The Missing One by Lucy Atkins Page B

catches my eye:
Harry Halmstrom, The Ida May Assisted Living Facility, Vancouver, British Columbia
.
    Seattle and Vancouver aren’t that far from each other. I click on the link. The Ida May Assisted Living Facility lists the names of its residents, and there is a Harry Halmstrom, along with the phone number of Jenny Zimmerman, his care worker.
    My mother’s father is dead and I’m pretty sure that his name was Theodore. She never talked about him and yet I grew up knowing that she hated him and he died. I have no memory of any conversation at all, in fact, about my grandparents. Presumably she shut me down if I ever asked. This, I realize, is just not normal. It’s not just my genetic inheritance, it’s Finn’s now. Doug can trace his family back to the 1700s. My father’s MacKenzie clan goes back through generations of ministers and bagpipe players. But the other half of our lineage apparently vanished the day my mother died.
    I think about getting up and going through the house to the study to ask my father about all this, but then I’d haveto explain to him what I am doing, and I couldn’t even begin to do that because obviously it’s not normal to be doing this. So I pick up my phone and call Alice’s mobile.
    She doesn’t answer. I leave her a slightly strangulated message saying that I was just checking she got back to London safely.
    It is nine o’clock in Sussex, but only 1 p.m. in Vancouver.
    I drink half of my glass of wine in three gulps then I dial the number of Harry Halmstrom’s carer at the Ida May Assisted Living Facility.
    I don’t really expect anyone to pick up, but someone does, after just a couple of rings.
    â€˜Oh. Hello.’ For a moment, I can’t think what on earth to say. Then I take a breath. ‘I’m calling about one of your residents, Harry Halmstrom. I’m calling from England because I wonder – I think – though I’m not sure – that there’s a possibility he’s a relative of mine.’
    â€˜Really?’ she says. There is a pause. But she doesn’t say anything else.
    â€˜Well, I don’t know. We have the same family name – well, my mother’s name actually, and, well, I might be coming to Vancouver so I thought perhaps I could find out if we are related.’ As I talk, I realize how tenuous all this is – how completely deranged. It occurs to me that I could just hang up.
    â€˜Well, you sure have to come and see him then, don’t you?’ she says brightly. ‘If he might be your relative!’
    â€˜Yes. Well, that’s right.’ I’m bolstered by her enthusiasm. ‘That’s what I was thinking.’
    â€˜I just love your accent,’ she says. ‘What did you say your name was again?’
    I’m not sure why, but I give my mother’s maiden name. ‘Kali Halmstrom.’
    â€˜Well, Halmstrom’s not exactly a common name,’ she admits.
    â€˜Do you know if he was from the Seattle area originally, by any chance? Or had family there?’
    Her voice lightens. ‘Oh, you know what, honey, Mr Halmstrom lived all over the place; he may have lived in Seattle. Yes. I think so. I do know he was born in Sweden – is your family Swedish? Mr Halmstrom came out west on a boat when he was just a teenager.’
    My head buzzes. I remember my mother telling me just once, a very long time ago, that I have Swedish blood and that’s why my eyes are blue, though my hair is dark.
    â€˜I think so,’ I say. ‘Yes. I do think there is Swedish blood somewhere.’
    â€˜Well, Mr Halmstrom has no family that I know of and he never gets a single visitor, so if you’d like to come visit him, honey, you’d be more than welcome.’
    â€˜Do you think perhaps I could talk to him? On the phone?’
    â€˜Oh well, no,’ she says. ‘He really isn’t so good on the phone.