"A wonderful story to be savored with a favorite beverage"
Reviewed by Sandi Shilhanek
Posted April 8, 2011
Women's Fiction
In her latest novel, THE MIDWIFE'S CONFESSION, Diane
Chamberlain explores the bonds of friendship. Tara, Noelle,
and Emerson are three very different people who meet when
Tara and Emerson share a dorm room and Emerson is the
resident assistant. Through college years and beyond, the friendship that
was forged partially through sheer will and determination
and partially through the joy of being with one another has
taken many twists and turns but has remained intact. The
women are there for one another. Until one day Noelle takes her life, and leaves behind more
questions than answers. Tara and Emerson are left to sort
not only Noelle's physical belongings but the cryptic
messages they find as they sort those belongings. I believe that Noelle's story can only truly be told by a
talented writer who is willing to put his or her own
emotions into every thought, and Ms. Chamberlain is such a
writer. As I read I felt that not only was Noelle's story
told but Tara and Emerson, by discovering unknown secrets
held by their friend, managed to strengthen not only their
friendship but their other personal relationships as well. THE MIDWIFE'S CONFESSION is a wonderful piece of fiction,
and one to be savored with a favorite beverage. I have to
be honest and say that while I often think of Ms.
Chamberlain as a romance writer, she truly is not, and is
instead a very talented fiction writer and one whose new
works I look forward to with eager anticipation.
SUMMARY
'I don't know how to tell you what I did.' The unfinished
letter is the only clue Tara and Emerson have to the
reason behind Noelle's suicide. Everything they knew about
Noelle - her calling as a midwife, her passion for causes,
her love for her family - described a woman who embraced
life. But they didn't know everything. Because the unaddressed letter reveals a terrible
secret...and a legacy of guilt that changes everything
they thought they knew about the woman who delivered their
children. A legacy that will irrevocably change their own
lives - and the life of a desperate stranger - forever.
Diane Chamberlain gets to the heart of the story.
ExcerptPART ONE
NOELLE1 Noelle Wilmington, North Carolina September,
2010 She sat on the top step of the front porch of her Sunset
Park bungalow, leaning against the post, her eyes on the
full moon. She would miss all this: The night sky. Spanish
moss hanging from the live oaks. September air that felt
like satin against her skin. She resisted the pull of
her bedroom. The pills. Not yet. She had time. She could sit
here all night if she wanted. Lifting her arm, she outlined the circle of the moon with
her fingertip. Felt her eyes burn. I love you, world,
she whispered. The weight of the secret pressed down on her suddenly, and
she dropped her hand to her lap, heavy as a stone. When
she’d awakened that morning, she'd had no idea that this
would be the day she could no longer carry that weight. As
recently as this evening, she'd hummed as she chopped celery
and cucumbers and tomatoes for her salad, thinking of the
fair-haired preemie born the day before--a fragile little
life who needed her help. But when she sat down with her
salad in front of the computer, it was as though two beefy,
muscular arms reached out from her monitor and pressed their
hands down hard on her head, her shoulders, compressing her
lungs so that she couldn't pull in a full breath. The very shape of the letters on her screen clawed at her
brain and she knew it was time. She felt no fear—certainly
no panic—as she turned off the computer. She left the salad,
barely touched, on her desk. No need for it now. No desire
for it. She got everything ready; it wasn't difficult. She'd
been preparing for this night for a long time. Once all was
in order, she came out to the porch to watch the moon and
feel the satin air and fill her eyes and lungs and ears with
the world one last time. She had no expectation of a change
of heart. The relief in her decision was too great, so great
that by the time she finally got to her feet, just as the
moon slipped behind the trees across the street, she was
very nearly smiling. 2 Tara Going upstairs to call Grace for dinner was becoming a
habit. I knew I'd find her sitting at her computer, ear buds
in her ears so she couldn't hear me when I tried to call her
from the kitchen. Did she do that on purpose? I knocked on
her door, then pushed it open a few inches when she didn't
answer. She was typing, her attention glued to her monitor.
"Dinner's almost ready, Grace," I said.
