Bad Blood (Maggie Ryan Book 8)

by P. M. Carlson

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. She said, ‘You don’t look it,’ and went across the hall and got out a file and brought it back behind the desk to look at it. Still cagey, though. I was sitting right on the other side of the desk, but she was still standing up, holding it up straight, so I couldn’t see. I was furious. Just a few feet away! And she was allowed to see it and I wasn’t, and it was my life in there!” Ginny unclenched her hands and took a deep breath. “Then she got very schoolteacherish and scolded me. She told me I was sixteen and I should be ashamed of myself, because my parents were such good people, and if it was important, they’d ask for the medical information. She was really upset.”

  “It wasn’t exactly a situation to win her confidence.”

  “Right. So then I burst into tears and told her it was all because of Mom. She was the most terrific mother in the entire world, I said, and I didn’t want to worry her needlessly, but I really was sick with this digestive thing. And Mrs. Elkin tried to soothe me. And while I was pretending to blow my nose I covered my hand with a tissue and ran a couple of fingers down my throat, and threw up all over her carpet.”

  “Jesus, Ginny!” Maggie was delighted.

  “She leaped up and said, ‘Oh, golly gee,’ or whatever caseworkers say, and ran to the door to call for help. And I grabbed the folder, and there was a certificate. Alice Picaud Ryan, born September 14, 1963, father unknown, mother Margaret Mary Ryan. And there was an envelope with a return address. Ryan, right here. But of course Elkin was back before I could see any more. She snatched it away, swearing.” Ginny grinned, remembering. “Not like a caseworker this time.”

  “I’ll bet!” Maggie beamed.

  “She said—” Ginny glanced at her cautiously. “She said I was just as bad as my mother.”

  Maggie studied her own crossed ankles. “Did she now.”

  The suspicions that had been growing ever since Ginny had seen Mrs. Elkin suddenly coalesced. She said, “So. The security of that sacred file has been violated before?”

  “Once,” admitted Maggie. She played with her damp tissue a moment before continuing. “I went in every year to leave you a birthday letter, you see. I went to college in New York State so I could stay in touch more easily. And most of the time I was very good, but on your third birthday Mrs. Farnham happened to get the file out when I asked if there was any news from your family. She said no, she always said no, but this time she put the file down on the desk instead of reading it over by the file cabinets and putting it away before she came back. And when I reached in my notebook to pull out the letter to you, somehow my papers spilled all over the desk. And grabbing at them, somehow I picked up the file.”

  “Clumsy of you.”

  “Oh, yes, I apologized lavishly. Didn’t tell her that I’d caught a glimpse of your new family name.”

  “I see.”

  “But it looks as though I didn’t fool her. And I’m still not back in her good graces, if Elkin had heard about me too. Farnham herself would never have put that file within your reach, I bet.”

  “We’re a couple of bad ’uns, all right.” Ginny felt herself sliding into a murky depression. She said, “My third birthday.”

  “Well, it took me a couple of weeks to find your house on Long Island.”

  “You found me?” Ginny stiffened. Despair switched to outrage.

  “Just a quick peek. I didn’t want to lurk. You were getting into the car with your mom. Little ponytail, little sneakers, a Band-Aid on your knee—God, you were so real! And she gave you a hug. You both looked happy.”

  “Youfound me!”

  “Yes. I’ve been keeping track for thirteen years. I got a glimpse of you several times while your family was still on Long Island. It was harder after you moved to Washington.”

  “Damn you, Maggie! You never told me!”

  “Ginny, I had no right! Your parents were doing this wonderful thing for us. I was afraid they’d feel threatened, maybe think I wanted to take you away. You looked happy and healthy, and you got hugged a lot. When you were little I thought it would just confuse you. And later I didn’t know how you’d feel. Whether you’d feel betrayed, and hate me, or romanticize me, or maybe be completely indifferent.”

  “Indifferent! My God!”

