A Photographic Death Read online

  Dedication

  To Emily and Drew who astonish me with their creativity and love.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Epilogue

  An Excerpt from An Illustrated Death

  About the Author

  By Judi Culbertson

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  “ARE YOU COMFORTABLE, Jane?”

  Karl Lundy looks at my daughter with the smile of a chef about to garnish his favorite piglet. It makes me want to grab her wrist and head for the door.

  Yet Jane looks comfortable enough, her hair golden against the navy worsted fabric of the chair, her mouth slightly open in anticipation. Dr. Lundy seems excited too. His gray eyes keep blinking behind gold-­rimmed glasses. His hand plays with a paperweight on his desk, a rose trapped under glass.

  When I approached him last week and told him what we wanted, he explained that he rarely did one-­offs, that he hypnotized ­people over the course of months for therapeutic reasons. But he didn’t refuse. Jane must be an interesting change from ­people trying to stop smoking or lose forty pounds.

  “You need to understand that hypnosis is serious business, Ms. Laine.”

  “Call me Delhi. And I’m happy to hear you say that.”

  Yet I’m still uneasy, shunted off to one side on a straight chair like a husband in a dress shop. Is it too late to say we have another appointment and walk out? What if Jane is about to be traumatized for life? Whatever we learn is going be a shock, I know that. We will find out either that my youngest daughter, Caitlin, may still be alive, or that Jane stood on the riverbank and watched her drown nineteen years ago. The lady or the tiger. Dear God, don’t let it be the tiger crouching behind the unopened door.

  Restless, I search the room for clues as to what’s going to happen, but it is a typical doctor’s office that gives nothing away. The vanilla scent is meant to be calming, as are the paintings on the walls—­country scenes of red barns and golden haystacks, mountains reflected in turquoise lakes. I wonder if someone Dr. Lundy knows painted them. The bookcases hold the kind of academic volumes that I, as a book dealer, have little interest in. I would not rescue them in case of fire.

  “Jane, I’m going to put you in the light trance I told you about, and we’ll gradually regress you to the age of four. You’ll be back in the park in England on the last day you visited there.” He looks to me for confirmation and I nod. “Is there anything else you’d like to work on in your life?”

  She laughs. “You mean like getting up early and going to the gym every day? Or not spending so much time in clubs?”

  “Any area of your life you’d like to improve.”

  “You can tell me not to buy any more expensive purses and shoes. Seriously,” she adds, seeing his expression.

  “All right. Now sit back and get as comfortable as possible.”

  Dr. Lundy has been standing behind his desk all this time. Now he moves to the chair on Jane’s left. They can glance at each other, but don’t have to. He is as bland and comforting as the vanilla cookie scent of his office, from his gray-­and-­sky-­blue argyle sweater to his solid gold wedding ring. His soft Midwestern voice reminds me of Garrison Keillor telling a story.

  In the pre-­hypnosis interview, he gave me the facts meant to reassure me: That Jane would not be unconscious or asleep. She would be alert and attentive, able to bring material from the past into awareness. He promised he would not cross-­examine her or make any suggestions he knew would be contrary to her wishes. If she became uncomfortable, she could raise her index finger and he would move away from what was upsetting her. He managed to make hypnosis sound as interesting as watching water boil.

  It was what an apprehensive mother needed to hear.

  “Do you want me to close my eyes?” Jane asks.

  “If that makes you feel relaxed, certainly.”

  “Okay.” She does, pressing deeper into the chair.

  “You’re becoming very relaxed,” Dr. Lundy drones. “When you’re completely relaxed, your right arm will feel as light as air. The lightness will start in the fingers and spread up through your wrist toward your elbow. The arm will become so light that it will lift into the air on its own.”

  Oh, sure, I think. And for two or three minutes nothing happens. But then her arm eerily starts to rise, the gold bracelet sliding back against the cuff of her sweater. My stomach jumps. What have I gotten us into?

  Her arm floats in space until Dr. Lundy says, “As you go deeper and deeper, your arm will gradually lower back to the chair rest. When that happens you will be fully in a trance state, ready to explore the things that have happened to you in the past.”

  He continues to make the same suggestions, stating them in slightly different ways. My own lids start to droop and I have to fight not to sink into the past with Jane. Both she and my other daughter, Hannah, have the ability to close their eyes and be immediately asleep, napping until a change in the atmosphere startles them. I used to be the same way.

  Then I am jerked awake, as surely as if Dr. Lundy had slapped me. Before my eyes, Jane is turning into a little girl. It’s in the way she twists in the chair, mouth slightly open in wonder. Her eyes are open now too, but they are not seeing the room we are in.

