by Marti Green
“Mrs. Harris?”
“Yes?”
“I spoke to you earlier, and we were disconnected. It was a problem with my phone. I’m sorry.”
“How can I help you, dear?”
“You said your son, John, was killed in the Gulf War.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you remember if, back before he enlisted, he was dating a woman named Sasha Holcolm?”
“Do you mean Susan Holcolm?”
Did I? I’d later ask Mallory if our mother had another name, but how many Holcolms dating a John Harris could there be? “Yes, that’s who I mean.”
“You’re looking for the other John Harris. Our sons were friends. Ironic, isn’t it, both boys with the same name and both died in that war?” I heard a deep sigh. “Such a tragedy.”
“Do you know if the other boy’s parents are still in the area?”
“No, they moved a long time ago. I don’t even know where. We weren’t friends with them. Just our children were friends.”
“Do you happen to know their first names?”
She was quiet for a moment. “Maybe Eileen? Or Ellen? I think that may have been the mother. I don’t know his father’s name.”
I pressed my hands to my forehead. This search was heading toward impossible. I thanked Mrs. Harris, then got back to work.
At 3:00 p.m., I arrived at the firm of Winslow and Goldfarb. Their office was in midtown, not far from the gallery, in a sleek high-rise on Park Avenue. I was ushered into Goldfarb’s office as soon as I arrived. Before she left the room, his assistant offered me coffee or water, but I declined. I didn’t expect to be there long.
“How’s your father doing?” Goldfarb asked as soon as I sat down.
I shook my head. “He has hospice care now. It’s going to be soon.”
“I’m so sorry, Charlotte. How can I help you today?”
“It’s about my prenup.”
“Are you still thinking about divorce?”
If only it were that simple, I thought. I held out my right hand and pointed to my palm. “See this scar?”
I noted a look of confusion on Goldfarb’s face as he picked up my hand and traced the scar with his finger, then nodded.
“This conversation is covered by attorney-client privilege, right?”
“Of course.”
“You can’t say anything to my father.”
“Naturally.”
“I have an identical twin sister.”
I held back a laugh as Goldfarb’s eyes bulged. “Her name is Mallory Holcolm, and she both looks and sounds exactly like me. But I got this scar when I was twelve years old.”
“Why don’t you want your father to know this?”
I sighed. “It’s complicated. But sometime after my father passes away, she and Ben are going to come see you. She’s going to pretend to be me, and tell you that she wants to tear up the prenuptial agreement.”
“Well, I’m certainly glad you’ve warned me. I’ll make sure from now on to always check the hand.”
“I want you to do what she asks. And pretend to be surprised. Maybe even try to talk her out of it.”
Goldfarb’s eyebrows shot up, and his mouth dropped open.
“You’re the only one who can revoke it. It won’t be valid otherwise.”
“That’s the point. I want Ben to believe that it’s no longer in effect when in fact it is.”
He leaned forward on his desk, his chin cupped in his hand. “You’re asking me to participate in a deception.”
“It’s Ben who’d be trying to trick you. You’ll just be preventing him from succeeding.”
He nodded. “I’m comfortable looking at it that way. But Charlotte, are you sure you can’t tell me what’s going on? I’m worried about you.”
I thought about explaining everything to Goldfarb, then decided to hold back. It was now a police matter. Better not to involve anyone unnecessarily. “Thank you, Steve. There isn’t anything for you to concern yourself with. I’m fine. Really.” As I spoke those words, I fervently hoped it was true.
I returned from my father’s bedside a little earlier that evening, and instead of slipping under the covers of my bed, doing my best to avoid Ben, I sat down next to him on our couch and told him I missed him, that I missed making love to him. I had to force myself not to gag as I said those words. I wanted this charade to end as soon as possible, and for that, Ben needed to know about my father’s trust, and which lawyers he should turn to after he believed Clark had succeeded in killing me.