  “Well, that’s what the agency told me. You and your child are now nothing to each other, they said. They’d ordered up fresh new lives all around. I guess—oh, hell, you’re right, Ginny. I never believed it in my heart. I’d held you in my arms, and I knew. The papers took away my legal rights, but not biology. Not love. Still, I didn’t want to worry your parents.”

  “Yeah. Elkin gave me that line too. She said it would be cruel and ungrateful to my sterling parents. It would make them think that they weren’t enough. And she said you’d made a new life, and not to bother you. Not to ask. You didn’t want to be reminded of the ghastly fact that I exist.”

  “Damn her! My waiver of confidentiality has been in that file from the beginning!”

  Ginny’s anger had ebbed again into despair. “Well, it doesn’t matter anymore. What with your clumsiness and my stomach trouble.”

  “Yeah, that agency nauseates me too.”

  “Must be genetic,” said Ginny. They nodded at each other gravely, collaborators; and again there was that obscure family magnetism, and the crushing sense of loss. Her third birthday. Ginny turned away abruptly to stare out the window. The tree was still green, the leaves barely edged with gold. Two floors below she could see the roof of the back porch. A googol of feelings. She no longer knew how she felt about anything. The more she saw of this strange new mother, the more confusing things became. Friendship and anger, fascination and repulsion, hatred and something akin to love, all seethed together in her heart.

  And finally she asked it. “Would you do it again?” She was still staring at the tree.

  “Today? 1979? There are other options today. A few, anyway. For one thing, they’d let me go back to high school. Or do you mean if it was 1963 again? If everything was the same except for knowing how much we hurt?”

  “Yes. If everything was the same.” Ginny didn’t look around, just studied the tree, until finally the low voice answered.

  “Yes. I’d do it again.”

  Ginny jerked around then in her agony to glare at her. “Well, then, the problem is with you, isn’t it? Because I sure as hell wouldn’t give away my own little baby! Not for anything! There’s nothing wrong with me!”

  “Of course not.”

  “Well, then. It’s you!”

  Maggie bowed her head onto her hand. “I’m sorry, Ginny. But I won’t lie to you.”

  Ginny punched the mattress beside her, but when she spoke she was surprised at her own voice. It sounded like a plea. “Aren’t you going to throw me out?”

  “Ginny, it’s your decision.”

  “Damn you!”

  “Yep.” Maggie stood up. “Listen, I think what you did at the agency was terrific. But right now I’m going down to see the others.” She disappeared down the stairs again.

  Ginny threw herself full length on the mat and drummed her toes on it in childish frustration. Abandoned child. Forever a child. She rolled over and blinked back the tears. Outside, a sturdy branch of the maple tree brushed against the window. The gold-edged leaves were complex, fantastic in outline and patterned veining. Yet each one was exactly like the others. The mystic tyranny of genes.

  There was no escape.

  IX

  “Mrs. Marshall, is it true? Ginny’s still gone?”

  His curly blond hair smoothed down, the teenager stood a little awkwardly at the front door, worried and on his best behavior. Rina said, “Come on in, Buck. We’ve been trying to reach you.”

  “Yeah, the guys said Mr. Marshall was asking at football practice. And somebody said you’d told Jan Selkirk that Ginny was gone!” He followed her up the stairs.

  “Yes.” So it wasn’t Rosamond’s urging that got him here, it was the efficien
t high school news network. Rina resumed her seat and picked up her quilt. Only a few inches of border to go. She motioned Buck to the sofa nearby. He sat on the edge, uneasy in this adult world. God, I’m so old to him, thought Rina. Older than his own parents. But she smiled and said, “Ginny called yesterday, but she didn’t say much, really. Just that she was in Philadelphia with friends.”

  “What friends?”

  “Buck, that’s exactly what I wanted to ask you. They aren’t friends of the family. I hoped you could tell me if anyone she knew at school has moved to Philadelphia.”

  He smoothed back his hair, thoughtfully. “No. A couple of guys moved to Pennsylvania. One to Harrisburg, one to some other place up north. But I don’t think Ginny knew them. I mean, not very well.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Andy Akers, he was a senior last year. And Chuck Rule, he’s the one in Harrisburg.”

