“Jojo,” Remy says, “I know you’re nervous about meeting your—”
“She’s not meeting her,” I interject. “Georgina’s not a stranger. She’s Jojo’s sister.”
Again, I get a look from Remy. Again, he turns back to Jojo. I stick my nose back in my wineglass.
“She is a stranger,” Jojo says softly. She’s looking at her dad like she’s going to burst into tears and suddenly I feel guilty. I’ve been so caught up in my own feelings that I haven’t taken the time to think about Jojo’s. She’s got to be so excited. And maybe Remy’s right, maybe she is scared. She must be worried Georgina won’t like her. All teenage girls worry about being liked.
I take a breath. Compromise. I know I should compromise with Jojo sometimes, that I can’t always get my own way. Which I disagree with because I’m the parent, right? But I decide to go with it. I don’t want to make waves tonight, not on the eve of the biggest day of our lives. “How about if you go to school in the morning, and your dad can pick you up early if Georgina is coming before the end of the school day? The social worker said she’d text me in the morning with an ETA.”
Jojo looks at Remy, ignoring me. “I have a makeup quiz after school.”
I snap my head around to look at her still in the wide doorway, framed by the white molding like a picture frame. “What quiz did you miss? You haven’t been absent in weeks.”
“I think you better take the deal on this one,” Remy tells our daughter. Now they’re both ignoring me. “I think it’s the best you’re going to get.”
Jojo exhales loudly. “Fine.” She turns on her toes, a prima ballerina for an instant, and retreats down the hallway.
Remy runs one hand through his hair that should by all rights be thinning because mine is, but isn’t. “She’s fourteen, hon. This is a lot to take in for a fourteen-year-old.”
“It’s a lot to take in for a forty-four-year-old.” I raise my glass in a toast and take a drink.
He smiles at me and I feel like I’m melting a little. It’s the smile I fell in love with when we met at Tulane as undergrads. It’s the smile I still love. I pat the place beside me. “Sit. I want to talk to you about something.”
“Sure. We need to go over logistics. My family is dying to come over tomorrow and visit and I know you want to take Georgina by to see your dad. And of course Ann and George and Makayla want to stop by, but I think it should just be us tomorrow.”
I nod. “Absolutely. I already told Ann I’d call her when I think Georgina, we’re up to visitors. But that isn’t what I wanted to talk about.” I pat the place beside me on the couch again.
“Okay.” He sounds suspicious. He slides onto the couch.
I take a breath, turning to him, pulling one leg up so that my knee touches his thigh. I changed into sweatpants after work. I never wear my scrubs in the house; they’re too gross with animal byproducts. “Now, I want you to hear me out because I know this is going to sound crazy.” I glance at the fire in the fireplace. “Because let’s face it, a lot of things I say do sound crazy.”
“Harper,” he murmurs, taking my hand. It’s the gentlest of reprimands. I’m not supposed to say things like that about myself. Or so Ann . . . and Remy tell me.
“Remy . . .” I meet his gaze. “I think you should move back in.” I say it in a rush as if I don’t get it out quickly, I won’t be able to say it at all. I set my glass down so I can take his hand between mine. “When Georgina was taken, we were married. That’s the mommy and daddy she knows. You and I loved each other and that . . . that was why our girls were so happy. So well adjusted. You always said that was true. Georgina was a happy little girl.”
“She was a happy little girl,” he says carefully
I let go of his hand and run my fingers down his arm. He has nice biceps; he always has. He does lift weights some, and he runs, but he’s never been obsessive about exercise. He just has good genes. His dad had been an attractive, muscular man until his death of a heart attack a few months before Georgina was abducted. “Remy,” I say softly. “We’ve talked about this before, about . . .” I look into his dark eyes and my own cloud with tears. “About . . . trying again. You know I’m not happy without you. I—”
“Didn’t you just tell me last week that you were thinking about going out for a drink,” he interrupts, pointing a finger at me, “with that drug rep who’s been asking you out for a year?”
