Suddenly he stopped, his eyes afire.
“Do you have the address of this Vicki Ray’s studio?”
“Yeah, somewhere.” Her voice rose with worry. “But what good would that do? They’re not going to let you in backstage. Your best bet would be to try to see her at the hotel.”
“Go and get the address—and the phone number. Then keep your fingers crossed.”
“Why? What are you going to do? Freddy’s got her every moment all planned out.”
He offered her a wry smile and an affectionate pat on the cheek. “Then I’m just going to have to disrupt his plans, aren’t I?”
The stage was set. The lights were ready. The “Vicki Ray Show” was about to begin.
Michael took his seat in the rear of the studio well ahead of the rest of the audience. He eased himself down into the narrow chair, the leather of his jacket crumpling against the metal back and his long legs bent into the cramped space. It was the first time he’d relaxed since leaving Los Angeles last night. So far, all had gone according to plan.
He didn’t even try to reach Charlotte at the Drake. The paparazzi were circling the hotel like locusts. He knew the hotel and the Chicago police department well enough not to attempt the impossible. Instead, he went to visit Helena Godowski.
Michael repressed a smile when he recalled the brief, rather uncomfortable meeting with Charlotte’s mother. Finding parking was more difficult than finding the building. Harlem Avenue was a major artery on the west side. The series of six identical buildings was a nightmare for an architect. The four-storied yellow brick monstrosities were each fronted with a variation of that imitation stone that was de rigueur for low income housing in the seventies. If he’d harbored any hope the interior would be updated, it disappeared when he walked into the green linoleum foyer with the chipped paint, plain steel mailboxes, buzzers with hand-scribbled names above them, and a metal-and-glass door void of any charm. Was it any wonder Charlotte had created an imaginary Frank Lloyd Wright-style home in Oak Park for her mother rather than this?
Helena opened her door a crack, suspiciously eyeing him while he briefly explained why he wanted to see her.
“I have no daughter,” she’d said in a vinegary voice at the mention of Charlotte’s name. When he began to question her, she stiffened her broad shoulders and tried to slam the door in his face.
Maybe it was his anger that she could disown her own daughter; maybe it was his desperation. Who’s to know? But he held the door open with force and pleaded with the old woman to give him but a moment of her time. “Charlotte is very ill,” he’d blurted out.
That gave her pause. And him hope.
She surrendered and let him in on the condition that he leave in five minutes. He stepped into the darkened apartment that reeked of Lysol and was crowded with heavy European furniture and doilies on every surface. He sat on her flowered sofa and, in polite tones, told her about Charlotte’s illness. While he spoke he searched the walls, the tabletops, everywhere for some photograph, anything at all, to indicate that Charlotte once lived here.
Suddenly he stiffened, feeling that he’d been zapped by a bolt of electricity. No, it couldn’t be. His heart began pounding in his ears. There on top of the television was a photograph of a young woman, a strange, odd, yet familiar woman dressed in a cap and gown. She had long, silky hair that he readily recognized, pale, creamy skin, and brilliant blue eyes that radiated warmth and intelligence and something else he could only think of as a challenge. She needed that look, he thought, feeling a sad pity for the girl. It didn’t appear that the girl had a chin.
“Charlotte?” he murmured aloud. Could it be? It didn’t seem possible.
Helena heard and followed his line of vision. “Yah, that is my Charlotte. When she graduated from college. Before she had that surgery.”
He didn’t want Helena to see the effect that the photograph was having on him. He struggled to keep his voice level. He cleared his throat and asked, “May I look?”
Helena dragged herself to her feet to bring the photograph to Michael. He held it in his hands and stared at it like a man possessed, searching the foreign face for the woman he loved. It was familiar in some way, and not. The nose—that had to have been done, too. Where was Charlotte in this deformed stranger?
But when he covered her lower face with his palm and stared into the woman’s eyes, he found what he was looking for. His breath came more easily, as though a tight fist had eased open. My Charlotte, he thought, and knew in that instant that he would love her forever.
