Jacob Stanton stormed into the house looking for Becky. He spotted her in the living room, being questioned by two stern-faced police officers.
He breathed heavily. “Becky, are you okay?” he asked and put his hand on her shoulder in a protective manner. His solicitude was evident in every feature on his face.
“I'm fine, Uncle Jake, but Brandon needed to be rushed to the hospital for surgery. They’re not sure if he’s going to make it . . .” her voice trembled. “And no one here even cares! All they want is for me to answer their stupid questions.” Tears began to flood her eyes yet again. “I need to be with him!”
Jacob frowned in apparent concern, “Becky, calm down.”
“And I can’t find Dad,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard him, her voice rising and growing hoarse, “but his car is in the driveway, and there are three sets of plates on the table. He was here!” she cried. “Where did he go? What happened to him?”
Jacob gave her a soft gaze – that stood in stark contrast to his rugged appearance – and wrapped his arm around her fragile shoulders in an almost fatherly embrace. Then he turned to the two officers, “That would be all for now, guys.”
The cops tried to argue. He asked them to accompany him to the side. Becky watched her uncle, dressed in a simple plaid shirt, his bronzed face covered with light stubble, addressing the immaculately-uniformed officers with an authoritative tone while showing them some sort of certificate. Then he whispered something, and they left her alone.
He walked over to her. “I can’t believe it,” he whispered while stroking her hair. Becky pressed her head against his chest, just barely reaching its height, and let herself be taken into his embrace once again. It was the only comfort she could find.
“You’ve heard already?” she asked, horrified of learning that her family’s tragedy had already been broadcast on the evening news.
“Don’t worry, we’ll talk about everything later; but for now, the most important thing is to get you out of here. Pack a bag for a few days, and I’ll take you to see Brandon.”
“Thank you, Uncle Jake,” she answered quietly and went up to her room.
Within a few minutes, she packed a bag with her essentials. Becky exited her room and was about to turn to the staircase when she noticed the door to her parents’ room was ajar. She went inside and then stopped, stunned to find the room ransacked, like a destructive typhoon had gone through it.
The closets were empty, and their entire contents strewn all over the room. The shattered pieces of her mother’s jewelry box, mixed with the variety of jewels it once held, were scattered across the hardwood floor. The dresser drawers were wide open and cluttered with crumpled papers that had been tossed away. Even the framed pictures had been pulled off the wall, leaving it bare and exposed. The room was in complete chaos.
Becky started to put things back in their places – she couldn’t leave her parents’ room like that. She picked up a pile of clothes off the floor and put them back in the closet, gathered the various pieces of jewelry along with the shards of the box, placed them on the wooden dresser, and hung the pictures back where they were supposed to go. She began collecting the variety of papers spread on the floor, putting them back in the drawers: Christmas cards, “artworks” she and her brother had made when they were kids, old letters, report cards . . .
All of a sudden, she noticed a small notebook with leather-binding that she had never seen before. When she picked it up and began flipping through it, she saw it was, in fact, a photo album. It was strange because all the photo albums were proudly displayed and organized in chronological order on the five shelves of the vintage bookcase in the living room.
Becky immediately recognized the people in the photos: they were her parents, only much younger. She had never seen these photos of her parents before they’d started a family. Not even photos from their wedding day. Her mom claimed they were all lost in a fire in their old home years ago. And here, in this small album, there were so many of them. How strange she hadn’t come across them earlier. How strange that her mother – known for her sentimentality – had never shown them to her.
She recognized the New York skyline in some of them although she had never been there. She had always wanted to go, but her parents came up with a different excuse each time to postpone the trip. It even happened not that long ago: Becky and her friends were planning to fly out to New York for a long weekend to celebrate her sweet sixteen. She had dreamed about it for months and saved up every cent she’d made from working in the local ice-cream shop to pay for it. She thought her parents didn’t understand, or maybe didn’t want to understand, that she was old enough to go to the big city. She wanted to prove them wrong and even pay for it from her own pocket. To her dismay, her parents found out about her plans after Mrs. Osborne let it slip at one of the church’s charity events. She had never seen them this angry. Becky didn’t get what all the fuss was about; after all, it wasn’t like she was planning to run away from home . . .
Eventually, her parents suggested as a compromise that they all go on a family trip to Los Angeles instead. It might not be what she’d planned, but she took solace in the fact that she might get to see a famous movie actress or at least a reality TV star in person, but that never happened. Becky remembered how upset she’d been about having to go on this trip.
What wouldn’t she give now for one last family vacation.
As she continued flipping through the pages of the album, she stumbled upon a photo of her mother, dressed in a beautiful wedding gown, her father’s arms wrapped around her in a loving embrace.
She’s so beautiful, Becky thought achingly, how can it be that she’s gone?
The next photo showed the young couple standing in the center of what appeared to be a family photo, surrounded by people she had never seen before. Becky tried to find Uncle Jake’s familiar face, but she couldn’t see him in there. The whole scenario felt strange. With everything that had happened, she didn’t know how to feel, what to think, or how to act. Everything was starting to feel more and more surreal.
