All of a sudden I feel sick to my stomach. Light-headed. I’ve never fainted before, but I’m guessing it feels like this right before it happens.
Then I hear Harper Mom say, “Thank you,” and she grabs my hand.
“Thank you so much for your help, Angel,” she says. “My daughter and I appreciate this more than you can imagine.”
Angel is smiling at Harper Mom like they’re buddies as we walk toward the door to the visiting room. I have no idea what Harper Mom said to her or what she promised her to get us in. Free vaccinations for her dog? My sister?
A female guard in uniform who’s shorter than Jojo opens a door for us and we’re in a big, stark room with tables and chairs. It’s half full of people. I stand next to one mom, looking desperately for the other. I don’t see her. What if we came to the wrong place? What if they transferred her or something?
I feel Harper Mom tug on my hand. “You need to sit down,” she says in my ear. “She’ll be out in a moment.” Then she lets go of my hand.
I turn back to her, suddenly scared. “Aren’t you . . . are you coming with me?”
She half smiles, her lips together. It’s her sad smile. “No. You need to do this alone and honestly, honey . . . I’m not ready. Maybe someday.” Her eyes tear up, making me feel like I’m going to cry. “But not today. Now go on, sit down at one of the empty tables. I’ll sit right here waiting for you.” She points to an empty table near the door.
I feel as if I’m walking through mud as I shuffle to the table. The room is loud and I think everyone is looking at me. But nobody is. Everyone is busy talking in their little groups around the tables. Nobody cares about me and my problems; they have their own jailbirds to deal with. Visitors and prisoners are laughing. There are children playing in one corner of the room. How do you laugh in a place like this? I wonder as I sit down.
I’m so nervous now that I have to pee. I really have to pee. But it’s already one twenty. There isn’t much visiting time left today. And if I go out to use the bathroom, they might not let me back in. I glance over my shoulder at Harper Mom. She’s talking to the guard who let us in. They’re both smiling. Harper Broussard is making friends with a prison guard. I’m in a prison lounge waiting to talk with the woman who kidnapped me. I feel as if I’m on another planet. Or in a dream. I feel—
“Bubbeleh.”
When I hear her voice, I feel as if I’m being sucked back through a big wind tunnel. I’m a little girl again. In a park in some Southern city, flying a kite. At a kitchen counter, cutting vegetables when I’m too young to be using a knife. In a bed, snuggled next to my mother, listening to her read Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.
And suddenly there Sharon is, in a light-blue top that looks like one a dental hygienist would wear. And baggy navy pants that have the letters LCIW stenciled down the leg. Louisiana Correctional Institute for Women.
I should stand but my legs feel like jelly. She wraps her arms around me and I close my eyes and breathe in her smell. And even though I know it’s not possible, I smell her Calvin Klein perfume and sweet potato biscuits.
“Lilla,” she breathes in my ear.
Mama Bear. I move my lips but I’m not sure if I say it out loud.
“Sharon,” a male guard in the corner of the room says in a heavy Cajun accent. “Have a seat.”
Sharon squeezes my arm, lets go, and plops down in the chair across from me. She reaches for my hand but I keep them on my lap. I look at her and she looks at me. Her eyes are full of tears, but mine aren’t now. I had so many things I wanted to say to her. A whole script I wrote in my head. But now that I’m here . . . I can’t remember a single one of my lines.
“Lilla, you look so pretty,” she says. “And you’re taller. Have you gotten taller?”
I look down at the table. I can barely find my voice. I think about the donuts I bought for her this morning. Harper Mom said to leave my backpack in the car. She said we wouldn’t have time to take it back if they wouldn’t let me take it into the visiting room. She just carried her keys and her wallet. The donuts probably aren’t good anymore anyway. They’re probably smooshed. And I drank the water earlier when I got thirsty.
“I can’t stay long,” I hear myself say. “Visiting hours are only a half hour more.”
“I thought you would be here earlier,” she bubbles. “I’ve been waiting hours.”
