“Maybe when you’re a little older.” He listed all the things they were going to do together in the immediate future and the coming months, and tried to make her mother’s defection sound like an opportunity and a blessing.
“Are you getting divorced?” She startled him with the question. “Sally Portman’s parents got divorced last year. Now she spends weekends and Wednesday nights at her dad’s.”
“I think that could happen, not the weekends and Wednesdays, but maybe Mom and I will get divorced since she doesn’t want to live here with us anymore.”
Alex nodded sagely, trying to absorb it. “Do you think she’ll get married again?”
“I don’t know,” he said honestly.
“Will you?”
He laughed at the question. “I don’t think so, Miss Alex. Let’s just concentrate on each other for now. We can’t solve all the mysteries at once.” She had taken the news well, even though he knew she was very sad about it. They finished The Secret at Shadow Ranch that night. Alex loved the way it turned out, and the book suddenly had new meaning to her. As she listened to her father’s voice tell the story, she realized now that she lived alone with her father, just like Nancy. Nancy Drew didn’t have a mother either. Maybe one day she and her father could solve mysteries too. She wondered what had happened to Nancy Drew’s mom.
“You never know how a mystery is going to end,” she said thoughtfully when they finished the last page, but she had guessed the ending, or almost. She liked trying to figure it out along the way, and she was good at it.
“Life is a little bit like that too. Always full of surprises, sometimes good, sometimes not so good,” her father said quietly.
“I like the guessing part,” she commented.
“So do I,” he said, as he kissed her good night and tucked her into bed. “That’s why I like mystery books so much.”
She nodded, and he left the room after he turned off the light. She lay in bed, not knowing where her mother was and if she missed her at all, and if she was thinking about her. Two tears slid down her cheeks and into her pillow. Wondering when she would see her mother again, she said a little prayer for her and then drifted off to sleep, and dreamed of Carmen. She looked beautiful in the dream, and she had come back to live with them. She hoped her mother would too one day.
Chapter 3
Carmen filed for divorce a month after she called Eric, and he didn’t tell Alex. She didn’t need to know the technical details of the end of their marriage. She asked for a small amount of support for two years, and he agreed to give it to her, as he had on the phone. She wasn’t after money. Her freedom meant more to her. She was still in Miami when she wrote to him, she still hadn’t called Alex, and she said she was leaving for Las Vegas soon. Eric knew that if he was sending her money, he could keep track of where she was. For Alex’s sake, he didn’t want her disappearing, in case they needed or wanted to get in touch.
Two months later, she wrote to him from Las Vegas to give him her new address.
Alex was doing well, and had gotten over the initial shock of her mother not coming back. He wondered if she had expected it too. Both her teacher and Pattie reported that she was a little less chatty than before but seemed okay, which was his impression at home too.
They went to a dude ranch in Wyoming that summer, and Alex loved riding the horses and going to the rodeo. Once in a while, he remembered how much he had wanted a son before she was born, but she was loving and affectionate and there was nothing she couldn’t do. She loved baseball, she loved the books he selected for her, and she was good at sports. Her teacher said she had a gift for writing, and when they got back from Wyoming, Alex told him that she thought she might like to write books one day. She was eight and going into third grade, and they had heard nothing from Carmen since she wrote from Las Vegas.
“Do you think I could write mystery books when I’m grown up, Daddy?” She looked very intent when she asked him.
“You could,” he said thoughtfully, “but most of the big mystery writers are men. It’s a kind of book that men usually write. And in the case of the tougher thrillers and spy stories I like to read, it’s a style that men are naturally good at. Personally I don’t like to read mysteries written by women. I never do. So if you’re going to write mystery books, you’ll either have to write ‘cozy’ mysteries, like a woman called Agatha Christie, or if you write crime stories like I and a lot of men read, you should probably do it under a man’s name.” He sounded serious about it, and she was sure that he knew everything about mysteries because he read so many of them. It was all she ever saw him read.
