by Zuri Day
“Sit down.”
Roz sat at an angle that faced him.
“Tell me what happened.”
She began telling an abbreviated version of what had unfolded after she’d knocked on Alana’s door. “The doctor who’d treated her at East began visiting her at the mental hospital, every day, she said, and after a couple weeks invited her to go home with him.”
“Did she lose her memory along with her mind? Did she have amnesia and forget she had kids?”
“Her plan was to come back for you guys at some point, but...”
“But what?”
Roz squeezed Pierre’s hand. “Babe, I don’t know what I should share and what you should hear from your mom.”
“Oh, she thinks I have a mom now?”
Roz dared not state the obvious. Whether he liked it or not, yes, he had a mom alive and well and living in LA.
“I don’t want to talk to whoever that is in California. I lost my mom in 2005.”
Roz took a deep breath and waited. A part of her hoped he’d heard enough for one night. A shock this major should be absorbed a little at a time.
Obviously, Pierre didn’t want to wait. He looked at her, his expression a mix of fear, curiosity and determination. “What did you find out that you don’t want to tell me?”
Roz did not hesitate to answer him. “They have a daughter.”
She felt his body stiffen beside her. “She said it happened almost as soon as she moved there, and when he found out, they got married.”
Pierre emitted a laugh that contained no humor. “Now I’ve heard enough.”
“I’m so sorry this happened, Pierre. I can’t begin to imagine how you’re feeling right now. Who knows how long it will take for you to get over this kind of shock, or if that’s even possible. There is one more thing I feel you should know, and that is her desire to see you guys again.”
Pierre’s sound of disgust made it clear how he felt about that.
“She seemed to know that can only happen if you guys initiate it.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“I hear you, babe. I also know that how you feel later may be different than how you feel right now. So if you ever want her information...”
“I won’t. You know why? Because my mother, Alana LeBlanc, the one who put my sister and me on a bus bound for Houston, left me in charge and told me she’d meet me later, survived the flood and moved across country with someone she met before the water receded. She has been living in LA since then, knowing that there were two kids believing their mom was dead.”
Put that way, it sounded horrible. Roz knew she didn’t have to tell that to Pierre, especially after what he said next.
“As far as I’m concerned...she still is.”
Chapter 18
In the wake of Roz’s atomic revelation that early Saturday morning, Pierre shut down. He locked his emotions behind a wall of indifference. Couldn’t eat. Barely slept. Turned off his phone. Much like what had happened in the days and weeks after getting on a bus bound for Houston, he became quiet, distant, his cold demeanor eliciting furtive glances and whispered questions among the staff. Unlike all those years ago, he spent the few hours not working with a bottle of top-shelf vodka until reaching a stupor that not even dreams could penetrate. His body endured the abuse for less than two days. Seven hours after downing too much alcohol and too little food, he was violently awakened by his liver’s demand to pay homage to the porcelain god. He heaved up his toenails, then lay on the cool marble and, with his world spinning, held on to the floor. With more precision than a bass drum in a marching band, a sledgehammer of pain beat against his temples and behind his right eye. The booze-induced vertigo jarred his senses and loosened the hold he had on his heart. The protective wall shattered. Emotions toppled out haphazardly, bumping into and rolling over each other—a rushing waterfall of anger, sadness, despair. Helpless to fight it, Pierre did something that was totally out of character. He rolled over, pulled himself into a fetal position and released more than a decade of unshed tears.
He cried himself to sleep. In the dream, urgent hands shook his body as the sound of his name bounced off cavernous walls.
“Pierre! Pierre, wake up!”
He frowned, tried to retreat into himself, as the movements became more forceful, the voice louder.
“Pierre! Come on, brother. Wake up!”
Another second and the hands fell away, the voices stilled. Pierre relaxed, welcoming the fog of unconsciousness creeping over his—
Ice water! His body lurched forward and an anguished, distressed cry torn from his soul hurled past cotton mouth and cold, chapped lips to shatter the silence. The fog was doused by a torrent of ice-cold liquid now streaming over him and dripping from his hair.
He stumbled to his knees and locked eyes with an uninvited intruder, fearless and unapologetic, holding a now empty Waterford crystal vase.
“Lizzy? What the hell?”
“Don’t you dare use that tone with me, big brother. Now that I know you’re not dead I could kill you!”
She spun around and walked out of the bathroom. A somewhat disoriented Pierre followed her.
“What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing, period? Why aren’t you at the restaurant? Where is your phone?”
“I turned it off.”
“Why?”
“Obviously, I didn’t want to talk to anyone.” Pierre walked over to his nightstand and picked up a bottle of water. He opened it, took a long swig and flopped on the bed. The relentless pounding he’d felt before passing out was now a dull thud in his forehead that he tried to massage away.
Lisette watched him. An expression of concern replaced anger as her eyes traveled from him to around a room, unusually meticulously clean, that now, like her brother, was completely disheveled and smelled like a bar. Seeing something near Pierre’s feet, she walked over and slowly lifted an empty vodka bottle from beneath the bed.
