Hagar's Mother (The Bridge Daughter Cycle Book 2)

by Jim Nelson

  “Some women prefer to put their children above everything else.” He added, “Everything.”

  “Is that why you left me?” she said. “Because I put our children above you?”

  “I think you’re putting your bridge daughters ahead of your children. And that’s exactly what I’m going to argue in front of the judge.” He shifted in his seat, looking about the dining room. “Ah, hell.” He rose and marched the bill and his credit card to the cash register near the entrance.

  Across the table remained his disheveled table setting, clumps of cheese and red smears across his plate, silverware askew, coffee rings on the tablecloth. His crumpled cloth napkin had been casually tossed atop it all.

  Hello, Vaughn, Hanna thought.

  Twenty-five

  tower

  The text message appeared on the screen of Hanna’s cell phone. One word, no punctuation, no capitalization: tower

  Although the police bust was ten days earlier—ancient history in the modern American news cycle—Hanna still received the occasional phone call from a journalist looking for an interview, a quote, or even an angle on another story. Hanna hung up all calls as soon as the journalists identified themselves. She’d received text messages from them as well, but always more verbose than

  tower

  She deleted it and returned her phone to her purse.

  The attorney Hanna’s father retained arrived at the Superior Court building twenty minutes late. She apologized with a grumble about parking and proceeded to unpack her briefcases on the mahogany table. Hanna sat beside her mother and emptily watched the lawyer prepare. Behind them, Hanna’s father and Cynthia waited on soft chairs. They had the tight, boxy room to themselves until two o’clock, when the proceedings began in chambers elsewhere.

  “I’ve spoken with Hanna already,” her attorney announced, “and I’ll tell the rest of you what I explained to her. This is not a trial. This is a custody hearing. There will be a judge and a stenographer, but it’s not as formal as a trial.”

  “Is there a jury?” Hanna’s mother said.

  “No jury,” the attorney said, still unpacking her briefcases. “Hanna will be sworn in, however.” She stopped unpacking to look at Hanna. “Just answer the questions as we discussed and everything will be fine.” She resumed removing pads of paper and file folders from her cases.

  “Will Vaughn call on Cynthia?” Hanna said.

  She finished unpacking. “I’ll fight it as best I can.”

  “I won’t allow it.”

  “I don’t want that to happen either,” the attorney said. She folded her hands on the table. “As I said, this isn’t as formal as a trial. We won’t be in a courtroom. We’ll all be seated around a table. It will seem almost casual. But everyone needs to keep in mind the judge’s decision carries with it the full force of law. If he decides Cynthia needs to answer questions, we don’t have a choice.”

  While the attorney talked, Cynthia came to Hanna’s side. She whispered in her ear: I don’t feel so good.

  Hanna asked the attorney for a moment. “What’s wrong?”

  My tummy hurts, she whispered.

  Hanna ran the side of her thumb along Cynthia’s cheek. Her skin was warm, the hot flashes bridge daughters experience in their final weeks, along with the nausea and sudden spikes of appetites and then lack thereof. Cynthia’s cheekbone carved hard ridges beneath her eyes, reminding Hanna of the black grease football players wear on their faces.

  Hanna told the attorney, “I need a moment.”

  The attorney checked her wristwatch. “We have twenty minutes. Please don’t dawdle.”

  —

  The hallway outside the chambers was lined with black padded benches for reporters, lawyers, and waiting jurors. She accompanied Cynthia to the lavatory. They used adjoining stalls.

  “What are you going to name him?” Cynthia said from the other stall.

  “I thought we agreed,” Hanna said. “’Barry.’ Your grandfather’s name.”

  “That was my name,” Cynthia said. “What do you want to name him?”

  “I’m fine with Barry.”

  “It’s not my child,” Cynthia said. “You need to choose.”

  They emerged from the stalls and washed up.

  “What else should I name him?” Hanna asked.

  “I’m not going to be here to help you anymore,” Cynthia said.

  “Are you telling me I’m going to be alone?” Hanna said, amused and touched at Cynthia’s sudden interest in her future.

  “You’re going to have a baby soon,” Cynthia said. “You’re going to need someone.” She vigorously scrubbed her hands into a soapy lather and rinsed them under the steaming flow while wringing them together.

