She put her arms around my neck. “Please don’t leave me, Jill. Please don’t leave me,” she wailed.
The waiter stopped at our table. “Is everything okay?”
I nodded and gave an apologetic shrug to the people in the restaurant who were staring at us. “Just—just give me a second, please?” I told the waiter. “My mother is upset about something.”
He nodded and walked away.
“Mom, I need you to calm down. Look at me.” I said, taking her chin and raising it toward me. “I’m not going anywhere. Okay? I just asked because he came to my job and asked me. You’re my mother. I know that and no one can ever tell me otherwise.”
That finally made her smile.
“And you’re my daughter,” she sniffed. “Nothing will ever change that.”
I returned her smile. She was right. Whatever Major Logan and his family thought to be true, it was one thing that I knew—I was my mother’s daughter and like she said, nothing would ever change that.
Chapter 12
“I hate to say this, but your mama’s running game on you.”
I cut my eyes at my friend Cynthia as she sat across from me in the beauty shop. We were in the waiting area of Serenity Hair Studio to get our hair done. Our beautician, Wanda, had already taken my mother back and now Cynthia and I were just sitting and talking. I’d just filled her in on my dilemma with the birth certificate and she’d cursed me out for not telling her earlier. Then, she went right into super snoop mode.
“Mama Connie is definitely sick, but she is also smart enough to know when to play the sick card.”
“My mother wouldn’t lie about something like this.” I paused, before adding, “Would she?”
Cynthia shrugged. “I wouldn’t have thought so, but now, I don’t know. But really, what is your mama supposed to say, ‘hey baby I kidnapped you from this man and this white woman when you were an infant, but it’s all good because I love you?’” She took a sip of her bottled water. “And didn’t you say this guy claiming to be your father is a multi-millionaire? Shoot, you’d better hope that he is your real daddy. If he’s not, I’ll be his daughter since I haven’t seen my deadbeat dad since I was ten.”
I knew Cynthia didn’t mean anything by making light of this situation, but there was nothing funny or comical about what I was going through. If indeed what these people were saying, what all signs were pointing toward, was true, and I was not my mother’s biological child, that would mean so many things. First and foremost, it would mean that my mother had lied to me my whole life. Secondly, it would mean that I didn’t know a single thing about my real history. And third, the hardest, was that my mother was a criminal. It was all just too much to process. When I’d left lunch, I’d gone back to the idea that this whole thing was crazy. Then I’d met up with Cynthia at the beauty shop. I told her the story and now I was back to wondering if the allegations were true.
This roller coaster ride was killing me.
“What would you do in this situation?” I asked Cynthia.
“Girl, I would need to know. I would have to have some concrete answers,” she said. “And I wouldn’t be able to rest until I got them from someone other than your mother, because she’s the one with the most to lose.”
“So you don’t think this whole thing is crazy?”
Cynthia leaned over to make sure no one was listening, then she whispered, “I did at first. But fake birth certificates, a fake social security number, a past that doesn’t add up, and like Malcolm said, some of the things your mother says—it just makes this all questionable.”
I think that’s the part that had been bothering me the most. After Malcolm and I had made love the other night, he’d gone to sleep, but I’d lain awake replaying all the things my mother had said over the past few months that I’d chalked up to “crazy talk.”
“Jill’s daddy is just as rich as them.”
“One day, your mother will come.”
“They’re going to be really mad. They’re going to want you back.”
“Plus,” Cynthia continued, interrupting my thoughts, “rich dudes don’t go around claiming kids that aren’t theirs.”
“So, what do I do?” I asked.
Cynthia leaned back in her chair.
“Go see these people, the Logans,” she replied. “I mean, they could be your family. Find out one way or the other or else it will drive you crazy. You need to get some answers and then you’ll need to talk to your mother about the specifics.”
That part made my stomach turn. My mother was going to be so hurt that I was even entertaining this. And it wasn’t likely that I would be able to get a straight answer out of her anyway. “But when I brought it up at lunch, she had a meltdown.”
“Of course she did.” Cynthia glanced toward the back of the salon where Wanda was putting the finishing touches on my mother’s hair. “I know your mother is really sick, but what better time to ramp up your illness than when there’s something heavy you don’t want to deal with? That’s what I meant when I said Mama Connie was running game. Trust your gut. You know when she’s lucid and when she’s not,” Cynthia said. “So if I were you, I would do my best, in one of those moments when she has all of her faculties working properly, and call her out on it.”
“That’s what I did at lunch,” I said.
“No, that’s what you tried to do. And she turned on the waterworks and you caved. Stand strong and demand answers.”
Even as she spoke those words, I knew that was something I wouldn’t be able to do. Not only had I been raised to revere my elders, I knew how much my mother loved me, and anything that brought her pain was hard for me. Cynthia must have known it too because she said, “Okay, if you can’t do that, you have at least got to go talk to these people.”
“And say what?” I asked.
“Well, obviously they think you’re their daughter so go talk to them and tell them to prove it.”
“I’m just trying to figure out why they would make something like this up?”
