by Judy Alter
“Sure. I’ll even buy them lunch, so you can get your Saturday afternoon nap.”
I kissed him so hard he said, “Hmm. I may send the girls to Keisha and take that nap with you.”
“Promises, promises,” and I twirled away—well, as close to a twirl as a girl lacking in grace can come—just as Keisha walked in the back door.
“Am I interrupting something?”
Mike grinned. “Nothing important. How’s our guest?”
“She’s fine. She’s got the alarm on, and I showed her the deadbolt on the door and the locks on the windows—that place has more security than Fort Knox.”
“We’ve had some endangered guests,” Mike quipped.
Keisha and I ignored him and made plans to visit Ms. Lorna about ten the next morning. “She doesn’t get up early,” Keisha warned. “Ten might be safe.”
****
The next morning at breakfast, I said, “Mike, Sheila’s car is still behind my office. It’s too expensive a car to just sit around. It needs to be brought to our house.”
He thought for a minute and vetoed the idea. “If it’s expensive and distinctive, it will be a clue to someone that she’s here. We’ll have to put it somewhere where it’s safe. She can’t drive right now anyway, so she doesn’t need it. I’ll get the keys, deliver them to the garage, and they’ll pick it up.”
“Make sure that’s okay with Sheila,” I cautioned, and he gave me a look that said, “How dumb do you think I am?”
Mike and the girls took Sheila to the hotel in the morning, while we were with Ms. Lorna, and the report I heard was that the girls were a big help to a one-armed lady in packing.
As Keisha and I climbed those rickety stairs just after ten, I wished I had stuck to my cottage-cheese breakfast instead of joining Mike and the girls in eggs and bacon. We’d sent Em out to ask if Sheila wanted to have breakfast but she declined, said coffee was enough.
Now, I could taste my coffee all over again. Why was I so nervous? Not sure, but maybe because I realized what a big moment this was for Ms. Lorna and how quickly what once seemed hopeless had all come together. Of course, it wouldn’t have if Sheila herself hadn’t taken an active part.
Ms. Lorna wasn’t expecting us. We decided it was best not to call ahead—besides, she never answers her phone. Keisha let us in and called up the stairwell. “Ms. Lorna? It’s me, Keisha, and I got Kelly with me. Come on down here. We need to talk.”
Her Queenship came majestically down the stairs, saying, “It’s too early in the morning.”
“It ain’t too early for what we go to tell you,” Keisha said. “Get on down here.”
I would never have dared talk to her that way, but Ms. Lorna looked at her disdainfully and proceeded down the stairs. When she got closer, I saw a look in her eyes that was happiness—I’d never seen that from her before—or anticipation. I don’t know, but she was much more human.
Once down, she sat, twisted her hands nervously, and said, “Well?”
Keisha nodded at me, so I simply said, “We’ve found your daughter.”
Her face did light up for just a minute before the curtain closed and she asked crisply, “Where is she, and when can I meet her? I’ll travel if I have to.” Then she added, “Keisha will go with me,” with a nod in Keisha’s direction.
I almost laughed but figured that would offend her. “No need to travel. She’s at my house, and how about tonight over supper?”
Now she was astonished and she forgot about the curtain. “Really? Are you certain? It could be someone pretending….” Her voice trailed off.
“No.” And I told her the whole story about Sheila being Diane Hollister and now going back to Sheila O’Gara, about Bruce Hollister, the accident, and most of all, that Sheila was looking for her.
“Why is she at your house?”
I stumbled a bit. “There’s a security problem. It’s sort of connected to that man that watched your house. By the way, I don’t think he’ll be watching anymore.”
“She’d be perfectly safe here,” she said.
“No, ma’am, she wouldn’t. You don’t have an alarm system. I’m not sure your phone even works….”
“It works,” she cut in. “I just choose not to answer it.”
“Well, after tonight you might better answer it, because it could be Sheila. To finish what I was trying to say, we think her husband wants to kidnap her and take her back to San Antonio. She doesn’t want to go. Ever.”