"Please come set the table." Twitter, our Goldendoodle, had been stretched out beneath
Grace's bare feet, but at the mention of "dinner"
he was instantly at my side. Not so my daughter. "In a minute," she said. "I have to finish
this." I couldn't see the screen from where I stood, but I was
quite sure she was typing email rather than doing her
homework. I knew she was still behind. That was what
happened when you taught at your child's high school; you
always knew what was going on academically. Grace had been
an excellent student and one of the best writers at Hunter
High, but that all changed when Sam died in March. Everyone
cut her slack during the spring and I was hoping she'd pull
it together this fall, but then Cleve broke up with her
before he left for college, sending her into a tailspin. At
least I assumed it was the breakup that had pulled her
deeper into her shell. How could I really know what was
going on with her? She wouldn't talk to me. My daughter had
become a mystery. A closed book. I was starting to think of
her as the stranger who lived upstairs. I leaned against the door jamb and studied my daughter. We
had the same light brown hair dusted with the same
salon-manufactured blond highlights, but her long, thick
mane had the smooth shiny glow that came with being sixteen
years old. Somewhere along the way, my chin length hair had
lost its luster. "I'm making pasta with pesto," I said. "It'll
be done in two minutes." "Is Ian still here?" She kept typing but glanced
quickly out the window, where I supposed she could see Ian's
Lexus parked on the street. "He's staying for dinner," I said. "He might as well move in," she said. "He's
here all the time anyway." I was shocked. She'd never said a word about Ian's visits
before, and he only came over once or twice a week now that
Sam's estate was settled. "No, he's not," I said.
"And he's been a huge help with all the paperwork,
honey. Plus, he has to take over all Daddy's cases and some
of his records are here in his home office, so--" "Whatever." Grace hunched her shoulders up to her
ears as she typed as if she could block out my voice that
way. She stopped typing for a second, wrinkling her nose at
her screen. Then she glanced up at me. "Can you tell
Noelle to leave me alone?" she asked. "Noelle? What do you mean?" "She's always emailing me. She wants me and Jenny
to--" "Jenny and me." She rolled her eyes and I cringed. Stupid, stupid. I
wanted her to talk to me and then I critiqued what she said.
"Never mind,” I said. “What does she want you and Jenny
to do?" "Make things for her babies-in-need program." She
waved her hand toward her monitor. "Now she's on this
'community work will look great on your college
applications' kick." "Well, it will." "She's such a total whack job." She started typing
again, fingers flying. "If you could compare her brain
with a normal brain on an MRI, I'm sure they'd look
completely different." I had to smile. Grace might be right. "Well, she
brought you into the world and I'll always be grateful for
that," I said. "She never lets me forget it, either." I heard the timer ringing downstairs. "Dinner's
ready," I said. "Come on." "Two seconds." She got to her feet, bending over
the desk, still typing furiously. Suddenly she let out a
yelp, hands to her face. She took a step back from the
keyboard. "Oh no." she said. "Oh no!" "What's the matter?" "Oh no." She said again, whispering the words this
time as she dropped back into her chair, eyes closed. "What is it, sweetie?" I started toward her as if
I might somehow be able to fix whatever was wrong, but she
waved me away. "It's nothing." She stared at her monitor.
"And I'm not hungry." "You have to eat,” I said. “You hardly ever eat dinner
with me anymore." "I'll get some cereal later," she said.
"Just. . . right now, I have to fix something.
Okay?" She gave me a look that said our conversation
was over, and I backed away, nodding. 'Okay," I said, then added helplessly, "Let me
know if there's anything I can do." "She's having a meltdown," I said to Ian as I
walked into the kitchen. "And she's not hungry." Ian was chopping tomatoes for the salad but he turned to
look at me. "Maybe I should go," he said. "No way." I spooned the pesto-coated rigatoni into
my big white pasta bowls. "Someone needs to help me eat
all this food. Anyway, it's not you that's keeping her away.
It's me. She avoids me all she can." I didn't want Ian
to leave. There was comfort in his company. He'd been Sam's
law partner and close friend for more than fifteen years and
I wanted to be with someone who’d known my husband well and
had loved him. Ian had been my rock since Sam's death,
handling everything from the cremation to the living trust
to managing our investments. How did people survive a
devastating loss without an Ian in their lives? Ian set the bowls of pasta on the kitchen table, then poured
himself a glass of wine. "I think she worries I'm
trying to take Sam's place," he said. He ran a hand
over his thinning blond hair. He was one of those men who
would look good bald, but I knew he wasn’t looking forward
to that prospect. "Oh, I don't think so," I said, but I remembered
Grace mentioning that he might as well move in. Should I
have asked her why she said that? Not that she would have
answered me. I sat down across the table from Ian and slipped the tines
of my fork into a tube of rigatoni I didn't really feel like
eating. I'd lost twenty pounds since Sam died. "I miss
my little Gracie." I bit my lip, looking into Ian's
dark eyes behind his glasses. "When she was younger,
she'd follow me everywhere around the house. She'd crawl
into my lap to cuddle and I'd sing to her and read to her
and. . . " I shrugged. I'd known how to be a good
mother to that little girl, but she was long gone. "I imagine everyone feels that way when their kids
become teenagers," Ian said. He had no kids of his own.
