Under the Skin

by Vicki Lane

  He closed his eyes, let out a sigh, and lay still. “Mama,” he whispered. “My mama. Let me just stay here for a while …”

  Gloria shifted, trying to ease his weight off her arm and onto the pillow. This was uncomfortable, in more ways than one, but if it could make up to this newfound son of hers even a small bit of his lost childhood …

  Closing her eyes she felt her breathing slip into alignment with Joss’s. His head slipped a little lower to lie over her heart and his breathing grew slower and more regular. Gloria tightened her arm around her baby and began silently to weep for all the lost past, the might-have-beens that never were. She wept till there were no more tears, only a quiet acceptance and profound thankfulness. And then she too slept.

  It was a familiar dream that she fell into—the dream of nursing her lost baby. As before, the infant pulled at her nipple with a ferocity that was at once deeply satisfying, surprisingly sensual, and at the same time, a bit frightening. In past dreams, the infant had always been a generic Everybaby—a pink blanket-wrapped bundle with dark wisps of hair, rosebud lips, and eyes that were long-lashed but closed.

  In this dream—and somehow, she knew that it was a dream, even in the midst of it—the baby was a miniature adult Joss, baby-sized but fully clothed in the khakis and blue oxford cloth shirt she had bought for him on their last shopping expedition. And as he sucked, he regarded her with those great dark eyes.

  It was disconcerting to have the old familiar dream change and she fought her way up from the depths of sleep to awaken.

  To awaken to the realization that the real Joss was suckling at her breast, his great eyes on her face, just as in the dream.

  Gloria shivered in spite of the heat of the morning sun. From her vantage point on the front porch she could see Joss setting off on his daily walk, down to the mailbox and back. She and Lizzy were alone in the house. This was her chance.

  Last night’s strange awakening had aroused in her a welter of conflicting emotions. Her immediate reaction had been to push Joss away and leap from the bed, hurriedly rebuttoning her pajama top and hoping that Elizabeth and Phillip hadn’t heard her startled cry. But then Joss—so troubled and so deeply odd, yes, she could admit that to herself now—had curled into a fetal position, jamming his thumb in his mouth and refusing to budge. It had taken almost an hour of soothing him, of listening to more of what he called his “separation issues” and his ideas for their resolution, before he agreed to slip quietly out and return to his room.

  And then she had spent the sleepless remainder of the night, worrying that her reaction would be seen as yet another rejection. Worrying—and wondering if she had made a very big mistake in bringing Joss here before verifying his identity. But that would have been another rejection, wouldn’t it?

  She watched Joss pass the chicken coop. He had seemed as usual this morning, as if last night hadn’t happened. But she couldn’t forget it and when he had said I’m going for my walk now, Mama—that same word that had sounded so sweet coming from him a few days ago now brought a feeling to the pit of her stomach that told her something was very, very wrong.

  His walk—he’d be gone almost an hour. It was now or never. She saw Joss disappear around the corner of the barn and drew a shaky breath.

  “Lizzy,” she said, walking into the kitchen where her sister was kneading bread. “I have to talk to you.”

  Chapter 28

  Aunt Dodie Speaks

  Sunday, June 3

  Lizzy, I don’t know what to do about Joss.”

  Gloria had finally spoken. It had been obvious that something was on her mind and even more obvious that she didn’t want to talk about it. Especially with me.

  Almost as if she’d read my thoughts, she went on. “Well, I have to talk to someone.”

  I’d been expecting it. It was the reason I’d decided to stay at the house and make bread rather than go down and set out those new lavender cuttings. I’d babied them along, hoping to expand my production and make more of those pretty ribbon-woven lavender wands that folks went crazy over. Now the unpromising sprigs had turned into healthy bushy little gray-green balls on the verge of being root-bound.

  But they could wait one more day. At breakfast, Gloria had looked wretched, with dark smudges under her eyes as if she’d slept badly, and I’d noticed that she had tried to avoid Joss’s good morning kiss. Something was profoundly wrong in this idyll of refound motherhood.

