by Joy Fielding
TWENTY-EIGHT
Can I have a glass of water?” Alison asked.
“Later. After you tell me.”
Tears fell the length of Alison’s face. Her color was ashen, a once vibrant photograph fading before my eyes. “I don’t know where to start.”
“Start with who you really are. Start with your name.”
“It’s Alison.”
“Not Simms,” I said matter-of-factly.
“Not Simms,” she repeated dully. “Sinukoff.” A sudden spark of interest. “Does that name mean anything to you?”
“Should it?”
She shrugged. “I wasn’t sure if it would or not.”
“It doesn’t.”
“I didn’t know if it would. I had to be sure.”
“Sure of what?”
“I didn’t want to make another mistake.”
“What are you talking about? What kind of mistake?”
Alison’s head rolled back across her shoulders, swayed precariously, as if it might fall off. “I’m so tired.”
“Why did you come to Florida, Alison?” I demanded. “What were you after?”
“I came to find you.”
“I know that. What I don’t know is why. I’m not rich. I’m not famous. I have nothing that could possibly interest you.”
She steadied her head, concentrated all her attention on my face. “You have everything,” she said simply.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to explain that one.”
Her eyes fluttered to a close, and for a moment I thought she might have succumbed to all the sedatives in her system, but then she started to speak, slowly at first, and with obvious effort, as if trying to keep track of her words, as one thought merged with another, and one word slurred into the next. “I’d been looking for you for a while without any luck. I decided to hire a private detective. The first one didn’t work out, so I hired someone else. He said you were working in a hospital in Delray. So I went there to see for myself. That’s when I saw your notice at the nurses’ station. I couldn’t believe my luck. I made up the story about Rita Bishop. I thought it would give us a chance to get to know one another before . . .”
“Before what?”
“Before I told you.”
“Told me what, for God’s sake?”
“Don’t you know?”
“Know what?”
“I don’t understand. You said you read my journal.”
“Know what?” I repeated, my voice a low roar, like the sound of an approaching wave.
Her eyes locked on mine, snapped into focus, as if seeing me for the first time. “That you’re my mother.”
For an instant I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I did both, the strangled sound emerging from my mouth foreign even to my own ears. I jumped to my feet, began pacing back and forth in front of her. “What are you talking about? That’s impossible. What are you talking about?”
“I’m your daughter,” she said, fresh tears forming in her eyes.
“You’re crazy! Your mother lives in Chicago.”
“I’m not from Chicago. I’m from Baltimore, like you.”
“You’re lying!”
“I was adopted as an infant by John and Carole Sinukoff. Did you know them?”
I shook my head vigorously, distant images flashing through my mind like a strobe light. I shielded my eyes, struggled to keep unwanted memories at bay.
“They already had a son, but they couldn’t have any more children, and they wanted a daughter, so they picked me. A mistake,” she acknowledged, licking at her lips. “I was this awful kid. Pretty much like I told you. I never felt I belonged. I was so different from everyone else. And it didn’t help that my perfect older brother kept reminding me I wasn’t really part of the family. One Christmas when he came home from Brown, he told me that my real mother was a fourteen-year-old slut who couldn’t keep her legs together.”
“Oh, God.”
“I kicked him where it counts. He certainly didn’t have any trouble keeping his legs together after that.” She attempted a laugh, wheezed instead.
“But what you’re saying is impossible,” I told her, my head spinning as much as hers. Images of the past snuck through decades-old defenses to assault my brain: Roger Stillman clumsily pushing his way inside me in the backseat of his car; my frantic eyes checking my underwear every day after that for signs of a period that stubbornly refused to come; my child’s belly growing more distended every day, no matter how baggy the clothes I wore. “It’s impossible,” I repeated, more forcefully this time, trying in vain to frighten the images away. “Do the math. I’m forty. You’re twenty-eight. That would have made me twelve—”
“I’m not twenty-eight. I’m twenty-five. I’ll be twenty-six . . .”
