The Circle Game

by Tanya Nichols

  The two of them had made a life together, healing from the same wounds, loving fiercely, but hating, too. It was easy for Bernie to say that she would have been spared the shattering blow of losing both a mother and father through a single act of violence if she hadn’t been their daughter, if she had not been given up for adoption. But that doesn’t mean there wouldn’t have been some other horrible thing happen if her birth mother had kept her. Everything would have been different, but she didn’t know that it would have been better. No one could know that.

  Julie Randall, nameless and faceless, had served as her maternal whipping post for everything that had gone wrong in Bernie’s life for the past twenty-five years. It was easy to blame the unknown. For Noni, that mark was Bernie’s father, the dad that Bernie loved more than he could have known. If he’d only known how much she loved him, he wouldn’t have done what he did. Blaming her father was almost natural; he was the one who shattered any balance or normalcy in her life. He was the one who pulled the trigger that sent a bullet into his wife, then pulled it again on himself. If he were here, who would he blame? And, Bernie wondered, who does Julie blame? Where does all the blame and shame end? Where does all that anger and resentment go?

  It was only after the dishwasher began to hum that she retrieved the pink envelope from her coat pocket. She sat at the kitchen table, unfolded the two crisp pages, and read.

  Dear Bernadette —

  Joan Bennett called to tell me that you had asked to put our communications on hold. She explained that your grandmother was ill, and I’m very sorry about that, but I’m also sorry that I won’t be hearing more from you. I know I’m breaking the rules by writing this letter and bypassing Social Services, but I need to do this. I’ve waited so long to find you, and now that I have, there are things I need to say. I don’t want to wait anymore.

  Today is Thanksgiving. I have a house full of people here for dinner, friends and family, including my other children—your brother and sister—but I feel empty and alone. My first-born child won’t be here. She doesn’t even know me, and it’s almost more than I can bear now that I know where you are, now that there has been word from you.

  Bernadette, I never wanted to give you up. I loved you more than I had ever loved anyone my whole life. People always tell me I have the memory of an elephant, but they don’t know how hard I’ve tried to forget certain things. Things that happened, bad things, and it seemed like I had no choice at the time. One thing I know is I never wanted to forget you, how much I loved you. In the end, I was sure you would be better off with anyone but me, that you would have the life you deserved if you were away from me. Now, all these years later, I’m not sure. All I can hope is that your life was full of good things as you grew into the woman you are today.

  So if you change your mind and feel like you would like to see me, please know I want nothing more in the world than that. My cell phone number is 415-555-2804. I will come on a moment’s notice, any day, any time. I hope this doesn’t mess things up for me with Joan Bennett, since she’s been very helpful and kind, but I’ve waited too many years to listen to another social worker tell me what to do. This time, I’m following my heart. I left a big piece of it with you so long ago, and I’ve regretted it every day.

  Much love,

  Julie

  Julie. Bernie held the letter loosely in her lap and thought of the woman who had stood on the sidewalk in front of her office, the woman who drove two hundred miles just to hand deliver a note on pink paper, leaving a house full of people to fend for themselves on Thanksgiving. Her lips softened and parted to a slight smile at the thought of someone wandering through a house searching for the missing Julie: “Where’s Mom? Mom? Has anybody seen Mom, I think the turkey’s burning?” Did she tell them she was leaving? Probably not, or they would have talked her out of such an irrational act. Irrational. Her mother was irrational, following her heart. Bernie had to admit, she liked that.

  It was tempting to call the number, if only to ask if she had stayed in town for the night, to ask her where she was born, who her father was, if her grandparents were alive, and was there a family history of cancer or heart disease. A family history . . . a family history. She wanted to tell her she, too, had a fantastic memory. Did she inherit that? She had so many questions. Why did Noni have to be so difficult?

  Bernie turned the lights off, made sure the doors were locked, left the letter on her bed and padded down the hallway to tap lightly on Noni’s door. “Noni? Are you awake?”

