Chapter 7
7
The days after my visit to Coram House pass in a blur of frustration. I search everywhere for Tommy, but he won’t be found. First, I drive to the state archives in Montpelier only to encounter the furrowed brow of the archivist who suggests I try ancestry.com if it’s family records I’m looking for.
“I tried that already,” I tell her.
“Did you check online for death certificates?” she asks.
I nod. I had found 420 Toms, Thomases, or Tommies who died in Vermont between 1965 and 1970. Of those, around a hundred had an unexpected death with a certificate filed by the medical examiner. Ten of those were children. But none matched the Tommy from Sarah Dale’s testimony. They were either the wrong age or the cause of death was wrong. Nothing led back to Coram House.
“And you have the birth certificate?” she asks.
“I don’t have a last name.”
The archivist peers up at me through her purple-framed reading glasses. “No birth or death certificate. What makes you so sure this person exists?” she asks.
My patience hangs by a mostly frayed thread. A soft pattering makes me look up. Hail bounces off the skylight.
“I’m sorry I can’t be more help,” she says. “You could try hospitals. Some of them have digitized their records.”
I thank her and leave. A fuzz of snow coats the sidewalk. My steps leave hollows that follow me back to the car.
I drive home defeated, her words ringing in my ears. After all, what do I have, really? A few mentions of a boy named Tommy scattered across the depositions. Sarah Dale recalling a traumatic incident from twenty years earlier. Or a woman with a drinking problem and a grudge, if you believe Bill Campbell. Either way, not the most reliable witness.
When I get back to my apartment, I pour a glass of wine, even though it’s only four. Then I get out the list I made of people who gave depositions back in the eighties. At first, I don’t have much luck. Karl Smith died of a heart attack. Christopher Cooper hangs up on me. I can’t find a number for Michael Leblanc—he’s either dead or off-grid somewhere. But then I get to Karen Lafayette. Not only is her number listed, but it’s a local area code.
I dial. Anxiety pulses in my chest with every ring. A woman’s voice answers. But it’s just her voicemail. I leave a message asking her to call me back, trying to strike the right balance between mysterious and desperate.
Next, I work my way through the Sisters of Mercy, though I don’t expect much. Most of the nuns had died years ago. Though I do leave a message at what turns out to be the Alzheimer’s floor of a long-term care facility. There’s no record of Sister Cecile, which is odd. But she’d originally been from Quebec, so maybe she went back there.
When my phone rings, I stare at it, shocked, as if I’ve summoned a response. But it’s just Lola. I don’t really feel like talking, but I never called her back, and if I don’t answer, I know she’ll worry. I love her, but sometimes I get tired of carrying the weight of her worry. It’s like, once you’re broken, no one ever really believes that you can be whole again.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” Lola says. “What’s up?”
“Oh, just looking up the addresses of some dead nuns,” I say, forcing myself to smile, sound light. I tell her a little about my research, about Stedsan and reading the depositions. About Tommy and all the ways I’ve failed to find proof of his existence.
“Are you drinking right now?” Lola asks.
“No,” I say, not looking at my empty glass. “And besides it’s Friday, and it’s”—I glance at my phone—“5:03.”
“So tell me about this Tommy. Why is he so special?”
Lola does that—jumping from one subject to another so fast it catches me off-balance.
“What do you mean, Lola? He was a kid. They killed him.”
I rub at the headache forming behind my eyes. The bottle of wine beckons from the counter, but somehow I know she’ll hear it.
“People don’t just disappear, Lola. It’s like no one cared, so no one came looking. He doesn’t even have a grave. So when he died he was just—gone.”
My voice breaks and I stop, embarrassed. The silence on the other end of the phone is all I need to tell me Lola is worried. And this is why I didn’t want to answer the phone.
“Everyone’s gone when they die, Al. Grave or no grave.”
“I know that,” I snap. My throat feels tight.
“Do you think maybe you need to take a step back for a sec—”
“Lola—”
“I’m not saying give up. Just… move forward.”
I sigh. She’s worried that I’m losing my shit. It’s not like that , I want to say. Not like last time. But, of course, that’s exactly what I would say if I was in fact losing my shit.
“Circle back. Change the channel. Put a pin in it. Table that discussion.”
I laugh, despite feeling annoyed at her. “Okay, okay, stop please, before my ears start bleeding.”
Plus, I have to admit she does have a point. I’m stuck and, right now, I don’t have a way to unstick myself.
“You’re probably right,” I say.
“Forget work for a while,” she says. “Take a break. Do something fun.”
I promise I will. Lola tells me about the play she’s going to see later that night and, finally, we hang up.
I’m going to close my computer, go refill my glass, and maybe watch a movie, I decide. But, as I’m getting up, I hesitate. One more search.
Sarah Dale.
I don’t know why I do it.
No, that’s not true.
I have this twisting feeling in my guts—like I know I’m not going to like what I find. The search results come up right away. Sarah Dale, deceased in 2010 at age fifty-five. Six years ago. The article is short, but makes my throat ache. A car crash with her two-year-old granddaughter in the back seat. Both died.
I shut the computer and look up at the ceiling, blinking at the cracks until my vision clears. The unfairness burns. I take my empty glass into the kitchen and fill it to the brim. She’d earned an easier death. As if it worked that way. Before I know it, tears are squeezing themselves from the corners of my eyes. I’m glad there’s no one to see me blow my nose on the edge of my shirt.
“Enough.”
My voice is stern, like I’m talking to a child with a flair for drama. I’m getting sidetracked. I wander back to the living room, where I survey the organized chaos. The stack of VHS tapes, still waiting for a VCR that’s been delayed yet again. The table is a grid of index cards and sticky notes around my master binder. Background information on Coram House, the children, the staff.
Usually, by now the story has started to take shape. Shadowy and incomplete, but the beginnings of a form clear within a block of solid stone—something I can take my chisel to. But, this time, nothing is clear. The story is there, but the accounts twist back and forth. Children who deal with real monsters are still children, seeing monsters where they don’t exist too. So how am I going to tell the difference? Or maybe all that’s just an excuse. Maybe I thought the act of ghostwriting would free me from my past mistakes. But the past is always there.
My agent called this book my comeback, but it could prove that my nerve is gone. Or, worse, that my sense of story has disappeared. I know I’m not a great writer. I’m a good-enough writer. But my ability to find the story within a mess of historical documents has always been my thing. There have been times in my life where I could actually feel it—that warm seeping sensation as the story takes form. Like the warmth that spreads through your body after that first drink.
The wine tastes crisp and faintly grassy. I press the cool glass to my eyes, which are hot and swollen from crying. Maybe I just need a day off from horror stories to clear my head. Tomorrow, I’ll go for a long run. Somewhere with trees and fresh air. Suddenly, I know exactly where I’m going. Rock Point. Tomorrow, I’ll go to the woods.