Measures of Oistrakh’s Violin Concerto no. 1 wind through my head as my heels click toward the front door of India Church’s house. It’s a mournful melody that I played while my father lingered. The last piece my father heard before Rob stepped in, conducting music and fate. I ring the bell, which I don’t think is working, and then knock. Helen answers. Oistrakh is replaced by Flagler’s “Turmoil”—an even darker piece of music. She is less appealing than at the gala, with her bony frame and makeup-less, drawn face, pajama pants, and a T-shirt advertising a rock band I do not know. I shouldn’t judge. Yet it’s hard not to—her troubles show at a glance. Her arm is extended, holding open the storm door. On it are obvious track marks. Whether they are old or new I don’t know. “Is your sister home?”
Her face contorts. At first I think she’s going to slam the door, having pegged me for a social worker, perhaps a narcotics detective. “I know you from somewhere.”
“We met at the Boston Public Library. I arranged for the string ensemble.”
She shakes her head. “No. That’s not why . . .” She points a chipped, black-painted fingernail in my face. “You’re Theo’s friend . . . classroom person,” she says. “The one doing time.”
I suppose this has to begin somewhere. “Yes . . . Well, no, actually. I’m not here because of that. Is India home?”
“But this has to do with Theo.”
“Yes,” I say firmly. “But it’s not about Theo and India. I need to speak with her about something else that involves him.” She studies me; she’s going to tell me to go to hell. I grab the storm door that is oddly firm in her grip. “It’s important. Very important, or I wouldn’t have come.”
By sheer will or Helen’s weakness, a few moments later I find myself in the Churches’ kitchen. The tidy outside was misleading. The modest, not particularly modern kitchen is brimming with dirty pots and pans, open canisters of flour and sugar, a myriad of smells—roasted meats and pastries. Helen catches my ricocheting gaze.
“My mother experiments a lot with food. She’s brilliant at coming up with recipes that sell, not so much at cleaning up . . . or anything else.” I suppose Helen relates to the disarray. I recall Shep’s remark about Daisy Church, a woman who’s fought her own demons. On the table are magazine clippings, New York Times food articles, scads of notes jotted in erratic handwriting: ingredients, recipes, names, and phone numbers for what I assume are potential clients. It strikes me that nothing here is finished and what’s here is in a permanent state of bedlam. Heading toward the stairs, Helen turns back. “My mom is the creative food genius. My dad handles the particulars. Otherwise . . .” Her gaze rolls over the mess.
“Otherwise it would all be nothing but chaos?”
“I doubt it would even be that.”
It’s a wonder Take Me to Church Catering has accomplished as much as it has. Perhaps India’s presence is responsible for some of it. “Are they here, your parents?” I hadn’t given any thought to negotiating parental units. I want India’s help. They may only want to protect her. It’s a concept I’ve stood on the edge of for twenty-six years.
“No, they went into the city early this morning. Potential gig at some swanky hotel. Would be a huge deal if they got it. The Boston event went well. I assume Mother McAdams was pleased; she passed our name along.” Helen’s words are plainly acerbic. “I’ll get India.” She moves toward the stairs. “Claire is nothing, if not good on her word.”
In the fleeting moments of solitude, I imagine how appalled Theo would be if he knew where I was. Why I’ve come. I close my eyes and swallow it down. Gut instinct insists this is still my best shot. When I open my eyes, the girl Theo loves stands in front of me. Helen stands behind her, which only accentuates the difference. India is striking, though not traditionally pretty—her red hair and freckles keep pedestrian beauty at a distance. Unlike her sister, she is dressed for the day, an Ivy League–looking blue sweater and jeans. A hint of makeup barely masks the freckles, and her wavy tresses look as if she’s just finished drying them. She is clearly confused by my presence. “You know Theo?”
“I do. I’ve been serving community service hours in his classroom since September. My name is Olivia Klein.”
“You play with the New England Symphony.” Her knowledge surprises me. “I spoke with Theo a while back. He mentioned you. You’re a musician, like him.”
