUGHTER. SHE DISAPPEARED FROM HER SORORITY IN MARCH, AND HAS NOT BEEN SEEN SINCE.

The bright red capital letters went on to scroll out the details. The time and date of her last contact with her parents. Her height and weight (5'5" and only 115 pounds). Also, her favorite foods (nachos, Dr. Pepper) and various nicknames (s.h.i.+ny, Sweeties, Neecey)-as if she, like the cat in her lap, might need to be coaxed out from under a porch or a vehicle with these pet names.

The Grahams' phone number was there, too-how many prank phone calls, Sh.e.l.ly wondered, had this inspired?-along with their address, their email addresses. They lived only thirty miles from the university town where their daughter had disappeared.

Twice Sh.e.l.ly picked up the phone to call them, and twice she composed emails to them, and then she decided she would simply drive to Pinckney and introduce herself, because, really, what did she have to offer them, or to ask them? Better that they should see her standing there humbled on the doorstep by their grief.

Or so she'd thought until she pulled up in front of their house.

It was one of those lavish new subdivision homes, the type built to appeal to people who, Sh.e.l.ly imagined, wanted a kind of English country life without the country. It had a winding cobblestone path through some bright green bushes bearing red ornamental berries. A light snow had begun to fall, and everything about the place looked like an advertis.e.m.e.nt for a lifestyle, the lifestyle being lived in nearly identical houses all throughout the subdivision, except that here the lawn hadn't been mown or the hedges trimmed, and the mailbox at the end of the driveway appeared to have been struck by a car (little black door hanging open, side dented). And every window in the house had drawn shades or curtains pulled across it. Although there were two cars parked at crooked angles to each other outside the closed garage, it looked, from the outside, as if no one had been home for many months.

Sh.e.l.ly was about to back up, turn around, when the front door flew open and a woman in a hot pink bathrobe hurried, barefoot, onto the front steps and began to wave her arms wildly in the air, as if flagging down an ambulance or trying to help land a plane.

There was no doubt who she was.

The resemblance was uncanny. Here was Denise Graham, the runaway sorority girl, aged thirty years. Frantic, exhausted, maybe medicated or a little drunk. Having spent the last eight months in the desperate hope that every time the phone rang, the mail came, or a car pulled into the driveway it would bring her lost daughter home to her. "Who are you?" Denise Graham's mother called out to Sh.e.l.ly, and Sh.e.l.ly had no choice now but to park the car and get out.

The living room was a gracious shambles. Newspapers were piled up on the leather sofa. Mail was scattered across the antique coffee table. There was a stain (coffee? Pepsi?) in the center of the plush white carpet. The cat Sh.e.l.ly recognized from the website was sitting in front of the cold fireplace, stone still. Only its eyes moved when Sh.e.l.ly sat down in the only chair that wasn't piled with papers.

"I want to tell you right away, Mrs. Graham," Sh.e.l.ly said, "that I don't-"

"Call me Ellen," the woman said, as if the interruption, the intimacy of a first name, might change the course of this conversation and lead her to her daughter. She took a place on the couch across from Sh.e.l.ly without bothering to clear a place for herself, sitting down on a newspaper, a few pieces of junk mail. Her robe spilled open over her chapped-looking knees, and she didn't bother to pull it back into place. Out of respect, Sh.e.l.ly looked away, but the only other thing to look at in the room besides Ellen Graham or a messy pile of something was the cat, unnerving in its calm return of Sh.e.l.ly's gaze.

"Okay, yes," Sh.e.l.ly said, "and you can call me Sh.e.l.ly. But I want you to know that I don't have any information about your daughter. I'm with the university, but I work-or, worked-at the Chamber Music Society. The only connection I have here is to one of your daughter's sorority sisters, and I've been reading about your daughter, and about another incident at the sorority-"

"Nicole Werner," Ellen Graham said. "That accident happened the night my daughter disappeared."

Sh.e.l.ly nodded, although the accounts she'd read put the disappearance of Denise Graham at least a week before Nicole's death.

"I'm not a professional in any way," Sh.e.l.ly continued, "and I probably have no business-"

Ellen began shaking her head. "I don't care about that," she said. "I don't care about anything except finding Denise. Who cares about being professional or even polite? That's gotten us nothing. We don't care if you're just plain nosy, if it's morbid curiosity. We just want someone to help us."

Ellen Graham's hands went to her knees then. She began to scratch at them absently, rocking back and forth.

Sh.e.l.ly paused, trying to decide where to go from here. She took a breath and said, "I was the first person at the scene of the accident. Nicole Werner's accident. I saw what happened, and I know that what they're saying happened didn't happen. I'm trying to find out what actually did happen. I don't know if it had anything to do with your daughter-"

"Denise," the woman said, as if she'd been waiting for an excuse to say the name.

