Stolen Grace

by Arianne Richmonde

  ___________________

  Ruth Steel

  13 May

  Getting a ton of writing done

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  ___________________

  Ruth Steel

  12 May

  Just love being in the countryside

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  Sylvia conjured up images of saints and gurus who were said to radiate an aura of light around them. Sylvia’s own aura was Guilt, dark like a mud-cloud, wrapped about her like a second skin. She could smell it. She could taste it. She wore Guilt to bed, breathed through it, feeling it tighten around her throat, letting her off for snatches of moments. Minutes, seconds, here or there. Beautiful flashes of Grace; laughing, playing on a swing, painting a picture, eating apple pie. And then Sylvia would wake again—back into the black void, the abyss—falling, falling, with nobody to catch her.

  Tommy had stopped by their house in Crowheart before he hopped on a plane to Saginaw. Everything that mattered had been taken from the filing cabinet. Grace’s adoption and medical papers, passwords, bank statements, birth certificates (both British and American). The lot.

  On top of her skin-crawling guilt, Sylvia wore an invisible cloak that was embroidered all over, with the words, STUPID FOOL. How had she been such an idiot, so trusting of a virtual stranger? As if Grace were a chip to gamble with in a game of roulette. She did not know Ruth and never had. All those Skype calls and e-mails, and even hanging out together, told her nothing. If only she’d paid more attention to each conversation! How could a woman date a man who had shot a tiger? How could she, Sylvia, not have taken that clue as evidence as to the kind of person Ruth was?

  She gleaned through the e-mails again, the only ones she had left—the ones she had never erased. For the sixth time that day, she reread for clues. Who was this woman?

  Hi Sylvia,

  Like a teenager at school waiting for my exam results and wondering if I’ve passed, I’m awaiting the results of my latest blood test at the clinic. I’m shaking with anticipation waiting to see if my three follicles are mature enough for collection. The Doctor is confident that collection will be later this afternoon but needs to double-check my hormone levels: LH, E2, and P4. So, I’m feeling extremely nervous as you can well imagine!

  The risk lies in waiting until full maturity in case I ovulate spontaneously and then all those precious eggs could be lost. Help!!

  Collection is really uncomfortable and I’ll be pooped afterwards.

  There are all sorts of characters here. As you can imagine, at forty-six, I am the oldest woman in our little coterie. Nobody can believe my age, they all think I look so much younger. There is a lovely lesbian couple, both with donors, and a Mexican socialite whose father owns half of Mexico and is very powerful! We have become great friends. We all take care of each other when we can.

  My relationship with Jeff is going through the wringer – he is threatening to break up with me because he found my morning pages and read stuff I’d written about his kids. Well, his children are, I have to be honest, not my cup of tea – to put it politely! He believed it was my diary . . . . why couldn’t he see the difference? Morning pages are a stream of consciousness – how can I be held responsible for my first thoughts of the day?

  He’s extremely wounded and angry. Being quite cruel to me.

  I’ve decided that I’ll have my baby, with or without Jeff. I can get a donor. Maybe I’ll even stay on in Mexico, after all, I speak fluent Spanish – it feels like home. Or maybe I can go to Brazil and bring up my baby there. I grew up there. Write, live an inexpensive existence. We’ll see. I’m feeling very emotional, crying a lot, but that’s to be expected with the drugs et cetera.

  How are things with you? Still busy with your script?

  I send you and Tommy a big hug. Let’s Skype soon.

  Xoxo, R

  P.S If you were to describe me in one sentence what would you say?

  Sylvia reread the clues. Fluent Spanish. Lived in Brazil, which meant she was also fluent in Portuguese.

  Mexico, Brazil.

  Would Ruth return to Mexico? Assume the police would imagine that she wouldn’t be foolish enough to do so? She obviously had an influential contact there—the socialite with the rich father.

