Brian’s face suggested the same vertigo had overtaken him. “You don’t know her name? Then how—how can I find her?”
Tom regarded the birth certificate more closely. Now his voice was helpful, mildly concerned. “There must have been an adoption agency involved. I’d suggest you start there.”
“But—but that’s how I got the birth certificate.”
Tom nodded, judicious now. “Maybe they have more information.” He held out the birth certificate, and Brian automatically stepped forward and took it.
I couldn’t stand this strange spectacle. “Tom!” I said sharply. “Tell us what happened. How this came to happen.”
He’d started towards the archway back to the front hall, but stopped and turned as I spoke. “The usual way, I suppose.” He’d gone back to callous again. He sounded bored.
“The usual way.” I almost choked on that. It was too vague and too graphic, all at the same time. “When? And where?”
He shook his head. “Washington, I guess. It’s hard to remember. When I started at the Post.”
“Where did you meet her?”
“I don’t remember. A bar. Look—sorry, kid,” he said, flicking a glance at Brian. “It wasn’t a relationship. You understand? It was just a one-night stand.”
“How do you know it was a one-night stand?” I demanded.
“Because that’s all I had that summer.”
That hurt—stabbed deep. That summer . . . that summer I’d been so devastated after our pre-graduation breakup. I’d been so foolish. I’d turned down even a date with my high school boyfriend, because I couldn’t imagine being with anyone but Tom. And he was having one-night stands all over Washington.
“But—” Brian said hesitantly, “but if that’s all it was, then how—how did she know about your wife?”
“Ellen wasn’t my wife then,” Tom said quickly. “We weren’t even together.”
This apparently he wanted on the record, as though that technicality was all that mattered. It was aimed at me, I knew—an excuse, not an explanation.
“But she said you two were married. When I was born. How would anyone know to put her name on the birth certificate, if she didn’t know you and didn’t know you’d gotten married?”
This stopped Tom. It stopped me too. I didn’t know what it meant.
Tom recovered first. “I said I didn’t know her. She might have known me. She must have known me. I had bylined articles in the Post even then. And marriages—that’s public record. Maybe she looked me up in some database and found the marriage record.”
Database. It sounded so impersonal. Not to mention implausible. In 1991, you couldn’t just do an Internet scan for someone’s name.
Besides, no woman whose name he didn’t know would go to this much trouble to implicate him. “Tell us the truth.” My voice, embarrassingly, quavered with intensity.
But Tom didn’t even seem to notice. He shook his head, impatient, I gathered, with us both. “I’ve told you all I know.”
Brian’s eyes narrowed. I was reminded of that first, frightening impression I had of him, when he emerged from the shadows of the church sanctuary. Carefully he said, “Do you know even which one she was?”
“Which one?”
“Which one of your one-night stands?”
“No.” Now, finally, there was some emotion in his voice. Regret. “No, I don’t. I was drinking a lot then. I don’t remember much at all.”
I saw Brian’s eyes, wide with something like shock, and I wanted to tell him it was a lie, that my husband was lying, that this woman meant something to him, so much that even now, when it couldn’t matter except to us, he protected her identity. But I couldn’t say it. I didn’t know if that was because of some stupid residual marital loyalty, or because the boy would be better off thinking Tom truly didn’t know—but I couldn’t accuse him outright of lying.
Brian made an abrupt gesture with his hand and started towards the door. But he stopped under the staircase and looked up. “Where is Sarah? My . . . sister?”
Oh, God. The realization hit Tom as it hit me. He wouldn’t just walk out the door, this boy, and disappear. He wouldn’t. He was bound to this family of ours—and he wasn’t going to let us forget it.
And he was right, I told myself. He owed the boy something—an explanation, at least. And he owed me that explanation too.
I just didn’t want Sarah involved—not till we had sorted this out to my satisfaction. Before Tom could respond, I said quickly, soothingly, “Oh, she’s a camp counselor this summer. We won’t see her for weeks.” And then pleasantly, to defuse any threat, “Are you staying in town?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t decided.”
“You could stay here. We have room.” It was an insane idea, I knew even before the words were out. But I suspected he had no money and would end up sleeping in that beat-up Escort.
He stopped at the door, turning to look at me. His eyes were wary but bright now. Then he glanced over beside me at Tom, and Tom stared back, giving nothing.
“No. Thank you.” Brian opened the door. “I’ll contact you if I want to.” And then he was gone.
Tom walked off in the other direction, towards the kitchen and the back door.
“Wait! Goddamnit, Tom, you’re not going to walk out now.”
He stopped in the doorway to the kitchen but didn’t turn around. “I’m sorry if this hurts you. I’m sure it does. But it doesn’t have anything to do with you or our marriage. It happened before we married. Just a stupid mistake.”
In a couple quick steps I was next to him, and I grabbed his arm. “Don’t you say that to that boy. He’s not a mistake, and he won’t want to hear his own father say that.”
“I’m not his father,” Tom said, gazing through the kitchen, out the big window to the meadow. “He has a father—whoever adopted him. I’ve got no claim on him, and he has no claim on me.”
“It doesn’t work that way! Not anymore!”
