by G S Fortis
Written in silver letters above and below the photo are the following words:
Congratulations Emma!
Good luck at Harvard!
I glance at Paige. She stares blankly at the photo, and I’m not sure if she can register the resemblance like I can. Her expression is impossible to read. Pain? Anger? Resentment?
We hear a roar of laughter to the side, and our attention turns to a crowd near the cabanas—yes, this place has cabanas. Over the heads of a circling crowd, I spy a couple holding court. The man is tall, with a salt-and-pepper beard that matches his salt-and-pepper hair. But it’s the woman beside him who catches my attention. Or more accurately, it’s her long blond hair.
Paige approaches slowly, and I follow. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Judge Whitaker watching from a distance. I can tell from his expression that nothing good will come of this.
My eyes zero in on the woman’s hair, the only thing I can see above the throng of guests that surround her. The incandescent light bounces off her golden locks and acts as a shining beacon. Paige moves deliberately toward it, shoulder-checking anyone in her way. She doesn’t notice their sneering looks as they move aside.
The last of crowd finally parts, revealing the woman. She’s beautiful, with perfectly chiseled features and smooth tan skin. I can tell by her posture and the way her blue evening gown clings to her body that she keeps herself fit and healthy. Her teeth shine as she smiles at her husband, admiring the way he can own a room. This is the woman from the faded Polaroid in Paige’s pocket.
She looks like Paige—they are practically clones. I feel as though I’m looking at Paige in twenty years. The similarity is unsettling.
The woman laughs again, then her eyes fall upon the crowd. Her eyes fall on me. Then they fall on Paige. As her husband continues to talk, her smile begins to fade. Her eyes are locked on Paige, unable to look away.
Paige stares back. Her expression is blank, but I can tell by the way her cheeks flush that emotions are boiling within. The world around us moves in slow motion as each of the two women stare at the other as though trying to grasp the weight and truth of this moment.
The woman’s eyes well with tears as realization finally hits home. She drops her champagne glass, and it pops on the ground in an explosion of shards. Her husband and the crowd go suddenly quiet.
The husband rests his hand on her shoulder to see if she’s all right. She’s not. The man with salt-and-pepper hair turns to Paige and looks her over. He doesn’t register the similarity between his wife and my friend. How could he miss it?
He turns to the woman. “Priscilla? Is everything all right?”
Priscilla.
She ignores him as if she can’t hear anything. After an eternity, she finally speaks. “Paige?” she asks, her voice quivering with emotion.
Paige stands frozen. For as long as I’ve known her, she has been gearing up for this moment. She has rehearsed it over and over in her mind—what she would say, what she would do. So I stand there, anticipating the release that’s about to erupt from Paige.
Nothing comes out. Not a sound. Not an action. Nothing.
A woman’s disembodied voice calls out from the crowd. “Mom? Is everything all right?”
I turn, half expecting to see young Emma. But instead, a woman with wavy jet-black hair breaks through the crowd. She’s elegant and striking. Her cocktail dress is flattering but not revealing. She’s tall, like her father, with dark eyes, like her father.
But here’s the thing—she’s roughly the age as Paige and me. And nothing in her features bears any resemblance to Priscilla.
“Mom,” the woman repeats, “are you okay?”
Paige casts a sideways glance at this woman who called Priscilla “Mom.” She looks her up and down as though trying to comprehend the math and the DNA to explain all this.
I appraise the trio, doing my own mental gymnastics to understand the relationship. Judging by the dominant genes in this young woman’s features, she’s clearly the man’s daughter. She bears no resemblance to Priscilla, the woman she just called “Mom.” Priscilla must be her stepmom.
Before I can continue my analysis, young Emma emerges. She wraps her arms around Priscilla in concern. “Mommy, are you okay?” she says in an infantile tone.
Then Emma’s eyes fall on Paige. Her confused look melts into one of recognition. The father’s expression remains polite, but I can see a sneer develop as he realizes who this person standing before him is.
Paige and I stare at this family—this perfect picturesque quartet that once was happy and content, staring back at two interlopers who have ruined their evening. Priscilla takes a step forward. Paige flinches and recoils back a step. Her arm rises slightly as if to defend herself against a strike.
This is it. This is Paige’s moment to confront the woman who abandoned her—who dumped her in a foster system that nearly broke her. It wasn’t because of drugs or poverty or any of the myriad reasons Paige concocted in her imagination. It was so this woman could come live here. Paige’s journey of suffering—every strike, every insult, every unwanted touch—was for the benefit of this woman’s comfort.
As I wait for Paige to say these things—to kick into gear and fight the way she has her whole life—I become aware of the silence, not just from the crowd around us but from Paige as well.
I turn to look at my friend. She’s paralyzed. After all this time spent searching and preparing for this encounter in her mind—this one moment that she’s built her entire life around—she’s frozen. I look closer at her. She’s practically catatonic.
I’ve known her to withdraw into depression before but never this quickly or deeply. She’s not just hurt—she’s broken.
“Paige?” Priscilla calls again.
I whip my head around and stare daggers at this woman. She takes a step back when she sees my eyes. Her whole family does.
