The cortisol in my brain kicks in again. The lump is back in my throat, threatening to bring up the half a frozen waffle I gagged down this morning. It didn’t even taste like a waffle. My mom makes the best waffles. And not just Belgian or strawberry; she makes savory waffles like Gouda and BLT, too.
My eyes sting with tears. I refuse to give in to them. I can’t spend the rest of my life crying.
“I don’t know them,” I say quietly.
“No, but you’ll get to know them.” Category Five says it in a voice that is way too cheerful for my tragedy unfolding here. “They’re good people. And they’ve missed you so much.”
I look out the window again. We’re on St. Charles Avenue. The green streetcar rattles by, going in the opposite direction we are. I like the streetcar. I’ve ridden it quite a bit since we moved to New Orleans, first with my mom, then by myself. One day I rode from near our place along Canal Street and then picked up the St. Charles line and rode all the way to the end of the line uptown and then back home again. Just for the fun of it. Mom said I was ready to do it alone.
Mom. My lips move, saying it, but I don’t let the word out of my mouth.
I know I should be pissed at her. Doing this to me. I mean, did she really think she would get away with abducting somebody else’s kid? Who would do such a thing? The woman I know, my mom, never would, but obviously she’s not who I think she is. Or at least she’s a lot more. Or a lot less. But I can’t even be angry with her. Not yet. Because I’ve only got room for so much emotion and I’m already filled right to the top of my head with sadness. I’m hurt. And scared. I just want to see her. I just want to hug her. If I can just see my mom, I know I’ll be okay. I mean, not okay okay, but . . . I think I can keep on living. If I can just see her in her Tweety Bird bathrobe one more time.
“These are big houses,” I observe aloud, watching the houses go by as we zip up St. Charles. “Are these people rich?”
“Your parents? I don’t think they’re rich, but I think they’re comfortable. Your mom is a veterinarian. Your dad works at Tulane.”
“A professor?”
“An administrator.”
A veterinarian. That piques my interest. Just a little bit. I like animals. I’ve been asking for a dog for years, but Mom says our life is not conducive to having a dog. They’re too much work. They eat too much, they poop too much, and they have fleas. We used to have a cat. We found him behind our apartment complex in Atlanta. The last time we lived there. I named him Elie after the guy who wrote this amazing book about his survival during the Holocaust. Because the cat looked like he was starving to death when we brought him home. Mom and I discussed if it was disrespectful to name a cat after an amazing man like Elie Wiesel, but she let me name him that anyway. Eliezer Wiesel died a couple of years ago. The man. I wrote an obituary for him for my school newspaper. I doubt anyone read it except my mom and my English teacher, who gave me extra credit for submitting it to the paper, but it was still kind of cool.
Elie the cat got flattened by a taxi.
I wonder if the Broussards have a dog. That’s their name. My name. Broussard. I looked it up on the Internet. It’s a French surname, an old Louisiana name. My dad’s family is a bunch of lawyers at a ritzy address here in New Orleans. I wonder why he’s not a lawyer. I hope he’s not the dumb one of the bunch.
But I’m fairly smart. So he can’t be too dumb. Unless I take after my mom. You have to be smart to be a veterinarian.
“The house is right down there.” The social worker with the unfortunate name slows down, pointing across the streetcar tracks to the other side of the road. “The one with the two-story balcony on the front.”
I don’t want to look, but I can’t help myself.
“We just have to make a U-turn.” She gets in the left lane and darts across the streetcar tracks. Driving in New Orleans is tricky and on St. Charles you have to navigate cars and the streetcar.
“They have a house at the park?” I hear myself say. “But there’s no road.”
“The address is Exhibition Drive. That’s the little road that runs in front of the houses, but you can’t drive on it here. There’s also a road that runs behind the houses.”
“Damnnn.” I don’t curse a lot because Mom says there are plenty of good words out there that won’t offend anyone. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t cuss when she slams her hand in the car door. The social worker doesn’t respond. I guess she’s heard a lot worse from sixteen-year-olds. “You sure they’re not rich?”