She put a hand over her mouth. “How awful. What kind of a man is he?”
“A televangelist,” I said, and she sniffed.
“No wonder. Why did she ever marry him?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask her.”
She wanted of course to come to the house right away, but Keisha pointed out she wasn’t dressed, and I suggested she take the day to compose herself and think about what she wanted to say. There would be some single malt Scotch involved in that composing.
We left, Keisha promising to come back at five to get her. This time, both of her arms went around each of us separately and tears glistened in her eyes, giving me a clue to how strong her emotions were.
With a trembling voice, she said, “You have given me a gift greater than you know. And I’m so thankful that it happened so soon. Time is important to me.”
On the way back home, I asked Keisha what she made of the time comment, and she too was puzzled. “I’m wondering,” I ventured, “if she has some terrible illness.”
“I been thinking the same thing. I’ll find out…but not tonight. I do know if she’s sick, she’s self-diagnosed. Hasn’t been to a doctor. I’d have had to take her if she had.”
We agreed not to mention the health concern to Sheila.
****
Mike and the girls were home from their errands, and Sheila was settled in the apartment. Mike had taken the girls to Bun Appetit for lunch, so I had a peanut butter sandwich and we all napped.
In the late afternoon, as my family laid out the fixings for poor boy sandwiches, I had one more loose end to clear up before Sheila and her mother met. Funny to be thinking of Ms. Lorna, that austere woman seemingly without emotion, as a mother.
I knocked on the apartment door and called, “Sheila.”
She looked flustered when she opened the door but gave me a slight smile. “It’s lovely to be called Sheila again,” she said. “I’m just trying to decide what to wear to meet my mother. I thought I’d wear a nice silk dress, but I can’t get it on over this.” She looked at her bulky wrapping on her shoulder.
“Your mother will be glad to see you, no matter what. And a sweatshirt and pants are pretty much the dress code around here. Just be comfortable.”
She looked doubtful. “You’re sure? People don’t dress for dinner?”
“Not in this house, they don’t.”
“Okay, jeans and a sweatshirt it is. Did you come out to tell me that?”
“No, I need to talk just a minute.”
She indicated a chair and sat on the edge of the bed expectantly.
“Sheila, I’m afraid your husband has…uh, misled you about your mother. She was never the things he said she was.” I decided to clarify bluntly. “She was never a prostitute. She was what she told us—a starlet looking for roles. She may have slipped a couple of times, but she really loved your father. If anything, he hurt her badly.”
“Bruce told me he hired a private investigator and found out she was a prostitute. Why would he tell me that?”
I sighed. “Is his church that important to him?”
Startled, she said, “His church? Not really. What matters to Bruce is the money it brings him. Money for fine clothes and privileged welcome at the best restaurants, fancy new cars, and a big house in San Antonio, and women at his beck and call. It’s all material. He studied drama in college—and this is how he puts it to use.”
I was appalled. “How far would he go to protect his so-called ministry?”
“He’d do anything.”
“Anything?” I repeated it like an echo.
“Anything,” she said firmly. “I will have to tell you the whole story, but not now. I don’t want to get upset before I meet her.”
“Of course. I just wanted to clear up that one point. Can I help you do anything?”
“No, thanks. I’m getting pretty good at this one-armed stuff. I’ll be in shortly.”
Relieved, I went back in the house.
Chapter Nine
But by the time five o’clock drew near, the butterflies were back in my stomach. How would this reunion go?
Keisha arrived carrying a discreetly bagged bottle of Scotch and helping a clearly nervous Ms. Lorna. Sheila was already sitting in the living room, having brightened her sweatshirt with a clunky big necklace and bright green sporty shoes. She stood and faced her mother.
And so they stood, while I clenched and unclenched my hands. They simply stared. Keisha moved discreetly aside, and the girls gaped from the dining room archway where Mike held them back.
After an eternity, Ms. Lorna broke the silence but never took a step nearer. “You’re hurt,” she announced.
