Hello.
This is a difficult letter for me to write. I don’t even know your name and I don’t believe you know mine. Ms. Bennett informed me that you were looking for me. I don’t know what you hope to gain by meeting me now after all these years, and I’m not yet sure that is something that should happen, but I will write this letter to let you know I’m considering the matter. I’m simply curious, that’s all.
Sincerely,
B.S.
For once, Bernie was pleased with her initials. B.S. She read back over what she had written, intrigued by the unexpected diplomacy of her own words, then crumpled that up, too, adding it to the other wads of paper scattered on the floor. Across the table the image of the young Luna family smiling at the camera caught her eye. She had not looked at photos of her family in a long while. She went to the closet and pulled the worn black photo binder from the top shelf. Noni had meticulously labeled each photo with dates and occasions, keeping her life story in proper order, the past leading into the present through transparent window coverings.
She flipped the pages, touching the faces of her mother and father, wishing she knew what had happened that day. What had made her father so angry that he would actually kill his wife, her mother, and then himself? Bernie knew he loved her very much. They both loved her, and she had loved them. She often imagined her mother being caught in some love affair; she was certainly pretty enough to turn other men’s heads. But she was always home—when would she have had the time? What else would drive a man to such a horrific act? Other times, she considered the possibility that her parents lived some secret life using drugs that made him psychotic and delusional. Maybe he was hallucinating. A lot of normal-seeming folks are into things like drugs or kinky sex, why not them? But there was never an answer, just fragments of clues. Her life was full of endless questions that no one ever seemed to have an answer to, or at least answers they were willing to share. It was a stranger mystery than any situation that came across her desk. Not knowing was what pissed her off and drove her anger. She would never know what happened on the most significant day of her life. Of course, she was angry.
Bernie slowly closed the photo album and pressed down on the book with the palm of her right hand, willing her energy to the lifeless pages. Maybe it was time for at least one answer to one question. She picked up her pen and a clean sheet of paper. She wrote again, slower, each pen stroke deliberate and strong.
Hello.
My name is Bernadette Sheridan. I am the daughter you gave birth to on May 25, 1968 and abandoned or gave away, I’m not sure which, sometime later that year. I was adopted by Ron and Patty Sheridan of Modesto, California. Ms. Joan Bennett tells me you have been looking for me. I was not sure I wanted to meet you at first, but I have questions, and perhaps you have some answers for me. I will send this letter to Ms. Bennett and wait for her to arrange a meeting or provide additional information about you to facilitate further communication. For example, I don’t know your name. Odd, isn’t it? I look forward to hearing from you, or at least about you.
Regards,
Bernadette Sheridan
After reading it over three times, Bernie folded it carefully and slipped it into an envelope. She still wasn’t sure she would actually mail it, but she would call that Bennett woman back and get the address on Monday. Sending this letter would set something in motion. She sensed there would come a time when she would ultimately meet her mother, talk to her, look at her. And there was no denying it—she was curious, overwhelmingly so. The process might drag on, she knew, anything involving a government agency took months. She would have to be patient, but she’d waited thirty-seven years; what was a month or two more? She could get things going, then change her mind. No one said she had to actually meet the woman; she could just ask a few questions, get a little family history. But one thing she was certain of—Noni must not find out.
Bernie smiled at the thought of Noni and her dish of candies, guarding them like bits of gold. She was the one who had sacrificed everything when she took Bernie in to raise. If Bernie did actually meet her other mother, she simply would not mention it. She’d spent years trying not to upset Noni, a small repayment for all she’d done for her granddaughter. This would be no different.
Eight
1968
A nurse stood at the foot of the bed, studying her patient’s chart, occasionally looking over to the sleeping woman as if she needed to remind herself what the person she read about looked like. What kind of girl ends up running through the streets at night, beaten up and filthy, carrying a six-month-old baby in her arms—a baby with a broken arm and abrasions on her face and chest? How does anyone end up in such a horrible situation? She didn’t believe they were really kidnapped. The pieces just didn’t fit. All of the nurses were talking about her, trying to figure out what really happened. Some said she was probably a prostitute, while others thought her husband or boyfriend did it. One or two believed the kidnapping story, unwilling to believe anyone would lie about such a gruesome event. One thing was unquestionable—she and the baby were in some kind of trouble, and they both needed help.
The girl flinched in her sleep then slowly opened her eyes and winced in pain. She seemed confused, gazing around the room then down at her own body, the IV needle stuck in her hand. “Where’s my baby?” she asked, slowly realizing where she was, remembering what brought her there, the night before flashing through her mind like a bad horror film.
The nurse slid the chart back into a metal rack at the foot of the bed. “Don’t worry, dear. Your baby’s fine. She’s in the pediatrics section, just one floor down.” She moved closer to the head of the bed and lifted the woman’s thin wrist into the palm of her hand and lightly pressed her second and third fingers on the groove just below the thumb and felt for the pulsation of the radial artery. Her pulse quickened as she grew more alert and aware of her situation.
