Carol put a hand over Mary Kay’s. “That means Lynne’s mom doesn’t know her daughter is dead.”
“Or that she was even sick, I expect.” Mary Kay turned to Beth. “Did she ever say anything to you about her mother?”
Beth, more confused than either of them, could barely whisper. “No.”
After I got sick—or maybe it was when Kevin and Kyle were no longer children—I started thinking about Julia more and more. I became obsessed with finding out what happened to her, if she landed in a nice family, if she was loved, if she had red hair! So I made a few calls, first to the hospital in Mahoken to no avail. The hospital’s records were sealed—even though I’m the biological mother! I checked with Northampton County Orphans Court and found the same thing. The clerk told me in all likelihood the birth certificate had been changed to remove my name and replace it with the names of the adopting parents. So there’s no record tying me to Julia whatsoever.
Mary Kay put down the letter. “Dear lord!”
I guess by now you know where this is going. I am asking you the huge favor of picking up where I left off in my search for Julia. Believe me, I do not make this request lightly. I’m fully aware that it is a tremendous burden and interruption in your otherwise hectic lives. All I can say is that I trust no one else but you. We have been through so much—marital problems, job changes, cancer . . . teenagers! I know you guys will take this letter seriously and fulfill my last request. That alone gives me tremendous peace as I pass from this existence to (hopefully) another.
They felt deflated, flattened by the loss Lynne had been mourning for so many years while they had gone on with their routines, drinking martinis and bitching about their petty problems that couldn’t compare to being forced to hand over a baby, to running away from home and being cut off from family. Beth rested her head on Carol’s shoulder as Mary Kay finished the letter.
The first step in your search is definitely to contact my aunt Therese, who continues to live on Notch Road in Mahoken—by Allentown—and my mother, Eunice, something I haven’t been able to bring myself to do since I took that bus to Waterbury. I kept meaning to call her when I was in remission, but to do so would have meant welcoming her into my new life and introducing her to Sean and the boys, thereby raising all sorts of questions. Frankly, that would have been more toxic than the chemo.
My father was Carl Swann. He died in 1976, but Mom lives in the Beckwood Landing Assisted Living Center outside Calais. (A quarter mile off Route 66. I’m sure Carol will figure it out, what with her map skills.) You’ll find, enclosed, a letter I’ve written to her in a sealed envelope marked “To Mom.” Please tell her I love her very much and that I left this earth with no hard feelings, only loving memories. She might know, better than anyone, what happened to my daughter. If she hasn’t slammed the door on your faces, ask her if she remembers the name of the lawyer.
If you locate Julia, please give her the other envelope, my grandmother’s gold earrings (they’re in a box on my bureau), my wedding dress, and a hug, a mother’s hug from deep down. Please tell her I love her so, so much and that while I could not watch over her in life, I will do my best to watch over her in death. Our physical beings might pass away, but our love never does.
Needless to say, time is of the essence. Neither my aunt nor my mother was aware of my illness. . .
Mary Kay tapped the paper. “So that answers our question.”
. . . which means you will have to tell them of that, and of my passing before they find out some other way.
Beth let out a groan. “I’m not very good at that. It was hard enough calling you, Carol, with the news Lynne had died. I can’t imagine notifying total strangers.”
“It’ll be OK. I’ll be there and Mary Kay, too,” Carol said, foretelling the next line in Lynne’s letter.
This is why I hope the three of you can clear your schedules and do this as a group. It’ll definitely be more tolerable, might even be fun!
Right now, I’m sitting here, picturing you guys taking a road trip across Pennsylvania, crowded in Beth’s new Highlander, no husbands, no jobs, no kids, cranking the tunes, talking and laughing and winding down the day with martinis. And martinis are a must. I insist on a different one every night! After all, this is what we’re all about, right ladies? Don’t forget our mission statement to preserve and protect the endangered cocktail. If we don’t make the sacrifice, who will?
So, while I won’t be with you physically, trust that I’ll be there in spirit as you drink your spirits. Have one on me and good luck.
To paraphrase the Boss, everything dies, but maybe everything that dies comes back. And the Boss never lies.
Until then,
Love,
Lynne
“Can I see that?” Beth, her body aching in a strange new way, took the letter, biting a nail as she reread it word by word.
Mary Kay finished her martini and set the glass down declaratively. “Man, am I ever gonna miss her. That letter was so Lynne, so bursting with her kick-ass attitude.”
Carol was silent, analyzing this assignment that would be no small feat indeed. It would require nerves of steel, breaking the news to Lynne’s aunt and, especially, Lynne’s mother. Then there was the challenge of locating Julia—a virtual impossibility, considering the legal obstacles—not to mention the exhaustion from driving hundreds of miles.
She would have to cancel her date with Scott so she could go back to her own apartment and pack, make arrangements for work. Carol realized she should have been disappointed by this—actually, she had been looking forward to their night together on the drive to Connecticut that morning—but now, after being home, after sitting through that wrenching service and finding this letter, the absolute last thing on her mind was sex. Sleeping with another man besides Jeff would be emotional enough without thoughts of death and lost babies rolling around in her head. No, tonight was not the night. It would be unfair to Scott. “I think we should leave tomorrow bright and early,” she said.