My hands curl into shaking fists, and my blood boils. How dare she address my friend after what she’s done? I very much consider unleashing hell on her and everyone here. I could, too. It’s two hours past my regular dosage, and the demon inside me rages to be released. I don’t think I would regret it one bit if I did.
The alert goes off on my new smartwatch. The beeping jolts Paige from her daze. She looks down at my watch, then up at me, then at my targets. She reaches out, and her fingers insert themselves into my fists, relaxing my grip. Our fingers interlock. When I turn to look at her, she shakes her head.
I close my eyes and take deep, steady breaths. My shoulders relax, then my arms, my hands, then my entire body. By sheer will, I force my heart rate to slow down. After more deep breaths, I am in complete control.
I open my eyes and turn to Paige. I need to get her out of here, away from this place and these people. “Paige,” I whisper, “let’s go home.”
She doesn’t resist as I lead her out, shoving men and women out of our way. They stumble back, and I even knock a couple of men off their feet. When I try to glare one last time at Judge William Whitaker, he’s disappeared.
We exit the backyard and leave the guests behind. We don’t look back as we storm through the house. With my arm wrapped around her waist, I escort Paige off the property. We’re halfway to my car when Paige stumbles. Her knees buckle, and she nearly falls forward before I catch her.
“Come on,” I say, “we’re almost there.”
She struggles to breathe, gulping for air like she’s drowning. She’s not drowning—she’s sobbing. As her legs give way under her own weight, I guide her to the steps of a nearby house. We collapse beneath the light of an illuminated archway of someone’s front lawn.
I hold Paige against my shoulder as she wails. Tears pour out as she comes to terms with what just happened. A life of misconceived notions, hopes, and dreams has been dashed away in a single moment. Her body convulses as if trying to control the overwhelming emotional pain.
“She didn’t want
me,” she sputters between sobs. “She didn’t want me.”
I hold her closer, not knowing what to say to make things better.
“Why didn’t she want me?” she whimpers. “Why didn’t she love me?”
Tears stream down my face as I think about that four-year-old girl who was abandoned—who tried to understand why her mom suddenly disappeared from her life. She had no home, no family, no one to love her. She must have been so lost. So confused. My hold tightens around Paige, and I wish I could have been there for her twenty-one years ago. I wish I could have held that little girl as tightly then as I’m holding her now. It’s all crashing down on her in this one moment—the mother who left, the foster parents who abused her, the system that forgot about her, the men who used her.
“What’s wrong with me? Why can’t anyone love me?”
“I love you,” I say, trying as best as I can to comfort my best friend. I envelop her in my arms, shielding her from the world around us. “I’m so sorry. But I promise you, I’ll always be here for you. You and me until the end.”
Paige continues to cry, releasing the anguish from a lifetime of pain.
* * *
It takes me fifteen minutes to stop crying. It takes Paige another fifteen after that. Even then, her misery doesn’t subside—I think she has simply run out of tears.
We’re in no rush, so we continue to sit on the steps of a stranger’s house, tucked away from the sidewalk in an alcove formed by tall hedges. Her head remains on my shoulder, my arms wrapped around her tightly. My mascara streams down onto her hair, and hers drips down onto my jacket.
Footsteps click on the side, slowly getting louder. We don’t bother to hide and compose ourselves. Fuck people.
A silhouette appears before us on the sidewalk. In one hand, he holds two small bottles of water, and in the other is a lowball glass filled with an amber liquid. He takes a step forward and extends the water bottles to us.
For a moment, we stay still. We’ve been wrapped together like this for so long that we’re slow to move. Then simultaneously, we both reach out for the water.
“Thanks, Judge,” I say.
Judge Whitaker steps forward. His kind, handsome face emerges into the light before us. “I’m sorry.”
Paige and I open the water and drink. The water is clean and crisp and soothes our dry throats.
I point at the judge’s glass. “Bourbon?”
“Scotch.”
I beckon for the glass. “Close enough.”
He hands me the glass, and I offer it to Paige first. She takes a sip then hands it back to me. The liquid is rich and smoky when it meets my lips.
“I wanted to make sure you two were okay,” he says, looking up and down the street. “I didn’t want to intrude.”
“You’re friends with them?” Paige asks.
Again, he looks up the street. “I should go.”
“The secret’s out, Judge,” I say, handing Paige the glass of scotch. “Whatever you don’t tell us tonight, we’ll figure out tomorrow.”
He nods reluctantly. “I’ve known him for thirty-plus years. I’ve known her for twenty.”
“Twenty-one,” I add.
“That sounds about right,” he admits. “They’re not good people. You have to believe me.”
“Who is he?” I ask, curious about the husband.
“Thomas Thorne,” he says with slight disdain. “He’s a partner in a law firm in Century City. Real piece of work.”
“The kids?” I ask.
Whitaker grimaces. “Older one is Taylor Thorne, his daughter from a previous marriage. Works for him.”
A previous marriage. That confirms that Taylor was in the picture when Thomas and Priscilla met. Thomas kept his daughter, while Priscilla abandoned hers. This also makes Paige’s mom wife number two—at least.
“And Emma?” asks Paige.
