by MJ Rodgers
And with that, he was gone, leaving Michael and Briana with the painting.
It was large, three feet by five feet. Markam Newcastle was formally posed in an impeccable tuxedo, seated in one of the massive baroque Louis XIV chairs that Michael had seen in the living room of the Newcastle estate. Natalie was standing next to her father, her hand on his shoulder, wearing a floor-length deep emerald gown.
Michael first studied Markam Newcastle’s face. For a man in his late sixties, he had not aged well. He had the raw material in his thick white mane and strong facial bone structure. But the hard lines around his cold blue eyes and harsh mouth dominated and diminished every one of his favorable features.
Michael’s attention shifted to Natalie Newcastle’s face. It was a faithful rendition of her flawless features. Moreover, the artist had managed to put a glow in her white skin and flame hair that reminded Michael of Rembrandt’s uncanny ability to make the people in his paintings seem alive.
And yet, as competent as the artist had been, Michael knew instantly that Vita Pitts had been telling him the truth. For in Natalie’s eyes and around her perfect mouth was that same hardness that set on her father’s features.
And then Michael saw something else—something that set his mind to racing.
Briana stepped back from the painting, frowning hard.
“Until this moment, I thought Natalie to be very much like her mother,” Briana said. “But the resemblance I now see to her father in this portrait is unmistakable—and unnerving. Natalie is not a nice person, Michael. She is arrogant and cold and hard. I cringe to think that she’s inside me.”
“She’s not, Briana.”
Briana looked up into Michael’s eyes. They were so deeply blue and warm and sincere. She felt the breath still in her chest.
“How can you know that?” she asked.
“Because you could never look like that,” he said, with such wonderfully calm conviction that Briana’s heart suddenly swelled to fill her chest.
“You can believe that I’m not Natalie, in the face of all the evidence that says I am?”
“Yes, I can. However, I think I should point out to you that not all the evidence says you are. There is one major piece of evidence staring at you right now that says you definitely are not her.”
“Michael, what are you talking about?”
“Briana, look at the eyes in this portrait of Natalie Newcastle.”
Briana did so, trying to discover what Michael was seeing that she was not.
“Other than the fact that their expression seems so cold and unfeeling, I don’t see—”
“Briana, her eyes are light blue. I’m looking at your eyes right now, and they are violet, a shade that matches the color of your gown.”
“My eyes are very light, Michael. They have always had a tendency to pick up whatever color I wear.”
He smiled into them. “I know.”
Michael’s words, his smile, everything about him, told Briana that she was missing something. Her eyes darted back to the painting. And then she realized what Michael meant.
“Natalie’s dress in the picture is emerald green, and yet her eyes are light blue! Michael, if I had posed for this picture, my eyes would have been green, just like the dress!”
“Exactly. But Natalie’s eyes remained a light blue—the same light blue as her father’s and her mother’s.”
“I’m not her,” Briana said, on an exhalation of relief so deep that it felt as though it came right out of her soul. “But why do I have her memories, her face?”
“Briana, how would you feel about flying to Washington State tomorrow?”
“To try to find Dr. Steele?”
“No. I was thinking we might try to find Briana Berry.”
AFTER the warm, mild temperatures of Nevada and Louisiana, Briana found Washington cold. Light snow greeted them at the SEATAC airport. It got progressively heavier the closer they came to Seattle.
“We always do get our worse weather of the year in the latter half of December,” Briana said.
She directed Michael to the appropriate off-ramp and to the fastest side streets. “The firm’s offices are just another block up, on Eastlake.”
But when they got there, Briana and Michael did not find the architectural firm of Berry, Willix and Associates. They found the Quik-Fix agency, specializing in supplying temporary office workers.
“We send temps to most of the architectural firms in the area,” the receptionist said. “But I’ve never heard of Berry, Willix and Associates. Could you have the name wrong?”
Could she have the name wrong? Briana almost laughed.
“Where do you live?” Michael said as he handed Briana back into the rental car a few minutes later.
“In an apartment seven blocks down and two over. I’ll show you the way.”
But when Michael drove up to the address Briana had directed him to, all that was there was a parking lot. And beside it was a Chinese restaurant she’d never seen before.
Briana realized that she should be used to finding out that her life didn’t exist anywhere but in her mind But she wasn’t. With every new dead end she faced, a futile outrage and impotence washed through her, making her feel weak and defeated.
“Where did you grow up, Briana?” Michael asked.
“Across Puget Sound, in Silverdale.”
“We’ll take the ferry over.”
She supposed they might as well, as long as they were here. But she was fast losing all hope. Very fast
Briana stood staring out the window of the ferry throughout the entire trip. The leaden sky dropped low and heavy, releasing its snowy burden in a heavy downpour of white, whirling flakes.
Michael stood beside her, a warm, comforting presence, like a sturdy woodstove keeping back the ice of an emotional winter.
She had always prided herself on the fact that no matter what came along in her life, she faced it standing on her own two feet.
But at this moment, she would have dearly loved to be leaning against that strong, stalwart body next to hers. To be enfolded in those strong arms. To hear the beat of his heart. To feel the heat of his skin.
