The Many Lives of June Crandall

by Suzanne Whitfield Vince

  She heard the ambulance in the distance, and then everything faded to black.

  She woke up in NYU Medical Center with head trauma, a spinal fracture, two broken legs, and several broken ribs.

  Surgeons set her broken legs, repaired the damage to the spine as best as they could, removed her spleen, stopped the internal bleeding, and stopped the bleeding in her head. It would be touch and go for some time, and the doctors were uncertain about the extent of brain damage she had incurred or whether she would ever walk again.

  Edward flew from California and arrived at the hospital the next day. June was still hooked up to several machines and there was barely a square inch on her that wasn't cut, bruised, or broken.

  Over the next month he sat by her bedside all day, or as often as they would allow him into ICU. She was out of immediate danger by then, but still was unable to move her legs, and she didn't recognize her father.

  The doctors told Edward that June had been very lucky. The brain damage had been minimal, and she would most likely regain at least some of her memory, but that her paralysis was most likely permanent. They told him that she was in for a very long recovery, and that she was going to need all the help she could get.

  Edward made the immediate decision to list the house in Beverly Hills for sale and buy a place in New York City. He had retired from the Hollywood scene a few years before, and wanted to be with his daughter, who needed him now.

  The next day he contacted a realtor and began looking for a suitable apartment. He wanted to live on the Upper East Side, a place appropriate to a man of his stature, and within a week he found a five thousand square foot, six-bedroom penthouse on Madison Avenue. There was plenty of room for him and June, and Bernie had already agreed to move out and help when June left the hospital. He liquidated some assets, paid cash for the place, and moved in the following month.

  June made excellent progress on her recovery, and by late summer, she was moved into a rehabilitation facility. She had regained most of her memory, but was still paralyzed. Edward was not happy about the move to the rehab facility because he wanted to take her home, but the doctors wanted her to spend at least a few months at a rehab facility so that she could be monitored twenty-four hours a day.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  2004

  Grace dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. "Oh, Mom, I'm so sorry you had to go through all that. I wish I'd been there for you. Was the recovery painful?"

  "Painful, frustrating, and painstakingly slow. My father brought me home to his apartment just before Thanksgiving. He'd hired the most qualified medical personnel he could find, and he worked beside me, tirelessly, for three years.

  "He never let me quit, much as I wanted to. When I would get angry and throw something, he would give me something else to throw. 'Get it all out,' he would say. When I cried, he cried with me, and when I rejoiced at the slightest sign of progress, he rejoiced with me.

  "And after three long years, I took my first steps on my own. During that time my father became my best friend, my entire world. And I was his. He'd given up his life in California to be with me, and he dedicated himself to me like......well, like he owed me something."

  "And now we know he did," Grace said.

  "If it weren't for him, I would most likely still be in a wheelchair. I didn't have the strength to do it on my own, Grace.""

  Grace looked at her mother and could sense the conflict inside her. She loved him, and he had been there for her when she'd needed him most. He'd come through for her, helped her learn to walk again. If he hadn't, if she had never learned to walk again, they might never have reunited. She owed her grandfather something. But...forgiveness?

  "I get it," Grace said. "I really do. You don't have to feel bad about forgiving him. I want to forgive him, too. I'm just not there yet."

  "Neither am I. Not really. And it's okay if you never forgive him. It won't change a thing between the two of us."

  Grace smiled wearily. "Mom, not to change the subject, but what can you tell me about my father? Do you know if he ever applied to college?"

  "Yes, he applied to UCLA, NYU, and the University of Texas in Austin. I don't know if he ever got accepted because he'd left by then.""

  "Sounds like he wanted to be close to you."

  June let out a small, frustrated sigh. "That was our plan. Columbia and UCLA were my two choices, and University of Texas was the fallback school."

  "It sounds like he really loved you."

  June nodded sadly. "I believe he did love me, but we were young and it was a lot of responsibility for a young man to take on. Knowing now what I know about my father, it wouldn't surprise me if he chased Will and his father out of town, threatened them in some way.""

  It was exactly what Grace was thinking. "You still love him, don't you?"

  June looked thoughtful. "I love the memory of us. I love seeing his face when I look at you. It reminds me of how happy I once was, and am again since you came into my life. I suppose part of me will always love him, yes."

  They returned to the surgical waiting room and shortly after they arrived, the surgeon, Dr. Lazarra, came out to speak to them.

  "He did fine," he said. "There was a lot of damage to the heart muscle, but I was able to repair most of it. He'll need some time to recover, but when he does, he's going to feel better than he has in quite a while."

  He explained that Edward would be in recovery for a few hours, and would then be returned to ICU, where he would stay for the next few days. "You can see him later tonight," he said and left them alone.

  Returning from the hospital, Grace stumbled into the apartment, exhausted and overcome. She was surprised to see Antonio home in the middle of the afternoon, and she ran to him and threw herself into his arms.

  "I love you," she whispered into his ear.

  "I'm glad," he said. "I love you, too.""

  She drew back from him and looked into his eyes as if seeing him for the first time. "No, I mean I really love you. Madly, deeply, passionately."

