“Amelia, are you sure this is your book? The family’s last name is McDonald, not Smyth.”
Slowly, she traced the name McDonald with a bent finger. “I was born a McDonald.”
I’d never heard this story before and suspected she was recalling someone else’s life. The blending of reality and fiction was not uncommon. “I didn’t know that.”
“I was adopted when I was a year old by your grandparents, Sam and Marjorie Smyth.”
“I never heard a word about that from Mom or Dad. Ever.”
“I don’t think they knew. The Smyths are good at keeping secrets. You should know that by now.”
She was right. My mother had battled cancer on her own terms while my father gambled the family money on the stock market. In my seventeenth year, Dad lost everything before having a fatal heart attack. Mom died six months later. If not for Amelia moving back into the Prince Street home with me, I’d have been in trouble. “You never kept secrets.”
“Keeping secrets was a quality I learned from my mother. What came naturally to her was always a struggle for me.”
Scooting to the edge of my chair, I was anxious to confirm the truth of her words. If fact and fantasy were blending, I wanted to snatch as many truths as I could before they floated away like a handful of balloons released into the air.
“My mother, Marjorie Jones Smyth, and Fiona Winter were good friends growing up. They were born on the exact same day and met in elementary school. They were like sisters, from what my grandmother Smyth used to say.”
“Fiona Winter. She married a McDonald.” I was a friend to a McDonald once. Jennifer McDonald. We were like sisters, too. “I never heard any of this.”
A slight shrug of Amelia’s shoulder didn’t hide the hurt radiating from her now. “Marjorie and Fiona were in love with the same man. His name was Jeffrey McDonald. Very dignified and handsome.”
“A love triangle. Always a good story, but are you sure?”
Amelia stroked the yellowed page, absently tracing the elaborate M of her original last name. “My mother never wanted me to know about her love for Jeffrey.” A sly smile tweaked the edges of her thin lips. “She was pulling Christmas decorations out of the attic one year and I was finally old enough to scramble up the stairs and help her. As I was searching for the decorations I spotted a trunk. Inside the trunk were dozens of letters bound together with a faded red ribbon.”
When I was younger, Amelia had been the energetic older aunt who had always been quick with a fun idea. She loved life. When I was six, she took me for a ride in her new convertible sports car along the George Washington Parkway. When I was ten, she hired a hot-air balloon and we drifted over the waters of the Potomac. And when I was nearly eighteen, in the dark days after my parents’ deaths and then the car accident, she allowed me to cry when no one else thought I had a right to my tears. When I was twenty, she dragged me to my first AA meeting and told me not to contact her ever again if I didn’t start working with the program.
Aunt Amelia never shied from a challenge. A box of letters would have been irresistible. “How long before you doubled back and read the letters?”
Eyes twinkled. “Three days. I had to wait for Mom and Dad to leave the house. I pulled the steps down and crept up the stairs.”
“Where was Dad during all this?” My father was seven years younger than Amelia and his older sister’s constant shadow until she moved out of the family home for college.
“Your father was about five at the time. I was supposed to be watching him, and of course, when I put him in bed he did not sleep. He was always a terrible sleeper, much like you.”
“I can picture it now. You’re in the attic and Dad is on the bottom rung of stairs threatening to tell.” I had loved my father, but he never failed to use information to his advantage. He could keep his own secrets but no one else’s. It was why I had never been able to really talk to him.
“Your father sensed I was up to no good, and he took great joy in threatening to tell Mom that I was in the attic.” She glanced at her polished nails, her grin as devilish as a young schoolgirl. “I told him I’d tell Santa he’d been naughty. Santa would never again come to our house. His eyes grew as wide as saucers, but he tried to hold his ground and insist I was lying. But I wanted to see the letters so badly that I kept twisting the Santa threat until he burst into tears and ran to his room.”
“And you read the letters.”
“I snuck them to my room and read each and every one of them.” Her eyes glistened. “I discovered my adoptive mother was in love with a man named Jeffrey. The letters were dated several years before my parents met. Which made them all the more delicious.”
“What happened?”
She opened her mouth to speak but hesitated and frowned. I recognized the expression. The words and ideas on the tip of her tongue flitted away, out of reach. “She married my father, so I suppose it did not end well for Mother and Jeffrey. I never really knew what happened to him until I found this book. He married another woman.”
She fumbled with the frayed edge of her blanket and I could see her frustration. A woman who had prided herself on her quick wit and memory was losing both to a disease that took its time robbing the mind.
I laid my hand over hers and then kissed the back of her hand. “Let’s look at the book and see if it will tell us what happened.”
Worried eyes rose to mine, and for a blink, she searched my face, staring for the familiar. Slowly, she nodded. “It all must be in the book, shouldn’t it?”
“It must be, otherwise you wouldn’t have it.”
I turned the first page to a picture of an infant girl dressed in a white christening gown. A round button mouth curled into a wide grin and her little hands were splayed wide open. The photographer had caught her mid–belly laugh. Amelia had been a pretty baby, with wisps of lightly colored hair, which I guessed had been red. I had seen pictures of her as a young woman and her hair was a vibrant copper. As she aged and silver threatened to diminish the luster, she turned to the salons to maintain a color that grew increasingly dark, out of step with her pale skin. However, since she’d arrived here, there was no one to dye her hair, so time and washings had faded it to silver, which I found far more attractive on her.