She was torturing herself imagining these things. But it was a sweet torture.
“There’s no use looking for the old A-frame Hazel and I lived in,” Briana said as they drove off the ferry a while later. “It was torn down years ago, when a new housing development was put up.”
“Where did you go to school?”
“Central Kitsap High, on Bucklin Hill Road in Silverdale. It’s been there since before World War II.” Briana paused to chuckle. “But with the way things are going, we’ll probably find a Christmas-tree farm in its place.”
But they didn’t find a Christmas-tree farm. Central Kitsap High School actually was where Briana remembered it She blinked several times, as though she couldn’t quite believe it. Despite the fact that it was the Christmas holidays, several cars adorned the parking lot. Michael pulled in beside them.
As they started up the stairs to the entry, Briana read the sign on the placard just outside the door: Give someone the unmatched gift of reading this holiday season. Donate your books! Sponsored by the Literacy Council.
Just inside the doors they found three senior citizens sitting behind a table, wrapping used books and tying them with a bow. One stout woman with round, flushed cheeks and bright, cheery black eyes raised her head to greet them.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m afraid you’re too late. We had our final auction last night. These books are earmarked for some housebound folks.”
“Actually, we’re not here for the auction,” Briana said. “We were hoping to get a look at the school’s old yearbooks.”
“The school isn’t open today,” the woman said, her cheery black eyes far less cheery now, as she gave both Briana and Michael a closer and more suspicious scrutiny.
“Yes, I realize that,” Briana said. “And I can see that you’re obviously busy. But i
f you could take just a moment to show us the yearbooks, we’d be most appreciative. My name is Bnana Berry. I used to be a student here. Dr. Sands and I have come all the way from southern Nevada.”
The woman’s look did not soften.
Michael pulled out his medical identification and held it out for the woman to see. “Ms. Berry and I would like to take this opportunity to make a contribution to the Literacy Council. Do you take personal checks?”
Briana watched the woman’s face go from sour to sweet in the blink of an eye. Michael had obviously pressed the right button.
“We take personal checks, cash, and firstborns,” she announced with a smile.
Michael wrote out a check and handed it to her. Briana didn’t see the amount of it, but when the woman did, her eyebrows shot to her scalp and she shot to her chubby feet
“The yearbooks are right down the hall,” she said quickly. “I’ll open the door for you.”
She shuffled between them down the hall to the office. “My name’s Mrs. Mifflin. I’m the vice president of the Literacy Council. I also teach here at the school. What yearbook are you interested in seeing?”
“1985,” Michael said.
“No, 1982,” Briana corrected. She felt Michael’s eyes immediately swing towards her.
“I thought it would be 1985,” he said.
“No, I was graduated in 1982.”
“Obviously one of those curve-wreckers,” Michael said.
Briana didn’t quite understand the connection, but she did understand the smile. She sent one back. Mrs. Mifflin opened the door to the office with the yearbooks and beckoned them inside after her. She circled around a counter and leaned down to pull out the 1982 yearbook off a shelf. She set the yearbook on the counter in front of Briana.
“I’ll have to stay with you. No offense, but these old yearbooks have a way of turning up missing.”
“I understand,” Briana said. “We won’t keep you long.”
Briana opened the yearbook and started to flip through the pages to the senior class photos. She didn’t really expect to find her picture there. Nothing else about her life had proved real. Why should this?
She went through the As quickly. And then started on the Bs. Bailey. Baker. Barrett Beatty.
And, suddenly, there it was. Berry. Briana Berry. And above the name, a very familiar ugly mug surrounded by lots of mousy hair.
Briana couldn’t believe her eyes. Her brain spun. Her legs shook. She sucked in air, but could not seem to fill her lungs.
“Briana?”
It was Michael’s voice, coming as if from a great distance. She shoved the yearbook in front of him, her index finger stiffly pointing.
“Me” was the only word that squeaked through her throat
Michael looked at the image of the high school student in the yearbook that Briana was pointing to. His eyes dropped to the name beneath it Then rose again to the picture.
The hair color was not hers, but then, hair color could always be changed. It was the features that were all wrong. This high school girl had a long jaw, a big nose and no cheekbones to speak of. She was nothing like the beautiful woman standing beside him.
And then Michael saw the eyes. And the smile. In them was the intelligence, the strength, the warmth, the wit, the humor, that had already been forged behind that homely young face.
He turned away from the yearbook picture, to the woman who had posed for it those many years before.
“She’s you,” he said, still feeling the shock of it. “You’re her. You’re beneath that homely face. And this beautiful one.”
She beamed at him—with gratitude, appreciation, and more. A lot more. So much more that he felt his heart come to a halt.
Then her expression changed abruptly. “Michael, I have to go to the Evergreen Nursing Home. I have to find Hazel!”
They yelled their thanks to Mrs. Mifflin as they ran out of the office and down the hallway to the front doors of the high school. Less than a minute later, they were in the rental car and on their way.
Michael could have reminded Briana that they both had already called the Evergreen Nursing Home and been told that no Hazel Doud was in residence. But he didn’t.
