considered that for a moment. “No, it wasn’t about her beliefs, really. It was more that she was not following whatever script Dean had written for her inside his own head. I suppose that script would have had her off to college at Barnard or Vassar where she could find some Mr. Wonderful who would be very much like himself. Dean was a dominating man who wanted maximum control with minimal involvement. That of course does not excuse me for letting the bastard get away with it so long. Pardon my language, Father.”
The priest smiled. “I hear much worse on a regular basis. Please continue.”
“Well for myself, I assumed in my usual lame way that this was all just a phase in Christy’s life that would pass with time, much like I tried to believe Dean’s infidelities were some typical mid-life crisis sort of thing. But then suddenly there was no more time; Dean died of a heart attack while making love to one of his girlfriends. They say that happens to middle-aged men sometimes—en flagrant delicto they call it in polite society—and of course our lives came crashing down. Christy came home for the funeral which was dreadful because everyone knew what had happened but pretended they didn’t as they all patted me daintily and whispered condolences in my ear. Christy stayed with me for several weeks to help sort everything out and I was beginning to think that some good might come out of the whole shambles; that at least Christy and I might rebuild our own relationship. But then one morning I found a note from her on the kitchen table saying she needed to get away for a while and not to worry, she’d be in touch and she loved me and...” Anna’s eyes welled up with tears and she dug into her handbag for kleenex. “It’s been three years she’s been gone now, Father.”
“I am so sorry, Mrs. Kilgallen,” Father Mancuso said, feeling totally unoriginal and inadequate. “May I get you something to drink, some tea perhaps?”
Anna shook her head no as she folded the kleenex neatly into a square and put it back in her purse. Father Mancuso belatedly realized he probably should have offered her a better disposal option, but Anna had already snapped the purse shut and continued speaking.
“Christy called me several times from Boston. She said she was taking photography courses up there and doing modeling for art students at one of the universities to support herself. She must have been moving around a lot because when I tried to send money to her, the checks would come back as undeliverable. And after a while, Father, we ran out of things to talk about on the phone and the calls from her became less frequent. I got cross with her several times, told her she was wasting her life and all that typical mother stuff. But we both knew how little I had done with my own life, even if Christy didn’t throw it in my face. I tried to let her know how much it would mean to me to have her home, that I was lonely and feeling kind of lost, which I very much was of course. It wasn’t like the phoney-baloney club crowd wanted anything to do with me anymore. For them, I was just a reminder that the good times—the big houses, the parties, the island trips, the affairs—could all come to a bad end sometimes. They need to think it’s all forever and all so harmless. So I was alone in that big house, looking in on Christy’s room sometimes late at night when I couldn’t sleep. I’d see all her old cameras she always kept even after they were broken, and the pictures on the walls of Jones Beach and the Pine Barrens down in New Jersey that she loved so much. She told me once that those old cameras held the memories of all the favorite places she had been in her life. And I would stand there in her room thinking of other things she had said over the years, invitations for me to get closer to her that I had squandered. And so I battled away on those phone calls to somehow bring her back. She would say she’d be home for a visit soon but that she was so busy. I actually shivered when she said busy. I mean busy is what you tell some guy you don’t want to have a second date with, or what you tell the neighbors when you don’t want to go to their lame cocktail party, or what you say when you want to get off the phone. But to hear busy from your only child is like a dagger in the heart, Father.” Again her eyes grew wet and she brushed at them almost angrily with her sleeve. “And then after a while the phone calls became less frequent until recently they stopped altogether. I kept thinking that surely on my birthday or on Christmas I would hear from her. I tried writing to whatever address she had last given me. I even went to the Hare Krishna people to see if she was still in touch with them. I called some of her old friends. No one knew anything; it was like she had vanished.”
“Did your daughter say anything in your last conversations with her that would give you any clues where she might have gone?”
“Not really, no. But there was something else that worried me. She said she had been having strange disturbing dreams lately. Wasn’t that odd? Usually our phone conversations were so mundane that I think we both just ended up feeling sad; feeling the distance between us widening as we drifted away from one another. Then suddenly that business of the dreams and then right after that even the phone calls were ended. You know, Father, in between the calls I used to mentally rehearse things I would say to her, things that would matter, things that might bring us back together. But I suppose it was foolish to think that the emotional ties one fails to nurture with a child could be rescued over the phone when the child is grown. I wish now I could have just said to Christy, I know I didn’t do anywhere near my best for you and I’m sorry and there are no excuses. Then I think it would have felt better even if she’s gone. A little bit anyway. Do you know what I mean, Father?”
“Of course. And you and your daughter will be in my prayers. Is there any other way I can be of service to you?”
Anna reached into her handbag. “I have a picture of Christy with me. In fact as I stood on your doorstep, I imagined I would simply introduce myself and show you this picture. But as it turns out I’ve spilled out the whole sad story to you. It was most kind of you to bear with me on this.” She handed the picture to the priest “You see, I have had a couple of calls from people—an acquaintance of mine and an old classmate of Christy’s—claiming they may have seen her over in Bennington. I took some stock in those reports because as you know, Bennington is the kind of artsy-crafty town Christy might possibly be in if she is still pursuing her photography or her modeling or taking classes and so on. I visited Bennington twice to make inquiries and left some posters around town with her picture. Nothing happened for a year or so and then suddenly I got a call from a woman in Bennetsville. She used to live here in Cedar Falls apparently. Anyway, she claimed she may have seen Christy once. She told me a strange tale about some reclusive women who lived in the mountains around here. She said she had seen these women only once but that she thought one of them looked a lot like Christy. What do you think? Please remember this picture was taken when Christy was eighteen. She would be twenty-one now.”
Father Mancuso knew how much was riding on his answer and he could almost feel the coming disappointment in the pit of his stomach. But of course there could be no thought of holding out false hope in a matter such as this. He studied the picture. Christy had the same finely sculpted face with high cheek bones that still kept her mother looking so fine in her middle age. Her hair was dark, framing the ivory skin of her face and falling to just below her neck. But her eyes had the wary look of someone whose picture is being taken by surprise or at a bad time.
“I’m afraid, Mrs. Kilgallen, this is not Tara Boudine or her sister Ariel. Those are the women living on the mountain that your caller must have been referring to.”
“Oh, then they are sisters, these women in the mountains? I did not realize that. Is that known for a fact?”
“They represent themselves as such. But of course they are very reclusive and secretive. Little is known about them really.”
“Is it known for certain that there are only two of them?”
“That I think we can be quite certain of, yes.”
“I see. It had crossed my mind that perhaps there was some sort of commune or something, and if there was, it might be a situation that would have attracted Christy.”