She just smiles and turns on a little side street off St. Charles. Calhoun. We pull into a driveway behind the big house that’s kind of olive green with white trim. It’s one of those old New Orleans houses with a big front porch and a balcony above it. I have to keep my mouth shut not to say wow.
Hurricane cuts the engine and turns in her seat to look at me. She really does need to dye her hair. “You ready?”
I don’t say anything. I just look straight ahead.
“Lilla, it’s going to be okay.” She reaches out to touch my hand but I yank it away. I want to scream at her, “You don’t know me! You don’t have a right to do this to me!”
I hear her open her door. Get out.
I just sit there. I contemplate sliding over into the driver’s seat and speeding away. But she didn’t leave the keys. And I can’t legally drive yet without an adult.
A red Vespa parked in the driveway catches my eye. There’s also a green Subaru Outback. So I guess they aren’t rich, otherwise they’d have a big Range Rover or a BMW. I’ve always wanted to ride a motor scooter. Mom and I actually talked about getting one after I got my full license, for us to share. New Orleans is a good place for motor scooters. Mom once had a motorcycle. In her younger, wilder days. I wonder who rides the Vespa. The sister is fourteen. It can’t be her. It has to belong to the parents. I think about riding the red Vespa down St. Charles. I bet it would be fun.
My door opens, startling me. It’s Category Five. Now she’s opening the sliding door. Getting my stuff. I don’t know if she went to our house or someone else did. They put it all in a tall, cylindrical canvas laundry basket that had been in our bathroom. In it are some clothes and toiletries someone just randomly chose for me. Supposedly arrangements will be made to get the rest of my stuff. I don’t know what will happen to our house. I guess we’ll lose the lease and our deposit. I wonder what they’ll do with our belongings: our books and pots and pans and what about Mom’s knives? I bet they’re still sitting right there on the counter.
“Come on, Lilla.”
I feel myself get out of the van. I grab my backpack that was at my feet and I hold it tightly in my hands like it’s somehow going to save me. I think about Hurricane Katrina and the devastation it caused. I wonder if the people in the Lower Ninth Ward felt the way I feel right now when they knew the levees were breaking and there was nothing they could do about it.
The social worker doesn’t go to the back door. Carrying my canvas laundry container that’s almost too big for her, she takes a sidewalk that runs along the south side of the house. There’s a small courtyard garden there with a stone fountain with running water. The center of the fountain is three baby cherub guys standing with their backs to one another. The water comes up between them into a little bowl, and the bowl overflows, pouring water around the naked babies like a circular waterfall. I want to stop and look at it, but I keep walking.
I follow Katrina up onto the porch that has rocking chairs and houseplants in big colorful pots. The porch faces the park and from here I can see the big live oaks with Spanish moss hanging from them. The social worker sets the laundry container down and removes her sunglasses. She reaches for the doorbell, but before she can ring it, the big front door opens. And there she is. I know it’s her by the way she’s looking at me. The mother.
My mother.
8
Harper
Tears run down my cheeks as I wrap my arms around my baby. My baby who isn�
�t a baby anymore. Who doesn’t look like my baby. But when I hug her, when I kiss her forehead, she smells like my baby. “Georgina,” I breathe, knowing that if God wanted to call me home right now, I’d be content. All I’ve wanted for so many years is this moment. To have my baby girl home again.
“Harper . . .”
I don’t know how much time has passed since Georgina walked in the door. Could be fourteen seconds or fourteen years.
“Harper.” Remy squeezes my shoulder and murmurs in my ear. “Let go of her, hon. You’re making her uncomfortable.”
I take a step back, not wanting to let go of my Georgina. Not ever again. As I release her, I realize she didn’t hug me back. She’s just standing there stiffly, holding an old blue backpack. And she’s not looking at me. She’s not looking at any of us. She’s just staring at the entryway floor. “Sorry.” I laugh and sniff.
“I’m Remy,” he says to Georgina. “Your dad.” His voice cracks when he says it and I’m afraid I’m going to start bawling. But he doesn’t hug her. He just stands there looking at her and she lifts her gaze to meet his. And just for a second I’m a little, tiny bit jealous.