  “Where are you now, Jane?” Dr. Lundy wants to know. “Are you in the park?”

  “In the park,” she confirms. “We brought bread to feed the ducks. They ate all of it!”

  “Who is in the park with you?”

  “Mommy. And the twins. And the new baby. But we can’t see her yet.”

  Dr. Lundy tenses. “Why not?”

  “She’s still in Mommy’s tummy.” None of us knew then that the baby would turn out to be Jason.

  Dr. Lundy smiles sheepishly, gets Jane to tell him where everyone is in the park, then summarizes for her: “So your sister Hannah is asleep and Mommy is taking photos of ­people in boats on the river, and you and Cate are playing. What happe
ns next?”

  “That lady comes.”

  What lady? I don’t just tense, I pull back in the chair, galvanized, electricity running haywire through my body. I actually lean toward Jane before I remember that I am forbidden to interfere.

  “Jane, I want you to look at this lady and tell me about her. What kind of clothes does she have on?”

  “Her nurse clothes. She always wears her nurse clothes.”

  What could she be talking about? Jane sounds as if she is used to seeing this woman in the park—­how could I not have seen her, not even once?

  “Does she have on a white dress like a nurse?” He waits for her to nod. “What color are her shoes?”

  “Her shoes, her shoes.” She actually seems to be looking down at someone’s feet. “Her shoes are brown like Daddy’s shoes. But she has on these funny stockings. With bumps.”

  “Is she as old as Mommy?”

  No answer.

  As old as Grandma? I want to demand. What kind of funny stockings? My hands are gripping the metal seat edge as if I am high on a ski lift with no restraints around me. He’s not asking her the right questions! I lift an urgent hand to catch his eye, but he is focused on Jane.

  The smell of vanilla in the room is making me nauseous.

  “Is the lady talking to you?”

  “She says—­she says, ‘Go pick that yellow flower for me and I’ll give you a toy from the carriage.’ ”

  So the nightmare begins.

  Chapter One

  A Week Before

  WHEN PATIENCE CALLED with last-­minute Thanksgiving details, she reminded me not to bring anything.

  “I could make Mom’s cranberry sauce,” I teased. Actually, that was one of the few things our mother—­God rest her soul—­knew how to cook. I remembered her bent over the vintage stove in the old parsonage, patiently stirring water, sugar, and tiny red globes until the cranberries burst their skins. When the concoction cooled she would add mandarin oranges and chopped walnuts and we would snack on it till it was gone.

  That is, if there was any of it left after dinner. My father always invited a handful of homesick Prince­ton students, the odd parishioner—­no shortage of those—­and several local eccentrics to share our feast. The conversation was always interesting.

  “Don’t bring anything!” Patience repeated. “The Golden String Bean does a cranberry mold to die for.”

  I tried not to laugh. “The Golden String Bean?”

  “Only the best caterer in Southampton. I had to book months ahead to get them.”

  “Just for us?”

  “We’re not worth it?”

  We were, of course. Worth the long, slow crawl through Long Island traffic to Southampton, worth the ornate sterling and Waterford goblets, the endless pourings of fine wine and the mandatory walk on the beach afterward to admire the ocean. There would be exquisite desserts.

  But this year the thought of having to endure the ritual made me anxious. The day before, along with all the mail a bookseller gets, there had been a blue tissue envelope with English postage stamps. I couldn’t think of any recent orders from Britain where they would be sending me a check, but I sliced the envelope open carefully.

  The note inside turned my world upside down.

  “Delhi?”

  “I’m still here. Just thinking. I could always bring chocolate.” Scarfing down candy was one of my twin’s few weaknesses. I had learned early to hide my Easter basket and trick-­or-­treating stash.

  “Godiva’s always welcome.”

  “I’ll be sure to bring her along.” Patience’s idea of sufficient Godiva cost more than a turkey and all the trimmings from Stop & Shop, but I didn’t begrudge it to her. Not with the Golden String Bean on the job.

  “Is Colin coming?” she asked.

  “He’s coming.” My husband, Colin, had moved out a year ago, looking to recapture the glories of his youth, though lately he had been hinting about moving back home. The problem was, I wasn’t sure there was still room enough for him. Colin took up a lot of space, emotional as well as physical, and it meant an adjustment I wasn’t sure I wanted to make. “He’s bringing the wine,” I added.

  “And the children?”

  Hardly children now. I thought of yesterday’s note and shivered. “Not Jason, just the girls.”

