“Becky,” she says. Or at least that’s what I think she says.
I smile up at her. A lady standing beside the ladder, who I think must be her mom, says thanks and smiles at me. I can’t hear her over the sound of drums, but I see her lips move. Both of them turn to watch the parade again. I just stand there, staring at people’s backs, not even trying to see the parade.
“That was nice of you,” Dad says.
I shrug.
There’s a fire truck in front of us now, lights flashing, and it’s making that deafening siren sound. There’s a little boy to our right on his dad’s shoulders. He’s got his hands over his ears. I pull Jojo’s cap down farther, seriously considering putting my hands over my ears.
A group of guys dressed like pirates on horses are next. Some of the horses are wearing pirate hats, too. The men are throwing something from bags they’re wearing. Dad jumps up and catches one as they shower over us.
He hands it to me. “A doubloon.” It’s shiny green. “Has the year and the name of the krewe on it.” He points and then hands it to me. “A lot of people collect them.”
I’m not into collecting. Never was, even when my friends were collecting Barbie dolls and stuffed unicorns. Maybe because we always moved a lot; the more stuff I had the more I had to pack up. Or leave behind. I think about giving the plastic doubloon to the little girl, too. Instead, I slide it into my jeans pocket. The pirates are still going by. There are a lot of pirates. And there are little boats, too. It sounds like they’re built over riding lawnmowers or something like that.
I glance at Dad, who’s watching the parade. I wonder if Harper Mom told him I wanted to go see Sharon at the prison. I think about asking him. Maybe he’d at least understand why I want to go. I don’t know that he’ll agree to it, though. He’s definitely more open to what I have to say and more accepting than Harper Mom is that I’m smart enough and old enough to make decisions for myself, but the two of them have this thing. He gives in to her. She gives in to him. Maybe that’s how it works in a marriage. I have no idea because I’ve never really known married people. I see marriages on TV, but I’m smart enough to know that’s probably not what I should base knowledge on.
I grab Dad’s arm as yet another person knocks into me. Dad smiles down at me and turns his attention back to the parade. Instead of watching the parade, I study the people. I can’t imagine how many are here. Thousands. Tens of thousands. As far as I can see, they’re lined up on Magazine Street, ten deep. Only men and women walking the parade route, holding up their hands to get the crowd to back up, keep them all from spilling onto the street. The crowd moves, almost like it’s alive. Like it’s more than a sum of its parts. I see old adults and young ones, millennials and baby boomers. Teenagers everywhere. And so many kids. How do they not get lost? I suppose that’s why parents put their kids up on ladders.
I was in a stroller that day. I can’t imagine being a toddler in a stroller with people surrounding me this way. How could a little kid breathe? It would have been so scary, wouldn’t it? But maybe not. Maybe little Georgina wasn’t the kind of kid who got scared in crowds.
Maybe that came later.
Everyone is cheering. I have no idea why. I wonder how much longer the parade is. I pull my phone out of my back pocket. I feel as if I’ve been here for hours. Days. But only an hour and fifteen minutes has passed since it started. Dad said it would be three or four hours long, sometimes five. There’s no way I can stand here for five hours.
Dad looks down at me. He’s got a weird look on his face. “You okay?” He has to shout it because there’s a lady standing behind us talking on her cell, really loud.
I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to wuss out, especially since I threw such a fit about coming. I mean, they cancelled their vacation so I could see this stupid parade. My eyes sting and I feel as if I could cry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t cry. I don’t stress out about things. I figure things out. I make it work. And I’m happy. I’ve been a happy person. Where is that girl? I feel like I’m losing her in this tug-of-war between Lilla Kohen and Georgina Broussard.
I force a smile.
He’s still watching me. Waiting for an answer. He must sense something because he says, “We can go if you want. Whenever you want.”
“Maybe a few more minutes.” I lift up on the toes of my sneakers so he can hopefully hear me. “I’m a little cold.” Wimp. Wuss. Loser.
“It can be pretty overwhelming,” Dad says. He looks concerned.
