And finally, forcing herself to breathe, she allowed herself to read the message that, she cringed to admit, she had been waiting to hear all of her life.
My Dear Bernadette,
I can’t begin to tell you how happy I was to receive your letter. I thank God for answering a lifetime of prayers.
First, let me tell you that your name is beautiful—though it’s not the name I gave you when you were born. It’s much nicer than the name I gave you. I guess it was only right that your new parents gave you a new name to go with your new life. By the way, my name is Julie Randall. I don’t think you were told that before. The agency is very cautious about giving out details like names, but I want you to know as much as you want to know. I’m sure you want to know things like why I gave you up, who your father is, where you come from. I hope we can meet someday—I’d like to answer all those questions for you, and then maybe you will understand why I let you go. Believe me, it was the hardest thing I ever did, and the only way I got through it all these years was telling myself how much better your life was with other people. From the little I know, I believe it must have been. There is so much I want to say, but I will wait, hopefully, until we meet face to face. For now, I just want you to know that I have thought of you every day and prayed to God that you were healthy and happy in your life, wherever that may be. I also hope that your arm didn’t give you problems as you were growing up. The last time I saw you, you had a hurt arm. And in case you’re wondering where I live or anything like that, I’ll let you know that for the past thirty-five years I have been living in San Rafael, just north of San Francisco, not too far from you. I work on the Golden Gate Bridge, in one of those little booths, collecting tolls. Some people might think that’s a boring job, just taking money from strangers all day, but I’ve always liked it, looking out over the bay, watching people in their cars, wondering where they’re going, wondering if some woman handing me her dollar could possibly be my Ginny heading off to work in the City. That was the name I gave you—Ginny. My husband, Gregory, works for the Post Office and we have two children, Andrew and Lynette. Drew is 30 and Lynette is 28. They know all about you, and they actually helped and encouraged me to try to find you. They would like to meet you someday.
Joan Bennett said she prefers that we first meet in her office, but I think we should do what is easiest for you, whatever you want. I would like that very much, but if you’re not ready for that, I understand. I’ve waited thirty-seven years. I can wait a little longer.
Bernadette, I truly hope your life turned out as wonderful as I hoped and imagined it would. And more than anything, I hope we can meet one day very soon, very soon. I know I don’t have the right to expect you to call me your mother; you have another mother who I’m sure loves you more than anything, and I don’t want to interfere with that, I don’t have any right to, so why don’t you just call me Julie.
Sincerely and with love,
Julie
Ginny. Her name was Ginny? Bernie let the page fall toward her and closed her eyes tight as she searched the recesses of her brain for any recollection of that name, some familiar sound. Ginny, Sweet Ginny, Ginny Baby, Ginny Love, Ginny, Ginny.
Some people claimed to remember the trauma of birth, or nursing at their mother’s breast. If she really concentrated with all her might, maybe that name would bring some suppressed memory to life. Maybe she would feel something for this woman other than curiosity and an abiding anger confused by loneliness and loss. She closed her eyes and whispered the name quietly, “Ginny, Ginny, Ginny,” but the only thing she felt was utterly ridiculous. She knew it was ludicrous to try to remember her life as an infant, and it was even more foolish to believe she might have some kind of a relationship with this woman after thirty-seven years. And, she reminded herself, it didn’t matter that Julie couldn’t know the trauma that what would happen after she gave away her baby. The simple truth was that Bernie’s tumultuous childhood all started with Julie Randall’s decision to give her up.
Bernie read the letter through one more time. What did she mean about her arm? No one ever mentioned anything about her being hurt before. Did someone abuse her? Was her mother the one who had hurt her? And how on earth do you walk away from a baby who is injured? With her right hand, she examined her left arm, squeezing and probing from the wrist to the shoulder. She repeated the examination on the right. With eyes closed, she struggled for any past hint of arm pain, an ache in the winter cold, perhaps. Nothing. There was no hint of some lingering trauma that she could detect.
By the time she opened her eyes to read through the letter a third time in search of more clues, again lingering over the name Ginny, the unsettling wave of sentimental curiosity slipped away as the familiar antipathy pulsed silently through her veins. Her thoughts ran wild. She hopes my life is wonderful? She’s living in Marin County, for Christ’s sake. I’ve been to Marin County many times. No one who lives in Marin County suffers. And she’s had a family all these years. A real family with a husband, kids, and probably a fucking dog, too. A golden retriever named Lad or Jake. What the hell did I give her my name for? It’s not like she won’t be able to track me down now. A lawyer with my name can be found in six seconds on the internet. Now she’ll be bugging me forever. I can’t exactly go into hiding or change my name. Damn. Damn. Damn.
Bernie forced herself to move off the couch. Her legs and arms felt weighted and heavy as she circled about the small room, unsure what to do with herself for a moment. Her neck and chest were a mottled splash of scarlet, warm with emotion. She should be working, doing something other than this. But for too many years, an unbearable pain had been hers and hers alone. Noni felt it, too; she knew that, but not like her. Even Noni didn’t know what it was like to lose your mom and dad in one shattering blow, one black, gut-wrenching blow that still sent her reeling when she dared to think of that day. For some reason, the letter from Julie Randall caused that old wound to open, raw and painful.
