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Margot Cadell Davis of Malibu, California, beloved daughter of George Brian Davis and Cynthia Cadell Davis, was a cherished daughter, niece, cousin, and friend to many. She graduated from Loyola Marymount University and dedicated her life to wildlife conservation. Despite her challenges, she loved helpingpeople and animals. In lieu of flowers, the family kindly asks that you send donations to the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) or the World Wide Fund for Nature. Memorial to be announced.
“Margot’s mom was Cynthia Cadell, William Cadell Sr.’s younger sister. Cynthia and her husband died in a small plane crash over ten years ago,” I explain.
“So Margot was first cousins with the Cadell brothers, William Jr. and Quentin …” Eddie says, connecting the dots.
“Yup,” I say.
“What do you think she had to do with your mom?” he says.
“My guess is Margot was my mom’s patient. The return address on the envelope is my mom’s old office address, and my mom’s letter sounds like Margot terminated treatment because she was upset with her. I’ve had patients project anger that they have toward other people in their lives onto me, get overwhelmed by it, and abandon treatment.”
“Interesting,” he says.
“And Margot was only thirty years old when she died, but the obituary didn’t include the cause of death. But it did cite her ‘challenges,’ and the family asked for donations to be sent to NAMI, which makes me think it might’ve been a suicide or drug- or alcohol-related. My mom specialized in treating addiction.”
“So you think your mom might’ve gotten caught up with the Cadell family through a patient?”
I nod. “What if, during treatment, Margot told her things that the family worried would get out?” I say.
“Can you find out if Margot was her patient?” Eddie asks.
“I looked through all of my mom’s things, but unfortunately, I didn’t find anything work-related. I want to go toMalibu to see if the people living in Margot’s old house or any neighbors on the block knew her and possibly anything about my mom. I know it’s a long shot, but it’s my only lead. Maybe I’ll get lucky, and there will be older neighbors there who knew Margot.”
“Let me take you,” he says. “I don’t need to pick Sarah up from school for a few hours.”
I’m grateful to have him accompany me and thankful I don’t have to drive since I didn’t sleep very much last night.
“Thank you,” I say, kissing him on the cheek.
“No, thankyou,” he says.
“For what?” I ask.
“On the way to school this morning, Sarah told me you helped her fall back to sleep last night,” he says.
The vulnerable look in his eyes says what his words don’t—how much he wants me to be her mother.
I wonder if the look in my eyes also says what my words don’t—how scared I am that I won’t measure up.
Eddie and I stand in front of a Craftsman house deep in the Malibu hills. I ring the doorbell and hear a dog barking and footsteps approaching.
A young woman with huge gold hoop earrings, dressed in a crop top and short shorts, opens the door. “Hello?” She looks confused.
“Hi, I’m trying to find out information about Margot Cadell—”
“You have the wrong address,” she cuts me off.
“I don’t think I do,” I say.
An athletic, shirtless guy walks up behind her holding a small white Shih Tzu dog.
“What’s going on?” he asks her.
She whirls on him. “Who’s Margot?” she demands.
“I have no idea who—” He pauses, thinking. “Wait, you mean the woman that lived here before my parents bought the place?”
“Yes, exactly,” I say.