“You mean I’d have to pretend to be a man?” She was startled by that idea, and he nodded. “Like wear a fake mustache and men’s clothes?” He laughed at her interpretation of it.
“You might look cute in a fake mustache,” he teased her. “No, I meant you could write them using a man’s name, so people think a man wrote them. There are some very good female mystery and crime writers, but I like male crime writers better myself. But you don’t have to wear boys’ clothes,” he said, and she seemed relieved.
“Why wouldn’t they read them if they knew I was a woman?” It made no sense to her, although she trusted whatever her father told her.
“Because in most cases, men write thrillers and women don’t.” He spoke with conviction on the subject.
“That’s silly, Daddy. I bet women could write them too.”
He shook his head and seemed convinced.
“Then I’ll use your name if I write when I’m older, and people will think it’s you.” She laughed at the idea, but she was impressed by what he’d said, and wondered if it was true. Her father was usually right about most things. And she liked the idea of writing books in his name. It sounded like fun to her, especially if it would make women and men want to read her books.
—
It was many months later when they finally heard from her mother again. She had been gone almost a year by then. Eric got a postcard from her saying that her boyfriend had some work to do in New York, and they were driving from Las Vegas, and would stop in Boston to see Alex. The divorce wasn’t final yet, and Eric didn’t tell Alex about her mother’s visit. He didn’t want to raise her hopes and disappoint her if in the end, she changed plans and didn’t show up.
Carmen called the house late one night, and Eric answered. Alex was sound asleep.
“We just got to town,” she said in her familiar voice.
“Where are you staying?”
She mentioned a cheap motel outside the city. “Can I see her tomorrow?”
It was Friday night, so Alex didn’t have school the next day. But even if she did, Eric would have kept her home to see her mother. It was too important not to. And he was sorry now that he hadn’t warned Alex that her mother was coming to town.
“Of course. She’s going to be thrilled to see you. How long are you staying?” He wondered whether seeing her mother would disrupt or upset her, but either way, he thought Alex should have a chance to visit with Carmen. It had been too long. And Alex talked about her from time to time, and said she missed her, hoped she was okay, and that she’d call. And now she was here. He hoped it wouldn’t be a shock.
“We’re going to New York tomorrow. I’m just here for the day,” Carmen said blithely.
“Do you want to pick her up after breakfast?” he offered, and Carmen hesitated for what seemed like a long time.
“Why don’t I just come to the house?”
He wasn’t anxious to see her, but he thought it might be easier for Alex that way. After nearly a year of total silence, her mother would feel like a stranger.
“Whatever you like,” he said politely, and she said she would be there at ten o’clock and they hung up.
He woke Alex the next morning, which he didn’t usually do on Saturdays, but he wanted to give her time to get ready and get used to the idea.
“Your mom’s in town,” he told her after she was f
ully awake.
“Here? Now?” Alex looked like he had said it was Christmas.
“She’s on her way to New York. She’s coming to see you after breakfast.” Alex grinned broadly and bounded out of bed.
“I want to wear my new dress,” she said, diving into her closet and emerging with a soft pink velvet dress and black patent leather shoes she’d bought on a shopping trip with Pattie. She brushed her long dark hair until it shone, washed her face, and put on the new dress and shoes. She was ready by nine in the morning, too excited to eat breakfast, and sat in the living room, waiting for her mother. She never moved from the spot, and Carmen showed up at noon, prettier than ever in jeans, a tight tee shirt, a black leather jacket, and high heels. Eric opened the door to her, and saw that there was a man standing behind her. He looked seedy and nervous and told Carmen he’d wait for her in the car. He seemed uncomfortable as soon as he saw Eric, and never met his eyes. He appeared to be about twenty-five years old, at most. And Eric felt like their grandfather as he ushered Carmen inside. He didn’t say that Alex had been waiting for her for two hours, but he was annoyed that she wasn’t on time.