Overwhelming. It’s interesting that he chose the same word I did.
I look away from him, pretending to be interested in another float. It’s a big, rolling river paddleboat, only with lights flashing green and purple all over it like an old-school video game or a slot machine. I wonder if this is the kind of thing that gives people seizures. I used to know a girl who had to be careful with flashing lights because of that.
A tall dude moves in front of me, blocking my view of the street. I don’t even care. I wonder how much time I can wait before I tell Dad I want to go. I wonder if we could go get Vietnamese food. Harper Mom likes it from this place uptown. I know traffic is crazy, but since the parade is headed in the direction of downtown, maybe we could get to the restaurant.
A guy and a girl with their arms linked step out into the street. Some dude is yelling at them. I guess because they can’t be on the street. Some of the floats are so wide; it’s got to be a safety thing.
The guy is hollering over his shoulder about what he does and doesn’t have to do and crap like that. And then he pushes through the crowd and busts right between Dad and me. People holler at him. Someone pushes him. Then the girlfriend walks between us and someone steps on my foot.
I don’t know what happens next. The music is so loud coming off the riverboat float. I get hit in the head with some beads as I look down at my foot. People are touching me. Bumping into me. I can still hear the guy, behind me now. He’s cussing. So’s the girl. People in the crowd are yelling at them. I see a uniformed police officer moving in the couple’s direction. And people keep pushing me, bumping into me. I feel as if I’m moving, even though I’m not really moving my feet. Or maybe I am.
“Dad?”
I look up and he’s gone. He was right there. And now he isn’t. Only . . . somehow I’m now behind the little girl on the ladder and to the right. Becky is farther away. And so is the street.
“Dad?”
All of a sudden my heart is pounding and I can’t catch my breath. I’m looking around, but I can’t see him. There are so many people.
I know I shouldn’t panic. There’s no reason to panic. I have my cell phone. He has his. And I can just walk home if I can’t find him. If he doesn’t pick up. It won’t take me twenty minutes to walk home. I know all of that logically and yet I’m scared. So scared I can’t move. I can’t think. I reach for my phone in my back pocket, but my hand’s shaking. I’m afraid to pull it out of my pocket. What if I drop it?
“Dad?” I say. Only this time I’m not calling out to him. It’s a whisper. “Dad?”
I feel someone put their hand on my shoulder from behind me and I go to shove them away, but then I hear Dad’s voice.
“Lilla?”
“Dad?” I spin around. People are pushing and bumping into me and I realize I’m crying.
“Lilla.”
And there he is. My dad is there, wearing his dumb Tulane hat with the pompom on top. I throw myself against his chest. He closes his arms around me and I slide my hands up to his shoulders. He hugs me and I hug him back, my tears wetting his coat. He feels so good. So safe.
“It’s okay,” he’s saying in my ear.
And it’s all I can hear now. Just his voice. Not the marching band, not the clapping, not the shouting. Just my dad’s voice.
“It’s okay, sweetie. I’m here. You’re okay.”
“I couldn’t find you.” I’m trying not to cry. I feel stupid.
My d
ad just stands there, hugging me. It’s the first time he’s really hugged me hard. The first time I guess I’ve wanted him to hug me.
And gradually I stop shaking. My heart doesn’t feel like I’m going to barf it up. I’m okay. But I’m embarrassed. So I just stand there, hugging him.
Eventually he says, “You want to get out of here?”
I nod. I step back, sniffing.
He grabs my hand, turns, and starts pushing through the crowd. I hang on tightly to him. Like I’m never going to let go.
34
Harper
I drop down onto the couch beside Remy. It’s after nine, my bedtime; I’m hoping to convince him to come upstairs with me. If not for sex, then maybe some cuddling. I could use a hug after today, after surviving allowing Georgina to go to the parade. I used to tell Remy when I needed a hug, but I’m trying not to be needy.
The living room is dark except for the glow of the TV. He’s watching a documentary. A black-and-white still photo of Ethel Rosenberg is on the screen.