I led him into our bedroom and slowly undressed before him, then threw my clothes on a chair. We fell onto the bed, and within minutes, Ben was inside me. I felt nothing—less than nothing—but I pretended to be aroused. When it was over, I headed to the shower. I knew Ben hated messiness. I knew he’d hang up my clothes. I knew he’d see the manila folder with my father’s trust inside. And I knew he would examine it.
CHAPTER 40
I’d given up on the search for our paternal grandparents. Maybe I’d go back to it later, when I didn’t have so much on my plate. But I still yearned to know more about my birth mother. Mallory had confirmed that her birth certificate listed our mother’s name as Susan, and she’d told me what she knew of her, but I wanted to know the woman before she’d become worn down by her hard life. I called Mallory. “Wouldn’t you like to know what our mother was like before she had you?”
“I never thought about it.”
“Well, I would. You said your mother’s friend knew her since childhood. Do you think if we paid her a visit, she would talk about her?”
“I’m sure she would.”
Two nights later, instead of going to my father, I left the gallery early. Mallory had driven down from High Falls, and we met at a rest stop off the New Jersey Turnpike. “I don’t believe it,” I said as soon as I saw her. “I knew we looked alike, but this is so weird.”
“It’s all part of the plan. Ben sent me a close-up photo of you, and I took it to a hairstylist.”
She left her car in the parking lot, and we drove together the rest of the way to Philadelphia. Lauren was waiting for us.
As soon as we walked in, she looked at both of us. “I can’t tell who is who.”
“I’m Charlotte. Or Charly.”
She threw her arms around me and hugged me tight. When she pulled back, I could see her eyes were moist. “It would have meant the world to Sasha to see the two of you together.”
We moved into the living room, and Mallory and I sat down while Lauren went into the kitchen and came back with a plate of cookies. “She named you Amelia,” Lauren told me. “She always wondered about you, whether you had good parents, whether they loved you.”
“I did.”
“That would have made her happy.”
“Tell me about her,” I asked. “What she was like as a child, what she enjoyed doing.”
“I suppose Mallory told you she had a difficult life,” Lauren said.
I nodded.
“Well, in spite of that, she was always feisty. Nothing could stop her. I guess that’s why, when her mother gave her an ultimatum about the pregnancy, she left home.”
Mallory leaned forward on the couch. “I found my birth certificate, and it listed Mom’s name as Susan. Who changed it to Sasha?”
“She did that when she moved to Scranton—not legally, though. It’s just what she told people to call her. She told me she’d wanted a fresh start, and a new name was part of that.”
“Do you know if she liked art? Did she paint?” I asked.
“No and no. Your dad was the artist. Never did much with it, but he could draw anything.”
My father. It reminded me of the roadblock we’d hit in trying to find his parents. I wanted to know more about him, too. “How did they meet?” I asked.
“At a party. Some senior boy bought a keg when his parents were out of town and invited the prettiest girls. Johnny was friends with the boy’s older brother, and they
hung out at the house, mostly to make fun of the younger kids. But as soon as he saw your mother, he was sunk. I swear, it was like a lightning bolt hit him. He’d had a reputation for fooling around with a bunch of girls, but once he saw your mother, she locked up his heart and placed it next to hers. They were never apart until he enlisted. And the reason he joined up was to have a better life for him and your mother.”
“Do you think that’s why Mom never married?” Mallory asked.
Lauren nodded. “I think she was afraid if she did, she’d forget your father, and she never wanted to do that.”
I lapped it all up, eager to learn everything I could about them. We spent two hours with Lauren, and if we hadn’t had a two-hour drive home, I could have spent two more. She brought out pictures of her and Sasha, starting from when they were young children, and even a few that included John. I stared at each one and, for the first time, started to understand who I was.
On the drive back, my phone rang through the Bluetooth. I didn’t recognize the number that came up on the screen, but I answered it. “Is this Charly Gordon?”
“Yes.”
“This is Gertrude Harris. I spoke to you last week. About John Harris?”
