The Circle Game

by Tanya Nichols

  Bernie took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “I’ll just tell you the short version, but it is a story very few people know. When I was thirteen years old, my father, the only one I ever knew, by the way, shot my mother, then seeing what he had done, he had the decency to shoot himself. I wish he’d taken the time to leave a note, to explain why he did such a horrible thing, but he didn’t. I have lived all these years with that question unanswered.”

  Julie’s mouth fell open and her shoulders slowly sunk into her as her eyes filled with tears. “Oh no,” she whispered. “Oh, dear God.”

  Bernie ignored her and continued on with her story. “I lost two mothers before I was out of middle school, but you know who was always there? From day one? Noni. First, you gave me away, and then my dad took away the only mother and father I ever knew.”

  Julie wiped endless tears from her face as Bernie shared the grim details of her past. It was worse than her own story.

  “You see, Julie, despite your reasons, and the terrific life you found after getting rid of your baby, it didn’t work out so well for me. I never got the life you imagined for me. I know everyone has their share of problems, but I can’t help but think how different my life would have been, how much I might have been spared, if you had somehow managed to stick it out as a mother all those years ago. I can’t help but wonder if I hadn’t been in the picture that my parents’ lives might have been spared.”

  Bernie glared at Julie, callously watching the earthy woman dissolve to a shameful wreck before her eyes.

  “I’m so sorry, so sorry,” she wept.

  “Noni raised me, fed me, loved me, and I can’t allow you or anyone to upset her or hurt her. Especially now. Do you understand?”

  Julie nodded, wiping her eyes with the cuffs of her sweater. “I don’t know what . . .” her voice trailed off and she sat speechless, motionless.

  “Now,” Bernie said, “you tell me whatever it is you think I need to know that will make me understand why you have any business at all visiting my grandmother here, particularly since I told you she was in no condition for this type of confrontation.”

  “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have come. I thought I could introduce myself, and she would want you to know me, that it would make her, I don’t know, happy that you could have someone else in your life. Forgive me,” she said. All color seemed to drain from Julie’s face, making her seem weak and beaten once again.

  A flurry of memories, practiced speeches and images raced through Bernie’s thoughts. This was her chance to say it all. But all that she could say was “Fine.” She could no more attack this woman than she could turn her back on Noni.

  Julie nodded and slowly rose to her feet. “I should probably go, leave you to deal with your grandmother.”

  “Yes, that’s probably best for now.”

  “Bernadette,” she gently reached out and took her daughter’s hands into her own. “For what it’s worth, I never stopped loving you. I never stopped thinking of you, praying for you. And I never wanted to give you up. Never. I remember every moment with you, the way you felt in my arms.”

  Bernie felt her own fingers tremble, the familiar lump rising in her throat. “Thank you for that.”

  “May I hug you? Just once,” Julie asked.

  Bernie pulled back, wary of such contact, but then relented, allowing for a quick embrace. She felt her mother’s arms fold around her, her head pressed against her cheek. It was not horrible, not in the least, but it left her feeling off balance and bewildered.

  Julie turned toward the door, dejected and heartbroken, her feet scuffing as if they were too heavy to lift off the floor.

  Bernie watched her closely. She finally surrendered to a lifetime of curiosity and asked, “Why’d you do it? Why’d you give me up?”

  Julie paused, carefully measuring the dose of truth that she would deliver with the new knowledge of her daughter’s life, concerned about what too much truth might do to Bernie now. Again, at the mercy of Isabelle Fierro, she sacrificed for the good of her child. “I was young and stupid, not married, of course. We had an accident one night, that’s when your arm got broken, and the people at the hospital convinced me that you would be better off with real parents, you know, married, with a home and a swing set in the backyard. I thought I was giving you more than I ever could on my own. I’m sorry for the way things turned out.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s not like you could know.” Bernie stepped past her mother and opened the door for her.

  Julie reached out for one more touch, resting the tips of her fingers on Bernie’s elbow. “Would you mind if I wrote to you sometime? There is more to say. Another time.”