Beth lifted her head from the letter. “Tomorrow? Can’t we hold off until Monday?”
“I’m concerned about her mother and aunt finding out. With the Internet these days, news travels in a flash. What’s to prevent someone in Lynne’s hometown from coming across Lynne’s obituary online and contacting her mother?”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Makes sense to me,” Mary Kay said. “All I have to do is convince my supervisor that this is a personal crisis and with my saved vacation days, I’ll get the week off. How about you, Beth?”
“The library? They won’t care. George can take over.”
Mary Kay turned to Carol. “I bet for you it’s a big deal, what with that fancy law job.”
“Another lawyer will cover my clients. Besides, I happen to have an in with the firm’s founding partner,” she said, smiling to herself. “Not like I don’t have some pull.”
“Yeah, I wanna hear more about that pull,” Mary Kay said. “You can fill us in on the loooong drive across Pennsylvania.”
So they hammered out logistics. Carol would rush back to New York, pack a bag, call her clients, and work with the firm to rearrange her caseload. The next morning, she’d hop the MetroNorth to Danbury, where Beth and Mary Kay would pick her up in Beth’s car, as Lynne suggested. If all went according to Beth’s scheduling, they could be in Pennsylvania by noon on Saturday.
It was done. By the same time the next day, they would be on the road, searching for Lynne’s long-lost daughter.
Chapter Six
Dawn broke through the high windows in Mary Kay’s bedroom as she quietly slid out of bed, leaving Drake peacefully asleep on her Egyptian cotton sheets, his broad back rising and falling softly. She kissed his shoulder and snuck into the shower, mentally ticking through a list of last minute errands.
She was running late. The plan was to meet Carol at the train station around eight and already it was almost six thirty. Thankfully, she’d packed the
night before, tucking away flatware and tablecloths into the cooler that held various mysterious bottles for their journey, along with her antique silver shaker and bright Capri hand-painted martini glasses.
Just because they’d be on the road was no reason to settle for plastic cups. But that was Mary Kay. Why settle for less when you can have more?
After her shower, she toweled off, applied her makeup, and opened the peach-colored packet of birth-control pills, turning the dial to the next dose, pushing it through the foil and promptly dropping it into the sink.
Turning on the faucet, she sighed and watched the little green pill swirl down the drain. She remembered an article she’d read about the groundwater being contaminated with estrogen and other hormones that had been flushed away. Could it be that she was but one of a legion of women who secretly wasted their birth control?
“Why do I even bother pretending to take them?” she asked herself, knowing full well the answer.
Because she wanted Drake to think she could get pregnant—even if she couldn’t.
The ruse had started quite by accident. When they first started sleeping together, Drake came across an old packet of her birth-control pills and made a comment about how interesting it was that she still needed them at her age. Mary Kay had been slightly taken aback because she didn’t think of herself as being that old.
OK, so she had crossed the big 4-0 and was a full five (pushing six) years older than Drake. But as a nurse midwife she’d helped plenty of women her age deliver their babies. It was funny that Drake didn’t know this.
What was more striking, however, was how pleased, almost animated, he became after stumbling across those pills, as if he were seeing her in a whole new light. Overnight, their relationship bloomed from casual to serious. They started spending weekends together, going for long walks and hikes. While Drake taught her how to belay down a rock face and build cairns, they hashed out those dealbreaking commitment issues like religion and money and whether it was ethically wrong to have more than two kids.
Turned out, Drake loved children. Not only did he work with them in his profession as a child psychologist, but in his spare time he helped abused kids regain their self-esteem by leading them on wilderness adventures. Mary Kay had never met someone so giving, so eager to make the world a better place.
She was literally head over heels and before she knew it, the prospect of losing him filled her with panic. By then she didn’t have the heart to tell Drake the real reason she used to take birth control wasn’t to prevent a child—but to spare her life. After being diagnosed with scarred fallopian tubes and, therefore, at a high risk of ectopic pregnancy, Mary Kay was prescribed the Pill, which she used to take religiously until she figured that, after forty, it was doing more harm than good. Now she just washed them down the drain.
It had been hard going, coming to terms with the fact that she would never experience the miracle of life growing within her. But as the years went on, she’d made peace with her body. To have to revisit all that with Drake would mean ripping open old wounds, and Mary Kay found it much easier to simply pretend everything was A-OK. Yes, sometimes it made her blue to realize they could never conceive a baby of their own, but she took comfort in the knowledge that she had been a mother in every meaningful way—to Tiffany.
Tiff was all Mary Kay had left of her older sister, Ellen, who, along with her husband, had died in a car crash outside Hartford. Mary Kay was working as a nurse in the Alaskan outback when she got the horrible call. She immediately dropped everything and ditched her old life four thousand miles away to raise her niece in the only home she’d ever known, Ellen’s pristine Victorian, commonly referred to in Marshfield as the Patterson House.