  "Oh. Well...wow. I love you, too. I always have."

  Finding her mother had healed a mortal wound in her soul. Knowing that she'd been wanted and loved by her mother somehow made everything alright. She mattered. Her life mattered. She was created in love by two people who loved each other. She could trust that, believe in that. And she could trust herself, too. And Antonio. She could finally allow herself to believe that he loved her, and that he would never leave her.

  Tears streamed down her face as she looked at the man who had loved her more than she loved herself, the man she'd tried more than once to push away. Her best friend. But he was so much more than that to her. She'd just been too afraid to see it until now. Too afraid to let herself feel it until now. All at once the depth of her love for him overcame her and she collapsed in his arms.

  Antonio carried her into the bedroom and gently laid her on the bed. "What happened today?"

  "Nothing. Everything. I don't know. Finding my mom has made me feel...complete. I know that sounds corny, but...it really works like that. It's like someone just handed me a piece of myself that has been missing my whole life. Everything makes sense to me for the first time."

  She kissed him again and pulled him to her. "Make love to me, Antonio," she whispered, as her past faded away like dust to the wind.

  She was free at last.

  Grace slipped out of bed in the early hours of the morning, went to her studio and turned on the computer. She'd searched for her father before with no luck, had even searched for his family members. Nothing. But now she knew which colleges her father had applied to.

  She knew that NYU kept old yearbooks online, so she decided to start there. She knew that he was one year ahead of her mother in school, so she estimated that he would have graduated in 1982.

  She taped the picture of her parents onto the computer monitor to remind her of the face she was looking for, then searched for Torres, but found none in the graduating class f
or that year. To be sure, she scanned the entire yearbook, carefully examining every face. Still no luck. Then she decided to check one year on either side of 1982, just in case, and found nothing.

  She did the same with UCLA and met with the same results. Frustrated, she logged on to the website for the University of Texas, Austin, and learned that the oldest yearbook available online was 1990.

  Dammit, Dad, where the hell are you?

  She stared at the handsome face of the boy her mother had loved and willed him to speak to her. Tell me where you are, Dad. Please. I need you.

  And then she had an idea.

  She tiptoed back into her bedroom and grabbed the clothes she'd worn the day before, now strewn all over the floor, and put them on. Then she snuck out of the apartment, closing the door quietly behind her.

  The nurse at the ICU desk informed her that visiting hours didn't begin for another three hours. "Please, it's a matter of life and death. I need to see my grandfather,"" she said, pleading with her eyes.

  The nurse looked her over and finally said, "You have five minutes. He needs his rest."

  No problem. She wouldn't even need that much time.

  "Thank you," she said.

  She stood over him, watching him sleep. She wasn't sure what she'd expected to find. Perhaps the larger than life legend she'd seen all over the Internet, but not this. He was shrunken beneath a full head of gray hair, looking small and frail under the stark white sheets. Vulnerable. He looked vulnerable.

  She thought about her mother. They'd had a lifetime of experiences together, of loving each other, of fighting with each other and always finding their way back. She'd only met her mother a week ago, and she was jealous of the bond they shared. She prayed she would someday find it in her heart to forgive him, and they could both love her, together. As a family. The family she'd always dreamed of.

  His eyes opened and when they focused enough to see her, they widened in surprise.

  Or was it fear?

  "Do you know who I am?" she asked.

  He nodded.

  "Did you send my father away?"

  He shook his head vehemently.

  "Do you know where he is?"

  He stared at her for a long moment. "Texas," he croaked. "Austin, Texas."

  "What's his new name?"

  He looked at her, confused, and she shot him a look that was more like a warning. When she'd been unable to find any trace of Guillermo Torres, or any member of his family, in any of the databases she searched, she knew they must have taken on new identities.

  She leaned over him and repeated the question, a little more forcefully this time. "What's his name?"

  He eyed her as though he were sizing up his competition. "Turner," he said. "Will Turner."

  She nodded and then, just in case anyone was watching, bent to kiss him on the cheek.

  "Rest well, Grandfather. You're going to need your strength. Oh, and please don't mention our little visit to anyone, especially my mother.""

  With that, she slipped out of the room and back into the darkness of the night.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The plane touched down at Austin-Bergstrom International Airport just before noon the following day. Grace caught the first flight out of New York that morning and had arrived without a plan. No matter. She would call his office and make an appointment with him. If that didn't work, she would just wait for him outside his office. Either way, she would meet her father very soon.

  She grabbed her travel bag from the overhead bin and hailed a taxi to a hotel near the hospital. Then she called his office and told his secretary she was a reporter from the New England Journal of Medicine and wanted to interview Dr. Turner. It was Monday when she made the call, and she was told that Dr. Turner didn't have any openings in his schedule until June 17th.

  It was May 1st.

  Her heart sank. "Does he ever have cancellations?"

  "Not very often," the receptionist said. "I can put you on the waiting list and call you if something comes open."

  Until she could come up with a better plan, she gave her name and phone number to the woman and hung up the phone.

