“No thanks. Quick is better, and I’ll go. What I wanted to ask your mother was if she’d been visited by anyone recently. By a woman who calls herself Rose.”
Bob and Clarise exchanged a glance, and Bob said, “Would this be a black woman?”
A quiver passed through Joe. “Yes. Small, about five two, but with… real presence.”
“Mom wouldn’t say much about her,” Clarise said, “but this Rose came once, and they talked, and it seemed as if something she told Mom was what made all the difference. We got the idea she was some sort of—”
“—spiritual advisor or something,” Bob finished. “At first, we didn’t like the sound of it, thought it might be someone taking advantage of Mom, her being so down and vulnerable. We thought maybe this was some New-Age crazy or—”
“—a con artist,” Clarise continued, now leaning forward from the sofa to straighten the silk flowers in an arrangement on the coffee table. “Someone trying to rip her off or just mess with her mind.”
“But when she talked about Rose, she was so—”
“—full of peace. It didn’t seem this could be bad, not when it made Mom feel so much better. Anyway—”
“—she said this woman wasn’t coming back,” Bob finished. “Mom said, thanks to Rose, she knew Dad was somewhere safe. He hadn’t just died and that was the end. He was somewhere safe and fine.”
“She wouldn’t tell us how she’d come around to this faith, when she’d never even been a churchgoer before,” Clarise added. “Wouldn’t say who Rose was or what Rose had told her.”
“Wouldn’t tell us much at all about the woman,” Bob confirmed. “Just that it had to be a secret now, for a little while, but that eventually—”
“—everyone would know.”
“Eventually everyone would know what?” Joe asked.
“That Dad was somewhere safe, I guess, somewhere safe and fine.”
“No,” Clarise said, finishing with the silk flowers, sitting back on the sofa, clasping her hands in her lap, “I think she meant more than that. I think she meant eventually everyone would know that none of us ever just dies, that we… go on somewhere safe.”
Bob sighed. “I’ll be frank with you, Joe. It made us a little nervous, hearing this superstitious stuff coming from my mother, who was always so down-to-earth. But it made her happy, and after the awfulness of the past year—”
“—we didn’t see what harm it could do.”
Spiritualism was not what Joe had expected. He was uneasy if not downright disappointed. He had thought that Dr. Rose Tucker knew what had really happened to Flight 353 and was prepared to finger those responsible. He had never imagined that what she had to offer was merely mysticism, spiritual counselling.
“Do you think she had an address for this Rose, a telephone number?”
Clarise said, “No. I don’t think so. Mom was… mysterious about it.” To her husband, she said: “Show him the picture.”
“It’s still in her bedroom,” Bob said, rising from the sofa. “I’ll get it.”
“What picture?” Joe asked Clarise as Bob left the living room.
“Strange. It’s one this Rose brought to Nora. It’s kind of creepy, but Mom took comfort from it. It’s a photo of Tom’s grave.”
The photograph was a standard colour print taken with a Polaroid camera. The shot showed the headstone at Thomas Lee Vadance’s grave: his name, the dates of his birth and death, the words “cherished husband and beloved father.”
In memory, Joe could see Rose Marie Tucker in the cemetery:
I’m not ready to talk to you yet.
Clarise said, “Mom went out and bought the frame. She wanted to keep the picture behind glass. It was important to her that it not get damaged.”
“While we were staying here last week, three full days, she carried it with her everywhere,” Bob said. “Cooking in the kitchen, sitting in the family room watching TV, outside on the patio when we were barbecuing, always with her.”
“Even when we went out to dinner,” Clarise said. “She put it in her purse.”
“It’s just a photograph,” Joe said, puzzled.
“Just a photograph,” Bob Vadance agreed. “She could’ve taken it herself—but for some reason it meant more to her because this Rose woman had taken it.”