On February 9, I mouthed silently as she spoke the words out loud. I covered my ears with my hands in an effort to block out her voice. When had it gotten so loud, so strong?
“I was afraid if I told you my real age, you might figure everything out before you had the chance to get to know me. And I didn’t know how you’d feel about having me back in your life. I wanted so much for you to like me. No, that’s a lie,” she said, correcting herself. “I wanted more than that. I wanted you to love me. So you wouldn’t be able to give me up again.”
I sank back into the Queen Anne chair. She was crazy, of course. Even if some of what she said was true, it was impossible for her to be my daughter. She was so tall, so beautiful. Just like Roger Stillman, I thought. “It’s not true,” I insisted. “I’m sorry. You’ve made a mistake.”
“No. Not this time. The first detective I hired found some woman in Hagerstown he thought was you. I got so excited, I went to see her, but it turned out he was wrong. Then I found you. Lance said I was crazy to come all the way down here, that I was only going to get hurt again, but I had to see you. And the minute I did, the minute I talked to you, I knew I was right. Even before you told me about Roger Stillman, I knew you were my mother.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but you’re wrong.”
“I’m not wrong. You know I’m not.”
“The only thing I know is that you’re a stupid, stupid girl!” I heard myself shout.
My mother’s voiced bounced off the walls.
You’re a stupid, stupid girl!
“No, please don’t say that.”
How could you do this? How could you let some ridiculous boy stick his awful thing inside you?
I’ll take care of the baby, Mommy. I promise I’ll take good care of it.
Don’t think for one minute that I’m going to allow a bastard child into this house. I’ll drown it in a basin, just like I drowned those damn kittens!
“Terry,” Alison was whispering. “Terry, I’m not feeling very well.”
I moved swiftly to her side, wrapped her in my arms. “It’s all right, Alison. Don’t worry. You won’t throw up. I know how much you hate throwing up.”
“Please take me to the hospital.”
“Later, sweetheart. After you’ve had a little nap.”
“I don’t want to fall asleep.”
“Ssh. Don’t fight it, darling. It’ll all be over soon.”
“No! Oh, God, no! Please. You have to help me.”
We heard the noise at the same moment, our heads twisting in unison toward the kitchen door. Pounding, yelling, ringing. “Alison!” a voice bellowed over the cacophony of sounds. “Alison, are you in there?”
“K.C.!” Alison exclaimed, her voice scarcely audible. “I’m here. Oh, God, help me! I’m in here.”
“Terry!” K.C. hollered. “Terry, open this door right now or I’m calling the police.”
“Just a minute,” I called back calmly, gently extricating myself from Alison’s side, hearing her groan as she toppled over, too drugged to move. I walked quickly to the back door. “I’m coming. Hold your horses.”
“Where is she?” K.C. pushed roughly past me into the house. “What have you done with her?”
/> “Who are we talking about?” I asked him pleasantly. “Erica? Or Alison?”
But K.C. was already in the living room. “Alison! My God! What has that lunatic done to you?”
I reached into the sink and carefully removed the butcher knife from the white enamel basin. It fit comfortably into the center of my hand, as if it belonged there. I squeezed it, felt it damp against my tender skin as the cut reopened in my palm. Then I returned to the living room, watching from behind the dying branches of the Christmas tree as K.C. struggled to lift Alison to her feet.
“Can you walk?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Put your arms around my neck. I’ll carry you.”
How can I describe what happened next?
It was as if I’d been handed the starring role in a play. No, not a play. More like a ballet, full of grand gestures and exaggerated mime, each move carefully planned and choreographed. As Alison raised her arms, so did I. As K.C. was bending to scoop her up, I was swooping down. As he took the first of several awkward steps, I was flying across the room with savage grace. As Alison was resting her head against K.C.’s shoulder, I was plunging the foot-long blade into his back with such force the handle snapped off in my hands.
