The Orphan Daughter

by Cari Noga

  “Ummm. Yes. Speaking.” When was I last called Mrs. McArdle?

  “Thank you. Hold, please,” the voice replies.

  “Excuse me?” I say. Who puts the person they call on hold?

  “Mrs. McArdle.” Another voice, a man’s. “My name is William Langley. I’m an attorney in New York City.”

  “Yes?” I’m still thinking about the kids in whom I am to magically instill a work ethic this summer.

  “It’s quite a relief to finally speak with you.”

  “How’s that?” I tune in to William Langley’s words. “You’re in New York City?” Gloria lives there. She’s the host of Buenos Días, Nueva York, a Spanish version of the Today show, the way she described it.

  “Yes, and I’ve been trying to reach you for the last forty-eight hours. On a matter of some urgency. I’ve left several messages.”

  I used to have an answering machine with a light that flashed when there was a message. It finally broke, forcing me to voice mail. But you have to pick up the phone to hear the tone that indicates there’s a message. If I don’t—and over two days, there’s a very good chance I wouldn’t—I don’t get the message.

  “‘A matter of some urgency.’ And that would be?” I ask.

  “It pertains to your niece. Luisa Ortiz,” William Langley says.

  “My niece?” I blank for a good three seconds. “Lucy?” Gloria’s daughter would be my niece, of course.

  “Lucy. Yes.” He clears his throat. “I’m afraid I’m calling with bad news, Mrs. McArdle. Your sister and her husband passed away in a car accident Wednesday.”

  Gloria, the pretty one. Always smiling, vivacity spilling over. Her husband, Luis, was an executive at the Spanish-language network that produced her show. Dead? She’s nine years younger than I am. How could she be dead?

  “It was in California. LA. They were attending network meetings, in talks to begin a West Coast edition of Gloria’s show. I’m surprised you haven’t heard anything on the news.”

  I don’t watch the news. I don’t even have a TV.

  “I’m very sorry. I was your sister’s family lawyer for several years, and am now the estate’s executor. She was a truly vibrant woman. Her fans have crashed the network’s servers with messages.”

  Their world of cameras, attention, and travel was as foreign to me as the language. Gloria sent a fruit basket every Christmas. When had we last even spoken? A twinge of pain surprises me with its force. No more chances now.

  “Mrs. McArdle?”

  “They were . . . so young. What was it, a drunk driver or something?”

  “The police are investigating.” The lawyer clears his throat. “I’m sorry to deliver this news by phone. I know you must be in shock. But with a child to consider, I’m afraid we don’t have the luxury of time to adjust.”

  We? We is first person plural. As in, me, I, Jane, am a factor in Lucy’s fate.

  “Mr. Langley, I’m sorry it was difficult to reach me. You’re right, I’m shocked. But I don’t know . . . my sister and I . . .” Half sister, actually. A blended family that separated after the end of the short-lived second marriage that forced it into being. Aloud, I say, “It’s been several years since I last saw her.”

  “That’s unfortunate.” He sighs.

  Why should he care that my family drifted apart? Geographically, emotionally . . . what difference could it make now? I gaze out the window at the bed of garlic, all the good feelings gone.

  “In their will, your sister and her husband named you Lucy’s guardian.”

  Chapter 3

  LUCY

  I check Mom’s texts again on the bus back to school. One new. Network sent a limo! I text back, belatedly. Buena suerte. Xoxox.

  The trip takes forever. At least I don’t have Eli’s knees poking me. They put him and Joel on the first bus, right in front of Ms. Kedzie. Mrs. Creighton, our principal, is waiting on the sidewalk when we get back.

  “Told you they’d get in trouble,” Phoebe says.

  But when the bus door opens, Mrs. Creighton and Ms. Kedzie are waiting for us. Mrs. Creighton has a fake smile on her face.

  “Lucy, would you come with me to my office?”

  “Wait, Lucy didn’t do anything! It was Joel and Eli,” Phoebe says.

  “Yeah,” I say. “No one told us no phones.”

  “This isn’t about that,” Mrs. Creighton says, extending her arm like adults do when they want to swoop you along with them.

  “It’s not?” I look at Phoebe.

  “But we need to get our stuff. It’s almost time for the bell,” Phoebe says.