“It’s not serious,” Sheila said.
And then they simultaneously moved toward each other. It occurred to me neither were the touching sort of people—Lorna had probably never hugged anyone in fifty years, and Sheila may have gotten affection from her father but probably precious little from Bruce Hollister. Their first hug was indeed an awkward movement, with Lorna trying to be careful of the shoulder, and Sheila uncertain. But to those of us watching, it was touching. It brought tears to my eyes, and I glanced back to see Em wipe away a tear—my little sentimentalist.
I was uncertain whether to go busy myself in the kitchen or stay and try to help make conversation. Mike and the girls faded back into the kitchen, while I stood on one foot and then the other. Keisha had no such problems.
“Now, Ms. Lorna, you tell Sheila why you moved to Fort Worth and all about how you used to watch her play, and she can tell you about how she was looking for you and what her future plans are.”
Lorna threw her a look of dismay, but she began, “I…I…well, this was the one place besides Malibu that had a tie to you. I didn’t really think you’d come back, but there was some connection, and I had no place in particular I wanted to go. I just wanted to get away from Hollywood. I had gone way beyond the starlet age range, and I didn’t get character parts. I had money put away—some from my family, some from your father. So I came here.”
“Your family?” Sheila asked curiously. “I never thought about that. I have relatives I’ve never met.”
Lorna sighed. “Nor will you. They’re all dead, except perhaps some distant cousins that I haven’t heard from in years. I have no relatives…except, now, you.” She actually reached out and touched Sheila’s hand. They sat knee-to-knee on the couch.
I sank into one of the chairs, spellbound, and Keisha took the other. I doubt they ever noticed. They were fully engaged with each other, stories almost beginning to tumble out of their mouths. Sheila asked about Malibu, and Lorna told about watching her grow and play, which brought tears to the daughter’s eyes. Sheila described their life after Malibu, in a series of small towns, each a bit less prestigious than the previous. She went to public school, but her father saved always for her college education, stressing its importance.
“He never went to college,” Lorna muttered, “and he felt it held him back. I don’t know if it did or not.”
Sheila reached out a hand. “You really loved him, didn’t you?”
When Lorna said yes, she said, “Do you know he told me you ran away? I never was sure. I didn’t think you’d reject me so thoroughly, because in his descriptions you were a wonderful person. Young and free, always laughing, always happy. I wanted to be like you.”
It was hard to imagine Mr. Lorna young and free, laughing and happy. I struggled with the image.
“I guess I was,” she said, “until I had to leave you. Suddenly life changed for me.”
Sheila was thoughtful. “I guess we both have reason to be angry at him, very angry, but he was a good father. He raised me with love and manners and discipline. I think he tried his very best to give me everything…but he forgot that a mother was the one thing I needed most.”
By this time, Sheila had her good arm wrapped tightly around Lorna’s shoulders, and Ms. Lorna buried her head in her hands, weeping.
Keisha and I started to slip from the room, but at that moment the doorbell rang. We exchanged puzzled looks, and I rushed to open it. There stood Elisabeth Smedley.
“Hi! I just had a suspicion that something was going on, so I came by. What’s happening?”
I stepped out and closed the door behind me. “Now is not a good time,” I said gently.
“Aha! That means something is going on. I sense it.”
“It’s a very private moment between two people.”
She looked so crestfallen that I said, “Why don’t you join us for supper tomorrow night. Just don’t quiz people.”
Her face lit up and she said she’d be there. She left, and I tiptoed through the living room to the kitchen.
“Dinner will be a while. How cool is it outside?” When Mike said it was typical September—in the high eighties—I ordered us all outside for wine and snacks. We didn’t eat dinner until seven, and even then, I had to interrupt to say dinner was served. Behind me two subdued girls were setting the table. When Ms. Lorna tottered into the kitchen—no elegant, rigid walk tonight, they both gave her a hug, but I caught Em staring at her tear-streaked face.