He returned the photograph to Helena and put his heart into the task at hand. He cajoled, asked, begged Helena to meet him at the studio that day to confront Charlotte, to convince her to remove the implants.
Helena listened to his pleas with her back up against the chair, her feet flat on the floor and her hands over the apron in her lap, the vision of rigid self-control. She asked no questions. She seemed to him to be a lonely, worn-out woman, the kind that met the world with a frown rather than a smile. In this, she was so unlike her daughter, he thought, as he finished and waited for her response.
Ah, yes, the response…Even now, Michael couldn’t believe the woman’s coolness. She spoke to him with a formal politeness, as a maid spoke to a salesman at the door. How did she put it? She thanked him for his “interest.” Then, standing and escorting him to the door, she told him not to expect her at the studio.
In that instant his heart went out to the little girl Charlotte must have been, growing up with this hard, exacting woman. Was it any wonder Charlotte always tried to please others before herself? To create that sad, bogus history. His love for her redoubled.
He was about to leave the dingy apartment in disgust when he caught a glimpse of something in Helena’s eyes—eyes, he realized with a sudden softening of the heart, that were so much like Charlotte’s. She’d tried to hide it, but those expressive eyes betrayed her. It was that faint glimmer of worry behind her rigid facade that prompted him to tell her, kindly, that he’d have a car waiting for her outside her door should she change her mind. Then he thanked her politely and left. There was nothing more he could do.
Michael sighed and stared out at the stage. It was empty save for one, solitary white chair in the center. He rubbed his jaw, worried now that the grilling his Charlotte would be put under once she sat in that chair would be too much for her to bear. Doubt niggled at him. Had he done the right thing?
A young man in an usher’s uniform that was two sizes too large interrupted his thoughts as he presented him with his backstage pass.
“Miss Ray wants to know if you’ll need anything else, Mr. Mondragon,” the usher inquired. “Some water? Coffee?”
“No, neither, thank you. Tell her all is set.”
“They’re opening the doors to the public now. The show will be starting in about fifteen minutes.”
Michael rubbed his eyes as the usher disappeared down the aisle. A moment later he heard the high-pitched laughter and excited talk of the audience as they began entering the studio and taking their seats. He heard the name “Charlotte Godfrey” and the word “Oscar” mentioned again and again, like a litany. She was a big star now, “hot.” These tickets were hard to come by.
And if all went well, it would be one hell of a show.
Helena Godowski peered out of her apartment window to the street below, careful to hide behind the curtain. The long, sleek black car and its driver were still there! Unbelievable. How long would it wait outside her door? Well, she wasn’t going to the studio—and that was that. She let the curtain drop and fumbled with the buttons of her starched white blouse. Ach, the nerve of that young man. To send for that car even when she clearly told him she would not go to that studio. How much money did a car like that cost?
Humph, she thought, frowning. What did she care that the young man’s face looked so crestfallen? He had no right to interfere in what wasn’t any of his business. She knew who he was, even though she was cle
ver enough not to tell him. He was that fellow Charlotte was supposed to marry. Well…She softened a bit at the prospect of her daughter finding a husband at last. She guessed he was a nice enough young man, handsome, and he certainly was polite. And convincing with those dark, unwavering eyes. But that didn’t change things between Charlotte and herself. No, it did not.
As she crossed the room, she felt deep, deep inside the niggling of pain and guilt that she’d tried so hard to bury these past years. No matter what she’d said to others, Charlotte was her daughter. Her only child—of her only love. She’d handled that business of the surgery badly. But her Charlotte would never have said those things to her. Her Charlotte would never have left. Now her child was gone, as her beloved was gone, she thought, awash in self-pity.
Helena walked in front of the television and stood, wringing her hands, deliberating before the blank screen. What harm could it do just to watch her? she wondered. No one would know. She’d only watch a few minutes, to see if Charlotte was as sick as this Mondragon fellow said she was.