  “I have your grandmother to help me,” Hanna said. She knew what Cynthia was hinting at. She wanted Hanna to find a boyfriend. No, a husband.

  Cynthia shook the excess from her hands with exaggerated arm movements, getting drops on the counter and the mirror, where Hanna merely flicked her fingers into the sink. Cynthia ran her hands under the air dryer until, impatient, she tried the paper dispenser. Finding it empty, she pulled up the hem of her bridge dress and dried them there.

  When they exited the bathroom, Cynthia was scowling. “What are they whispering about?” she mumbled.

  Hanna turned and saw, just as the door closed behind them, two teenage girls entering the bathroom, whispering to one another.

  “They’re impressed,” Hanna said.

  “Yeah, right,” Cynthia said. “That’s what girls do when they’re impressed. Whisper.”

  “That’s exactly what they do,” Hanna said.

  “You think they like me?” Cynthia said.

  “I don’t know,” Hanna said. “You should ask them.”

  Cynthia slowed and straightened up. “Dad?”

  Vaughn and his legal counsel stood in the hall with their backs to them, both in suits and leather shoes. If she’d been attentive, Hanna could’ve diverted Cynthia to a stairwell and circled to the other end of the hall via the lower floor. With Cynthia’s exclamation, the men turned and they were trapped.

  Vaughn’s face was bloodless. He was not smiling, unusual for Vaughn. Maybe he’s as nervous I am, Hanna thought. She didn’t think it possible.

  “Jack,” Vaughn said to his attorney, “this is my bridge—look at you!” The brash grin Hanna had fallen in love with reappeared, bringing with it some color to his face. “You’re built like an ox. Look at this!”

  Vaughn took Cynthia by her shoulders and told her to square up. Hanna put out a hand to warn him back.

  “Come on now,” he said. “I’m allowed to see my bridge daughter. Here—make a muscle for me.”

  Cynthia, confused, cocked her head at her father. The challenge triggered something within her. She curled her right arm and flexed.

  “Go ahead and make a muscle.” Vaughn wrapped one hand about her bicep and squeezed. “Go ahead.”

  The ropes in Cynthia’s neck tightened to the suspension curve of a bridge. She flexed harder, her clenched right hand quivering.

  “Let’s see it, come on, make a muscle for me,” Vaughn said, still squeezing. “Go ahead. I’m waiting.”

  Cynthia continued to flex, looking at her bicep and then back at her father, face scrunched.

  “Go ahead,” Vaughn said, barely containing himself.

  Hanna said, “Stop it.”

  He broke out laughing. Cynthia’s entire body went limp with the realization. She turned away from her father.

  “My son,” he told his attorney, “is going to be a beast.”

  Hanna took Cynthia by the hand and led her away. Cynthia’s mouth crinkled. She tried to turn back and say something to her father, but nothing arrived. Hanna caught one last look of Vaughn’s merriment, as well as the uncontrolled grin on the attorney’s face, both arms weighed down with attachés as big as suitcases.

  —

  tower

  Now Hanna thought it w
as a crank, or some kind of edgy ad campaign. Perhaps it was a glitch with the phone system. Although she’d deleted the first message, she remembered it coming from an unusual area code—890—and this one originated from the same. She swiped her thumb across the phone’s screen and erased the message.

  At three fifteen on the wall clock, a uniformed bailiff delivered another message from the judge instructing them to wait in their room, as there’d been some kind of delay. Hanna’s attorney said she’d give it another thirty minutes before going to the judge’s chambers for an explanation.

  “Delays aren’t unusual,” she told them all, “but enough’s enough.”

  Before the thirty minutes elapsed, the bailiff arrived and said to follow him.

  The chamber was a larger version of the boxy room they’d been in for the past two hours, except that a mahogany table with padded chairs filled the center of the chamber. As promised, the judge and a stenographer were present. The judge was not in robes. He wore a pinstriped button-down shirt with suspenders and gray trousers. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, exposing arms matted with yellow-gray hair.