Bernie had invested years imagining the rage and fury that consumed her father that afternoon, fretting over what could possibly have driven him to that level of hatred and despair for her mom. He’d been angry for days, but something happened that day that twisted him beyond the threshold of control. He snapped. He snapped hard and lashed out at his wife in a violent rage. What did he do the moment he saw his wife stumble and fall to the bottom of the stairs? Did he cry when he saw his wife’s dark blood pooling around her, soaking into the mound of dirty clothes she carried, clothes that never made it to the laundry room? Bernie imagined him turning slowly away, moving to their bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed, his face frozen in terror, his hand trembling uncontrollably as he lifted the weapon to his own head.
This was Bernie’s private hell, imagining the details of that day. It had consumed and haunted her for too many nights of her life. It only seemed fair to share a piece of that hell with Julie Randall, to let her know that Bernie hadn’t had the perfect life she imagined for here when she walked away. After all, while she was learning to breathe, eat, and sleep without her mom or dad, Julie was calmly taking quarters, gazing over the San Francisco skyline, probably planning to cook meatloaf or spaghetti for her family. It just might upset her perfect nuclear family living in fucking beautiful Marin, but that was how it had to be. Or at least that was how it was going to be. Julie was going to know what she had done to her child. An arm injury was nothing compared to what came later.
The office seemed too cluttered and close for her to think. There was plenty of work that had to be done, but she needed to get out, to breathe, to clear her head. She thought of running to Noni, an old habit, showing her the letter, but she wasn’t ready for that scene, and she didn’t want to upset Noni again. She wanted some time to be irrational and pissed off, and she wanted some time for this to just be her problem.
Bernie grabbed her purse and headed for the front door, calling over her shoulder as she walked out, “Crystal, I’m leaving for a couple of hours. I h
ave something to do.” She would drive, just drive. There was something about being behind the wheel, alone, yet not really by yourself. There was a comfort on the road, sitting close to other people, even though those people had no idea of what was going on in the car next to them that made her feel better. She would first take the freeway, play the stereo really loudly to drive away any thoughts other than the pounding drums and screaming guitars. She would sing along and drive until she felt like turning around. Music and driving was good therapy.
“Are you okay?” Crystal asked, jumping up from her desk. “I thought you might want to talk about . . .”
And the door slammed.
As Bernie was opening her car door to leave, the familiar red Toyota pickup pulled into the parking stall beside her. Before the engine was even off, he was opening his door and talking. “Darn, looks like you’re headed out. I was hoping we could visit a minute, have that lunch we talked about.” He reached in and grabbed a large white envelope. “I also have some engagement letters for you on some of those cases you’ve been sending over. Thank you, by the way.”
“Oh, yeah. Well, you can leave those with Crystal and I’ll mail them back signed.” She tossed her purse onto the passenger seat as she spoke, irritated at his unannounced appearance. “You didn’t have to hand deliver them. And you were supposed to call, remember?”
“I know that.” He flashed a mischievous grin and dipped his chin a little, as if he were trying to be coy. “I should have called first, but I was out and thought maybe you were free today.” He looked up at the dark November sky then at his watch. “Wow, you can’t even see the sun; I now have no idea what time it is. It might be dinner time for all I know.”
“It’s around noon, I think.” Don’s confused smile was annoyingly contagious. Bernie offered a small grin despite her foul mood. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be good company right now. Maybe another time.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets and scrunched his shoulders up as a gust of wind swept over them, making him look like a shy fourteen-year-old boy asking a girl to go to the dance. “You sure?” he asked, his voice gentle and concerned. “It might do you some good to have some company. Some food.”
Even through her self-induced hysteria, Bernie felt a tug in her chest and one corner of her thin mouth turned upward. She liked him. Despite the rush of wind that whipped around the old house, a warmth spread over her, but it wasn’t her flashing temper or burning anxiety that quelled the chill. This was how she felt the night they’d had dinner, sitting quietly in her driveway. It had only been a brief moment, maybe ten seconds, but it was a nice ten seconds. She wanted to know Don Fielding better, much better. They could be friends, but nothing more, she knew. There was no room for anything more in her life. She had managed this long on her own, why complicate her life more than it was? She started to shake her head no and offer another string of reasons why she couldn’t go, only to realize she was once again letting some woman who she didn’t even know, who she was only connected to by some biological phenomenon, rob her of a small measure of happiness, even if that happiness was no more than a bowl of lentil soup at Joby’s Place. She reached inside and retrieved her purse and closed her car door.
“Okay, but I need to be back in an hour. I have a lot going on. You drive.”
“One hour it is,” he said, and hurried over to the passenger side of his truck to open the door for her.
“You don’t have to get my door,” she said.
“I was taught otherwise,” he answered, holding the door open wide.
Bernie smirked slyly as she edged past him.
The two-seater cab was considerably smaller than the interior of her Subaru, forcing them to sit closely, their bodies nearly touching. “How would you feel about lentil soup?” she asked. “There’s this little place not far . . .”