  “Phoebe, come with me,” Ms. Kedzie says. “Lucy, go with Mrs. Creighton.”

  I follow her into the school, through the steel doors, down the hall.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer. Instead she smiles again in that funny way and opens her office door. Sitting there in hard red plastic chairs is a man I don’t know with a beard, and Deirdre! What’s my au pair doing here?

  “Lucy. Sweetheart.” She stands up and hugs me. That’s funny. She doesn’t hug much. English people don’t, she says. Her body is shivering, and her eyes are red. What’s the matter with her?

  “This way.” Mrs. Creighton opens another door behind the secretary’s desk to her private office. I’ve never been in here before. “Deirdre, Lucy, please.” She pats some chairs. They’re soft in here, not hard plastic. Mrs. Creighton sits on the other side of me, instead of behind her desk. Weirder and weirder.

  “What’s going on?” I look at her desk so I don’t have to look at her. She has a square calendar, the kind where you tear off the page each day. It shows “13” in giant numbers. Unease ripples, then subsides. It’s not Friday, after all.

  “Well, Lucy.” Mrs. Creighton clears her throat. “I, uh.” She clears it again.

  What is it? Why can’t she talk?

  “I’m—I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.” She leans forward, her hands folded. It looks like she’s praying.

  I look over at Deirdre. She’s playing with the zipper on her jacket. “What bad news? What’s she talking about?”

  When she looks at me, Deirdre’s face crumples.

  “Your parents went to Los Angeles today—” Mrs. Creighton says.

  “I know that,” I interrupt. “For meetings about her show.”

  “Yes. Well, Lucy, the network called your home a few hours ago. Your parents’ car was in an accident.”

  “What?” The limo? My stomach feels like it’s dropping. Kind of like it does when Mom tells me she has to go away on a work trip, but faster. I press the invisible button inside that makes it stop, like an elevator. “I want to talk to them.” I’m already reaching for my phone.

  “I’m sorry.” Mrs. Creighton shakes her head. “It was apparently a high-impact crash. Both your parents were killed.”

  Killed?

  “You mean they’re dead?” My fingers lose their grip, and the phone clatters onto the floor.

  The second I say “dead,” Deirdre starts crying. “Oh, I’m so awfully sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  Mrs. Creighton stands up and swishes over to Deirdre. They whisper; then Deirdre murmurs, “I’ll just be outside, then.” As she backs out, the bearded man stands up. It feels like a play: one person goes off the stage, another one comes on. It must be a play. Something unreal. A dream? Did I fall asleep on the school bus?

  “Lucy, this is Mr. Meinert. Our school social worker.” Mrs. Creighton folds her arms and looks anxious.

  “Hello, Lucy.” He sits down in Deirdre’s chair and pats me on the shoulder. “I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances. We’re all here to help you as much as we can.”

  I haven’t said anything since “dead.” The word just keeps echoing in my head—dead, dead, dead, dead. They can’t be. They came into my room to say goodbye, super early. Mom was wearing her pink jacket and flats, but I knew she would have heels in her carry-on to change int
o before the meeting. Now she’s dead? She texted me on the field trip, right before Joel took my phone. She can’t be dead. I’ll text her back. Or even call her. They’ll see. I reach into my pocket for my phone again, then remember it fell onto the floor. As I bend down to get it, a whiff of grass from the stain on my knee fills my nose. It’s overpowering in its sickly sweetness, and I sit up fast.

  “Lucy?” Mr. Meinert crouches low in front of my chair, looking up into my face. “Can you hear us?”

  Mrs. Creighton’s face looms side by side with his. “Is she in shock?”

  I stand up, turning away from them. “I have to talk to them.”

  “Now, Lucy, that’s not—” Mrs. Creighton is shaking her head, but Mr. Meinert puts his hand on her arm. “Go ahead, if that’s what you want to do.”

  “She texted me! While we were on the field trip! It’s not true!” I’m hunched over the phone, trying to open the texting window, but my hands are sweaty and shaking. Finally I get the text window open and Mom’s last message up. Network sent a limo!

  So they were in a car. On their way to the meeting. I push the thought away. Mom! Call me!

  “We’ll wait with you,” Mr. Meinert says.

