When her mother was dying of cancer, why didn’t she tell them? Dad had followed shortly after, but he didn’t say a word, either. Margaret and Nori were grown up, already living independently. What better time was there to reveal their true parentage? Worse, where was Ellie when that happened? Off to China, or Ethiopia, or Nepal? And in Ellie’s last few years, not once did she bring up the topic.
Why had Ellie kept the secret long after it no longer needed to be a secret? It struck her like a bolt. The answer was, just as Mother said, because she was protecting their father. Who was he?
Margaret looked up at the window, which quieted immediately. What did she do with this information? Should she wait to read the rest of the letters? Stay up all night and be good for nothing tomorrow? Not with two children in her care. Not with Owen planning to spend the day with her. She placed the letter back into its envelope and reached for the phone to call her sister. She pressed in the numbers for an international call and waited. When Nori answered, she said, “Maggot, what is so freaking important you are calling me at this hour of the morning?”
Margaret said, “Seaweed, just you listen.”
On Thursday morning, Skye woke up fully dressed. She looked at the motel alarm clock, blinking twelve o’clock, and for a moment she thought she’d slept in far too late to start this day. But her watch said eight fifteen, so she slid on her boots and brushed her teeth with the complimentary brush and toothpaste they’d given her at the desk when she’d checked in. She accepted the continental breakfast—coffee and a Danish—and got in her car.
It was nearly nine a.m. when she found Rocky’s address.
Oddly, it wasn’t a residential area. It looked more like a doctor’s office, or a medical complex, where a person could get lab work done, see a doctor, and get a recommendation for a specialist, all within a few steps. She parked the Mercedes and read the sign: Outpatient Clinic, Bio Laboratory, the names of four doctors, and Sierra Hills Rehabilitation and Assisted Living.
Skye felt a chill even before she entered the automatic door, when air-conditioning blew over her like a wave. “I’m probably in the wrong place entirely,” she told a woman dressed in flowered scrubs sitting behind the counter. “I’m looking for Rocky Elliot. I was told this was his address.”
“He’s here,” she said, turning away from the computer and getting up to come around the counter. A large TV on the wall was tuned to CNN, but nobody was there to watch it. “Are you next of kin?”
Skye’s heart began to thrum harder. “I’m his wife.”
“Good. Right now, only next of kin may visit.”
“What happened to him?”
The woman smiled her professional smile and did not answer. “He’s in room four. I think his mom’s in there with him. Want me to announce you?”
“That’s not necessary,” Skye said, full of fury, angry for so many reasons as she walked down the hall. She wished Duncan were there, so he could squeeze her arm and remind her to H.A.L.T., but this was something she had to do on her own. When she swung open the door to Rocky’s room, her fire went out as quickly as it had started, because there on a hospital bed lay Rocky, a long scar laddering down his forehead. It looked as if it had been recently stapled. He’d been shaven bald, and he was connected to machines by wires and tubes. His eyes were closed. “What happened?” she blurted out. “Did he have a brain tumor?”
Next to his bed sat Rita, her mother-in-law, who smelled of cigarettes and looked as if she hadn’t brushed her hair in quite some time. She looked up at Skye as if this were any other day in the world. “Traumatic brain injury. They had to operate. Twice.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Skye said, and she was. He was such a handsome cowboy, perpetually happy, but this version of him didn’t look anything like that. Keeping her voice even, she said, “Rita?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve been on quite the hunt trying to find you and Gracie. You said you’d be in Albuquerque. Last night I learned Gracie was in foster care. Care to explain?”
Rita bent her head, unable to meet Skye’s eyes directly. “I know you’re hopping mad at me, and maybe I deserve it, but my baby was hurt. It was either your daughter or my son. In the end I had to go with him.”
“Without trying to get in touch with me? Without leaving me an address, or a phone number? Rita, Gracie is with complete strangers! How dare you do that to your own granddaughter? You dumped her like some unwanted cat at the pound.”
Rita leaned forward in the chair, frowning. “What did you expect me to do? Rocky damn near died. Well, he did die for a few minutes, but the paramedics got his heart started again.”
“What happened?”
Rita sighed. “Just like a hundred other times, he got thrown by the bull, and knocked out. But then he got kicked in the head.” Rita squeezed the tissue in her hands. “He seemed fine at first, talking and laughing, and then, he went from making sense to babbling nonsense.”
“Did he fracture his skull?”
Rita shook her head no. “Blood clots. Hematoma, they called it. I forget what else. They sawed him open. They say it might take years for him to get back to normal, if he ever does.” She stood up. “Go on and take my chair. I’ll go visit the restroom.”
“No,” Skye said. “Stay here with me. I’ll find another chair.”
She found one in the hallway, plastic and cheap, like outdoor furniture, but it was clean. The receptionist walked by and said, “Enjoy your visit,” which struck Skye as the most heartless thing a person could ever say about a semiconscious man who was likely brain-damaged for life. Skye sat next to her mother-in-law, who was crying silently. Every time Rocky opened his eyes, Rita got up and said his name. He wasn’t tracking, and when he did seem to notice Rita, it was clear he didn’t recognize her. Every once in a while he made a noise that sounded like a donkey braying, and Skye felt her heart rip in half. They were as good as divorced, but Rocky would always be the father of her child.