  She drew up her knees and wrapped her thin arms around them, looking like a wistful little girl with a raddled matron’s face. “Joss has all these ideas, about reclaiming his identity as my child. Weird ideas that he probably got from all those strange people in Asheville. Of course, I want to help him but …”

  I gave the dough a final thump and plopped it into a greased bowl, covered it with a dish towel, and set it in the pantry to rise.

  “Exactly what sort of ideas, Glory?” I washed the flour from my hands and took a seat beside her.

  She was struggling with telling me this stuff, I could see. I could also see that she was desperately unhappy. But I knew from past experience that she would have to find her way out of this situation on her own. Much as I’d like to, I couldn’t just reach in with a big-sisterly hand and set things to rights—this had to play itself out.

  “He wants us to do this thing … well, it’s called a rebirthing ceremony,” she explained with an unusual for Glory reluctance. “It’s a kind of therapy for people with attachment issues caused by trauma at birth.”

  “Ahhh,” I said, drawing the word out while I tried to think of something useful to say. “Is this a thing they do in Asheville? I know there’s all kinds of New—” Just in time I managed not to say New Age shit and came out instead with “… new alternative healing techniques available there. Is this one?”

  “I’m not sure.” Gloria looked more haggard still and she was picking at her nail polish—something I hadn’t seen her do since adolescence. “I guess there’s a facilitator or something to guide the experience. I think this was something Joss heard about from Nigel …”

  She looked even unhappier, which surprised me. Glory’s usually big into these little quickie workshop fixes for broken chakras or misguided chi or whatever will promise instant enlightenment without all that bother of fasting and meditating for years. She adores a spiritual experience that will leave her with time to go out for lunch and shopping after.

  Oh, shut up, Elizabeth. Stop being such a smug bitch and find out what’s wrong here.

  “So, how does this rebirthing thing work?” I was working hard at keeping my voice in the neutral zone: interested, not snarky. Gloria continued her assault on the dark red lacquer on her thumbnail as she explained.

  “He’s supposed to get all wrapped in blankets—to simulate being in the womb—and have to fight his way out, like a baby being born. And I’m supposed to be there to hold him when he breaks free—he says that probably all his insecurity and anxiety comes from the fact that he never had any contact with me at that crucial moment he came into the world. We didn’t bond then and Joss believes that all of his bad dreams and relationship problems and commitment issues come from that … He thinks if we just did this …”

  She stopped, as if there was more that she wasn’t willing to go into. I could only imagine.

  “Well, so what about it, Glory? Is it something you want to do?”

  There was a long silence as she worked on those fingernails. The exposed unpainted areas looked deathly pale next to the gleaming red. As pale as her face, which had taken on the pasty look of someone about to throw up.

  I was on the verge of asking if she was all right when she answered, “I just don’t know, Lizzy. I suppose I should … if it could help him … but—”

  She paused again and then the words came in a burst. “Lizzy—I’m just not sure anymore! What if he isn’t my son? And what if he is? How do I find out for sure without seeming to reject him all over again?”

  The angu
ish in her voice and on her face was so real—and so close to home. It reminded me of the unresolved question Aunt Dodie had asked about the mysterious Hawk … and my own dilemma.

  “It’s time to call Aunt Dodie.” The words were out before I stopped to think but it seemed the only thing to do. “We can tell her about Joss. If she’s been covering up a secret all these years, now that he’s found you, surely she wouldn’t stick to her story of a stillbirth.”

  “Gloria! My goodness, it’s been—well. I suppose the last time I saw you was at your dear mother’s memorial service. And you’re at Elizabeth’s farm? My goodness, I’ll bet you girls are having a wonderful time catching up on things! Oh, I remember how your mother and I used to be—sitting up till all hours and chattering away. Such fun! Golden, golden days! And how is dear Elizabeth?”

  “I’m on the line too, Aunt Dodie. We both wanted to talk to you.” Gloria had placed the call from the phone in the office and I was on the bedroom extension.