“A violinist, yes. I, um . . .” I point to the nearby living room, a slightly less topsy-turvy setting than the Churches’ kitchen. “Theo and I, we have a few things in common—some more obvious than others.” I’ve piqued her interest. “Could we talk in there?”
“About Theo?” she asks, walking in that direction.
“Yes. About Theo.”
She abruptly turns. “Is he all right? He’s not sick, is he?”
For a girl I do not know, the panic in her voice is palpable. “No, Theo is fine. Healthy as a horse last I checked.” I can’t help myself; I need to see her reaction. “Unless, of course, you count a broken heart as ill.”
It’s no more than a brief glimpse before India turns away. Yet I swear her hazel eyes have gone glassy. Once in the living room, India and I sit. Helen hovers like a skeleton chaperone. While I’d like to ask her to leave, India apparently doesn’t feel the urge. I wait a moment too long, and her take-charge personality, the one Theo described, darts in.
“So why are you here, Olivia? I can’t imagine any circumstance that would bring you from Theo’s classroom to my living room.”
The next half hour passes. I become the preacher in the Church house. No one speaks but me. Not after India’s initial assumption that I’ve come on Theo’s behalf—a third-party attempt to mend things between them. She doesn’t look me in the eye as she insists repairing their relationship is impossible. I admit to feeling sorry for Theo and his heartbreak. But I quickly assure her it’s not the purpose of my visit. India is rightfully perplexed. What else could this be, other than a busybody acquaintance looking to be a bridge? A few sentences later and India is rendered silent; Helen sinks into a wing chair in a corner behind India. I’ve heard that drug addicts will lie to anyone as a means to their end. From the way Helen’s ass hits the chair, I suspect the revelation of my lie has outdone her.
As my story unravels, it’s India’s hands that react. They start out folded politely in her lap. As I speak, one hand rises to cover her heart. It slides upward with each sentence, gripping her swan-like throat and pressing firm against her cheek as I say I am Theo’s birth mother. Her other hand remains in her lap, curled in a fist as I explain Sam Nash and our past. I do not spin anything; there’s no time for gracious prologues. I tell her all of it: the fateful car wreck and New Zealand decision, my deliberate choice of nearby, stateside parents. There’s a brief overview of how I went on with my life and how that changed on September 11th. How it changed even more when I took a baseball bat to my husband’s Porsche and manipulated community service hours in her ex-fiancé’s classroom.
I do take a brief moment to assure her that it was more than a drunken fit, that Rob’s costly error has put my own charitable effort in jeopardy. (I save the Shep Stewart update; it’s too much at once.) Finally I tell her about Sam’s reemergence and his illness. When I get to the part about Sam’s relapse and the possible cure running through Theo’s bone marrow, India’s hand clamps over her mouth. “I know it’s a lot to take in, India, but time is critical and—”
“Why?” she says, interrupting. “Why are you here telling me all this?”
I blink, glancing around a well-lived-in room. I thought this much would be obvious. “Because I’m worried about what Theo’s reaction will be.”
“An excellent question since you’ve done nothing but lie to him from the second you met him.”
I sit up taller. “Not exactly since the moment I met him—just in this century.”
The clarification flashes a bit of perspective in India’s face. She glances over her shoulder at Helen. In reply,
she offers her sister a dumbfounded look. India turns back to me. “What do you want me to do, tell him for you?”
“No, I’ll tell Theo myself. I have a return ferry this afternoon. With or without you, I’m going straight to his apartment. I thought if you were there it would lend credibility, keep Theo from—”
“Keep him from telling you exactly where you can go?” India makes serious eye contact. She stands.
I clear my throat, recalling Theo’s no-nonsense description of India’s iron will and loyalty—which apparently extends to former fiancés. “Look, I’m fully prepared for Theo to hate me, never want to lay eyes on me again. I get it. You, my husband, my best friend . . . I’m good on the hole I’ve dug for myself, the mistakes I’ve made. What I can’t have happen is to allow Sam Nash to die. Not when I hold possibility in my hand. But you’re right. Theo will be angry. I don’t want him to take it out on Sam; he hasn’t the time or strength. Theo will listen to you. That’s why I’m here.”