“Do you know my daughter?” Lorna asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” the girls chorused, and Em added, “We met her last night.”
Ms. Lorna looked puzzled at the buffet area of food spread on the sideboard, but when I explained about poor boy sandwiches she enthusiastically made herself one. At the table, Lorna and Sheila tried hard to include others in their conversation, though obviously a lot was still unsaid between them.
“Maggie, Em, did you know my mother was in movies in Hollywood?” Sheila asked.
“No,” Maggie replied, “but we know all about her trips to China, where she got all that beautiful stuff she has in her house.”
Sheila, clearly startled, looked at her mother. “China?”
“Oh yes,” she said, trying for a light tone, “China. The girls love to hear the stories. I don’t want to bore everyone by repeating them. I’ll tell you later.” She made it plain she wanted the subject to change.
I tried, I honestly did, but I couldn’t think of neutral ground. Lorna’s career in Hollywood had dangerous potholes, and we surely couldn’t talk about Bruce Hollister and his ministry. As usual, Keisha wasn’t stumped.
“Ms. Lorna, you told her about that house you live in?”
“I know the house,” Sheila said. “I’ve driven by it several times.”
“I want you to see it,” Ms. Lorna said. “Can you spend the morning with me? Keisha will get us some breakfast.”
Keisha spoke quietly. “No, ma’am, I can’t do that. I spend Sunday mornings with José.”
“Surely he’d understand,” she protested.
“He probably would, but I’d miss my morning with him. You all want breakfast at the Grill about ten, we’ll come get you.” Keisha’s tone had steel in it, and she almost glared at Ms. Lorna.
But that old lady could be stubborn too. “I want Sheila to see my house. There’s no point in going to whatever place it was you mentioned.”
Silence struck the dinner table, until Mike said, “I can bring Sheila over for a tour of your house, Ms. Lorna. But if you want to visit, I’ll bring you both back here.”
So much for our Sunday morning as a family, except I knew Ms. Lorna didn’t get up early.
“We can visit at my house,” she said, still stubborn.
“Ms. Lorna, you know we talked about that yesterday,” I said.
“Sheila needs more security than your house offers.”
Ms. Lorna snorted, but Sheila placed a hand on her arm. “These people are helping me more that you know,” she said, “and I think I should follow their wishes.”
Ms. Lorna harrumphed again and took another bite of her sandwich. After a long pause, she said, “All right. Be there at ten.”
The rest of the meal passed more lightly, as Sheila entertained us with stories of the great and near great she’d grown up with. She remembered meeting Marilyn Monroe, who was, she said, really sweet to her, and Doris Day, who talked to her about dogs. Her father was much taken with Ingrid Bergman, but Sheila thought her cold and different.
“That’s how little I knew about people from other lands,” she said. “Now I realize she was a great actress and a beautiful woman.” She paused and then said, “Nothing came of Dad’s fascination with her, of course.” She talked about movie sets and endless boring hours going to work with her father.
“Boring?” Maggie asked. “I’d be so thrilled to be in a movie studio.”
“That’s because you’re starstruck,” Em said disparagingly, and Mike held up a hand for peace. Order was restored.
Keisha didn’t take Ms. Lorna home until after nine o’clock—late for all of us. She left only after we assured her Sheila would be at her house at ten and would bring breakfast of some sort. That, of course, left Mike and me to figure out what we’d send for breakfast. We settled on blueberry pancakes—yes, a mix—that could be heated up and a small container of maple syrup plus some of the last of the season’s fresh fruit that I had in the fridge. Surely Ms. Lorna could make coffee.
****
That night, with the girls safely asleep, Mike was reading in bed, and I was fuming. It was too late for me to be awake, but I was wound up.
“It’s unreal,” I finally said aloud.
Mike sighed and closed his book. “What’s unreal?”
“We’ve been so wrapped up in the reunion aspect of everything, in getting Sheila and Ms. Lorna together, that we’ve forgotten about Bruce Hollister and the threat he poses to Sheila.”