  Vaughn’s attorney sat before a lake of papers and folders splayed across the tabletop. From appearances, Hanna guessed they’d been in the hearing room for some time, perhaps since the appointed two o’clock meeting hour. Vaughn’s lawyer looked disheveled and cross. The overhead lights cast a glare across his smudged eyeglasses and obscured his pupils.

  The ashen, empty expression Hanna recognized on Vaughn’s face in the hallway had returned. He tracked Hanna as she crossed the room. He placed his index finger on the cup of his upper lip and glanced away.

  The judge rose as they entered. “Please take a seat,” he said.

  Hanna’s attorney lowered herself to a chair. She peered across the table with visible dissatisfaction, first at Vaughn’s disheveled lawyer, then at Vaughn, and then at the judge. “Is there something I need to be informed of?”

  The judge remained standing. “I would like to apologize for the delay. I take it you’re the mother?”

  “I am.” She said to Vaughn, “Where’s Ruby?”

  “I won’t dance around this,” the judge said. “Mr. Brubaker has failed to produce Ruby Brubaker.”

  Hanna went limp. Behind her, her family made indistinguishable noises, gasps, and exclamations in broken words. Hanna’s attorney said, “Your honor—”

  “We’ll get to that in a moment,” the judge said.

  He picked up a paper coffee cup from the table. He swirled his coffee the way Hanna’s father swirled a rocks glass of Scotch when something weighed on his mind.

  “It took ninety minutes of excuses and phone calls,” the judge said, “for Mr. Brubaker to finally confess to me that his failure to produce his bridge daughter is due to her fleeing his custody.”

  Behind Hanna came more gasps. Hanna’s mother gripped Hanna’s hand. Hanna sank deeper into her chair.

  “Twelve hours ago, Ruby took flight,” the judge said. “Mr. Brubaker could only muster the backbone to inform me of this a few minutes ago. Additionally,” he added with a faint scowl, “he failed to notify the police. His partner has been scouring the downtown in a rental car since this morning searching for her.” He held up a gentle hand to the protestations of Hanna’s attorney. “I will be with you in a moment.”

  The judge stepped around the corner of the mahogany table. He leaned on the table with the knuckles of one hand. He spoke directly to Hanna.

  “Ms. Driscoll, I am terribly sorry I have to be the one,” he said. “I’ve read your statement to the police and discussed your legal situation with your counsel. As a father of three and a grandfather of eight, I offer my deepest sympathies.” He motioned for the bailiff to open the chamber door. “A police detective is outside waiting to speak to you.”

  The judge returned to the head of the table. “As for you,” he said to Vaughn, “I believe Ms. Driscoll’s counsel is eager to raise a set of motions concerning your unfitness as a guardian.” He lowered to his seat and wove the fingers of his hands together. “Frankly, Mr. Brubaker, I’m inclined to approve each and every one of them.”

  —

  Hanna recited Ruby’s particulars to the plainclothes detective, who jotted each detail into his pocket notepad. He stepped away to radio in all she’d said as well as her contact information. When he returned to Hanna, she was staring at the screen of her smartphone.

  “I want to give you every assurance,” the detective said. “We’ve got an ABP out across the Bay Area. We’ll find your bridge.”

  “Thank you,” Hanna said absently. She looked up from her phone and brightened. “Thank you.”

  Hanna gently touched the tips of her fingers to her phone’s glass screen. Another text message had arrived while he radioed in Ruby’s details. Hanna now had an idea who was sending the messages.

  tower

  Twenty-six

  Hanna now had to think as a sister of Hagar. If a sandy uneven field along the bay is an airport, then a tower would not be a tall building in San Francisco.

  And Hanna was convinced the message came from Ruby. Who else could it be? Ruby had escaped her father and was signaling to Hanna where to pick her up. Hanna was convinced.

  The hearing concluded early so the judge could weigh Hanna’s attorney’s motions to rule in absentia. Hanna excused herself without explanation, and no one asked for one. She dared not even hint of Ruby’s communiqué to her parents in front of the judge and Vaughn.

  After all, Hanna explained to herself, how do I really know this message is from Ruby? Lying to one’s self is easier when it regards the safety of one’s child.

