Sins of Innocence

by Jean Stone

  The room grew quiet again. P.J. felt the mattress rise slightly, and she knew without opening her eyes that the doctor had stood.

  “Thank you, Doctor.” Bob’s words. “I’ll go out with you and talk to the nurse about a schedule. Peej?” He laid a hand on the bed. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

  She managed to nod. The men walked out the door. The room was quiet again.

  “Mother?” she asked. “Are you still here?”

  Flora walked to the bed.

  P.J. studied her mother’s face. The tightness was gone; the corners of her mouth were slightly turned down. There were tears in her eyes. Flora took P.J.’s hand. It was the first time in many years that they had touched … since P.J. had gone off to Larchwood Hall … since before her father had died. Over time their visits had been merely obligatory, decreasing in frequency as the years increased.

  “Mom,” P.J. said, “I’m scared.”

  Flora sat on the bed, leaned over, slipped her arms around P.J.’s back, and, slowly, breath by breath, the barrier between them began to crumble. She raised her daughter and held her gently. “I know, Pamela,” she whispered. “I know.”

  Bob went home later that night, but Flora had wanted to stay. She had pulled a chair by the head of P.J.’s bed and sat quietly now, her hands neatly folded, her gaze fixated on the metal side rail.

  “He’s a very nice man,” she said. “I’m glad to see the two of you are still together.”

  P.J. remembered the day trip she and Bob had made to the Berkshires. The visit had been predictably formal, superficially pleasant. It had been the last time she’d seen her mother.

  “Yes,” P.J. answered. “I’m very lucky.” Lucky? I’m lying in a hospital bed with cancer. That’s lucky?

  “I’ll stay with you. At your apartment. Until you’re better.”

  Until you’re better. “You don’t have to, Mom.”

  “Nonsense.”

  Another few moments passed.

  “Is it nice?” Flora asked.

  “What?”

  “Your apartment. I’ve never seen it.”

  “Oh. Yes. Well, it’s a condo actually. I bought it a few years ago.”

  Flora nodded. She brought her eyes to her daughter’s face. “We’ll get you through this, you know.”

  We? When was the last time she’d even thought of her mother? P.J. wanted to shout, “You don’t have to help me just because you’re my mother!” Surely there was no need to adhere to the unwritten law of perennial mother’s love—they were different, P.J. and Flora. Too much time had passed. But then, what did P.J. know about motherly feelings? She thought of her baby; she thought of her son, then felt the tears come. “I guess I’ve done everything wrong,” she said.

  Flora shook her head and pushed her glasses up on the bridge of her nose.

  “We should have been closer,” P.J. went on. “I’m sorry for that.”

  “It’s not your fault.” She gave a half-laugh. “Your father was the one who kept us on an even keel.”

  So Flora had known that too. P.J. felt an ache of regret. “Yes,” she agreed.

  “Maybe it’s not too late.”

  The sounds of the hospital were muted behind the closed door. They sat together in the dimness of the bed lamp.

  “I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” P.J. said. “I’m sorry that I hurt you.”

  Flora nodded.

  “Can we talk about it, Mom?”

  Flora looked at her.

  “About my baby?”

  Flora looked back to the side rail. “There’s no need,” she said. “What’s done is done.”

  “But it isn’t done, Mom. It’s still hurting you, and it’s still hurting me.” Now, she wanted to add, more than ever.

  Flora waved off her words. “I forgot about that a long time ago.”

  “No, Mom.” P.J. pressed on with a courage she hadn’t known before. “It changed all our lives. Yours. Mine.” She lowered her voice and spoke through her tears. “Daddy’s.”

  Flora didn’t answer.

  “I know you blame me for Daddy’s death.”

  Flora stood up and walked to the end of the bed. “Nonsense.”

  “I’ve blamed myself too. When I got pregnant, it destroyed him. I know that.”

  Flora ran a finger across the top of the chart that was clipped to the foot of the bed. “You seem to have come through it.” There was no mistaking the edge to her voice. “You’re very successful, and you’ve finally found a nice man.”

  P.J. smoothed out the folds of the sheet by her hand. “It doesn’t change what I did.”

