The Circle Game

by Tanya Nichols

  “Greg,” she whispered, “I’m not going to do anything stupid. I’m good with people, you know that.” His concern warmed her, but this time she was following her own gut.

  “Yeah, but you can wait a few more months. Maybe you should just come on home now, or, if you want, I’ll come get you. Andy can drive me down, and I’ll drive your car back. There’s nothing going on here, anyway.”

  It was one of the things that she loved about him, his endless caring, her living and breathing guardian angel. If it had not been for Greg, well, she didn’t like to think of that. She rarely disagreed with him, he was always so sensible and sometimes irritatingly fair, but this was different. This time she needed to do something; she wasn’t entirely sure what that was at this point, but she wasn’t ready to drive away. That much she knew. Not yet.

  “No, let me just . . . hey, I have to go. Bernie just came out and she’s by herself. Ooooh, I have an idea.” She hung up before Greg could talk her out of doing something foolish.

  The reception area was empty. A fake Tiffany lamp glowed over the unmanned information desk, a steaming cup of coffee resting near an open romance novel. On the cover a muscular man with shoulder length hair held a woman close to him, her back snug against his chest, her face turned up toward him, her heavy breasts nearly bared by the plunging neckline. Julie strolled down the hallway, her toll bridge smile leading the way.

  “Good morning,” she whispered to an elderly woman, her wheelchair parked in the hallway. “How are you today?”

  “Who are you?” the woman asked. “Do you work here?” Her face scowled, as if she was ready to pounce with a complaint to anyone on the staff. Her swollen feet were stuffed in thick, white socks resting on metal footrests, a bright yellow sweater draped across her shoulders.

  “Oh no, I’m just visiting. I’m a friend of Bernadette Sheridan, and I thought I’d pop in and see her grandmother. Do you know Bernadette?” Julie wished she knew the grandmother’s name. This might be difficult if she didn’t happen to recognize the old woman she’d seen Bernie escort through the door just moments before.

  “Bernie? The lady lawyer?”

  “Yes, that’s her.” Julie moved closer. Bernie. She liked that better than Bernadette.

  “Everyone knows her; Isabelle is always bragging about her; Bernie says this, Bernie says that. Bernie comes here on Friday nights; she brings Isabelle candy sometimes.” She let her long, thin fingers lift to her lips, paused deep in thought, and seemed to be considering the situation carefully. “She was here this morning, so she might not come tonight.”

  Julie smiled and nodded, eager to give a little attention to the poor soul with the hope of getting a little information. “So, are you and Isabelle friends?” Her voice dripped in sweetness as though she spoke to a four-year old.

  “Oh yes, we sit together at supper.”

  “Where is Isabelle’s room? Is it near you? I mean, are you two close to each other?”

  The wrinkled old woman lifted her hand and pointed to the door down the hall. “That’s her room, there. Want me to take you to her?”

  “No, no. I think I’ll just pop in on my own and surprise her.”

  “Well, I hope she’s not reading her paper. She gets mad if you bother her when she’s reading the paper. And don’t eat her candy, either.”

  And with that, the old woman pushed a button and buzzed away. Julie knocked lightly on Isabelle’s door and waited for an answer, her thoughts racing. Should I tell her who I am? Or is it better to make up some story like maybe that I’m a church volunteer or something. She was still wondering what to do when she heard a voice from inside answer.

  “Come in.”

  Julie opened the door slowly and stepped in cautiously. There in the bed, her eyes closed, was Bernie’s grandmother, Isabelle Fierro. Julie moved closer, a tense smile frozen on her face, clutching her oversized handbag for support. She hoped she didn’t look too much of a fright after spending a night in her car. Julie was positive this was the same woman she had seen Bernie helping through the door. And there on the dresser was a large photograph of a younger Bernadette, glancing over her shoulder, her long auburn hair hanging down her back. The perfect senior picture.

  “Isabelle?” she whispered. “Are you Isabelle?”

  The old woman opened her eyes and blinked twice before a rush of fear and panic swept over her. She moaned or cried, the sound unintelligible, and covered her face with her hands. “Go away,” she cried. “Please, just leave me alone.” She was almost yelling. “Get out of here.”

