by Lauren Rico
I poke at the pancakes, awkwardly. Funny, I’m not very hungry now that they, and Jeremy’s mother, are sitting in front of me. She’s looking at me intently and I feel the need to look away. Finally, I bring my eyes back to her face. She smiles at me kindly.
“Julia. Please don’t be nervous. I promise you, I don’t bite.”
I feel a rush of warmth to my cheeks. “I’m sorry,” I mumble. “I just – this is awkward.”
She nods. “Yes, it is. But it doesn’t have to be. Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself? How did you come to play the cello?”
“I was at the Children’s Home … kind of an orphanage here on Long Island …”
“Your parents are dead?” she interjects, her face wrinkling with concern.
“Yes. Uh – no …”
She raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think there’s much wiggle room in there. They’re either dead … or they’re not.”
“Right. Well, my mother is alive. My father is dead.” She swishes her coffee around, waiting for me to elaborate. “My mother was a drug addict. She left us when I was five. After she’d gone, my father was abusive … physically,” I hurry to add, not wanting her to think it was anything darker than that. “I – I look a lot like her, you see. And he was so angry …” I break off for a moment and look down at my half-eaten breakfast. When I glance up, she’s still waiting patiently.
“Anyway, I was taken away from him when I was eight. That’s when I went to the Children’s Home. And that’s where I met Matthew. His parents died in a boating accident. He was my only friend and he’s the one who introduced me to music. I didn’t speak, so the cello was my voice.”
She looks startled, then confused.
“You were … mute?”
“Yes … sort of, for more than a year. I stopped talking the day I went to school and the teacher realized … what was going on at home. I was afraid to answer questions from the police and the doctors and the social workers. I thought if I told them what was happening, my father would get mad at me and hurt me. So, I didn’t speak then, or for more than a year afterwards.”
Trudy Corrigan puts a firm, reassuring hand over mine. “You were a strong girl. And you’ve grown into an even stronger woman,” she informs me.
I shrug. “I wasn’t always so strong. I became strong after …” I stop cold, but she knows exactly where I was headed.
“After Jeremy destroyed your life,” she finishes for me.
I nod dumbly.
“He’s good at that, my son.”
Another silent nod from me. I’m afraid if I open my mouth I’ll fall apart.
Trudy clears her throat and continues. “Brett came to see us a while back. He was very upset … said he’d just stood by and watched Jeremy hurt some poor girl. He didn’t help her and he was having a hard time living with that.” Piercing, hazel eyes consider me carefully. They are Jeremy’s eyes, I can’t help but notice. And David’s. “Was that you? Were you that girl?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “That was me.”
Trudy’s lips draw into a tight line and her brows draw in toward the bridge of her nose. This expression, too, is a carbon copy of Jeremy’s.
“Well, you should know that it was eating him alive.”
“We’ve talked about it,” I assure her. “He – he’s more than made up for it since then.”
“I’m glad,” she says with some relief before she changes her tack. “Now, what of your mother? Where did she go after she left you? If you don’t mind me asking, that is …”
“Umm, no, no, that’s fine,” I say, my voice a hair uncertain. “She ended up as a … uh … prostitute,” I finally spit out with great difficulty. “She tells me she was an addict and often exchanged … sex acts … for drugs.”
The concern on Trudy’s face is so deep – so sincere – that she makes me feel as if she understands, even before I’ve told her everything. It gives me the courage to finish. “Somewhere along the line, this guy managed to get her off the streets. He married her and now she has a new life, complete with a new daughter.”
“Oh, my. Well, it sounds like she pulled herself out of a bad situation. It’s easy to see where your fortitude comes from, Julia.”
I don’t quite know how to respond to that, so I don’t. She notices.
“You’re not happy for her, then?”
The question isn’t an accusation, so much as a curiosity.
“Happy? No. She left me to rot in an orphanage while she started a shiny new family, not thirty miles down the road.”
“I’m so sorry, Julia. Have you been in touch with her?”
“Yes. I finally gave in and sat down with her for a cup of coffee about six months ago … I was curious more than anything. I wanted to see how she could possibly justify leaving me … with him. She knew the kind of man my father was and she left me with him anyway. Trudy, the man burned me with a car cigarette lighter. He broke my ribs and scalded me with hot coffee. There was no one to protect me.”
At some point during this hellish little narrative, the tears started to fall and I feel them drip down my cheeks and under the collar of my blouse. Trudy reaches into her purse and hands me a tissue, which I accept with a grateful sniff.
“Anyway,” I continue after a minute, “we met and I asked her, point blank, why she didn’t take me with her.”
“And what was her reply?”
I scoff and roll my eyes as if it’s too unbelievable to even say out loud. But then, I say it out loud.
“She told me that she knew that as bad as my father could be, I would still be safer with him than with her. That she knew she might end up doing something awful if she took me with her and that she’d make the same decision again if she had it to do over again. Can you believe that?” I ask incredulously.
Trudy seems to give this some thought. “I know you don’t want to hear this,” she begins slowly, quietly, “but I have to say it makes perfect sense to me.”
“What?”