  The door opened, and a nurse came in wheeling a blood-pressure machine.

  “Pressure check!” she clucked, and maneuvered the squeaky unit to the bedside.

  Flora walked to the window. P.J. held out her arm. The nurse attached the cuff and began to pump the rubber bulb. P.J. watched the process, reminded, once again, of why she was there. I’m not going to let my mother get away with this, she thought. She may never admit to me that she, too, gave up a baby for adoption, but once and for all, we’re going to talk about mine. Her next thought was buried beneath the surface: We’re going to talk about this before I die.

  The nurse released the pressure and undid the cuff. She marched to the chart at the end of the bed, quickly made a notation, then whisked out of the room, steering the squeaking unit through the door.

  P.J. looked at her mother, staring out the blinds into the darkness. “I had a son.”

  Flora raised a hand and touched the slats.

  “He was a healthy boy. Seven pounds eight ounces.”

  “Why are you telling me this now?” Her mother’s voice sounded as though she were speaking through a filter.

  “Because it’s time,” P.J. said. “For a lot of reasons.”

  Flora turned and faced the bed. “I would think you’d have more important things on your mind right now. Like getting well.”

  “Mom, I may not get well.” The words jerked from her throat. “Besides,” P.J. continued, “I may have a chance to meet him.”

  Flora twisted back to the window. P.J. could see her mother’s spine stiffen. But she wasn’t going to stop. Not now.

  “He is a human being, Mother. Someone I brought into this world.” She paused, suddenly realizing this for the first time herself. “And he is your grandson,” she added.

  Flora snapped around. “He is not my grandson. He is the person who killed your father.”

  P.J. flinched. For a moment her mind stopped working; her heart stopped beating. She blinked her eyes quickly. “That’s not fair,” she said quietly. “It wasn’t his fault. It was mine. He was an innocent victim.”

  Flora walked to the chair. “I don’t think this is a good time to talk about it,” she said, stiffening her back once again. “You’re overwrought.” She picked up her purse and all-weather jacket. “I think I’d better go now and let you get some rest. I’ll be back in the morning.” She headed for the door.

  “Mother, wait.” P.J. sat up; the bandage gave a tug of pain.

  Flora stopped, her back to her daughter.

  “I’m not overwrought. I’m trying to make a decision about whether or not to meet him. I was hoping you would help.”

  “I want no part of it.” With that, Flora opened the door. “Good night,” she said, without looking back.

  P.J. rested her head back on the pillow, resigned to the fact she shouldn’t have bothered to tell her mother. She would not mention it again. She would make the decision herself, without Bob’s input, without her mother’s comments. She reached up and snapped off the light, then slid her hand under the covers. She did not want to touch the area where her breast had been; she knew it would hurt. And P.J. never wanted to hurt again.

  CHAPTER 14

  Monday, September 20

  Ginny

  She spent the rest of the weekend in her bedroom with a couple of fifths of vodka and a carton of cigarettes. Some time after d
ark on Monday Ginny awoke. The bottles were on the floor, half-empty; the ashtray was overstuffed with putrid butts, and her head throbbed. Ginny hauled herself to a sitting position on the bed and willed the room to stop spinning. She brought the red digital numbers on the bedside clock into focus: 10:20. Another night had barely begun.

  Ginny remembered that Jake was away, and for an instant, she felt relief. Then she remembered Jess. Larchwood Hall. All the rest. All the stuff that for so many years she’d denied to herself.

  Jake never knew about the baby, nor had her three husbands before him. It wasn’t because Ginny gave a shit what anyone thought of her … it was because if she’d told them about the baby, they’d ask about the baby’s father. Jess was the only one who’d ever for sure known, and that, Ginny realized now, had probably been a mistake.

  She rolled off the bed, wondering how many others Jess had told. Ginny had long since discovered that nothing was sacred, even among friends. Especially among friends. They acted as though they’d never judge you, then they turned around and tried to run your life, tried to tell you what was best for you. The only one who’d never done that was her mother.