Forty-five and he'd never even been married, which would be
suspect in another man but we'd all just accepted it in Ian.
He'd come close long ago--with Noelle--and I didn't think
he'd ever quite recovered from the sudden ending of that
relationship. "Sam would have known what to say to her." I heard
the frustration in my voice. "I love her so much, but
she was Sam's daughter. He was our . . . our translator. Our
intermediary." It was true. Sam and Grace had been two
quiet souls with no need to speak to one another to
communicate. "You could feel the connection between
them when you'd walk into a room where they were sitting,
even if one of them was on the computer and the other
reading. You could feel it." "You're such a perfectionist, Tara," Ian said.
"You have this expectation of yourself that you can be
a perfect parent, but there's no such thing." "You know what they loved to do?" I smiled to
myself, stuck in my memory, which was where I was spending a
lot of my time lately. "Sometimes I'd have a late
meeting and I'd come home and find them sitting in the
family room, watching a movie together, drinking some coffee
concoction they'd invented." "Sam and his coffee." Ian laughed. "All day
long. He had a cast iron gut." "He turned Grace into a caffeine addict by the time she
was fourteen." I nibbled a piece of pasta. "She
misses him like crazy." "Me too," Ian said. He poked at his rigatoni. "And then to have Cleve break up with her so soon
after. . . " I shook my head. My baby girl was
hurting. "I wish she were a little more like me,"
I said, and then realized that was unfair. "Or that I
was a little more like her. I just wish we had something
more in common. Some activity we could share, but we're so
different. Everyone at school talks about it. The other
teachers, I mean. I think they expected her to be into
theater, like me." "I think there's a law there can only be one drama
queen in a family," Ian said, and I kicked him beneath
the table. "I'm not a drama queen," I said. "But I've
always thought the theatre could be so good for her, don't
you think? It would get her out of her shell.” "She's
just quiet. It's not a crime to be an introvert." Not a crime, no, but as someone whose need to be with other
people bordered on the pathological, I had trouble
understanding my daughter's shyness. Grace loathed any
social event that involved more than one or two people,
while--as my father used to say--"Tara can talk the
ears off a stalk of corn." "Is she talking about getting her driver's license
yet?" I shook my head. Grace was afraid of driving since Sam died.
Even when I drove her someplace, I could feel her tension in
the car. "I mentioned it a couple of times, but she
doesn't want to talk about it," I said. "She would
have talked to Sam about it, though." I slipped my fork
into another piece of pasta. Sitting there with Ian, I was
suddenly slammed by the reality that could catch me unawares
at any moment--in the middle of my classroom, while casting
the junior play, while doing the laundry: Sam was never
coming back. He and I would never make love again. I'd never
again be able to talk to him in bed at night. I'd never
again feel his arms around me when I woke up in the morning.
He'd not only been my husband but my dearest and oldest
friend, and how many women could say that about the man they
married? We were loading the dishwasher when my phone rang, the
electronic tones of All That Jazz filling the
kitchen. I dried my hands and glanced at the caller ID.
"It's Emerson," I said to Ian. "Do you mind
if I take it?" "Of course not." Ian was even more addicted to his
Blackberry than I was. He had no room to complain. "Hey Em," I said into the phone. "What's
up?" "Have you spoken to Noelle?" Emerson asked. It
sounded like she was in her car. "Are you driving? Do you have your headset on?" I
pictured her holding her cell phone to her ear, her long
curly brown hair spilling over her hand. "Otherwise I'm
not talking to--" "Yes, I have it on. Don't worry." “Good.” I'd become uber-conscientious about using a cell
phone in the car since Sam's accident. "So have you spoken to her in the last couple of
days?" Emerson asked. "Um. . . " I thought back. "Three days ago,
maybe? Why?" "I'm on my way over there. I haven't been able to reach
her. Do you remember her talking about going away or
anything?" I tried to remember my last conversation with Noelle. We'd
talked about the big birthday bash she, Emerson and I were
planning for Suzanne Johnson, one of the volunteers for
Noelle's babies program . . . and Cleve's mother. The party
had been Noelle's idea, but I was overjoyed to have
something to keep me busy. "I don't remember her saying
anything about a trip," I said. Ian glanced at me. I was sure he knew who we were talking
about. "Not in a long time," Emerson said. "You sound worried." Ian touched my arm, mouthed "Noelle?" and I nodded. "I thought she was coming over last night,"
Emerson said, "but she didn't show. I must have. . .
