CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The woman stood behind the storm door, arms akimbo. She peered at Alex and Vanessa from narrowed eyes.
The sisters had driven in Alex's Jeep to the Northeast Bronx and, using the GPS, had easily found the house. Semi-attached, two-story brick homes lined both sides of the street, each with a postage-stamp patch of grass in the front adjacent to a set of stairs—known in New York as the "stoop." Shared driveways separated each set of houses.
"Can I help you?" The woman shouted her question peering around the edge of a frosted-glass door, her smooth skin the color of cashews. "I ain't buying anything, and I'm a Christian woman in case you're one of those Jehovah's Witness people."
Vanessa stepped forward. "Good morning. My name is Vanessa Lawrence and this is my sister, Alexandra. We're sorry to disturb you, but we've come on a rather urgent matter."
Vanessa's smile, an almost perfect V shape punctuated by dimples on either side, rarely failed to charm. The woman, however, appeared unmoved.
Alex jumped in: "We understand Mrs. Ruby Strand lives here, or she did."
The woman stared at them for several seconds. "She's dead. Miss Ruby's been gone for a long time now."
Alex said, "We're looking for her granddaughter, Kara."
"Why?" She opened the door a little wider. The muscles of her face eased.
Vanessa spoke up: "She's our sister."
Our sister, from Vanessa?
The woman opened the door wide. "That near-white child is your sister?"
She invited them in, made coffee, and served them still-warm-from-the-oven homemade biscuits and strawberry jam while they explained to Mrs. Wilson—but you can call me Cora—about their quest.
"Brenda—Kara's mama—and me were friends as children, but then she went off to college. Miss Ruby made sure of that."
The sisters waited.
"She got a job in Washington, DC, to work for some big-shot politician." Cora peered at the sisters over her mug. "So you're the children of that white man that came sniffing around Brenda. I never got to meet him, but Miss Ruby fretted about him all the time."
The room was dark and smelled like Pine Sol, bleach, coffee, and bread. There was a round blond-wood table and four matching chairs in the eat-in kitchen. The rest of the narrow room was lined with counters and cabinets and ended with a bar-covered window
Alex sipped her coffee. "Do you know much about their relationship—Brenda and our father?"
"Not really. He'd swoop down on her every now and again and take her to fancy places."
"Did they know each other for long?"
"Long enough to get pregnant. 'Course, he disappeared after that." She wagged her finger in their direction, fellow sisters in an unfair man's world. "Paid her regular money, though, which is more than most do."
She looked at Alex and Vanessa for affirmation and both obliged.
"Far as I heard, he didn't come around but once or twice to see the child." She crossed her arms on top of apple-sized breasts. "Miss Ruby wasn't one to say I told you so, but there was Brenda, alone with a child, and that was that." Cora's head bobbed up and down to underscore both the end of Brenda and the end of the story.
Alex needed more. "Why was she put up for adoption? Do you know the name of the agency?"
"Adoption? Who's gonna adopt a six-year-old black girl?" She made a dismissive sound deep in her throat.
Alex's heart rate increased. "That's what we were told."
"Well, you were told wrong. No, Miss Ruby tried to care for her after Brenda got the Big C," the woman whispered. "Her breasts, they cut them off," she made a slicing gesture with the edge of her palm, "but it didn't do any good."
Cora Wilson had a flair for storytelling.
"I know, awful, right? She died anyway. Then Miss Ruby had a stroke and she just couldn't care for Kara. I had my own babies, and me and Malcom—my sweet late husband—we just couldn't take on another one." Cora leaned back in her chair. "Adoption? No, that sweet little thing had foster parents up in Co-op City last I heard. I don't know what happened after that."
Alex and Vanessa thanked Cora for her help, the coffee and biscuits, and promised to come again.
The sisters stepped onto the stoop, the woman right behind them holding the door open.
Cora said, "I do recall her coming here once, now that you got me thinking 'bout it."
"When?" Vanessa asked.
