by Jim Nelson
“Dad,” she said. “I don’t need your blessing, but I need to know you can live with this.”
Behind them sounded footsteps descending the staircase.
“Of course,” he said. “Don’t tell Jackie,” he added. “She’ll never understand.”
He rose at the sight of his young wife, who appeared at the foot of the staircase wearing a cocktail dress and a fabulous smile reserved for men half his age.
—
Hanna apologized for Cynthia’s absence, saying she was cramping and sick to her stomach. Hanna added how lucky she was to find a babysitter on such short notice on a Saturday night. Jackie sympathized with an exaggerated nod and furrowed brows.
“We understand,” she consoled Hanna. “We would have been happy to eat at the house.”
“I know Barry likes this place.” Hanna was mindful to call her father by his first name. She found it uncomfortable to call him Dad around Jackie, a woman five years her junior.
The surf-and-turf grill was a short walk from the bed-and-breakfast, and Barry felt no compunction ordering a second Scotch with his dinner. The dinner salads arrived for Hanna and her father. They ate while Jackie looked on, sipping her diet cola. She’d ordered a salad entree.
“Your father has some news.” Jackie smiled, biting the straw between her front teeth.
“Yes,” he said, forcing a smile of his own. “You should tell her.”
Hanna heard it before Jackie said it. “We’re pregnant,” Jackie announced, beaming.
Jackie rose from her chair and went to Hanna for a hug. Hanna half-rose from her chair to offer a weak one.
“I know it’s not a good time for celebration,” Jackie told Hanna. “Is there any news about Ruby?”
“The police are working on it,” Hanna said.
Jackie made a hopeful face and a supportive nod. “I’m sure they’ll find her soon.”
She went to her husband and sat on the arm of his chair. He slipped a hairy arm around her waist. He did his best to control a pale, slightly sick expression.
“How does it feel to be an aunt now?” Jackie said.
“You mean an older sister,” Hanna said.
“Oh, no,” Jackie said. “That would be weird.”
The dinner salads were taken away and new forks laid at their settings. The waitress topped off everyone’s ice water.
“We’ll call you Aunt Hanna,” Jackie said, still sitting on her husband’s arm rest.
“How do you feel?” Hanna asked him.
His gray, sagged face appeared to have aged a year in a minute. He drank a sip of cold Scotch and nodded thoughtfully. “I just wonder if I’ll be alive,” he said.
“What’s that?” Jackie said.
“For the finality.”
“Oh, Barry,” Jackie said. “Your father can be so morbid,” she told Hanna.
“I don’t know if I can cross another bridge,” he said.
“But you’re happy, right?” Hanna asked him.
“Yes.” He made a faint smile toward Hanna. “I am happy.”
—
Hanna grew exasperated with the cheap tools provided in the box with the crib. The stubby hexagonal Allen wrench bit into the palm of her hand with each turn. A flat round key intended to drive screws merely stripped their heads. She would need the crib on their return from Mexico but found she could not muster the will nor the heart to put it together. She left the crib’s pieces scattered across her bedroom floor and retreated to the kitchen for a soda.
She found Cynthia crying in her bedroom. She was sitting up on her bed hunched over and sobbing into her lap. Hanna gently lowered herself beside her. She placed a warm hand on Cynthia’s back.
“I don’t know why.” Cynthia wiped away the tears. “It comes and goes. I’m not afraid of what’s going to happen. I’m telling the truth, I’m not scared. But then I start crying for no reason.”
Chemical stimulus bombarded Cynthia’s body. The male child’s testosterone, the hormones preparing her for childbirth, and the bridge daughter translating hormone all waged war for dominance. Her breasts were tender and sore every day now although she would never nurse the brother she bore.
“Sometimes I gets so bad I start thinking about doing what Ruby did.” Cynthia whispered, “Do you hate her?”
“I told you. I love you both.”
Cynthia dried her cheeks. Only the pink bags beneath her eyes remained as evidence.
“I would never do what Ruby did,” Cynthia said. “I won’t be like Dad. Never.”