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry; I don’t mean to bother you.” Julie stepped back. “I’ll go.” She looked over her shoulder, just in time to see Sister Rose and a young, dark-haired man rushing through the door.

  “Who are you?” Sister Rose demanded. “What are you doing to Mrs. Fierro?”

  “I just wanted to . . .” Julie turned back to the bed and looked again at the old woman. “Mrs. Who? Did you say Fierro? Isabelle Fierro?” There on the dresser, not three feet from the picture of a young Bernie, was a smaller picture: an older woman, a younger woman, and a little girl. Julie’s knees went weak, and her heart rose to her throat. It was her. It all came clear in an instant. The perfect, but childless, couple, the perfect home and yard where Ginny was supposed to be better off, the shrewd manipulation. It was all for herself. Isabelle took Ginny for her own daughter. A lifetime of pain and anguish roared through her brain, a white heat.

  “It’s you,” she growled, hungry for the truth, hungry for vengeance. “You stole my baby for your own self. You tricked me; you lied to me. Why? Why my baby?”

  “Go away,” Isabelle cried, her face still covered by ancient hands. “It was the best thing for everyone. I just wanted to fix things. How could I know? I couldn’t know what would happen. Go away. Go.”

  “Please, Ma’am, come with me.” Sister Rose took Julie’s elbow and physically maneuvered her away, toward the door. “Come now, you can’t be in here.” She looked to the young man. “Jose, take this woman to my office; I’ll be right there.” She then moved to Isabelle’s side, leaned in close, moving the old hands away from her watering eyes.

  “Isabelle, what is all this? Hush now,” she whispered. “It’s all okay now. I’m here, I’m here now. I’m going to call Bernie to come over, too. It’s going to be fine.”

  Julie didn’t hear anymore. Her escort was leading her away, away from the woman she had hated for so many years, away from the woman who had robbed her of her firstborn, a lifetime that could never be replaced. Every step she took, the entirety of the situation grew more sickening, the very thought of Bernadette and her devotion to this horrible woman. She would tell her daughter everything. It wasn’t her fault; she didn’t give up her baby freely. She was tricked and manipulated when she was hurt and sick, when she was in a desperate place. It would be difficult for Bernadette to know the truth, but it had to be done. Bernie had to know the level of deceit that was involved, how her grandmother had taken advantage of Julie at her weakest moment, when she was damaged and broken. She would be here when her daughter, yes, her daughter, would arrive to tend to the hysterical old lady. She would wait here and tell Bernie every detail, even the part about that damn trailer. There had been enough lies. It would all be out before this day ended. Today, Julie would really get her daughter back.

  Twenty

  1968

  Alcatraz loomed in the distance and a hard wind blew cold. Juicy shivered and held onto the railing. She was weak, exhausted, and every inch of her body hurt, but she liked the sting of the wind, feeling her hair lash about wildly. This was her first trip to the Golden Gate.

  The money buried in her bag made her nauseous. How could she ever bring herself to spend it? It was cursed, damned, like her. Somewhere along the trip north, as she stared out the window at the rolling brown hills, ideas came to her. There were options. She could join the other losers of the world and find her peace in the cold, rough water below the famous b
ridge. There, she could disappear forever. She had made that her first stop. If she didn’t have the courage to make the jump, she would head for the park and be a “hophead hippie,” as Freddie used to call them. They’d seen them on the news, young people barefoot and dancing in the street, flowers in their wild hair. Freddie had called them a bunch of freaks, said all they did was drop acid and smoke dope all day. Getting high sounded like a fine escape. She would find the people with flowers in their hair and use her money to fill her head to overflowing swirling visions and happy illusions. Her pathetic life was so wretched that a part of her wanted to laugh like a lunatic. It wasn’t so long ago that she was just another silly girl who’d fallen for one of the many jerks out there. Two years later, she was a dirty rag not worth saving, someone who used to be a mother, someone who used to have value. She clutched the rail tighter, closed her eyes, and leaned into it, feeling the rough wind, imagining the fall.

