"I'm the one who's lucky, Mom."
Her mother spoke slowly, with difficulty, struggling for breath between the words. "Have you been happy, darling, being my daughter?" The effort of making a full sentence had exhausted her and she closed her eyes.
"Of course I have. You're the most wonderful mother any girl could have. You know that." Her voice broke and despite her best efforts, the tears seeped out, but her mother had looked away and didn't see them, for which Naomi was grateful.
When she turned to look back at Naomi, her faded eyes were full of confusion, as if she'd been about to say something and now could not remember what it was. A faraway look came into her eyes. Naomi searched them, those eyes that had been as blue as a summer's sky before she got sick, and wondered what she saw down that long corridor of the past. Maybe she sees Thomas. Maybe he's waiting to guide her into the next world, his hand reaching out to take hers.
Of course she couldn't know if that's what happened when we leave this world, but the thought warmed her and gave her a measure of comfort. She envisioned Thomas' young, smiling face, the face in the photo sitting on her night table, from where, according to her mother, she got her own looks. It was true she had her father's eyes, wide, bracken green. She also had that hint of a cleft in her chin. He was even more handsome in person, her mother had said.
She wished she could have met him, her hero father. His full name was Thomas James Waters and he went missing in action in the final days of the Vietnam War.
Although she missed having a father growing up, her mother had told her wonderful stories about him, and she felt as if she knew him. Besides, she had his picture to talk to and his medals to remind her of his bravery.
Her mother had drifted off again, her breathing raspy, laboured. The lights in the corridor dimmed, a cue that visiting hours were over, although if someone wanted to stay on, there would be no problem. Knowing time was short for most of the patients in here, the rules were relaxed. She heard the elevators going down, many visitors leaving, to return tomorrow. The quiet on the floor deepened to a hush.
As the clock ticked toward midnight, Naomi fell asleep in the chair as she sometimes did before removing herself to the cot. And she dreamed the old dream. It had been lying in wait for her….
She is running across a field, small sneakered feet flying, the long grasses brushing her legs. Above her, the flapping of giant wings is as loud as wind-whipped sheets on a clothesline, filling her heart with terror. But no matter how fast she runs, she cannot outrun the great shadow-wings that darken the grass before her, like a black cloud obscuring the sun.
She let out a small cry and it startled her awake. Sitting straight up in the chair, she could still hear the beating of wings echoing in the air around her, as if they had followed her here from some other dimension. What did it mean? Was the winged creature a symbol of death? Was it as simple as that? Yet she couldn't recall any past deaths associated with the dream she'd been having off and on since childhood.
She glanced at her watch: 12:05 a.m. She had been asleep only a few minutes. Her cry, if she'd indeed cried out in her sleep, hadn't sent anyone running into the room. So perhaps it was part of the dream.
Her mother's breaths were coming at longer intervals now, with long, frightening silences between. She drew her chair closer to the bed, the legs making a small scraping sound on the floor.
She found herself trying to breathe for her mother, pushing the breath from her lungs, breathing it in, exhaling. Breathe, Mom. At the same time, she prayed for it to be over.
At twenty past one, her prayer was answered. Her mother simply stopped breathing. The quiet of the room had not been quiet at all. Now it was.
Naomi sensed the instant her soul abandoned the still, ravaged body on the bed. The shell that lay there was no longer her mother. But Naomi could feel her life-spirit lingering close by, close and warm, saying goodbye, and then she was gone. She remained at her bedside for a good minute before she went to fetch the nurse.
She called Edna from the nurse's station. "She's gone." Those two words seemed to burst the dam within her and all the tears she'd been saving up these past months flooded out, and she was sobbing into the phone, unable to stop herself.
"Pull yourself together, Naomi," her aunt said. "It's for the best, you know that. It's not as if we weren't expecting it. You go on home now. I'll take care of things. I'll take the obituary in to the paper in the morning."