  Ginny stared at the bottles. Within a year after moving her out to the coast, her mother had started puking blood. Ginny had found out by accident when she was dumping the trash one night. There, among the piles of empty pints, fifths, and fewer used boxes of frozen dinners, were the blood-soaked tissues. God only knew how long it had been going on. There had been, of course, no medical insurance, but Ginny was determined not to let her mother die. Yet doctors, hospitals, even the surgical implant of a shunt around her liver, could not save her mother. Ginny ended up not only losing her, but also going through all the money from her stepfather’s estate. In the end she was nineteen years old, alone, and broke.

  But she had made it. She smiled wryly now. Ginny Stevens had survived.

  It hadn’t been easy at first. Ginny didn’t, she knew, have the kind of face that would stop a truck. Acne scars, no visible cheekbones, and boobs that were a little too big for the Twiggy era hadn’t helped. But her body was good, and she knew what to do with it.

  Al Rosen was a fat, cigar-chomping agent who did everything but demand her to lie down at her first interview. Ginny had held out, not that she was a prude—Christ, no—but because she sensed he would also be the kind of man who wanted only what he couldn’t get. She’d dangled her thighs in his face and cock-teased him into getting her her first part—a walk-on in a B-grade horror flick. She only had three lines, but they paid the rent that month. Two movies later, Al threw out his overweight, thin-lipped wife, got a quickie divorce in Vegas, and dragged Ginny off to a justice of the peace. She moved into his tacky chrome-and-glass house in west L. A., and on the first night of their marriage, she had him begging her to stop. What the hell, it had been worth it to have somebody else pay the bills. Two weeks later Rosen dropped dead. He left her the house, a five-year-old Cadillac, and his next-to-worthless business. Overnight, Ginny became a widow and a talent agent. She was twenty years old.

  Gator Smith was a Texas boy who sauntered into the office one day looking for work. He had a huge smile and great loins, and looked like the kind of guy who could make it big. Ginny sold the house, moved into a cheaper apartment, and invested in a knock-’em-dead wardrobe. Then she began courting the big guns. Within a month she’d landed Gator a supporting role in a Clint Eastwood western; when he was halfway up the ladder to success, Ginny convinced him to marry her. She knew he had a star-studded future, even if he was too cowboy-dumb to see it for himself. And shit, a little financial security would be nice. They lasted three years. Gator became a box-office draw, and the money rolled in. Then one day she dropped in at his trailer on location and caught him red-handed, poking another Texas boy. Ginny could stand a lot of things in her life, but being married to a homosexual wasn’t one of them.

  It wasn’t until she was thirty-one that Ginny met Stan Levesque. She had given up being an agent and gone back to acting. It was 1982, and parts for has-been and never-were actresses over age twenty-five were few. Ginny was still living off the money she’d made off Gator, but it was going fast. Stan stepped in just in time. He was a successful soft-porn writer with a hard-core imagination. His greatest thrill was having Ginny make it with another woman while he sat on the bed, stroking his prick. She wasn’t really into women, but what the hell, it was the eighties. They were married on the beach in Malibu and celebrated at an orgy. Things were okay, but after a couple of years Stan found religion, and that was the end of Ginny. He’d been fair, though, giving half his money to her and half to the New Life Church in repentance.

  She was on her own again after Stan, pounding the pavement, looking for work, when she answered a cattle call for a documentary on the Gold Coast. It was being done for PBS—not exactly her style but it was work, and she landed the part. The producer was Jake Edwards, and less than a year later he told her she’d never have to work again. It was the best idea Ginny had heard in a long time.

  Yes, Ginny had survived it all.

  She swayed a little on the bed. Her smile turned to a frown. She had survived. And now this asshole Jess was trying to force her to relive the worst nightmare of her life.

  “Well, honey,” she said to the wall, “it ain’t gonna work.”

  She got up, swigged down three aspirin, and jumped into the shower. As the steamy spray pelted her, Ginny scrubbed herself with the loofah mitt, trying to erase the reminders of the past, trying to rub away those dark thoughts of a tiny, unwanted baby.

