“It’s dated from just before she died,” he said. “It ...” He continued to scan down the page, turned to the next one. “It’s her suicide note,” he said when he got to the end. “She mailed it to Isabelle instead of leaving it in her apartment.”
His chest was tight with the old pain of Kathy’s loss. The unfamiliar room suddenly seemed to be choked with ghosts. He gave Marisa an anguished look.
“Isabelle really knew all along that Kathy ... that she killed herself. So why did she pretend otherwise?”
“I don’t understand,” Marisa said.
“The big fight we had at Kathy’s funeral. It was about how Kathy died. Isabelle was mad at me for not going to the hospital to see her ... but Kathy was never in a hospital. She died of an overdose ofsleeping pills in her own apartment and Isabelle was the one who found her on one of her visits to town. When she kept claiming that Kathy hadn’t killed herself, I thought it was because there was no note—you know how people want to deny that someone they cared about could have killed herself? But then it got crazy with all this talk about cancer and hospitalization and the radiation treatments not working ....”
“I still don’t get it,” Marisa said. “Her suicide was reported in all the newspapers. And even the other night on the TV, they mentioned it when they ran the piece on how the injunction had been lifted.”
Alan nodded.
“So why would Isabelle try to convince you different?”
“That’s something I would love to know,” Alan said. “It’s gotten to the point now where I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
Rolanda cleared her throat. “Maybe I should leave you two to hash this out with Isabelle.”
Jesus, Alan thought. What must she think of us? Barging into Isabelle’s studio and going through all of her stuff.
“I can come back some other time to talk to her,” Rolanda added.
Alan shook his head. “No. There’s something very strange going on here and what you told us about this Cosette girl is a part of it.” He paused to study her for a moment. “Don’t you want to know what it’s all about anymore?”
“Yes, of course. But this all seems so ... personal. I can’t help but feel as though I’m intruding.”
Marisa nodded. “I know exactly what you mean. We should go, Alan.”
Alan knew they were both right, but he also knew he had to deal with the tangle of memories that rose up from the past every time he thought of Isabelle and Kathy. The past lay so thick upon him at the moment he could hardly breathe. He looked down at the letter once more, wishing it actually explained things, rather than calling up new questions.
This is what I’m leaving you. For you and Alan, if you want to share it with him.
What had Kathy left in that locker at the bus terminal all those years ago? And why had Isabelle never told him about it—about the letter or the contents of the locker? Was whatever it had been the real reason that Isabelle had gone all strange at the funeral? They had all been so close, almost inseparable for so many years. He had never been able to understand how it fell apart. And surely Isabelle knew how much he’d cared for Kathy, how much her death had devastated him. What had she found in that locker that she couldn’t share with him?
“Alan?” Marisa said.
Alan nodded. He returned the letter to its envelope. He looked at it for a long moment, then tossed it onto the window seat beside the painting.
“Nora Dennis has a studio here, doesn’t she?” Marisa asked as they made their way down the hall to the stairwell.
Alan nodded. “Why?”
“Maybe she’s seen Isabelle.”
“Doesn’t seem likely. Isabelle only just got back to town.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to ask,” Marisa said.
So they left the stairwell at the second floor and went looking for Nora’s studio. It wasn’t hard to find. Halfway down the hall they came upon a door that was standing open. Loud music spilled out of it, a song sung in an Irish dancetune signature but with drums and electric guitars augmenting the acoustic instruments. The Waterboys, Alan thought, recognizing the song. Looking through the doorway, they found Nora sitting on the floor with watercolor paintings scattered all around her. She glanced up and grinned when she noticed them standing in the doorway.
“Sorry about the mess,” she said, standing up to turn down the volume of the music, “but I’m just getting organized for a show.” She looked around herself, her smile widening. “What am I saying?
Organized? I wish.”
Unlike Isabelle’s studio, where everything was still unpacked, Nora’s studio looked as though a tornado had just touched down in the middle of it. Alan felt like a relief worker, showing up at the scene of a major disaster with the best of intentions to help out, but being overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of what had to be done.
“I haven’t had a chance to talk to her yet,” Nora said when they asked her about Isabelle. She ran a hand through her short brown hair, making it stand up at attention. “But I saw her down in the courtyard about an hour ago with Johnny Sweetgrass.”
Isabelle’s old boyfriend, Alan thought. Another ghost from the past. But then he remembered something else: that painting of John that Isabelle had done. What if Isabelle hadn’t painted his portrait?
What if John had come into being because of the painting? A painting which, Alan reminded himself; had also supposedly been destroyed in the fire.
“I haven’t seen him in years,” Alan said, keeping his voice casual. “How’s he doing?”
“Oh, you know Johnny. He never changes. I swear he gets younger while the rest of us grow ungracefully old. But Isabelle didn’t seem at all well. She looked as though she couldn’t stand up without his support. I spotted them coming across the courtyard but before I could get to them to see if I could help, they were out the door and gone.”
Alan hung on to the first part of what Nora had said.
He never changes. I swear he gets younger while the rest of us grow ungracefully old. He never changes. Because he was like Cosette, forever locked into looking how Isabelle had painted him?
“Gone?” Marisa asked.
Nora nodded. “Um-hmm. She got into a car driven by some real punky-looking girl and drove off Here,” she added. “I can show you.”
She led them across her studio, wending a careful way through the scattered piles of watercolors that they all tried to emulate. At the open window, she pointed off down the street.
“They were going north, the last time I—Hey, wait a minute. There’s Johnny now.”
Alan looked down at the street. He recognized John Sweetgrass immediately, as well as his companion.
“He’s with Cosette,” he said, more for Marisa and Rolanda’s benefit than Nora’s.
Rolanda nodded in agreement while Marisa craned to get a better look.
“Well, that’s not the girl who was driving the car,” Nora said from beside him. “She didn’t have that gorgeous head of hair.” She opened the window and leaned out. “Hey, Johnny!” she cried.
John and Cosette lifted their heads. Alan thought John looked irritated at having been noticed, but Cosette smiled happily and waved up at them, recognizing Alan and Rolanda. John gave them a brisk wag of his hand himself, then started to walk on, pausing when Cosette held onto his arm.
“Wait a minute,” Alan called down to them. “I have to talk to you. We’ll be right down.”
But when they reached the street, John was gone. Only Cosette was there, waiting for them.
XII
What are you doing?” John demanded when Cosette tugged on his arm. “They’re friends,” she said.