Hey!" She interrupted herself. "Son of a bitch!
Sorry. The car in front of me just stopped for no reason
whatsoever." "Please be careful," I said. "Let's get
off." "No, no. It's fine." I heard her let out her
breath. "Anyway, we must have gotten our wires crossed,
but now I can't reach her so I thought I'd stop in on my way
home from Hot!" Hot! was the new café' Emerson
had recently opened down by the waterfront. "She's probably out collecting baby donations." "Probably." It was like Emerson to worry. She was good-hearted and
caring, and no one ever described her without using the word
nice. Jenny was the same way, and I loved that my
daughter and the daughter of my best friend were also best
friends. "I'm in Sunset Park now and about to turn onto Noelle's
street," Emerson said. "We'll talk later?" "Tell Noelle I said 'hi'." "Will do." I hung up the phone and looked at Ian. "Noelle was
supposed to go over Emerson's last night and never showed
up, so Em's stopping by her house to make sure everything's
okay." "Ah," he said. "I'm sure she's fine." He
looked at his watch. "I'd better go and let you take
some food up to Grace." He leaned over to kiss my
cheek. "Thanks for dinner, and I'll pick up the rest of
Sam's files in a couple of days, all right?" I watched him go. I thought about heating up a bowl of the
pasta for Grace, but I doubted she'd appreciate it and I
frankly didn't want to feel her coolness toward me again
that evening. Instead, I started cleaning the granite
countertops--a task which I found soothing until I found
myself face to face with the magnetized picture on the
refrigerator of Sam, Grace and myself. We were standing on
the Riverwalk on a late summer evening a little more than a
year ago. I leaned back against the island and stared at my
little family and wished I could turn back time. Stop it, I told myself, and I started cleaning the
counters again. I pictured Emerson arriving at Noelle's, giving her my
greeting. I talked to Noelle a couple of times a week, but I
hadn't seen her face-to-face in a while. Not since she'd
shown up at my door on a Saturday evening in late July, when
Grace was out with Jenny and Cleve and I was sorting through
Sam's desk in our den. I'd found combing through his desk
agonizing. Touching all those things he'd so recently
touched himself. I had piles of papers on the floor, neatly
stacked. I would give them to Ian, because I couldn't tell
if the documents and letters were related to any cases Sam
might have been working on. Ian was still having trouble
making sense of Sam's files. Sam was sloppy. His desk was a
roll top and we'd had an agreement: He could keep the desk
as disorganized as he liked as long as I didn't need to see
the mess. I'd give anything to see that mess right now. I realized only later why Noelle had come that night. She
knew from Emerson that Grace was out with Jenny. She knew I
would be alone, on a Saturday night, when it felt as though
everyone in the world was part of a couple except me. The
summer was hard, since I didn't have my teaching job to
throw myself into and I wasn't involved in any production at
the community playhouse. Noelle knew she would find me sad
or frustrated or angry—some emotion that made me too
vulnerable to be around other people but safe with her. We
were all safe with her, and she was always there for us. I'd slumped in Sam's desk chair while she sat on the
loveseat and asked me how I was doing. Whenever people asked
me that question, I'd answer "fine," but it seemed
pointless to pretend with Noelle. She would never believe me. "Everyone's tiptoeing around me like I'm going to fall
apart any second," I said. Noelle had been wearing a long blue and green paisley skirt
and big hoop earrings and she looked like an auburn-haired
gypsy. She was beautiful in an unconventional way. Pale,
nearly translucent skin. Eyes a jarring, electric blue. A
quick, wide smile that displayed straight white teeth and a
hint of an overbite. She was a few years older than me, and
her long curly hair was just beginning to glimmer with the
random strand of gray. Emerson and I had known her since our
college days and although she was beautiful in her own pale
way, it was the sort of look that most men wouldn't notice.