“They wouldn’t,” she said. “And with everything else you told me not adding up, I don’t think the question is, ‘are you or aren’t you their daughter?’ It’s what are you going to do about the fact that you are?”
That made my insides turn somersaults. I paused as my mother walked back over to us. Cynthia flashed a wide smile.
“Well look at you, Mama Connie. Don’t you just look like a doll?”
My mother fluffed her curls. “Yes, Wanda did a great job.”
I forced a smile as well. “And she didn’t even take long,” I said. It had been difficult to get my mother to change her beautician but coming to Wanda was a lot easier on me because it was right down the street from our town house.
“Your dad is going to love this hair style,” my mom said, leaning in and surveying herself in the mirror.
Cynthia and I exchanged glances. Mama had been doing fine when we arrived at the beauty shop a couple of hours ago. So now I was wondering if there was some legitimacy to what Cynthia was saying about my mother playing me.
Finally I said, “Mama, you know Daddy is dead?”
She paused and frowned and the pain on her face let me know that this episode was real. “He is?”
“Yes, for a very long time,” I said, nodding.
The tears welled up in my mother’s eyes. This is what I hated about the disease that was invading her mind. She relived the saddest moments of her life, over and over.
“Oh my,” she said. “I-I have to go to the bathroom.” She dabbed at her eyes and scurried away.
Cynthia shook her head as sympathy filled her face. “Dang, girl. I feel bad for you. You’re right, though. It’s going to kill her for you to go through with this.”
“Hey, Cynthia. I’m ready for you,” Wanda said, waving my best friend over.
Cynthia stood, looked at me, and took my hand, “But you have to do it.” She squeezed. “Even if you don’t tell your mother that you are doing i
t. You have to get some answers for yourself or you’ll wonder for the rest of your life and no one wants a life of what ifs.”
I knew my friend was right. But I also knew those answers wouldn’t come from my mother. I opened my purse up, reached inside and pulled out Major Logan’s card.
It was time to call him and get the answers I desperately needed.
Chapter 13
I couldn’t believe I was here. Standing on the porch of Olympia Estates, one of the richest neighborhoods in Beaumont, Texas. I hadn’t even told Malcolm that I was coming here. I’d driven the hour and a half this morning after arranging a meeting with Major and Elaine Logan. I was surprised to learn that they lived in Beaumont, a small town about 120 miles outside of Houston. I thought of Major’s three-times-a-week visits to Starbucks over the past two months. Who would be that committed? As soon as the thought entered my mind, I knew—a father in search of answers.
Looking around the massive estate, it dawned on me that if this story was true, this should have been my home. I didn’t know whether to cry or be angry. This place looked like it belonged in the centerfold of Better Homes & Gardens. The house had to have at least seven bedrooms. The Mediterranean-style home was the largest on the street in this gated community and sat on at least three acres. Spotlights illuminated the concrete walkway that bore stones which looked like they’d been imported from some country I couldn’t pronounce.
I shook off my awe and rang the doorbell. I couldn’t get caught up in the material trappings because if this story were true . . . I let my thoughts trail off as the door opened. Major stood there with a giant grin on his face.
“Hello, Jillian,” he said. I instantly noticed that he’d said my whole first name. I was only Jill at work. As far as any customers knew, that was my name. But then again, a man like Major Logan would have thoroughly done his homework, so of course he would know my whole name.
“Um . . . hi,” I said.
Major took a deep breath and before I could reply, he pulled me into his grasp. I didn’t know whether to hug him back, so I did what felt natural and kept my arms at my sides.
“Come on in,” he said, leading me into a massive foyer. I followed him down a long, narrow hallway into what looked like the living room. There was a wrought-iron, winding staircase with entrances from both sides. To my right were elegant wrought-iron double doors, leading to what I assumed was an office. I looked around at the dramatic high ceilings, countless crystal chandeliers, marble and wood flooring, and suddenly I felt so out of place.
“Hold on, have a seat right there.” He pointed to a wingback chair that looked like it cost more than my car. “Let me go get your . . .” Major paused, “my wife. As you can imagine, she’s very nervous about this meeting.”
“I am, too,” I mumbled, as he turned and hurried out of the room. The inside of this home was just as beautiful as the outside, if not more, from the obviously imported chandeliers to the designer furniture, the likes of which I’d only seen in magazines. Everything in this home screamed money. Lots of it.
I had just taken a seat when Major returned. He stepped to the side, revealing his wife. She looked like once upon a time, she could have been a supermodel. But the hollow look in her eyes told of years of heartache. Today, though, she looked different from that day in the car. Today, she looked . . . relieved.
“Hello,” I said, if for no other reason than to break the awkward silence.
“So good to see you again,” she said with a smile.
I couldn’t be sure, because Major was holding her up, but it looked like Elaine was trembling. She took measured steps toward me. Her hand went immediately to my face and I didn’t know how to react. She ran her fingers over my cheeks, used her other hand to brush my hair. Her eyes filled with tears and then she said, “My God. My baby,” as she pulled me toward her.