Most people might ask why they should do anything on behalf of a person they’ve never laid eyes on—give a kidney to a stranger or go diving headlong into their own past, one they so ardently erased. India twists again toward Helen. Helen, who I assume will tell her sister that she is nuts if she considers helping me. That volunteering to be my personal envoy is nothing short of idiotic. She will remind India that reentering Theo’s life on any level is a bad idea. Not if she truly wants to move on. Helen, who’s pulled on a sweater, covering the track marks on her arms, draws a tremulous breath. She’s curled in the chair like a fragile bird in a nest. Yet India waits for her advice. “Seems to me you’ve done more for lesser people. It’s up to you, India, if you think you can handle it.”
A few moments later I am in the Churches’ tiny foyer, buttoning my coat. India has gone to get hers. Helen continues to hover near the edge of the steps. I get to the last button and make fierce eye contact with her. “Is there something you want to say?” I brace for another tongue-lashing.
“I couldn’t give a shit about your ex . . . whatever.” I cock my head, hearing a bluntness that most often comes out of my own mouth. “But you should know, aside from me, there are . . . other people responsible for India’s unhappiness . . .”
“Is she unhappy?”
“India’s a glass half full kind of girl. But yes, she is. I’m not blameless; I get it. If there’s turmoil, it’s probably attached to me.” She glances around her disorderly, somewhat dirty house. “Genes are what brought you here today, right, Olivia?” I focus on her lucid observation. “My mom and I, we share some really crappy ones. Every day is a struggle. Her manic tendencies could decide tomorrow that nothing is worth more than that next drink—or maybe it’d be better if she didn’t exist at all. Sometimes I see her point.” It draws a well-earned look of surprise from me. “I’m not suicidal. Just your run-of-the-mill heroin addict. India and my dad, for sure they got the short end of the deal. No matter how it appears on the outside . . .” Helen points to the neat front lawn and cheery pumpkin. “The inside,” she says, pointing to herself, the house, “looks pretty much like this.”
I smooth the front of my coat, simpering at her candidness. “While I can’t relate to your precise demons, Helen, I know what it is to be at the crux of mayhem. What’s your point when it comes to your sister?”
“Just know that India is going with you for more reasons than she’s willing to admit. Reasons that, in her mind, don’t outweigh our fucked-up family.” Helen glides a step in my direction. We are nearly nose to nose in the tiny space. Her breath smells of toothpaste and cigarettes. “India needs to forget about us. Move on. But mostly she needs to forgive herself.” Helen draws a breath. “While you’re busy trying to save that guy’s life, maybe give some thought to hers.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Olivia
India and I speak very little during the car ride to the ferry. While I can think of plenty to say, I’m fearful of further alienating her. She may change her mind and demand I turn the car around. She only converses to point out a shortcut to the ferry dock. Once on board, India announces that she’ll go up to the top deck and sit in the sun. It’s turned into an unusually warm late-fall day. But her choice of seat is not about warmth. It’s a clear indication that I should sit somewhere else. I claim a stool at the ferry’s bar and sit with a glass of cheap white wine for the duration of the sail.
Back inside the car, silence resumes. I turn on some music—a collection Rob once put together for me: Strauss, Mendelssohn, Pachelbel, and a few others. He called it the calming classicals. At the time, I thought it was a sweet gesture—now I’m struck by his effort to assemble intricate scores he only knows because I exist. I’m surprised by how much I’m hoping music will underscore this day. We’re well into our journey up Interstate 95 and Pachelbel’s Canon in D when India finally asks a question. Do I like playing in the symphony? I offer a canned response the New England Symphony PR folks would like to hear. “Yes. Of course. It’s an honor to play for them.”
“I don’t know much about music, but I think Theo has that kind of gift.” She points to the car stereo as we listen to a distinctive section of solo violins. I feel her sideways glance. “The ability to play like that, he gets it from you.” I nod. “And his father . . . Sam,” she says tentatively, as if in reverence to David McAdams. “You said he played baseball professionally.”
