What Was Mine

by Helen Klein Ross

  39

  lance

  Lucy wrote Baby Drive in far less time than it usually took her to get a book out. That boded well for her going out on her own. I knew I was going to have to drop her. That series had reached the end of its run and the publisher was after me for a new one. I’d already started working on a new series, but with somebody else. Another copywriter who, like most, wanted out of the business. She was younger, her stuff had more punch. We’d already begun seeing each other. Lucy and I had run our course. But I owed it to Lucy not to leave her in the lurch. I gave her what she wanted, her name on the cover. I did everything I could to set her up right. I gave her part billing on the invite to the pub party in Dumbo so she could make connections. I invited her to come with me on tour, to a few of the better stops: Seattle, Portland, Frisco, though she had to do that at her own expense—the publisher wasn’t going to foot her bill. At first she said no, but I talked her into it. If she wanted to be an author brand, she had to start getting her face out there.

  40

  lucy

  Marilyn lived outside San Mateo, which—I’d checked MapQuest—was thirty-three miles away from San Francisco, a good distance. Still, I was nervous as my plane touched down at SFO. What if I saw her? I knew what she looked like, or what she had looked like. What if she happened to be in the airport when I got off the plane? If she passed me, she wouldn’t recognize me, of course. She wouldn’t know who I was. And yet I fretted about the possibility of running into her, at the airport, or elsewhere, watch her detect some stink of guilt I exuded.

  I knew where she lived. I’d been keeping track of her for years, always needing to know that she’d come to no harm. Following the news, I tracked her relocation from New Jersey to California, her divorce from a clean-shaven husband and marriage to a bearded one. Several times, before caller ID, I worked up the courage to call their house, pretending to be a market researcher. I was always nervous, worried she’d hear the urgency I tried to conceal. She never did, though. In this way, I discovered she’d had other children. One, two, three. I was glad.

  As I entered the airport, I saw Hari Krishnas, moving swiftly, their orange robes lifting from their bodies like sails, and for a second, I thought I saw her face under a veil. The woman in flowing orange wasn’t Marilyn, of course. But she resembled the Marilyn I’d seen on television twenty-one years before. Marilyn’s face would be older now, I realized with relief as the woman floated past me, leaving a scent of cinnamon in her wake.

  There was almost no danger of my running into Marilyn, I reassured myself as I maneuvered my roller bag into the trunk of a cab. And what if I did see her? There was nothing she’d see that would link me to her, or to something that had happened on the other side of the country, over two decades ago. How deliberate I’d been while writing the book to craft scenes and settings that wouldn’t betray me.

  But when the cab left the bridge and turned onto Market Street, crowded with lunch-hour pedestrians, I pulled back from the window, suddenly certain of seeing Marilyn in the crowd on the sidewalk. For a terrifying moment, I thought I saw her crossing in front of us as we were stopped at a light. Her proximity—or my sense of her proximity—made my insides liquefy.

  41

  marilyn

  Ever since it happened, I’d been reading books on kidnapping or watching movies about it. It didn’t matter to me whether or not the stories were true. I hated myself for being so obsessive about wanting to absorb every detail about how it was done, how someone got away with it, or didn’t. Sometimes I’d have to put down the book or walk out of the movie because I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t want to think about any of those things happening to Natalie. Tom couldn’t understand why I’d torture myself, and really, I couldn’t explain it. But something was driving me, and later, Sonya explained it was my mother’s instinct, keeping myself open for coded messages, intimations that would lead me to Natalie.

  So when I read Baby Drive I was open to knowing it was telling me something. It wasn’t the story of my baby. The baby was a boy. But he was stolen at four months, just like Natalie was. And there was something in the way the story was told, the intensity of it . . . something in the way that the aftermath of having a baby was described, that spoke to me. As I read page after page, my skin prickled and something cold came up my spine. There wasn’t anything in the story that described my baby. And yet I felt somehow, this story was connected to me.