I angled the book so Amelia could better see it. Age had softened the pages, and I wondered if given a couple more years locked away, they wouldn’t have crumbled. “You were a pretty baby.”
She traced the infant’s wide, expressive eyes, and with a little more confidence said, “Yes, I was. I always wondered where that red hair came from. I never quite looked like a Smyth.”
“Did your birth mother, Fiona, have red hair?” I asked.
Her light blue eyes darkened with an intensity that hinted of a truth no one in the family had ever mentioned. “Yes, she did.”
Turning the page of the baby book, I stared at a picture of a young couple holding a baby. The inscription at the bottom read: Fiona and Jeffrey McDonald with their precious daughter, Amelia. “Amelia Elizabeth McDonald. You really were adopted.”
Her chin lifted up in defiance. “I told you I was.”
I ran my hand through my hair. “Holy cow.”
“I know. Shocker. I was as surprised as you when I found out at age thirty-two.”
“That was over forty years ago. You never said a word.”
“I was in shock at first. Didn’t want to believe it. And then my husband became sick. I tried to talk to my mother once, but she said she didn’t know what I was talking about. I pressed her, but the conversation went nowhere and she told me not to bring it up again. I thought about talking to my dad, but if Mom didn’t want a subject discussed, he always obeyed her wishes. I thought I could ask her again one day, but she passed and so did my father. Time slipped through my fingers.”
Over the last month Amelia’s condition
had worsened. Bringing with it all kinds of crazy claims. Once she confused me with her doctor, thanked me for her discharge papers, and told me her niece would arrive soon to take her home. Another time she told me my late mother had come for a visit. We had many conversations and most simply weren’t based in reality.
But now, as I stared at the page, I could see this statement was irrefutable. “Explains why you and Dad were so different.” My father was as closed as Amelia was open.
“We were never really close. I always felt that once he came along I became nearly invisible. He was the son my parents thought they would never have. Of course, to get everyone’s attention, I had to become more and more outrageous. My parents were never amused.”
I turned the page of the book and studied a collection of telegrams wishing Fiona and Jeffrey congratulations on the birth of their daughter. Time had weathered the telegrams, making them appear all the more ancient. We all exchanged words easily today. Quick texts, or if time really allowed, an e-mail. Letters and note cards were relics. But when Amelia had been born, to send a note of congratulations took time, effort, and money.
Carefully, I ran my hands over the beautiful cards that still had a silky, delicate quality. On the next pages were photographs of smiling strangers surrounding the young couple and their baby.
Here were two people full of life and love. It was clear that Amelia had been a much loved and cherished child. “What happened to Fiona and Jeffrey?” I whispered.
“Jeffrey died.”
I studied the face of the man who shared the same jawline and glint in his eyes as Amelia. “How?”
“I don’t know. It was during World War II and he had been shipped overseas.”
“Do you know why Fiona couldn’t keep you?”
“No,” she sadly whispered. “She left Alexandria after the adoption and then returned several years later married to David Saunders. They had a daughter, Diane, who oddly also married into the McDonald family.”
“Diane McDonald. She was Jennifer and Rae’s mother.”
“Yes.”
The faded page creaked as I turned it. The families were intertwined like the thick honeysuckle vines growing on the back fence of the Prince Street house. “And you asked your mother about all this?”
She studied the page so closely, recalling distant memories fading fast. I wondered if she remembered it. “She never admitted to any of it.”
“You must have talked to someone. Who told you about the adoption? How did you end up with this book?”
A frown furrowed her brow. “I don’t remember. I’ve been trying all morning to remember the details of how the book came to me all those years ago but I can’t dig up one memory. This damn disease is stealing my life.” Tears moistened her eyes. “I need to remember. I need to find out what happened to Jeffrey and why Fiona gave me away. And why didn’t she ever want me back after she was married again?”
A lot of time had passed, but the pain on Amelia’s face was raw. Her wound had never healed.
“How did you get this book here, Amelia? I didn’t bring it from the house.”
Her eyebrows rose. “I called my attorney. I asked him to bring it to me. It’s been with my papers for years.”
“Colin West?”
“Yes. I think it was Colin.”
I’d met Colin to get Charlie and discuss Amelia’s finances. In his late thirties, he was polite, nice, and reserved. Not classically handsome, but very intense. He always wore a suit, and once I jokingly asked if he’d come into this world fully attired. He wasn’t amused. Jokes and Mr. West were strangers. I’d have written him off if Charlie hadn’t liked him.
Amelia laid her small hand on mine, her grip tight. “Maybe you can talk to your friend Jennifer McDonald. I bet she would be able to find out more.”
I drew back. Her addled mind was missing critical bits of information and she didn’t realize it. Still, the words sliced. “Jennifer is dead, remember, Amelia? She died in a car accident when we were in high school.”
