The Vanished Man by Jeffery Deaver Read Free Book Online
Authors: Jeffery Deaver
mother had first come to Stuyvesant Manor, one of the city's best aging facilities, the woman and the widower had caused quite a stir.
"They think we're shacking up," she'd told her daughter in a whisper. "Are you?" Kara had asked, thinking it was about time her mother struck up a relationship with a man after five years of widowhood. "Of course not!" her mother had hissed, truly angry. "What a thing to suggest." (The incident defined the woman perfectly: a hint of the bawdy
was fine but there was a very clear line--established arbitrarily-past which you would become The Enemy, even if you were her flesh and blood.)
Kara continued, rocking forward excitedly and telling her mother in an animated way about what she planned for tomorrow. As she spoke she studied her mother closely, the skin oddly smooth for a woman in her midseventies and as healthy pink as a crying baby's, hair mostly gray but with plenty of defiant wiry black strands scattered throughout. The staff beautician had done it up in a stylish bun. "Anyway, Mum, some friends'll be there and it'd be great if you could come too."
"I'll try."
Kara, now sitting on the very edge of the armchair, realized suddenly
that her fists were clenched, her body a knot of tension. Her breath was coming in shallow sibilant gasps.
I'll try....
Kara closed her eyes, filling with slivers of tears. Goddamnit!
I'll try....
No, no, no, that's all wrong, she thought angrily. Her mother wouldn't
say, I'll try." That wasn't her sort of dialogue. It might be: "I'll be there, hons. In the first row." Or she'd say frostily, 'Well, I can't tomorrow. You should've let me know earlier."
Whatever else about her mother, there was nothing I'll-try about her.
Balls-out for you, or hell-to-pay against. Except now-when the woman was hardly a human being at all. At most
a child, sleeping with her eyes open. The conversation Kara had just had with the woman had occurred only in the girl's hopeful imagination. Well, Kara's portion had been real. But her mother's, from the Just fine, darling. And haws life treating you? to the glitch of I'll try, had been ginned up by Kara herself.
No, her mother hadn't said a single word today. Or during yesterday's visit. Or the one before. She'd lain beside the ivy window in some kind of waking coma. Some days she was like that. On others, the woman might be fully awake but babbling scary nonsense that only attested to the success of the invisible army moving relentlessly through her brain, torching memory and reason.
But there was a more pernicious part of the tragedy. Once in a rare while, there'd be a fragile moment of clarity, which, brief though it was, perfectly negated her despair. Just when Kara had come to accept the worst that the mother she knew was gone forever-the women would return, just
like in the days before the cerebral hemorrhage. And Kara's defenses vanished, the same way an abused woman forgives her slugging husband at the slightest hint of contrition. At moments like that she'd convince herself that her mother was improving.
The doctors said that there was virtually no hope for this, of course. Still, the doctors hadn't been at her mother's bedside when, several months ago, the woman woke up and turned suddenly to Kara. "Hi there, hons. 1 ate those cookies you brought me yesterday. You put in extra pecans the way 1 like them. And heck with the calories." A girlish smile. "Oh, I'm glad you're here. 1 wanted to tell you what Mrs. Brandon did last night. With the remote control."
Kara had blinked, stunned. Because, damn, she had brought her mother pecan sandies the day before and had stocked them with extra nuts. And, yes, crazy Mrs. Brandon from the fifth floor had copped a remote and bounced the signal off the windows next door into the nursing home's lounge, confounding the residents for a half hour by
"They think we're shacking up," she'd told her daughter in a whisper. "Are you?" Kara had asked, thinking it was about time her mother struck up a relationship with a man after five years of widowhood. "Of course not!" her mother had hissed, truly angry. "What a thing to suggest." (The incident defined the woman perfectly: a hint of the bawdy
was fine but there was a very clear line--established arbitrarily-past which you would become The Enemy, even if you were her flesh and blood.)
Kara continued, rocking forward excitedly and telling her mother in an animated way about what she planned for tomorrow. As she spoke she studied her mother closely, the skin oddly smooth for a woman in her midseventies and as healthy pink as a crying baby's, hair mostly gray but with plenty of defiant wiry black strands scattered throughout. The staff beautician had done it up in a stylish bun. "Anyway, Mum, some friends'll be there and it'd be great if you could come too."
"I'll try."
Kara, now sitting on the very edge of the armchair, realized suddenly
that her fists were clenched, her body a knot of tension. Her breath was coming in shallow sibilant gasps.
I'll try....
Kara closed her eyes, filling with slivers of tears. Goddamnit!
I'll try....
No, no, no, that's all wrong, she thought angrily. Her mother wouldn't
say, I'll try." That wasn't her sort of dialogue. It might be: "I'll be there, hons. In the first row." Or she'd say frostily, 'Well, I can't tomorrow. You should've let me know earlier."
Whatever else about her mother, there was nothing I'll-try about her.
Balls-out for you, or hell-to-pay against. Except now-when the woman was hardly a human being at all. At most
a child, sleeping with her eyes open. The conversation Kara had just had with the woman had occurred only in the girl's hopeful imagination. Well, Kara's portion had been real. But her mother's, from the Just fine, darling. And haws life treating you? to the glitch of I'll try, had been ginned up by Kara herself.
No, her mother hadn't said a single word today. Or during yesterday's visit. Or the one before. She'd lain beside the ivy window in some kind of waking coma. Some days she was like that. On others, the woman might be fully awake but babbling scary nonsense that only attested to the success of the invisible army moving relentlessly through her brain, torching memory and reason.
But there was a more pernicious part of the tragedy. Once in a rare while, there'd be a fragile moment of clarity, which, brief though it was, perfectly negated her despair. Just when Kara had come to accept the worst that the mother she knew was gone forever-the women would return, just
like in the days before the cerebral hemorrhage. And Kara's defenses vanished, the same way an abused woman forgives her slugging husband at the slightest hint of contrition. At moments like that she'd convince herself that her mother was improving.
The doctors said that there was virtually no hope for this, of course. Still, the doctors hadn't been at her mother's bedside when, several months ago, the woman woke up and turned suddenly to Kara. "Hi there, hons. 1 ate those cookies you brought me yesterday. You put in extra pecans the way 1 like them. And heck with the calories." A girlish smile. "Oh, I'm glad you're here. 1 wanted to tell you what Mrs. Brandon did last night. With the remote control."
Kara had blinked, stunned. Because, damn, she had brought her mother pecan sandies the day before and had stocked them with extra nuts. And, yes, crazy Mrs. Brandon from the fifth floor had copped a remote and bounced the signal off the windows next door into the nursing home's lounge, confounding the residents for a half hour by
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