  I read the book at night in the bathtub, turning page after page, all the while sensing Natalie’s presence. I finished reading it in less than an evening. It was a gruesome tale, full of base horrors preying on the lower regions of the mind. But something made me feel that it was drawing me nearer to my daughter. I had to knock terrible visions of her out of my mind. I wouldn’t let myself descend into madness again. I told myself wherever she was, she was all right. The book was fiction, a made-up story, a thriller. None of the story’s facts were real.

  That night, I had a powerfully vivid dream about Natalie, the first dream I’d had about her in a while. In my dream, it was night. She was all grown up, in a nightgown, standing in a high window, without a pane. “Want me to teach you?” she asked, then jumped out the window and lifted into the stars, and suddenly I was with her, flying behind her, wind in my hair. There was a full moon. Over the years, I’d often talked to the moon, knowing wherever Natalie was, it was the same moon she was looking at. Even as I was dreaming, I knew that the dream was a dream, but that this part of it was real: that Natalie was reaching out to me, telling me she was alive and fine and that soon we would be together again.

  The next day, I saw an ad in the Chronicle for a reading by the writer of the book, Lance Orloff. It was at the big Barnes & Noble, in San Francisco, where I’d meant to go anyway. I wanted to check out the “If You Lived” kids’ series for Chloe. Another homeschooling mom, like myself, had told me about this series that makes history fun instead of something to dread. Our local bookstores didn’t stock them. Grant was home between jobs and could stay with Chloe. I drove up to the city, not knowing (and yet knowing) that my daughter was on her way back to me.

  42

  lucy

  Coming into the store, I saw posters announcing an appearance by Lance Orloff. My name wasn’t mentioned. He looked tan and jaunty in his photos, but he’d stayed back in our last stop, Seattle, because he’d been too ill to fly. He told me he had a flu, but I guessed it was a hangover. An old college buddy had come to the reading and they’d gone out afterward. He hadn’t let the publicist know he wouldn’t come to the reading. If he’d told her, the reading would have been canceled. My life would have continued just as it was.

  I was nervous about doing the reading without Lance. At Elliott Bay (Seattle) and Powell’s (Portland), we’d worked out a duet: he’d talk about how he came up with the story, he’d read for ten minutes, then I’d read for five.

  This Barnes & Noble was huge. I took the escalator upstairs, to the corner of the store set up for the reading, and as I rose, looking down on the people and merchandise on the first floor, I began to feel more and more confident, as if I was rising into a headiness of what it means to be a real writer, not a copywriter anymore. I imagined the books I might write, without Lance. He’d already scheduled me a meeting with his agent.

  The reading area was near the café and the smell of coffee was strong, and I was so nervous, the smell made me nauseous. About forty people were gathered on folding chairs, or milling about, looking at books or magazines. A woman was adjusting the mic at the lectern and I went up to her and introduced myself. When I told her that Lance wasn’t going to make it, her eyes bulged behind her tie-dye-colored glass frames. But she simply sighed and asked for my name and lowered the mic to my height. She apologized to the audience, explaining Lance’s absence, saying that his cowriter would be reading instead. I heard what seemed a collective groan, and when a man got up, gave a little snort, then gathered his man-purse and huffed away, others followed
and then others, so that when I tested the mic, there were only about ten people left.

  Still, I was excited to be reading solo to an audience, even a small one, words I had written, words that told a story instead of extolling the virtues of a product for sale.

  I thanked people for coming—and for staying—then, with little preliminary, I began to read, looking up now and then from the page, using tricks I had learned in executive trainings: speak slowly, more slowly than sounds natural to you; breathe between sentences; look up and look at everyone in the room.

  Then, I saw something that made my throat close. In the back row was a woman who looked like Marilyn. She had the same facial structure. I stepped away from the mic, afraid my heart was beating so hard the sound might be picked up and amplified.

  But perhaps it wasn’t Marilyn. I’d thought I’d seen her many times that day. What were the chances she’d actually be here?