  The FBI had already contacted the clinic in Guadalajara. But there was the problem of patient confidentiality. Another country outside US jurisdiction. It wasn’t easy to force them to hand over information. They had never treated a Ruth Steel, they said. What were they meant to do? they protested. Hand over information for every single one of their patients? Finally, they did comply. They had a Ruth Vargas, forty-six years old, but even when they did forward her contact information, it didn’t do much good. A bogus New York address and phone number. An e-mail address. The same e-mail address that Sylvia had, anyway. No match to a Ruth Vargas of her description in the USA. There was no information about her boyfriend, Jeff. None whatsoever. Her eggs were still there. Frozen. Waiting for a rainy day. But she hadn’t contacted the clinic for six months.

  Why would Ruth even bother? She had Grace now.

  Sylvia read another e-mail sent two days after the first.

  Hi Sylvia,

  I told you, didn’t I, that Jeff found my notebook and read a whole lot of my morning pages? He wants to split from me. Temporarily anyway. I believe his daughter is jealous of me – she’s sixteen – and it’s causing problems. But that’s life, huh?

  But I’m sad today – missing him. Like Dracula without his fangs. I’ll be alright, though. I can already see that we’ve each given the other the most precious of gifts. He has given me the gift of motherhood – I would never have taken this step if it hadn’t been for Jeff. And now I’m here in Mexico actually going through with it! Can you believe it, Sylvia? I’m going to be a mother! And I’m forever grateful to Jeff for this.

  And I gave him the gift of sobriety – he would never have had the strength to get sober and stay straight if it hadn’t been for me. We are both conscious of this and I’m sure he will truly acknowledge all the wonderful things about me in the future. Time is a great healer. So, if we’re only meant to be in each other’s lives for these reasons only it has been worth the agony, the heartache.

  He never did give sperm – like I told you, the vasectomy would have brought a slew of complications. But I did keep my hopes up about that. I really did.

  Keep your fingers crossed for me! I’m waiting for my eggs to be collected today at 2pm. The doctor says my ovaries are responding to stimulation like the ovaries of a 24-year-old. I’m SO excited! I’ve been up since the crack of dawn; blood-work, ultrasound, and . . . praying!

  Oh Sylvia, isn’t life just amazing? Why don’t you come and join me?

  I send you a huge hug, R x

  “Going to be a mother?” The confidence! Ruth wasn’t even pregnant! Why, oh why, hadn’t Sylvia seen the signs? She couldn’t believe how dumb she’d been. Blind and trusting, the wool pulled tightly over her eyes. Ruth’s fantasy, the against-all-odds risk-taking at any cost. The woman was convinced pregnancy was just going to pop into her life like a magic wand being waved! Using her own eggs at forty-six years old? Even for a twenty-five-year-old there was only a fifteen percent chance of success.

  Kidnapping Grace was simply another route on her twisted journey for her prize:

  The prize of motherhood.

  Underneath was Sylvia’s own reply to the “how would you describe me” question. Sylvia had written:

  I would describe you, Ruth, as an international, multi-lingual, cultured hybrid whose residence is the world. A woman who is unpredictable, open for adventure and change yet organized in her diversity. A person who could mix with royalty or blue collar – someone who has inner confidence yet is vulnerable and with a sharp sense of humor and an appreciation for the absurd.

  Sylvia had got her right on many counts but hadn’t thought to add: And a ruthless
(Ruth, what a perfect name) callous, cold-blooded witch who will stop at nothing to achieve her objective.

  She clicked on another e-mail:

  Hi Sylvia!

  Things are back to normal with Jeff so I’m back on track as before. He promises to attend AA meetings and has agreed to go to therapy. I’m trying to find him a shrink. He’s looking after himself taking a million vitamins and will be coming out next month for the sperm thing.

  Guess what? I’ve had my 3rd collection and got 3 eggs. Total frozen: 7. Can you imagine how fantastic! My ovaries are the superstars of the clinic! It’s painful, though. I am sore but it’s worth it when I know what the pay-off will be . . . . a beautiful, hazel-eyed baby! Motherhood, here I come!