“Cynthia, it’s not like that. You’re not being a coward for wanting to live.”
“I’m a bridge daughter,” she said. “All my life, every person who looked down on me told me what I’ve known since I was small: I’m a bridge daughter. Every book I read tells me I’m a bridge daughter. Even if the book doesn’t have a bridge daughter in it, it reminds me why I am and who I am. This is why I’m here. To give you your child.”
“I’m not judging you,” Hanna said. “No one is.”
“You’re wrong. I’m judged every day.”
“Are you?”
“You don’t see the way people look at me. Like Ms. Ridmore and Grandmother. I won’t have them thinking bad thoughts about me. I won’t have people saying I turned tail and ran from my responsibility.”
They sat in silence for a full, long minute.
“Are you sad?” Cynthia asked.
“I’m wondering why my bridge mother made the decision you’re making now,” Hanna said. “I have the feeling she could have made it in this world. She would have survived.”
“Maybe she realized you weren’t her baby. It wasn’t her decision to make.”
“But wasn’t it?” Hanna said. “She carried me for thirteen years.”
“No.” Cynthia place a hand on her belly. “Barry is yours.”
Hanna felt a surge of bile in the back of her throat. She was not sure any longer.
She cupped Cynthia’s cheek. “He’s going to look just like you.”
—
Detective Matthewson thanked Hanna for making the time. “We feel it’s best to meet the parents at home rather than in the hustle and bustle of the station,” he explained.
“I would have been happy to meet you in the city,” Hanna said. “I’m sure you’re busy.”
She invited him to take the couch in the living room and sat across from him. Once seated, he took a moment to adjust his coat and tie and slacks. Either his trousers were hemmed too short or his socks were not long enough. Twin stripes of hairy, pale leg skin was visible through the glass surface of the coffee table.
Cynthia emerged from the kitchen with a coffee service and a plate of Oreo cookies. Once served, she excused herself and retreated to the kitchen.
“This must all feel terribly unfair to you.” The detective balanced a saucer in one hand while sipping with the other.
“Unfair? I’m worried sick, if that’s what you mean.”
“When a real child goes missing, it’s headline news,” he said. “When a bridge daughter runs off, the newspapers bury it inside. They don’t even report it most times.”
“I don’t want publicity,” Hanna said. “I want my Ruby back.”
He set aside the coffee and produced a notepad from his shirt pocket. “I want to go over a few points with you if I may,” he said. “You were arrested three weeks ago for providing aid and assistance to those in dereliction of life.”
Hanna nodded, queasy where the conversation was headed.
“The charge is formally in derelictum vitae,” he said. “You might have heard it called an IDV.”
“I was not at that meeting to help any of those girls,” Hanna said. “I was there to get Ruby back.”
Consulting his notebook, he said, “No charges were filed under the condition you would assist us with locating Hope Elizabeth Andover. She’s also known as Piper.”
Hanna waited for a question or a prompt. “I don’t understand why yo
u’re going over all this again.”
“We have a security video of Ruby leaving the hotel,” he said.
Hanna again waited for a question. “I was told that last week,” she finally said. “Did you discover something new?”
“We found her on a second video,” he said. “In a rear alleyway. It shows her leaving the rear of the property and meeting a young woman. We believe it to be Hope Andover.” He cleared his throat, shut the notepad, and returned it to his shirt pocket. “Do you see the situation this puts us in?”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” Hanna said.
“Your statement claims Hope Elizabeth Andover abducted Ruby,” he said. “Now with this new evidence, it appears Ruby has willfully joined Hope Andover, as though she’d arranged an escape with her beforehand.”
“I told you,” Hanna said. “Ruby was not abducted from the hotel. She ran away. I thought she ran away from my husband. He’s a manipulative man.”
“You used the word ‘abusive’ on the phone with me.”
“That was a mistake,” she said. “He never laid a hand on me or my daughters.”
The detective pursed his lips and shrugged. “Abuse is more than physical,” he said. “I’ve met with your husband, Ms. Driscoll. If you excuse my saying, he seems to me to be the type.”