  “You’re not gonna jump, are you?”

  His voice startled her.

  “Huh?” She looked to see who spoke. Was this guy talking to her? Did she know him?

  “You look like you could fly right off of there if you let go, and I wouldn’t want to see that.” He smiled gently and offered a hand.

  “No, I was just, uh, looking at Alcatraz, only wishing I could fly.” She stepped to the side, moving away from the stranger dressed in his grey uniform, refusing his hand. A mailman. He was a mailman.

  “It’s something, isn’t it?” he said, giving her space.

  “Hmmm.”

  “Who won?” he asked.

  “What?”

  He pointed to her bruised face. “Looks like you had a bit of a scuffle, or something.”

  “Oh, that. It was an accident.”

  “Looks like it hurts.”

  She lifted her fingers to her cheek, touched it lightly. “Not really.” She turned away, hoping the intrusive letter carrier would keep on walking, but he didn’t. Why was he out here anyway? There certainly were no mailboxes along the bridge.

  “This is the second-best view in the world,” he said. “I come out here sometimes on my way home, like now, just to feel the wind and the sky and the ocean all around me. I just wish I could make the cars go away.”

  “It’s nice.” She kept her gaze on the giant rock in the middle of the bay.

  “Don’t you want to know what the best view is?”

  “What?”

  “The best view is just across the bridge, from the headlands, where you can see all this and the skyline, too. Ever been there?” He ignored her cold efforts to avoid him, pressing her for conversation.

  “No,” she said, her eyes still turned to the old prison and the choppy sea that rocked beneath them.

  “Want to?”

  “What?”

  “See the other view. I’ll take you there, if you want.” He placed one hand on her forearm. “You look like you need to see the city skyline. It will change your life.”

  And finally, she turned to face him, to see who grabbed her now. “Really? It’s that easy to change a life?” she scoffed.

  “It is if you let it. And if it doesn’t, you can come back here and look at this one again, and I won’t bother you.”

  He held onto her arm, pulling her and her pillowcase away from the railing, guiding her along before she could even answer. “I’m Greg,” he said. “What’s your name?”

  “Julie.” She would never let anyone call her Juicy again.

  “You live around here?” he asked.

  “No; well, maybe. I just got here.” Julie pulled her arm free. She was done with people forcing her to go where she didn’t want to go, or do things she didn’t want to do, and she was absolutely done with men putting their hands on her.

  “I live in one of the houseboats off Sausalito, just up the road. It’s my sister’s place. She has another room for rent, if you’re looking. You should check it out. It’s very cool.”

  Julie kept walking beside him, not certain where she was going or why she went along, but she did.

  “You hungry?” he asked. “My truck is in the lot at the end of the bridge. I have a couple of sandwiches I packed for lunch, but I never got around to eating.”

  “Why are you out here?” she finally asked. “Why are you really walking on the bridge?”

  Greg turned his face toward her then looked at a flock of seagulls squawking overhead. “I was on my way home and saw you standing there. You looked a little lost, so I parked the truck and walked back to make sure you were okay.”

  “I wasn’t going to jump.”

  “I didn’t say you were.”

  As cars sped by, the two strangers walked to the north end of the bridge and over to a red and white Chevy truck. Greg unlocked the door and reached in for his black lunchbox. “There’s a bench over there,” he said, pointing to the edge of the parking lot. “Come have a sandwich and I’ll tell you about Lanie’s houseboat. She’s a free spirit and lots of fun. You’d like her, I think.”

  As the wind whipped through their hair, Greg and Julie shared his cheese and tomato sandwiches and a thermos of hot coffee. It was the beginning of a friendship, the beginning of a new life with new people. The road to healing both physically and spiritually was long and never easy, but life on the water allowed her time and space to cry and think about Ginny, the baby she missed so much she wanted to die.