Again, I didn’t know whether to hug her or stand there. But because of the intensity of her hug, my hand slowly rose to the small of her back. And while she hugged, I patted. But she didn’t seem to notice.
She stepped back, looked at my face, and then hugged me again. “I never gave up hope,” she said.
“Okay, sweetheart. Let her breathe.” I felt Major pulling her away and she gripped me tightly, almost as if she was scared if she released me, she would lose me again. Part of me felt a pain inside because this woman had been holding out hope and when I turned out not to be her daughter, this was going to be heartbreaking for her. Because even though I was here; even though my birth certificate and social security numbers appeared to be fake; and even though their story seemed legitimate—I had convinced myself that my mother was not a kidnapper. I was only here now to verify that fact.
“Please, have a seat,” Major said. He was giddy with excitement. “Would you like something to drink?”
I shook my head. I seemed to have lost my voice since that hello.
“I know this is awkward,” Major began as he and his wife sat down on the sofa across from me. “And we have so much to talk about.”
Mrs. Logan looked at me and said bluntly, “Were you taken care of?”
“Excuse me?” I said, finally finding my words.
“Your life? Did you have a good life?” she asked.
I nodded. “I did.”
That brought a smile, and a mist to her eyes. “Good.”
“Look, we know you have questions for us. We have questions for you, too,” Major said, taking his wife’s hand.
I needed to nip this family reunion in the bud so my voice was firm as I said, “Well, I have to start with the fact that I’m not convinced I’m your daughter.”
Those words seemed to be a dagger to Mrs. Logan’s heart, because she clutched Major’s arm. But then, she said with conviction, “You are.” She pointed toward the fireplace, at an empty gold frame which sat on top of the mantle.
“That photo frame has sat there empty for the past twenty-six years, because you were stolen from me. From us. I carried you in my womb, so whether you realize it or not, we have a connection. I felt it the moment that I laid eyes on you in the back seat of our car. But I know you can feel it, too.”
Major squeezed her hand and she instantly slowed her rising pace.
I wanted to tell this poor woman that I didn’t understand anything except the fact that desperation was making her delusional. “I understand that you think I am your daughter,” I said, “but again, my mother is Connie Harrison.” The mention of my mother’s name wiped the smile right off Mrs. Logan’s face.
“That woman is a kid—” Major squeezed Mrs. Logan’s hand again and she stopped talking mid-sentence.
He jumped in. “We understand that and we know nothing is for sure until you have a DNA test. But trust me, when I first discovered you, I did my research. There is no record of a Connie Harrison giving birth. In fact, there is no record of a Connie Harrison or a Jillian Harrison.”
Now I knew they were crazy. They were trying to say not only was I not who I thought I was, but neither was my mother? Give me a break.
“Trust us,” Mrs. Logan interjected, “we wouldn’t have approached you if we weren’t already sure. But as we said earlier, we do have a doctor here ready to conduct a DNA test.”
On cue, an older gentleman with copper-colored hair and a lab coat emerged from the hallway.
“This is Dr. Maximillian Winters.” Major handed me a Manila file, which I took. “He is the director of DNA Labquest, one of the most esteemed DNA facilities in the country. His credentials are there in the folder.”
I glanced at all the paperwork, which looked like the dossier for a high-level NASA position.
“You want me to take a test now?” I said, taking in the three sets of eyes peering at me. “And you expect me to just trust someone you chose?”
There was indignation in Dr. Winters’s voice as he said, “I assure you, I am completely professional and stand by the accuracy of my tests, though you are more than welcome to have subsequent
tests at any facility of your choice.”
Major stepped closer to me. “And yes, we’d like to take the test now. I’m sure you can understand that we all want answers as soon as possible.”
“I already know the answer,” Mrs. Logan said, her tone confident.
I closed the folder. “How do I know this test will be accurate?” I asked. When Major had first mentioned a DNA test over the phone, I’d balked. But the entire drive here, I kept telling myself that a test was the only way I’d get answers. I just didn’t expect to be taking that test today.
“My aunt and uncle aren’t in the business of picking random people off the street and faking DNA tests.”
I turned to the voice of the young man walking into the living room. He, too, emerged as if he had been awaiting the right moment. The man looked like he was in his early twenties and wasn’t any taller than five-four. He wore a tweed blazer and round glasses and a scowl that made evident his feelings about my presence.
“Phillip, don’t be rude,” Major said, his voice chastising.
“I’m sorry, Uncle. I’m not completely onboard with these shenanigans,” he said, shaking his head as he walked over to me, stood in front of me, then did a whole body scan with one glare.
I frowned at him as I debated how much of my time he was worth.
“This is my nephew, Phillip,” Major said. “My sister’s son. He has been with us since he was six. We raised him as our own after my sister’s death.”
Phillip had the audacity to walk around me, his eyes roaming up and down like he was studying some slave on an auction block. “And I’m very protective of my aunt and uncle,” he said. “And very much aware of people that try to take advantage of their wealth.”
Major waved off his nephew’s words. “We are blessed financially,” he said. “I have made some good investments and Elaine’s family has done well in the manufacturing industry. We’re well off but we are not extremely wealthy people.”
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