I look down. I’m still holding his arm. “But everything’s changed.” I lift my gaze and search his dark eyes and remember that those are Georgina’s eyes. “Everything is going to be different now. We have our miracle.” I choke on my happiness. “Remy, it’s going to be so wonderful. Our baby is coming home and we’re going to be a family again. You should be here for that. Don’t you want to be here for Georgina? For all of us?” I lean into him and he rests his forehead on mine. I close my eyes. He breathes and I breathe with him. His soft beard brushes my cheek. “I miss you, Remy,” I say, holding back my tears because if I start to cry I’m not sure how I’ll stop. “I miss you at night so much. I feel so alone in our bed by myself.”
He’s quiet for a long moment and I’m afraid I’ve gone too far, that I’ve pushed him too far. But he kisses my temple and sits up, looking into my eyes. Connecting with me in a way I don’t think we’ve connected in a very long time. “I want to be here, I just . . .” His brows draw together. “What if it doesn’t work? Jojo is so okay with our arrangement. I’m sure Georgina would be, too. She’s sixteen; she must have friends whose parents are divorced.”
“But I want you here.” I tighten my grip on his arm. “Don’t you want to be here with us?” I know I sound a little bit like I’m begging, but I don’t care. I’m willing to beg him to make our family whole again. Truly whole.
Now his eyes are teary. “I do want to be here.”
“With me?” I whisper. “Do you still want to be with me?”
With his thumb, he wipes away the tear on one of my cheeks. “Harper, sex between us has always been good.” He smiles, a sadness but also an underlying joy in his voice. “Even after we divorced.”
I laugh and sniff and reach for my wineglass. I wasn’t exactly talking about sex, but I suppose, in a way, I am. Our relationship is odd in every sense of the word. I know that. We still love each other deeply. We’re still best friends. I admire him more than anyone I know. And he loves me, even in my craziness. And we do still occasionally have sex. I honestly think that the reason he moved out was because he just couldn’t live with my pain anymore. And I couldn’t live with his.
He leans back on the couch. He’s considering my proposal. I can see it in his face.
“I know. It’s a terrible idea,” I admit, wondering why I ever thought, for a moment, he would go for it. Losing Georgina was awful, but what I put my husband through in the years following her kidnapping may very well have been worse. At times, I was such a nut job.
“Harper—”
“Just say it. It’s a terrible idea.” I take another breath and exhale. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to ruin the evening.”
“Harper—”
“I don’t mean to ruin Georgina’s homecoming.”
“Harper, let me finish,” he says, catching my hand and threading his fingers through mine. “I think it’s a good idea.”
I look up at him and I’m melting again. Tears spring from my eyes. “Yeah?”
“I can’t make any promises, but . . .” He exhales. “I’m willing to give it a try.”
“For the girls,” I say.
He leans and presses his lips to mine and I feel a little thrill that’s more than just a physical reaction; I feel it in my heart. “For us,” he murmurs against my lips.
I lift my gaze. Our noses are touching. “Are we talking with benefits?” My tone is teasing and dare I say just a little bit sexy. At least sexy for a forty-four-year-old woman who is perimenopausal and has been having sex with the same man since her sophomore year in college. Albei
t sporadically the last couple of years.
“Oh, we’re talking benefits.” He definitely sounds sexy. He slips his hand around my waist. “I assumed that’s what you were offering.”
I laugh and he laughs with me and kisses me again and then sits back. For a moment we just sit there looking at each other, pleased with ourselves. I can’t believe we’re doing this. But we’re doing it.
“I’ll go home and get some things.”
I nod. “I’ll talk to Jojo about the plan. Unless . . . you think you should? I don’t think we should . . . Georgina doesn’t need to know right off, does she?” I pick up both glasses of wine and hand him his. I’m feeling a little flushed. Maybe it’s the tannins in the wine, or the fire in the fireplace that’s made the parlor warm. Or maybe it’s my ex-husband. I feel giddy. Georgina and Remy are coming home. Thank you, God. Thank you, Mary, Mother of Jesus.
“No, I don’t think so. I don’t want to overwhelm her,” he says.