“What is this doing here? You don’t drink.”
“I did this weekend.”
She sat on the edge of the bed. “Pierre, what’s wrong?”
There was a long pause before he mumbled, “Work stuff. A lot going on.”
“A lot going on is nothing new. But it’s never kept us from talking. I called, texted, left messages at the restaurant, even called your home phone.”
“You know I never answer that thing.”
“Why didn’t you return my calls, especially the 9-1-1 I texted late last night?”
“Didn’t see it.” He looked at her, and though his heart broke from the hurt in her eyes, his placid expression remained unchanged. “Sorry.”
A sudden pain rippled across his stomach. He clinched his teeth, clutched his stomach and reached for his water.
“Did you drink that whole bottle last night?”
“Most of it.”
“When was the last time you ate?”
“Don’t remember.”
Lisette stood, disgust and irritation nudging worry away. “Drink more water. And take a shower. You stink. I’m going to get something for that hangover and will be right back.”
Pierre listened as the sound of his sister’s heels reverberated off the hardwood floors downstairs. He forced himself from the bed and, grabbing the water bottle, walked directly into the high-end shower that had been custom-designed to his specifications. He turned on a screen and pushed a setting preprogrammed to activate the rain forest showerhead and body jets. He sat on a stone bench, head down, as the water temperature rose slowly, along with the pressure. For the first time since Friday, he allowed in thoughts about his mother, followed by a myriad of reasons why Lisette couldn’t know that she was alive. The most important one was to protect her, of course, from a woman it turned out he barely knew at fifteen, an
d who he certainly didn’t know now.
Lisette, who with the help of continued therapy had bounced back from Alana’s disappearance much faster and easier than Pierre, had gone on to thrive in Houston. She’d earned a partial scholarship to the University of Texas at Austin, making the dean’s list every semester on her way to an undergrad degree in psychology. Now she was less than a year from earning a double-major graduate degree in psychology and business, and was entertaining the thought of spending a year abroad before returning to get her doctorate and realizing her dream of opening her own private practice. How would finding out about her mother affect these plans? Some things in life were simply better not known.
Pierre exited the shower, passed by the mirror and recognized parts of himself again. He pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, slipped into a pair of leather house shoes and headed downstairs. Minutes later he heard the back door open, the one that led from the house to the courtyard, behind which was the garage and guest parking.
“Pierre!”
“You don’t have to yell,” he said, one of the few smiles that remained within him making its way to his face. It widened when he saw his restaurant’s logo on the bag she carried.
“Oh, good, you’re up.” Lisette set the bag on a counter. She walked over and pulled two bowls from a cabinet and spooned hot spicy gumbo into them. She pushed one toward Pierre, who’d sat in one of the high chrome-and-leather bar chairs.
“Eat.”
“Thanks.” Pierre slowly reached for the spoon she handed him and began stirring the contents. “Not very hungry.”
Lisette dug into her purse and pulled out a bottle. “Drink this smoothie first. It will coat your stomach and help soak up the alcohol drowning your appetite.”
“How do you know so much about it?”
“I’ll act like you didn’t just ask that of a college student.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He reached for the bottle, opened it and took a tentative sip. “What is this?”
Lisette nodded toward the smoothie as she blew on and then downed a spoonful of gumbo.
Pierre lifted the bottle and read its contents. “Strawberry vanilla, huh? It’s good.”
He drank, she ate, a weird silence stretching between them. Pierre finished the smoothie and began eating the gumbo. “Riviera fixed this,” he said after a couple spoonfuls. “Almost impossible to tell the difference between his and mine.”
Several more minutes went by, the silence punctuated only by the sound of silver colliding with ceramic bowls. Lisette finally pulled a napkin out of the bag and, after wiping her mouth, reached for a bottle of water. She stared at her brother while opening it, continued staring as she took a long drink.
“You ready?”
“Ready for what?”
“To talk about what’s really going on.”
“I told you.”
“Don’t do that, brother.”
“What?”
A soft sigh escaped as Lisette pushed away the bowl to place crossed arms on the counter. “Out of everything I have in life, our relationship has always been my most treasured possession. No matter what’s ever happened I’ve always known I could come to you. And I have, as you well know.”
Pierre nodded, but took special interest in what was at the bottom of his gumbo.
“There’s never, ever been anything we couldn’t share.” She reached over and placed her hands on his. The spoon fell into the bowl. He hung his head. “Pear, let’s not start now.”
Pierre looked up and smiled as his sister reverted to a name he hadn’t heard in years, one she’d used before mastering two syllable words. Long moments passed as he wrestled within himself. One side urged him to tell her. It’s her mother, too. The other side was determined that she’d never know, at least not until he could meet this woman otherwise known as his mother and make sure that it was okay.
Lisette came around the counter. “Just tell me,” she whispered.
“I can’t. And believe me, it’s better that you not know.”
“Are you sick? Is it something—”
“I’m fine. It’s nothing to do with me.”
