“Yes, sir, but I wanted to check out the library ’cause I didn’t know any other time when I could come here.”
He nodded, and then he took his time looking at me. Like starting at my head and then going all the way down to my feet. The way he looked at me made me think big trouble was on its way. But for what? For coming to the library instead of going to lunch?
After a while, he said, “Okay, well, come on in.” He turned his back, and I was glad he did, ’cause it gave me a chance to breathe. I followed him all the way inside, past all the big shelves and all the books. In the back, there were a few tables with a couple of students sitting down, reading from big textbooks.
When he stopped at one of the tables, I was looking around so much, I almost bumped into him.
He asked, “So, what kinds of books do you like to read?”
I didn’t have an answer ready. “All kinds,” I said. “But there was something else I wanted to do besides read.”
He frowned.
“I want to do research.”
“Oh!” He paused. “You have a research project already?”
“Yes, I mean, no. I mean, kinda.” Looking away from him and out the window, I said, “I have a research project that I have to do . . . on my own. It doesn’t have anything to do with school.”
He nodded, and then his eyes did that slow stroll down my body again. After a moment that felt so long, he said, “Why don’t you follow me? To my office.”
That lump went right back into my throat, and all I could think about was trouble, trouble, trouble. I hugged my books to my chest as I followed him, past the front desk, then around to the side. The whole time I was thinking how was I going to explain this to my mama after she had told me not to get into any mess.
When he pushed open his office door, we both stepped into the tiny space. Really, maybe it wasn’t all that small. It was just that it was crowded because of all the books. There were books everywhere—stacked on his desk, on the floor, on the file cabinets. Even though he was kinda skinny, he had to squeeze past his desk to sit in the chair behind it. And then he said to me, “Sit down,” and pointed to a chair in front of his desk.
I did what he told me to do, though I was still kinda scared. Why did he want me here? Was this like going to the principal’s office?
When I sat down, he asked me, “So, what is it that you need to research?”
I released all of the air that I’d been holding in. “I need to find somebody.” But then I added quickly, “But, I don’t mind. I can do the research myself ’cause I don’t want to be no kind of trouble. I just knew that I could do research in the library.” Then I looked over at the glass panel in his door, then down at the books in my lap, then up at the diploma on the wall that said that someone named Roger Stanley had graduated from the University of Arkansas at Fayetteville.
Finally, I let my eyes go back to him, and the man smiled.
For the first time since I came into his office, since I walked into the library really, I felt kinda like I could breathe. And the way he smiled made me think that maybe I could smile, too. And when I smiled, I knew there was something else I could do—I could trust him.
He leaned forward. “You never told me your name.”
“Keisha Jones.”
His new smile made me feel even better than before. “Okay, Keisha Jones. My name is Mr. Stanley, and I can help you do any kind of research you need.”
“Really?” This was the first time ever that I felt I just might have a chance to find my father.
He said, “But I can’t do it now.” He looked down at his watch. “Because lunch for the freshmen is about to end and you’re gonna have to get back to class.”
He tapped his fingers on his desk like he was trying to figure something out. And my heart kinda fluttered. Even though I didn’t go to church all that much, I did know how to pray. So as his fingers danced on the desk, I said a little prayer inside, asking God to let this man help me.
Then Mr. Stanley said, “I know what we can do. Why don’t you come here after your last period?”
Dang! That wouldn’t work.
When I bit my lip, Mr. Stanley asked, “What’s wrong?” Before I could answer, he said, “Do you have to take the bus home?”
I nodded. He had to know that. I was a black kid. All the black kids in this school were bused in.
He said, “Where do you live?” Before I could answer, he asked, “Are you on the White Haven bus or the Pineville?”
“White Haven.”
“Ah! That’ll work, because I live in White Haven, too.”
That made me frown. Really? I never saw too many white people in White Haven—well, not too many who lived there. Mama told me White Haven used to be all white long ago—that was how the town got its name. But now, the only white people I saw in White Haven worked there—in the bank, in the diner. There weren’t even any white teachers in the school. I was sure there weren’t more than ten white people who lived in White Haven. And out of those ten, I’d never seen Mr. Stanley.
Still, he said, “So I can help you do research in here, and then I can drive you home afterward.”
I moved to the edge of my seat. “Really?” But then I kinda sat back. Why was he being so nice to me? I had to ask myself that because my mama told me men were always nice—as long as you had something to give to them.
Well, I didn’t have anything to give to Mr. Stanley—no money, no nothing. So he couldn’t have been expecting anything from me. And then he explained.
“I’ll do anything to help my students.”
Now I understood, and I nodded. Coming to the library was the best idea I’d ever had. Standing up, I said, “Thank you, Mr. Stanley. Thank you so much.”
MY EYES FLUTTERED open a little bit as I thought more about that day. I’d left the library with a big ole smile on my face, feeling hopeful, and now I had to blink a lot to hold back the tears as I remembered. I remembered that afternoon when I returned to the library and Mr. Stanley had me in his office once again. It really seemed like he was going to help me when I told him the whole story—that I wanted to do research so I could find my father. He just listened to me. He didn’t even ask me why hadn’t I asked my mother. He just said he’d help me as if he understood everything I had been going through.