He touches his glass to mine; it makes a delightful sound in the old parlor and for a moment I think about how many times that sound has echoed in this room. The house was built in 1909 by his great-grandfather. Four generations of Broussards have celebrated life in this room: weddings, births, financial and professional accomplishments. But no one has ever celebrated the return of a child thought dead, I’m sure of that.
“I’ll talk to her. I’ll just tell her . . . we’re not making any promises, that . . . that we’re going to see how things go.”
He nods. “And remind her that we love her. Whether you and I are living together or not, we love her and we love Georgina.”
He holds up the bottle. I nod and he pours me a half a glass more, finishing off the bottle.
“I think we need to take things one day at a time.” He sets the dead soldier on the antique coffee table. “This isn’t going to be easy.”
I lift my gaze to meet his as I reach for my glass. In all my excitement, my disbelief that Georgina really is coming home to us, I haven’t really thought much about the adjustment. I wanted to redecorate her bedroom but Jojo nixed that idea. She said no sixteen-year-old girl wants her mother decorating her room, or even being in it. So I’ve had to be content with removing all the storage boxes I’ve dumped in there over the last ten years, and the garbage bags of donations I haven’t had a chance to take down to Goodwill. The only thing I’ve bought so far for Georgina is a mattress and box spring for the queen-sized bed Remy helped me bring down from the attic. And some sheets. Pink, because every teenage girl likes pink, doesn’t she? The idea of shopping with Georgina excites me. I’ve never been much of a shopper, but the idea of seeing what my daughter likes and being able to buy it for her thrills me. What sixteen-year-old doesn’t like to shop?
“I should get going.” Remy rises from the couch. “If I’m going to pack some things and come back tonight.”
“Oh, you’re coming back tonight.” I get up, and grab a handful of his shirt and kiss him, feeling a little unsteady on my feet. More overwhelmed by the situation than the wine.
“You could come with me.” Remy slips one arm around my waist, pulls me against him, and kisses me again, this time teasing my upper lip with the tip of his tongue.
His kiss sets my perimenopausal, far-sighted body thrumming. I close my eyes, tempted. Sorely tempted. “Jojo,” I say.
“Not invited.”
I groan. “I can’t leave her here alone. At night.”
“We won’t be long. Come on,” he cajoles. “A little celebration?” His breath is warm in my ear.
“I don’t like to leave her home alone.” I lean against him, my cheek to his chest so I can feel his heart beating. “You know that.”
“She’s fourteen years old. She can stay home alone for an hour.” He kisses my temple. “We’ll tell her to lock the doors. Set the alarm system. She’s got her cell phone. We have ours.”
I groan again and pull away from him. “I don’t like to leave her. Especially now without a dog.” Our dog died more than a year ago, but I haven’t been ready to do the puppy thing again yet.
“But you need to learn to be able to leave her,” Remy says, an edge to his voice.
I look up at him. “I know. I’m trying. I’ll try harder,” I add, not wanting to anger him. Wanting to go with him and make love with him on his double bed in his sparse apartment. “Just not tonight, Remy. Okay?”
He kisses me on top of my head. It’s the chaste kiss of an ex-husband, not a lover. I hope I haven’t killed the mood. “I’ll be back in an hour.” He heads for the door, pointing at the coffee table. “Save the wineglasses. We’ll open another bottle.”
I wrap my arms around myself, watching him go. Thinking I’ll take a shower and maybe even dig something out of my drawer to wear to bed besides a baggy man’s white T-shirt and a pair of cotton boy-short panties. And I’ll make love to my husband and sleep with him tonight and tomorrow Georgina will come home and life will be perfect again.
7
Lilla
I lean against the door of the minivan, staring out the passenger-side window. The sun is shining. I don’t know how. It should be raining. Dark, overcast. Maybe even thundering. That’s the way it always is in movies when life for the protagonist has taken a tragic turn. But that’s in movies and this is real. This is really happening to me. It’s not a dream. I feel as if it is though because I don’t feel like myself. It’s almost as if I’m watching this happen to me. Like in a dream. But I can’t wake up.
I know I’m not going to wake up. Not ever.
The police, the social worker, the foster lady all gave me the same story. I still don’t know if I completely believe it, but they all said more or less the same thing, which means they either seriously coordinated their stories, or it’s true. Or at least some version of it is true.
