by Mary Campisi
Even dead, Nate hated the man. The bastard had been a coward, leading two separate lives, refusing to choose one over the other. He’d stolen the best of both worlds: wealth and prestige from one, refuge from the other. Goddamn Charles Blacksworth and his weakness to hell.
Nate knew about duty, knew what it meant to forge ahead when the last drops of sweat were wrung out and all a person wanted to do was scream “Enough.” His own father died when he was twelve, left Jack Finnegan to teach Nate about the business. And he’d wanted that connection with his father, wanted it so badly that he’d gone to the shop every day, stuck his hands in oil and learned the machines, all of them, working until the smoky oil smell saturated his clothes, seeped into his pores, and there was no way out, not even when he discovered the love of crafting wood.
His mother told him that he and Charles Blacksworth were more alike than he knew. She said they were both too bound by duty to live their own lives. But she’d been wrong. He was nothing like that sonofabitch.
“Nate? Nate?”
“Huh?” He looked down at his sister, tried to clear his head.
“Do you?”
“Do I what?”
She nudged him in the shoulder. “Do you think Christine is sad like me?”
Christine. “I’m sure she’s sad.”
“Probably crying, too.” A tear trickled down her cheek.
“Probably.” He wrapped his arms around her, wishing he’d never heard the Blacksworth name.
“She’s so pretty, isn’t she?”
“Yeah, she’s pretty.” Lily was in awe of Christine Blacksworth; hero worship was a better term. Ever since the day she’d opened Charles’s briefcase and found the picture of her older half sister sitting on a white horse decked out in fancy riding gear, she’d been obsessed with her. There was an album by her nightstand filled with pictures: Christine at eight, holding a black puppy; Christine at fifteen, singing in the high school choir; Christine at sixteen, in a long dress standing next to a gangly boy in braces; Christine at seventeen, holding a golf club; Christine at twenty-one, on vacation in Rome.
Christine, Christine, Christine. He knew all about her, more than he’d ever cared to, and it all came from Lily. She’d pump Charles every month, eager to glean a tidbit, mix new findings to old, constructing a heroine in the likeness of Christine Blacksworth.
And until a few weeks ago, Christine Blacksworth hadn’t even known Lily existed.
“Do you think Mom will ever let me get a horse?”
She meant, like the one in Christine’s picture. “I don’t know, Lily. Animals are a lot of work.”
“I want a white one, and a fancy hat with boots.”
He stroked her hair and said nothing.
“A black hat.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I’ll zoom, fast.”
“You will, huh?”
She pulled away, her thick black hair bobbing up and down as she nodded. “Uh-huh.” She clapped her hands together, yelled, “Fast!”
Nate laughed, too. “Why don’t you go fast”—he paused, smacked his own hands together— “and put on those little dance slippers you got for Christmas and I’ll play while you twirl around the room?”
Lily giggled, clapped her hands. “And then can we have hot chocolate with marshmallows by the fire?”
“Are you sure you don’t just come here for the hot chocolate?”
She let out a half-giggle, wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a kiss on the cheek, her lips moist, smelling faintly of peanut butter. “I love you, Nate.”
“I love you, too, Lily.”
“Be right back.” She pulled away, moved across the room in a clumsy half-gait, legs slightly unsteady, arms swinging from side to side.
She was all that was good and pure and innocent in this world and he’d be damned if Christine Blacksworth was going to get near her.
***
She watched the house from down the street, her car tucked between a Chevy Blazer and a Ford Astrovan. It was 7:15 A.M., cold, bleak, cloudless. She’d been parked three houses from the Desantro home for over an hour, even though the woman at Magdalena Middle School had informed her that classes didn’t start until 7:45. She wasn’t taking any chances; she was going to see Lily Desantro.
The decision to stay and meet the girl had come to her in the middle of the night. This other life made up only a fraction of her father’s existence, four days a month, forty-eight days a year. If she did the math, and she’d done it enough these past few days to know it was only 672 days in comparison to 4348 days.
Why not just bleep it out of her memory, pay the Desantros their money, and forget about them? It would be so much easier.
No.
Truth settled in her gut, crawled upward, pumping through her heart, migrating to her brain. She had to meet Lily to see what she looked like, how she spoke, what she wore; she had to know everything about her.
But not as her half sister; she was Nate Desantro’s half sister. She hoped the girl didn’t have the same black hair, the same blue eyes as she did. Let her be tall and slim like her mother, with hazel eyes and a thin, straight nose. Do not let her look like me; do not let her look like a Blacksworth.
She heard the bus before she saw it; the unmistakable shifting of gears, the low rumble of brakes as it slowed, moved past her, slush splattering the windshield of the BMW. Then the lights came on, first yellow, followed by red as the bus stopped three houses from the Desantro residence.
Now she was going to get her first glimpse of the girl. Two gangly boys emerged from the house to the right of the Desantros’, backpacks flung over their shoulders, heads bare, they sauntered toward the bus. When they’d climbed the steps, the yellow doors closed, the lights disappeared, and the bus moved down Artisdale Street, turning left at the stop sign.