But there were other men--sensitive souls, poets and
artists, computer nerds--who would be so mesmerized by her
as they passed her on the street that they'd trip over their
own feet. I'd seen it happen more than once. Ian had been
one of those men, long ago. That night in my den, Noelle had kicked off her sandals and
folded her legs beneath her on the loveseat. "Are
you?" she asked me. "Are you going to fall
apart?" "Maybe." She talked to me for a long time, guiding me through the
maze of my emotions like a skilled counselor. I talked about
my sadness and my loss. About my irrational anger at Sam for
leaving me, for putting new lines across my forehead. For
turning my future into a question mark. "Have you thought of finding a widows' support
group?" she asked after a while. I shook my head. The thought of a widows' support group made
me shudder. I didn't want to be surrounded by women who felt
as bad as I did. I would sink down and never be able to
climb up again. There was a floodgate inside me I was afraid
of opening. "Forget the support group idea," Noelle corrected
herself. "It's not for you. You're outgoing, but not
open." She'd said that to me once before and I was
bothered by the description. "I was open with Sam," I said defensively. "Yes," she said. "It was easy to be open with
Sam." She looked out the window into the darkness as if
she was lost in thought and I remembered the eulogy she'd
given at Sam's memorial service. Sam was a champion
listener, she'd said. Oh yes. "I miss talking to him." I looked at the stack of
papers on the floor. The battery operated stapler on his
desk. His checkbook. Four pads of Post-it notes. I shrugged.
"I just miss him," I said. Noelle nodded. "You and Sam . . . I hesitate to use the
word 'soul mates' because it's trite and I don't think I
believe in it. But you had an exceptional marriage. He was
devoted to you." I touched his computer keyboard. The 'E' and 'D' keys were
worn and shiny, the letters faint. I ran my fingertips over
the smooth plastic. "You can still talk to Sam, you know," Noelle said. "Pardon?" I laughed. "Don't tell me you don't. When you're alone, I bet you
do. It would be so natural to say, "Damn it, Sam! Why
did you have to leave me?" I looked at the keyboard again, afraid of the floodgates.
"I honestly don't," I lied. "You could, though. You could tell him what you're
feeling." "Why?" I felt annoyed. Noelle loved to push her
agenda. "What possible purpose could it serve?" "Well, you never know if he can get your communication
on some level." "Actually, I do know that he can't." I folded my
arms across my chest and swiveled the chair in her
direction. "Scientifically, he can't." "Science is making new discoveries all the time." I couldn't tell her how, when I ate breakfast or drove to
school, I'd sometimes hear his voice as clearly as if he
were sitting next to me and wonder if he was trying to
contact me. I'd have long, out-loud conversations with him
when no one else was around. I loved the feeling of him
being nearby. I didn't believe people could reach out from
the other side, but what if they could and he was trying and
I ignored him? Yet I felt crazy when I talked to him, and I
was so afraid of feeling crazy. "You've always been afraid of having psychiatric
problems like your mother," Noelle said, as if she'd
read my mind. She could spook me that way. "I think
it's your biggest fear, but you're one of the sanest people
I know." She got to her feet, taking in a deep breath
as she stretched her arms high over her head. "Your
mother had a chemical thing," she said, letting her
long, slender arms fall to her sides again. "You don't.
You won't, ever." "The floodgates," I looked up at her from the desk
chair. I didn't want her to leave. "I'm afraid of
opening them." "You won't drown," she said. "Drowning isn't
part of your makeup."She bent low to hug me. "I
love you," she said, "and I'm a phone call away." I'd polished the granite countertop until the ceiling lights
glowed on its surface. Then I dared to look at the
photograph of Sam, Grace and myself on the refrigerator
again. Noelle had helped me sort through so much on that
hot, miserable July night, yet one emotion still remained
unchecked inside me: fear that I was failing my daughter. Grace stood between Sam and me in the picture, smiling, and
only someone very observant might notice how she leaned
toward Sam and away from me. He'd left me alone with a child
I didn't know how to mother. A child I longed to know, but
who wouldn't let me in. A child who blamed me for everything. He left me alone with the stranger upstairs. 3
Emerson Noelle’s junker of a car sat in her driveway and I pulled in
behind it. The light was fading, but I could still read all
of her bumper stickers. Coexist, No Wetlands=No Seafood,
Cape Fear River Watch, Got Tofu?, Bring Back My
Midwives! Noelle’s passions--and she had plenty--were
spelled out across the dented rear of her car for all the
world to see. Good ol' boys would pull up next to her at
stoplights and pretend to shoot her with their cocked
fingers, and she'd give them her one-fingered salute in
return. That was Noelle for you. She'd given up midwifery a year or so ago when she decided
to focus on the babies program, even though it meant she'd
have to live on her savings. At the same time, the OB-GYN
offices in the area were making noise about letting their
midwives go, so Noelle figured it was time to get out,
though it must have felt like she was hacking off her right
arm. Noelle needed ten lives to do all the things she wanted
to do. She would never be able to fix the world to her
liking with just one. Ted and I had stopped charging her rent for the house even
though between the teetering economy and the start-up costs
of Hot!, we weren't exactly ready to put a kid
through college. Ted had bought the dilapidated 1940's
craftsman bungalow shortly before we were married. I'd
thought it was a lame-brained idea, even though the seller
was practically giving it away. It looked like no one had
taken care of the place since 1940, except to fill the front
yard with a broken grill, a couple of bicycle tires, a
toilet and a few other odds and ends. Ted was a Realtor,
though, and his crystal ball told him that Sunset Park was
on the brink of a renaissance. The ball had been right. . .