  “It’ll be harder for her to lie to both of us,” Gloria had told me. “I know how she is: She’ll dither around and talk about everything in the world but what I want to know. You get on the other phone, Lizzy. You always seemed to enjoy her and get along with the old idiot.”

  We’d been in luck. Aunt Dodie had picked up almost at once and seemed delighted to talk to us—not that there’d ever been a time when Dodie wasn’t happy to natter on and on.

  “You dear girls! What a delight to hear from you! I suppose you’re helping Elizabeth prepare for her wedding, Gloria. You have such good taste in wedding arrangements—I know I enjoyed all of yours that I could get to. When you married that dear Harold—oh, now that was a fairy tale scene if ever there was one! You were so lovely and every last detail was exquisite. Do you know, I wrote it all down: the blush roses, the bridesmaids in their Gainsborough dresses—just like that picture they call ‘Pinkie’—the lovely string quartet on the balcony, and, of course, every detail of the food. Those little asparagus sandwiches—you hardly ever see them these days.”

  Yes, Dodie was in her usual form. I opened my mouth to stem the flow so that Glory could ask her question but the busy little voice at the other end prattled on.

  “And, Elizabeth, when’s it to be? I’m so happy that my little false alarm is all resolved—you know, about the H-A-W-K—”

  I broke in before we had to go any farther down that particular byway. “Aunt Dodie, Gloria has a very important question for you. Glory …?”

  There was a choked sound and then Gloria cleared her throat and tried again. “Aunt Dodie, I really need to know about that time—” She stopped, took a breath, and started over. “You told me that—”

  Gloria broke off again with a fit of something that might have been coughing but Aunt Dodie remained silent—strangely silent. Normally this would have been her cue to dispense medical advice. This would have been the perfect moment for the story of the Old Gentleman and his favorite cough medicine of honey, lemon juice, and bourbon and what the Baptist minister had said and the Old Gentleman’s wry comeback.

  Instead, there was no response.

  Then Gloria, her voice unsteady, spoke. “Elizabeth … you tell her.”

  So, after making sure that unnaturally mute Dodie was really there and listening, I launched into an abridged version of how I’d only just learned about the lost baby and then on to how Joss had found Gloria.

  “The birth date is the same,” I told Aunt Dodie, winding up this unlikely story. “We’ve seen his driver’s license. So Gloria thought—we thought—that maybe you’d finally tell us what really happened when Gloria’s baby was born. You were there, weren’t you?”

  More silence—undoubtedly a new record for Dodie—

  broken only by gulps and sniffles from Gloria. Then, at last, Aunt Dodie spoke.

  “Oh, my dear! My poor, dear, little Gloria! After all these years! I prayed that you’d put that time behind you. I have so wished so that I could talk to you about it but I’d promised your mother never to speak of it again. You know what a strong personality she had. And when she passed away—well, I thought I’d get you to myself after the service and we could have a nice talk but then I thought, what’s the point of reopening that old wound? You seemed so happy with your life—Who could have known that you’d lose your dear Harold later that same year? Such a tragedy—”

  Gloria interrupted her, speaking with cold fury, each word dripping with bitterness. “And when Harold died, did it ever occur to you that knowing that my child was alive might have helped me? Did you ever think that maybe—”

  “But, Gloria,” Dodie’s horrified voice countered the venomous flow. “You don’t understand. I never lied to you! Your child—a beautiful little girl—was stillborn. She never drew a breath but that nice nurse baptized her anyway and eventually, when they released the little body, she was buried in my family plot. It’s just west of where the Old Gentleman is, with a little stone of pink marble. There’s the sweetest lamb carved at the top and just the date and the word Dana—you had said when you were laboring that that was what you’d like the baby named, do you remember? I always take her a flower when I go to visit the Old Gentleman—But, oh dear, Gloria—who in the world is this young man Elizabeth was talking about? You haven’t fallen into the snares of some sort of confidence man, have you, dear?”

  Chapter 29

  Breaking Up Is Hard to Do

  Sunday, June 3

  Gloria, we’ve got to decide what to do about Joss—right now, before he gets back to the house.”