“How’s her arm? I think it was broke.” Juicy’s face screwed up and she pulled her wrist away and covered her eyes with the tips of her fingers, pushing them in as hard as she could, blacking out the world for just a moment, trying to dam the spill of tears rolling down her cheeks.
“You’re right.” The nurse spoke gently, hoping her calm manner would flow over to her troubled patient. “Her left arm was fractured, and she’s got some pretty good scrapes and bruises on her chest, legs, and face, but we’re taking good care of her.” The nurse smiled down at her, touched her lightly. “Do you feel like talking about what happened? The police were back here earlier. I told them I’d give them a call when you were awake, and ready to talk.”
The very thought of talking to the cops again made her want to jump out of the bed and run away, but her legs felt so heavy and she was so tired. So tired. She had managed to get through the first round of questions, the pictures they took of her, the awful exam she’d endured, painful and embarrassing. She rolled her head to the side and her eyes fell closed once again. Try as she might, she couldn’t seem to clear her head. She felt weaker than she’d ever felt before, and all she wanted was a little sleep. If she could sleep for a couple of hours, she was sure she’d be fine.
“What’s in there?” She pointed up toward the clear bag of fluid that was flowing into her veins. Fluids, was what she thought they had said. “I feel kind of woozy like.”
“The doctor gave you Diazepam to calm you down a bit and some Demerol for the pain. You’re banged up pretty good too; you have a couple of broken ribs, some bruises and abrasions, not to mention the emotional trauma. He wanted you to rest; you were a little agitated.”
“Agitated.” She opened her eyes and looked down at her body. Purple bruises covered her forearms where she had been grabbed by she didn’t know how many dirty fists and held down against her will. “Yeah, I guess I was.” She nodded and repeated the word. “Agitated.” She would never tell anyone what really happened, how she’d allowed it, really. She hadn’t tried to run away from them. If she did, she wouldn
’t have gotten far, and she’d probably have more than a couple of broken ribs to deal with.
The nurse picked the chart up and scribbled a few notes while she listened to Juicy repeat the story she had concocted while riding in the back seat of a speeding car taking her and her baby girl to the hospital, the same one she’d told the doctor when he examined her earlier, the same one she’d told the police when they filled out their report. Her car broke down in the middle of nowhere and a stranger had given her a ride, raped her, beat her, and then tossed her and Ginny out on the road. It was serious. A rapist out on the loose—they would be looking for him now, but she didn’t give them much to go on. No real description of the car. Nothing much on him other than she claimed he was tall with a beard. She couldn’t even remember where she had left her car, where she’d been. The detectives were suspicious about her lack of details, and hoped to come back after she’d slept and have her fill in the gaps. They didn’t want a mad rapist on the loose.
Juicy had given careful thought to her story, methodically running through the possible scenarios as the car raced down the highway. A car crash would be good, but there was no car. It was obvious she’d been raped; she had bruises everywhere, especially her inner thighs, upper arms and breasts. Her genital area was inflamed and battered. Her rectum was raw and painful. She knew to tell them that much of the truth—they’d examine her—but the whole truth would be a death sentence. Look what happened when she’d simply paid rent with their stupid trip money, money that Freddie handed to her. He would have killed her if she’d told the guys about that, and they would have probably killed him for stealing from his brothers. What would happen to the baby then? It was better for both of them, for her and Ginny, that she bear the blame and the punishment. She could only imagine what the club would do to her now if she cried to the cops. She didn’t even want to think about that. If Freddie hadn’t hurt Ginny too, she would never have stepped foot in a hospital. He really fucked things up this time.
“Where did you leave your car?” the nurse asked.
“What?” She blinked twice in painful confusion.
“Where did this guy pick you up? Where’s your car? The sheriffs want to know.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I can’t remember. It was out in the country somewhere. I was just driving, trying to get the baby to sleep—she likes the car—and it stopped.” She winced in pain and closed her eyes to shut the prying woman out. “I’m really tired,” she moaned.
“If you could remember, it might help them catch the guy. There might be fingerprints or something. What kind of car was he driving?”
“I told you I don’t remember anything about it. It was big, I guess. It was dark, so I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it right now.” She covered her eyes with her right hand, blocking out the world.
The nurse stood quietly for a moment before speaking. “It must have been terrible for you and the baby. Especially the baby. She can’t understand what’s going on. She just knows it hurts.”
The nurse checked the IV, running her clean fingers down the narrow tube, scribbled a few more notes on the chart, and turned to go. With one hand on the door and the other shoved in the pocket of her white uniform, she stopped. “You know,” she said, her words halting, as if she wanted to say more, but hesitated, “the police . . . . Never mind. Get some sleep.”
“What about the cops?”
“I’ll tell them it would be better if they can come back tomorrow after you’ve had some rest, but I can’t guarantee they’ll do that. Just rest.”
Only minutes later, as Juicy was drifting off to a dreamless sleep, a woman’s voice was urging her awake. “Mrs. Jones, I’d like to talk to you for a moment. Mrs. Jones, can you hear me?”