“That’s right. I don’t follow sports, but I know Sam is quite celebrated, a pitcher for the California Angels.”
“My dad might have heard of him. He’s a baseball fan.”
“I’m sure that’s possible. Inherent things like music or athleticism . . . If Theo had to inherit something, I’d say he got the two best parts.”
“He went to Cornell on a lacrosse scholarship. Did you know that?” I nod again.
India is quiet; her fingers trail along the leather stitching on the Audi’s door. Her gaze inches toward me. “I saw it before you told me.”
“Saw what?”
“Your smile.” I look in her direction, not producing one. “When I came into the kitchen, you smiled. It was just polite reflex, maybe nerves. But the first thing I noticed was your smile, the shape of your face—it’s exactly like Theo’s.”
“I believe it is.”
“You have beautiful blue eyes.” My chin tips upward, a fast glance in the rearview mirror—eyes completely different from Theo’s. “But I love . . . loved Theo’s eyes. Does he have his father’s eyes?”
“He does,” I say, gripping tight to the steering wheel.
“Theo never talked about it much, his adoption.” She grants me a glance. “Not really a guy topic—not even when they’re being sensitive . . . introspective.” I nod at India’s wisdom. “But I know he’s wondered, more than he ever said.”
“Wondered what exactly?”
“If his biological parents were in love. I think it was on his mind because of what he remembers about Claire and David McAdams.”
“Because they were so in love?”
“Something like that. Theo told me he once put the question to Claire, asked if she knew. She told him that of course his biological parents were madly in love. It was exactly how Theo came to be their son.”
“But that’s not what Theo was really asking,” I prod.
“Not really. But he didn’t push for more. He’d never . . .” India trails off, a deep sigh seeping out of her. “Theo would never do anything to upset Claire. But yes, he’s always wanted to know if . . .”
“If his parents were in love or if he was the product of a one-night stand?” I pause, considering Shep Stewart’s rawer conclusion. While the conniving reporter can assume what he wants, I am sickened by the same notion crossing Theo’s mind. “Has he wondered something worse, India? Has Theo wondered if he’s the result of a heinous crime?”
There’s a small nod from India. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like Theo’s spent years dwelling on it. But it’s one thin
g I’m sure he’d like to know . . . if his birth parents were in love, or . . .”
I do not smile; I’ve not earned any reward here. I simply answer India’s question. “Then Theo will get one bit of positive closure today.”
India sinks back into her seat. “Until his father . . . David McAdams died, Theo did have the perfect childhood.”
“Good to know.” I hear a snarky Olivia Klein tone. “I mean, having gotten to know Theo, that’s apparent. But what about after 9-11, India? I know you weren’t there. But you do know Theo. I’m sure he talked about his life after that. It must have been difficult for Claire.”
“No one would argue the fact. And she did a brilliant job raising Theo. You’d have to be the most thoughtless, callous human being to find fault with her . . . the things she wants for him.”
We entered Boston proper a few miles back. I ease onto an exit ramp. What the hell, it’s not like India can change her mind now. “Why do I hear a but on the topic of Claire?”
“There’s not,” she quickly defends. “I mean it’s understandable after such a tragedy. Claire McAdams lost the man she loved; she was devastated. It’s perfectly logical that her only son would become her whole life.” She looks right at me. “Isn’t it?”
India leads since she knows precisely where Theo’s apartment is located. She’s grows increasingly quiet as we approach the building. Whatever her thoughts, now is not the time to interrupt them. We wait for the elevator and I take a quick peek at my cell phone. There’s a missed call from Rob, the house number; he’s left a message. I want to listen to it, a combination of dread and desperation.
But I can’t do that right now. Besides, what would I say? “Hey, don’t mind me while I listen to this message. I’m just curious if I have a home to go back to when we’re done here. Or Rob may just want to let me know that my personal items have been relocated to a PODS container on Commonwealth Ave . . .” I smile Theo’s smile, which India gulps at, and drop the phone back into my purse.
Unstrung Page 33