“And . . . that’s Josephine. Jojo,” he says, continuing the introductions. “Your little sister.”
Neither of our daughters says anything to each other. Jojo, standing at the bottom of the staircase, her arms wrapped around her waist, is staring at Georgina. Jojo’s still in her school uniform. Ann ended up running over to Ursuline to pick her up for me when Jojo changed her pickup time twice. Ann only dropped her off five minutes ago. Jojo almost missed Georgina’s homecoming with her nonsense.
“Sorry, Katrina, right?” Remy offers his hand. “We spoke on the phone. Remy Broussard, and Harper and Jojo.” He shakes her hand.
“I can’t tell you how nice it is to meet you,” the social worker says. “It’s so amazing to be a part of this.” Her voice fills with emotion. “We don’t get to see a lot of happy endings in my line of work.”
Remy smiles kindly. “No, I don’t suppose you do.”
I can’t stop staring at Georgina. She’s so tall and so beautiful and so . . . grown-up looking.
“Um . . . hi.” I offer my hand to the social worker. “Sorry.” I laugh and she laughs. “I just can’t . . .” I wipe my tears from under my eyes with both my hands and hope I don’t look like a raccoon. I actually put on mascara this morning. “I’m so overwhelmed. So happy. I still can’t believe this is really happening.” I clasp my hands together to keep from grabbing Georgina for another hug. “Thank you so much, Katrina. I still can’t believe you”—my voice catches in my throat—“they found her,” I manage. I wipe at my tears again. “We made lunch.” I gesture toward the dining room. We hardly ever use it. Not with just Jojo and me. Not even when Remy comes over. The funny thing is, when we first moved into the house, when Georgina was born, we ate here all the time. Of course Remy’s dad was still alive then. He lived here with us. We lived here with him.
“Lunch sounds nice. A nice . . . icebreaker,” Katrina says. “Oh.” She points over her shoulder to a gray canvas container on the porch. “Some of Lilla—Georgina’s things. Arrangements will be made to . . .” She stops and starts again. “Someone will go to the house and get whatever else she wants. You’ll be contacted.”
I want to say that it’s okay, she doesn’t need anything from that woman, that life, but I don’t. Instead, I say, “Great,” and look at Georgina. “You hungry?”
“Not really.” She speaks so quietly that I can barely hear her.
I smile, not sure what to say, and look to the social worker. I don’t know what I was expecting, but this isn’t it. I feel so awkward. Clearly we all do. I guess I was expecting a big reunion scene, maybe not with Georgina throwing herself into my arms, but things are certainly chillier in the front hall than I anticipated.
“Let’s have some lunch, Lilla,” the social worker says, touching Georgina on the shoulder, ushering her forward.
Hearing Katrina call our daughter Lilla, the name the woman who stole her from us gave her, grates on my nerves, but I don’t correct her. “Um . . . we just made sandwiches, Remy’s version of muffalettas, and there are chips and grapes and sweet tea.” I take a step back to lead them to the dining room. “But . . . if you don’t eat meat, you can just pull it off. Or we can make you something else. Do you eat meat, Georgina? Are you a vegetarian? Jojo was a vegetarian for a while, until she realized she couldn’t really eat shrimp po’boys if she was vegetarian.”
“Mom,” Jojo groans from behind me.
“I’m not a vegetarian.” Again, just a whisper from my eldest daughter.
“Oh, good, okay. I mean . . . not good. I don’t have anything against vegetarians. My patients like them. I’m a vet.” I hear myself laugh and I’m afraid I sound like a complete moron. I don’t want Georgina to think I’m a moron. This is so much harder than I thought it was going to be. How did I not know this was going to be hard?
The social worker smiles kindly. I can tell she’s feeling my pain.
“You can leave your backpack there, Georgina.” I indicate the foot of the front staircase where Jojo is parked.