“I couldn’t get in by myself. My mom had to come in with me.” I don’t know why I say the word. To hurt her the way she hurt me? Or because I’m beginning to think of Harper as my mother. I don’t know which explanation is more upsetting.
Sharon doesn’t respond to my dig.
“No one under eighteen is allowed in without a parent,” I say. “Harper had to bring me.” I don’t go into the details. What’s the point?
“She’s here?” She looks up, scans the room, and then breathes in sharply.
I don’t look over my shoulder, but I can guess she’s figured out which one Harper is.
“She’s so beautiful,” Sharon murmurs. “So young. Blond.”
She touches her own dark hair, which is a lot grayer than I remember. It’s been two months since the police took me from my home and dragged me to the upside down. Looking at Sharon, it seems as if it’s been three years. Or thirty.
“She doesn’t want to talk to you,” I say before she asks. “You know, since you abducted me from her and held me captive and all.” Those words were definitely meant to be mean, though they weren’t in the script.
More tears.
I ignore them. “Have you been sentenced? My dad told me you had an attorney. That even though you pleaded guilty, you’d get a sentencing hearing.”
“I’m still waiting. It’s . . . next month, I think. My attorney is good. And nice. She . . . she’s putting my finances in order. There’s money for you. Money I’ve been saving since you were little. For college. And a little money I inherited from my parents when they died. She’ll be contacting your father and making the arrangements.”
I nod. So her parents are dead. At least that’s not a lie. “The landlord rented out the shotgun to someone else,” I say. “I got some stuff out of the house before they moved in. Your knives.”
That seems to upset her. Her eyes fill with tears and she looks away, but she doesn’t seem to be looking at anything in particular. We sit here for a minute not saying anything and I think about getting up and walking out of here. Because I don’t know if I’m ready to do this. Before I can make up my mind, she turns her attention to me again. Her eyes focus again.
“Bubbeleh, I’m so sorry. I know you can’t understand why I did what I did.”
“Why you abducted me, you mean.”
She sighs as if she’s very tired from a long night at work. “I hardly understand myself why I did it. Let me explain to you what happened—”
“I know what happened,” I interrupt. “The police told us. Your baby Lilla died and so you took me and made me your Lilla.” I pick at one of my cuticles. “What I want to know is did you ever think about them? About my mother who was crying for me the way you must have cried when your baby died.” I look up at her. My eyes are wet, and my throat is constricted, but I’m not crying. I’m too angry to cry. Too hurt.
“I was sick, Baby Bear. I actually . . . I thought you were the Lilla I gave birth to. Most of the time. You have to believe me when I tell you that I didn’t go to the parade that day to take someone’s baby. I went because . . . I was so sad. I thought it might cheer me up and then I saw you and . . . I thought you were Lilla.” She begins to cry loudly.
I glance around to see if anyone is looking at us, but they’re not. Except probably Harper Mom, but I don’t look over my shoulder at her because if I do, I know I’ll lose it.
“Stop,” I say in a whisper.
She makes a shuddering sound and reaches into her pocket and pulls out a wad of toilet paper. She wipes her eyes and blows her nose. While she’s doing it, I study her. S
he’s lost weight and she looks older. She looks like the mother I grew up with, and yet she doesn’t. In a way, she just looks like a woman with the name of a prison stenciled on her pants.
“You have to believe me when I tell you I never meant to hurt anyone,” she says when she has control of herself again. “Least of all you.”
“Okay, so you made a mistake. Why didn’t you give me back? When I was a baby. You could have left me at a police station or a synagogue or . . . a grocery store. At any time.” I lift my hand and let it fall to the table. “I get taking me. Sort of. It was an impulse. You were grieving. But keeping me? Keeping someone else’s child?” I lean across the table, looking her in the eye. “My parents thought some pervert kidnapped me, raped me, and murdered me. Their two-year-old! My sister told her friends I was buried in pieces in the bayou.”
That gets the attention of an old lady next to us. I sit back in the plastic chair.
Again, we’re both quiet.