  I stepped back to the mic and continued to read, trying to keep my voice from shaking.

  Each time I looked up, my eyes settled on her. Her face, its angularity; the way she touched her hand to her throat, evoked, indisputably, the woman televised into my living room in New Jersey years ago.

  I began to read very fast, not looking up, just wanting to get to the end. I skipped a whole paragraph, which no one seemed to notice.

  I kept my eye on the cell phone I’d placed on the lectern. Its screen was a timer, ticking off the minutes. It said 7:47. When it got to 10:00, I knew I could stop. But I couldn’t wait. At 8:48, I looked up abruptly. “And to find out what happens next, you’ll have to buy the book,” I said brightly, as if I’d cut the reading short for the purpose of sales.

  43

  marilyn

  I was surprised Lance Orloff wasn’t at the reading. A writer no one had heard of was at the podium instead. She was too short for the microphone. A store employee had to adjust it. “Hello?” she said, as if it were a question. Her voice wobbled. I saw she was nervous. She explained that Lance couldn’t come and apologized that she’d be reading instead. I decided to stay, although most of the people I was sitting with left. She waited until the commotion was over before she began to read, rarely looking up from the page, stumbling over the words. I guessed that she was embarrassed that the audience had dwindled down to just a few people.

  Her voice trembled as she read: I told myself: I was only taking the baby outside for a moment, to get him out of the cold of the air-conditioning.

  And suddenly I was flooded with memories from that terrible day. I remembered how cold it was in the store, what a relief it was from the August heat. I remembered the bolt that shot through my stomach when I saw that my baby wasn’t where I had left her.

  I decided I’d stay and say something to her when the reading was over. I’d tell her that the book resonated with me, that I’d been the victim of a real-life kidnapping, see what her reaction would be to that.

  The line to see her was slow, even though just a couple of people were in it. She didn’t just sign a book, she made small talk. Still, I waited my turn. I wanted to get close. I felt I had to get next to her, that the nearness of her presence would tell me—something.

  But waiting in line, I began to lose heart. What was I thinking? What would I say? Ask her if she knew where my kidnapped baby was? That sounded ridiculous. Here was a woman who was a professional writer, a woman in a smart haircut, wearing an expensive suit. Lucy Wakefield couldn’t possibly have anything to do with my baby’s kidnapping. And yet, I sensed there was a connection.

  It occurred to me that I should have brought my copy of the book, to get it signed. I took one from a stack by the podium, I put on my reading glasses, and opened it to the right page. The man in front of me stepped away and her eyes fell on me. Immediately her face changed. It wasn’t just her expression that shifted. It was her breath. I heard a sharp intake. Her cheeks darkened. She looked scared as a trapped animal.

  My legs went wobbly. “I liked your book.” I handed the book to her, but she didn’t take it. I couldn’t decide what to say next. I was too focused on watching what was going on in her face. Her neck was flushed. She looked at me, but her eyes cut away again. And then, the podium started to buzz. It was her phone going off. The screen lit up with a face that looked remarkably familiar, someone who looked like a younger me! I felt certain—impossible as it was—that this girl was my baby, all grown up, even though the name on the screen wasn’t hers. It was Mia. The author knew where my daughter was! Could she have had something to do with taking her? I felt this in a rush, as if she was in that very moment yanking my baby out of my arms.

  Then Lucy Wakefield picked up the phone and turned it so I couldn’t see the screen anymore and I wondered if—as had happened so many times before—my imagination had played a trick.

  44

  lucy

  Several people lined up to have their books signed. I tried to prolong conversation with each, seeing that Marilyn—I was convinced it was her—was behind them, thinking she might grow impatient and be on her way.

  Why was she here? Could she simply be another of Lance’s fans? He had millions of fans. He’d even started doing ads on TV.

  I took my time with each person ahead of her in line. One by one, I flattered them, asked questions, dragged out answers to questions asked of me, I signed not just my name, but long, flowery messages in the book I balanced on the lectern between us, rolling my pen across more than one page.