“Way too healthy on a day like this. Besides, you look like you need a serious break, so just sit back and relax. I know a great place. You’re going to love it.” He looked over at her as he turned the key, his body leaning forward into the steering wheel.
“You open my door and then decide what I want to eat. Are we back in 1955?”
“Sorry. If you’d rather have soup, we can go to your place. But, if you recall, you chose the restaurant and drove the last time. I’m just reciprocating.”
Bernie smiled. “Well, I didn’t open the door for you.”
“True. You owe me that one.”
As Don slid the gearshift knob to reverse, his hand brushed the side of Bernie’s leg. His touch seemed electric, as if a shockwave flowed through her leg straight to her heart. She wondered if it was intentional and waited to see if it would happen again. Even after the truck was cruising in fourth gear, Don’s hands busy on the wheel, she could feel the warmth of his touch on her thigh. Like most events in her life, she felt things long after the experience. She had learned to keep those feelings to herself, tucked away and private. It was safer.
“Where we going?” she finally asked, a bit alarmed that they were headed in the opposite direction from all the restaurants she knew. They were heading toward the land of cemeteries, the zoo, and a couple of dilapidated liquor stores. She’d been to all three more than once, but never had she ventured to that neighborhood for lunch.
“Don’t worry, you’ll love it.” With the push of a button, the small cab filled with music, loud rock and roll. Just what she’d wanted.
“Oh, Tom Petty. I used to love that song.”
“Very good, but that’s not Petty.” He turned the volume down before going on. “It’s actually my band.” He looked over at her and added with a wide smile, “That’s me singing backup, playing the bass. Hear that? Listen.” He sang along, “Take it easy baby, make it last all night.” He tapped the wheel with his right index finger.
“You’re kidding.” Bernie felt her grim demeanor lighten at the sight of him beaming behind the wheel, unashamed to show off his talent. It made her happy to simply watch him sing, his head nodding to the rhythm.
“Why on earth would you quit doing that to come to Fresno and do fancy math for lawyers? No cabin is worth how much fun that must be.”
“Well, I didn’t, exactly.” He turned the music down, but not off. She could still hear him, the perfect harmony of a backup singer.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I didn’t want to seem like a flake before I got everything settled, but I found another band as soon as I got here, actually even before I moved here. This is the new band.” He nodded toward the stereo, his eyebrows pointing the way. “I’ve been playing with these guys for about seven months now. We recorded this CD last week. That’s part of the reason I haven’t been available for the past couple of weeks. We put a lot of time into rehearsing and then recording.”
“Wow. I’m impressed. You guys sound really good.” She jutted her lower lip out and nodded in approval, feeling a twinge of excitement for her new friend, even though it had nothing to do with her. She envied those people who did things just because they loved it—painters, singers, musicians, dancers. She couldn’t really think of anything that she did just because it made her feel good, just because she loved it. At that moment, she wasn’t quite sure if she loved to do anything. “So that CD you were talking about, it wasn’t even done?”
“No, I have the old one, too, but it’s not as good as this one. I wouldn’t lie to you, Bernie.”
His vow of honesty struck her; he seemed so, well, honest. And, his promise of truth seemed to involve more than a musical recording. She believed him. If she had some talent, like music or painting, she wondered, would she have been happier, less jaded? Would she be more like Don, at peace with his life?
“So, what do you call yourselves? Your band has a name, don’t they?”
Don didn’t answer right away; he was watching traffic. A motorcycle cop stood in the middle of the intersection ahead, one hand held out to stop them from passing through the green light, clearing traffic
for an approaching white hearse followed by a long line of cars, their lights on in a solidarity of mourning as they made their way to one of the cemeteries that dotted the landscape. Don downshifted as he slowed the truck to a stop. Bernie instinctively pulled her knees away from the gearshift as he gently maneuvered the black ball, avoiding the possible touch she refused to admit she wanted. He shifted the gear to neutral, prepared for a long wait.
“Don’t laugh,” he said. “It’s a little odd, but we call ourselves The Night Shift.”
Her thoughts wandered away from band names as she studied the faces of the passing mourners. Who died, she wondered. Someone old who had lived a good, long life or someone who was only getting started on a long list of plans for the future? Who was the deceased to the man and woman who stared straight ahead out the windshield of their white BMW, no sign of conversation between them? What about the family behind them in the silver minivan, two kids in the backseat, their mother turned back toward them? Who died? She remembered riding in the back of a long black limo, Noni crying softly, an old handkerchief twisted in her fingers, holding Bernie’s small hand next to her, where she sat frozen, unable to speak or cry.
“So, do you like it?” he asked.
“What?” His voice pulled her back to the present, to the living, to sounds of music.
“Our name, Night Shift.”
“Night Shift? Yeah, I do, but why that? It sounds very, I don’t know, eighties.” She turned toward Don, away from the funeral procession and sad faces. He seemed oblivious to the caravan of mourners. He was just waiting for traffic to clear, keeping a safe distance from the passing sadness.
The Circle Game Page 16