  “Ginny hasn’t mentioned either one of them,” said Rina doubtfully. “Is there anyone else? Maybe someone who would meet her there for some reason?”

  “Heck, Mrs. Marshall, I thought maybe you could tell me.”

  “One of your friends saw her at the library, you said. Did she say anything to him?”

  “No, he didn’t talk to her.”

  “He didn’t?” Rina paused, needle halfway through the quilt.

  He scowled and shifted his weight on the sofa. “One of the guys was there and said he’d seen her on the other side of the library, over in the reference section. But she wasn’t anywhere around when I was there. I looked all over.”

  “And didn’t find her.”

  “No. God, I wish I knew where she was! Because then I’d jump right in my car and go up there and find her!” He smacked his fist down on the sofa arm. Rina was touched by the boy’s youthful longing for action, his frustration at finding there was nothing a strong young athlete could do. He added miserably, “I keep thinking she might be in some kind of trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  But Buck only shrugged unhappily. “You know. Just trouble. I don’t know what. She seemed fine at school.”

  “Yes. She said on the phone she was fine. But even so, I worry a little.” Rina was stitching steadily again, her eyes on her work. “She said she wasn’t even high.”

  “Yeah, she hardly ever gets high.” But when she glanced at him, a guarded look had come into his eyes.

  “Buck, if she went there for pot or ludes or something, how much money would she need?” Rina jabbed the question at him, and the flutter of alarm before he lowered his eyes told her that she was on the track.

  But he said, “I don’t know about that kind of thing, Mrs. Marshall. And like I said, she doesn’t do that much.”

  “I know she doesn’t.” Rina knotted the thread and clipped it. How could she get him to help? “Look, Buck, all I want is for her to come back. If you can think of anything that might help, I can keep it confidential.”

  “No. No, Mrs. Marshall, I can’t think of anything.” He stood up uneasily, eager to leave now. “Well, let me know what you hear.”

  “I will, Buck.” Rina followed him down to the entry hall. “And you’ll tell me what you learn too, okay?”

  “Sure.” But his answer held little conviction. He added, “Oh, hello, Mrs. Rossi!”

  Mamma nodded at him and kissed Rina hello, then turned to take Delores Gallagher’s coat. Marie Deaver was parking her car in the crowded driveway. Today Buck was deferential and stood aside while they hung up their raincoats. He held the door while Mrs. Deaver made her way toward them, peering at Buck’s red sports car as she passed it.

  She nodded at Buck as she came up the flagstones. “Hello, Buck.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Deaver, how’re you doing?” He nodded back, then hurried to his car and backed it carefully around the other cars.

  “Well, he’s driving all right today,” Marie said to Rina in relief.

  “Yes.”

  “Here, Marie, let me take your coat. You must be hot in that wool,” Mamma offered, opening the closet door again.

  “Thanks, but I’m leaving right away. I just stopped by to pick up the shopping bag I left.”

  Rina went up the steps with them. “Tell me, what did you find out?” The three of them had been to the public library to look at the scene of Mr. Spencer’s death.

  “Not much. It’s just what we remembered,” said Mamma. “There’s the parking lot, and that separate driveway at the end closest to the building, for people who want to use the book drop. You remember those big yew bushes on both sides of that drive?”

  “Yes.” A massive hedge, broken only by the library entrance itself.

  “Well, there was still police tape around those bushes, and a policeman keeping people away, so I guess that’s where they found him,” said Marie Deaver.

  “On the book drop side?” asked Rina, trying to visualize it.

  “No, across the drive.”

  “But you didn’t get any more ideas about how it could have happened?”

  “No, not really. Does everyone want a cup of coffee?” asked Mamma.

  “Love one!” said Delores.

  But Marie Deaver said, “Thank you, Leonora, but I really can’t stay. Today is the day I have dinner with Bobby.”

  “Oh, that’s right, it takes a couple of hours to drive to the Shadyland Home, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes. We talk and have dinner. I think he enjoys that.”

