Sharon had waited for barely a minute after the commissioner stopped talking to politely decline. If there was something she hated even more than a desk job, it was the type of position that would require her to smile all day long and be the center of attention. It made her feel completely fake. Sharon knew she could never change her candid and too-blunt speech – sometimes bordered with an unbelievable lack of tact – in order to abide by the rules of the media. But, in fact, that was the exact reason why they loved her so much. She was real from head to toe. Even more, she was a detective to the core, and she could never give that up.
Sharon sighed in evident dissatisfaction and stared at her commander, “Rob, how many more times do I have to explain myself? My badge says, ‘Detective’, not ‘PR slave’.”
Rob glared back at her and retorted equally sarcastic, “And your paycheck says, ‘City of New York’, not ‘gathering random money that falls from the sky’. Correct me if I’m wrong.”
Sharon narrowed her eyes at him. “Okay, Captain, I got it,” she answered with a wry smile, but then a spark of mischief twinkled in her eyes. “By the way, if you want me in front of the television screen, I guess from now on I can write off my facials as a work expense . . . ”
CHAPTER 15
September 13, 2013. JFK Airport, New York
Becky felt a slight tremor when the wheels of the plane hit the ground. A similar sensation passed through her when she realized that she truly was in New York City, about to meet the grandmother she had never known for the very first time.
It was three o’clock sharp, and Becky set her watch to the local time. She looked at her phone to change the time but noticed it had updated automatically. She let a few passengers who weren’t endowed with much patience to pass her as she started slowly toward the exit. As she proceeded, she felt her legs becoming heavier and unable to move on. She wondered if their great fatigue was purely physical, or perhaps it was about where they were headed.
A short while after, Becky found herself standing outside the terminal, her backpack on her back, looking for the AirTrain toward Jamaica Station. Fifteen minutes later, she was already seated on the train, her bag close to her feet. She took out her smartphone from her pocket and reread the Google Maps directions she had downloaded while waiting at the airport in Dallas. She needed to find the subway station, take the J line, and then switch to either B or Q to Kings Highway Station. From there it was about a ten-minute walk until she arrived at 1970 East 13th Street, climbed the stairs, knocked on the door and . . .
The announcer’s voice interrupted her thoughts; the train was about to make its stop at Jamaica Station. She was progressing toward her destination in giant strides. Her feet started tapping anxiously against the floor. Becky decided she could use a distraction. She opened the messages screen and began typing:
Becky: You know what they say, Big Apple, big expectations ;)
She stared at the blank screen while her feet started moving on their own in an involuntary, feverish manner.
Justin: So you’re in NY :) Those big apples are way overrated :P How was your flight?
Her legs stopped jittering and rested peacefully.
Becky: Just like 7 minutes in heaven! Only much longerrrrrrr and tedioussssss.
Justin: Probably because this time I wasn’t there . . . :)
Becky giggled out loud when she read Justin’s message. She recalled the last time their paths had crossed while playing seven minutes in heaven: it was at Nora White’s birthday party when they were in fourth grade. Everyone had been sitting in a circle, playing spin the bottle, and the two players to whom the bottle pointed had to go into the hall closet for seven whole minutes. One time, the bottle had stopped on Becky and Justin. Nothing had happened, of course; after all, they were only nine years old. But it was nice to know that he still remembered those seven “heavenly” minutes between the White family’s raincoats.
Becky: Whatever do you mean?
Justin: Does Nora White’s hall closet ring a bell? ;)
Becky: Why do I have the feeling that if we walked in there now, things would end a bit differently?
Justin: Becky, if you promise me 7 minutes alone with you in any closet, I’m buying a plane ticket right now.
Becky’s genuinely-flattered smile stretched from ear to ear.
Becky: Does a metallic box traveling at 30 miles per hour meet the criteria? :P
Justin: Does it at least have a coat rack?
Becky chuckled and bit her lower lip to keep from smiling. Frankly, she would give anything to have Justin by her side, embracing her with his long arms while letting her lay her head on his broad shoulder.
Becky: I’m scared.
Only after a whole minute, she received a new message.
Justin: I wish I could say something to cheer you up, but I have no idea what to say. All I know is that the beautiful girl next door has managed to surprise me in the last two days more than she did in all the years we’ve known each other.
It took a lot of courage to fly to New York to look for answers. I guess even you are allowed to be afraid a little bit.
Becky flashed a grin as a solitary tear glided down her cheek. That was exactly what she needed to hear – or in this case, read.
Becky: Thanks, Justin <3 I’m about to go on the subway, so I might lose the reception. I promise to keep you posted.
Justin: Good luck, Becks <3
CHAPTER 16
September 13, 2013. Brooklyn, New York
Becky walked down East 13th Street, watching the house numbers:
1956, 1958 . . .
It was a warm day and the heat, along with the anticipation, took over. She felt the straps of her heavy backpack rubbing against her skin, slowly getting soaked in her sweat.
1962, 1964 . . .