She clutched her white blanket as though holding on to memories. “Jennifer is gone?”
“You remember the car accident, don’t you?” There were so many times that I wished I could forget it. But not a day passed when I didn’t hear the screech of locked wheels or my screams blending with Jennifer’s as the car struck an old tree by the river.
“The accident.” Amelia’s lost eyes stared back at me. “Jennifer was killed?”
Carefully, I closed the book, sensing the frail woman who had greeted me when I’d entered the room minutes ago had been overtaken again by the shadows. Her memory flicked off like a light. “It was a long, long time ago, Amelia. Don’t worry about it.”
Still holding my hand she offered to console me. “But it was an accident.”
“Yes. A very bad accident.”
“Maybe you could ask Jennifer’s sister, Rae, about Fiona. Rae was always such a smart girl. Always had the answers.”
“I haven’t seen Rae in sixteen years, Amelia. She and I aren’t friends like we used to be.”
When Jennifer died, Rae’s world of order was turned upside down with grief. She acted out, rebelled against her own mother’s stoic acceptance of Jennifer’s death. She went looking for love and comfort anywhere she could find it. Rae soon found herself pregnant at sixteen.
I moistened my lips, the constant craving for alcohol elbowing to the front of my mind. I’d thought about drinking every day since the accident and most days could list all the reasons why I was grateful I no longer drank. But today, the gratitude list was woefully short. All the true and sure reasons for sobriety that usually remained at the ready weren’t holding water. They had scattered like vapor, leaving me to think about the bittersweet taste of a cool white wine trickling down my throat. I imagined releasing my firm grip on sobriety.
Over a dozen years had passed since I’d had a drink. But in a blink, none of that mattered. What mattered now was that I was desperately thirsty for the release of one glass of wine. One small glass. Not a bender. One to soften the edge and soothe the swelling sadness that was consuming me.
But AA didn’t work that way. One glass, the first glass, was the destroyer.
“Honey, I’m sorry you and Rae and Jennifer don’t get along anymore. You were all close.”
The window to Amelia’s clarity had closed. No sense reminding her of what now skittered out of her reach.
I gently tugged the scrapbook from Amelia’s hands and carefully placed it in the drawer of the nightstand. I leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead and tucked her hands under the folds of the white blankets. “I’ll be back tomorrow, Amelia. Sleep well.”
Her eyes drifted open for a moment, and she stared up at me with cutting clarity. “You were in the car when Jennifer died.”
A sigh shuddered over my clenched teeth. “It was a long time ago.”
She shook her head. “But not for you. For you, it’s right now. I can see it. I can see her.”
“See who?”
“Jennifer. She’s behind you now.”
A tingle shot up my spine, and despite logic, I turned and looked. Jennifer’s presence always lingered close since the accident. There were times I sensed her standing right behind me, goading me forward to fill my life with experiences enough for two.
Turning, I found only the glow of the overhead light.
I smoothed my hand over her forehead. “No one is here, Amelia.”
Sympathy warmed my aunt’s confused, sad eyes. “I know you didn’t mean to kill her. She knows that, too. We both know you didn’t mean it.”
No one knew what had happened in that car before the accident. No one. Except Jennifer. And me.
“Get some sleep,” I said.
When she drifted off to sleep, Charlie and I left the room. The urge to drink yanked and tugged
at me. At moments like this I stood at the cliff’s edge, tempted to jump back into the delicious oblivion of alcohol.
To combat the terrible craving, I moved with precision, slowing life to microseconds and analyzing each of my actions, hoping the cravings would pass. All the while I feared that if I lowered my guard, time would jump forward and I would find myself sitting in a bar with my second or third glass of wine in my hand. There were moments when my sobriety felt as fragile as a robin’s egg. I needed another meeting.
Smiling at the nurse, I walked toward the elevator, Charlie at my side. What came next was a blur to me. Charlie hopped into the front seat and we drove back to Alexandria fast enough to earn a hefty speeding ticket if caught. I slowed when I exited the Beltway and worked my way into Old Town and the Methodist church where AA held meetings. Out of the car, Charlie and I slowly walked around the block to kill a little bit of time before we went inside the church basement. I took a seat in the empty circle of chairs with Charlie settled on the floor next to me.
“The meeting doesn’t start for a half hour,” a man’s voice said behind me.
I gripped the strap of my purse a little tighter but made no move to stand. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to sit here and wait.”
“Sure, sure. That’s fine. I’ll have the coffee and donuts out soon. Unless you need it earlier.”
“No, that’s okay.” I peered into his familiar face with a slight smile, in what I hoped was a friendly gesture. He was a midsized man with thinning brown hair wearing a tan sweater, jeans, and white tennis shoes. His name was Grant and he ran our meeting.
“Do you need to talk?” he asked.
“No, I’m good.”
“He’s cute,” the voice whispered softly. I assumed, as I always did, that it was my own thoughts echoing Jennifer.
“You sure?” he asked again.
I hugged my purse a little closer. “If you see me running for the door before the meeting, tackle me. Make me stay.”
The View from Prince Street Page 5