Alex jumped to her feet the moment she heard her, barreled through the living room, threw her arms around her mother, and gazed up into Carmen’s face, expecting to find everything there that she had felt herself for the past year. Carmen was as uncomfortable as her boyfriend had been, and out of place in the formal living room that had been her home for eight years. She looked almost like a lost teenager now.
“Wow! You’ve gotten so tall!” she said, as Alex held her tight around her waist, and Carmen slowly put her arms around her, as though she were a stranger and not her child. “Let me see you,” she said, as she pulled away. “You’re still beautiful,” she said, smiling at her daughter.
“So are you,” Alex said with awe. She had forgotten how striking her mother was, and how young.
Eric offered food and drink, and Carmen declined. “I just had breakfast, and we have to get on the road soon. Vince has to be in New York by six o’clock.”
“Who’s Vince?” Alex asked, as her face fell at the news that her mother was leaving soon, after so long. It was a five-hour drive to New York. Eric knew from what she said that they couldn’t stay for more than an hour. Alex seemed crushed.
“He’s my boyfriend. He’s an actor and a dancer. We’re going to California together. He has connections there,” all of which meant nothing to Alex, but told Eric that she was still chasing rainbows and as rootless as ever.
“What are you going to do in California?” Alex asked, her huge eyes drinking her in, so she could remember every detail after she left.
“Maybe I’ll be in a movie.” Carmen grinned at her. “Then you can see me on the screen.”
“I’d rather see you in real life,” Alex said sadly, and there was silence in the room. Eric left them alone, but was nearby in the kitchen, in case Alex needed him. “I missed you,” Alex added, and Carmen didn’t say anything for a minute.
“I missed you too. But Vegas was a lot of fun.” It was everything Alex didn’t care about or want to hear. She wanted to know that her mother had thought of her all the time, which was clearly not the case.
“Are you doing well in school?” Carmen didn’t know what to say, and didn’t notice the new dress and shoes, or that Alex had dressed up for her.
The visit went by awkwardly, and before the hour was over, Carmen stood up and said she had to go and that it was nice seeing her, as though they were old friends. When Eric heard the front door open, he emerged from the kitchen to say goodbye. And all he could see was his daughter’s devastated face as her mother was leaving. She threw her arms around her waist one last time at the door, until Carmen squirmed free, kissed the top of her head, and said she had to go. A moment later she was gone, as Alex shouted “I love you!” after her, just before the front door closed. There was no response, and they heard the car drive away seconds later, as Alex began to sob and melted into her father’s arms. He led her to the couch and they sat down, as he held her and she cried. It nearly broke his heart, and for the first time he genuinely hated his ex-wife for what she was doing to their child, inflicting wounds he couldn’t heal that were bound to leave scars forever, while Carmen callously pursued her own life, with total disregard for anyone else. It would ring in Eric’s ears forever that Alex had called after her “I love you!” at the front door, and Carmen didn’t answer. She just waved without looking back and ran to the car where her boyfriend was waiting.
“She didn’t say when she’d come back,” Alex sobbed, or say that she loved her, he wanted to add but didn’t.
“I don’t think she ever knows her plans,” he said, fumbling for words of comfort he couldn’t find instead of the hatred he was feeling for Carmen. “She was happy to see you, though,” he said lamely.
“Why couldn’t she stay longer?” It was a sad wail.
“She had to get to New York.”
It took Alex hours to calm down after the visit, and weeks to get over the pain it had caused her. Even more than when Carmen had left them, Alex felt abandoned by her mother. She was older now, more aware, and felt it more acutely. Carmen vanished into the mists again without a word. There was no phone call to say how much she had loved seeing her, nor was there a promise to return.
A month later, she sent Eric her address in L.A., for him to send her monthly checks, but Alex didn’t hear from her again.
Six months later, Eric got a call at midnight from someone who said he was a friend of Vince. He said they’d been in an accident on the freeway, were hit by a drunk driver, and Carmen and Vince had both been killed. He thought Eric should know, but didn’t have any more details.
