Karen shook her head. “You don’t think something could have happened to her,” she said.
“No,” he said, too quickly, too definitely.
No, Karen thought. It’s one-thirty in the afternoon. Don’t even think it. The sun is shining. She had only two blocks to walk. But no amount of reason could dispel the memory of Amber. It had been seven months since the skeleton was found at the Bayland Nature preserve. In all that time, despite an artist’s reconstruction of her face, a description of the fibers of her tattered clothes, the combing of the missing persons files, the Bayland police had not been able to identify the remains. In a big city those pitiful skeletal remains would probably have become a statistic in a week or two, but Bayland was a small town. One of the local reporters, Phyllis Hodges, dubbed the dead girl “Amber” in an article she wrote, because it seemed to fit the time of year, the autumn, when she was found. The name stuck. And when it became evident that no one was going to claim her, the town took up a collection to have a proper burial for her in the local cemetery. Although little new information surfaced about Amber, the townspeople had not forgotten her. This was a town where people knew one another’s children, and people did not forget that someone had killed a teenage girl and left her in the marshes. That someone could still be here, in this town, a danger to anyone’s daughter.
Greg frowned at his wife. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “You’re being paranoid. I’m telling you, the Gilberts live two blocks away. You could probably see the house from here if you craned your neck.”
“I’m sorry,” said Karen.
“Don’t borrow trouble.”
“I can’t help it,” said Karen. “Maybe we should just call Peggy’s.”
Greg pushed back his chair. “Well, I’m tired of waiting for her, and you’re about to wring that napkin of yours into accordion pleats, so I’ll call.”
Karen managed a shaky smile. “She’ll be livid with you. At least it’s not me for once.”
Greg stood up and jingled some change in his pocket. “I’ll be right back,” he said.
Karen gazed out the window, her fingers clenched tightly in her napkin as she waited for him to return. Their waitress cruised by the table again, and Karen grimaced at her apologetically. Karen half expected the woman to glare at her for taking up precious time and table space on this busiest of Sundays, but the woman looked at her with a genuine kindly concern that only made Karen feel worse. She turned back to the window. The brightness of the spring day suddenly seemed garish to her. No matter how bad relations were between them, it was not like Jenny to just not show up. She had always been a tender-hearted child, and if that tender heart was less evident in adolescence, Karen knew it was still there. Still, that little face that used to light up at the sight of Karen was now most often a stormy mask. The guidance counselor at Jenny’s school had told them it was an identity crisis, common to all adolescents, especially difficult for adopted children, who had doubts and unanswered questions about their origins that plagued them. After the conference, Karen had tried to bring the subject up with Jenny, asking her if it bothered her, “You mean does it bother me that my real mother gave me up to complete strangers?” Jenny had replied in that familiar, caustic tone that made Karen’s heart shrivel up inside. “No. It’s something I feel great about.”
When Karen had tried to reassure her that she and Greg loved her more than anything, more than they could have loved their own child, Jenny had referred to this, in a bored voice, as “the party line. I’ve heard it before.” Karen shook her head, recalling the defiant look on that small, white, freckled face, the ill-disguised hurt in those blue eyes as she pushed her dark hair back off her forehead in a familiar, unconscious gesture. There was no getting through to Jenny these days. It’s a hard age, Karen reminded herself. It’s harder on her than it is on you. But secretly Karen missed the old Jenny—the winsome, affectionate child she used to be.
Greg appeared in the dining room door, a grim look on his face. Karen’s heart swooped down in her chest. She watched him fearfully as he crossed the room.
Greg resumed his seat and Karen could see at once that he was not worried, but angry. “What happened?” she said. “Was she there?”
Greg shook out his napkin and picked up his menu. He did not meet her gaze. His voice was harsh. “I spoke to Peggy’s father. It seems that Jenny and Peggy went to an afternoon movie.”
At first, all she could feel was relief. And then her cheeks began to burn. Jenny had shunned her celebration on Mother’s Day. There was no avoiding the blow.