  “No, that would be fine. I just need to focus on . . . let some of this sink in, you know.”

  “Yes, I know.” Julie walked away, turned back for one more look from the front door and lifted one hand in a wave and disappeared out the door.

  Bernie returned to Noni’s bedside, where she would sit and listen to the shallow breathing, her body rocking back and forth, back and forth, to the familiar rhythm of her grandmother until they breathed again as one.

  For the next three weeks, Bernie visited Nazareth House every evening, often late in the evening, long after the residents had eaten their communal dinner, but before Noni downed a nightly Ativan and settled in for restless sleep. Bernie’s days were consumed with work, the aftermath of the firestorm she’d created during her spell of tearing through stagnant files, breathing life back into them. She had managed to settle half a dozen cases with promises of checks to be delivered before Christmas. It was going to be a good bonus year for Crystal, especially if the Luna case settled for what it was worth, or more.

  Crystal would normally be the one to call and confirm appointments, but Bernie did not want their first conversation since Thanksgiving to be at Don’s deposition, awkward and uncomfortable in the presence of Stuart Reilly. That was the type of small detail that could nick away at a rock-solid case, diminishing its value by more than a few dollars. She would use a formal call, a call with a purpose, to break the silence and set them back on the proper ground of two professionals who work together, not two overgrown adolescents who flirt and hang out in graveyards on a stormy afternoon. He answered on the first ring.

  “Hi Don, it’s Bernie.” She sat up straight, tugged a strand of hair down over her ears, and bit her lower lip at the sound of his voice.

  “Hi Bernie. What can I do for you?”

  His impassive tone was precisely what Bernie wanted, professional, polite, free of any hint of a personal relationship.

  “I’m calling about the Luna case. Depositions are on Monday and Tuesday and mediation is set for Wednesday. I have your deposition scheduled for Tuesday at 3:00. I’m assuming Crystal cleared that time with you.” It was as if they’d never shared a single moment beyond their formal and necessary relationship.

  “Yes, she did. It’s on my calendar, and I’ll be there. Did you still want to meet before the dep and go over the numbers?”

  “That’s probably a good idea, but I don’t think we’ll need a great deal of time. Why don’t you plan on being here at 2:00, and we’ll do a quick review, and go from there?”

  “Fine, I’ll see you then.”

  And he hung up. No good-bye, just “I’ll see you then.” The wave of sadness that rippled through her was unsettling. This was how it should be, she reasoned, professional, void of complications and issues. Her cheeks warmed, and a painful heaviness settled in her chest. It’s just the time of year, she told herself. People are always lonely during holidays, wishing there was someone, anyone, to be waiting for them at the end of a long day. She was one of those people. Lonely and alone.

  Bernie picked up her pen and began drafting questions and notes for Carlos and Mrs. Luna, the driver, and their expert economist, Don Fielding. She would be more than prepared for Stuart Reilly this time. There would be no surprise video to ruin this one, and she would not be distracted by an enco
unter with her birth mother or silly romantic notions during the holidays. Force of will kept her writing, kept her working. Her focus had to be completely on Carlos Luna.

  A dense fog had blanketed the Valley for days. The bare ash tree stood lonely and cold outside the office where Bernie now flipped through the thick mediation binder, her Bible for the next few days. Crystal had spent hours organizing every piece of evidence to be at her fingertips during depositions and mediation. She paused to study once again the photographs of Carlos and his family, invoking their lives and personalities into the case along with police reports and damage estimates. They were people, not just numbers, statistics, or decedents. They were a mother and a father who had a little boy that loved them, who they loved. As she studied their lovely brown faces, smiling into the camera, her mind drifted to a day long ago, to another son, another tragedy.

  She was just nineteen, spending an afternoon at Avocado Lake, where her boyfriend, Keith, was a lifeguard. The old mine pit, deep and cold, was a favorite hangout for locals, a place for picnics and swimming on Sunday afternoons. She was dozing in the sun near the lifeguard stand when a young girl, no more than thirteen, came up crying, her brother and she were swimming, and he disappeared.

