Tides of the Heart

by Jean Stone

  “Ginny Stevens?”

  Phillip would have sworn that a hint of a smile passed over the old man’s pale lips.

  “Nope,” he said, then his yellowed eyes closed. “Can’t help you.” With a harrumph, he opened his eyes and began to wheel his chair away.

  Phillip jumped up. “Just a minute, Dr. Larribee. You may be an old man, but I can still subpoena you.” He really had no idea what he was saying; he only knew he had come all the way out here—twice—and that Jess was counting on him. If the doctor would not talk to him, Phillip would not know where to turn next. And no matter how old or cranky the guy was, Phillip did not believe for a minute he hadn’t recognized at least one of the three names.

  The wheelchair stopped. “Subpoena me? For what?”

  “You tell me. And you can start by telling me what you know about Jess Bates. And the baby that was adopted by the Hawthornes.”

  The activities room grew quiet. Over by the window, an elderly woman muttered to herself. At a shiny round table, a man knocked over a tower of wood blocks he had built. Phillip blinked back the stale air and the faint odor of urine that permeated the room and wondered if he’d be thrown out for harassing an old man for no justifiable reason.

  “Christ,” Dr. Larribee grumbled. “Why don’t you ask that Taylor woman? She was the one in charge.”

  Caramba, Phillip thought, trying to remain calm, steady, trying not to let his excitement show. “Miss Taylor is dead,” he said evenly. “Tell me what you know. Do it here or in the courtroom.”

  “It wasn’t malpractice,” Larribee said. “You can’t pull my license.”

  The idea that the dotty old man was worried about losing his medical license was absurd. But what struck Phillip even more profoundly was the doctor’s use of the word malpractice. Phillip loosened his tie. He decided to go out on a limb just to watch Larribee’s reaction. “Switching babies is a felony,” he said, with an authority he did not feel.

  A mutter or a sputter or something like that blubbered from the doctor’s lips. “Christ, it’s been nearly thirty years.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Phillip commented, unsure if that were true, but sure that corporate law never made his adrenaline pump the way it was pumping now. “You could spend your last days in a six-by-eight cell unless you cooperate.”

  The old man’s eyes drifted toward the window. “I had a lawyer once,” he said. “But he’s dead. Everybody’s dead. The only people left alive aren’t worth their salt.”

  “What happened, Dr. Larribee?”

  He closed his eyes again and let out a shallow sigh. “Frances Taylor,” he said, “God, she was a greedy woman.”

  Greedy? Phillip listened.

  “She threatened to turn me in. She knew I liked my gin, maybe a little too much. She blackmailed me into signing those forms.” His voice drifted away, as if his thoughts were sliding back to a painful place.

  Phillip leaned forward to hear him more clearly. “What forms?”

  The doctor shook his head. “She said no one would ever know.”

  Phillip rested his hand on Dr. Larribee’s arm. “What happened to Jess’s baby?”

  He did not answer at first, then raised his head and wiped a trickle of drool from his mouth. “It was supposed to go to the Hawthornes. Another girl’s did instead. A girl from Bridgeport.”

  “Who was she?”

  The old man’s thin shoulders shrugged. “Can’t remember her name. A charity case. I told her her baby died.”

  Phillip held back the rage he felt begin to boil beneath his skin. “What about Jess Bates’s baby?”

  “I don’t know what happened to it.”

  “Was it born … did it live?”

  “Yes,” he responded. “It was small, but it lived.” He slumped a little in the chair, growing older with each tired heartbeat.

  Phillip’s anger gave way to a prickly tingle that raced from his forehead straight down to his toes. Jess’s baby was alive. And it had not been Amy Hawthorne. He resisted the urge to run from the room, rush to a pay phone, and get Jess on the line. He resisted because there was too much left to learn. Phillip squared his jaw.

  “Who took Jess’s baby?” he repeated.

  “I told you. I don’t know.”

  He stood up straight and moved to the front of the doctor’s chair. He paced three steps to one side, three back again, a practiced performance of cross-examination he’d seen on L.A. Law reruns. Then, ever so slowly, the pieces began to fall together, a jigsaw puzzle taking shape. He abruptly stopped and turned to his defendant.