Greg lowered his menu. “Wait until I get a hold of her,” he said. His face was stony with anger, but Karen could see hurt and confusion in his eyes.
“Maybe there’s some reason,” said Karen, her voice trailing off.
“Don’t defend her,” he said. “There’s no excuse for this.”
“At least she’s safe,” said Karen.
“Goddammit,” said Greg. “I can’t believe she went trotting off to a movie.”
“Don’t,” Karen whispered as the people at the next table turned to look at them. “It’s bad enough.”
“I’m sorry,” said Greg, leaning back in his seat. “I’m sorry “
“It’s not your fault,” Karen said.
“Maybe she did forget,” he said lamely.
“We both know she didn’t forget,” Karen replied.
Greg stared out the window for a minute. Then he turned back to his wife. “Well,” he said briskly. “Let’s order our lunch.”
“I can’t,” said Karen. “I’m not hungry anymore.”
Greg leaned across the table. “Sweetheart,” he said.
“Don’t let her ruin it for you. Just because she’s not here. It’ll be like a date. Just the two of us “
Karen looked at him helplessly. “It’s Mother’s Day,” she said.
Greg sighed, defeated. “I know.”
“Let’s go home,” she said.
“All right.”
Karen groped for her purse and stood up as Greg scanned the room for the red hair of their waitress, caught her eye, and summoned her. Karen felt as if everyone in the restaurant were staring at them as Greg gave the waitress a tip and a hurried excuse. Karen trained her gaze on the floor as they left the inn.
Neither one of them spoke as Greg opened the door for her, then went around to the driver’s side and got behind the wheel. “Put your seat belt on,” he said gently as the motor idled. Karen did as she was told.
Just as Greg started to back out of the parking space, their waitress appeared at the doorway to the inn and waved to them. For a moment Karen’s heart lifted as the woman trundled toward their car.
Jenny had called. It was all a mistake. She was on her way. Karen rolled down the window as the woman reached the car, her coppery hair agleam in the afternoon sun.
“You left this at your place,” said the woman breathlessly.
Karen looked down at the box holding the locket that the woman extended to her.
Karen took the box and put it in her lap. “Thank you,” she said numbly. She stared down at her gift.
“Hope you feel better,” said the waitress kindly. She waved as they pulled away.
Greg turned down their street and up the long driveway to their house. Back when they were first married, Greg and Karen had bought their home, a run-down old Colonial on one of the prettiest pieces of land in town. In the ensuing years the surrounding property had been subdivided and dotted with new houses, but their house was still relatively secluded, with many shady trees and no near neighbors. Greg had renovated the house with loving care over the years. Occasionally they talked about moving, but they doubted they could ever find a like piece of land or a house with the character of the one they had.
Greg helped Karen out of the car as if she were ill, guided her up the path with a hand on her elbow, and opened the front door.
“I might go lie down,” Karen said. She felt chi
lled despite the pleasant warmth of the day.
“All right,” Greg said sadly. “Why don’t you. Can I bring you a sandwich or something?”
“I’ll get something later.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
“Don’t you be sorry. You were just trying to give me a nice day.” Slowly Karen climbed the stairs to their room and changed into some comfortable Sunday clothes—jeans and an old sweatshirt. She placed the locket in a drawer in her bureau. The photo of Jenny smiled up at her, bright and eager. Karen winced as if jabbed. Don’t take it to heart, she kept telling herself. It seemed to take all of her energy to lie down on the bed. Once she had pulled the comforter up over her shoulders, she dropped off into a dreamless sleep.
Sometime later she was awakened by the sound of the front door slamming and then of loud voices from downstairs. For a minute she hid under the covers, the painful rejection washing over her again. Finally she dragged herself up and went downstairs, her slippered feet quiet on the steps.
“I told you how important this was,” Greg was saying, his voice clipped with rage. “I think I made it very clear. Your mother has been through a lot lately. All I asked of you was one happy, pleasant day to make her feel better. But no, you couldn’t manage that.”
