by Peter Sexton
Evan McBain, Lawrence’s editor for the last seven years, looked off toward the young woman now. “Do you know who she is?”
“Not a clue,” Lawrence admitted.
Evan peered a moment longer. “So you were saying...”
Lawrence continued to watch the young woman. Where have I seen her before? he wondered.
“Yes...uh, Gillian can’t stop talking about his work.”
“Well, I can certainly see why. He has a sort—”
“Larry!”
Gillian Blackwell’s frantic cry cut through their conversation. The quiet buzz of chit-chat floating about the gallery instantly ceased. Lawrence turned toward his wife.
The young woman had collapsed, and Gillian was kneeling beside her, cradling her head in her arms.
The crowd parted as Lawrence hurried across the room.
“What happened?”
“Just help me get her into my office,” Gillian instructed, without fielding his question.
Concern and curiosity hovered on the faces of the patrons clustered around the scene, gawking and talking amongst themselves.
Lawrence lifted the slight young woman into his arms and carried her toward the suite of offices beyond the gallery floor.
Before he even reached the door, Lawrence saw Richard and Penelope approaching, faces painted with concern. He could hear them calming the patrons, reassuring them that everything was going to be all right.
Once in Gillian’s office, Lawrence set the young woman gently on the couch. “I’ll call 911.”
The woman stirred and tried to rise. “No.” Her voice came soft, barely above a whisper. “You don’t need to call anybody. I’m okay.”
Lawrence hesitated, turning to Gillian for guid- ance, waiting for his wife to say something. The muscles on her face tensed. She did not speak. “We should get someone here to look at you, just to be safe,” Lawrence said to the young woman finally, lifting the phone from Gillian’s desk.
“I’m okay,” she repeated, as she pushed herself up onto her elbows with effort. “Please don’t call anyone. They’ll kill me.”
Four
When he finally arrived home just before midnight, Lawrence found the young woman from the gallery sitting at the kitchen table with his wife. Both women looked up from their quiet conversation as he walked into the room.
“What’s going on, Gill? Where did you go? I went out to help Richard and Penny keep everyone from freaking out, like you asked. The next thing I knew you were gone.”
The women rose to their feet. Gillian looked back and forth between Lawrence and her guest, as though stalling until she could compose the perfect words. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. I just...I needed to get her out of there.”
Lawrence was speechless. He couldn’t help feeling as though he had interrupted a private conversation for which he wasn’t invited.
Finally, Gillian blurted, “This is Miranda.”
As if Lawrence was just supposed to know who Miranda was. His mouth opened on something he was about to say, but closed again. He took a moment for a slow breath. He wanted to be polite, pleasant, and not let his frustration and anxiety cause him to be abrupt and rude. This wasn’t like Gillian. She was always so careful and calculated. He exchanged strained hellos with the young woman before Gillian offered her the use of the upstairs shower.
“I’d like that,” Miranda said, “thank you.” To Lawrence she said, “Nice meeting you.”
“You, too.”
Miranda slowly put a smile on her face, then reached out and touched Gillian on the shoulder as she made her way out of the kitchen.
Husband and wife watched in silence as the young woman climbed the stairs. She looked considerably better than she had just hours earlier at the gallery. Her face showed more color, and there was a hint of vigor in her step.
When she was out of earshot, Lawrence asked, “Who is she, Gill? What’s going on?”
He could see Gillian had been waiting for these exact questions. Tears wet her eyes, as she cleared dirty dishes from the table and carried them to the sink.
“Wait for me in the living room,” she said. “There’s something I need to show you.”
Lawrence did as instructed, and Gillian appeared moments later carrying a newspaper folded in her hand. She sat next to her husband on the couch, tears coming harder now. He tried to put his arm around her, but she pulled away.
“Seriously now, Gill. What’s the matter?” Disqui- et edged his usually gentle and carefree voice.
Gillian unfolded the newspaper and stared at the front page for a long time before handing it to her husband.
“Look at the headline.”
CHEMIST SOUGHT FOR QUESTIONING IN CHILD DEATHS.
A captioned photograph accompanied the article; Lawrence recognized the face.
“Oh God.” He glanced up from the paper. “This is about your ex-husband.”
“Ye-es.” Gillian’s voice cracked.
Lawrence scanned the masthead, discovered the issue was a day old, and not their local edition.
“Where did you get this?”
“Miranda brought it.”
Lawrence looked hard at his wife now. “So who is she, Gill? What’s she got to do with all of this? What was she doing at the gallery?”
Gillian shook her head, the movement slight, almost imperceptible. She took the newspaper back from her husband, stared at it as she spoke. “She’s my daughter.”
Lawrence was certain he had misheard her. He played the words back in his head. Then he recalled the familiarity he had seen in the young woman earlier. “Your daughter? How can she be your daughter? That girl must be at least—”
“Twenty-two. I was young.”
Lawrence didn’t know what to feel, what to say. It was as if he had just woken from a dream, or perhaps was still in one. “She’s your daughter?” It sounded wrong just hearing the words spoken aloud. “Why haven’t you ever told me about her?”
