The Last Name Banks

by Lacy Camey

  “Ten minutes until take off,” we heard the pilot say over the speakers.

  “Miss Banks, Logan’s last name is Sky. I’m dialing his home number for you right now.”

  My heart raced and I reached for the phone, wondering who would answer and what I would say.

  First ring. No answer. I gulped.

  Second ring. No answer. I let out a little sigh.

  “Hello?” a woman’s voice answered on the third ring.

  “Hi . . . may I speak to . . . is this Mrs. Sky?”

  “Why yes it is. May I ask who is speaking?”

  “Yes,” I sighed. I had to gather the courage to tell this poor woman that her son was lying in coma thanks to me.

  “I am . . . this is Chloe Banks. I helped in the orphanage alongside your son Logan.”

  “Yes? Is everything okay?” she sounded extremely worried. I heard water running and dishes clanking.

  “No . . . well, he . . . was bit by a poisonous spider and is in coma right now and I thought you should know. I wanted you to know—”

  The dish washing stopped.

  “Oh, dear God! This can’t be.” She sounded frantic. I would react the same way. The same way a normal mother should respond.

  “Yes . . . I’m so sorry. But I wanted to let you know I want to book flights for you and your family to fly and see him during this time.”

  “Oh . . . . ” she began to cry. “I . . . can’t believe this. Thank you so much. I can’t believe this is happening. I never wanted him to go there. It’s too dangerous.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Sky. If there is anything I can do for you, please let me know. Otherwise, I will be in the air back to Texas and unavailable for a few hours.”

  One of my father’s assistants turned a laptop to me revealing flight time. It was eleven am Venezuelan time which meant it was ten am Pacific time, Montana time.

  “There is a flight leaving Great Falls at two pm. It would put you landing at eight pm. We’ll arrange special customs for you and a van to pick up you and your family. It should bring you to him around ten pm tonight.”

  “Oh, goodness. How . . . why would you do something like that?”

  “Because Logan is a very special person and I know he needs his family right now. Besides . . . . ” I hesitated, but I gained the nerve to say it. “It’s the least I can do. It’s all my fault he’s in this mess.”

  “Dear, unless you grabbed a spider and put it on him, this is not your fault. Logan does nothing against his will. I don’t know you at all, but I do know this isn’t your fault.”

  Fresh tears appeared in my eyes as my throat closed. I couldn’t respond.

  “Two pm. Thank you. Yes, thank you so much. Thank you for calling me and for everything. God bless you.”

  Taken aback by her kindness, I found myself saying, “It’s the least I can do.”

  “I’ve never done this before, but we just show up and tell them who we are and our tickets will be ready?”

  “Yes, you just say your name and show your ID, and everything will be taken care of.”

  I heard her let out a light sigh and she sniffled. “Thank you so much, Chloe. Thank you. I must go now.”

  “Yes, of course. Oh, and when you see Logan, please tell him . . . send him my regards,” was all I could bear to say.

  “Of course.”

  “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  As I pushed end on the phone and handed it back to one of my father’s right hand men, he said, “Noted. I assume all three siblings will want to join. I just am looking up Christalene’s new last name. Almost there. Ah. There it is.”

  I was used to this my whole life. People taking care of things for me. Just say the word. But never in my life had I ever been more thankful.

  “He’ll make it, Chloe. Not to worry. Dr. Richards is the best there is,” he said to me.

  As we took off, I realized how hungry I was. I had not eaten anything in nearly twenty-four hours. I made my way to the mini fridge and stocked pantry. My mother didn’t say a word to me. She merely looked through a magazine.

  I grabbed a sandwich and couldn’t help but devour it. That got her attention. The carbs. Instead of making my way near my father, I sat directly in front of her.

  I was determined to make her talk to me. I couldn’t take it anymore.

  “Mother, I think it’s time.”

  She didn’t look up from her magazine.

  “I am old enough to take it.”

  She flipped another page.

  “Why are you so distant to me? Why can’t you stand me? Why are you always insisting I marry princes? Just tell me. Can we just be normal for once and have a mother-daughter talk?”

  She looked at my forehead, eying the fresh bandage covering my cut. She placed her magazine down and crossed her arms, reaching for her champagne glass.

  “Champagne?” she offered.

  “No, thank you. I was administered something to help me sleep and I still feel funny.”

  Ignoring me, she poured a flute and handed it to me.

  “The rule is, if you want to have a chat with me like my friends you so despise, champagne in hand.”

  I sighed.

  She waited for me to take a sip. I obliged, feeling the carbonation tickle the back of my throat and hit the bottom of my stomach. I guessed it would take a little bit of time for that sandwich to do some good.