  “What about the fifty thousand dollars, Doctor? How much of that did Miss Taylor pay you?”

  Dr. Larribee became alert once more. He sat up in the chair. His eyebrows danced. “I didn’t see any of it. I swear. Why don’t you ask Bud Wilson?”

  “Wilson’s dead, too.”

  Larribee snorted. “See? Everybody’s dead.”

  Phillip slipped his hands in his pockets and took another stab. “Who paid her the fifty thousand, Doctor?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered, shaking his head. “I swear I don’t know.”

  Phillip had another idea. “How many others were there, Doctor? How many other babies did you … switch?”

  The big eyebrows danced. “None! It was just hers … just that Bates girl.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes. Not that Frances Taylor would have objected.” He puffed at the air and again rubbed his hands on the wheels. “Now, please. Leave me alone.” He wheeled from the room, his chair creaking and groaning with each turn of the spokes.

  This time, Phillip did not stop him. He knew where to find him if he needed more. For now, he had what he wanted: confirmation that Jess’s baby had not been Amy Hawthorne and that the fifty thousand dollars was somehow connected. And, thankfully, it did not appear as if this had been a big business: it was a small-time, one-time scam that happened only because the opportunity had been there and a greedy old woman had grabbed it.

  As Phillip walked down the corridor toward the nursing home exit, he realized that he had done what he’d promised for Jess. But he could not stop now. He had to help Jess find her real daughter, even if it meant risking his brother’s wrath.

  Chapter 9

  It was one of those warm, March-leading-to-April mornings that held the promise of sunshine and pastels and spring. Jess gazed out the window of the shop across to the park and wondered how long it would be before the crocuses poked their purple heads above the ground, before the daffodils shared their yellow beauty with the world. It was easier to think of these things than to count the days it had been since she’d seen Phillip (seven), to obsess on the prospect that Amy might not have been hers, or to wonder why, if her baby still lived and knew who Jess was, she had not come forward and let herself be known.

  Jess also knew it was easier to think about flowers than to imagine Charles and his new wife playing congenial hosts to his daughter and her boyfriend.

  As the sewing machines whirred in the background, her assistants working diligently on the country club draperies, Jess realized that Maura was right. Life had to be more than working and worrying about other people. Working, worrying, and curling up in an old chenille robe, no matter how cozy that was. Her thoughts drifted to the remote possibility that there might ever be another man in her life, a man not like Charles, but rather someone able to share her pleasures and her pain, someone who loved her and whom she could love back. Someone who would accept her past as well as her present and embrace her right to welcome any child that was—or was not—part of her life.

  She was thinking these things so deeply, she did not notice Phillip coming up the walk until his green eyes met hers and he gave a big wave. Jess blinked and opened the door.

  “Phillip,” she said with a smile, stretching up on her toes to kiss his soft cheek. “I didn’t expect you.”

  “The way you were standing in the window, I thought you were watching for me.�
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  Jess laughed. “I was watching for the crocus to bloom.”

  He frowned.

  She laughed again. “Only kidding. What brings you out here?”

  He studied her face.

  “Oh, my God,” she said quickly, her thoughts suddenly gelling, suddenly springing back to her real world, where catamarans and lovers did not exist. “You’ve learned something.”

  “Can we talk somewhere private?”

  Her eyes darted around the shop. Her workers were busy, but not deaf, despite the noise from the machines. She glanced out the window again. “The park,” she said hurriedly. “Let me get my jacket.”

  The park bench was damp with the remnants of morning dew, but Jess did not mind. She sat perfectly still, her hands in the pockets of her light canvas coat, listening as Phillip told her that Bud Wilson was dead, listening as he told her of his conversation with Dr. Larribee. She listened and was aware of her own gentle breathing; with each inhale and each exhale she tried to assimilate his words, tried to sort their meaning.

  When Phillip had finished, Jess did not move; Jess did not speak.

  “So, based on Dr. Larribee’s story,” Phillip concluded, “I think we can be certain that Amy was not yours.”