Gillian made a production of refolding the news- paper and setting it down on her lap.
“I don’t know. Afraid, maybe. I suppose, for right or wrong, she belonged to a time in my life that I wanted to forget, needed to forget. I’ve told you a little about it.”
Lawrence nodded, because he didn’t know what else to do. He could not fathom ever trying to forget your own child, no matter what the circumstances.
“I was concerned for Miranda,” Gillian continued. “Miranda and her father. Hell, I don’t know how I managed to get through that time. I was undoubt- edly a danger to myself. You know I would never have hurt her intentionally, but God knows I was a wreck. She was better off with her father.” Gillian paused. The tears came in waves now, crashing down her cheeks. “All Miranda understood was that I had deserted them both. She told me she hated me and never wanted to see me again.”
“She must have been hurt. I’m sure she didn’t mean it literally.”
Gillian remained silent. She gave no indication of having heard her husband’s last words. Then she said, “How do you explain to your daughter that you’re staying away from her because you love her? How do you make a child understand and believe something like that?”
Lawrence didn’t know how to respond, couldn’t possibly proffer answers to such questions.
“I called a few months later and asked to speak with her, but she wouldn’t come to the phone. I was devastated. After that I thought I was doing the right thing by staying away. I just wanted them both to be happy and safe.”
“But you were working to get your demons in check, right? Get the drinking under control, the drugs, come to terms with the bad choices you’d made? What about once you had worked it all out?”
“If only it could’ve been that simple.”
“What complicated it? From what you’ve told me—”
“There’s more to the story, Larry. A lot more.”
Though this revelation should have come as a surprise to Lawrence, it didn’
t. He always suspected there was more to Gillian’s past, details she had left out. She had given him the abridged version of her past. And he had tried not to let it bother him. It didn’t change how he felt about her. He simply assumed she would fill in the gaps when she was ready. He had waited this long....
“I figured it was too late,” Gillian continued. “I was certain I’d managed to lose them both for good.”
Lawrence took his wife’s hands and held them tight.
“When Miranda showed up at the gallery tonight, it was the first time I’d actually seen her since I left them over fifteen years ago. She told me she was in danger. She told me her father had been murdered.”
More than an hour later, Miranda and Gillian were once again facing each other at the dining room table, an uncomfortable silence growing between them. Lawrence had already gone up to bed.
“Dad never stopped loving you,” Miranda finally blurted. She didn’t look up from her coffee mug, not at all interested in her mother’s reaction to the statement. It had been on her mind since setting eyes on Gillian again. “And I never stopped hating you.”
“Oh, hell, Miranda. Let’s please not do this.”
“I just want to be honest with you. I’m sure you realize how hard it was for me to come to you for help.”
“Yes.”
“I wouldn’t have if I’d had a choice.”
“I believe you, Miranda. I was shocked when you showed up at the gallery tonight.” Gillian hesitated. “You looked...I don’t know. I almost didn’t recognize you.”
Miranda finally looked up at her mother. “How would you? It’s not like I’m still seven.” Miranda heard the accusation in her own voice, but she couldn’t help it.
“Walter sends me pictures of you from time to time, you and your father. But what I saw last night...didn’t look anything like you.”
“I’ve barely slept in over a week. I don’t think I’d eaten in, like, almost three days. I was planning to stay at Uncle Walter’s for a few days while I figured out what to do.”
“But they found you, the people who you say killed your father?”
“Yeah. After that I couldn’t think of where else to go. Dad’s car was all shot up, so I moved everything into Uncle Walter’s truck. When I was going through the glove compartment looking for a spare key, that’s when I found a business card from the gallery with the name Gillian Blackwell and the Santa Barbara address. I called the number before I left Uncle Walter’s. As soon as I heard your voice I knew it was you.”
“You called?”
“I didn’t know what to say so I just hung up. Hearing your voice kinda threw me for a major loop. I needed to try and get my head around the fact that it was really you.”
“Okay, Miranda,” Gillian said, “you need to slow down. You still haven’t told me what exactly hap- pened to your father, or how you ended up at Walter’s house, or exactly who it is you’re running from.”
Miranda took a drink, blotted her lips with a cloth napkin. She wondered how much she should tell her mother.
“After I moved everything from the Infiniti to the truck, I got a blanket from the house and covered Dad with it. Then I headed straight up here to Santa Barbara.”
“You just left your father out there in his car?” Gillian sounded anguished.
“I didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t carry him by myself. When I was about fifty miles away I stopped and made an anonymous call to the sheriff’s depart- ment, told them where to find him. About ten minutes later Walter’s truck broke down. I hitched it the rest of the way here.”
Gillian stared at her daughter, dumbfounded look on her face. “What about Walter? Where was he?”
“I don’t know. Dad said he was gonna be gone for a while.” Miranda realized she was fidgeting with her fingers, and stopped. “All these years...” She sipped more coffee. “I figured I was never going to see you again. I don’t know, maybe I hoped. And then I discover you’ve been living less than an hour away from us this whole time.”