  “Why are we going home?” Cynthia sat in the front seat of the car beside Hanna. “Shouldn’t we help look for Ruby?” San Francisco receded behind them as they sped eastward on the bottom deck of the Bay Bridge.

  Hanna told Cynthia, “Your sister sent me a message.”

  Cynthia, almost dumbstruck, said, “When?”

  Hanna thumbed her phone’s on-screen controls, keeping one eye on the road. Cynthia read the text message and shook her head, confused.

  They were seconds from plunging into the Yerba Buena Tunnel. Across the bay, visible atop Telegraph Hill, stood San Francisco’s most prominent tower, a stark white cylinder resembling a fire nozzle.

  “Maybe she’s there?” Cynthia said. “At Coit Tower?” She pointed to the Transamerica Building, the most distinguished skyscraper in San Francisco’s skyline. “Or at the pyramid?”

  “That’s exactly what I thought at first,” Hanna said. “Hagar’s sisters don’t use words like that when they communicate.”

  “You think Ruby is using a code?”

  In her eagerness to escape the hearing and her family, she’d not considered whether Ruby could manage such misdirection. Ruby was intelligent, Hanna would be the first to say so, but thinking two or three steps ahead of others required a cunning that seemed beyond Ruby’s ken.

  “How do you think she got away from your father?” Hanna said.

  Cynthia furrowed her brow. “I don’t exactly believe Dad’s story,” she said.

  “You shouldn’t,” Hanna said.

  A pale-faced and perspiring Vaughn had spun a rather tortured story to the room about Ruby slipping away in the middle of the night. Vaughn claimed she’d complained about stomach cramps. He took her downstairs to the hotel canteen to purchase a bottle of Pontephen. While at the cash register, she excused herself to use the bathroom and never returned.

  “What don’t you believe?” Hanna said.

  “I don’t believe anything he says.” Cynthia pouted. “Not after he left us in the lurch.”

  Hanna was not going to correct Cynthia. She was not going to make this a teachable moment about respecting parents or giving people the benefit of the doubt. Not when it came to Vaughn.

  “Do you think he was drinking when Ruby ran away?” Cynthia asked.

  “I wouldn’t put it past him,” Hanna sa
id.

  “His girlfriend wasn’t at the hotel last night, right?” Cynthia asked.

  Attending to business in Pacific Palisades yesterday, Vaughn had told the judge. She flew in this morning expressly for the hearing.

  “I think he locked Ruby in the hotel room so he could go drink,” Cynthia said.

  Drink and carouse, Hanna thought. She expected another woman was in the mix of this mess, somehow.

  “You can’t lock someone in a hotel room,” Hanna said. “It’s a fire hazard.”

  “Oh,” Cynthia said.

  “But he might have tried,” Hanna said. “Maybe he locked her in the bathroom.”

  Nothing was spoken for a long moment. Cynthia finally said, “I kind of hate Dad. Is that okay?”

  Hanna said nothing. As far as Vaughn was concerned, her wellspring of humanity had run dry. Maybe later they would have a talk about hate.

  —

  At half past five, the Coit New Bridge School of Berkeley was closed, still, and serene. Hours earlier, the campus teemed with young uniformed girls, aged six to thirteen and one-half, the eldest in pronounced stages of pregnancy. When Hanna pulled into the parking lot, most of the interior lights were off and the drop-off roundabout was empty. Three lonesome cars were parked in random spots across the staff lot.

  Hanna parked in a visitor space and cut the engine. She ducked and twisted her head to peer about the campus from the front seat of the Audi. A lit window at the far end of the stucco building suggested someone in an office working late. Hanna told Cynthia to wait in the car. When Cynthia protested, she insisted.

  “We need to work together,” Hanna said to her. “Please. Do this for me.”

  Cynthia considered that. “Working together means listening to me too, right?” Cynthia said carefully.

  “That’s right. It does.”

  Hanna thought Cynthia was going to ask for something in return. Instead, she nodded an affirmative. “I’ll wait here,” Cynthia said.

  The Coit New Bridge School was located in a well-to-do quarter of Berkeley. The suburban streets around the school were tree-lined and calming. A man walking a dog. An evening jogger. Two boys walking home in soccer uniforms, their cleats making their knees wobble like girls wearing heels for the first time.