  Keith dove in and Bernie followed, frantically searching for the boy, knowing every second counted, grateful for the coldness of the water. It wasn’t long before Keith dragged the young boy to the top, then pulled him onto shore. Together, she and Keith performed CPR, blowing air into his lungs, turning him over to spit out swallowed lake water, pressing on his chest, pumping his heart for him, blowing air into his lungs. For nearly an hour they pumped life into his young body. They worked with all they had to keep his body alive, waiting and waiting for the ambulance to arrive, cursing and wondering why it took so long for them to respond. Finally, the ambulance crew appeared with a gurney and took over the exhausting job of breathing for another. The two-man crew scanned the crowd as they lifted the boy’s lifeless body onto the backboard. The older one gave directions to his partner, his voice in hushed tones, but Bernie stood nearby, listening to every word, her own heart nearly stopping as she listened. “Okay,” he said, “make it look good until we get him in the ambulance.”

  Blood had raged through her exhausted body. Make it look good? Make what look good? Would they try harder if this boy had blonde hair? It was one afternoon, a summer day made for lake swimming, and the world again shifted beneath her feet. She never wanted to forget it. And she never did. Rogelio and Lucero Luna were more than a dollar sign; they were Carlos’s mom and dad, and in his eyes, they were priceless. She would not let them down.

  Angelica Corona delivered Carlos and Mrs. Luna to the office right on time. Angelica was huge, her unborn baby due any second, but she didn’t seem any less energetic. Carlos had grown in the few months he’d been away, a bit taller, but it was his face that seemed to have changed most. A six-year-old with ancient eyes, Bernie thought, watching him from where she sat in her private office. He would occasionally glance at her, his gaze dark and intense. Shy and frightened in the unfamiliar space, surrounded by strangers, he focused on the toy Transformer he held in his hands, flipping arms and legs around until the robot evolved into a battle tank, then shifting the tank back to the shape of a warrior robot.

  “Carlos, look at the tree,” Angelica cooed, pointing to the Noble Fir that Crystal’s husband had delivered to the office. Bernie had watched from her office while the handsome couple strung white lights and covered the branches with the blown glass ornaments Bernie had collected over the years. It was the first year she didn’t join in the small office ritual, choosing instead to ignore the holiday altogether, or at least as much as she could. The tree took on a different light through the dark eyes of the six-year-old boy sitting on the couch.

  Carlos muttered something, but Bernie couldn’t quite make it out, not sure if his words were in Spanish or if he was just mumbling.

  Angelica answered him, her voice loud and clear. “Aaah, Moochie has school, mijo. You’ll see him when you get home. Later, mijo, later.” She then turned to the older woman who sat in a chair across the room, out of Bernie’s line of vision. “Señora Luna, mire el árbol hermoso.”

  The old woman answered in Spanish, her speech too fast for Bernie to translate, even in bits. Carlos added, “Abuela, mire mi robot, my Transformer car.”

  “Carlos,” Angelica chided in her singsong voice, “Spanish or English only, please. No Spanglish.” She leaned close to him and stroked the back of his head. He didn’t resist her touch, even let his head fall toward her, against her bulging belly. “Your mama did not like mixing up the words; ‘one or the other,’ she used to say. Remember? And besides, while you’re here, practice your English. You need Spanish and English to get a good job someday, no matter where you live. Eh, mijo?” Her fingers ruffled his hair playfully. Carlos nodded and gave her a sly grin, clearly happy to be petted and teased, his smile revealing a gap where his front teeth used to be.

  Bernie closed her binder, stood, and prepared to move to the conference room and meet with her waiting clients. She was near the door, but stepped back out of view and waited at her office door when she heard Angelica speaking again to Carlos, curious to hear what the woman had to say, somewhat fascinated by the way he seemed to soften at her touch.