Gillian started to say something but hesitated. Then she battered Miranda with a second barrage of questions.
“Who exactly are these people, Miranda? Why are they after you? What did your father get you mixed up in?”
“Don’t blame him,” Miranda snapped. “This isn’t his fault.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Gillian appeared to consider her next words carefully. “You know you have to do something about this, Miranda. You need to go to the police, let them help you.”
“I can’t do that.” Resolute. Certain.
“What do you mean you can’t do that?” Gillian reached across the table and placed her hand on Miranda’s. “This is serious. If I’m going to be able to help you, you need to tell me what in hell this is all about.”
Miranda pulled her hand away and started to cry. Her hand went to the locket hanging from the thin gold chain around her neck, and she caressed it between her fingers, stared down at it as she spoke.
“It’s not that simple.”
“What’s not that simple, Miranda? Talk to me.”
Miranda was sobbing loudly now. Fighting to hold it back, keep from losing it completely. She took a deep breath. Another one.
Then she said, “They killed my baby.” Distant, almost inaudible, still looking at the locket in her hand.
Gillian was raising her coffee cup to take a drink but froze mid-motion. After a moment, she set the cup down hard. “What baby? Walter never told me anything about a baby.”
“I don’t think he even knows about her. We haven’t gotten out to see Uncle Walter since before she was born.”
Miranda held the heart-shaped locket out toward Gillian and released the clasp, revealing the tiny photo within.
“Her name was Maren.”
Her name was Maren. Those four words pierced Miranda’s heart, the realization that for the first time she had referred to her baby daughter in the past tense.
Gillian studied the photograph. “She’s beautiful.” Several beats of silence passed between them. “What about her father? Where’s he?”
Miranda rubbed tears from her eyes, shook her head.
“It’s a long story, Mother.”
Five
Saturday.
It was already late-morning when Miranda made her way downstairs and into the kitchen. She smelled a hint of eggs and bacon. Lawrence Blackwell was at the coffeemaker filling a mug. He held it up toward Miranda.
“Coffee?” he asked.
Miranda nodded. Lawrence took another mug down from the cupboard and filled it for her, then brought it to the table as she sat down.
“Thanks.” She held the mug with both hands and sipped some of the steaming beverage.
“We saved you some breakfast,” he said. He put the plate of food into the microwave. “Get any sleep?”
She shook her head. “Tossed and turned all night. Didn’t like what I saw when I closed my eyes.”
When Miranda’s food was warmed up, Lawrence brought it to the table. They continued to talk while she ate.
He said, “You know...I recognized you last night. I know I hadn’t ever met you before, but you looked so familiar. I couldn’t put my finger on it at the time, but you have so many of your mother’s features and mannerisms.” He took a drink of his coffee. “How are you doing? You holding up?”
Miranda had been trying not to think about it, but the emotional exhaustion weighed down on her shoulders. She attempted to bring a smile to her face. “The best I can.”
“Gill told me about your daughter.” Lawrence’s voice softened. “I’m very sorry.”
“It seems so unreal to me. I can’t believe she’s gone. I still expect to wake up with her in the morning, do her morning feeding and bath, the whole routine.” She paused, fought to control her emotions, sipped some coffee. “We had to start running the morning before her funeral. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.” Another beat of silence. She took a slow, calming breath.
“First Maren, and now my dad. I don’t know how I’m ever gonna get through it. They were my whole life.”
“I know right now it must feel like you’re never going to heal and be able to go on, but you will. It’s just going to take a while. Maybe a long while.”
Miranda registered the solemn conviction in his voice. Is he speaking from personal experience? she wondered.
“It sounds like you know something about loss.”
Lawrence didn’t answer immediately. His face showed pain, sadness. He stared at his coffee mug. “I had a daughter.” Another long pause. “She and her mother died during childbirth.”
“Jesus!” Miranda waited for him to continue.
Lawrence seemed to struggle to find his voice. “It was a long time ago.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t. It’s all right.” They sat together quietly as Miranda ate her breakfast. “I just haven’t thought about it in a while,” Lawrence eventually continued. He stared at her for a moment as if waiting for her to say something. “Well, you’re not here to talk about my past.”
He took her dirty dishes and put them in the sink, then returned to his seat.
“So what else did my mother tell you?” Miranda asked.
“She just said you’re in some kind of trouble.” He paused. “She thinks you should go to the police and let them help you.”
“I know, she told me that last night. But she doesn’t seem to understand that isn’t an option.”
“I think I might agree with her.”
Miranda’s tone took on a sharp edge and her voice grew louder. “Please don’t try and second-guess me with this. Believe me, if it was an option I’d go straight to the police.”
“I’m sorry,” Lawrence said. “You’re right. I don’t know enough about what’s going on to jump to conclusions.”
Miranda felt the muscles on her face relax slightly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bark at you like that.”