Georgina takes a hesitant step toward the stairs and Jojo sidesteps out of her way. I want to shake Jojo, but I’ve never shaken my daughter in my life. Either of them. I want to blurt out, “She doesn’t have the plague.” Instead, I lead the way to the dining room, which is just off the hallway that runs through the center of the house.
“This is such a beautiful home,” Katrina remarks, glancing up the staircase at the huge oil portraits on the wall. All men, all Remy’s family: judges and lawyers. “I love historic homes.”
“It’s been in the family, Remy’s, since it was built over a hundred years ago.” I eye Georgina. She’s set her backpack down and is slowly walking our way.
Remy brings up the rear. “You girls want to help me carry lunch into the dining room?” he asks casually. He doesn’t look at either of them as he walks past them, following the hall instead of cutting through the dining room.
Jojo huffs but follows her dad. Georgina doesn’t say anything. But she goes with them.
I lead Katrina into the dining room, watching Georgina disappear from my view. I close my eyes for a moment. I know I can’t watch her every moment of the day for the rest of my life, but she’s only been here five minutes. After fourteen years, I feel as if I have the right to want to get a good look at her.
“It’s going to be all right,” I hear Katrina say. She takes my hand.
I open my eyes, surprised to find her so close. “I know,” I say, trying to get a grip on myself.
“It’s going to take her a little time,” she continues.
I nod.
Katrina smiles kindly as she lets go of me. “And it’s going to take you a little time, all of you, to adjust to this new family dynamic.”
I exhale slowly. “Right. Of course. I just—” Against my will, tears fill my eyes. I’ve got to stop crying. I can’t be the mom who cries. What will Georgina think of me? “I’ve waited so long for her to come home. Everyone said she was dead. I thought she was dead.” My last words come out as a whisper.
I get another kind smile and Katrina glances at a large oil painting over the antique maple serving buffet. It’s a pastoral painting of sugar cane fields rolling down to the Mississippi in the days before the levees. I’ve always liked it, despite its semi-gaudy, ornate, gilded frame. Another Broussard family treasure. I hear Remy chatting in the kitchen. Nothing from Georgina or Jojo. “Remy’s great-great-aunt was an artist,” I say. “The house in the background is the Broussard home, in Evangeline Parish where they owned land. It was called Maison Douce,” I say, taking pride in the fact that my French is decent. “I think it’s about . . . 1887.”
She studies the painting and I study her. She’s a small woman, my age, maybe a little older. Her face is weathered; she looks like a smoker, though I didn’t smell cigarettes on her. Her b
rown hair is cut in a bob. She needs a touch-up at the roots, but she’s an attractive woman for her age. Our age. I wonder what made her want to be a social worker. For the state. I can’t fathom why anyone would want to deal with other people’s suffering all day long. See the things she must see in the city. I can barely deal with a dog in pain. It’s a calling, I suppose. Thank God someone has the calling, otherwise, who would bring little girls home to their mothers?
Katrina turns to me. When she speaks, her voice is soft; she glances through the doorway that leads to the kitchen. Obviously she doesn’t want Georgina to hear us. “She’s had a rough few days. She had no idea she’d been kidnapped as a baby. She thought Ms. Kohen was her mother.”
“No idea at all?” I ask. It’s a question I’ve been asking myself since the day I saw her in the coffee shop when I first thought there might be the slightest chance she was coming home to us.
Katrina shakes her head. “Definitely not. It’s important that she be allowed to have her feelings.”
“Of course,” I say.
“This has all been quite a shock. As I know the police told you, she was well cared for.” She hesitates. “She was loved,” she says without smiling.
“Loved?” I whisper. “That woman abducted my baby.” My ire rises out of nowhere, but I force myself to remain calm. Georgina is only twenty-five feet from me. I want her homecoming to be perfect. Getting into an argument with her social worker wouldn’t be the way to go. “The first days she was gone . . . I thought I was losing my grip on my sanity. I considered committing suicide,” I continue. What I don’t say is that the only reason I think I didn’t do it was because of the church. As scary as it is to think about, even now, I really could have killed myself. “Because of that woman,” I say from between clenched teeth.
Finding Georgina Page 6