“When someone’s adopted, the original obligation is severed.” The cool legalism gave way to his more usual gentle tone. “Your own sister is adopted. And if you’ve given two thoughts in twenty years to where she came from, I’d be surprised. Families live together. How they got into the family isn’t important.” He wrenched away from my hand. “Look, whatever this is, it’s between me and the boy. Not you. I’ll handle it.”
“You’ll handle it?” It sounded like some logistical problem, how to sneak a video camera past Libyan customs officials, or get a fake passport for a valuable source. “But it’s not just your problem. Our marriage—do you understand? I’ve never known about this, and if I had—” I stopped short. I couldn’t finish the thought.
“What? You wouldn’t have married me? For something that happened before?”
“For not telling me. It’s something I deserved to know.”
“You’re assuming I knew.”
“I know you knew.”
This he hadn’t expected. But he must have known I wasn’t bluffing. “You can believe what you want. I’ve told you everything relevant. I told you back then, when we got back together. Not this specifically, but in general.”
“What? What did you tell me?”
“That things got out of control that summer. That I didn’t do it well—freedom. You remember. When I called you that day in August.”
I didn’t remember anything about that phone call except a sudden proposal, a bright light in an escape route from a life I didn’t want. It didn’t matter. “The specific—that some woman was even then carrying your child—didn’t matter? You didn’t think I might have changed my mind if I knew?”
“I didn’t know. You can believe me or not. But I didn’t know.”
“Then.”
He didn’t answer.
“So you found out later? When?”
He shook his head. “This is going nowhere. I’m sorry this happened. I’ll take care of it. You don’t need to worry about it.” He walke
d through the hall to the kitchen. “I’m going for a run.”
“But you just got back from a run—”
My protest followed him out the back door. I saw him bend to tie his shoe, and then he was off, running again, away, as he always did since Tehran, running.
CHAPTER TWO
Somehow I made it through the session meeting that evening. It was typically contentious, but for once I didn’t worry that the union between Rushmore Presbyterian and Second would fall apart on my watch. Yes, the merger was three years old, but in Virginia, loyalties don’t fade so quickly. And rightly or wrongly, I was considered as a patsy of the Second faction. Every time I’d opened my mouth the last year, I’d hear from the Rushmoreans: “This isn’t the Catholic church, Ellen. You’re not a priest running the parish. Here, the congregation elects its leaders, and the leaders hire the minister.”
It was this faction who’d forced the last three ministers out.
I needed this job. It was a solid position for a relatively new seminary graduate, especially one without a Y chromosome. We couldn’t move to a new town, not with Tom teaching at the university, and our emotional and financial investment in the old house. And two years ago, when Tom had come back from Tehran, we’d promised Sarah that she could graduate from the local high school just like a normal kid. There was only one other Presbyterian congregation in town, one of those elite Big Steeple churches with a nationally known preacher at the pulpit. I wouldn’t be able to get on even as an assistant there, particularly if I were fired here.
But it wasn’t fear of unemployment that kept me silent and sullen in the corner of the Session Room as the Seconders insisted that the church replace the original arrangement of three columns of oak pews with two brand new columns of pews with a central aisle. Rather I kept going over and over in my head what I’d learned that day about my husband and my marriage and my life.
The boy would have been conceived sometime in the summer of 1990. Where was I then? Where was Tom? He had graduated from Jefferson in May. I had to stay on campus another couple weeks to finish up a course I’d missed because of student teaching. And we’d broken up, more or less, right around graduation. I remember going home heartbroken that June, unemployed too, sending out endless résumés in the hope that some kindergarten teacher somewhere had gotten sick or pregnant or rich over the vacation.
And then in August, Tom called me, and I let him talk, and before I knew it, we were married.
Suddenly I felt claustrophobic from being surrounded by all the trivial bickering about aisles and pews. “It’s past adjournment time,” I said, hoping the edge of panic didn’t show in my voice. I felt for my little notebook computer, finding it under my chair, and flipped it on. “When did you say is the next session meeting?”
I was typing the date when it came to me. I’ve always kept a calendar. In high school, it was just one of those little ones the Hallmark shop gave away, but then my older sister started giving me nice leatherette ones for Christmas each year. (Now, of course, I used an online calendar, but I still printed out each page and put it in a binder.) My calendar book was my life record. Sometimes I wrote down more than just my appointments. Sometimes I used the itemized lines to describe the day’s weather, record pretty phrases, emote a bit.
Those journal-like calendars would be in a box in my mother’s attic. I’d packed them away there (labeling the box “textbooks” in case Mother came across it) when Tom was first posted to Brussels and we were limited to shipping 600 pounds of household goods.
As soon as the moderator dismissed us, I was out the door and into the parking lot, and in a moment was sitting in the sanctuary of my car, punching my mother’s number into the cell phone.
The housekeeper Merilee picked up the phone on the first ring. Her “Wakefields” was abrupt and angry. Mother must be keeping her late—“Merilee, this is Ellen.” I reminded myself to be courteous before making my demand. “How are you tonight?”
“I only answered because I thought it might be my ride. I don’t work here anymore. Your mother just fired me.”