  Jess watched a pigeon alight by her feet, his small black eyes staring up at her, sizing her up as if trying to determine if she had any bread crusts.

  And then the butterflies took wing in her stomach. She twisted the emerald and diamond ring on her hand, the ring that had been there for thirty years, her mother’s ring, her mother’s love.

  “My daughter is still living,” she whispered.

  Next to her, Phillip crossed his legs. “Well, we don’t know that for certain, Jess. But I think we can assume she’s probably out there. Somewhere.”

  “On Martha’s Vineyard?”

  “Maybe. We don’t know that, either. I’d have to do some fairly deep digging.”

  Jess lifted her eyes to the tall trees, to the bright green buds that would soon be full leaves, that would soon be thick and shady and lovely. She thought about Maura, about her daughter’s newfound independence. She would be a strong woman, Jess decided. Not perfect, but strong, strong enough to handle what Jess needed to do, strong enough to, someday, understand.

  “I need to find her.” Her words floated into the air, past the pigeon, up into the trees.

  Phillip nodded. “I will help.”

  “But your brother …” Jess said, “Your practice …”

  “They’ll survive.” He smiled and lightly touched her arm. “Besides, I think P.J. would want me to help, don’t you?”

  Jess remembered the bright, auburn-haired woman with the wide smile and the unstoppable drive. Unlike reluctant Susan and “no way, never, not in my lifetime” Ginny, P.J. had agreed to the idea when Jess had gone to her condo, suggesting the reunion. “Yes,” P.J. had said, “I would like to meet my son.” Jess smiled now and gently patted Phillip’s hand. “You’re right,” she said clearly, “I think P.J. would like it a lot.”

  “Amy was not mine.” Jess’s small voice came from the answering machine that was perched on the bar across from the sofa where Ginny was sprawled, sipping a Coke, watching Regis and Kathie Lee, and eating her third egg-and-cheese croissant of the morning. “Phillip is going to help find my baby.”

  Consuelo waddled into the room, stared at the machine, then moved to pick up the phone.

  “Don’t,” Ginny commanded. “Leave. Vamoose.”

  The housekeeper shook her head. “Why you no talk to your friend?”

  Ginny pulled herself up. The machine beeped, then clicked off. “None of your business, señora. Now, vamoose. Leave me alone.”

  The woman, whose white-streaked dark hair was pulled back into a bun, planted her hands on her wide, wide hips. “Mr. Jake, he’d be so ashamed.”

  Ginny brushed crumbs from her lap onto the white carpet on the floor.

  “Look at you,” Consuelo continued. “You’re a god-awful mess.”

  “What I am is your employer. Which means you need to shut the hell up and leave me alone.”

  “Alone? You want alone? So you can keep hanging around stuffing your face like a little piglet?”

  “Little” came out sounding like “leetle.” Ginny did not understand why when these Mexicans learned English they couldn’t at least learn to speak it right.

  “No one want to be around you anyway,” Consuelo huffed. “Not even your own daughter.”

  “Leave my daughter out of this.”

  “Lisa is a nice girl. I bet her other mother is nicer to her.” The housekeeper huffed again and walked from the room.

  Ginny stared at the TV where Regis was sticking a redheaded straight pin into some place on the map of the country, somewhere near Dubuque. She supposed there were people out there who had had a husband or two drop dead. She wondered if that was why they were sitting watching Regis and Kathie Lee in the middle of the day. She wondered if they were eating egg-and-cheese croissants.

  “Sheet,” Ginny said, mocking Consuelo. She flicked off the remote and decided the housekeeper was right about one thing: She was a mess.

  Hauling herself to a sitting position, Ginny thought about Lisa. The last time she’d seen her had been on the weekend—not last weekend, the weekend before. Or the one before that; it was hard to remember. Lisa had shown up without warning. Ginny had been lounging outside in the hot tub, naked.

  On another day, at another time, it would not have fazed Ginny for her daughter to see her without any clothes. But as she looked down at her white, rounded belly and jiggly, puckery thighs, Ginny was embarrassed at the weight she was gaining, the visible result of the fact she could not seem to stop eating everything she could see, smell, or touch.