  For months, Lanie made her herbal teas and rubbed patchouli oil on her feet, telling her it would heal the trauma of her past and energize her future with love and peace. She taught Julie Yoga and meditation. Greg took her on long walks through the Marin Headlands and Point Reyes, showing her a beautiful world just outside their door. He showed her California poppies, Indian paintbrush and lupine, and said they reminded him of her, wild and beautiful. Eventually, she came to believe that she had done the right thing, that Ginny was living a life she could never have given her. Over time, Greg made her smile again, and then one day he made her laugh again. She never forgot where she came from and what she left behind, but she slowly learned to move on.

  Twenty-One

  2005

  Bernie had not even taken her coat off when Sister Rose called and told her to hurry back, telling her an unknown woman was causing poor Mrs. Fierro to be terribly distressed. Minutes later, Bernie pushed through the doors of Nazareth House, past Sister Rose’s office where Julie Randall anxiously waited, and headed directly to Noni’s room. Noni first. She composed herself before entering, licked her lips and sauntered over to the chair beside her grandmother’s bed. She lifted the hand that hid the old woman’s face, took it into her own, and stroked it gently.

  “Noni, what are you doing in that bed? Shouldn’t you be out there bugging poor Lolly or something?” She leaned over and kissed her grandmother’s forehead.

  “Bernadette, what are you doing back here?” She blinked several times and tried to push herself up.

  “I missed you, I guess.” She helped her grandmother to a sitting position in the bed. “Actually, I heard there was a bit of a rumble going on, so I thought maybe I’d come and take care of things, you know, kick a little ass or something.” She offered a wry smile and winked at the old woman.

  “Bernie, just go home, please.” She squeezed her granddaughter’s hand. “What I want is for you to not talk to that woman. Just go home.”

  “Noni, listen to me.” She moved closer and stroked her grandmother’s forehead. “I know who she is, and there is nothing she can say that will make you any less my grandmother or Mom any less my mother. Okay? You’re upset over nothing at all, so I don’t want you to worry about her or anyone else. I’ll take care of this.”

  “Bernie, I’m old.” Her milky eyes were sunk deep in her frail face.

  “Really? I don’t believe it.”

  “I just want you to know I love you. And your mom did, too. I’m sorry for all that happened. I raised a good daughter, a good girl. I didn’t want her to go away, I didn’t want .
. . she was a good girl, a good girl . . . I’m sorry . . .” The old woman was distraught, trembling and rambling.

  “Stop it, Noni, stop it. You don’t have anything to be sorry for. What I want you to do now is get some rest. You had a rough night and a rough morning.”

  She watched the old eyes blink slowly and felt the hand she held begin to soften. The nurse had given her some Ativan and it was settling in, nudging her tired body to sleep. She sat there, stroking Noni’s forehead until the old woman snored softly. Only then, when she knew her grandmother was sleeping, did she venture down the hallway to confront Julie Randall once and for all. She would put an end to this bullshit. Giving birth to her did not give anyone the right to upset an old woman, especially when she’d been told Noni wasn’t well.

  Julie sat in one of Sister Rose’s guest chairs, nervous and eager to finally tell her side of the story, to let her daughter know the evil that had been done to her, to both of them. She rose to her feet when Bernie entered and started toward her with pleading hands. “Bernadette” she said, panting as though she was out of breath.

  “No, sit down,” Bernie commanded. “Sister Rose, will you excuse us, please?”

  “Of course. I’ll be outside if you need me.”

  Bernie moved to the front of the administrator’s desk, leaned against it and faced her mother directly before saying anything. “I’m going to ask that you not say anything at all until I’m through speaking. Is that agreed?”

  “Yes.” Julie nodded, folding her hands. She would wait, let Bernadette go first, but then she would spill her ugly truths, the only truth that mattered.

  “There are things you don’t know, that you need to know.”

  “And there are things you don’t . . .”

  “I thought we had an agreement. This is my turn; you get your turn when I’m through, and I need to get through this uninterrupted.” Her voice was stern and unwavering.

  Julie nodded and sat back in her chair, clutching the arm rests fiercely.

  “That woman down the hall is more than my grandmother. She took me in and cared for me and loved me when there was no one else in the world who would. You gave me away, and I’m sure you have your explanation for that, I’m sure there were very good reasons, but what you don’t know is how that decision affected me. My life.”