Hanna’s guard released. “So you understand.”
“A bridge daughter running away from a man like Vaughn Brubaker? Yes I do. But I think she’d run to a mother like you. Which she didn’t.”
“My husband was suing for custody,” Hanna said. “Ruby must have thought coming to me would just put her back in his hands.”
“Bridge daughters don’t think that far ahead, Ms. Driscoll.” The detective checked over his shoulder toward the kitchen.
“More coffee?” Hanna said.
“I spoke with your husband yesterday afternoon.” He rose from the couch. “He said he came here to say goodbye before returning to Pacific Palisades.” He peered down the rear hall leading to the bedrooms.
Hanna put down her coffee and stood. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“May I look around the house?”
“I’m answering your questions,” she said.
“This is a friendly visit, Ms. Driscoll.”
Hanna noticed Cynthia standing in the kitchen doorway. She did not present herself as a bridge daughter should, back erect and hands clasped behind her. Cynthia stood with her arms loose around her sides, back arched and puffing herself up. Hanna instructed her to collect the coffee service. Cynthia reluctantly cleared the table.
“I’d ask you to leave,” Hanna told Detective Matthewson.
He turned to her, lightly surprised.
“I don’t care for what you’re insinuating,” she said.
“Insinuating?”
“I would appreciate it if you spent your time and energy out on the streets finding my daughter,” she said.
Lips pursed beneath his moustache, he dropped his head and slid his hands deep in his trouser pockets. “Your ‘daughter,’” he said to the floor.
Cynthia watched the scene unfold, standing at the table and not collecting the service and plates.
Hanna went to the front door and opened it. “Good day, Detective.”
“Let’s rewind this,” Matthewson said. He sauntered close to her, hands still deep in his pockets. “We’ll never stop looking for your bridge daughter,” he said softly, out of earshot of Cynthia. “If she put your child in harm’s way, there’s no negotiating her situation. You understand this?”
“Of course,” Hanna said.
“On the other hand, your situation is negotiable,” he whispered.
“My situation?”
“If you can give us Piper, whatever you may or may not have done can be brokered.”
He waited for a reaction, but Hanna remained stiff at the door.
“You might consider all factors here,” he said with a nod toward the abundantly pregnant Cynthia. “You have my number.” And he left.
Hanna pulled Cynthia away from the front window. She was watching the detective retreat to his unmarked car on the street.
“Don’t let him see you,” she said.
“I think he knows,” Cynthia said.
“Your father,” Hanna said, shaking her head. “That bastard.”
Ruby emerged from her bedroom. “What happened?” Hanna knew she had been listening at the bedroom door. If Matthewson had walked four paces and opened it—Hanna’s gut plummeted at the thought.
Hanna dropped to one knee and motioned for Ruby to come close. “Honey, I need you to be honest with me,” she said. “Can you reach Piper?”
Ruby nodded. “But I crossed my heart I wouldn’t tell anyone how.”
“What if it meant we could stay together as a family?”
Ruby frowned and tucked in her chin. She shook her head once and sniffled.
“What if it meant the safety of little Barry?” Hanna said.
Ruby looked up, pouting. “If that’s what it means, I’ll tell you,” she said. “I would do anything for little Barry. He means so much to me.”
Hanna went to the side table. She returned with her smartphone. “Tell me.”
Ruby explained the system. Hanna tapped the phone number and the code word on the touchscreen. All that remained was to send the message.
“It’s only for emergencies,” Ruby said. “Someone will call back and tell us how to meet Piper.”
“This is an emergency, honey.” Hanna dropped to one knee and stroked Ruby’s hair. “Our family is in real trouble right now.”
Cynthia joined them. All three stood in a circle around the smartphone. They stared down at it, almost as though daring each other to press Send. Hanna reached for the screen.
“Wait,” Ruby said. “Isn’t there another way?”
“This is for little Barry,” Cynthia said. “And for Mom.”
“What about me?” Ruby said.
“And for you too,” Cynthia said. She added the way children do, “I forgot.”