“Yes, but your son wasn’t the one I was looking for.”
“Yes, well, I was telling my daughter about it, and it turns out she’s Facebook friends with your John Harris’s sister, Amy. She sent a message to her and got a phone number for Ellen Harris. She lives in LA now. Do you want it?”
“Of course.”
Mallory rummaged through her purse and pulled out her phone, then typed in the number.
I thanked Mrs. Harris, then hung up. “Should we call Ellen now? It’s three hours earlier in California.” I could see from the brightness of her eyes that Mallory was as excited as I felt. She nodded, and I gave a voice command to dial the number. It was answered on the second ring.
“Is this Ellen Harris?”
“Yes.”
“And you once lived in Allentown?”
“Yes? Who is this?”
“My name is Charly Gordon. Back in Allentown, did your son date Susan Holcolm?”
I heard a sharp intake of breath. “Do you know where Susan is? We looked and looked for her for so long.”
I felt my heart start to beat faster. “She passed away a few years ago.”
Ellen said, “Oh,” with a voice that seemed filled with sadness.
“But I’m her daughter. And your son was my father.”
“Oh my, oh my, is this true? I can’t believe it. We looked for you, too.”
“You knew my mother was pregnant?”
“John wrote and told us. They were going to get married when he returned on leave, but then he was killed. We were so distraught, I’m sure you can understand. But after his funeral, after a few weeks had gone by, we called Susan. We wanted her to know that we hoped to be part of our grandchild’s life. Only she was gone. Disappeared.”
“Her mother kicked her out because she wouldn’t have an abortion.”
“If only she’d come to us. We would have taken her in. We would have cared for her and the baby.”
“Babies, actually.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have an identical twin sister. She’s sitting right next to me.”
“Hi, I’m Mallory.”
Ellen burst out crying. Through her sobs, she managed to get out, “Two of John’s children, two pieces of John, and we never knew.”
I waited for her to calm down. “Ellen, I’m in the car now, driving. Is it okay if I call you back later?”
“Oh, yes, I want to hear all about you both. And, I hope, maybe we could meet?”
“I’d like that.”
“So would I,” Mallory chimed in.
“My father is very ill now,” I continued, “and I’m helping care for him, so it will have to be when . . . when it’s resolved.”
“Of course, of course. I’m just so happy you called. I know John Senior will be, also.”
So, my grandfather was alive as well. Over the past few weeks, my family had increased by three. As I disconnected the call, I glanced over at Mallory. Her brows were knitted together, and her eyes glistened. “Are you okay?”
“If Mom hadn’t run away, my life would have been so different. She wouldn’t have always struggled to provide a home, to buy food. Maybe she would have gone to college. I would have had grandparents.” Suddenly, her eyes widened. “We would have been together! Mom wouldn’t have given you away.” She shook her head, then leaned it against the window.
Mallory was right. If our grandparents had taken in our mother, provided her a home and a place to raise her daughters, I wouldn’t have been adopted. I would have grown up with my biological mother and twin sister and two grandparents. I would have been raised in a working-class home without the luxuries and opportunities my adoptive parents had given me. I’d grown up pampered and had been happy. As much as I’d wanted to learn about my history, about my biological roots, I realized I wouldn’t have wanted to exchange my life for the alternate one Mallory had presented. I wanted my life of wealth.
I was glad my mother had given me away.
CHAPTER 41
I’d begun to question my decision to hold off Ben’s arrest. As my father’s condition deteriorated, I knew the time was drawing close for Ben’s hit man to strike. I’d lie in bed at night, my murderous husband next to me, and tremble. What if he purposely gives Mallory the wrong night? What if the hit man eludes the police? And the scariest thought of all: What if the detective was right about Mallory, that she wants me dead to take it all? When I had those worries, I thought it was crazy to allow Ben’s plan to go forward. I’d lie awake, afraid to close my eyes. When morning would finally come and I’d see Ben’s smug pretense at caring about me, about my father, my resolve would return. I would do what was needed to ensure he was punished for his crime.