Damn, she’d wanted to be done with this. Christine drained the last of her coffee, settled back in her seat to consider Lily’s absence. A familiar grinding sound caught her attention and she glanced in the rearview mirror. A school bus approached, this one a smaller, compact version of the earlier one. It moved past the BMW, splashing a fraction of the slush its larger counterpart had, and came to a stop in front of the Desantro home.
The screen door opened and a young girl, dressed in a red parka, hood up, bustled out of the house, bookbag strapped to her back. Lily. Christine leaned forward, soaking in every detail: the short, bulky frame stuffed into the jacket, the oversized red mittens, the jeans, the ankle high snow boots…the awkward gait.
A swirl of wind gusted around the girl just as she was getting ready to step on the bus. The hood of her parka blew back, exposing a tangle of black hair. She turned then, full face, to wave good-bye to her mother.
Christine stared, tried to comprehend what she was seeing. Then she sank back in her seat and closed her eyes.
Chapter 9
Miriam was expecting Charlie’s daughter. She knew she’d want answers that couldn’t be found in a legal document. Nathan wouldn’t be pleased if he discovered she was still here. He was only trying to protect them, especially Lily, but it was too late. The look on Christine’s face said she knew.
“Christine.” Miriam moved aside to let her in. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d gone back to Chicago.”
“No. Not yet.”
“Let me take your coat. Would you like some coffee? Tea, perhaps?”
“I saw her get on the bus.”
Not quite an accusation, but close. “Lily’s bus comes at seven twenty-five.”
“I saw her, Miriam. I know.”
“Do you?”
“She’s retarded.”
She hated that word. It snuffed out the face with deliberate intention, squashing personality and character as though the person were nothing more than an unfortunate aberration. “She has Down syndrome.”
“I...nobody told me.”
“No, they didn’t.” Miriam led the way into the living room where she
sank into a rocker, Nathan’s creation, and let out a long breath. “We love Lily. Your father loved her, too. We’ve always felt very fortunate to have been blessed with her. You find that hard to believe, don’t you? You think it’s merely a mother’s rationalization for the imperfection of her child.”
“No, no, of course not.”
“It’s natural to think that way when you haven’t been exposed to someone like Lily, but it’s a prejudice that pricks at a parent’s heart, nonetheless.”
“I’m sorry—”
Miriam lifted a hand to silence her apology. “I used to think the only people who could contribute to society in a meaningful way were the geniuses. I taught gifted students for years and I still remember the time I tried to get the Special Education teacher to let me use her room because mine was having two broken windows replaced. I wanted to boot her out of her own classroom and push her into the library. I didn’t understand why she wouldn’t do it, since it was obvious, to me at least, that my students were learning for a worthier cause.” She pressed her fingers to her cheeks. “And it wasn’t until I had Lily that I understood. She’s the one who teaches us the things we can’t find in a classroom or on an IQ test, the things that really count.”
Christine sat across from her in an overstuffed floral print chair, coat still on, hands clasped in her lap. “I don’t have any experience with,” she faltered, “children like Lily.”
“Most people don’t. It’s the demand for perfection in our society and the definition of that perfection that blocks out all other possibilities. If someone is different or doesn’t learn in the manner educators deem essential for success, with success being defined by Money or Fortune magazine; if they value nonsocietal possessions and give no credence to market trend, then what?” Miriam didn’t wait for an answer, didn’t expect one. “They’re devalued, that’s what. But a person who fits, goes to the right school, finds the right job, marries the right person, has the right number of kids, despite the amount of Prozac she pops every day, now there’s a success.” She let out a long breath and said, “I’ll get off my soapbox now. You wouldn’t want to see me at school board meetings. I’m no fun, believe me.” She stood up, brushed off her jeans. “I could use a cup of tea. How about you?”
“Yes, I’d like that.”
“Why don’t you come in the kitchen while I get it ready? I made banana bread yesterday and Nathan hasn’t been around to steal it so I’ve got more loaves than mouths to eat it.” She filled the teapot, switched on the stove. “What made you decide to stay, Christine?”
“I imagined myself walking down the street in Chicago, New York, anywhere, seeing a girl with black hair and blue eyes, and thinking, is that Lily? I had to know.”
“Of course you did.” She pulled down two mugs. “What do you want to know?”
“How old is she? Exactly. And when did you discover she was...that there was a problem?”
Yes, she would need to know how to chronicle Lily’s existence into her own life. Perhaps, she would calculate her own age, pull out a scrapbook, stare at her father’s face and try to recall the feelings, see if there was ever a hint that he’d just become a father again to a daughter named Lily.
“Lily was born June 8th, 1990. I had just turned forty when I discovered I was pregnant.” She lifted the kettle and poured water over the tea bags. “The doctor wanted me to have testing done because of what he termed ‘advanced maternal age’, but I said no, the results wouldn’t affect my decision to have the baby one way or the other.”
“And my father? What did he say?”
Miriam unwrapped a banana bread, pulled a knife from the drawer, and sliced two pieces. She arranged them on a blue earthenware plate and set it in front of Christine. Then she grabbed the mugs, placed them on the table beside the bread and sank into a chair. “He agreed.”