The last page of the album was the high point. Becky’s eyes fixed on a photo in which her parents seemed to be standing under a canopy: her father was wearing a yarmulke and had a prayer shawl around his shoulders, holding a silver goblet in his hands. Her mother’s face was covered with a veil. There was a Rabbi in a black suit standing before them, his curly sideburns peering under his black hat.
A Jewish wedding?
That didn’t make any sense. Why would her parents have a Jewish wedding? Unless . . .
They were Jewish?
When she recalled all those Sunday Masses she’d been forced to listen to every week, her wonder grew even stronger.
Does it mean that she’s Jewish?
No! It can’t be! Her favorite holiday is Christmas. Her family goes every week to church. She went to a Catholic school and even played the Virgin Mary in a school play in the fifth grade. She knew almost nothing about Judaism, expect for a few chapters from the Old Testament taught in Bible lessons in middle school that she did not find very interesting. In fact, she had never known any other religion besides Christianity. Her heart was pounding vigorously. No, there has got to be some explanation. Her parents would have told her if they were Jewish. She must have missed something in the photo, perhaps. This just did not make sense.
She took a long stare at the last photo. There was no room for doubt. She felt as though her entire world had been fundamentally shaken for the second time that evening. What the hell was going on?
“Becky, where are you? What’s taking so long?” Her uncle’s voice sounded behind her.
“Uncle Jake, I don’t understand.”
Jacob entered the room. His gaze fell upon the photo album held in her hand, opened to the last page. He said only one word:
“Dammit.”
CHAPTER 6
September 12, 2013. Manhattan, New York
During the awkward
ly silent drive to the brunch at her parents’ house, Sharon was immersed in thought about what had happened between Chris and her just a short while ago. She was so distracted that she even agreed for Chris to drive without saying a word – which was very unlike her. She replayed their conversation in her mind.
“I love you.”
Sharon looked at him, stunned. She had no idea what to say.
“Wow,” she blurted eventually, her voice a bit frail. Chris kept hunting for recognition, not taking his eyes off her.
“Sharon Elaine Davis, I, Chris Wallington, am head over heels in love with you. From the ankle you sprained last month to your unpierced ears that make it even harder for me with the whole gift-shopping thing since you’ve eliminated earrings from the list.” They both cracked a smile. “I know you’re a firm believer in actions speaking louder than words, but I want to believe you have similar feelings for me. I’m dying to hear you say it,” continued Chris, “and I have come up with a very serious ultimatum . . .”
Sharon gasped. Is he threatening to break up with her?
“If you don’t tell me exactly how you feel about me,” Chris announced dramatically, “I’ll have to skip the brunch with Jill and Bobby and leave you in Brooklyn hell all by yourself.” He elevated himself from her and lay on his back, grinning, his bare and muscular arms resting behind his head in a carefree pose.
“Are you serious?” Sharon's lips curled into a smile. “Are you really trying to coax an NYPD detective through extortion?” She tried to incorporate some humor into the conversation in hopes that it would reduce, even slightly, her racing heartbeat.
“Yes,” he answered simply.
Now it was Sharon who turned to Chris and climbed over his body, with the white sheet still clinging to her skin. “And you really think it’s going to work?”
“Give me some credit, Sharon. I can assure you that I have never blackmailed anyone to say ‘I love you’ to me. I can also assure you, Detective Davis, that I’ve never felt for anyone else what I feel for you.”
Sharon buried her head into the pillow and cried in a muffled voice, “I love you too, my little blackmailer.”
She shook up and looked over at Chris, who was holding the wheel and had not glanced her way even once during the drive. A red Porsche cut them off from the other lane. He hit the brakes and honked.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered under this breath.
Sharon placed a calming hand on his shoulder. He chanced a glance at her but almost immediately resumed his eyes to the road. Her thoughts wandered and drifted back to their earlier conversation.
“I love you too, my little blackmailer.”
She looked up and fixed her ocean-green eyes on Chris. He didn’t say a word.
“Ah, we should probably start getting ready to leave,” she suggested awkwardly.
Chris reciprocated with a blue glance and stroked her soft cheek with the back of his hand. “You can’t even look me in the eye? Why are you so terrified?” His dark eyebrows frowned in clear disappointment, carving a deep line between his eyes.
Sharon looked at him, surprised. She felt like she’d opened her heart this Sunday morning more than she had ever done before.
“I love you, Sharon,” he repeated for the second time. “Damn it, I know you’ll be my wife someday.” He paused. “And I’ve been feeling this way for a long time. I needed to restrain myself until it was safe to tell you what we both already knew.” He gave her a sharp stare, “I have never met a woman who was so afraid of three little words. We’ve been together for quite some time, and your defensive wall is almost as strong as the day we first met.”
“Chris, you know how I feel about you.” Now it was Sharon’s turn to be frustrated. “Damn it,” she exclaimed, “I just told you how I feel. What more do you want?”
Chris studied her striking features for a long time before he eventually said, “We should go; your parents are waiting for us.”
The screech of breaks woke her from her contemplations.
“Sorry,” said Chris, who had stopped short at a red light.