A week after the visit to Lauren, I arrived at my father’s apartment just before 7:00 p.m. and was met by Janice, his hospice nurse, as soon as I let myself in. “Your father’s condition has deteriorated,” she told me. “It’s just a matter of days now—maybe three or four at the most.”
I slumped down onto the couch and buried my head in my hands. I’d known the time was near, but putting a date on it felt like a punch to my stomach. “How can you tell? How can you be sure?”
“I’ve been doing this a very long time, dear. I know the signs. His breathing has changed, his pulse is rapid, and his blood pressure has dropped. He’s also showing confusion when he’s awake.”
I fought to hold back tears. “Is he awake now?”
“No. He’s sleeping. But when he does wake up, and you go in to see him, you’ll hear a faint rattling sound in his chest. Don’t be alarmed. It’s because his muscles have weakened, and it’s hard for him to move mucus and phlegm through his lungs. I’ve given him medicine to make it a little easier. Also, his confusion might make him agitated, and he’ll say things that make no sense. It’s common at this stage. Try to ignore the things he says, even if it’s hateful.”
“Dad would never say anything mean to me.”
“He’s not himself now. He may accuse you of lying or cheating him, but that’s a symptom of the disease.”
I had to call Poppy. It was time for him to fly north again. I knew he would want to be by Dad’s side when the end came. My chest ached with the realization that I would soon be an orphan, yet I knew it had to be even worse for my grandfather. No parent should ever have to bury a child. It completely subverted the natural order of how life should be.
He answered the phone on the first ring. When I told him he needed to come back to New York and explained why, I could hear his breath catch, and then silence. “Are you okay, Poppy?”
“No, Pips, I’m not. But I will be. Are you okay?”
“No. But I will be.”
I arrived home a little past 8:00 p.m., much earlier than I had been coming home
the past few months. I heard the television on in the den, and then Ben call out, “Who’s there?”
A moment later, I walked into the room.
“This is early for you.” Ben said. “Something happen?”
“Dad’s taken a turn. It’s just a matter of days now. I came home to pack a bag. I’m going to stay there until the end. Sandy will run the gallery.”
Ben didn’t even bother to try to comfort me, take me in his arms, and ask if I’d be all right—but would it really matter if he had? It didn’t seem worth the effort for either of us to pretend. Instead, Ben just said, “Sorry,” and sat back down in his chair.
I cut through Central Park on the walk back to my father’s apartment. Even though it was dark, it was still early in the evening, and the park was filled with people. I don’t know what made me turn around, but when I did, I saw a man twenty paces back who looked just like the picture Mallory had drawn of the hit man. I picked up my pace. Five minutes later, I turned again, and he was still there. My heart began to beat more quickly. I thought about running, but I was still dressed in my stiletto heels from work. I knew all the stories of muggings that had taken place in the park, even with lots of people around. Could Ben have called the hired gun so quickly? Told him my father was near the end? No, it was too fast. I’d been home only fifteen minutes. I spotted a bench up ahead with a father and teenage son seated, a lamppost over it, and as soon as I reached it, I sat down next to them. Surely, he wouldn’t try something with others this close. I clutched the duffel bag I’d packed back at my townhouse to my chest. A minute later, the man passed me by, and I stared at him. He didn’t look like Mallory’s picture, after all.
CHAPTER 42
My grandfather arrived at Dad’s apartment just after noon the next day. For the next three days, at least one of us was always by Dad’s bedside, giving him morphine when he’d wake up in pain, then watching as he’d fall back under its spell. He couldn’t swallow any longer, so I’d administer sublingual drops of morphine onto his tongue. It supplemented the transdermal patch of fentanyl on his skin that Janice had placed. It was three days of watching my father die, and when he did, instead of being inured to the inevitable, I broke out in uncontrollable sobs. My grandfather, who looked like he’d aged three years in those three days, took me in his arms and held me tight until I was able to slow my tears.