She and Tiffany had been a team ever since. Mary Kay threw herself into the brand-new role of single motherhood with her customary gusto, legally adopting Tiffany as her own, joining the PTA and volunteering as a room parent, reading to her every night and making sure Tiff practiced her piano daily as Ellen would have demanded. Mary Kay also taught her how to ride a bike without holding on to the handlebars and how to walk a certain way so boys followed like dogs, imagining with glee how Ellen would have been appalled.
And when the big day arrived, Mary Kay designed Tiffany’s prom dress, sniffing back tears as she descended the stairs in a strapless pale lavender satin gown, her dark hair piled high, Ellen’s amethyst necklace at her throat, looking every inch like her mother, right down to her sweetheart chin.
Those were magical years.
So devoted was she to ensuring Tiffany enjoyed the best childhood possible, Mary Kay had sworn off men until her daughter left for college. It wasn’t that hard, actually, since so many guys who crossed her path seemed to be jerks. But when Drake came along, it was a different story. By then, Tiff was completely out of the house, working as a rookie nurse at Mass General, and Mary Kay was ready to release all the sex, love, and passion that she’d bottled up within her. The timing of Drake’s arrival couldn’t have been better.
The irony was, of course, that when Drake finally did ask her to marry him—on the night before they found Lynne—she couldn’t accept his proposal. It was impossible to be his wife when for two years she’d misled him about her ability to bear children. She loved him too much for that.
Be careful what you wish for, she thought sadly as Drake sauntered into the bathroom in nothing but his cotton drawstring pants.
“Thought you could slip away without saying good-bye, eh?” He came from behind and wrapped his arms around her waist, kissing her neck.
She checked his reflection in the mirror, admiring how the slight brown hair on his firm abs narrowed to a V. It was pathetic how thrilled she was by the superficial aspects of their relationship—that he was taller than her, that other women turned when he passed and waitresses flirted with him right in front of her. She found secret pleasure in knowing that while they might wonder how he was in bed, she knew.
Recapping her mascara, she said, “I didn’t want to wake you on a Saturday when you could sleep in.”
“You were trying to sneak off; don’t deny it.” He ran his hands over her smooth white shoulders. “Three, maybe four whole days. How will I stand it without you?”
“Take-out?”
“Man cannot live by Thai alone.”
She dropped the mascara into her makeup bag and zipped it shut. Turning, she kissed him lightly on the cheek and said, “Oh, I think you’ll manage just fine.”
He lifted her hand and frowned at her unadorned fingers. “Hey. What gives?”
Her knuckles curled slightly in apprehension. “Since I haven’t told Beth and Carol yet, I thought I’d wait until I got back,” she fibbed.
He wasn’t buying it and looked so disappointed she figured what the hell. Fetching the small black velvet box from the table by the sink, she said, “Would you do the honors?”
“Gladly.” He slipped the ruby and diamond engagement ring on her finger slowly and pressed himself into her with a soft kiss. “I love you, Mary Kay. Come back and be my wife.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Actually, it is. It’s just a matter of saying yes.”
Beth was almost ready, except for a few things she was standing on tiptoe to retrieve from her kitchen cabinet. Olive oil. Oregano. Maybe a bottle of balsamic vinegar. In other words, the essentials.
Marc slid his laptop onto the kitchen table and carried his cup to the coffee maker for a refill. “You know, Beth, there are these inventions called restaurants where they cook the food for you.”
“As if.” She debated basil and maybe turmeric, in case they wanted to do an Indian something-or-other. “Carol said she’d reserved suites and most of them have kitchens, albeit poorly stocked ones.” Should she bring the salad spinner? Definitely a whisk. “Besides, we’re trying to save money, remember? And this trip is going to be expensive enough.”
“Don’t worry about the money.” He leaned against the sink and sippe
d his coffee, watching her pack away the spices. “You worry too much.”
“I worry because we don’t have any.”
“We have enough.”
“Maybe I should let Carol and Mary Kay do this without me,” she told Marc. “I’m sure they could handle it just fine by themselves.” She pulled a jar of basil out of the cabinet. “Besides, what about my dad? What if he needs me?”
Beth’s father, Chat, had undergone cardiac tests shortly before the funeral and was slated to receive the results Monday. Beth had planned to accompany her parents to her father’s appointment, to hold her mother’s hand and talk rationally with the doctors since Elsie found it difficult to remember what questions to ask.
“My brain flies out the window when I’m under stress” was her mother’s pat phrase. “You’ll have to do the thinking for me, Beth.”
Already, Chat had survived two heart attacks and Elsie was at sixes and sevens about the prospect of number three. She’d spent a lot of time on the phone to her eldest daughter, Madeleine, who was not a doctor but whose A+ in high school biology somehow crowned her as the family medical expert.
In Maddy’s opinion, Chat should be seeing specialists in New York, not squandering his time and money with rinky-dink Grace Hospital. Grace was fine for the occasional broken toe or bee sting reaction. But with Manhattan so close, it was simply imprudent not to seek the best possible (and most expensive) care, especially when it came to the heart.
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