  Grace waited patiently all day Tuesday, but no call came. On Wednesday she decided to park herself in Dr. Turner's waiting room all day in hopes that a cancellation was made. The receptionist eyed her warily that day, and the next, but on Friday she came bearing donuts and coffee for everyone, and the woman behind the counter warmed to her. By mid-morning, the call she''d been waiting for finally came.

  "You only have fifteen minutes," the receptionist told her. "Come back this afternoon at three o'clock. Sharp."

  At two minutes past three, Grace was led into the office of Dr. William Turner. She sat in a chair opposite his desk and waited for him to arrive. Too nervous to sit, she stood and scanned the walls in the large, neatly upholstered office. One wall boasted the obligatory diplomas, certificates, and awards, but the rest were filled with beautiful art. She looked from painting to painting, admiring the composition and the use of color. The doctor had good taste. When she turned toward the wall facing his desk, she gasped.

  Oh my God, I don't believe it!

  She stared at the painting of a young girl with long, dark hair looking into a mirror. The reflection showed a woman with the same dark hair looking back at the girl. In the bottom right corner of the painting was the artist's name, Grace E. Adams.

  Her father had one of her paintings.

  How could this be?

  Suddenly the door opened and Grace spun around to find a tall, dark, handsome man standing before her. He was impeccably dressed in a pair of black slacks, a crisp, white buttoned-down shirt, and a pink Hermes silk twill tie. His suit jacket hung over his left arm as he extended his right arm to greet her.

  "Hello, I'm Will Turner."

  She couldn't speak if she'd wanted to, but she took the proffered hand.

  He pointed to the painting she'd been gazing at. "Do you like it?"

  "Um, yes." It was all she could manage.

  He hung his jacket and gestured to the chair in front of his. She sank gratefully into it.

  "May...may I ask where you bought it?"

  "Sure. I found it at a small gallery in New York. I visit frequently for conferences, and I found it one evening while I was strolling through Greenwich Village."

  "I see. Tell me about the painting, Dr. Turner," she said. "What's so special about it?"

  "Will, please. The woman in the mirror. She reminds me of someone I knew a long time ago."

  Grace smiled, satisfied with the answer. For now. And then, realizing she hadn't introduced herself, she leaned across the desk and extended her hand. "I'm Grace Adams. Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice."

  "My pleasure, Ms. Adams," he said. "You look familiar. Have we met before?"

  She shook her head. "I don't believe so." She studied his features and realized that her mother had been right. She looked very much like her father. Had he noticed it, too?

  Grace squirmed in her seat, her heart thundering in her chest as she desperately tried to figure out where to go from here.

  Ask him some medical questions.

  No, then he'll know for sure that I'm not really a reporter.

  Tell him you have a rare heart condition and need his expert opinion.

  Then he'll really know I'm a fraud.

  Well then, there's always the truth.

  Dr. Turner leaned back in his chair, hands clasped in his lap, looking at her expectantly. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, then cleared her throat.

  "Dr. Turner--Will--I have a confession to make. I'm not really a reporter. Well, I am, but I'm not here for a story. I just said that so I could meet you. I mean, so I could talk to you."

  One eyebrow lifted in response. "I see. What did you want to speak to me about?"

  "Um, well, it's a personal matter."

  He leaned forward and spoke softly. "Okay, Ms. Adams, but I can't help you unless
I know what your problem is, so why don't we start there. Or are you not really Grace Adams, either?"

  Grace laughed nervously. "No, I'm really Grace Adams. Or at least that's the name the nuns gave me. You see, I grew up in an orphanage until I was fourteen. Then I became a ward of the state and lived in various foster homes until I was eighteen, when I tried to find my birth parents. My birth certificate listed a mother but no father, and I couldn't find any information about the woman who was supposedly my mother."

  Grace watched for any signs of recognition. None so far. "So I gave up on ever finding my family and went about my life. But then last week, I was doing a book signing--I'm a writer, by the way--and this woman comes up to me at the end and tells me she's my mother. And as it turns out, she really is. Can you believe it?"

  Will's eyes narrowed and he studied her, as if he were trying to decide whether he should humor her or throw her out. And then he smiled. It was her smile. "Amazing," he said. ""Please, go on."

  "Okay, so I met my mom and we got to know each other. She told me that when she was young, she fell in love with a boy from the wrong side of the tracks, if you know what I mean. They were deeply in love with each other. The kind of love that changes you forever. Do you know what I mean?"

  Grace let the question hang in the air as she scanned the room. There were photographs of a couple whom she assumed were his parents, and a woman that looked startlingly like Grace herself. Probably his sister. But no pictures of a wife. And no wedding ring.

  A good sign.

  Finally, she turned back to Will and met his gaze.

  "Yes, I know what you mean," he said.

  Grace tried to hide her smile. "Well, as I said, my parents were in love and planned to be together when she finished high school. But then she got pregnant." She paused and Will raised an eyebrow.

  Curiosity? Suspicion? Maybe, but still no real sense of recognition.

  She went on. "When the boy found out she was pregnant, he left her. Just up and disappeared during the night, never to be heard from again. My mother's heart was broken, but she had her baby to live for. Except when she gave birth they told her the baby had died. But in reality, her father had taken the baby from her and gave it to the nuns to raise."