Sharon sniffs and looks at me. “I couldn’t because I fell in love with you. I loved you too much. And as time passed, the weeks, the months, the years, I . . . pretended. Because I wanted it to be true.” She hangs her head for a moment and then lifts it again. “Our life together was based on untruths, but my love for you was a truth.” She hesitates. “And your love for me was a truth, too.”
I look into her eyes for a long moment. And I believe her. I believe her love was real. I know mine was.
My lower lip trembles. “So now what?” I whisper. “Now what do I do? Because you’re going to be here for at least twenty years.”
“What do you do?” She reaches out and takes my hand. When I resist, she clasps it tighter. “You don’t allow what I did to ruin your future. You live your life. You be happy. You get past this and you live a good, happy, productive life. That’s what you do, bubbeleh.”
I refuse to meet her gaze, but I don’t pull my hand away.
“They’re good people, your mother and father. After it happened. . . after I did it, I followed their story in the news. They seemed like good people. And I know they love you. I can’t imagine how happy they are to have you home.” She’s quiet for a second. “Actually I can.” She lets go of me.
I leave my hand where it is on the table. “I don’t know if I can come back here to see you for a while,” I say softly. “It’s really hard. Being Lilla and Georgina at the same time.”
“I understand.”
I take a breath. Let it out. “I don’t know when I can come back, but . . . until I can, we could write.”
“I would love that.” She looks past me. “Will they let you write to me?” She gives a little laugh. “I suppose if they were willing to bring you here, they’re willing to let us correspond.”
Suddenly I feel overwhelmed and it’s hard to breathe. I knew it was going to be difficult to come here. To see her. But I didn’t realize how conflicted I would feel. How much I would love and hate this woman at the same time.
“I have to go now.” I start to get up.
“No, no, we have a few more minutes,” she says desperately. “Please, Lilla—”
I shake my head. “I have to go,” I repeat.
She’s up now, throwing her arms around me. Someone calls her name. I guess we’re not supposed to be hugging. I lift my arms and give her a quick squeeze and then I turn away. I hear her call my name, but I can’t look back. Not now. Not today.
And then I see my other mom. Harper’s just standing there by the door waiting for me. Waiting to take me home.
42
Harper
“Another family meeting?” Jojo stands at the top of the staircase looking down at me. “Mom,” she groans dramatically. “I just took a shower. I have to blow-dry my hair, otherwise it’ll get all frizzy.” She’s wearing yoga pants, a sweatshirt, and a towel twisted and piled high on her head.
“Dinner and family meeting,” I say firmly. “Five minutes. In the dining room.”
“Dining room?” Another groan. “Must be serious.”
“Tell your sister!”
I find Remy in the dining room lining up cartons of takeout. He went to my favorite Thai place. A peace offering. He stayed over last night, mostly because I think he had to keep vigil over me so I wouldn’t sit outside Georgina’s bedroom door with a shotgun. If we had one. He and I lay in bed most of the night talking. We fell asleep in each other’s arms. Tonight he’s going back to his place, so it’s time to talk to the girls.
I’m overwhelmed. Sad. Tired. But I have the strangest sense that things are going to get better now. Georgina and I actually talked on the way home from the prison yesterday. I think she has a better understanding of my feelings as the woman who gave birth to her. And I understand her better, too. There were no declarations of eternal love. No hugfest. But we both walked into the house, though drained, more aware of where the other was coming from.
Now I just want to get past the Remy detonation. So we can make a plan. So we can figure out what our family is going to look like now because obviously I’m not going to get the nuclear I dreamed of.
“They’ll be down in a minute,” I tell him.
“I poured wine for you.” He points to a glass beside my plate. He’s set the table and though we’re serving out of takeout containers, he’s put out real plates and even dug out cloth napkins. We all have water glasses. There’s a glass of orange juice at Jojo’s place.
I take a sip of wine and exhale through my mouth as if breathing through a labor contraction. I almost smile at the thought. These last months really have been like labor, the longest labor any mother has had to endure.