She turned on the program in time to see Charlotte walk across the stage to the thunderous applause of her fans. Helena sank back into her upholstered chair, feeling very small in the thick cushions. She’d felt this way the night of the Oscars, too, when she marveled at the poise and beauty of the woman they called Charlotte Godfrey. The big star. Her daughter.
She half listened while film clips were shown, for she was studying instead Charlotte’s undeniably beautiful face and remembering the child. Then Vicki Ray was saying something about Charlotte marrying her agent, a Freddy Walen. Helena sat up in her chair, startled. What was that? Her agent? How could that be? Wasn’t Charlotte going to marry that nice young Mr. Mondragon?
Then the camera shifted to focus just offstage on a barrel chested, handsome man in his fifties with lush graying hair slicked back, dark brows and a mustache below his long, distinguished, utterly recognizable nose.
Helena’s face drained of color, her hand rose to her throat and she jerked forward toward the television screen. She heard nothing now other than the relentless pounding of her heart in her ears.
“My God in heaven!” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet, her breath coming in short gasps. She stumbled forward, reaching for the television, splaying her fingers across that face. The camera switched back to Charlotte, sitting alone on the stage, her legs crossed, poised, speaking in a soft voice about her coming marriage. Helena’s stomach clutched and she took a few steps backward, feeling as though she were slipping into a deep, black hole.
What should she do? What? Was the world going mad? How much more could God test her?
Her feet tripped over the afghan that fell on the floor, a twin to the one she’d knitted for Charlotte. She ran to grab her coat and hat, her hands trembling, and scuttled down the stairs as fast as she could to the sleek black limousine that blessedly still waited at the curb. She panted as she ran, like one of the old steam engines she remembered in her homeland. Ah, Poland—it was all so long ago. As she slunk into the dark interior of the car and felt the lurch as it moved forward, she felt she was traveling not forward but backward, far back into the fog of her own history.
“Please, God,” she prayed, feeling panic rise up in the darkness. Pressing her palms together against her wet eyes she implored, “Please, let me not be too late.”
Twenty-Five
Heavy pounding on the door stirred Charlotte from her deep, semiconscious state. She pried open a heavy eyelid, cast a slow, drowsy look around the dimly lit room and remembered where she was. Vicki Ray’s studio. How long had she been lying here like this? she wondered. So many memories she’d traveled through. So much material that she had forgotten, or had hidden somewhere in her unconscious.
The pounding resumed on the door, rattling the frame. Someone was calling her name. She winced, feeling as though someone was pounding her head.
“Go away,” she called out, covering her ears. She felt like the little girl she’d remembered on Vicki Ray’s stage, small and fragile. She used to hide in the back of her mother’s large closet, behind the rack of shoes and the hems of her mother’s long dresses. She liked it there where no one could bother her, or call her names, or see her face. The darkness made her feel safe.
Now there was a jiggling of the door handle and a rattling of keys. There was no way she could keep them from coming in now. Dragging herself up to a sitting position, she rubbed her fingertips across her cheeks, wiping away the moisture and sleep from under her eyes. She only had a second more, she thought, holding her face in her hands. Her fingers spanned the short distance from her eyes to the rounded curve of her inflamed jaw.
There was a whoosh of air as the door swung open, followed by the thunder of several pairs of feet entering in a rush. Of all the voices calling her name, she focused on only one: Michael’s voice, low and urgent. And then he was there, kneeling beside her. She was aware of his hand, callused and strong, gently smoothing the hair from her face.
“Charlotte,” Michael said, leaning so close to her she could feel his breath on her cheek. “Are you all right? My God, your face, it’s burning up.”
There was a humming noise inside her head at the touch of his hand. His scent, his touch, the sound of his voice….
“Keep away from her, you lousy spic,” Freddy said angrily, stepping up to shove Michael away. She felt his hand jerk from her face as he lost balance. Opening her eyes, she saw the hand form into a bunched fist.