“Julia, one of the hardest things for any parent to comprehend is that there are times when the best thing you can do for your child is to leave him.”
I shake my head. “No. No, I don’t buy that …”
She holds up a finger to stop me. “Please, just hear me out. I have been a kindergarten teacher for more years than you’ve been alive and I’ve seen my share of family dysfunction. Bitter divorces where the children are pawns, abusive parents, abusive children, homelessness, abandonment …and some of the vile atrocities one human being can inflict upon another.
“But I’ve also seen incredible acts of heroism in some of those situations. And in that category I include the father who threw himself between his daughter and an oncoming car and the mother who gave full custody to her ex-husband and committed herself to an institution for psychiatric care.”
“Trudy, how can you compare those things to what my mother did? There was nothing heroic about her actions. She wasn’t saving my life or protecting me from what she might do …”
“Wasn’t she?” Trudy asks. “Now, believe me, I pray to Jesus you never have to face a situation like that, but until you do, then you’ll never know the agony that your own mother felt in making the decision to let you go.”
I can feel the shock that must be telegraphed across my face … slack mouth, wide eyes, flaring nostrils. I simply cannot believe what I’m hearing.
“When something like that happens,” she continues, “you have to fight yourself, every instinct you have as a mother. You have to make a decision you may very well be hated for, during the rest of your life. But you’ll do it. And you would do it again if you had to, because you know in your heart that it’s the best thing you can do for him.”
I lean forward across the table so that eyes are locked together.
“Are you telling me that she abandoned me because it was the best thing for me? Trudy! How can you possibly …”
“I don’t know your mother or her situation. But
, based on what you’ve told me, I’m guessing she felt leaving you was a better option than what you might have endured had she taken you with her that day. She was a prostitute …and a drug addict to boot.”
I nod miserably.
“Well, it’s my understanding that the kinds of people who move in those worlds would think nothing of offering her a fix for … use … of a beautiful, innocent little girl.”
“I – I don’t understand …”
She closes her eyes for a brief second and then answers.
“I’m saying, that desperate people do desperate things, Julia. And that somewhere, deep in her addled mind, she knew that taking you with her was not an option that day because … because she wasn’t strong enough to protect you from herself.”
“More coffee?” a perky young waitress pops in and I practically jump out of my seat.
“No!” I say a little too harshly. “I’m sorry,” I say more softly. “No, thank you. We’ll let you know if we need something else.”
The girl can’t get away from our table fast enough. I turn back to Trudy, unsure of whether or not I’m offended.
“Even if I can come to some understanding of that,” I concede at last, “of her decision to leave and not take me, how can she possibly justify not coming back?”
Trudy sits back in her chair and folds her arms across her chest. In this light, I can see that her light brown hair, cut to chin length, is threaded with silver. She looks tired suddenly. And, if I’m not mistaken, just a little bit sad. Oh, hell. I have to remember that this woman just lost her husband … and here I am bringing up my ancient baggage.
“Trudy, let’s just talk about something more pleasant …”
She puts a warm, delicate hand over mine. “We will in just a moment, I just want to finish this. To answer your question, I don’t know why she didn’t come back. Perhaps she wasn’t secure enough in her sobriety or didn’t trust herself … I wish I had the answer for you, but I don’t. There’s only one person who does …your mother.”
“So, you think I should reach out to her?”
She gives me a small, sympathetic smile. “I think that there’s no wrong answer here, Julia. And, there’s no time limit on this. You may not be ready to hear her now …but possibly later you’ll feel differently. The best advice I can give you, Dear, is to consider the circumstances around her … departure … and try, as a mother, to see if her actions are redeemable, or even explainable, in any situation. Then, listen to your heart, Julia. It won’t steer you wrong.”
I want to snort, but it comes out more like a hiccuppy sob.
“Oh, but it did, Trudy,” I sniff, using a napkin to dab at my damp eyes. “My heart steered me right into Jeremy.”
I don’t know where the strength to say that to her came from, but there it is. My words are like a living, breathing thing at the table with us.
“Yes,” she says at last. “Yes, I suppose you’re right about that.”
Julia 26
“Are you alright?”
I pull the pillow over my head and scream into it.
“Okay, then. Not so much alright,” I hear Matthew say as he climbs into bed with me.
I feel the palm of his hand under my nightgown, rubbing my back gently. Left to right. Up and down. Circle, circle, circle, just like he does to calm David. He doesn’t say anything, just rubs until I gradually stick my head out from the cotton cocoon that envelops me. He is lying with his head on his own pillow, facing me.
“Hi,” he says with a smile.
“Hi,” I echo.
We lie like that a little while, just looking into one another’s eyes. He runs the back of his hand along my cheek.
“What can I do for you?” he asks.
“Not unless you’d like to represent me at the CD launch party so I can stay home and play with our son …”
He tips his head back and laughs. “Hah! You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Well, too bad, Mrs. Ayers. I’m not the one the public is clamoring to see!”
“Ugh! God, this like one of those weddings that keeps getting bigger and bigger and bigger. You know, they’ve temporarily cleared out one of the sculpture exhibits at the gallery to make room for us?”