Juicy struggled through the drugs and exhaustion to focus on the woman who sat beside her bed. She thought the nurse said she’d keep the cops away for a while. All she needed was a little sleep, just a couple of hours, and she’d be ready to go. She needed to get out of this place before she had to answer any more stupid questions. Thank God, she was at least smart enough to give a fake name and story when they admitted her. There was no reason to doubt her—yet. They would never track her down once she was gone, but this was too soon, too soon. She hadn’t even had a chance to see Ginny, let alone find a way to sneak her out of the nursery. “What do you want? I’m not feeling well right now, if you don’t mind.”
“I need to get some information for the billing office; seems you didn’t have any identification when you came in; also, I want to talk to you about what happened to you . . . last night . . . about where you go from here, really. And I want to talk to you about your baby.”
“I already told the cops and the doctors and that nurse, too, everything that happened. I was attacked by some monster who threw me and Ginny out of the car and I fell on top . . . . He broke her arm.”
“Yes, I know what you told them. And Ms. Dixon, your nurse, is actually a good friend of mine, and we’ve had a chance to talk—she’s the one who called me in. Like I said, we need to get some details about your personal information for billing purposes, and also try to make sure you’re taken care of.” She paused for a moment, carefully choosing her words, but wasting no time trying to wiggle her way into the weakened woman’s confidence. “You’ve been through a terrible ordeal. What I’d like to know is what you perhaps didn’t tell your doctors or the police.”
The woman scooted the chair closer to the bed. “No one should have to experience what you have, especially a young mother and an innocent child who can’t defend herself. In the end, though, it is up to you, as her mother, to do whatever is necessary to keep your child safe. That’s your job. It’s my job to investigate the situation when a child is injured . . . suspiciously. I need to make sure that your little girl is safe, Mrs. Jones. That’s all. Ginny’s just a baby and can’t tell me how she feels, so I have to ask you, her mother.” She reached her hand over and gently brushed some loose strands of hair back off Juicy’s forehead, careful not to touch the purple knot above her left eyebrow.
Juicy’s lips pressed tightly together and two hot tears ran down the sides of her face and disappeared into her matted hair. “I know it’s my job . . . I’m her mother for Christ’s sake. I love my baby and I take good care of her.”
“Oh, of course you love her. No one doubts that. In fact, that’s precisely why I want to talk to you.” She pulled a tissue from the box on the counter and dabbed at Juicy’s damp face, then handed her the tissue. “Sometimes,” and now she took the girl’s trembling hand into her own, mindful of the IV needle, “sometimes we get to be mothers before we’re actually ready for such a big job. You seem quite young. Maybe this is all too much for you right now.”
“What do you mean? I didn’t do this to her.” She pulled her hand free from the older woman’s grasp to wipe her own eyes. “Who are you, anyway?”
“I’m Isabelle Fierro, a social worker here at the hospital. I’m here to help patients with their needs, financial and otherwise, to make sure you have proper care and services available when you leave here. I won’t hurt you. You can trust me.”
Juicy struggled to push herself up higher in the bed, but she was weak, and her body felt so heavy. Isabelle stood to help, lifted her gently at the shoulders and pulled the young woman forward to adjust the pillow. “There. Is that better?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Linda, may I call you Linda?”
Juicy nodded, remembering the name she’d given to admitting. Linda Jones, her best friend in sixth grade.
“Is there someone I can call to come and be with you? I’m sure your family is terribly worried.”
“No, my husband is . . . he’s in Vietnam.” She wasn’t sure where that lie came from, but it seemed like a good one. She thought of the skinny kid that had come to her restaurant with his girlfriend before he headed off to fight in a jungle. He was in a uniform, and his girlfriend looked terrified and heartbroken. Juicy liked
the way the two sweethearts held hands and just looked at each other for the longest time, letting their eggs and coffee turn cold. In her mind, she would be that girl. He would be her husband. She tried to lock that image in her mind, told herself that she was that young girl and her name was Linda.
“So you have Champus?”
“What?”
“Medical insurance for military families, you know, when you can’t get to the base? Don’t you know about Champus?”
“Oh, sure, I just, I’m not myself right now. These drugs, you know.” She had to watch every word; there was so much to remember, and she was so tired. If she could just close her eyes and sleep for a bit, just a bit.
“What about your parents? Are they nearby?”
“No, no, they live back east. I don’t want to worry them right now. I’ll call them later. Look, I’m really . . .”
“I can call them for you, if you like. Just give me their name and number.”
“No, no. It’s better if I call. My mom is the nervous type, and she’s been sick. I’ll call later. Right now, I . . .”
“How about a friend? Someone who can come and be with you?”
“No, really, I, we, uh, just moved here. I don’t really know anyone. I’m fine, really. But, thank you.” Finally, there was a pause; Juicy relaxed and closed her eyes. The woman smelled good. White Shoulders perfume, the same one her mother wore whenever Dad and she went out.
“Vietnam, huh? How long has he been there?” Her voice pierced the sleepy haze.
The Circle Game Page 10