  “I find it very peculiar your choice of words. I’m old enough to take it. Why would you say that?” She eyed me suspiciously.

  “Why? Because I’m not a little girl anymore. I’m twenty-three. The way you act towards me is so bizarre sometimes.” She looked at me in complete shock.

  “I never had the courage to voice it but I’ve had so much time to think out here and the more I think about it, the more I realize how bizarre our relationship is. I get that you’re busy. I never questioned things really until recently. I see the way other mothers interact with their daughters. And before you jump in and say we are different, which I know we are, I must ask something. Does money have to take the place of meaningful relationships? Did you never want me? Is that what it is? I’m sorry to say this, but do I get in the way of your plans?” I asked honestly, and as soon as I got the words out I felt like a weight of bricks lifted my chest. I had been waiting to say that for a very long time. I really needed to know. I just wanted to know the truth so we could move on.

  She finished her glass and poured another, all the while carrying the strangest expression on her face. An expression that on the outside appeared calm and collected, but any minute she may crack, shattering into a thousand pieces.

  She sat back down and eyed my glass.

  Okay. Fine. If this is what it would take to get her to dish. I drank two or three gulps fast and already felt buzzed from hardly eating anything and flying in air.

  She stared at me for a very long time.

  Oh, my gosh.

  She did have something she needed to tell me. I felt an intense sense of freak out mode coming on. A few tears formed in her eyes.

  Was she crying?

  She actually had feelings? I’d never seen my mother’s emotions. Ever.

  She took another sip of bubbly.

  “Once I open this can of worms, there’s no turning back. Understood? But I do suppose it will be cathartic.” She leaned back in her chair, slumped while she tapped her perfectly manicured finger against the glass.

  What on earth? I couldn’t take the suspense. This couldn’t be good. She looked like she was about to come undone.

  “What? Please tell me. Anything.”

  “You’re right. It’s time you do know the truth and since truth seems to be the current trend, I’ll give it to you straight.”

  Another moment of silence passed us. She tapped her glass nervously. I looked down the aisle at my father, who worked with his advisors, oblivious to our conversation.

  Well? My eyes could have popped out of their sockets.

/>   “You’re right. I am not your mother.”

  What?

  I knew it.

  But, what?

  The sudden confirmation didn’t feel as great as I’d imagined it to be. I felt like I had been dropped from a hundred stories and the air knocked out of my chest. I was waiting for her to say “psych” or something. Or, you’re being punked! But I doubted she even knew what psych meant, and probably wasn’t even aware of the show Punked. My heart raced and I downed my champagne and wiped my mouth.

  “But I don’t understand. I even had DNA tests . . . . ”

  “I know you did. Your mother . . . . ” she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.

  “Trust me. This will all sound like an awful . . . what’s the man’s name from the 90’s who had a day time talk show?” she asked.

  I stared at her blankly. Still dazed.

  “Oh, you know. The one where there are always fights, and a woman comes on with the potential eight fathers or so for her pregnant son and—”

  “Maury?”

  “Yes. That’s the one.”

  She took a deep breath and took another sip of champagne, finishing it.

  “You’re mother was my twin sister. Identical. After your father and I married, I had problems. Miscarriage after miscarriage. Yet, Meg in her free spirited way she was, became pregnant. I’m sorry to say but it was illegitimately. So she went into hiding, to spare our family humiliation. The next thing I know, I’m wearing a fake baby bump, being fake pregnant. With you. Everyone bought it, of course. We were going to work out the arrangement that she would see you as often as she wanted. Because of the secretive nature of this scandal, mother hired the best midwife she could find in London. You were born in the countryside. Except your mother didn’t make it . . . she died right after you delivered. The cord—” she cleared her throat and more tears flowed as she dabbed her running mascara.

  “The midwife did the wrong thing at wrong time. Meg would have made it in the hospital, I just know it.”

  I looked at my father who seemed to be paying attention to us now. My mother rarely cried.

  “Her last wish to me was something I’d never imagine her to say. She said to me, ‘Please make sure my little princess finds her prince in life.’”

  I sat there stunned and reached for my empty glass of champagne.

  “Another?”

  I nodded. Too shocked by the story. I couldn’t believe my ears. No wonder why she was always set on me finding a prince. But what if she was speaking metaphorically? I wondered what my real mother was like. Then I realized every time my mother looked at me, she saw regret. She saw pain. She saw her lost sister. No wonder why it seemed as if she hated me.

  She poured another glass for me. I was getting more buzzed with each sip.