Jenny’s small face was white, her freckles livid against the skin, and her blue eyes were glittering with anger. “I can’t believe this. You start screaming the minute I come in the door, like I’m some kind of criminal.”
“What do you expect? You behave like a selfish little…I don’t know what. You don’t think of anybody but yourself.”
“Nobody around here even gives me a chance to speak!”
“Stop yelling,” said Karen, standing in the doorway to the living room.
Jenny turned and looked at her mother. For a minute a guilty look flitted across her features. Then she stuck I out her chin belligerently. “He started it,” she said.
Greg shook his head in disbelief. “Nothing is ever your fault, is it? You’re the poor, put-upon one. Did you ever give a thought to how your mother might feel?”
“Of course I did,” said Jenny defensively. “But Peggy wanted to go to the movies, and she wanted me to go with her.”
“Oh, I see,” Greg said sarcastically, “Peggy wanted to go. Well, what choice did you have?”
“Forget it,” said Jenny.
“Did you stop to think we’d be worried about you?” Karen cried. “Why didn’t you at least call and tell us where you were going?”
“I knew you’d say no,” said Jenny.
“That does it,” said Greg.
“Does what?” Jenny demanded.
“Have I got this right?” asked Greg incredulously. “You want to do something and if you think we’ll say no, you just do it anyway and don’t tell us?”
“No,” said Jenny with a sigh. “I didn’t mean that.”
“You damn well better not mean that,” Greg exclaimed.
“I knew you would be like this,” said Jenny wearily.
“Jenny, for God sakes, how do you expect us to react?” Karen demanded in a shrill voice. “What are we supposed to think when we don’t know where you are or what happened to you?”
“Don’t say it,” said Jenny, mimicking a querulous, high voice. “We can’t forget what happened to Amber. Gosh, I’m so sick of Amber. Nothing happened to me. Why does it have to be such a big deal?”
“Don’t you tell me it’s no big deal,” Karen said, her voice shaking, “I’m the one sitting here worrying about you. If you can’t be trusted to let us know where you are, then you won’t be allowed to stay with your friends. That’s all there is to it.”
“That’s not fair,” Jenny cried. “It was one time.”
“You heard your mother,” said Greg.
“You don’t even listen to me. You just push me around.”
“I’ve listened to you all I’m going to,” said Greg. “You get up to your room and when you are ready to apologize to your mother and act like a decent human being you can come down.”
Muttering under her breath, Jenny stamped out of the room and started up the stairs, her feet banging on each step.
Suddenly the doorbell rang. “Who’s that now?” Greg said with a scowl. “What timing.”
“I’ll get it,” said Karen. She walked out into the center hallway and opened the door. A stranger stood on the doorstep. She was around thirty, slim and nicely dressed, with dark, shoulder-length hair. She was holding a bouquet of flowers and a shining, ornate wooden box. Her face was pale and heart-shaped, with a dusting of brownish freckles across her nose. She looked at Karen with anxious blue eyes and swept her bangs off to the side with a nervous gesture that gave Karen’s heart a queer little twist.
“Mrs. Newhall?” she asked.
Karen nodded.
“I know I should have called first, but I was afraid I’d lose my courage.”
Karen’s heart thudded in her chest. “That’s all right,” she said automatically, but a voice in her head was clamoring, No, no, it’s not. This was a face she had t never seen, a voice she had never heard, a name unknown to her. But instantly, instinctively, Karen knew her.
“May I come in?”
Karen stood back, and the woman stepped into the hallway. Jenny, who had halted at the top step when the doorbell rang, came halfway down and hung curiously over the bannister.
The woman looked up and saw Jenny there. Her eyes widened. “Are you Jenny?” she asked.
Jenny nodded and came down another step.
The woman looked apologetically at Karen. “I hope you don’t think this is too terribly rude or strange, but I had to come.”
“Who is it?” asked Greg, coming into the foyer.