Now she was only a few feet away from her grandmother’s address. She felt her heart racing with the ever-increasing numbers.
1970.
And now it skipped a beat.
Becky walked up the four steps leading to the front door. She remained standing for about a minute, trying to regulate her breathing. Eventually she gave in to the weight on her shoulders and dropped her backpack on the wood deck.
Moment of truth.
She hesitated to knock on the door, almost hoping it wouldn’t be heard. After a few moments of silence, she knocked again – this time, a bit more firmly. For the third time, she gathered her courage and rang the doorbell.
No one answered.
A bitter sense of disappointment flooded her and poured from her eyes in a torrent of tears. She had spent the last few hours cycling through so many emotions about this moment – from anxiety, to dread, to fear, and even excitement at the prospect of having a family after losing her loved ones. But most of all, it was the gravity of meeting her grandmother for the very first time and having to tell her what had happened to her mother. Becky did not consider the possibility that it might not even happen.
She sniffled and took in a few short breaths. What was she supposed to do now? She had spent most of her money on the plane ticket to get here and could not afford even a single night given New York’s accommodation rates. She had betrayed the trust of the only man who could have helped her, Uncle Jake, not to mention the number of times she had screened his calls since she’d landed in New York. She couldn’t bear the thought of having to call and tell him that she had flown halfway across the country, only to break the most important rule in the Witness Protection Program: never contact people from your past. On the other hand, there was no one left to protect, and her grandmother certainly wasn’t a part of her past. She didn’t even know her name. She had no one left to turn to.
“I can’t believe this is actually happening to me,” she murmured quietly and wiped her tears. She tried to reassure herself that her grandmother would probably be back soon; it was getting late. This conclusion managed to encourage her only for a few seconds.
It was almost dark,
and she had no idea where she would spend the night.
Becky bent down to pick up her backpack. As she stood up and placed it on her back, a sharp shiver went down her spine. The burden was unbearable. She felt as if her shoulders were about to break. Becky hoped she could endure the walk back to the subway station, which now seemed longer than ever. But where would she go from there?
She turned her back away from the door and headed for the porch stairs when she suddenly noticed an elderly woman standing in front of her. She had short hair, earthy brown tinged with gray, that gave a nice frame to her pleasant facial features. The V-neck dress she was wearing suited her slightly full figure. She carried two grocery bags. Her big dark-cinnamon eyes seemed like a mirror reflection in Becky’s eyes, who suddenly knew from where her mother had inherited them. Now they were staring at her with astonishment.
Becky figured it made sense for this woman to be surprised to find an exhausted young girl whom she’d never met before waiting on her doorstep. She told herself that her grandmother would be even more surprised once she discovered that this young girl was actually her granddaughter.
The woman dropped the grocery bags to the floor. Their contents scattered on the deck, but she didn’t even notice. Her attention was entirely on the young girl standing before her.
“Becky!” she cried excitedly.
CHAPTER 17
September 13, 2013. Brooklyn, New York
Becky was lying awake in bed, trying to process everything she’d gone through that day. Twenty-four hours ago, she was still watching old sitcoms on Uncle Jake’s couch. Since then, after a long ride in Justin’s old car and two domestic flights, she’d arrived at her grandmother’s house in New York City. Finding herself spending the night in her mother’s old room, staring at old posters of The Beatles – whose songs she always used to hum – did not make it any easier.
Tears were beginning to well in her eyes. Becky could not believe that her mother was gone. She would miss their talks so much. Her mom was her best friend. Becky hadn’t even gotten to tell her about her first kiss – and now she never could.
She could not imagine how her grandmother must have felt when she broke the devastating news. Becky could barely utter the words. Up until that moment, she could still pretend that it was just a bad dream that would fade before dawn. But admitting that her mother was dead had been a wakeup call to a cruel reality. They cried and sobbed, leaning on each other’s shoulder, mourning the loss of the woman who tied their fates together.
Rebecca Ginsburg was the daughter of two holocaust survivors from Poland, who emigrated to the United States after the war had ended to ensure a better future for their children. At the age of twenty-one, she’d married Abraham Hershenberg, a promising yeshiva student. One year later, Emily Hershenberg, Becky’s mother, was born.
Emily was an only child. The young parents had tried to bring more children into the world but had never managed it. Emily had been the apple of their eye: “Our little Hanukkah miracle,” to quote Rebecca. Abraham, who had become a loved Rabbi in the Jewish community in Brooklyn over the years, passed away from cancer when Emily was only nineteen. It was a rough time for the mother and daughter, but they had pulled through it together. The community embraced them and treated them as family. Even after Emily had left, Rebecca continued to operate as an active member of the community and became a regular volunteer at Bikur Holim community center.
In light of these facts, Becky was having a hard time understanding how her mother had been able to give up her Jewish religion, which represented her heritage and culture. It appeared that Judaism had been deeply ingrained in her genes. After everything her family had gone through in the holocaust, and after all these years living as a Jew, how could her mother just forget? Or perhaps she had done it simply because she could not forget, because the memories were just too painful. The answer, she would never know.