“Wait, wait, wait …” he begins, scrunching up his face like he’s trying to process this information. “The Beau-Radcliffe is a huge space! How many people we talking about here?”
“Two-hundred,” I mouth with exaggerated enunciation.
“What?” He props his head up on his elbow so he’s looking down at me now. “How is that even possible? Who are they inviting?”
“Oh, let’s see… per the Kreisler Competition office, it’s an assortment of donors, press, Kreisler competitors and, of course, my personal guest list.”
“Which is all of what? Like a dozen people?”
“If that!”
“Now … when you say Kreisler competitors, you don’t mean …”
“Jeremy? No. I asked that he be excluded from the invitation list.”
“Still …”
Now I’m up on my elbow, too, a wave of panic washing over me. “What? You don’t think he’d show up, do you?”
Matthew shrugs and shakes his head, his dark hair falling over his eyes. I reach over and brush it back and he grabs my hand before I can pull it away.
“No. I don’t think so, but it wouldn’t be a bad idea to ask Tony to be there …”
“Well, he’s on my list anyway …”
“I know, but as a guest. I think I’ll ask him to come in a more ‘professional’ capacity.”
“You really think that’ll be necessary?”
“I know I’d feel better.”
A horrific thought occurs to me and I can’t keep the panic out of my voice.
“What about David? Should we leave him home with Nat? I mean, just in case?”
Matthew sits up fully now, his back against the headboard. I follow suit and we’re side by side, as we often are for these serious conversations.
“No. I think we should stick with the plan and bring him. Nat will be there, and Tony and Maggie and Brett …We’ll have a lot of eyes on him at the gallery.”
I consider this and nod slowly. “Yes, you’re right.”
“I know,” he grins at me cheekily. “So, there it is. You’ll show up, hide in the back until you’re ready to play, give your performance and then sign a few CD’s. There’ll probably be a champagne toast in there somewhere so you might want to prepare a few words in response.”
“Oh, no! You think? Really? They’ll want me to speak in front of all those people?” I’m utterly horrified by the idea. Matthew shrugs and grabs my hand.
“Probably. But all you need to say is ‘thank you for coming’ and ‘thank you to the Kreisler International Music Competition for their support.’ That’s it. You can manage that much, can’t you?”
“I suppose,” I sulk. “But I’m not happy about it.”
“I’m sure!” he laughs. “But, you know, the party’s not for another couple of days. Perhaps we should do something to take your mind off it for a little while.”
He leans over and starts to pull me toward him, but I put a hand to his chest to stop him.
“What? Are you okay?” he asks, his impending lust replaced by immediate concern.
I take a deep breath and tell him what I’ve been wanting to say for three days now …but haven’t dared.
“Matthew …I’m late.”
His brows scrunch in confusion for just a second before they arch in understanding and surprise.
“Really?” he whispers excitedly. “We’ve only been trying a month …do you think...? So soon, I mean?”
“It only takes once, Matthew! And we’ve ‘tried’ more than a few times in the last month,” I giggle.
Suddenly, he looks like a kid in a candy store. His eyes are bright and wide, a goofy grin plastered across his face as if he can’t believe his dumb luck.
“Okay, so …what now? How s
oon can you see the doctor to find out?”
“The doctor? Oh, honey, we don’t have to wait that long,” I assure him with a pat to his cheek. “I’ve got a three-pack of pregnancy tests in the bathroom.”
“Jesus, Julia! What are you waiting for, then?”
He jumps out of bed and pulls me with him into our en suite bathroom. When we’re situated on the fluffy blue bath mats, he looks at me expectantly.
“What’s next?”
“I pee on a stick.”
“Ohhh … huh …” he says, suddenly looking a lot less enthusiastic.
“You know what? I’m nervous enough without you watching. Why don’t you just wait out there and I’ll do the test myself? It takes like three minutes to process.”
“You sure you don’t want me to stay?”
“Pee. On. A. Stick.”
He holds up his hands in surrender as he backs out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
****
I stare helplessly at the bomb in my bathroom. Oh, it doesn’t look like a bomb. It looks like an ordinary kitchen timer, but with each tick, it brings me one second closer to a life-imploding blast. I’m waiting for it to go off in my face, raining down debris and rocking my perfect, orderly little world. One way …or another.
Tick, tick, tick, tick.
I’m perched on the side of the tub, unable to move or speak. Helpless to stop this collision with destiny.
Tick, tick, tick, tick.
The house is absolutely still. I can’t even hear Matthew pacing the floor anymore. He must’ve finally sat down. Somewhere in the distance, I can hear the Long Island Railroad as it makes its way into Port Jefferson from points further west.
Tick, tick, tick, tick.
With every passing second, I know I’m closer to my fate, my new reality. This little bomb has the power to change everything. Or, it may be a dud. It may simply end its countdown with nothing more than a reminder that anything may change at any time.
DING!
I jump up and stand, staring. I take a deep breath. “It’s okay. I’m okay. I can do this,” I whisper to myself as I take a tentative step toward the vanity, where the pregnancy test is resting, face down, on a washcloth. I close my eyes for just a moment and then open them again with resolve. Here goes nothing. Or everything.