  After she’d showered, Ginny layered on makeup and slipped into a white trapeze dress that was cut with a deep V neckline and rested halfway up her thighs. Although it was a departure from her usual formfitting attire, the fact that she wore no underwear was subtly revealed beneath the folds of the silky fabric. Ginny liked her body: With the advent of the perfect-body-for-sale business, she’d had her breasts enlarged to a full 34D, and the aging flesh of her stomach and thighs pulled taut, thanks to Jake’s indulgence. Best of all, she loved the way it felt when loose-fitting fabric skimmed across her nakedness.

  “You wicked bitch,” she said into the mirror, as she checked her hair for the last time. “Time to fuck this shit and go out, and get down.”

  She waved at the mirror, stuffed a pack of cigarettes into a silver clutch, slid into white high-heeled sandals, and left the house.

  Where to go hadn’t been a tough decision: Club Le Monde was the hottest place on the Strip, filled with tourists who thought the stars hung out there. And tourists were just what Ginny wanted—not people who might know her, who might know Jake. It was time to be anonymous, time to forget everything about the present, and the past.

  Ginny tossed the keys to the pretty-boy valet and strutted through the open chrome-and-brass door. Inside, the hum of voices was veiled by the electronic sounds from the stage. Ginny couldn’t see who was performing but knew it was probably a group of tanned blondes in tight white clothes. Anything to keep the tourists humping till closing.

  She wove her way toward the bar, where those who weren’t on the dance floor stood three deep. She scanned the crowd. They were young: mid-to-late twenties, mostly, with a gray-haired guy sprinkled here and there looking like someone’s father, but leering as if he’d just come out of a peep show.

  Exactly like your stepfather, a cruel voice inside her mocked. Ginny felt her throat constrict again. She reached up and touched it, as if to force the ghost away. Then she shook back her hair and raised her chin. They’re not going to get me, she thought. Not Jess and not that baby.

  She squeezed between two no-tit girls with Nikons around their necks and made her way to the bar.

  After a few minutes the bartender nodded her way. No point in him asking her what she wanted: His voice would be dissolved in the din. She mouthed “Vodka,” then he raised the nozzle of one pump spray. “Tonic?” he mouthed back. “Soda,” Ginny said.

  She felt the brea
th of a stranger on her neck. “Tough place to get a drink,” he shouted in her ear.

  Ginny turned her face toward him. She guessed that he was about twenty-five, though it was difficult to tell in the dim lights. His sand-colored hair hinted at a bare chest beneath the silk shirt. He was young. He was ripe. She smiled and shifted her arm to exaggerate the neckline of her dress. Yes, she thought, this is much better than thinking.

  “You from around here?” he yelled.

  “No,” Ginny answered. “Boston.”

  The man-boy nodded as though he were familiar with the city. He pointed to himself. “Denver.”

  The bartender wedged Ginny’s drink through the two seated in front of her. Before she could reach for her purse, the man-boy flashed a ten into the bartender’s waiting palm.

  “Thanks.” Ginny smiled, knowing she hadn’t lost her touch. She took a long, slow sip and let the vodka slide down her throat, washing away the turmoil of the past two days. Thoughts of Jake began to dissolve. She took another drink, and thoughts of Jess followed.

  “Dance?” he shouted.

  She nodded, drained her glass, squeezed it past shoulders, and set it on the bar. The man-boy got his hand on her back and guided her toward the dance floor.

  The music was pumping. Ginny arched her back and got into the beat, letting her dress fall carelessly to one side, practically exposing one full breast, then raising it teasingly high, hoping the man-boy would get a peek at the darkness between her legs. They gyrated and bounced, with Ginny keeping her eyes locked on his as he roamed them over her body.

  The song stopped. A slow, quieter tune began. He pulled her toward him, and they swayed together. She hugged her arms around his neck and studied his clear blue eyes. He pulled her close and put both hands on the cheeks of her ass. She tightened her muscles and ground her pelvis against his. Denver, she thought, Rocky Mountain high.

  He whispered something in her ear. She couldn’t hear what he said but knew the intention. Why not? she thought. Isn’t it why you came here? Besides, Ginny knew, one good fuck would erase both Jake and Jess from her mind altogether.