Eric sat for an hour afterward, staring into space, trying to feel something for her, but he didn’t. All he could think of was Alex. Her mother had been so agonizingly insufficient, and now she was dead. It brought finality to it, but Alex was too young to lose her mother at nine. In truth, she had never really had her, and Carmen had left them for good almost two years before, and Alex had only seen her once since.
He waited two days to tell Alex, on a quiet rainy weekend. He didn’t want to do it at night, so he shared the bad news after breakfast and knew he would never forget the ravaged look on her face.
“It’s not true! You’re lying!” Alex shouted at him, then ran up the stairs to her room and slammed the door. He found her on her bed, her head beneath the pillows, sobbing, and it took her hours to calm down. They went for a walk together, and later when she was in bed, he called Vince’s friend in California, and asked about funeral arrangements. Eric wanted to bring Carmen home and bury her next to his first wife, so in later years Alex would know where her mother was. He didn’t want her buried in California in some unmarked grave. The friend gave him the pertinent information, and he called the funeral home the next day and made the arrangements. They said Vince’s body was being sent to his parents in San Diego. But no one had called to claim Carmen. She had no relations that he knew of. Her mother in Havana had died after they got married.
After Eric’s call, Carmen’s body would be in Boston in a few days, for burial. He didn’t tell Alex any of it, and the day after he’d told her of her mother’s death, she handed him a poem she had written for her. It was beautiful and loving and brought tears to his eyes, to think that the woman who had done so little for her had elicited so much love from the child she’d abandoned. It was more than she deserved, and almost more than he could bear.
Chapter 4
Although Alex had always been close to her father, especially since they’d been alone, Carmen’s death brought them even closer. In time, Alex seemed to recover from the shock of losing her mother. Now she no longer had any dashed hopes or expectations of seeing her again, and there was a kind of unspoken closure.
She was reading more than ever. She had graduated to slightly more adult books recently, after finishing the entire Nancy Drew series seve
ral months before. Her father had given her some of the gentler “cozy” mysteries, like Agatha Christie, and now Alex was hooked on them. She loved Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot, who solved the mysteries, while she tried to figure them out before they did.
She had also been doing a lot of writing. Her fourth grade teacher said she had real talent for writing poetry and haikus. And in fifth grade, she won an English prize for a short story she’d written. It was a very poignant story about a little girl whose mother had been killed. And in sixth grade, two years after her mother’s death, her English teacher, Mr. Farber, called Eric at his office and asked him to come to a meeting at school the next day. The teacher sounded grave, as though Alex had done something terrible, which was hard for her father to imagine since she had never been in trouble at school. He didn’t want to say anything to her about it that evening, until he heard the full story from the teacher.
He went to the meeting with trepidation, and with a somber face, the teacher handed him six pages to read, covered in Alex’s laborious eleven-year-old handwriting.
“I felt that it was important for you to see this, Mr. Winslow. My colleagues and I find it very disturbing.” Eric wondered if Alex had written something shockingly inappropriate, possibly even a hate letter to one of her teachers, or a diatribe about her motherless home life. He was frightened as he began reading after seeing the expression on her teacher’s face. He couldn’t imagine what Alex had written that upset her teacher to that degree. But as he read, he found himself absorbed into a story. She had written it with surprising skill given her age, and a very distinct style all her own.
The first page laid out the characters and initial premise of the story. And by the second page, he was hooked, and wanted to know more. All appeared to be going well by the end of the second page, and on page three she described a gory and terrifying murder, which was pure crime thriller. On the following page, she introduced an intriguing police detective, with a visible sense of humor, despite the horrifying crime. She unveiled several unforeseeable surprises on the fifth page, and on the final page she tied it all together, exposed the murderer, whom one would never have suspected—even Eric didn’t—and sent everyone to jail. It was a brilliant piece of writing and construction for anyone, let alone a child her age, and Eric was grinning proudly as he handed it back to the teacher, thinking he had brought Eric in to congratulate him on his daughter’s writing talent. Their frequent conversations about the crime thrillers he loved to read had obviously paid off and inspired the story.
The Right Time Page 3