"Awhile ago, maybe ten years. I was outside tending my little garden; I grow herbs for healing and such. She and that white woman, the one with bright red hair from social services, at least that's what the card she handed me said—they came around."
The wind picked up and Cora wrapped her thin arms around her frame.
Alex barely noticed the change in weather. "What did they want?"
Vanessa, ever practical, asked, "Do you still have her card?"
"Connelly or Kingly. I didn't keep the card." Her face scrunched in concentration. "Kennelly. That was it."
Alex tried again: "Did they say anything?"
Cora's face folded again and then lit up. Even, white teeth showed against pink gums. "Kara must have been eighteen or so," she said in a spirited manner. "Real pretty, almost as fair as you, with light hair, big loopy curls." She pointed at Alex. "Tall like you too; and she talked educated like Brenda. I invited them in for refreshments but they said no, they were just passing through. Kara was kinda skinny, and she seemed sad."
"Can you remember anything else? Even a scrap might help us." Alex was almost begging.
"Never saw them again, though I thought about Kara for weeks afterward. It was the pain in her eyes. They were the color of that stone—you know which one I mean, goldish-brown, like a fine piece of glass?"
"Amber," Alex offered, remembering the photograph she'd found.
"Yeah, that's the one. She had these big, sad amber eyes. Haunted me."
The sisters thanked Cora again.
"Here's my card with all my contact info. Please call if you remember anything else," Alex said.
"Sure, glad to help."
Alex slid into the car and slammed the door. "Foster parents in Co-op City, could that be right? Someone misinformed Daddy."
Vanessa made a derisive sound. "Misinformed? Did he bother to follow up?"
"Of course he did."
"You don't get it, do you? He dumped her, just like he dumped us."
"He wouldn't do that."
"You keep defending him in spite of all of the evidence in front of you." Vanessa's voice was uncharacteristically agitated. "He is a piece of shit. He shat all over us, and evidently he did worse to his other offspring. And all of your denials and fantasies can't make it otherwise."
Alex started the Jeep. Vanessa was right: if their father had bothered to check, he'd have known the truth.
Vanessa's voice returned to its normal, controlled volume. "Did Dawes tell you the name of Kennelly's agency?"
"Nope." The Jeep's heater kicked in and fogged the windshield. "I didn't ask about the adoption. Obviously I should have."
Vanessa pulled out her cell phone and dialed the lawyer's number. When he picked up, she filled him in.
"He's checking," she said to Alex. The silver-and-gold pen tapped the dashboard.
"New York Family Services." She jotted notes. Her voice edged with sarcasm, she asked, "How do you know if the child was adopted? Do you have information on the adoptive family?"
Alex watched Vanessa's face: mouth turned down, her eyes squinted slits.
"Thank you," Vanessa clicked off, "for nothing."
"What did he say?"
"Surprise, surprise. No follow-up. No checking in. God bless the children."
"Crap." It was impossible to explain away their father's neglect.
Vanessa said, "Let's go find Ms. Kennelly."
"Will the agency be open on a Saturday?"
It wasn't. Alex resolved to call back on Monday morning and try to track down the caseworker.
What was her father thinking? Did he truly abandon his daughter, never finding out if good people adopted her or not? Vanessa said Alex always defended him. Well, that was because Vanessa and her mother constantly attacked him. Maybe they were right.
* * *
The CCU was quiet, with empty gurneys angled here and there along the corridor. No one was in the visitors' lounge. Alex rubbed her stomach. It was already two p.m. and she hadn't eaten anything today except Cora's biscuits and jam.
Two women chatted at the nurses station; neither glanced at Alex as she walked past and entered her father's room.
"Daddy?"
His time was running out—she could feel it. The doctors had said it was still touch-and-go for another twenty-four hours.
"Hmmm," he murmured under his breath, his violet eyes half-opened. "How's my girl?"
She looked down at his unshaven face, dried saliva etched at the corners of his mouth. She had wanted to confront him, but now it seemed like a bad idea. "I'm fine, Daddy. Do you need anything?"