"Yes," Sh.e.l.ly continued, "with Denise. But I know, now, that either the university, or the police, or the newspaper, or the sorority, or all of them together are willing to lie. They're covering something up. They've got something to hide. They're-"

"Who is this girl, the one you know from the sorority? Is her name Josie Reilly?" There was no mistaking the tone of Ellen Graham's voice when she said the name: bitter hatred. Fury, and anger, and derision.

"Yes," Sh.e.l.ly said, astonished. "How did you know?"

"I'll show you how I know," Ellen Graham said.

Although she stood up, her body seemed to retain the shape of the sofa, the posture of someone who'd been sitting in it, slumped, so long that she had become it. Sh.e.l.ly followed her to the stairway, where there was more plush carpet and piled-up debris-magazines, paperbacks, unopened envelopes. Ellen Graham simply stepped over the piles and around them, so Sh.e.l.ly did as well, and then they were in a long hallway hung with photographs of a girl who had to be Denise: Denise in a ba.s.sinet, zipped into what looked like a lacy pink envelope. Denise with pigtails, riding a tricycle. Denise in a startlingly low-cut blue satin gown, hand tucked under the arm of a boy in a tuxedo. Denise squinting into sunlight, wearing a mortar board.

They stopped in front of an open door.

"This is Denise's room," Ellen Graham said, as if Sh.e.l.ly could have mistaken it for anything else.

There were piles of stuffed animals on the bed-the prized, expensive kind of stuffed animals (endangered species with personalized name tags and hand-painted gla.s.s eyes), not the dragged-through-the-mud-since-preschool kind. There was a complete set of the World Book Encyclopedia on the bookshelf, ceramic cats holding the volumes in place. The only mess in this room was on the bulletin board, which was three layers thick with snapshots of adolescents in bikinis, or on bicycles, or driving boats, or singing into microphones, and glossy pages torn out of magazines, greeting cards emblazoned with YOU'RE THE BEST and WAY TO GO, GIRL, and small, dried-up things that must have been mementos from parties and dances and dates.

The girl's violin was out of its case, lying on its side on top of her dresser.

"I haven't changed anything," Ellen Graham said. "Before the police came, I made a chart of everything, where everything had been, so that everything would be exactly the way she left it, for when she comes back." She looked with unnerving ferocity into Sh.e.l.ly's eyes, seeming to be making sure Sh.e.l.ly understood that Denise would come back. "The only difference is that I put her clothes and things from her room at the sorority away, in her closet, when those girls brought me her things. "See?"

Ellen Graham led Sh.e.l.ly to a closet and slid the door open. A row of white lights blazed on without any switch being flipped, and Ellen Graham stepped into it-into that light, and into that closet-turned a corner, and seemed to disappear before Sh.e.l.ly's eyes.

Sh.e.l.ly followed, but hesitated, and then she realized that this closet was the size of most rooms. A closet the size of a small apartment, or a trailer. It could not have been called, even, really, a walk-in closet. It was a s.p.a.ce that could have been lived in. The only thing closetlike about it was the row after row of garments crammed together along the walls, and the fact that there were no windows.

Ellen Graham turned to look at Sh.e.l.ly and then tossed her arms up in the air, as if either to reveal something miraculous or to try to express the total futility of some unending task, and then she stood up on her tiptoes and pulled down a small black-enameled box, opened it, and turned it toward Sh.e.l.ly, as if to present her with the contents.

Black satin, bearing jewelry.

A pair of earrings.

Two grapelike cl.u.s.ters of opals and rubies dangling from elaborate Victorian-scrolled gold settings. These were the kinds of jewels that were kept under gla.s.s at Holyrood or Buckingham Palace. When Denise had worn them, they must have hung down to her shoulders. They must have weighed a ton, cost a fortune.

Ellen Graham picked one of them up and said, "They were my grandmother's. She was Italian. A countess. You don't have to believe me. You can look it up on the Internet."

Sh.e.l.ly nodded, and immediately regretted it, thinking the nod might make it appear that checking out Ellen Graham's grandmother's pedigree on the Internet was something she planned to do.

"I let Denise borrow these for the Spring Event. She was wearing a white dress we bought together in Chicago. She was so excited. I'd never even let her touch these before.

"My daughter is an angel, Sh.e.l.ly, but no one could claim that, when it comes to material things, she's overly responsible. She lost four cell phones between her senior year in high school and when she disappeared.

"Still, she knew what these were worth, and what they meant."

The Spring Event. Josie's description of it. The tequila. The coffin. Sh.e.l.ly wondered if Denise disappeared before or after.