eventually. The area was finally turning around, although
Noelle's bungalow was still a pretty sorry sight. The grill
and toilet were gone, but the shrubs were near death's door.
We'd have to do a major overhaul on the place if she ever
moved out, but we'd make a good profit at that point, so
letting her live there for the cost of her utilities wasn't
that much of a hardship. Ted wasn't thrilled about the "no-rent for Noelle"
idea in the beginning. He was feeding money into my café at
the time and we were both biting our nails over that. I'd
wanted to open a café for years. I fantasized about people
lining up for my cooking and baking the way some women
fantasized about finding Matthew McConaughey in their beds.
The good news was that Hot! was already holding its
own. I had a following among the locals downtown and even
had to hire extra help during the tourist season. So Ted had
come around, both about the café and Noelle's rent-free
existence on our property. From Noelle's weedy driveway, I could see the left-hand
corner of the backyard where she'd planted her garden. She
wasn't much for fixing up the house and the rest of the
landscaping was in ruins, but years ago she'd surprised us
by planting a small masterpiece of a garden in that one
corner. It became one of her many obsessions. She researched
the plants so that something was blooming nearly year round.
A sculptor friend of hers made the birdbath that stood in
the center of the garden and it was like something out of a
museum. It was your typical stone birdbath, but next to it,
a little barefoot girl in bronze stood on her tiptoes to
reach over the lip and touch the water. Her dress and hair
fanned out behind her as if she'd been caught in a breeze.
People knew about the birdbath. A couple of reporters wanted
to take pictures of it and write articles about the
sculptor, but Noelle never let them. She was afraid someone
would try to steal it. Noelle would give away everything she
owned to help someone else, but she didn't want anyone
messing with her garden. She watered and mulched and pruned
and loved that little piece of land. She took care of it the
way other women took care of their kids and husbands. The bungalow was a peeling, faded blue, like the knees of
your oldest pair of jeans, and the color looked a little
sick in the red glow of the sunset. As I walked up the
crumbling sidewalk to the front porch, I saw a couple of
envelopes sticking out of the mailbox next to the door and
even though the air was warm, a chill ran up my spine.
Something wasn't right. Noelle was supposed to come over for
dinner the night before and bring fabric for Jenny, who was
actually sewing blankets for the babies' program, much to my
shock. That wasn't the sort of thing Noelle would forget to
do. It bothered me that she hadn't answered my messages.
I'd left her one the night before saying, "We're going
to go ahead and eat. I'll keep a plate warm for you." I
left the next one around ten: "Just checking on you. I
thought you were coming over but I must have misunderstood.
Let me know you're okay." And finally, one more this
morning: “Noelle? I haven’t heard back from you. Is
everything all right? Love you.” She hadn't gotten back to
me, and as I climbed the steps to the porch, I couldn't
shake a sense of dread. I rang the bell and heard the sound of it coming through the
thin glass of the window panes. I knocked, then tried the
door, but it was locked. I had a key for the house somewhere
at home but hadn't thought to bring it with me. I walked down the steps and followed the walkway through the
skinny side yard to the backdoor. Her back porch light was
on and I tried the door. Also locked. Through the window
next to the door, I saw Noelle's purse on the battered old
kitchen table. She was never without that purse. It was
enormous, one of those shapeless reddish brown leather
shoulder bags you could cram half your life into. I
remembered Noelle pulling toys from it for Jenny back when
she was still a toddler--that’s how long she’d had it.