  Noni was sitting on the cushioned window seat, her afghan wrapped around her shoulder, staring out the window into the darkness. “I guess your friend went home,” she said, her words weak with age and exhaustion.

  “Yeah, but I’m not so sure we’re still friends. We kind of had a disagreement.”

  Noni looked at her. “Bernadette, I only wanted Patty to be happy with Ron. She needed you, and I didn’t want her to go away. I love you, Bernadette. If anything happens, promise me you won’t forget that.” Her chin was quivering, her whole head in a constant side to side tremor.

  “Noni, of course I know you love me. You have been so good to me. And what are you talking about? Nothing’s going to happen; I won’t let it.” She sat next to her grandmother and wrapped her arm across the frail shoulders. “You’re freezing; let’s get you into bed.”

  With the support of Bernie’s strong arm, Noni rose to her feet. Bernie helped her to the bathroom, helped her change into her flannel nightgown, then helped her into bed, tucking her grandmother in as though she was a small child. “You rest now,” she said, then kissed Noni on the forehead twice.

  Noni closed her eyes for the kiss, then softly said, “Goodnight, Bernadette.”

  With images of Julie Randall on a cold November night, fists clutching the hem of her jacket, jaw set for any punch, leaning closer and whispering “You’re beautiful,” Bernie fell into a fitful sleep. The pink letter that had caused all the ruckus was resting on her chest, just over her heart. This was one mess she could leave overnight and hopefully relive in her dreams, a place where no one could see.

  The sound of someone calling her name confused her. She didn’t move until she heard it again, this time with a crash. “Bernie, help me.”

  Bernie threw back her blankets and ran the short distance to Noni’s room. Noni stood next to her bed, clutching her belly, wincing in pain. “I’m not . . .” she groaned, “feeling well.”

  Bernie raced to Noni’s side and grabbed onto her, trying to hold her up, wrapping one arm firmly about the waist from behind, the other around the front. As she struggled to keep both of them upright, the pink paper seemed to appear from nowhere and fluttered to the floor. Bernie saw the letter falling and wondered how it had stayed in her hand even through sleep, even while racing to her grandmother’s side.

  Noni groaned louder and doubled over, clutching her belly and Bernie’s arm. “Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh God,” she cried. The smell hit Bernie’s nose before she actually saw the mess at her feet, before the realization that Noni did not simply have a bad case of gas. A splash of loose stools fell to the floor, spattering the letter, dotting Bernie’s bare feet and running down Noni’s weak legs. “Oh God,” she said again. “I’m sorry.” And like a child, the old woman began to weep. “I’m so sorry.”

  Bernie guided her grandmother to the bed and sat her down. In one swift movement she pulled the damaged letter from the dirty mess and ran for the bathroom, repeating over and over again, “Don’t cry, Noni. We’ll fix it. Please don’t cry.”

  Bernie turned on the shower and situated the shower bench for her grandmother to sit on. She left the soiled letter in the sink and hurried back to the bedroom where Noni sat on the bed, confused and frightened by the further betrayal of her own body.

  “Come on, Noni, let’s get you cleaned up,” she said, again moving in close, offering her shoulder and arms to help bear her weight. She ignored the mess on the floor, the bed, herself. She would worry about th
at later. She had to get Noni cleaned up and calmed down before anything else. It was her turn to be the caregiver.

  Bernie guided Noni into the shower stall. Under a stream of warm water, she lifted the old woman’s arms and removed her soiled nightgown, dropping it in the corner of the shower. She used a washcloth and lavender soap to clean her grandmother’s delicate skin from head to toe, gently washing her legs, feet, each toe.

  Noni repeated again and again, “I’m sorry, Honey,” her chin trembling, her limbs weak and flaccid to her granddaughter’s touch. “This is so embarrassing, so awful.”

  “It’s okay,” Bernie whispered, water running down her own back, soaking her hair, dripping into her eyes. Her own nightgown clung to her skin, drenched and heavy. “Do you think we should go to the emergency? Should I call an ambulance?”