"And that f.u.c.king little b.i.t.c.h," Ellen Graham said, her voice cracking on the last word before she snapped the enameled box shut and tossed it back on the shelf above her daughter's sweaters and dresses. "Josie Reilly! That f.u.c.king little b.i.t.c.h who came here with one of those other little Omega Theta Tau brats with a trunk full of my beautiful daughter's things. But no earrings. No white dress. 'Where are those?' I asked. How stupid was I?"

Ellen Graham was acting out a scene now, reading from a script.

" 'Have you seen, by any chance,' I asked, 'a white dress and a pair of beautiful Italian earrings worth about twenty thousand dollars?'

" 'Oh, no, Mrs. Graham. Golly. We went all through Denise's stuff. We brought you everything! We never saw a white dress or any Italian earrings. Denise was long gone before the Spring Event. Maybe she was wearing them when she left?' "

Sh.e.l.ly watched, waited for the scene to play itself out.

"Well, that didn't make sense, did it, Sh.e.l.ly? Why would Denise be wearing her Spring Event outfit if that was still three nights away? But, you know, I was confused. I was desperate. The police and the university and the Pan-h.e.l.lenic Society-everyone was looking into this. Everyone was working so hard. Wearing ribbons. Making phone calls. I just felt grateful not to be Nicole Werner's mother by that time. That mother had it worse than I did, I thought. I felt lucky anyone cared at all about Denise's disappearance with that on top of it.

"And, of course, these girls were so sweet. And so beautiful. Josie, and this other girl, Amanda Something. They could have been Denise. Their hair, and their clothes, and their 'likes' and 'you knows' and the little mannerisms, their pretty manicures. I thought, Okay, my daughter wore her grandmother's earrings and her Winter Event dress and got on a bus, and-and what?

"And by the time these girls brought me her things, it had been six weeks already. Six unbearable, sleepless weeks. And then the summer was over and the police told me they were 'working' on the case.

"So I sat down at the computer and looked her up-Nicole Werner-mostly because her parents were the only parents on earth I could think of who had it worse than I did. Maybe there was some kind of perverse satisfaction in that. I read every word I could find about the accident, and the funeral, and the memorial service, and the sorority and their f.u.c.king cherry trees, and then I came across one very, very interesting item.

"I came upon a photograph of that pretty dark-haired girl who'd brought Denise's belongings home. She'd been, it seemed, Nicole Werner's roommate. And there she was in this photograph, standing at a lectern giving a little speech during the dedication of the cherry orchard, supposedly two weeks after my daughter disappeared, and that little f.u.c.king s.l.u.t was wearing my G.o.dd.a.m.ned Italian countess grandmother's earrings."

Sh.e.l.ly saw it, herself, then-the Googled image-suddenly before her: Josie Reilly in a sweet, tiny, black dress, gripping the sides of a lectern with both hands, wearing sungla.s.ses, a branch full of blossoms lit up behind her head, and the bright glinting blur of Ellen Graham's grandmother's earrings dangling from her ears.

Those earrings hadn't even registered on Sh.e.l.ly until now. If she'd noticed them at all she'd have a.s.sumed they were some kind of costume jewelry, something Josie had bought at the mall-at Claire's, or Daisy's, one of those places where sorority girls love to stock up on baubles.

"It was September by then," Ellen Graham went on, despite the shaking of not only her voice but her whole body, "and I called in my baby brother, who's a bouncer at a bar in Ypsilanti-six feet tall and two hundred pounds of solid muscle-and we went straight to the Omega Theta Tau house and sacked the place. When we found them in her room, Josie Reilly pretended to be astonished that the earrings were my grandmother's. She claimed Denise had given them to her, told her they were costume jewelry. When I pointed out that I hadn't let Denise borrow them until just before she disappeared-well, it didn't make any difference. Those girls have a story and they're sticking to it. But I know for a fact that my daughter wasn't gone before the Spring Event. She was there, and she wore her dress, and she wore those earrings. I just don't know what happened after that."

"What about her phone? Did the police check the cell phone records?" Sh.e.l.ly asked. "And her attendance in her cla.s.ses?"

"She'd lost her cell phone the week before. One of the four. We were getting her another one. And the only cla.s.s she had from Monday until Wednesday was a lecture with three hundred students in it. Her violin lesson had been canceled because the professor was sick. It's a huge place, as you know. No one was keeping a record of where she was or wasn't.