  “Do you know what Lucero means?” Angelica asked the boy. “Your mama’s name was Lucero. It means ‘brightest star of the morning.’ So now your mama is the brightest star, up there looking out for you all the time. We just can’t see her right now because of all the fog, but she is there. She is there.” She leaned over and kissed the top of his head then gave it a rough rub of her hand, tough love this time. Bernie then watched her point toward the sky and repeat her words, this time in Spanish for the benefit of the grandmother.

  Bernie smiled at the soft words, surprisingly poetic. It was only when she stepped into the waiting room that she got a full view of Mrs. Luna, frightened in this strange land of lawyers and phony smiles, clutching a small brown purse close to her, a sign for every petty thief worth his salt that every bit of money the poor woman had in the world was tucked inside that little bag. A wave of compassion washed over Bernie for the painful loss the woman had suffered, the loss of her son and his wife. She wanted to do all she could to give this family a little justice, even if it was in the form of a check.

  “Buenos dias, Señora Luna, Carlos.” Bernie reached out to take the hand of Mrs. Luna, gave it one slight squeeze then turned to Carlos for an exaggerated up and down shake that made him tuck his chin and stick his tongue out, rolling it across his bottom lip. Finally, she looked toward their friend. “Hi Angelica,” she said, “nice to see you again.”

  The suspicion that she had harbored last summer, that Angelica was a gold digger, had vanished. Watching her with Carlos, imagining her and Lucero sharing a cup of coffee at the end of a long day, caring for one another and each other’s boys as their own, had remedied that false assumption. It occurred to her that the friends of her own parents, those men and women who had been to her home, whose homes she had visited, had vanished from her life too. Was it Noni that kept them away? Was it the short distance she had moved, or just living with the older woman that made them feel unnecessary in the life of the little girl whose parents were dead? Did they still think about her?

  In the short distance of moving from the reception area to the conference room, the future of Carlos Luna loomed before her eyes. He would have money; she was certain of this case as much as ever. His childhood, however, would be very different under the care of his father’s mother than it would be in the care of his mother’s friend, sharing a room and toys with his own friend, Moochie, while sharing a home with the family he had known with his own parents. She and Carlos weren’t alike at all, but she wanted him to have the best life possible, as she had been given.

  “Angelica, a formal interpreter will be here in about an hour for the depositions, but if you woul
dn’t mind, perhaps you can help me out until then.”

  Angelica couldn’t show more teeth if she tried. “Oh yes, Mrs. Sheridan. Yes, I can help.” She strutted behind Mrs. Luna, her stomach leading the way, and took her place at the head of the long table.

  By late afternoon, Stuart Reilly had completed his depositions of Carlos and Mrs. Luna. The questioning was short and sweet, an unusual style for the pompous lawyer who liked the sound of his own voice. Little orphan boys with meek voices were tough opponents for the starched gentleman to victimize, and there was little information to be gained from prolonged interrogation. The grieving grandmother from Mexico who spoke little English proved to be no easier for the defense counsel. There was nothing there to crumble but the truth of a bad situation. The only potential target or weak link was her economist, Don Fielding. Reilly could only hope to limit damages.

  Bernie reconsidered the short prep time with Don. She now hoped he might be able to meet with her that night, so that she could share with him the events of the day, nail down the numbers as well as the personalities of her clients. During an afternoon break, she had Crystal call and ask him if it was possible for him to come at the end of the day. He agreed.

  Just before five o’clock, Bernie heard Crystal buzz him in and offer him coffee, even though the pot was already emptied and clean, ready for the next morning. Bernie took a deep breath, gathered her legal pad full of the day’s notes and reached for the mediation binder only to discover it was not there. Everything she needed was in that one binder: photographs, accident report, mediation brief, and the impressive damage charts Don had prepared. Certain she had brought it into the office with her after the depositions, she searched under every slip of paper, in every drawer, under her desk. Nothing. “Shit,” she whispered. “Where the hell can it be?” Shit.