  “I don’t want to go to the hospital. I think I’m okay now. I just couldn’t hold it.”

  After she had dried Noni thoroughly and covered her with two large bath towels, Bernie pulled off her own wet nightgown and dropped it on the shower floor along with Noni’s. She pulled her faded green chenille bathrobe from a hook on the wall and tied it tightly about her as she hurried down the hall to find a clean gown for Noni. She helped Noni into a soft chair and draped one blanket over her shoulders and another across her lap and cooed softly, as if she was talking to a baby, while she dried her thin hair.

  It was three o’clock in the morning, the day after Thanksgiving. While the rest of the city slept with full bellies, dreaming of pumpkin pie and coffee for breakfast, Bernie knelt on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor. She pulled dirty sheets and blankets from the bed and carried them to the laundry room. Finally, she helped her frail grandmother into a clean bed, again kissed her on the forehead, again tucked her in. “Noni, you call me if you feel sick again,” she said. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay in here with you? I can curl up on the window seat.”

  “No, Honey, go to bed. I’m fine now.”

  In the bathroom, Julie’s letter still lay in the sink, looking like it had been dropped in a mud puddle. With a fresh washcloth dampened with warm water, Bernie worked to clean the letter. She gently dabbed and wiped, then rinsed the washcloth clean to dab and wipe some more. Eventually, she wiped the letter clean. In the process, the blue ink faded and the paper thinned and wrinkled, but she could still read the loving message. She carried the damaged letter to her bedroom, knowing where it belonged. The safest place for this letter to hide away was in the box under the bed. Julie Randall’s words would rest in the company of all those other tragic stories collected over the years.

  The pink paper seemed out of place in the pile of yellowing newsprint. Bernie wondered if it would age and yellow along with the others. She hoped not. She was afraid to admit it, but she hoped that it would somehow be the beginning of something new. It might not happen for a while, but the letter was there, tucked in with all that death and sadness. Even if it was a symbolic gesture, there was a power in adding that new message to the mix, placing it at the top.

  The rhythm of the washing machine eventually lulled her back to sleep. When her eyes opened, the middle-of-the-night drama seemed unreal. Had Noni really shit all over everything? From some lost corner of her brain, came an image of her mother sitting at the kitchen table, crying. Her sharp edge of memory that others admired sometimes betrayed her, sent her reeling into darkness. Bernie had come home from school and asked her what was wrong. Her mother had glared at her through red eyes that seemed to be swimming in a pool of mascara, black rivers running down her cheeks. “Everything would have been fine,” she had cried. “I could have had a real life all these years, but your stupid grandmother shit all over it. She made sure I’d stay, and I did. But not now, not this time. I don’t care if divorce is a sin. I want out.”

  Where did that come from? She tried to imagine what it could have been that Noni had done that ruined her mother’s life. When was that? Her mom’s hair was bleached blonde, almost white, so it wasn’t too long before she died. And in the car, her father was mad at Noni, too, saying he wished she’d never told him. She knew she could never ask Noni what it all meant now. Damn it, she thought, if I’d remembered that earlier, when Noni was stronger, I could have asked her. She lay there and wondered if Noni knew more about her parents’ fate than she’d shared, but that was unimaginable. Noni would have told her anything to help solve the mystery that tormented her, wouldn’t she?

  She struggled to clear her head, to make order of the messy details that loomed with the day. She wondered if Julie Randall was still in town, where she might have spent the night, if she was having breakfast somewhere. It was Friday, a holiday. She would take Noni back to Nazareth House where she wanted to be. Normally, Bernie would have tried to talk her out of it, to get her to stay the weekend like they’d planned, but after last night, she wouldn’t take any chances. There were nurses at Nazareth. They could do more for her there.

  By the time Bernie helped Noni into the car to make the short drive back to Nazareth House, it was nearly noon. The air was chilly, but the sun shined brightly from a sky of perfect blue. Noni was feeling better, seemed more like her old self, at least her stomach had settled down, but she still seemed out of sorts and overly nervous.