He lifted a hand, waving off the question. "Have you found her?" He tried to push up on his elbows but failed and sank back on his pillow.
"Not yet. I did uncover some things, though." She hadn't intended to sound so accusatory. "Did you know she was never adopted?"
He blinked several times.
"Did you know she probably grew up in foster care?"
His eyes opened wide.
"Daddy?"
A muted groan.
She couldn't stop herself. "Did you bother to investigate, to find out what happened after you abandoned her?" Alex's voice rose with each question.
"No."
"Look at me, Daddy." She was crying now. "Well, that's what we found out so far." Hot tears streamed down her cheeks and ran along the sides of her nose and into her mouth. "She was just as much your girl as I was—we were both six years old. She belonged to you as much as Vanessa and Pigeon. How come, Daddy? Tell me how come!" Alex sank next to him on the bed; her shoulders sagged, her head hung low. "Would you have sent me away?" This last question floated between them. "What if it were me, would you have left me to grow up with strangers?"
With the back of her hand, she swiped at her tears. She searched in her jacket pocket for a tissue, finding only a used one, but blew her nose in it anyway.
"I'm sorry, kitten."
"Sorry isn't good enough."
"I'm trying to make it right."
Alex blew her nose again into the sodden tissue. "Did you love her?"
"I loved them both."
Alex thought about that for a second. Her mother claimed to love her daughters; her father claimed the same. His clouded eyes penetrated hers. "Not enough, Daddy. You didn't love any of us enough."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
On Sunday morning, wet snores woke Kara up: Big Jim was in her room, ready to tear into her body. "No," she cried, and then in a softer whisper, "Please, no."
Someone was speaking to her; his words were slurred. The voice was familiar but she couldn't quite place it. "What? Kara, what's the matter?"
He grabbed her. She pulled away as hard as she could and rolled over, dragging the covers with her as she tried to wrap them around her body. With a hard thump her right elbow, then her shoulder and hip, hit the floor.
Nausea rumbled through her bowels and stomach as she gained her footing. With her feet still tangled in the sheets, Kara lurched forward, stumbled, and heaved. Vomit ran down her naked chest onto the bedsheet, and ended in a humiliating puddle.
"You're sick." He sounded disgusted.
"Please don't hurt me." She pulled her knees up to her chest and curled her body around them, her face buried into the folds of the sticky bed linen. "I'm sorry." She knew the vomit would make him angry. It wasn't the first time.
"Hurt you? Baby, what are you talking about? C'mon, get up."
Kara opened her eyes, but just a slit. Where was she? She opened them a little wider and peered sideways at the man squatting next her. It wasn't Big Jim—it was Zach. His eyes bleary, his hair matted against his head in haphazard spikes, his beard hairs angled oddly. Another wave of nausea swept up her throat, into her mouth, and then down again, leaving the taste of bile on her tongue. The next surge was stronger. She untangled the sheets, scrambled up, and ran to the bathroom, both hands clamped over her mouth. This time she made it to the toilet and emptied her stomach of the rest of Saturday night's meal.
What was the matter with her? What was happening? For so long she'd pushed the memories away—Big Jim in her room, night after night, pressing his penis against her vagina, shoving it into her mouth; drops of blood would trickle down her thighs as his thick fingers twisted the skin of her buttocks, leaving them black and blue for weeks. Now, here they were, not just as metaphorical nightmares, but alive in her wide-awake consciousness. She could smell the cigar smoke that clung to his clothes, hear his voice as sharp as a wasp's sting: You better not tell anyone, you hear me, girl? No one's gonna believe you. Ever. Kara couldn't speak. He grabbed her, dug his thumbs deep into her small arm, and squeezed until she cried. You remember what happened to those kittens? That's what happens to bad girls who tell lies. The dead kittens floating in the bathtub filled her mind's eye. She'd nodded her head, braids swinging forward and back. That's my girl. You be nice to me and I'll take care of you.