  “So . . . my father? Dad’s not my father?” I looked at him, jaw hanging open. I was too numb to even form tears. I was in emotional shock. I always thought I was more like him though. I even thought we looked alike. I guess nurture versus nature does win in court.

  But how could he keep this secret from me all my life? How could she? I suddenly felt very betrayed.

  “Yes, darling. Of course he is your father. He loves you very much. He adopted you gladly. You are 100% our daughter. Our legal daughter. No one knows about this but my mother, myself and your father. And if you’re worried about the fortune, which I don’t blame you, of course it’s still yours.”

  That was the least of my concerns. I could care less about that.

  The truth was freeing. Yes. But never in my life had I felt so alienated and alone. Who was my real father?

  “I’m sure you’re wondering who your father is. Even with our special intelligence in our family, no one knows. And no one has to ever know about this but you. You remind me so much of her, you know.” She stared at me.

  “But you two were identical.”

  “It’s in your eyes. Your kind side. She would take care of anything that walked, every type of creature that had fur, scales, you name it. If it had a heartbeat, she’d care for.” A small smile formed on her face.

  I felt my own smile crack on. I felt so happy, relieved to hear that. I already felt connected to my real mother. Feeling brave, I asked, “Why stay away from me and not connect with me all these years? Since I do remind you of her?”

  “Oh, dear. This really is like a talk show. Because my own mother treated me this way, you see. As did her mother. And probably her mother, I’m sure of it. It’s the way our family is. I never knew anything different. The only solace I ever had was Meg. Your mother. My sister.”

  “Hence the reason for your current girlfriends and lunching. It’s all you know how to connect.”

  She nodded. “It is all I’ve known. It’s how I was raised,” she said slowly, as if realizing for the first time how it must feel or seem to someone like, well me. “Goodness, you’re much more insightful than I ever realized.”

  You also never really talked to me as a friend, I thought.

  “Well, everything’s fixable Mo—Claire,” I said quietly.

  “Oh, spare the dramatics, dear. You can still call me Mother. After all, all these years, that’s what I’ve been.”

  “It’s just . . . feels so . . . . ”

  “I know.” She placed her half drunk champagne flute on the table and looked back down at her magazine.

  Was that going to be the end? Was she merely going to look at the magazine and act as if this conversation did not just happen?

  “Cla . . . Mother.” The name was forced out of me. “Why didn’t you tell me all these years?”

  “I’m afraid it’s much more complicated than you realize. I’m terribly afraid of screwing it all up like a botched face–lift gone wrong. Don’t you know I’ve seen quite a few of those in my days. I wanted to spare you emotional pain. Believe me, I know the emotional turmoil parents can inflict.”

  I had no idea, but I wondered if she realized she had inflicted the same pain on me that her mother apparently inflicted on her. I was sure she did. She didn’t know how to change the cycle. But I knew how; I had to be the one to reach out and teach her.

  “I know I am half your age, but I’ve just learned recently the art of being free, of letting go. Maybe it’s time you do the same.”

  She shook her head. “What ever do you mean?”

  “Let me come with you tonight.”

  She shook her head even quicker.

  “Nonsense. You have to pack to get ready for your trip with Prince Joniniah. The promise I made to your mother. I may not have done anything right, but I can do this one thing right. Which reminds me- your gift. I should get it for you. I suspect diamonds this time, or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe rubies.”

  “Moth . . . did it ever occur to you that maybe my mother was speaking in metaphorical terms? And not a real life prince?” Her bottom lip hung open. Suddenly I realized her pout was a tad bit bigger than the last time I saw her. Compliments to fresh collagen.

  “That life will not make me happy. And I think all my mother wanted was for me to be happy.”

  Ignoring me, she asked, “More champagne?”

  Yes please.

  I sat there numb. Never feeling so . . . foreign. All I had ever known was my father as my dad. It was such a strange feeling knowing my real mother and father were not who I had thought them to be.

  It made a whole lot of sense as to why maybe this life never really fit for me. I liked to imagine that my biological father was a sheepherder or a painter. Something honest. Who worked with his hands like my . . . adopted father.

  I sighed.

  I was not expecting this at all.

  But what was there to do about it now?

  My mother went back to reading her magazine as if to say case closed. I guess that was a no to accompanying her to the benefit.

  I finished the champagne and felt myself growing sleepy, compliments to the bubbly.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I awoke hours
later as we flew over Mexico. It all felt a blur. Surely it was a dream. Surely I wasn’t just told the news that my father and mother weren’t my biological parents? I couldn’t believe it. Was it all a dream? It wasn’t. I sat up as an attendant handed me a bowl of steaming hot tomato basil soup. One of my favorites.