Becky had been raised as a Christian her entire life. She even attended Sunday Mass every week. She realized it was probably the easiest way to fit in with the community in Fairland that was predominantly Christian, but wasn’t the price too much to pay? And what did it mean for her now, was she still a Christian or was she Jewish? She had never dedicated much thought to her faith even though she could recite the Ave Maria prayer in her sleep, thanks to all the years at Sunday School in the local church. On the other hand, she knew nothing about what it meant to be Jewish. Did she even have a right to choose?
How could she form an identity when her roots were planted so far from where she had grown up? Was she a southern bell, as she’d always been proud to be, or was she a “Yankee”? Where was her home now, Fairland or New York? Was she a Mitchell or a Webber? Becky felt as if her world split in two, and what had been hidden in the dark for the last sixteen years was suddenly revealed, dazzling her blindly.
To her grandmother she was Becky Webber, not Mitchell. She learned that she had been named after her, and she had never known. When she asked her grandmother how she had recognized her when she first saw her waiting outside her doorstep, she was surprised to discover that the mother and daughter who had been torn away from each other had found a way to keep in touch.
“For almost fifteen years, I haven’t spoken to your mother. Not even once. I didn’t know anything about your lives or even your very existence.” Rebecca shook her head and sighed, “But all this changed about three years ago; I got a letter in the mail sent from Utah.”
Becky recalled the family trip to the Arches National Park in Utah when she was thirteen years old. She remembered her mother being so enthusiastic about this trip that it was infectious. The whole family was excited to see those impressive archaic formations, miraculously created in the solitude of the desert. Emily must have sent the letter from there.
“. . . I didn’t know anyone from Utah, and I was aware that the witnesses in the Witness Protection Program were not allowed to contact their families, but I had hoped so much,” continued Rebecca. “I immediately recognized her handwriting. The letter said I had to open a new Gmail account, and that my username should consist of my mother’s hometown and the birth year of my first grandson. That’s how [email protected] was created. I checked the inbox at least twice a day but didn’t receive anything. I almost gave up, but then two weeks later, I got an email from [email protected]. My heart knew right away it was her, my Emily.” Rebecca’s eyes moved instinctively to the framed photograph of her daughter placed on the sideboard in the living room: Emily in her early twenties, a young and talented woman with her whole life ahead of her. Becky noticed a glistening tear at the corner of Rebecca’s eye. She had many more questions for her grandmother, but she was afraid to burden her in this emotional state. Despite their kinship, she didn’t really know the woman sitting beside her on the sofa.
They sat and talked for hours. Becky told Rebecca that her father was missing, nowhere to be found. Her grandmother immediately asked about Brandon, and Becky had to tell her about the complicated surgery he had just undergone after being shot in the chest, and that now he was heavily sedated. The genuine concern she recognized in Rebecca’s glistening eyes moved her. It appeared that she had never forgotten her grandchildren and had not loved them any less because of the distance. Becky recalled the moment her grandmother had told her how she had learned about her existence:
“Here, I printed out the letter . . .” Rebecca left the room for a few minutes, and when she returned, she handed her the papers with trembling hands. In the subject line was written, Meet your granddaughter and below appeared a photo of Becky from that same family trip to Utah. The date on the email was about two months after it. Becky began reading her mother’s words.
My beautiful Becky . . . The best daughter a mother could wish for. You must have noticed she was named after you, and, indeed, you are so much alike! Your kindness, gentleness, and noble character. Even your love of baking! When she was younger, she loved spending time with me in the kitchen, making b
utter cookies with her tiny hands, exactly like you taught me . . . I wish you could meet each other. I’m sure you would have had a special bond. Maybe someday . . .
Becky stopped reading and shut her eyes, letting her tears pour freely, not even wiping them away. She pressed the pages close to her heart and embraced her mother’s words as if she were here. Suddenly she felt her mother’s familiar hands stroking her back. She rested her head on her comforting shoulder and gave herself over to her sadness. After a few minutes, she raised her head and noticed it was Rebecca who was hugging her.
It was the first time since the murder that she felt embraced by family.
***
Becky stared at the pile of papers on the desk in her mother’s old bedroom. Rebecca gave her all of Emily’s printed letters, probably because she noticed how much the girl was desperate for more messages from her mother. Becky tried to close her eyes and fall asleep, but the events of the day kept running through her mind.
Her grandmother told her that a few months ago, Emily had called her on the phone. Since then, they’d made it a habit to talk once a week. The two of them felt a bit complacent after seventeen years – as if the danger had passed, and soon they would reunite. Becky couldn’t help but wonder if this had anything to do with the massacre of her family. She still didn’t understand who wanted to hurt them so badly and why, and what exactly happened to her father. Suddenly, she remembered that she hadn’t checked on Brandon’s condition since last night and still hadn’t answered any of Uncle Jake’s calls . . .
The False Mirror Page 5