Urgent raps on the bathroom door brought Kara back to the present. "Let me in, baby. Let me help you."
Kara lifted her head from the toilet bowl, grabbed the edge of the basin, and pulled her body up. Embarrassment added another layer to her pain. "I'm sorry, Zach—just a bad dream and an upset stomach. Give me a few minutes."
The cold water from the tap ran through her fingers and she splashed some on her face. She pulled a washcloth from the rack and washed the vomit from her body. Steadier now, Kara found the guest toothbrush she'd used the night before and brushed her teeth, scrubbed her tongue, and then swished with mouthwash, trying to erase the bile taste and the memory of Big Jim's semen.
By the time she emerged, a towel wrapped around her, she had showered and washed her hair. Strange. It wasn't that she didn't know what Big Jim had done to her, but she'd never let it come to the surface before, never consciously remembered it. Why was it happening now?
"You had me worried," Zach said. His words were somewhat negated by his tone.
"I'm sorry." Kara turned away, dropped the towel, pulled on her panties and slacks. "I didn't mean to worry you." She found her bra on a chair, but where was her sweater? The vomit on the floor made her groan aloud.
"Are you going to be sick again?"
"No." She twisted to face him for a nanosecond and gave him a small smile. "I'll clean up this mess and go home to rest. I'm sure I'll be fine, probably a twenty-four-hour stomach thing or food poisoning. Are you okay? Does your stomach feel okay?" This strategy often worked.
"I don't think it was food poisoning."
She found her sweater and pulled it on. "Might be."
Zach frowned. "You're not pregnant, right?" Again, the accusatory tone. "You're being careful?"
"Of course not." He sounded more worried about himself than for her well-being. Damn. Her head buzzed. She surveyed the room; she needed something to clean up the mess. Unable to dredge up the energy to go into the kitchenette, she used the bath towel to mop up the vomit on the floor. Again, shame welled up. She had to get home.
Zach snatched the towel. "You can't leave."
She picked up her coat and bag, then stepped into her shoes. "I'll stay home, out of sight." Her resolve felt stronger than her shame or the need to please Zach. "You can straighten everything out tomorrow, like you said."
Kara walked backward toward the door, her eyes on his face, tote clutched close to her chest. In the most reassuring tone she could muster, she said, "I'll slip int
o my house and I'll make sure no one sees me."
"You don't know how to."
"Don't worry. No one will follow me and if they do, I won't tell them anything."
"You don't know what you think you know."
"Right, so there's nothing to worry about."
"You're staying." He grabbed her left shoulder and pulled her toward him. Her bag fell to the floor, its contents spilling out across the rug.
"I have to go."
His grip tightened.
She pushed him as hard as she could, tried to dodge around him. He shoved her. Her cheek hit the arm of the couch, her breath knocking out of her with a cry of pain as she landed on the floor.
"Baby, I'm sorry! Are you hurt?"
She pushed up onto her hands and knees and crawled toward the door. This was not going to happen to her again. No one—not Big Jim, not Zach, no one—was going to do this to her again.
Zach reached out, sank to the floor next to her. "You know I wouldn't hurt you on purpose."
The door was seconds away.
"You've got to give me more time."
Kara pressed her back against the door. The effort left her mouth dry and her heart thudding. She placed her hand on the doorknob and pulled herself up.
"I think you might be in danger. The man following you, there might be something to that. You're safer here with me." Zach stood up as well and put both his hands on her shoulders. "I can fix this in the morning. Please, Kara, let's sit and talk."
The yell that emerged from her throat sounded like a wild animal. She didn't recognize her own voice. It welled up from the core of her being and came forth full-throated, piercing the air. "No, no, no!"
Zach dropped his hands, pulled back. "What's the matter with you?"
"I'm going home." She reached down and picked up her bag. With her toes, she moved the spilled contents closer, stooped down, her eyes still on him, and shoved her lipstick, wallet, comb, and keys into the bag. "I won't tell anyone anything." Her tone was firm, sure.
Getting It Right Page 10