  I’m squeezing the phone, squeezing so hard, waiting. Finally it says “Delivered” under my message.

  “Any reply?” Mr. Meinert asks.

  They’re probably in the meeting now. And they can’t check texts because it’s so important.

  “I want to go home,” I say. Once they’re out of the meeting, Mom will reply.

  “Certainly. Let’s call your au pair, then,” Mr. Meinert says.

  Deirdre is sitting in the same red plastic chair, dabbing her eyes. “Ms. Needham, we’d like you to take Lucy home now,” Mr. Meinert says.

  Deirdre jumps up. “Home? By—by ourselves?”

  “If you’d like me to come with you—”

  “No!” I don’t need him. As soon as Mom texts back, I’ll be fine.

  “Let’s follow her lead,” Mr. Meinert says quietly, like I’m not supposed to hear. “Does she have a pet, by any chance?”

  No reply. Where are they?

  “No, no pet,” Deirdre says. “Why?”

  “They can be quite a comfort, especially to children.” He hands her a card. “I’ll check in with you tomorrow, but call me anytime, day or night, if you need anything sooner.”

  “Likewise,” says Mrs. Creighton. They all sound like they’re talking underwater. Deirdre opens the door. I’m staring at the phone so hard that I trip over the threshold and stumble into the quiet, tiled hallway, almost dropping it again.

  “Step on a crack, break your mother’s back,” someone says in a singsongy voice. I look up and see Joel and Ms. Kedzie, waiting for his turn in the office.

  “Joel Griffin! Young man, you just doubled your detention,” Ms. Kedzie says. She sounds really mad. “Lucy. I’m so sorry.” She pulls me into a hug. “Oh dear, look at your clothes, on top of everything else.”

  I look down at the green-stained leggings. I rub at them, but the grass smears don’t come off. In my head the stupid rhyme echoes. Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.

  Then another voice. Step on the grass, make her car crash.

  I look down at the phone, but there’s no sound and still no reply. Just the last text: Network sent a limo! They were in a car while I was chasing Joel and Eli, and tripping and falling. Step on the grass, make her car crash, the voice repeats in my head.

  No, that’s impossible. But why hasn’t Mom replied? I’ll text Daddy instead. I try to open a new text window, but my hands are shaking too hard.

  “Come on, Lucy. Let’s get a cab.” Deirdre leads me outside. It takes forever for a taxi to stop, and Mom doesn’t text back, and the rhymes keep repeating in my head.

  Step on a crack, break your mother’s back. Step on the grass, make her car crash.

  What did I do?

  Chapter 4

  JANE

  Sun streaming through the window wakes me on Saturday. Sarge is curled into the space behind my knees, a warm, pulsing lump. I keep my eyes shut, clutching the last shreds of the cocoon of sleep, hiding from the memory of the lawyer’s call. It felt like a conversation in the movies, up on a screen between actors I don’t know, playing characters I’ll forget an hour later.

  It can’t be true. Gloria wouldn’t name me as Lucy’s guardian. I’ve only met her daughter twice. She never even asked me! Then again, Gloria had gotten her way pretty much all her life. She might not even think to ask.

  “You must be mistaken,” I had told William Langley.

  “There’s no mistake. It’s explicit in their will.”

  Their will. What about my will? If only I’d turned on the light. If only I’d looked. If only the Houston sun had thawed my soul. If only Jim hadn’t . . . No. So many if-onlys, none granted.

  “There must be someone else. Someone from Luis’s family.”

  “Luis’s family members all reside in Mexico. Your sister and her husband were very specific that they wish for Lucy to remain in the United States. I’ve been in contact with Luis’s family in the last forty-eight hours, and they concur with that arrangement.”

  They concur, yet no one’s even asked me. “Do I have to concur, then, too?”

  “You do need to accept guardianship.” His voice sounded like he was moving to closing arguments. “Which I certainly hope you will, given that Lucy has no other American blood relatives. I can’t imagine Gloria would choose anyone unfit, so pending that formality, Lucy is your child as of Wednesday evening.”

  I closed my eyes, wishing they could talk to Jim. He could tell them how unfit I am to be a mother. Physically, certainly, since the emergency hysterectomy. Emotionally, twenty years’ worth of wounded relationships. As a daughter myself. A sister. A mother, at first so promising, then doubly heartbreaking. A wife. No. The wounds have scabbed over. I can’t let anyone pick at them again. The CSA, Plain Jane’s, is enough.