Noelle and that bag were always together. Auburn hair,
auburn bag. If the purse was here, Noelle was here. I knocked hard on the window. "Noelle!" “Miss Emerson?” I turned to see a girl, maybe ten years old, walking across
the yard toward me. We were losing daylight fast, and it
took me a minute to see the cat in her arms. “Are you…?” I glanced at the house next door. An African
American family lived there with three or four kids. I'd met
them all but I was terrible with names. “I'm Libby,” the girl said. “Are you lookin’ for Miss
Noelle, 'cause she had to go away all of a sudden last night.” I smiled with relief. She'd gone away. It made no sense that
her purse and car were there, but I'd figure that out
eventually. Libby had put one foot on the porch step and the
light fell on the calico cat in her arms. I leaned closer.
“Is that Patches?” I asked. “Yes, ma’am. Miss Noelle asked me to take care of her at my
house this time.” “Where did she go?” “She didn’t say and Mama says it was wrong for her not to
tell me." She scratched the top of Patches' head.
"I take care of Patches sometimes but always in Miss
Noelle’s house. So Mama thinks this time Miss Noelle meant
she was going away for a long time like she does sometimes,
but it was wrong she didn’t say when she was coming back and
she ain’t answering her cell phone.” What the hell was going on? "Do you have a key to the house, Libby?” I asked. “I ain’t got one, ma’am, but I know where she keeps it. I’m
the only one that knows.” “Show me, please.” Libby led me across the lawn toward the little garden, our
shadows stretching long and skinny in front of us. She
walked straight to the birdbath and bent down to pick up a
rock near the little bronze girl's feet. "She keeps it under this rock," Libby whispered,
handing me the key. "Thanks," I said, and we headed back to the door.
At the steps, I stopped. Inside, I'd find a clue to where
Noelle had gone. Something that would tell me why she hadn’t
taken her giant bag with her. Or her car. That ominous
feeling I'd had earlier was filling me up again and I turned
to the girl. “You go home, honey," I said. "Take
Patches back to your house, please. I’ll try to figure out
what’s going on and come tell you, all right?” “Okay.” She turned on her heel, slowly, as though she wasn't
sure she should trust me with the key. I watched her walk
across the yard to her own house. The key was caked with dirt and I wiped it off on my
t-shirt, a sure sign I didn't care about a thing except
finding out what was going on with Noelle. I unlocked the
door and walked into the kitchen. “Noelle?” I shut the door
behind me, turning the lock because I was starting to feel
paranoid. Her purse lay like a floppy pile of leather on the
table and her car keys were on the counter between the sink
and the stove. Patches' food and water bowls were upside
down on the counter on top of a dishtowel. The sink was
clean and empty. The kitchen was way too neat. Noelle could
mess up a room just by passing through it. I walked into the postage stamp of a living room, past the
crammed bookshelves and the old TV Tara and Sam had given
her a few years ago when they bought their big screen. Past
the threadbare brown sofa. A couple of strollers sat on the
floor in front of the TV and three car seats were piled on
top of some cartons, which were most likely filled with baby
things. More boxes teetered on top of an armchair. I was
definitely in Noelle's world. On the wall above the sofa
were framed pictures of Jenny and Grace, along with an old
black and white photo of Noelle's mother standing in front
of a garden gate. Seeing the photographs of the children
next to the one of her mother always touched me, knowing
that Noelle considered Tara's and my girls as her family. I walked past the first of the two bedrooms, the one she
used as her office. Like the living room, it was bursting
with boxes and bags and her desk was littered with papers
and books . . . and a big salad bowl filled with lettuce and
tomatoes. "Noelle?" The silence in the house was creeping me
out. A slip in the shower? But why would she have
told Libby to take care of Patches? I reached her bedroom
and through the open door, I saw her. She lay on her back,
her hands folded across her ribcage, still and quiet as
though she were meditating, but her waxen face and the line
of pill bottles on the night table told me something
different. My breath caught somewhere behind my breastbone
and I couldn't move. I wasn't getting it. I refused to get
it. Impossible, I thought. This is impossible. "Noelle?" I took one tiny step into the room as if
I were testing the temperature of water in a pool. Then
reality hit me all at once and I rushed forward. I grabbed
her shoulder and shook her hard. Her hair spilled over my
hand like it was alive, but it was the only living thing
about her. "No, no, no!" I shouted. "Noelle!