“Really? ‘Nothing to do with you’ had you not returning calls, shutting off your phone, getting drunk to the point of passing out and sleeping on the floor? If you don’t want to tell me, I can’t force you. But please don’t insult my intelligence with a lie.”
When Pierre said nothing more, Lisette reached across the counter and snatched up her purse. “You’re welcome,” she said, with a kiss on his temple. “I’m out.”
“Lizzy.”
She turned.
“It’s about Mom.”
“The memorial? Oh, I’m so sorry.” Rushing back over, she threw her arms around him. “I didn’t know that thinking about her after all these years would hit you so hard.”
Pierre reached behind him and gently pulled her hands from around his neck. “This isn’t about the memorial. Sit down, Lizzy.”
Lisette sat, a frown on her face as she stared and waited.
There was no way to say it except to say it. So that’s what Pierre did. “We don’t need to have a memorial for Mom.”
“Why not?”
“She’s alive.”
They talked for two days, with Lisette finally understanding why Pierre had chased the goose.
Chapter 19
Roz the woman was worried about the man whose mother’s unbelievable story was due on her editor’s desk by noon Monday, which put Rosalyn Arnaud the journalist in a sticky situation. She’d worried about Pierre all weekend, even while understanding why he didn’t call. She’d stayed with him Friday night after breaking the news, and for the first time they didn’t make love while sharing a bed. Later, Roz realized Pierre may have been beside her physically, but his mind had begun retreating shortly after hearing the news. That’s what led to her professional dilemma, the kind that forced a revelation of what a person was made of. Drew a line in the sand—character and conscience on one side, breaking news on the other. She parked her car next to Andy’s and headed into NO Beat, unsure where the decision she’d made would take her.
She’d barely taken two sips of coffee before her boss appeared. “There you are!”
“Good morning, Andy.”
“Look at you. Rough weekend?”
“I’ve had better.”
“Come on in and let’s talk about it.”
Andy stepped back so that she could enter his office, and closed the door behind them. Roz took a couple more sips of coffee, trying to decide on the best approach. In the end, she followed her mother’s advice about removing gauze from a sore. Don’t be tentative, baby. Rip it off!
“I’m going to reimburse the paper for last week’s airfare to LA. We can’t run the story.”
“Why not?”
“Several reasons, including the potential for a lawsuit.” Pierre hadn’t exactly mentioned this, but if need be Roz would make sure it came up. “The more research I did the more I’ve determined that the liability and potential human collateral outweigh what might be gained from breaking this story.”
“Human collateral? As in someone might die? Journalists don’t care about that. What matters?” He counted off on his fingers. “Is it true? Can it be verified? Will people want to read it? If it’s true and can be verified, then a lawsuit can be handled. Will people want to read about someone assumed dead but found alive? Here in the city of the dead, of all places?” He smiled. “I think so.”
“I respect your opinion, Andy. You haven’t positioned NO Beat as a contender with major papers here and nationally without knowing your stuff. That fact contributed to my rough weekend.” Roz chuckled, trying to lighten the moment. “But I have made the decision not to write this story. That’s my gut and it’s the 90 percent part. So I’ll stand by it.”
“I understand.”
“What are you working on?”
Roz shared a couple ideas.
“You need to rethink the living dead. Or come up with something as good. I’ll get the receipts for the trip.”
Andy’s easygoing manner had been replaced by a brusque dismissal, underscored by him gathering papers on his desk and turning around to file them.
“I’ll write a check as soon as I get them. On my way to follow up on a tip from last night. I’ll be back around two?”
“Hopefully, with a story we can run in two days.”
Roz left NO Beat without a destination in mind. Home perhaps, to update my résumé? The truth about a tip was a bit of a stretch. She had possibilities. Upcoming elections, a variety of festivals, a local designer creating fleur-de-lis-inspired fashions with metal and chains. Nothing appealed to her. No story could. Her head and heart were focused on Pierre, Lisette and Alana LeBlanc, now Lana Stern.
Roz tapped her Bluetooth to call him again. Her thumb hovered over his name, then tapped on an incoming call from a private number.
“Roz Arnaud.”
“Hey, girl, it’s Tiffany.”
Roz had met Tiffany at her first job right out of college. They’d worked together only briefly before Tiffany moved to Atlanta, but they’d kept in touch via social media and passed on information one thought could benefit the other.
“Hi! It’s been a while since I’ve heard from you. Are you back here?”
“No, still in Atlanta, which is why I’m calling you. How quickly can you get to Shreveport?”
“It’s a five-hour drive, over three hundred miles, so unless I can get a flight—”
“Try and get a flight. After I tell you what’s happening you’ll want to be there.”
Roz didn’t even go home to pack. She went to the airport, hopped on a plane, rented a car in Shreveport, and when she returned to work on Tuesday it was with an exclusive involving a successful middle-aged businesswoman carrying a young rapper’s baby, and pictures of the happy couple to prove it. Andy told her she’d pulled a rabbit from a ball cap. For now she was still on the NO Beat team.