  But all the while, Marilyn remained steadfast behind them. And then, suddenly, there she was. She said her name. Marilyn. I was face-to-face with the woman who’d given birth to my daughter. She said something else, but I couldn’t understand what it was. My brain didn’t work. I was just watching her lips, watching her face, which was so like the face of my daughter. Fear shot through me but I worked to keep my expression blank. I glanced from side to side, half expecting to see the approach of people in uniform.

  I stood frozen in place, my pen motionless in the air. We looked at each other, across the lectern, like opponents gazing from opposite sides of a boxing ring, sizing each other up. Did she know who I was? The bond between us felt palpable.

  I saw how much she’d aged since the night I’d seen her on television. Her skin had dulled, her features softened. Her hair was gray. I saw the pain in her face. I was responsible for it. I had taken her baby, had inflicted on her the worst thing a mother can imagine.

  But what could I do now? I couldn’t undo it. I couldn’t return her baby to her, make the intervening years of loss go away. Her daughter was my daughter. My daughter was grown. My child had been taken, too, in a sense. She’d left home for college. She’d turned twenty-one on her last birthday. Nothing could bring back the baby she had been, to either of us; that baby was lost to both of us now.

  Marilyn handed a book to me, but I didn’t take it, just stood dumb and stiff. I couldn’t recall what to do with my hands.

  And then my phone, still lying on the lectern, went off. It was on silent, but it started to vibrate and Mia’s face filled the screen, along with her name in bright, identifying letters. The vibrations were moving the screen across the wooden surface, toward Marilyn. She looked down at it. Her features rearranged. Her face flushed and her eyes grew large, magnified by tortoiseshell half-moon readers she wore on a beaded chain. It took forever for my hand to close over the phone, removing my daughter from her line of sight.

  “Hi, honey,” I said into the phone, trying to sound calm. I turned away, plugging my ear as if against the din of the store, but the store was now eerily quiet.

  “It’s over,” said my daughter.

  My heart leapt to my throat.

  “What?” I said.

  “IT’S OVER!” Mia repeated. “MY LSAT!”

  Only then did I remember the exam she was taking that day, the one she’d been studying for, for months, and as she told me about it, I kept the phone to my ear, frowning to intimate that the call was some sort of emer
gency, shrugged apology, gathered up my bag, and took two steps at a time down the escalator and out the front doors, losing myself in the crowds on the sidewalk, hurrying back to the hotel.

  45

  marilyn

  When the author had left, I looked down at the book and saw the dedication for the first time. It was dedicated to Mia, the name that had appeared on her cell phone.

  That night, I waited until the kids were in bed, and Grant, too. When it was dark and silent except for their snoring, I tiptoed into the family room and fired up the computer. My heart was rocking in my rib cage, thumping so loudly, I was afraid it would wake up the entire house. I went into Facebook and looked up “Mia Wakefield.”

  There were several Mia Wakefields. The book jacket said the author lived in Manhattan and I added that to narrow the search.

  Three had blank female silhouettes next to their names. The fourth featured the face of a little girl. I clicked the photo to enlarge it, and as the spinning ball did its work of making the image big enough to see, the immensity of the situation took hold of me, making it hard to breathe. I sat perfectly still as the ball spun around, until finally it stopped and turned into the face of my daughter. I drew back from the screen as if something had pushed me hard in the chest. It was an old Polaroid picture, blurry, but I knew it was her. She looked to be about three. She was beautiful. I saw both Tom and myself in her face. I was glad she looked vigorous and healthy. I clicked on the two other photos in her public album. In one, she was about eighteen, bundled in ski clothes, her skin luminescent against the snow. I searched her face, trying to take her in, literally trying to breathe her back into me. I enlarged her on-screen again and again, trying to see her every pore, trying to examine her for signs of damage, until her image broke into tiny unrecognizable boxes. I resized the boxes until it became her again. The last photo was of her at a party. I was glad she had friends.