One message to Piper, one phone call to Matthewson, it would all be over. This was exactly what Cynthia had exhorted her to do, to think of the future of the family. She had a child on the way; she must think of him first. She cupped her hand over the phone’s glass surface, preparing to touch Send.
Cynthia was gone. Hanna had come to accept her death—she had come to accept it twice, in fact.
If Hanna turned in Piper, Piper would surely turn in Ruby out of spite. Ruby would be gone, probably held at a center in Camarillo or Atascadero.
But Hanna would have her baby. If everything worked out, she would be able to raise her one son in the open, free and clear. She could visit Ruby, perhaps.
Hanna broke down. She cleared the display and set aside the phone. As the girls asked what was wrong, she pulled them close.
In a huddle, each placed an arm around the others. Their breaths comingled. It tickled their noses and warmed their cheeks. Hanna squeezed them and received squeezes in return. From Ruby, she took in the aroma of her bubblegum shampoo and the bready sweetness of the blueberry pancakes she’d cooked for breakfast. From Cynthia, she smelled the sharp bite of aftershave and the creaminess of the cocoa butter she swabbed over her belly each morning and evening. This, Hanna told herself, was her family.
“We have to pack,” Hanna said into the huddle. “We leave tonight.”
Thirty
Hanna pulled the car into the garage and closed the door so they could pack without being seen. Hanna now believed they were under surveillance, and a little paranoia went a long way. They filled the trunk with luggage and totes and food they could eat in the car. Children have trouble prioritizing between necessity and luxury, and packing took more time than Hanna would have liked. Still, the girls understood the gravity of the situation and did not dawdle.
On her final sweep of the house, searching for any essential she might have missed, Hanna discovered Erica Grimond
’s cassette tape. It sat in a basket beside the front door, a reminder she needed to put the tape in the mail. Hanna considered the weight of the tape in her hands. The diary of a trembling girl dead thirty-plus years had stirred so much to the surface.
Under the cover of darkness, Hanna opened the garage door, backed the car down to the street, and left Berkeley. She could only hope they were not being followed. Ruby remained on the backseat floor until they reached the interstate.
—
The warehouse-sized restaurant was underlit and decorated from top to bottom with fin-de-siècle imagery and Art Nouveau bric-a-brac. Hanna anticipated a long wait in the lobby. The college-aged greeter at the podium confirmed the wait to be at least forty minutes.
The girls asked for Shirley Temples from the bartender. Hanna ordered a glass of the house burgundy then changed it to a ginger ale. She’d gone a week without wine, she could go another day at least. The trio retreated to the lobby to wait for the electronic pager to rattle and inform them their table was ready.
Bored and tired from the hour-long drive, Hanna lost track of her surroundings. She came to and realized Cynthia was not with them. Ruby lay across the bench with her head in Hanna’s lap. She’d complained of cramping earlier and Hanna had given her an Pontephen for the pain. Hanna peered about the lobby, expecting to see Cynthia nearby. She shook Ruby awake.
“Where’s your sister?” she said.
Crimson velvet drapes hung from the ceiling thirty feet above and cut the spacious waiting area into smaller sections. Hanna told Ruby to stay put. She stepped around the edge of the drapes, searching for Cynthia.
She found Cynthia in a curtained nook. Quite pregnant now, the stool she sat on appeared like a matchstick beneath Cynthia’s bulging midsection. She was engaged in a lively conversation with another bridge, a redhead in an emerald green bridge daughter dress with cream lace trim. Relieved, Hanna halted at the edge of the drapes to give Cynthia some space. She put in check her impulse to drag Cynthia back to their side of the waiting area, as well as her instinct to scold her for wandering off without permission.
Unaware of Hanna’s presence, Cynthia made boisterous motions with her hands as she spoke to the other bridge daughter, who reclined in a cushioned high-backed chair. Cynthia was making a joke. Laughing, she leaned in to the bridge daughter. The redhead refrained, hiding her smile with the back of her hand. Her green eyes sparkled. Only when Cynthia spotted her mother did her energy dampen. She excused herself, struggled to rise from the stool, and approached Hanna.