  “I know this is a shock. I’m sure you’ll be relieved to know that Lucy does have an au pair here in New York who’s been engaged to provide twenty-four-hour care for the short-term.”

  An au pair is like a nanny, right? I pictured a prim, severe woman, and sympathy suddenly flickered for Lucy, losing both parents simultaneously. I was too young to remember when the marines in dress blues showed up at the front door of our base housing in Twentynine Palms, but I had Mom. At least until Esteban showed up. Langley continued talking.

  “While arrangements are being made, that is. The funeral is set for Tuesday.”

  In New York? Well, of course. “That’s four days away.”

  “We wanted to give you a few days to absorb the news, and begin to make your own preparations.”

  My own preparations. My mind reeled, from the farm to-do list that grows longer every day to the strands of yellow yarn unraveled years ago. An illusion of readiness, preparation. Whatever’s going to happen will happen.

  “A plane ticket, naturally, and whatever else you’ll need to have tended to while you’re away. I would plan on at least a week. I’ll put my assistant back on—she’ll take care of all the logistics. Of course, you’re welcome to stay with Lucy at her home. It would help with the transition.”

  Away for a week? Just as the CSA is ramping up for the season. The transition—to a second motherhood? Third, if you count Gloria. Gloria, who’s dead. We were talking about plane tickets and logistics, and my little sister is dead.

  Sarge rubs against my legs, mewling. His water and food dish are probably empty. Unfit, I want to scream. I am unfit.

  Instead I open my eyes. Time to face the day.

  I sidle between the bed and the table where my seed plugs are spread, the black squares of soil ingesting every possible minute of sunshine before the biggest south-facing window in the house. In the kitchen I fill Sarge’s dishes, start the coffee, then go to my PC. The computer and the dial-up modem are both so old and slow it takes fi
ve minutes to download my email. Sure enough, there’s a flight confirmation from Delta. Monday, April 18, 1:00 p.m. departure, Traverse City to Detroit to JFK. Another message from the Law Offices of William E. Langley informs me that a driver will meet me at JFK and take me to Gloria’s apartment for dinner with him, Lucy, and Deirdre, the au pair.

  I close the email window and turn to Google. “Gloria Santiago and Luis Ortiz,” I type into the box as Sarge settles at my feet.

  Google returns 350,000 results. I click on the first, datelined Los Angeles, which takes me to an AP story about the crash.

  “Popular Telemundo host Gloria Santiago and her husband, Luis Ortiz, an executive at the network, were killed Wednesday when their corporate car crashed outside Los Angeles.

  “The couple was believed to be en route to meetings with officials at NBC, Telemundo’s parent. Unconfirmed reports say the network wanted Santiago, 36, to anchor a West Coast edition of her Buenos Días, Nueva York morning show. Ortiz, 44, served as an adviser to his wife. Their driver was injured, as was the driver of a second vehicle, a Los Angeles resident. Local authorities are investigating.”

  The coffeepot beeps, but I ignore it, riveted by the side-by-side pictures. Gloria looks as vibrant as ever, her curly dark hair seemingly ready to spring off the screen. Luis’s dark hair is threaded with gray. So Gloria found somebody else to take care of her. Luis was only a year younger than I am. I wouldn’t have put him over forty. I only met him twice, once at their wedding and once at Mom’s funeral. Lucy was barely walking then.

  I turn back to the search results and find a piece posted on the Telemundo site.

  “Lamentamos informarles,” screams the headline. In smaller type, “que la hija de 11 años se queda huérfana después de la tragedia.”

  My Spanish isn’t great, but I get the gist. Eleven. Two years older than I was when Gloria was born. Again, sympathy flickers. A rough roll of the dice, no doubt. The headline is above a slide show of Gloria and Luis. I click through the slides. Mostly Gloria, rather. On set in New York. On location during Hurricane Katrina. Receiving a glass trophy at some awards banquet. Luis is in that one, clapping as he stands behind her. Gloria with her arm around a little girl with dark hair who’s smiling but looks positively solemn next to Gloria’s thousand-watt grin. The huérfana. Lucy.