“Just like that? No questions…no argument?”
She couldn’t tell Christine that Charlie hadn’t even known about the baby, had decided weeks before to break it off between them, so she merely said, “He was concerned for me and the baby. I’d had several miscarriages after Nathan and even delivered a baby girl.” Anna. “But she only lived a few hours. Charlie and I talked and in the end, we decided that God’s will be done and we said no to the testing.”
“And when Lily was born, you knew right away that she had Down syndrome?”
“We knew.”
“Why did you name her Lily?”
Miriam took a sip of tea. “I’d started painting some months before. It...kept me busy at night.” She did not want to say, “When your father was gone,” but the truth of it hung in the air. “It was early summer and I was painting one of the gardens in the backyard.” She pointed to the left, toward a row of small windows that lent a view of trees and shrubs dipped in snow. “It was filled with lilies, the tall, majestic ones that grow four or five feet. And the colors were gorgeous: burgundy on pink, red on white, orange on yellow. When Charlie saw the painting, he said it filled him with such overwhelming happiness, the same happiness he knew he’d feel when he looked at our child. So”—she took another sip of tea—“we decided if we had a girl, she’d be Lily.”
“And her middle name’s Eleanor.”
“Yes.”
“Named after my aunt.”
“Yes,” Miriam said softly.
They sat silent then, the meaning of Lily’s middle name settling between them, wrapping itself around both women, forcing them together, pulling them apart. Charles had named his second daughter after his beloved sister, Ellie, not even Christine could make that claim.
“Sometimes, I think I will hate him for the rest of my life.”
“Don’t hate him, Christine. He loved you with his whole heart.”
“Is that why he came to you? Why he started another family?”
“I can’t explain what happened between us without sounding demeaning toward his other…” she paused a second, “…relationships.”
“You mean my mother.”
“Yes.”
Christine set down her mug and met Miriam’s gaze. “You know, this is almost surreal; me having tea with you as though it were perfectly normal.”
Miriam chose her words carefully. “I think you have a lot of unanswered questions.”
“That would be an understatement.”
“But I don’t think you’re ready for the answers, not yet.” Christine looked so much like her father sitting there, brows stitched together, eyes narrowed. Ocean-blue eyes. And her fingers, they were Charlie’s fingers. God, but Miriam missed him.
“I’m not ready. I’ve been obsessing about every detail since I found out, but deep down, I don’t think I want to know.”
“That’s understandable.”
“Except for Lily. I want to meet her.”
Miriam rubbed the back of her neck, trying to relieve the tightness at the base of it. “I don’t think this would be a good time to meet Lily.”
“Why? She might like to know she has a half sister.”
“She already knows.”
“She knows about me?”
“Lily’s known about you for years,” Miriam said.
“Why? How?”
“Your father. Lily found your picture, the one of you on your horse, and she was mesmerized. She thought you looked like a princess, and then when she saw one of your high school dance pictures, with you in a gown and your hair all done up, she was sure you were a princess.”
“She knew all about me? And you, you knew, too? He even showed you pictures?”
“He loved you. He was very proud of you and he wanted to share that with us.”
Christine pushed back her chair and stood, the sound of wood scraping the oak floor filling the tiny kitchen. “He had no right to expose me that way, to let you see inside my family. He had no right to share anything about us.”
Right or not, he’d done it. Miriam knew all about Christine, the history of firsts: first dance, first date, f
irst car, first day of college, first job. She knew of the less joyful times, too, the sad strips of life that left their mark: the dog that died in her arms, the boyfriend who turned out to be less than loyal: the mother who smothered and clung.
Charlie had been so careful when he spoke of Gloria, his words well chosen, at times compassionate, most times, guilt-ridden.
Miriam did not speak of her own dead husband, Nick, despite Charlie’s gentle prodding and Nathan’s insistent attempts to resurrect the man. Loyalty kept her silent, not to her husband, but to her son. How does a mother tell her child that the memories he holds of his father are incorrect, that the truth does not even remotely resemble the memory? How does she tell him about the gaping holes in the recall that make it all a sham?
“He told you everything about us,” Christine continued, “and we didn’t even know you existed.”
“No, you didn’t.” She fingered the gold cross around her neck, pressed it against her skin. Dear God, give me strength.
“Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?
“That he regretted most of all.”
She couldn’t tell Christine that her father was tired of the company she worshipped, the lifestyle she admired, the people she called family. And she could never tell her that if it had not been for Christine herself, he might have found the strength to walk away, the courage to relieve himself of the suffocating responsibility others cast on him and that he so dutifully accepted, and for once, just once, he might have chosen to ignore expectation, ignore duty, and follow his own course.
She could tell her none of this, and so she settled for a gentler explanation. “He found himself in a situation where he had two families, right or wrong, and being the man your father was, he felt a duty to both.”
There was a long pause, a silence that hung between both women, with nothing but the sound of a snowplow filling the gaps. Miriam waited, fingers pressed to the cross around her neck.