Paige knows the answer. I think she asks so she can hear the words out loud, as an act of masochism. He’s not going to tell her anything she doesn’t already know.
The judge hesitates then says, “Emma is your half sister.”
Paige digests this. She takes another sip of the scotch then looks up at him. “Why?” she asks with pleading eyes as if hoping for an answer that will make this acceptable, if not forgivable.
Whitaker crouches down before her. “They are not good people, Paige. None of them. Not him, not the girls, not your mother. She abandoned you for her own selfish desires. I meant what I said before—you’re better off without her in your life.”
Paige doesn’t protest but doesn’t agree with the judge either. I take the scotch back and knock back the last sip. “If they’re so terrible,” I ask, handing the empty glass to Whitaker, “what were you doing at the party?”
Whitaker shrugs. “Even judges have to practice politics with the devil.”
“That’s a poor choice of words,” I say.
“I’m sorry, Paige.” He reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out a business card, and hands it to her. “If you ever need anything, please call me.”
Paige looks over his card as he walks away. “Judge Whitaker,” she calls. He stops and looks at her. “Can you answer one last question for me?”
He cocks his head, waiting.
“I don’t even know if you remember, but I was wondering, what’s my name? My real name?”
He nods. “Paige. Alexandra. Chandler.”
Paige inhales deeply, her breath stuttering as she receives that one last piece of the puzzle. With that, Judge William Whitaker hikes up the sidewalk, back to the house of Thomas Thorne and family.
Chapter 37
____◊____
THE DRIVE IS QUIET. There’s not much left to say after this evening, which is fine. I’m still trying to process it all myself. I try to imagine the series of events that transpired twenty-one years ago that led Priscilla to abandon her four-year-old daughter and begin a new life as Mrs. Thomas Thorne.
Who was she before? Who was Priscilla…? I can’t imagine what was so objectionable about bringing Paige into the family, if Thorne already had a daughter.
As I’m pondering this on the quiet drive back, Paige suddenly screams. It’s a primordial release of anger, frustration, and pain. It startles me, and I nearly lose control of the car and come close to hitting someone’s mailbox.
“I’m sorry,” Paige says. “I just needed to let that out.”
“That’s ok—”
“But I’m okay. Really. You know why? Because I did it. I finally found her, and now I can move with my life.”
I keep driving, not sure where Paige is going with this.
“So what if she’s not some homeless vagrant? So what if she’s not a doped-up prostitute living in the projects? So what if she’s not running from the mob or hiding from feds or if she didn’t accidentally kill someone in a hit-and-run accident?”
“You thought she might have killed—”
“The point,” Paige says, shutting me up, “is that I found her, and she’s okay. She’s healthy and safe, just like I hoped for. She tried to hide from me—fine—but I found her. So I win. Right?”
Before I can answer, Paige keeps going. I’m not sure what stage of grief this is. Maybe the gloating or ridiculing stage. We’re way past acceptance.
“Right,” she continues. “I found her. That’s what I should have said. I found you, you, you contemptible bitch. That’s what the judge called her, right? A bitch?” She looks at me, waiting for an answer.
“Yes. He did.” I’m just going to agree with everything right now.
“Yep. Bitch,” she blurts. “A rich bitch. Up in the Palisades with her rich husband and two kids. No, one kid! Because apparently, he already had a daughter! So I was, like, a car you trade in for a new model. Get rid of the blond four-year-old—I’d like to try the brunette this year! What’s her name? Taylor? And can you believe what she called her? ‘Mom’? Give me a break. M
om? Mom! That’s such BS! You want to know why? That woman in there—that bottle-blond trophy wife playing hostess with all these snobby assholes—is not her goddamn mother!”
I slam on the brakes, and my Mini Cooper screeches to a halt.
* * *
Paige’s words rattle around in my head. “Not her goddamn mother.”
The floodgates open, and memories wash over me. I think back to the first time I was at Carmen’s house. When I was upstairs I looked over all the family portraits, something struck me as odd even then.
Images of Elizabeth growing up and professional photographs of Carmen, including some that suggest she used to be a model or an actress… There are no candid shots. These are posed portraits, assembled to show a family. Curiously, they don’t show the entire family together. Everyone is there, just in different pictures.
Even Paige has a picture of her and her mother. Why are there no pictures of Carmen and Elizabeth together? Then I remember when I first walked into Carmen’s kitchen and found her cooking. Not the housekeeper. Carmen. And Leona was the one in control.
“¡Váyanse!” Leona commands. The two other servants stop what they’re doing and quickly leave.
Leona never left me alone with Carmen—ever. They exchanged a lot of strange looks every time Carmen had something to tell me. Leona wasn’t having it when I tried to grill Carmen about Elizabeth and Hugo.
“She’s done answering your questions today,” Leona says.
Was Leona protecting her or keeping her quiet? I sensed something was off, even then.
There’s a lot Carmen’s not telling me, and she won’t tell me, especially with Leona protecting her. Maybe Leona is more than a maid.
If Leona was more than a maid, what was she? Who was she? Maybe she wasn’t just Carmen’s confidante. Maybe she was more. Then David’s words come back to me.