“He does that all day long,” Rita said, wiping her tears. “I think he’s saying something, but I don’t understand it yet.”
Skye took Rita’s hand. They sat there together for a while, and then it was time for Skye to go, to pick up Gracie and start making a reasonable life for her, which couldn’t be here. Skye stood up, said goodbye to Rocky and then she leaned close to Rita’s ear and said, “Rita, I forgive you.”
Skye peered through the window of the social worker’s office. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but it wasn’t this. The metal desk, covered with papers held in place by a painted rock. A laptop computer. A woman’s cardigan over one of the two gray metal folding chairs. The floors were ancient linoleum, dotted with rag rugs that had seen better days. She looked up and saw those old tin ceiling tiles from a hundred years ago, painted white, the finish chipping as everything tended to do in New Mexico heat and, this far south, its inhospitable climate. There were two restrooms, side by side, marked Men and Ladies. Before this life, the space might’ve been a mom-and-pop grocery store, or a dress shop, or even a restaurant. Toward the end of the room there was a back door, half screen and half wood.
“Hello?” she called out. “Mrs. Rodriquez? It’s Skye Elliot.”
She heard a toilet flush, and a heavyset woman dressed in khaki slacks and a flowered top walked out. “Hi there, Mrs. Elliot,” she said. “You’re early. Did you have a nice drive?”
Did that really matter right now? All she wanted to do was find her daughter. “Good enough,” Skye said, forcing herself to be calm.
Mrs. Rodriquez had probably seen it all, Skye thought. What did she see in Skye? Mother material or recovering alcoholic?
“Please have a seat,” she said. “Let’s chat a little before you see Eleanor.”
“Her name is Grace,” Skye said. “My mother-in-law wanted her to be called Eleanor, which is her middle name. But her given name is Grace.”
“Grace,” the woman repeated. “I have a mountain of paperwork for
you to fill out. Did you bring your daughter’s birth certificate?”
Skye handed it over. Surely she couldn’t mean Skye had to fill out the stack of papers on the desk. There must’ve been a hundred pages. Mrs. Rodriquez handed the stack to her and a pen. “We’ll need these filled out. Judge Iglesias was kind enough to fax us the paperwork that will actually short-cut much of the investigation.”
“Investigation?” Skye asked.
The woman nodded. “When custody has been awarded to one parent and switches to another, there is always an investigation.”
“Investigation into what?” Skye said. “I’m doing my community service, I have sponsors, a car, a place to live, even money. What else do you need to know?”
Mrs. Rodriquez looked down at her own pile of papers. “It looks like a Mr. Wolfgang Schneider has agreed to represent you.”
“He has,” Skye said. “Is this like going to court or something?”
Mrs. Rodriquez patted her hand. “Not at all. Please don’t worry. This is all procedural.”
“Oh,” Skye said, forcing herself to smile, to be patient, like Duncan had always told her to do.
They sat at the scarred metal desk and filled out papers. Every paper Skye finished Mrs. Rodriquez fed into a scanner, which then appeared on her laptop. The way Skye saw it, they could be here all day, but that was fine with her, so long as it culminated in seeing Gracie.
When they were finally done, Mrs. Rodriquez e-mailed the file to the courthouse, copying Wolfgang and the judge responsible for taking Gracie away in the first place. One click, and it was gone. Her screen saver featured children’s faces, one after the other, children needing somewhere to stay, to belong, if only for a short while. Damn you, OxyContin, Skye thought. Double damn you, alcohol. How could I have let pills and booze cost me that amazing little person who brightened my days and drove me crazy with questions?
“Are you ready?” Mrs. Rodriquez said.
“I am so ready,” Skye answered.
Before they stood up, Mrs. Rodriquez said, “Just a few preparations. You’ll probably find that Eleanor—Grace—has grown taller since she last saw you. She’s nearly four years old.”
“Thank you, ma’am, but I’m aware of my child’s birthday.” What else did they get wrong? Skye thought.
“Of course you are. Also, her ability to speak in complete sentences may surprise you. She can tell time now. Her foster mother wanted you to know that she has been quite shy since coming into care.”
“My Gracie,” Skye said, feeling tearful, “wasn’t afraid of anything.”
Mrs. Rodriquez said, “I’m sure once she settles in with you, she’ll be just fine. But in case there are a few difficulties, we have the option for her to spend the night at her foster mother’s, if she wants to.”
“I want to take her home,” Skye said.
“Of course you do. Let’s just see how it goes. There are documents on our website regarding the transitional experience. I also have the name of a child psychologist. Do you have any questions before we go see her?”
“No, ma’am. I just want to get my daughter back.”
“I understand,” she said. “Please keep in mind, we have these services in place for a reason. Not all reunions go smoothly.”
This one will, Skye told herself. Something in my life is going to go right for a change.
“Okay,” Mrs. Rodriquez said, “let’s go see her.”
Skye felt her stomach flip. “Wait—” She reached out for the woman’s arm. “What if it isn’t her?” she asked, her voice catching. “What if I get her hopes up and it turns out not to be Gracie after all?”