  So instead of greeting Lisa with a smile and a hello, Ginny tried unsuccessfully to cover her bulges by turning her back on her daughter.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” she muttered.

  “I came to see you,” Lisa answered. “I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

  “Well, now you’ve seen me. All of me. Go home, Lisa. I want to be alone.”

  Lisa crouched down on the deck of the tub. “Ginny,” she said, “I want to help you. I loved Jake, too.”

  Ginny slipped her head under the water, letting it steam into her hair and sink into her scalp, wishing it would saturate her brain and wash away all the memories that lurked inside. Then she broke through the surface but did not open her eyes. “Go home, Lisa,” she repeated. “I need to do this alone.”

  For a moment, Lisa remained silent. Then Ginny felt her daughter’s cool hand on her bare, wet shoulder. “You’re not the only one who’s hurting. I need you, too, you know.”

  She left, and since then, they’d not spoken. Ginny had not wanted to talk to Lisa or anyone: she had not wanted to be reminded that life was happening outside the walls of her house. Life—where people worked and laughed and loved and … breathed. Where people like Lisa were at the top of their game, churning out successful careers that helped buffer the pain; where people like Jess were drowning in their day-to-day crap, like sewing, for God’s sake, and trying to find old babies, as if those things were the most important in the world. Well, as far as Ginny was concerned, her world had stopped several weeks ago when Jake dropped dead, not that she would expect Jess or Lisa to understand.

  I bet her other mother is nicer to her, Consuelo had said.

  “Yeah,” Ginny muttered now, “I bet you’re right.”

  She stared at the TV screen and thought about Regis, Kathie Lee, and the widow in Dubuque. Suddenly—perhaps it was the croissant slathered with butter churning inside her—Ginny knew she had to shape up. She had to emerge from this self-induced prison or she would go out of her fucking mind.

  Lisa was probably where she should start. Her daughter was most likely pissed off that Ginny had shut her out—or maybe Lisa really was upset that Jake had died and really did need Ginny, too.
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  “Yeah, fat chance,” Ginny mumbled. She knew a con when she saw one, and she figured Lisa would do or say anything to get Ginny out of her funk. She was, after all, nice.

  But Ginny stood up and decided to go. Con or no con, Lisa was the one person in the world who might be able to stand being with her, no matter what the señora said. Lisa was Ginny’s daughter, and Ginny was her mother, and Lisa understood her moods. Understood them as if she had known her all her life. Only to herself would Ginny ever admit that there was something soothing about Lisa, something grounding about being in the same room with the one creature on the face of the earth who had sprung from her womb, no matter how tainted that womb had been.

  Yes, she thought now with a small smile. She would go and see Lisa. Maybe they could do lunch.

  All her pants were too tight, so Ginny had thrown on the same shapeless dress she’d worn when Jess had been there. With a long white sweater that was older than Consuelo, she tried to cover the creases across her swollen lap that hadn’t been there the last time she’d put on real clothes. But when Ginny stepped outside into the infernal California sunshine, she quickly realized it was too hot for a sweater: It was nearly April, and it was L.A., where women did not need to hide under sweaters. They ate alfalfa sprouts instead of egg-and-cheese sandwiches, and did not let themselves become a god-awful mess.

  Hopefully, Lisa would be so glad to see her that she wouldn’t care.

  Pulling off the sweater, she flung it into the backseat of her Mercedes, started the ignition, and headed down the canyon road. She longed for a cigarette, for the sharp, soothing taste of self-destructive tobacco. If she had a cigarette she could suck in a deep breath and blow out her thoughts on a thick cloud of smoke. If she had a cigarette she could die of lung cancer instead of obesity.

  But she had no cigarettes, and she had no food. So she snapped on the radio.

  James Taylor was on one station; LeAnn Rimes on another and a loudmouthed deejay spouting off about a feared big earthquake on another. Ginny played the buttons as she had the TV remote, with nervous, angry twitches and disbelief that she could not land on something that would take away the battle that raged inside her.