  There was an edge of uncertainty in her voice, and Rina realized she didn’t know if he enjoyed it or not. Marie seemed suddenly small and frail and brave to Rina. For forty-some years, she had had to cope with the profound rejection of her autistic son, and yet she never gave up hope, never stopped visiting, never stopped searching for ways to bridge the chasm. In contrast Rina’s past problems with Ginny seemed small, ripples on the surface of a deep pool of affection and loyalty. Maybe at the moment Ginny was confused, secretive, reckless; but there were years of love, years of happy moments as they’d read books together, or sewed, or enjoyed music. A million moments that Marie Deaver would never know. But Rina knew, and Ginny knew; and Ginny would come back.

  While Mamma and Mrs. Gallagher saw Marie Deaver to the door, Rina moved back to her workbasket and pulled out some scraps to check color for her next project. There had been some bad moments too, of course. Not as bad as Marie’s, but bad all the same. She remembered Long Island, before they had moved to Washington. Back then they had been open with their friends. Most of the hurts had been little unthinking cruelties and condescensions. My, Rina, she looks like your real daughter!She is my real daughter, Rina wanted to scream. My, weren’t you lucky not to have to go through all the bother of giving birth!I would have sold my soul to give birth! Or, worse, the questions their children asked Ginny: Why didn’t your real mother want you? Were you left in a basket? When Ginny asked what fathers had to do with babies, she listened soberly to Rina’s nervous explanation, and had only one question. “Did I have another father too?” She accepted the answer stoically.

  When she was nine, though, she’d come running home one day, her face cut and bruised, and demanded of Rina, “What’s a bastard?”

  Rina’s skin went clammy. She stammered, “Ginny, my Lord, what’s happened to you?”

  “What’s a bastard?”

  “Did you fall down? You’re bleeding!”

  “Mom, I asked you a question! What’s a bastard?” Her child’s lovely blue eyes were coldly insistent.

  Rina could still remember the sickening rush of realization that from now on she was on her own. The agency had prepared her for the earlier questions. Tell the child he is chosen, they said. Tell him his mother gave him up because she loved him. Tell him you love him. Your family will be a real family, just like every other mother’s family.

  But other mothers didn’t have to face a bruised and angry child and force themselves to say, “A bastard is someone whose parents aren’t married.”

  “I’m
not a bastard! You’re married!”

  “Yes, we are.”

  There was a terrible throbbing pause.

  “It’s that other woman, isn’t it? That first mother?”

  Rina was silent.

  “Was she married, Mom?”

  “I don’t think so, Ginny. I think that’s why she didn’t have a family for you. She loved you, and wanted you to have a family, and so she asked the agency to pick one for you. And they picked us.”

  This was mostly old information, and Ginny ignored it. She said, “Jean said I was a bastard. It’s a bad word, isn’t it? She said my mother was a tramp. Was that first mother a tramp?”

  “No, Ginny! Of course not! She was just a very young woman, a girl really, and she couldn’t take care of you the way she wanted you to be taken care of.”

  “She wasn’t a tramp?”

  “No. They told us that. Jean is completely wrong.”

  “Well, I flattened her,” said Ginny with some satisfaction.

  “Are you hurt?” Rina tried again to inspect the cut cheek.

  “No. Not much. She’s hurt more.”

  Rina, head reeling, said automatically, “You really should try to talk your way through these problems if you can, Ginny.”

  Ginny’s look dripped contempt. “Talk? Oh, sure. What kind of talk? What do I call her?She’s not the bastard, Mom.I’m the bastard.” She stalked off down the hall, filled with nine-year-old huffiness, refusing all offers of help as she went to clean her bruises. Rina, the bathroom door shut in her face, found her own heart still galloping, her jaw still clenched to keep herself from shaking. Mrs. Farnham hadn’t told her how to handle this.

  Later that night, at dinner, Ginny said to Clint and Rina with too much casualness, “I think we should stop telling everybody I’m adopted.”

  A year or so later, when they told her they were moving to the Washington area, Ginny had been miserable at the thought of leaving her friends. But one day she had asked, “Will anyone down there know I’m adopted?”