Mrs. Rodriquez patted her hand. “Don’t worry. All I’ve told her is that she has a visitor,” she said, pointing at the back door.
All this time, Gracie was just out back?
Skye followed Mrs. Rodriquez down the hallway to the screen door. It opened onto a flagstone portal, with a massive elm tree and chamiso bushes along one side. There was a shaded area with children’s toys and a faded plastic slide attached to a playhouse with windows and doors to climb in and out of. On its porch, a little girl was reading a book, turning the pages, reading the words out to herself.
“Honey?” Mrs. Rodriquez said. “Your visitor is here.”
Gracie’s hair had darkened to a strawberry blond, and whoever had hacked it off that short should not have been allowed near scissors. Her two front teeth were missing. The thrift store dress she was wearing looked as if it had come from the bottom of the heap, but however ugly it was, inside it was Gracie.
She looked up from her book, puzzled.
Skye tried to hold herself back, as Mrs. Rodriquez had suggested. Like a kitten, let her come to you. It had been nearly a year.
Grace set down her book. She stood up, walked directly to Skye, and said, “Mama, I haven’t seen you in so long.”
Skye swallowed hard, unsure of what to say. “I know, sweetie. But I’m back for good now. I’m not going anywhere without you. Golly, I missed you so much.”
Gracie’s little face scrunched up as if she might cry. “Did you go away because I was bad?”
Oh, God, Skye thought, that little voice, tinkling like a bell, carrying almost a year’s worth of guilt and confusion no child should ever have to bear. Skye squatted so she was eye level with her daughter. “No way, Little Gee. Mama got sick and had to go to the hospital. I tried my hardest to get well, and the second I was, I came to find you. I’m sorry it took me so long.”
It was too much to ask for forgiveness. Gracie was four, not fourteen.
“Gracie?” Mrs. Rodriquez said. “Would you like to spend some time with your mother, or would you rather go back to Mrs. Campbell’s house?”
“Home with Mama,” Gracie said, and climbed up Skye as if she were a tree. With both hands, she pulled Skye’s face close to hers and sniffed.
“What are you doing, honey?” Skye asked.
“Smelling your breaths. You don’t smell like medicines anymore.”
Skye felt her chin tremble. “That’s right. I don’t drink anymore,” she said.
“Okay, Mama. I’m ready. Let’s go home.”
Dolores
Tonight I’m all atwitter, feeling as if there’s someplace I need to be, but I just can’t think of where. I made certain Margaret read the letter. If she thinks the first one was a shocker, wait until she reads the rest of them. Her life is going to change in ways she cannot imagine, but she can handle it. She no longer needs me.
Yet I wonder, how will everyone else get along without me? The pregnant woman next door is having twins. Both boys.
I’m watching the dog who is asleep at the foot of Peter’s bed. If she could talk, she’d probably tell me that Peter sneaks her people food and she loves it, except for the farting part. I’d tell her my last meal was right over there where the fountain is. My mother was with me. We had a dog, too.
I run the reel of time backward for a while until I recognize my mother. Over lifetimes, the image has blurred. I don’t remember her face, but I do remember we had corn for that meal. I don’t know if it was good or not. I can’t remember how things taste, or how it feels to sleep deeply, and to dream. It has been too long a time since then. I remember that my mother told me to go, to run, but I couldn’t leave her. Not even after the white man scalped her, and the blood washed down her face, into her eyes. When he came for me, I sat up and looked into his eyes. I understood that my fate was in his knife, and I did not cry. Instead of following my mother, I remained here, between the worlds. There was a job I had to do, that only I could do. And you know what?
I think I may have done it.
What I was sent here to do.
The space I reside in is filling with light, as warm as molten gold. It bathes me, it cloaks me, and I feel so good, so warm, as if milk and honey are running through me, as if my mother is holding my hand and singing to me. The white hummingbird stirs in her nest. The tiny greyhound lifts his head an
d yips. If anyone wakes up from a nightmare, the dog will be there to lick the person’s face.
I couldn’t tell you how I know this, but suddenly I know it’s time. For so long I have heard the instructions. But it didn’t seem possible until tonight. I do what I have waited so long to do.
I go to the light.
Acknowledgments
I’m deeply grateful to so many people for their help and expertise in shaping this book. To my dearest friend and agent, Deborah Schneider, for her terrific feedback and support for so many years. To my wonderful, brilliant, enthusiastic editor, Nancy Miller, and to her equally wonderful, insightful colleague, Lea Beresford, just, wow. Every writer should be so lucky. Not only did they give me great advice, and help to shape what needed to change, they also talked me down from the ledge a couple of times. Lea, you changed the entire course of the book for the best with one small suggestion. Nikki Baldauf, my production editor, certainly earned her wages helping me fix my errors. Thank you. To my publicist, Carrie Majer, who works late and always has time to talk, and everyone else at Bloomsbury Publishing for their support for my books.
For advice in writing about MS, I thank Laurie Lehman, who took pains to educate me on this complex illness and portray the symptoms realistically. Any errors that remain are my fault, entirely.
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