Ever since he looked at that portrait of Markam and Natalie Newcastle, Michael had suspected that something strange was going on. And now that he had seen Briana Berry’s high school picture, he was certain of it.
Briana directed him through the white, wintry streets with unerring ease to the doors of the Evergreen Nursing Home. They hurried up its path and then inside.
The reception area was quiet and deserted looking, its only adornment a green fake Christmas tree with multicolored lights. Michael thought that without the holiday decoration, it would be a dreary, drab place.
“I’m looking for a resident,” Briana said to a young man slumped over a copy of Sports Illustrated, the heels of his boots propped on the edge of the desk. He wore his dull brown hair in a greasy-looking ponytail that was as lifeless as the expression in his eyes.
“What’s the name?” he asked, with all the perkiness of the gray desk and walls surrounding him.
“Her name is Hazel Doud,” Briana said.
The receptionist typed the name slowly into his computer, letter by letter, using only one hand. “Nope. She’s not here.” He slumped back in his chair and redirected his attention to his magazine.
“I’m Briana Berry, her granddaughter. I brought her here in 1990. Please, would you look again?”
An irritated frown puckered his young brow.
“I have looked. If she were here, it would say so on the computer.”
Michael stepped forward and flashed his medical identification. He made a statement, not a request. “Check your computer to see if Hazel Doud has ever been a resident.”
The receptionist straightened immediately upon seeing Michael’s credentials. “Yes, Doctor. Of course, Doctor.”
He set the magazine aside and keyed in the request, with two hands this time. He read the response off the screen. “Hazel Doud was a resident here from October of 1990 to December of 1994.”
“Where is she now?” Briana asked.
“Six feet under,” he announced, with all the warmth of a rock. “She died of a heart attack December twenty-fourth, 1994.”
Briana stepped back, an anguished, muffled cry escaping from her throat.
Michael felt an instant tightening in his chest. He moved to Briana’s side and circled his arm through hers.
“I’d like a complete copy of Hazel Doud’s file,” Michael said to the receptionist with a clipped, emphatic command.
The receptionist looked from Michael to Briana and nodded solemnly, finally seeming to tumble to the fact that he had just told someone that her loved one had died. He executed the commands, and the file began to print out.
“Where did they take her?” Briana asked. Michael didn’t miss the catch in her voice. He could guess how difficult it was for her to project a calm front and hold the sorrow inside.
The receptionist consulted his screen. “Lewis Funeral Home.”
He handed Michael the printout on Hazel. Michael led Briana out of the nursing home and back toward the car.
With all she had faced, he had never once seen her cry. Until now. A steady stream of crystal tears slipped down her cheeks.
Michael stopped next to the car and wrapped his arms around Briana, bringing her to him, holding her tightly, unable to bear being on the sidelines of her sadness a second longer.
He knew he should not be doing this. But the desire to comfort her was too strong to deny.
She dropped her forehead on his chest with a soft sob. She felt suddenly, inexplicably fragile nestled within his arms. Fragile was not an adjective he’d ever thought he’d use with her. Holding this strong woman during her moment of sorrow roused something deep and needy within his soul.
“Hazel would be so ashamed of me,” she said into his shirt. “She taught me to laugh, not
cry.”
“I think she’d forgive you this once,” Michael’s voice said unsteadily against the fragrance of Briana’s snow-sprinkled hair.
He felt her chest expand against his, and then the deepness of her exhalation. She drew back, reached into her pocket, pulled out a tissue, dabbed at her eyes.
“I’m sorry to have fallen apart that way, Michael.”
He smiled. “A few tears is hardly falling apart, Briana. Besides, I’m convinced you could face the end of the world without falling apart.”
Her sigh ended in a smile. “Could we go to the funeral home now? I have to see to the arrangements.”
Michael blinked in confusion at Briana’s words. “What arrangements?” he asked.
“The funeral arrangements.”
“Briana, didn’t you hear what the receptionist said? Hazel died December 24, 1994.”
“Yes, I heard. It happened Christmas Eve. The first Christmas Eve I wasn’t with her! I keep praying that wasn’t the reason. The funeral home has probably been trying to reach me.”
Michael grasped Briana’s shoulders, stared into her face, as the glimmer of an incredible suspicion began to take hold in his brain.
“Christmas Eve, 1994, Briana. Hazel died three years ago.”
“Three years ago?” she repeated, looking at Michael as though he were fading in front of her. “What…?”
“Briana, it’s 1997.”
Michael watched his words hit her. Hard.
“You’re not joking, are you?”
Her question was one of hope—as though he might still take it back, tell her it wasn’t so.
“No, Briana. I’m not joking.”
The chuckle she managed this time was barely a breath. “Well, looks like I was wrong again, Michael. I’m not missing three weeks out of my life. I’m missing three years!”
BRIANA STOOD ALONE in front of the gravestone as she read its simple inscription:
Hazel Doud
Born December 12, 1912
Died December 24, 1994
What the stone didn’t say was that Hazel Doud had been a sweet soul, filled with the strength of gentleness and love. That she had made the world a much more beautiful place simply by being in it.