A few moments later, the light turned green. The two continued along the road in utter silence.
CHAPTER 7
September 12, 2013. Fairland, Oklahoma
The drive back from the hospital was quiet and tense. When Jacob and Becky arrived at the intensive care unit, they were told that Brandon was still in surgery and in critical condition. Between the lines, they gradually came to the realization that they shouldn’t expect good news anytime soon.
The fear for her brother’s life, wondering about her father’s whereabouts, and the grief over her mother’s death were all mixed together in one emotional whirlpool. Becky felt her body was at the mercy of this vortex, like Dorothy swept far from Kansas by a tornado into a strange and inconceivable world.
She felt dizzy. Jacob grabbed her, “Sit down, I’ll get you some water.”
After she downed an entire bottle at once, Becky was beginning to stabilize. “Can we go back home? Maybe Dad has come back. I need to tell him . . .” she said in a whispery voice, knowing in her heart that she wouldn’t return home tonight, and her father wouldn’t be waiting for her.
Now they were on their way to Jacob’s apartment. Actually, it wasn’t really his apartment, rather a friend’s place where he could stay whenever he came to visit. Her uncle explained to her that his friend was always on some business trip, so it had never been a problem.
“Uncle Jake, don’t forget, you promised.”
After Jacob found Becky flipping through the old photo album, he promised her that he would explain everything once they got back from the hospital.
He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and kept his eyes on the road. “I know, kiddo, but you’ve had a rough night . . .” He paused as though he wasn’t sure how to complete the sentence. “I think it would be better if we talked about all of this tomorrow.”
Becky shook her head adamantly, “I can’t wait until tomorrow, Uncle Jake, I really can’t!” She looked at him with wide, teary eyes. Golden dots of sheen swirled within the deep hues of the dark iris. “Please?”
“Okay,” he sighed resignedly. “Tonight.”
***
December 24, 2004. Fairland, Oklahoma
The Christmas tree in the Mitchell’s living room looked lovely. Dozens of little lights enveloped the green needles and spread a colorful, warm light. At the top shimmered a twinkling star ornament that Becky had made in school the previous year. Under its shade rested the holiday presents the children had begged for, waiting to be opened with all the excitement that comes with the holiday on the next morning.
Everything was perfect.
Emily was in the kitchen, making her famous butter cookies. Most mothers would have baked gingerbread cookies this time of year, but Emily Mitchell would not hear about it. Becky stood beside her, watching with admiration at her mother’s skilled motions as she rolled out the sweet dough with her rolling pin, then cut out as many circles as she could with the cookie-cutter, and finally brushed each circle in a sweet solution of melted butter and sugar with the precision of an artist. Just like a paintbrush on canvas.
“Would you like to sprinkle the nuts on top?” the baker asked her little apprentice.
Becky nodded with a broad smile and grabbed a handful of crushed nuts with her little palm, each time letting a few of the pieces slip through her fingers while her hand was hovering above the baking pan.
“Very good, Becky! Next year, I’ll let you make them all by yourself.”
The seven-year-old beamed with excitement but then stopped and looked at her mother fearfully. “But what if I make a mistake? I’ll ruin Christmas.”
“Don’t worry, Becky, I’ll be by your side every step of the way. Just as my mother was beside me.”
The girl smiled again. Now it was her mother’s face that shrank in sorrow.
“It’s because of grandma, right?” the child asked. �
�You miss her.”
“Yes,” admitted the mother.
“Maybe you can invite her over for Christmas?”
“Maybe someday.” She wiped at her tears. “Now, let’s get these cookies into the oven so they’ll be ready on time.”
***
“What?!” the girl cried out, an expression of utter shock on her face. “You're wrong!” she yelled at him. “It can’t be!”
“I’m so sorry, Becky, but this is the truth.”
“The Witness Protection Program?”
It’s one thing to be in the Witness Protection Program; but being in it without knowing about it is a whole different issue.
“No, no, no . . .” Becky was too stupefied to think properly. “It doesn’t make any sense! You’re lying!”
The look in Jacob eyes conveyed that he was telling the truth.
Her eyes widened uncontrollably, “Are you trying to tell me that my parents were criminals?”
Jacob’s brow frowned, “That’s a silly question and you know it.”
“Turns out I know nothing!” she slammed at him. “Maybe last night it was a silly question, but today, apparently anything is possible.” She shook her head in frustration and disbelief, “Maybe that’s the reason my mom was killed!”
“Your mother was the most decent person I’ve ever met,” Jacob said with a hoarse voice. The pain had washed his face and left it agonized.
“And my dad?” She fixed on him with pleading eyes.
Jacob hesitated, “Your father made some mistakes when he was younger, but he made up for it.”
“What did he do?” Her eyes narrowed, but she kept looking at him.
“Your father was a successful accountant in New York who got tangled up with the wrong people,” explained Jacob. “He was caught embezzling but agreed to testify against them in court and supply the necessary evidence and testimony to bargain his way out of jail time. Thanks to him, we were able to get them behind bars, where they belonged.”
The False Mirror Page 2