This blunt declaration left me speechless. Merilee had been with our family for more than twenty years, almost since my father died. She ran the household, bought the groceries, cooked the meals. Without Merilee, well, I didn’t know what Mother would do.
Naturally, this had to come up just when I was getting pole axed by marital meltdown. I found my voice. “I’m sure she didn’t mean—let me talk to her and I’ll see if I can get her to see reason.”
“She accused me of stealing her jewelry.” Merilee’s voice was rich with contempt. “I’m not going to work for her after that, not if she begs me.”
“But—” I rubbed my forehead, trying to make some sense of this. I thought of Merilee, well into her fifties and now unemployed. “If you need a reference, of course I’ll write a letter for you.”
“Thanks,” she said curtly. “But everyone in town knows who I am, and what I am. Dr. Weaver will pay me twice as much as your mother does. He’s been trying to get me for years.”
“Merilee, you know she didn’t mean it. She must be confused or upset about something.”
“Sure. Or maybe it’s that young college boyfriend that’s confusing her, making her worry about where her treasures are going. But it’s your problem, not mine. Look, there’s my ride. Goodbye.”
And she hung up before I could ask what on earth she meant by a young college boyfriend.
It sounded so unlikely that I figured Merilee was making a joke about one of the elderly deans who sometimes lectured to Mother’s Philomathian Society. Or maybe she meant one of the students my father’s legacy funded, who were expected to express their gratitude with occasional yard work.
I hit redial. This time, after ten rings, my mother answered, her voice imperious as ever. “Yes?”
“Mother, this is Ellen. Look, I just called and talked to Merilee, and she told me—”
“That I’d fired her.”
“Mother, you know Merilee wouldn’t steal from you.”
“I don’t know that at all. In fact, I saw her at my jewelry box this morning, and when I looked this evening, my grandmother’s cameo was gone.”
I shook my head in confusion. “That cameo—it was buried with Cathy. Don’t you remember?”
There was the barest moment of a pause, and then my mother said, “Nonsense. It was the gold brooch we put on Cathy. It matched the blouse better.”
Her voice was so certain that I questioned my own memory. But I had too clear a vision of that cameo on my sister’s poor broken chest. She was buried with one item from each parent—my late father’s signet ring on her finger, and my mother’s cameo on her bodice. “It was the cameo.”
“It’s been almost twenty years, dear.” Now Mother sounded soothing. “You can’t be blamed for forgetting something so trivial.”
But it wasn’t trivial. I was about to protest once more, but Mother interrupted, “By the way, I have been thinking about my will. I should probably talk to you and Laura and Theresa about this before I call my attorney.”
“Your will?” Was Mother ill? Was that why she was reviewing her will? “What about it?”
“Oh, we should be together to discuss this, though I don’t know how that can come to be. After all, Laura is so . . . busy with her career, and Theresa, well, I don’t know whether that cloister of hers allows her out for trivial things like a parent’s last will and testament.”
It was getting hot in the car. With my free hand, I turned on the ignition and flipped on the air conditioner. “I’m sure,” I said as carefully as possible, “that if you think it’s important, Theresa will find a way to come home. It’s not as if they can hold her if she wants to leave. But is there some reason this has become imperative?”
“No reason.” Not that Mother would say if she were ill. She was of that stiff-upper-lip generation who always responded I’m just fine, thank you. She added, “But the college is doing some expa
nding, and I’ve been talking to President Urich about perhaps helping out with a contribution. You know, if your Sarah goes there next year, it will be the 7th generation of Wakefields at Loudon.”
Sarah could do better than a tiny old liberal arts college hanging off a mountain in West Virginia. The University of Chicago, maybe, or St. Johns—“She does have other schools on her list, Mother.”
“Yes, but she’s always loved visiting here and walking through the campus, and that she’s even considering it makes me remember again how important the college is to our family. And so I thought about a large contribution—well, it’s not something I want to do without talking to my daughters, of course. But I would like to make a decision while the fund-drive is going on.”
Grimly I recalled Merilee’s mention of a young college boyfriend. I could just imagine how attentive a fundraiser would be to a wealthy widow with a family tradition of supporting the college—and three daughters who seldom came home to visit. Especially if the wealthy widow might be fading a bit mentally—“Why don’t I call Laura and Theresa, and see if—”
A rap on my window distracted me.
It was Tom. He was standing beside my car, his hands jammed into the back pockets of his jeans. I said into the phone, “Mother, I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Once I’d stashed the phone in my purse, I rolled the window down six inches or so. “Yes?”
“Come on out. Let’s take a walk.”
I glanced around the church parking lot. Only Tom’s Jeep and my Volvo were left in the growing dusk. “Are you planning on telling me everything?”
His eyes narrowed. “There’s nothing left to tell.”
He expected me to be satisfied with that. It was my duty, for the good of the marriage.
Rebellion spurted through me. I was sick of duty. And I didn’t want to go on feeling responsible for a marriage I no longer recognized. “I’m going to a hotel. I’ll call you in the next couple days.” And then I raised the window, put the car into gear, and drove off and left him standing there.
The year She Fell Page 2