I tuck my legs under me, leaning against him. I rest my chin on his shoulder. “Jojo texted me to say good night. They’re all playing Monopoly. No Wi-Fi, so no streaming. So no movies or twenty-five episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.” It’s a joke. Remy told Jojo he was going to limit her screen time because she was watching too much Buffy.
I wait. He doesn’t respond. There are photos of Ethel and Julius on the screen now. Photos I’m familiar with. I wonder why he’s watching this. I know he’s seen it before because I’ve seen it before. At least twice. “You listening?” I keep my tone cheerful.
He’s staring at the TV, but the volume’s low. He can’t possibly hear what they’re saying. Of course, maybe he could if I’d stop talking.
“Lilla in bed?” he asks me. No eye contact.
“Georgina is,” I answer, feeling guilty, as if I’m somehow picking a fight. Which is silly because I think we’ve agreed to disagree on this subject. I’ve agreed to disagree with everyone on the matter of her name: Remy, Jojo, Ann, even Georgina. At Ursuline, her teachers call her Georgina, but I noticed her new friend Em calls her Lilla.
I watch the TV for a moment. One of the Rosenbergs’ sons is being interviewed. He looks to be in his sixties, but I don’t know when this was filmed. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for those two boys growing up, even with new last names. Knowing what their parents had been convicted of. I look at Remy. “So what happened today? At the parade? Why didn’t you stay?”
I actually had a decent day alone here in the house. I decided that if I could keep busy, I wouldn’t think about the parade. Or that horrible day almost fourteen years ago when Georgina went to a Mardi Gras parade. Or worry about Georgina. Or worry about Jojo. I knew Georgina was safe with Remy. And I knew it was irrational to worry about Jojo hanging out in a cabin in a state park with one adult per teen.
I ended up cleaning out my closet and my dresser drawers. I tried on clothes and culled like crazy. It was satisfying to carry two big black garbage bags of clothes to donate downstairs and throw them in the back of my car. I was making a vegetarian baked pasta dish to put into the oven later for dinner when Remy and Georgina walked into the house. They were both subdued. They offered no explanation other than that they’d seen enough and I let it go. For the time being.
Remy’s still staring at the screen, but a commercial has come on. The TV blinks to another channel and I realize he’s been sitting there with the remote in his hand. So maybe he wasn’t watching a documentary about the Rosenbergs; maybe he was just channel surfing. He changes the channel again. Another commercial.
“Remy?” I sit up, reaching out to lay my hand over the remote. “What happened today?”
He finally looks at me. “Nothing happened. It was cold and loud and . . .” He glances back at the TV. A denture commercial. “I think she got a little overwhelmed is all.”
“Overwhelmed?” I draw back my hand.
“She wasn’t enjoying it. Too many people. Too loud.” He shrugs. “So we came home.”
All of this upset, weeks of talking about our plans for Mardi Gras. Canceling our vacation. Both girls insisting they wanted to go to the parades and this is how it ends? I’m almost laughing at the thought of it. Next time I get myself worked up over something involving the two of them, I need to remember how fickle teenagers can be. “You going out tomorrow?”
The TV changes channels again. And again. “I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe. I’ll ask her in the morning. She said she didn’t want to go down to the Quarter, though. I told her we could take the bikes downtown. She said Uptown parades were enough for her.”
I tuck my legs up tighter beneath me, thinking. Trying to guess what would have made Georgina overwhelmed after she’d pushed so hard to get to go. “You think she remembered anything?”
He glances at me, hesitating. I can tell he’s mulling it over. Then he shakes his head. “I don’t think so,” he says.
“Did you ask her?”
He exhales. Not because he needs to expel carbon dioxide. Because he doesn’t want to have this conversation. This is what he was talking about on the porch. Remy asked me to start trying to work out some things on my own. Meaning stop thinking out loud. Stop involving him when I’m still in the working-through-it stages. Stop dissecting every word that passes Georgina’s lips, every step she takes. I get what he was saying, and I’m trying. But this is important. And I’m not going to stop talking to him about important things.