I’ll do anything to find my father.
Once I told Mr. Stanley that, he’d asked me all kinds of questions he said would help him begin the research—like my full name, my mama’s name, where I was born, and my birthdate. But then he asked me a whole bunch of questions that seemed kinda strange—like how much did I weigh and what kind of food did I like.
I had answered all of his questions honestly . . . until he asked about my mama.
“What does your mother do?”
“What do you mean?”
“For a living? Where does she work?”
If this man really lived in White Haven, then he would have known. I couldn’t figure out why he was lying, but it didn’t matter because I was about to tell him a lie, too. “She’s a hairdresser,” I said, giving him the first thing I could think of because that was what I wanted to do when I graduated.
“Oh, she must work really long hours.”
“Yeah, she does,” I said. “She’s hardly ever home.”
Pulling the afghan tighter around me I thought about how that had all played out in the months after I’d answered his questions. Mr. Stanley had done what he said—he’d helped me do what I’d wanted. He’d even given me a copy of my birth certificate with the name Elijah Wilson in the section for the father. He told me that it looked like my father lived in Los Angeles, and that he even had another daughter.
Mr. Stanley had told me everything . . . except for the price I’d have to pay for his help.
Glancing at my phone, I couldn’t believe it was after midnight. In a way I was glad—now I had something else to think about besides Mr. Stanley. Pushing myself from the bed, I tiptoed through t
he back room to the front and moved the blinds as slightly as I could. The front house was totally dark. Mrs. Johnson was a schoolteacher, so she was probably asleep. But I couldn’t say that I trusted that, so I was going to stick to my plan.
Back in the bedroom, I started the task of trying to find—in the dark—all the things that were important to me. The little bit of clothes I had fit in one duffel bag. In the other bag were the things I wanted to keep from my mama. I stuffed her afghan and her bathrobe inside. Then I went into the bathroom and got her perfume.
When I finished, I wished that I could take a shower, but I changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt, and now I was ready.
I thought about just carrying the bags, but they were too heavy, so I dumped them by the front door. I’d just go get my truck, then pull it into the driveway. I mean, what was Mrs. Johnson going to do if she woke up? She couldn’t throw out someone who was already leaving.
Standing at the front door, I turned and looked at everything. From where I was, I could see the whole house—the front room and the back room, the tiny kitchen that didn’t even hold a table, and the door to the bathroom. This was nothing but a shack, but I’d been happy here because I’d been with my mama.
The thought of that made me take those three steps to the sofa and sit down. With my mama gone, would I ever be happy again? I turned on my phone and did the first thing that I always did—I hit the Instagram app.
And then I did what I always did—I checked out the page of Elijah Wilson’s daughter. Gabrielle only had one or two pictures of her father—that was all I remembered seeing since I’d started following her when I was fifteen and had gotten my first phone—from Mr. Stanley.
Instagram had just started way back then in 2010, but I still remembered the first time I saw Gabrielle, and I’d never seen anyone so beautiful. Definitely not in White Haven. She was tall and thin and looked like a model with the way she wore her hair and the way her makeup was always beat. And her clothes—she was always fresh, even though she had just graduated from college.
And then she got married, and then she started her business. And all the time, all I could do was watch how her happiness seemed to get bigger and better while my life stayed pretty much the same. Especially the life she had now. She was always hanging with celebrities, like my favorite singer—Justus.
I closed my eyes. What I would give to get to her. I’d sent her two emails, but she never answered. And I’d left a message with her assistant once, but she never returned my calls.
It was time for me to figure this out, figure out a way to meet Gabrielle Wilson. So she could lead me to our father. I didn’t have an answer right now, but I would have a plan soon. I had to because finding my father was the only thing that I had left in my life.
7
Gabrielle
Using the remote, I muted the TV so that I could hear every word from Regan. When she finished, I leaned back against the headboard and adjusted my tablet so I was closer to the camera. “I can’t believe you’ve found all of this out in just one day.”
“This is what I do,” my friend said with a shrug, the screen of the hotel’s television behind her. “But there’s no reason to celebrate.” She wagged her finger in front of the camera. “All I have is this one fact.”
“One fact that is huge,” I said. At least it was huge to me. Fifteen minutes ago, I didn’t know Daisy Jones was dead. It wasn’t until Regan gave me this news that I realized how nervous I’d been about that part of this equation. I wasn’t sure how I would’ve reacted to the woman who’d had an affair with my father. I was sure, standing in front of her, all I would have been thinking about was my mother. And with her in my mind, how could I be welcoming to Daisy Jones?
Now that wouldn’t be an issue. Though I felt a bit of relief, inside I still said a little prayer for Daisy to rest in peace.
“Well,” Regan began, bringing me back to our video call, “I don’t have what’s most important,” Regan said. “I haven’t found Keisha, but this is such a small town. It’ll only take me a day or two.”