"And those sorority b.i.t.c.hes. Those lying little b.i.t.c.hes. Denise was a girl who was Twittering and Facebooking and texting all day, and so are those other girls. They've got messages flying from one end of town to the other twenty-four/seven. So if they had no idea where my daughter was, why wasn't there one single message left on her Facebook page after the day she disappeared? How come I can't find one single girl who posted a word on the Internet saying, Gosh, I haven't see my sorority sister in six months, anyone know where she is?"

The light in the closet was so bright that Sh.e.l.ly's eyes had begun to tear. She put a hand to her forehead, like a visor. She looked at Ellen Graham, whose own eyes were so red-rimmed it appeared as if she'd lined them with lipstick.

She swallowed, and then asked, "What do you think, Ellen? What happened to your daughter?"

"You think we didn't try to contact the newspaper? You think we didn't make about a hundred trips to the police, to university security, to the administrators? I know the layout of the University Administration building like the back of my own hand. We hired a private detective. We tried to involve the FBI. We aren't perfect, but our daughter had no reason to run away from us."

Sh.e.l.ly believed her. Completely. Implicitly. Maybe Sh.e.l.ly had spent the last three decades of her life in academia, where no one really believed that anyone outside of it could actually be intelligent, but she knew otherwise. There was the hard, glittering force of pure intelligence in Ellen Graham's eyes. She could be anywhere, doing anything. She was smarter than Sh.e.l.ly, smarter than all of them.

Ellen Graham put a hand to her own throat, and said, "I know what happened to Denise, but I don't know why, and I can know it without accepting it. I knew it that night, the night of that Spring Event." She spat the word event. "Somebody killed my daughter. Her dad and I were on a jet, on our way home from our vacation. It was the middle of the night. We were over the clouds. I was planning to call the sorority the second we touched down, to see how her special night had gone, but when I looked out the window, there she was, wearing her white dress and my grandmother's earrings. She was kind of peering in at me, like she wondered if I could see her, and there were tears running down her face, and when I put my hand to the window it was burning hot, and then she was gone, and now I'll never see my daughter alive again."

There was no self-pity in it. No whining. Just finality, factual clarity. Denise, Sh.e.l.ly realized, would have grown up to be just like her mother: The mother the slacker teachers in the public school would hate to see coming. The woman on the school board who actually made things change. The kind of person who lived the good, fulfilling life, who paid the taxes that made it possible for so many of Sh.e.l.ly's academic colleagues to spend their lives feeling superior. Denise Graham, like her mother, would have married intelligently, maybe stayed home with her children, seen to it that they ate a hearty breakfast every morning, been there to pick them up after school, to supervise their homework, to drive them to their music lessons. She'd have enjoyed her home, her town, her parents as they slid from vital presences into old age. She'd have been at their bedsides when they died.

Sh.e.l.ly had to will herself to hold Ellen Graham's gaze, and then the only thing she could think to say was, "But, you're still looking for her . . ."

Ellen Graham snorted, tossed her head like a horse with an uncomfortable bit in its mouth. "What else?" she said. "What else would you have me do now?"

71.

Karess came out of the autopsy room looking bleached of color and flushed at the same time. She had her hair tucked up into the shower cap, and when she took the cap off her head, the hair came tumbling down around her shoulders.

She tossed the scrubs to Perry and then tossed the cap in his direction, too, although it landed at his feet. She kicked the booties off with some difficulty, stumbling backward and managing not to fall down only because Brett Barber was standing behind her. She slammed into him, and he caught her awkwardly under the arms. Karess shook her head and looked back at Brett, appearing more annoyed by his presence than grateful. She hurried past Perry, and he could smell her, both in the gown she'd tossed to him and in the breeze she left as she ran: Formaldehyde. Sweat. Shampoo. Powdered flowers.

She smelled, he thought for a horrible moment as he slipped the gown she'd tossed to him over his arms, like the church on the morning of Nicole Werner's funeral.

"It's f.u.c.ked up in there," Brett said, leaning in to Perry. "I'm just warning you. This whole thing is f.u.c.ked up. Professor Polson should get her a.s.s fired for bringing us here."

Perry did not even dignify Brett Barber, who was sweating profusely and breathing hard, with a nod. After he got his scrubs on, Perry followed the other three students and Kurt through the doors to the autopsy room. The doors closed behind him with a pneumatic hush, and the effect was like being teletransported onto another planet, with an entirely different kind of atmosphere: thin, and dustless, and tinged with a terrible sweetness. The walls were white, but everything else was made of gleaming stainless steel, even the floor, at the center of which there was a drain hole. Perry found himself in the center of the room, following Kurt and the other students, with that drain hole at his feet.

In it, there was a nestlike tangle of tawny-colored hair.

Perry took a step back and felt a cold pulsing at his right temple, as if someone were tapping at it with an index finger inside a cold latex glove. He put his hand to the temple.