Obituary. She mopped her eyes with a wad of tissue a nurse handed her, touching her shoulder gently before moving on down the corridor. Naomi blew her nose noisily. There were things she must attend to. "I'll do that, Aunt Ed…."
"No need. I already have it written up. You go home and get some sleep. We'll talk later."
Naomi didn't have the heart or the strength to argue with her. Let her have her way, what did it matter? Even if she won her point, what would be gained? If Edna wanted to write the obituary, let her. Regaining her composure as best she could, she made her second call, this one to Frank Llewellyn, her mother's long time friend and attorney.
Frank lived in a large Victorian house at the edge of town with his black Labrador Retriever, Sam. He'd never married and Naomi suspected it was because he'd always been in love with her mother. But though her mother valued Frank's friendship, even coming to rely on it, she had not loved him back in the same way.
She heard his heavy sigh over the line, but he registered no surprise at the news. He'd been waiting for her call, as he had been here earlier in the day. His voice cracked a little as he said, "If there's anything you need, Naomi...."
"I'm okay, thanks Frank. I just wanted you to hear it from me, not read it in the paper. Aunt Edna has the obituary written up and plans to take it in in the morning."
"Thanks, honey. I appreciate the call. I know how tough this is for you."
"I know you do, Frank. I feel like I'm six years old. I already miss her."
"Did she say anything before…?"
Does he want me to say she spoke his name? No, she wouldn't lie. "Nothing. Well, other than to ask me if I'd been happy being her daughter. Such a foolish question." Her eyes brimmed over again.
There was a long silence, then, "Sam wants out, Naomi. He's scratching at the door. We'll talk tomorrow." With that, the line went dead.
Naomi frowned at the phone and replaced the receiver.
Chapter Three
Naomi chose her mother's favourite indigo blue dress with the cream lace collar and cuffs to lay her out in. She'd worn it just that one time to the dinner given in her honor by the nurses' union. The pearl earrings Naomi had given her for her last birthday went perfectly. Everyone said she looked beautiful, just like she was asleep. And it was true: death had erased the pain lines from the cancer. She looked at peace.
The funeral parlor was filled with flowers from co-workers, friends and neighbours. At home, saran-wrapped food covered the counter-top and was crammed into every available space in the fridge.
Over the years, Lillian Waters had been a fearless advocate for better working conditions for nurses, and a friend and mentor to many. The letters and cards at home from grateful patients gave testimony to the fine nurse she had been.
Naomi was reading the note on one of the cards tucked into a lovely basket of summer flowers positioned at the foot of the casket when a voice said softly behind her shoulder, "She looks so lovely, doesn't she?"
Naomi could only nod her agreement. She felt drained and constantly on the verge of tears, and doing her best to keep it together. Mrs. Devers smiled sympathetically through the dotted veil of her little black hat. Connie Devers ran one of the last surviving corner stores in River's End, and was a fount of information on its inhabitants, both living and dead.
"You know, Naomi," the woman said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "I didn't know you were adopted until I read it in this morning's paper."
Naomi looked at her, at a loss. "Adopted? I'm not adopted, Mrs. Devers." W
hat was she talking about? "What paper?" she asked foolishly.
"The local paper, of course, dear. Your mother's obituary. Oh, dear." She thrust out a hand in a futile gesture of self-correction, then drew it back. "Oh, I'm so sorry. You didn't know, did you? You haven't seen it yet." She leaned closer to Naomi. "You know, dear, I didn't think you wrote that piece up when I read it. It seemed very odd to me that you would have put your own name last in the list of survivors, even if you were adopted...."
Mrs. Dever's mouth was still moving behind the dotted black veil but Naomi could no longer hear anything she was saying, as though all sound had been sucked from the room. And then she heard herself saying, "There's obviously been some mistake, Mrs. Devers. They must have gotten it mixed up with someone else's obituary."
The woman blinked pitying eyes at her. "Yes, yes, dear. Of course. That would explain it. God knows they make plenty of mistakes in that newspaper."
It was then that she caught Edna's eye across the room. Edna quickly turned her head away and began talking to a woman next to her.