K.C. staggered forward, Alison dropping from his arms and landing with a dull thud on the floor. K.C. spun around in a sloppy pirouette, his hands losing their graceful rhythm and flailing about for the blade that was buried deep in his back. The growing swell of Alison’s screams filled the air, like a third-rate orchestra, as K.C. balanced on his toes, his arms extended toward me, as if asking me to join him for one final twirl around the room. I declined his silent invitation, taking a step back as he fell forward, his disbelieving eyes glazing over with the approach of imminent death. He hit the floor, the top of his head just missing the base of the overturned tree.
It took a few seconds for me to realize that Alison had stopped screaming, that she was no longer sprawled carelessly across the floor, that she had somehow managed to gather whatever strength she still possessed and was making a desperate scramble for the front door. That she actually succeeded in getting it open and was halfway down the front steps before I caught up to her is a great tribute to her strength and determination.
The instinct for survival, the will to live, is an amazing thing.
I remembered having had similar thoughts about Myra Wylie. Only Erica Hollander had gone quietly, dozing off within minutes of finishing the late-night snack I’d prepared. The pillow I’d subsequently held over her nose and mouth had brought only token resistance.
“No!” Alison was screaming as I reached for her arm.
“Alison, please. Don’t make a scene.”
“No! Don’t touch me! Leave me alone!”
“Come back inside, Alison.” I grabbed her elbow, dug my fingers into her flesh.
“No!” she screamed again, wresting her arm away from me with such force I almost lost my balance. She made it halfway to the street before her legs simply gave out, and she collapsed like the proverbial rag doll. Even then, she refused to give up, crawling on her hands and knees toward the sidewalk.
It was then we heard the barking, followed immediately by the click of high heels on pavement. Bettye McCoy and her two lunatic dogs, I realized, trying to drag Alison to her feet.
“Help me!” Alison cried as the third Mrs. McCoy wiggled around the corner in a pair of leopard-print capri pants. “Help me!”
But Alison’s cries were drowned out by the angry yapping of the dogs.
“It’s okay,” I called to the aging Alice in Wonderland. “She’s just had a bit too much to drink.”
Bettye McCoy tossed her overly teased blond mane disdainfully over her shoulder and gathered the two dogs into her arms before crossing the street and walking briskly in the opposite direction.
“No, please!” Alison called after her. “You have to help me! Help me!”
“You really need to sleep this off,” I said loudly, in case anyone was listening.
“Please,” Alison begged the now empty street. “Please, don’t go.”
“I’m right here, baby,” I told her, gathering her into my arms, guiding her toward the house. “I’m not going anywhere.”
When we reached the door, she stopped fighting. Whether it was the drugs or the realization that such struggles were useless, I don’t know. She simply sighed and went limp in my arms. I carried her across the threshold, as a new husband lovingly transports his bride.
Do they even do that anymore? I don’t know. I doubt I’ll ever have the opportunity to find out. It’s too late for me, just as it was too late for Alison. And it’s too bad, because I think I would have made a fine wife. That’s all I ever really wanted. To love someone, to be loved in return, to make a home, have a family. A child on whom I could lavish all the tenderness I’d been denied. A daughter.
I’ve always wanted a daughter.
I carried Alison to the sofa, cradled her in my arms. “Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra,” I sang tenderly. “Too-ra-loo-ra-lie. . .”
Alison raised her eyes slowly to mine. Her mouth opened. Whispers filled the air. I think I heard the word Mommy.
TWENTY-NINE
Of course, I don’t believe for a minute that Alison was my child.
She probably heard about how I’d disgraced my family from the Sinukoffs. The name sounds vaguely familiar. Perhaps they were neighbors. Perhaps not. Baltimore’s a big city. You can’t know everyone, despite my mother’s assertion that the whole town knew about my condition, that she was a laughingstock, too ashamed ever to show her face in public again.