  The call to Aunt Dodie finally ended, we were on the front porch, keeping watch against Joss’s return. Gloria’s pasty look had disappeared, to be replaced with something resembling a simmering rage.

  “That’s easy: I want him out of here. I never want to see him again. To think that he’d take advantage of me like—”

  Her head jerked up and she stared down the road. “Oh, dear god, there he comes!”

  She stood and looked around—for all the world like a trapped creature seeking its bolt-hole. “Lizzy, I can’t talk to him. Please, you tell him that we know the truth and want him to leave—You can get Ben or one of the Mexicans to drive him back to Asheville. Please …”

  Joss was past the barn now and plodding steadily up the road. The weird shuffling gait hadn’t improved, I thought, in spite of his daily walk.

  He looked up, almost as if he had felt my gaze on him, and raised a hand in a brief salute. I waved back.

  “Glory,” I said, “it’s Sunday. Julio and Homero left hours ago to go to Mass and spend the day with friends. And remember, Ben and Amanda are over in Yancey County this weekend with some of their friends. Of course, I could drive Joss into Asheville … but I don’t know … I guess I’m a little concerned about how he’s likely to react to being kicked out. He doesn’t strike me as someone who’ll shrug his shoulders and leave without a fuss. No, I’d feel better if we could wait till late this afternoon when Phillip will be back. I think things would probably go more smoothly—”

  “Why the hell is Phillip working today? Typical!”

  Glory was on her feet and pulling open the screen door. “You’re probably right; we should wait. But I can’t be around him! I can’t! Tell him I’m not feeling good and I went back to bed. Tell him anything; just keep him away from me! Oh, god, keep him away from me!”

  She disappeared into the house and in a few moments I heard her bedroom door slam shut, just as Joss came up the steps.

  “Where’s my little mother?” he asked. The same words that had seemed so touchingly innocent at first now set off alarm bells in my mind. Indeed, Joss’s always intense gaze seemed to have taken on a mad glitter.

  Don’t overdramatize this, Elizabeth, I warned myself. It’s not Joss that has changed—just your knowledge of him. Don’t let it make any difference till Phillip gets back.

  Somehow, we got through the rest of the day. Gloria stayed barricaded in her room and I hung about the
house, doing chores that would allow me to keep an eye on Joss, who would insist on tapping at her bedroom door every hour to see if she needed anything.

  “Do you think she should go to the doctor?” he asked me. “She said she just needed to sleep but—”

  “Joss, that’s exactly what she needs. Now just relax and leave her alone, for goodness’ sake.”

  I was standing on a chair and leaning out of a screen-less dining room window, scrubbing the outside glass with vinegar and old newspaper. It was tempting to ask Joss to help me, just to give him something to do, but my conscience hinted that getting work out of someone I planned to evict later on in the day wasn’t quite fair.

  He hung about for a while, asking questions about Gloria and about our childhood and our parents. I answered briefly, trying to let him see that I didn’t have time to chat. When he got onto the subject of my father, I began to wish that, like Gloria, I could just lock myself into my bedroom till Joss was gone.

  At last, however, he grew bored. After tiptoeing down the hall to stand listening outside Glory’s door, he returned to whisper that he thought she must be sleeping.

  “She has her music on real low. I’m just the same way; I like music on while I fall asleep.” He fidgeted another few minutes, watching me replace the screens, and then asked abruptly if he could use the office computer.

  Delighted to have him out of my airspace for a bit, I told him to go ahead. Any sensitive info was password protected, so I sent him off to play Free Cell or surf the Net or whatever he was of a mind to do.

  The day dragged on in fits and starts. Joss spent a goodish amount of time at the computer; he and I ate lunch together, during which I found it increasingly difficult to listen to his raptures about being a part of a family at last. Finally he returned to the computer and I was able to sneak a sandwich and an apple and a few bottles of Perrier in to Gloria. She opened her door and beckoned me inside, whispering to me that she was using this time to redo her nails as well as working on her Pilates exercises.