* * *
Naomi let herself into the house, picking up the newspaper from the hall floor on her way to the kitchen. She dropped the paper on the table, took two Tylenol for a throbbing headache and plugged in the water for tea. She had slipped away from the parlor shortly after talking to Mrs. Devers. The woman had obviously made a mistake, yet Naomi needed to reassure herself.
She sat down and opened the paper. The pages rattled as she turned them, seeming to echo in the empty house. Strange, she'd been living alone in this house for weeks now and this was the first time it seemed empty, as if its owners had been away for a long time. It was as if even her own presence made little impact. She might have merely been the woman who had come to water the plants and feed the cat. Speaking of which, here she was now, silent as a little shadow. "Hey, girl. How you doin'?" She reached down and scratched her behind the ears. She was grateful for Molly, a sweet-natured grey and white ball of fluff who, one night in the dead of winter ten years ago now, had shown up on their doorstep, cold and hungry.
Molly wandered over to her empty dish and looked expectantly up at her. Naomi left the paper and went to the fridge. "Hungry, girl?"
Opening the door, she retrieved the can of Whiskas from behind a saran-wrapped plate of brownies. The cat wove her silky soft self around Naomi's ankles, purring like an old washing machine as her mistress dished out her food.
The water bubbled in the kettle and she made a pot of tea. The Tylenol was kicking in, taking the edge off her headache. Leaving Molly contentedly eating her dinner, Naomi sat down again with her cup of tea and turned to the obituary page. At once saw the picture of her mother that Edna had taken into the paper. Taken months after she was diagnosed with cancer, she looked older than she was, drawn, the illness already taking its toll. It was not the photo Naomi would have chosen. There was nothing of her mother's achievements in the obituary, either. Only a brief paragraph stating that she'd been a nurse at River's End General Hospital for many years and that she died after a lengthy illness, survived by a younger sister, Edna (Harold), Bradley, two nephews, Brian and Theodore (Ted), niece Charlotte, and an adopted daughter, Naomi Lynne.
Adopted? She had to read the word a few times to be sure she'd read it correctly. Mrs. Devers was right. But it made no sense—she wasn't adopted. Why was there no mention of Naomi's father, Thomas Waters, Lillian's late husband, a war hero? Why was his name excluded? Confused and frightened in a way she'd didn't yet understand, she got up from the table.
Her hand was shaking so hard she had to punch in her aunt's number twice before she got it right. Why did she write it up this way? She thought of Edna watching her when Mrs. Devers was talking to her, and a cold, hard fear slid just beneath her rib cage.
Her aunt picked up on the first ring. She's been waiting for my call. Of course she would be. She must have left the parlor right after me.
"I just read Mom's obituary, Aunt Edna. I don't understand...."
"No, I don't suppose you do. I know this isn't easy for you, but it's time the truth be told, Naomi."
"Truth. What truth? What are you talking about, Aunt Edna? What's going on?" The headache was back full force.
"Lillian was remiss in letting you live a lie all these years, in living one herself, and making the rest of us go along. It wasn't fair to you, to any of us."
Her hand tightened on the receiver as she tried to ignore the chill around her heart, the lump of fear that worked its way up into her throat. "What do you mean, Aunt Edna? What are you talking about? What lie?"
After a hesitation, she said, "Ask Frank Llewellyn. He handled everything at the time. Lili always could wrap him around her little finger. I have nothing more to say on the matter, Naomi. I'm sorry if you're upset, but I know I'm doing the right thing and one day you'll thank me." With that, the phone clicked in Naomi's ear. She could only stare in disbelief at the dead receiver in her hand.
She's making this up. She just wants to hurt me. The latter was no doubt true. But as much as she wanted to believe she was lying about the rest of it, needed to believe she was, she couldn't deny the ring of truth in Edna's words. Naomi was about to dial Frank's office when the doorbell rang. She opened the door to see her mother's old friend standing there, looking both miserable and furious, clutching the rolled-up newspaper in his hand and unwittingly confirming everything. Yet she could not take it in. It wasn't possible.