Karen felt as if she were frozen where she stood, her gaze riveted to the woman’s face, unable to reply.
The woman was staring at Jenny. “I’ve tried to picture you a million times,” she said almost to herself.
Jenny looked questioningly from the stranger to Karen and then back. “Am I supposed to know you? What do you want?”
It was obvious to Karen that Jenny did not see it. To a thirteen-year-old girl, her own appearance was nothing more than a collection of insoluble problems, a source of constant anxiety. A mouth too wide, hair too greasy, a pimple no makeup could disguise. A thirteen-year-old girl could not be expected to see her reflection in a middle-aged face. But Karen could see it. And more than that, she could feel it, like a threat in the air. “Wait a minute,” Karen blurted out.
But it was too late to stop her. The woman smiled tremulously.
“My name is Linda Emery,” the woman said to the bewildered girl. “I’m your mother, Jenny. Your real mother.”
Chapter Two
A paralyzing numbness seeped through Karen’s body as she heard the words and watched their meaning register on Jenny’s face. The girl froze on the stairway, holding the bannister in a white-knuckled grip, her stunned gaze fastened on the stranger. “You’re my mother?” she said.
Tears formed in Linda Emery’s eyes and rolled down her freckled cheeks. She nodded and then glanced at Karen apologetically. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have blurted it out like that.” She looked tenderly back at Jenny. “But seeing you here after all these years…” Jenny looked first at Karen, then at Greg, who was rigid in the doorway to the living room, his face drained of all color. Karen could see the bewilderment in Jenny’s eyes. She was looking to them for some answer, some explanation, as a child would do. Say something, she thought. Get it together. But all she could do was stare helplessly at the intruder.
“I have proof. Your birth certificate. It’s in my purse,” Linda said. She tried to reach for her purse, but she was encumbered by the bouquet of flowers and the shiny box. She held them up, offering them to Jenny. “These are for you,” she said. Jenny did not budge from her spot halfway up the staircase.
Awkwardly, Linda placed the flowers and the box on the
floor beside her. Then she stood up and began to fumble in her purse. “I put it in an envelope. One of these pockets…I don’t know…here…” She held up the slip of paper in Jenny’s direction, but Jenny just shook her head. Linda turned and offered it to Karen. Karen reached for it mechanically and stared down at it. Greg walked up and pried it gently from her icy fingers.
“Let me see that,” he said. He frowned at the document as Linda lifted her gaze back to Jenny and drank in the sight of her. “You don’t know,” she said. “You don’t know how I have dreamed of seeing you.”
Greg’s voice cut her off harshly. “What do you want?” he demanded. “Why are you here?”
Linda tore her gaze from Jenny’s face and looked at Karen and Greg. “I’m sorry, Mr. Newhall, Mrs. New-hall. I know I shouldn’t have just turned up on your doorstep like this. I had to see her. Please, if we could just talk “
Slowly, as if waking from a trance, Jenny came down the stairs, walked over toward Linda, bent down, and picked up the flowers and the box.
“It’s a music box,” Linda said eagerly. “It plays ‘Beautiful Dreamer.’ “
“Thanks,” said Jenny, standing near Linda but not looking at her.
Karen finally recovered herself enough to speak. “Why don’t you come in?” she said in a leaden voice. She gestured to the living room, throwing a warning glance at Greg, and preceded Linda into the room.
“Oh, this is lovely,” Linda exclaimed. “So comfortable. You have a beautiful home.”
Karen was about to thank her when Linda added, “I’m so glad.” The implication hit Karen like a slap in the face. Linda hadn’t said “for my daughter,” but she might as well have. Karen turned and looked at Jenny. She was standing in the doorway holding her gifts, looking like a child who had lost her way home. Karen could see that she needed a chance to think, to collect herself. Karen walked back to her and gently took the music box from her. “Those flowers need water,” she said. “Why don’t you go put them in a vase.”
Jenny nodded. “Okay,” she said, and fled from the room, clutching the bouquet.
Mother's day Page 3