  It should have been our usual Thanksgiving celebration, one more turn of the calendar page. But I already knew it would not be.

  Chapter Two

  AUTUMNS ON LONG Island seem to be getting warmer and warmer. Red and orange leaves cling stubbornly to the trees, their tenacity reminding me of tag sale signs left behind on telephone poles—­signs that were crucial to me until last month. Through October, I spent weekends waiting in line to buy the books I sell in my Internet business, Secondhand Prose. Like a squirrel, I need to amass enough volumes to carry me through the winter.

  Finding books was getting harder. The golden days of online bookselling had tiptoed quietly out of the room when no one was looking. At least once a month I snapped awake in the darkness, wondering what my life would be like in five years. I reminded myself that books were not ephemeral like LPs and videotapes. No matter the popularity of e-­books, physical books were eternal. Who could live in a world without them?

  Today, Thanksgiving, was close to fifty degrees outside. We were dressed for that weather. Jane looked perfect in a rust-­colored crewneck, brown velvet blazer, and a gold 1896 dollar medallion around her neck. Hannah, who had arrived late last night, was dozing in the backseat next to her sister, still in the same grimy Cornell sweatshirt and cargo pants.

  Beside me Colin was dressed like the college professor he is, in a houndstooth jacket whose pattern dwarfed his Phi Beta Kappa key. Underneath his blazer was a sweater the color of Jane’s. Despite his generous size, his white beard and regal bearing made him look dapper at the wheel of his ancient green BMW. One could imagine him in Merrie Olde England, wearing a flat cap and driving on the wrong side of the road.

  I say, old chap, Happy Thanksgiving!

  I had not been able to decide what to wear. I needed to be taken seriously when I told ­people about the note, but I did not have many clothes to choose from. Because I’d never had a real job, my work clothes were mostly sweatshirts and jeans. Finally I’d settled for my most serious thrift shop outfit, black slacks and a black turtleneck. But I couldn’t resist adding my vintage red Mexican jacket embroidered with an hombre in a sombrero sleeping against a cactus on the back. It had been a rare find at North Shore Thrift. I knew it was politically incorrect, but I couldn’t let it go. Colin had rolled his eyes when he opened the front door and saw me, but did not comment. Evidently what I wore to my sister’s on Thanksgiving didn’t merit a fight.

  Jason, if he were here, would be dressed like Jackson Pollock in paint-­stained jeans and sweatshirt. I wondered if he had any plans for Thanksgiving, alone as he was in Santa Fe. The thought of him by himself made me sad. But given the choice of coming home now or for Christmas—­I could not afford the airfare for both—­ he had chosen Christmas. Colin refused to give him any money at all until Jason capitulated and returned to college.

  I wondered what Jason would think if he knew about the new chapter I hoped to write in our family history. When I thought about it, my stomach bucked and churned like the old washing machine we’d had in the parsonage. Placing an extra blanket on Hannah’s bed yesterday and tidying up Jane’s old room in the farmhouse, I’d rehearsed what I was going to say and tried to imagine how my daughters would respond.

  I couldn’t. Not really. I decided I would wait until after dessert, until after a prodigious amount of wine had been consumed by everyone except my little nieces. By then they would be away from the table anyway, texting their friends or playing Angry Birds.

  As we drove farther east on Sunrise Highway, traffic started to thi
cken like the gravy I had spent years trying to get right. Other cars boxed us in; I pictured them fragrant with the smell of apple pie and pumpkin bread. The large gold box of chocolates I was balancing on my lap gave off its own scent. To keep from obsessing over what I planned to say, I let myself listen to “Appalachian Spring” on NPR.

  Everything about the holiday made me miss my parents. They had both died much too young, in their early seventies. They should have been here with us, enjoying the food and the conversation and their grandchildren. Sometimes it felt as if Patience and I were teenagers, trying to act like adults without them. Today especially I needed my parents to tell me what to do.

  Finally we were turning onto Dune Road, driving past gazillion-­dollar beach homes. Patience and Ben’s vacation house came into view, a gray-­shingled cottage with white trim and a wraparound porch. “Cottage” was a Hamptons word, a coy description of a house like theirs with seven bedrooms, four bathrooms, and cathedral ceilings. The pool was tucked off to the side, so as not to interfere with the view of the ocean out the front.

  “I’d rather have a house in Amagansettt,” Jane said airily, though at twenty-­four she could barely afford the rent on her Manhattan apartment.

  Colin snorted. “Save us a balcony room.”

  I laughed.