“I’m asking,” I tell him, “because she’s starting to remember some things. Did she tell you that?”
He looks back at me, his forehead wrinkling. “What kinds of things?”
“Just . . . slivers of memories. Me reading Madeline books to her on the couch in the parlor. My silver cake baby.” I smile at the thought. “But if she remembers being taken, we need to—”
“I don’t think she remembers being abducted.” He sounds annoyed with me. He’s staring at the TV screen again.
“Remy, what I’m saying is—” I press my lips together, forcibly making myself stop. Just stop. Georgina told me about Madeline and about the cake baby. If she remembers anything about the abduction, she’ll come to me, I tell myself. Our relationship is improving. She’ll tell me when she’s ready.
Remy has returned to the channel that’s featuring the story about the Rosenbergs. I have one more thing I need to ask him. I consider letting it go, at least for tonight. But he’s already aggravated with me. I’m already going to bed alone. He’ll sit here half the night, staring at the TV, then fall asleep on the couch. So I hold my nose and jump. “I know we agreed you didn’t have to share with me every conversation you have with Georgina. I know I’m not supposed to ask, but when you guys were out today . . . did she bring up going to see Sharon?”
He looks at me and it’s obvious from his face that this is the first he’s heard of it. The tiny lines that crease his forehead get even deeper. “She wants to see her in prison?”
I’m the one who breaks eye contact this time and stares at the TV screen. Newspaper headlines: A Spy Couple Doomed to Die, Supreme Court and Eisenhower Reject Couple’s Last Plea, Spies Die in Chair. “Yes. She says she was never allowed to speak to Sharon, after the police came to their house.” I try to keep my emotion out of my tone, out of my head. I try to just relay what Georgina said to me. “She feels she needs some sort of . . . explanation.”
“What explanation? How can there be one? The woman is clearly mentally unbalanced.” He sets down the remote to actually look at me and engage.
“Not according to a psychiatrist,” I point out. “According to Detective Marin, Sharon Kohen’s psych evaluation stated she was healthy enough to be charged and enter a plea.”
He makes a sound of derision. “She has to be crazy, Harper.” He gestures with his hand now free of the remote. “What other explanation can there be for stealing someone’s toddler and pretending she’s her own? Giving her a de
ad baby’s name, using the dead baby’s Social Security number?”
I understand what he’s saying, but I also understand what it is to be a mother, to have carried a child in my womb and given birth. The love for that child is love no one who has not given birth can begin to comprehend. In a way, being a mother is a form of insanity. I would do anything for my girls; I really think I would. To protect them. I’d risk my soul to keep them safe. I’d lie, I’d steal. I’d prostitute myself. In the right circumstances, I truly believe I would kill for them.
I brush my crucifix with my fingertips.
So what happens when a love of that intensity gets twisted? I suspect something like that is what happened to us. Sharon loved her little girl so much that she couldn’t accept her death. She loved her Lilla so much that she replaced her. I suspect that, most days, she couldn’t even remember that the child she was raising wasn’t the child of her body.
“You think we should let Lilla see Sharon?” Remy asks me.
I don’t even have to think on that one. “Of course not.” But then, against my will, I put myself in Sharon’s position. And Georgina’s. “I don’t think so. I don’t know. I don’t think I can.”
He is quiet for a moment. “I suppose we need to talk about this with the therapist, but I have to agree with you. I don’t want Lilla near her. I don’t want Lilla in a prison visitation room. Maybe when she gets older,” he adds, “but not yet.”
If I had my choice, Georgina would never, ever see Sharon again. I don’t want that woman to ever lay eyes on my daughter again. I just can’t get past that. Not right now, at least. The wound is too raw. Of course I know very well that in less than two years Georgina will be eighteen and then I can’t prevent her from going to see her.
Another worry for another day.
Remy and I sit there in silence for a moment and then I rub his shoulder and get up. He doesn’t seem angry with me now. “You coming soon?”
He looks up at me. “I’ve been thinking today, and . . . we need to tell Lilla.”
Finding Georgina Page 25