No! Don't do this! Please!" I grabbed one of the empty pill bottles but none of the
words on the label registered in my mind. I wanted to
kill that bottle. I threw it across the room, then
dropped to my knees at the side of the bed. I pressed
Noelle's cold hand between mine. “Noelle,” I whispered. “Why?" It's amazing what you can miss when you're an emotional
wreck. The note was right next to me on her night table. I'd
had to reach past it to use her cell phone to call for help.
The phone had been inches from her hands. She could have
called me or Tara. Could have said, "I just did
something stupid. Come and save me." But she didn't.
She hadn't wanted to be saved. The police and emergency team poured into the room, taking
up all the air and space and blurring into a sea of blue and
gray in front of me. I sat on the straight back chair
someone had brought in from the kitchen, still holding
Noelle's hand as the EMTs pronounced her dead and we waited
for the medical examiner to arrive. I answered the questions
volleyed at me by the police. I knew Officer Whittaker
personally. He came into Hot! early every morning. He
was the raspberry cream cheese croissant and banana walnut
muffin, heated. I'd fill his mug with my strongest coffee,
then watch him dump five packets of sugar into it. "Did you call your husband, ma'am?" he asked. He
always called me ma'am, no matter how many times I asked him
to call me Emerson. He moved around Noelle's claustrophobic
bedroom, touching another framed photograph of her mother on
the wall, touching the spine of a book on the small bookcase
beneath the window, and studying the pin cushion on her
dresser as though it might give him an answer to what had
happened here. "I did." I'd called Ted before everyone had
arrived. He was showing a property and I had to leave a
message. He hadn't received it yet. If he had, he would have
called the second he heard me stumbling over my words as if
I were having a stroke. "Who's her next of kin?" he asked. Oh no. I thought of Noelle's mother. Ted would have
to call her for me. I couldn't do it. I just couldn't and
neither could Tara. "Her mother," I whispered.
"She's in her eighties and. . . frail. She lives in an
assisted living community in Charlotte." “Did you see this?” Officer Whittaker picked up the small
piece of paper from Noelle's night table with gloved
fingers. He held it out for me to read. Emerson and Tara, I’m sorry. Please look after my
garden for me and make sure my mother is cared for. I love
all of you. "Oh." I squeezed my eyes shut. "Oh
no." The note made it real. Until that second, I'd
managed to avoid thinking the word suicide. Now there
it was, the letters a mile high inside my head. “Is it her handwriting?” Officer Whittaker asked. I opened my eyes to slits as if I couldn't stand to see the
entire note again, all at once. The sloppy slope of the
letters would be nearly illegible to someone else, but I
knew it well. I nodded. “Was she depressed, ma'am? Did you have any idea?” I shook my head. “No. Not at all." I looked up
at him. "She loved her work. She would never have. . .
Could she have been sick and not told us? Or could someone
have killed her and made it look like suicide?" I
looked at the note again. At all the pill bottles. I could
see Noelle's name on the labels. One of the EMTs noticed
that some of the prescriptions had been filled the month
before, but others dated back many years. Had she been
stockpiling them? “Did she talk about her health lately?" Officer
Whittaker asked. "Doctors’ appointments?” I rubbed my forehead, trying to wake up my memory. “She
injured her back in a car accident a long time ago, but she
hasn't complained about pain from it in years," I said.
We'd worried about all the medication she was taking back
then, but that had been so long ago. "She would have
told us if something was wrong." I sounded sure of
myself, and Officer Whittaker rested a gentle hand on my
shoulder. “Sometimes people keep things bottled inside them, ma'am,”
he said. “Even the people we’re closest to. We can
never really know them.” I looked at Noelle's face. So beautiful, but an empty shell.
Noelle was no longer there and I felt as though I'd already
forgotten her smile. This makes no sense, I thought.
She'd had so much she still wanted to do. Something was very
off about this whole situation. I needed to call Tara. I couldn't handle this alone. Tara
and I would figure out what to do. We'd piece together what
had happened. Between us, we knew everything there was to
know about Noelle. Yet in front of me lay the evidence—our gone-forever
friend--that we really knew nothing at all.
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Comments
1 comment posted.
Re: A wonderful story to be savored with a favorite beverage
Great review. I'm intrigued by this story. I want to figure out why they didn't really know their friend. (Stacie Deramo 12:43pm May 8, 2011)
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