They say Sharon Kohen kidnapped me from my birth mother on a parade route during Mardi Gras here in New Orleans when I was two and a half. From my stroller. My birth mother was carrying a baby in one of those front pack things. The birth dad was with the family, but he wasn’t right there when it happened.
My supposed family lives right here, just off St. Charles near the big park that Mom and I have driven by a couple of times. Audubon Park. Mom and I talked about going there some Saturday or Sunday; they have a zoo and a path to walk or bike. My mom and I like to do stuff like that, go to parks. And museums. I’m more into natural history and she’s into art, but we’ve both learned to appreciate what the other is into.
I feel a lump rising in my throat, a little bit like I’m going to throw up. It’s a physical response having to do with an increase in cortisol. I Googled it on my laptop after someone brought it to me when they dropped some of my stuff from home off at the house with bars on the windows for my protection. I was curious about the whole chemical thing in my brain because I’ve never been a crier. Unlike my mom, who will cry over a commercial on TV or a mean comment someone makes to her about her hollandaise sauce. I feel as if I’ve done nothing but cry for a week. And sleep. I’ve slept a lot. They wouldn’t let me go to school. Is that even legal? I didn’t want to watch TV or help in the kitchen so I hid in the room I had to share with some girl with this crazy story about her mother’s boyfriend wanting to date her.
“We’re almost there,” the social worker says to me. Her name is Katrina. Like the hurricane. When I met her last week, I made a comment about how unfortunate that was, living in New Orleans with that name, but I didn’t get anything more than a polite smile. I did some research on Katrina—the hurricane, not the social worker who needs to dye her roots—when Mom told me she got a job here. I was four years old when it hit New Orleans. Mom and I were living in Jackson, Mississippi. At least I think I was four. My birthday is August 14. Was August 14. If my mom stole me, that has to be made up. So who knows exactly how old I am? Guess I’ll find out.
I don’t respond to the lady with the hurricane name. I’m pissed at her. Pissed at her because s
he won’t tell me what’s going on with my mom except that the police took her to jail. Hurricane Social Worker said my mom confessed to kidnapping me. I’m pissed at her and all the authorities because they wouldn’t let me talk to Mom or even tell me where she is so I could write her a snail mail letter. You can’t get e-mails in jail. Inmates in the Louisiana prison system have limited access to the Internet. You have to write letters to prisoners and somebody reads them before the prisoner gets it. Google. If I can’t talk to Mom, I should at least be able to write her, shouldn’t I? I mean, I’m not the one in prison. I didn’t do anything wrong.
So why do I feel like I did?
I slip my fingers into the latch on the van door, feeling the cool metal beneath my fingertips. I don’t know why I’m messing with it. I already tried it when we got in. Child safety locks. Which basically means I can’t get out unless Cyclone lets me out. Like at the foster home, I’m in prison. Just no one is admitting it.
“Your parents and sister are so excited,” Gale-Force Wind is saying. She glances my way.
The baby the mother was holding the day I got kidnapped was a girl. A sister. I never wanted a little sister. Or a little brother. I wasn’t one of those kids always asking my mom for a sibling. I liked that it was just the two of us. We were always a team. A good team.
I take my hand off the door. I don’t know where I’d go if I could get away. I guess I could go to our cute little green shotgun in Bayou St. John. My house key is still in my backpack. But the police would know to look for me there. They’d come for me as soon as the birth parents turned me in. I toy with the idea of going home anyway, to get some stuff, and just taking off. But who would do that with no money and no family? Where would I go? I guess I could go to one of my friends’ houses in Baton Rouge, but the police would look there, too, sooner or later. So I’d have to be homeless. There are a lot of homeless people in New Orleans. I see them in the French Quarter and under the bridges. I don’t think I’d make a very good homeless teenager. I’d be too scared. Besides, homeless teenage girls end up being prostitutes and drug addicts. I’ve seen it on TV. Documentaries. I’m too chicken for that. So instead, I’m going to these people’s house. Strangers who say they’re my family.
Finding Georgina Page 5