“And now that her mother has died . . .” I paused and wondered. Would this make Keisha more or less likely to come to Los Angeles?
“I did find out that she used to live with her mother.”
“Hmmm,” I hummed. “In her letter, Daisy said they didn’t have any other relatives, so now that she’s gone . . .”
“Are you plotting something?” Regan asked me.
“No, I’m just thinking about the possibilities.”
“Well, you know me. I’m a facts kind of chick. So let me do what I do and keep working.”
I nodded and didn’t hold back my smile. “Okay, do you need anything? Are you and the baby all right?”
She brought her face closer to the camera. “Really, Gabby? Is this how it’s gonna be for the next six months?”
“You were the same way when I was pregnant.”
She smiled and when she leaned back, I could tell that she’d rested her hand on her belly. “All I need are your prayers.”
“Those you always have.”
“Then, between prayers and my skill set, I’m good. I’ll check in with you tomorrow. Don’t say anything to your dad yet. I don’t want to disappoint him if I can’t find her. Who knows? She may have moved away.”
“As if the miles would stop you from tracking her down, but yeah, okay. I won’t say anything.” I paused. “Thanks again, Regan.”
“No thanks necessary from family. Love you,” she said.
“More!” I said, finishing our sign-off.
I tapped the tablet’s screen to end the call just as Mauricio came out of the bathroom. My finger froze as did the rest of my body. Damn! My man was phine, spelled with a p for perfection.
All that moved on me were my eyes. I followed his topless torso as he strolled straight toward me.
“So, that was Regan?”
“Uh . . .” I stuttered. My words were stuck in my throat, just like my eyes were stuck on him. Just. Phine. I blinked as I struggled to come back to life.
“Uh . . . yeah.”
He paused at the edge of our bed. “So, do you really think she’s going to find this woman?”
The way he said those words brought me all the way back to consciousness, and now I kinda, sorta forgot that my husband was standing in front of me half-naked. I didn’t like the way he called my sister “this woman.” But then, I guessed it was going to take some time for everyone to embrace Keisha. I couldn’t blame Mauricio, since he hadn’t been the one wanting a little sister his whole life.
I said, “She’s going to find her. Regan’s only been in Arkansas for a couple of hours, and she’s already getting close.”
Mauricio raised his eyebrows in question.
I said, “It seems that Daisy passed away . . . just recently.”
My husband’s eyebrows rose even higher. “Wow.”
“Yeah, well, I got the impression this was expected. It seemed that was the purpose of her letter.”
Mauricio pulled back the duvet and crawled in between the sheets. “So,” he said. “What about her kid?”
I winced. Now, my sister was just “her kid”? But all I said was, “She hasn’t spoken to Keisha yet. She’s trying to find out where she lives. Apparently, she moved from their last known address.”
He nodded slowly.
That gesture and the frown that covered his face made me ask, “What?”
His eyes were straight ahead on the soundless television when he shrugged. “I don’t know. I just wonder what will you do next?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean what I said: then what?”
His tone was a little sharp, which surprised me. But then I thought, my husband—a professor of philosophy. His job was to be a skeptic. “Well, what’s next? Daddy wants to meet her.”
For the first time, he turned his eyes to mine. “So you’re going to bring her here . . . from Arkansas . . . to meet Pops . . .
and then what?”
“Why do you keep asking me that, Mauricio?” I twisted to put my tablet onto the nightstand and then turned my full attention to my husband. “Just tell me what it is that you’re getting at.”
He took a long moment to think before he spoke, just like the professor that he was. “I just don’t know if you and your dad have played this tape all the way through. You find her, Regan brings her back here . . . and then what? Is she here for a vacation? Or are you and your father thinking of something more permanent?”
It was my turn to pause. I said, “I don’t think Dad’s thought of that.”
He nodded. “That’s my point.”
“But I don’t understand why that is a point. I mean, why do we have to think so far in advance? We don’t even know what Keisha will want. Shouldn’t we play this by ear?”
He shook his head. “Not in situations like this. You have to have a plan because neither you nor your father knows anything about her. And the only plan you have so far is to open your door to this person . . .”
“She’s not just a person, Mauricio,” I snapped and folded my arms. “She’s my sister.”
Again, he did that eyebrow-raising thing that was beyond annoying now. “You don’t know that yet.”
Now it was my turn to measure my words before I said something that I would have to take back. “I showed you the letter. I showed you the picture.”
“And even with both of those things, you still need a DNA test.”
“So you mean to tell me you can’t look at that picture and know she’s my father’s child? She looks way more like him than I do.”
“DNA tells the truth; our eyes often do not.”
I squinted to show him my disapproval, but that didn’t deter him.
Mauricio said, “I just think you need to be sure. Before anything, get the facts, do the science.”
I pouted, just like our five-year-old. “Suppose she doesn’t want to take a test. Should I force her?”
My tone, my body language were a stop sign, but Mauricio did not back up. “I would think she would want to, unless . . .” He shrugged as if that gesture made his words a complete thought.
Envy Page 5