That’s why we moved to Florida. Not because my father’s job demanded it. Because of me.
I stayed in school until my condition became too obvious to ignore, then I was asked to leave. Nothing happened to Roger Stillman. My shame was his badge of honor, and he was allowed to remain in school and graduate with his classmates.
I endured almost twenty hours of labor before my mother let my father drive me to the hospital. It was another ten hours before the baby—weighing in at an impressive eight pounds, seven ounces—was born. I never got the chance to hold her. Never even got the chance to see her. My mother made sure of that.
Of course she was right. What else could she have done? I was only fourteen years old, after all, a baby myself. What did I know of life, of looking after another human being? It was a ridiculous notion, one I’m sure I would have lived to regret.
And yet, maybe not. Would I have been such a bad mother? I’ve often wondered. I’d secretly loved that little baby growing inside me from the first minute I felt her moving around. I talked to her when no one was home, sang to her when we were alone in my room, assuring her that I would never lose my temper with her, never hit her or disparage her in any way, that I would shower her with kisses, assure her each and every day how very much she was loved. “I’ll take care of you,” I promised her when no one was listening. Instead, she was pulled from my body and banished from my side before her sweet little face had time to register, and I spent my whole life taking care of other people instead.
Of course Alison wasn’t my child.
She’d undoubtedly heard about “the fourteen-year-old slut who couldn’t keep her legs together” from someone back in Baltimore, possibly even her older brother, as she’d claimed. Then she and her friends had concocted this elaborate scenario, determined to insinuate themselves into my life. I wanted you to like me. No. I wanted you to love me, Alison herself had admitted shortly before she died.
I miss her terribly, of course, think of her often, and always with great affection, even love. So maybe Alison got what she came for after all.
She didn’t suffer. She simply fell asleep in my arms. The rest was easy. There were so many drugs in her system, I doubt she was even aware of the pillow I held against her face for the better part of two minutes. Later, I dressed her in her pretty blue sundress—the one she had been wearing the first da
y we met—and then buried her in the garden beside Erica. The flowers are especially lush in that corner of the yard, and I think she would have approved.
K.C. was a different story. I’d never killed a man before, never used a knife, never had to resort to such brutality. It took days for the vibrations to stop echoing through my hand, weeks till I was finally able to scrub all the blood from my living room floor. Of course, I had to get rid of the rug. It was ruined. Alison was right—a white rug in the living room hadn’t proved very practical. At any rate, it was time for a change.
I didn’t want K.C. polluting my garden, so I waited until the middle of the night, then bundled him into the trunk of my car and drove all the way to the Everglades, where I tossed him into a slime-covered swamp. It seemed fitting, and I’m sure the alligators appreciated my efforts.
It’s been three months since Alison died. The season is almost over. Every day there are fewer cars on the roads, fewer tourists prowling the streets. It’s easier to get into restaurants now. There are shorter lines at the movies. Bettye McCoy still walks her two lunatic dogs down the street several times a day, and occasionally one breaks away from her, makes a beeline for my backyard. I’ve erected a small fence to keep them out. Hopefully, that will suffice. Should one of those mangy mutts manage to get into my yard again, I won’t be chasing it out with anything as gentle as a broom.
Occasionally, I wonder what would happen if Lance and Denise came back, looking for Alison. But so far, there’s been no sign of either of them, so maybe Alison was telling the truth about their taking off together, about her relationship with her ex-husband being over once and for all. I hope so. Still, I can’t let down my guard.
My job at the hospital continues much as it always has. Myra’s bed has been filled by an elderly gentleman with advanced Parkinson’s. I take very good care of him. His family think I’m the greatest thing since sliced bread.
Incidentally, I was right about Josh. He did send flowers to the staff several weeks after his mother’s funeral. Actually, the flowers were from both him and his wife. The note thanked everyone on the ward. No one was singled out for special mention.