"I'm so, so sorry, Naomi," Frank said. "I don't know why Edna did that. She's a spoiled, wretched woman and I'd like to kill her. It was a terrible way for you to find out."
Each word was a hammer striking her heart. It was true then.
She took in Frank's familiar features beneath the prematurely white hair—Frank, who had always reminded her a little of Dick Van Dyke, without the shtick. He was a smart man, a tough lawyer, but also a good man. An honest man—or so she had always thought. But it was clear he'd been part of the conspiracy. Lili could always wrap him around her little finger.
"Come in, Frank. I've made tea. I hope you're hungry." In times of stress, people eat. She'd read that somewhere. Silently, she proceeded to set out small plates of sandwiches and cakes from the array of food the neighbours had provided. She was glad to have something to do with her hands, some distraction from the bomb that had just been dropped on her. As she poured the tea, steam rose invitingly from the cups. But, sitting across from Frank, the cup of tea held in both her hands, its warmth could not penetrate the coldness that had gripped her since reading that obituary. No. Correction.—since Mrs. Devers approached her at the funeral parlor. It should have softened the blow. It didn't.
She set her cup of tea down on the table and folded her hands under her chin. The round maple table at which she and Frank sat was still the same, still solid under her elbows. The eyes of the owl clock ticked back and forth back and forth as they had for years. The wallpaper with its geometric pattern of randomly spaced tiny orange squares hadn't changed. Yet everything was different now. The earth had shifted beneath her feet, and she was hanging on for dear life to keep from spinning off into space.
"So," she said, with just the slightest tremor in her voice. "Lillian Waters was not my real mother."
She saw him wince. "Don't say that, Naomi. Don't even think it." He leaned forward and looked deeply into her eyes to give his words added weight. "She loved you more than life itself. She may not have given birth to you, but no could have loved you more—wanted you more." He tried to smile and fell short. "Even before she laid eyes on you."
In a kind of frantic move, he was opening his briefcase, producing what she recognized as her mother's will. He slid it tentatively across to her, like a peace offering. "But for some generous bequests to Edna and her children, and a couple of charities, everything she had in the world she left to you, Naomi. Including this house, of course. I've made some decent investments for your mother over the years. You're far from wealthy, but we're still ta
lking about a considerable amount of mon—“
"Surely you can't imagine I care about any of that, Frank. Tell me everything now. Please. Enough lies." Edna was right about that much at least.
Frank sighed, raked a hand though his hair and slid the will back into the briefcase. He sipped his tea, then set the cup down on the saucer; it rattled lightly. He sighed. "It's an old story," he said finally. "A teenager gives birth to a child she can't take care of. Your mother was working on the maternity ward at the time. She wanted you. It's as simple as that, and as … complicated. Nothing would do until you became hers. I made it happen. She took some time off and went away. When she returned, she told everyone she'd been secretly married to Thomas Waters, and that he was killed in the war. No one questioned her. Lili was a pretty straight arrow. I suppose there were any one of a dozen ways the truth could have come out, but strangely it never did. Her only mistake was confiding in Edna."
"I see." But she didn't. She didn't see at all. Such a bizarre story. "My birth mother. Who was she?"
After a long pause in which he stared into his tea cup, he said, "I knew. She admitted herself into the hospital under a false name. And the day after you were born she slipped away in the middle of the night. Just disappeared into the streets, and no one ever heard from her again. End of story."
Naomi didn't think so. The story as it stood held a false note, seemed too pat.
"One good thing has come out of this," he said, trying for a cheerful note and not quite managing it.
"Oh? And what would that be, Frank?"
He pretended not to hear the sarcasm in the question as he said, "You can cut all ties with Edna Bradley. And without any guilt whatsoever. I don't think anyone would blame you if you never spoke to the woman again. In fact, if she phones you, I'd advise you, as both your friend and your lawyer, to hang up on her."
The Abduction of Mary Rose Page 2