“It’s going to be okay, baby,” Remy reassures me, reaching for his own glass. He holds it by the stem, turning it, watching the wine swirl. He lifts it to his nose and breathes. “We’ll make this work.”
“She’s going to be heartbroken,” I whisper.
“Not to be unkind or flip, but she’s had a lot of that lately.” He sips. “She’ll be okay. She’s strong. Like her mother.”
When he says that, it occurs to me that Sharon is really more responsible for Georgina’s strength than I am. If I can ever face her, I think I’d like to thank her for that. She probably shouldn’t hold her breath waiting for me in the prison waiting room, though. It’s going to be a while before I go back. A while before Georgina is ready to go back again, too, I think.
I hear footsteps on the staircase. Two sets. I grab a lighter from a drawer in the massive china cabinet and light the three candles on the end of the table. I don’t know why I decided we should eat in this big room, at this big table, huddled down at one end. Maybe because I feel as if we need to huddle together. That we need to form final bonds before others are severed?
Georgina comes in first: jeans, Tulane T-shirt, flip-flops, and bird’s-nest hair. Then Jojo: hair still in a towel, scowl on her face. We all take our seats: Remy at the head of the table, me to his left, the girls to his right and across from me.
I fold my hands, bow my head, and close my eyes. “Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
“Amen,” Remy and Jojo echo.
I open my eyes in time to see them both cross themselves as I do the same. Georgina has her hands still clasped in prayer, her eyes closed. I have no idea how we’re going to come to terms with her relationship to Judaism, but it makes my heart glad to see her head bowed in prayer. Because He’s the same God, isn’t He? Father Paul reminded me of that when we chatted after choir practice. He also talked about patience. For a priest, he didn’t seem to be that upset by the idea that our daughter doesn’t believe in the Holy Catholic Church or its doctrine. But the fact that he wasn’t worried took some of the worry from me.
“So . . .” I say, reaching for a plate of spring rolls. “We’ve got something important to talk about.”
“We going to go over the rules about visiting people in prison without permission?”
Jojo demands.
I cut my eyes at her but before I can speak, she turns to Georgina.
“Sorry,” she says, her tone actually contrite. “That wasn’t nice.” She lifts her gaze to meet her sister’s. “I don’t know why I say mean things sometimes.”
Georgina lifts her shoulder, lets it fall. “It’s okay,” she answers quietly. “We’re good, Jojo.”
“Chili sauce for your spring rolls?” I pass a plastic packet to Georgina because I know she likes it. “We’ve got pad Thai noodles.” I point to two cartons with my chopsticks. “Green curry, seafood preaw wan, oh, and rice. White and brown.” I indicate the other cartons.
Remy reaches for one of the boxes of pad Thai. “We’re just going to get right down to this, girls.”
He takes a breath and I realize he’s nervous. I don’t know why, but somehow that makes me feel better. Not because he’s uncomfortable or in emotional pain, but because I appreciate that he really does understand the ramifications of his actions. And he still believes this is best for our family.
He looks at me, then starts pulling pad Thai noodles out of the carton, onto his plate, with chopsticks. “I’ve decided to move back to my place.”
Georgina is dipping a spring roll into chili sauce she’s squeezed onto her plate. She freezes, turning her gaze to him. “You’re leaving us?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “No, I’m not leaving you.” He sets the carton down on the table, glancing at me, then at Georgina. “I—” He exhales. “Honey, this is really between your mother and me. It’s difficult to explain—”
“So you’re moving out, but you think that’s not leaving us?” Georgina practically throws her spring roll onto her plate.
He looks at me.
I sit forward in my chair. She has every right to be angry with him. We all do. “Your dad’s not going to sleep here anymore, but he’s not leaving us. He’s not cutting us out of his life. Georgina, you’re going to see plenty of your father. He’ll eat here most nights with us, he can still go to temple with you on Saturdays, and . . . he—” I take a breath. “I know this living arrangement sounds unconventional, but you’re going to have to trust us. We made this work before.”
Finding Georgina Page 30