  “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Bernie asked as she turned the key and adjusted the heater.

  “I’m fine,” Noni answered, her chin still trembling, her jaw now moving side to side, an old nervous habit from younger days, not the tremors of age. “I don’t know what happened to me last night. I think I’m not used to drinking wine anymore.”

  “Impossible,” Bernie teased. “It flows through our veins.”

  Noni chuckled a little, but her jaw continued to gnaw at unseen terrors, side to side, grinding down the ancient molars in the back of her mouth.

  “I’m worried about you, Noni. You seem upset about something.” Bernie paused to glance at her grandmother before backing out of the drive. She looked older than eighty-six years old, with the flat, thin strands of gray hair bobby pinned back behind her ears instead of the curls and elegant twist she loved. Bernie reached over and lightly brushed her grandmother’s fine hair away from her forehead with her fingers. “We’ll get you back to Nazareth and let the doctor take a look at you.”

  “I don’t need the doctor.”

  “Well, I do. I need to know that you’re okay.” Bernie drove slowly, careful with her fragile cargo. She worried Noni might feel sick in the car, so she drove slowly, keeping a close watch on her grandmother. Not once did she notice the dark green Volkswagen convertible that trailed her, always a block away, just outside the rearview mirror.

  Eighteen

  1968

  San Francisco. The sky was so bright, it almost hurt. She stared across the bay. Sailboats skimmed along the dark water. And there in the distance, standing guard over the bridge that tugged at the edges of the bay, was Alcatraz. Like her, the vacant prison was haunted by hatred and violence, left to stand empty and alone in view of the City that swelled with life and young love. Like all those prisoners before her, she could see the promise of the skyline, but she would never feel it. She was a walking ghost.

  Nineteen

  2005

  Julie drove past Nazareth House slowly. The statue of the Virgin Mary was there to greet all visitors, her hands open and ready to receive the needy. Bernadette must be Catholic, she thought. Of course, with a name like Bernadette, she should have guessed. Her little Subaru was easy to spot in the nearly empty parking lot. At the next block, she turned back around and found a place to park where she could watch her daughter from across the street.

  Look at her; she’s so good to her grandmother. She must have had good parents, exactly the life I wanted for her. Maybe I should just let her be, wait for her to contact me, like she said. But how can I? It’s been thirty-seven years, thirty-seven torturous years away from her, imagining what she looks like, wondering how her day was, i
f she got what she wanted for her birthday, for Christmas. And now, she’s right there, just across the street. I could call out her name, and she would hear me, turn, and look my way.

  Julie watched her daughter guide the hobbling old woman through the doors and tried to figure out what they were doing. Bernie had said her grandmother was spending the weekend with her, but she would bet her last nickel that the grandmother lived here at this place, an old folks home for old Catholics. Why else would they be here on the day after Thanksgiving, so early in the day? While she waited, she picked up her cell phone to call home yet again, let them know she was still in Fresno, not sure if she would make it home before dinner. You do what you have to do, Greg had said last night. He knew what this meant to her. Of all people, he knew how she had longed for the day she found her Ginny—no, it’s Bernie, she corrected herself.

  “I can’t believe I’m not tired,” she said into the phone. “I’m sure I only slept a few minutes last night, but I’m actually feeling pretty good. I just saw her again.”

  “Don’t push it,” Greg said. “If you get tired, get a hotel and rest. Don’t get on that highway if you’re sleepy.”

  “Well, first I want to see if I can’t talk to Bernie again before I take off. I’m just tired of doing what everyone says, so I’m just checking things out a little bit before I decide what to do, before I give up on this trip.” She rolled the window down and let the cool November air drift over her, wishing there were a Starbucks on the corner so she could sip a large latte while she studied the empty parking lot.

  “Jules,” her husband said. “I’m worried about you. I don’t like the idea of you playing private eye, following people around, watching them. I mean, you don’t want her to think you’re some kind of psycho, like a stalker or something. Come home. We’ll figure something else out. I’ll help you.”