“Stop it,” she cried, dragging herself up. “I won’t have you two fighting in front of me. Not now, not ever.” She was speaking to both of them, but her eyes were fastened on Michael. His dark eyes were burning into hers while she searched his, hoping to find, what? A sign that he still loved her? Still wanted her? My God, why was she still so vulnerable with him? she thought, frustration stoking her anger. She wanted him to suffer, as she had suffered. She wanted the anger now; she needed it to dispel the love she remembered a moment ago. From the corner of her eye she saw Vicki Ray step in front of Freddy, spreading her palms out in front of his chest.
“I didn’t come here to fight him,” Michael said, relaxing his hands at his side. “At least not in that way.” “Why did you come here, Michael?” She forced her voice to be cool.
“I came to stop you from ruining your life.”
Charlotte wrapped her arms across her chest, her nails digging into her flesh. “I see,” she replied crisply. “And you were going to achieve that by publicly humiliating me on national TV?”
“Hey…” He paused, visibly holding himself back while he looked at his shoes. “I’m sorry for the humiliation, Charlotte,” he replied with deliberate calm. “It wasn’t my intention to cause you pain but to save you from it.” He looked up at her directly. “It was the only way I could think of, with so little time left, to stop you from going away with that man. He has everything planned to suit his needs, not yours. I had to expose him and his plans. To stop the lies.” His face hardened. “No more lies, Charlotte.”
She flinched as though struck. Immediately he put his hands out toward her, stepping forward. She took a step back, away from him, glaring at him with a look that forbade him to even consider a reconciliation. He stopped and dropped his hands.
“My life and my decisions are no concern of yours,” she replied sharply. “You’ve only made things more difficult for me now.”
“Charlotte,” he said hoarsely, reining himself in. “Regardless of what your feelings are for me, you must not pretend that some doctor in South America can cure you. That’s just more of Freddy’s PR bullshit. You know the implants must be removed. Look at you. You’re burning up with fever, your hands are trembling. Don’t fool around with your life. It’s far too precious. If not to you—to me.”
“What makes you suddenly the expert?” Freddy asked, his face set in an angry scowl. “You’re a doctor now, too? For your information, I’m taking her to one of the best doctors in the world. First
rate. You’re wrong if you think I’d send my girl to anything less. Just because this doctor doesn’t agree with the other doctor doesn’t make him wrong. What’s the matter? Haven’t you ever heard of a second opinion?”
Charlotte saw the exasperation in Michael’s eyes, not that Freddy could be so obtuse, but that she could believe him and go along with it. She raised her chin defiantly nonetheless.
“Okay,” Michael said through tight lips. “You’re right, I’m not a doctor. If you’ll wait right here…” He turned on his heel and went out into the hall, returning a moment later with a small-framed, boyish-faced man in an elegantly tailored suit.
“Dr. Harmon,” Charlotte exclaimed, instinctively bringing her hand to her face. He was the last person she’d expected to see here, but still, she felt inexplicably glad to see him. More memories flooded back to her as he walked toward her: his calm demeanor, his wizardlike half smile and his pale piercing eyes. She suddenly felt as though she were back in his office, asking him to help her all over again.
“What are you doing here, Doctor?”
“Mr. Mondragon was kind enough to arrange for me to come.” His eyes roamed her face as he spoke, focusing on her jaw and chin. “He’s informed me of your intentions. Of course I wanted to come. You’re my patient. And after all, you wouldn’t return my calls.”
The look he gave her was filled with warmth at seeing her again, and a glint of reprimand. She chafed and knitted her brows, knowing what was coming.
“Charlotte,” Dr. Harmon continued in his levelheaded manner. “I’m here to personally tell you that to go to Brazil now is not only pointless but decidedly dangerous. Time is of the essence. I feel responsible, of course, for your reaction to the implants. Not that I could have changed it, but nonetheless, I’d like the chance to rectify the problem.”
Girl in the Mirror Page 37