  Next month will be the next step: fertilization, blastocyst culturing, and transfer into the womb. Then I’ll know if I’m pregnant. Isn’t that amazing?!

  Then I can live somewhere warm. Key West? Brazil? And you can come for a long visit to escape the winter. I’ll be pregnant, wolfing down ice cream and pickles, deliriously happy, and furiously editing my novel!

  R xxx

  P.S Just realized you may not know what blastocyst culturing means – it’s a way of reducing multiple pregnancy rates. The way they used to do it was that embryos were transferred to the uterus on day 3 (called Day 3 transfer) after fertilization, and it is still not uncommon to transfer three or four embryos. But now, it is possible to grow embryos in the laboratory to the blastocyst stage of development which happens on day 5 after fertilization when the embryo has between 50 to 200 cells. Usually, the strongest, healthiest embryos make it to blastocyst stage as they have survived the biggest part, growth and division processes, and have a better chance of implanting once transferred.

  Just think, my baby will be a little modern miracle!!

  The last e-mail spelled another story:

  Hi Sylvia,

  It’s been an emotional rollercoaster with Jeff. He pulled out of the sperm thing, wouldn’t come out to see me, said it wasn’t fair on his daughter. I guess that was just an excuse. We’ve decided to split; or as he says, “taking a break.” But the truth is, he’s a recovering addict and he does not have the emotional resources to be supportive of my needs. His ability to be a fulfilling partner is negligible. I am just not willing to forego the kind of support I need. I want a healthy, satisfying relationship! Don’t we all?

  I began to notice Jeff’s shortcomings whenever the baby subject came up. And the truth is, when I examine the situation, I see the reality of what the dynamic has always been in our relationship. I am the giver. He is the taker. Plus, we have such different backgrounds. He is a blue-collar worker. Me? I come from a different class altogether. I speak three languages, I’ve read Dickens, I have a college degree. Even the books we read speak volumes. (Get the pun??!!)

  So I am going to continue the IVF on my own and get a sperm donor. I am grieving like a child who has lost its mother at the fairground but I believe it is the right direction for me to take.

  Take care of your relationship with Tommy. I have to say, you really have it all, don’t you? Brains, talent, a sexy, gorgeous husband, a beautiful child. Lucky you. Nurture it.

  When are you coming to join me? Come on, have an adventure – hurry up and get here!

  Hugs R xxxxxxxxxx

  Sylvia read and reread that telling line, “grieving like a child who has lost its mother at the fairground.”

  And,” come on, have an adventure.” Now that Ruth had abandoned the IVF project, was that what Grace was to her? “An adventure?”

  How did Ruth imagine Grace felt losing her family? Had that crossed this woman’s mind? A pair of sparkly Dorothy shoes wasn’t enough to win a little girl’s heart, however gullible. Grace must be beside herself with confusion. Desperate. What would Ruth have told her? “I’ve stolen you. I’ve kidnapped you.” Hardly.

  Sylvia couldn’t even imagine what lies Ruth must have spun into her tapestry of deceipt.

  She reread the most chilling paragraph of all: “Take care of your relationship with Tommy. I have to say, you really have it all, don’t you? Brains, beauty, talent, a sexy, gorgeous husband, a beautiful child. Lucky you. Nurture it.”

  Jealousy? Sylvia wondered.

  CHAPTER 19

  Tommy

  Tommy was sitting in the Saginaw dining room, his eyes closed, head buried beneath his hands, his insides jelly. Grace, Grace, Grace. He could think of nothing else. She was his life. His heart. He stared at the wall, tears stinging his eyes. There were no words to describe how he and Sylvia felt. Grief didn’t even begin to cover it. Horror?

  He needed a plan so that their feelings could be supplanted by action.

  They had to find Grace.

  They would find Grace.

  He let his gaze drift to the table. The Loretta letters were still spread out, his father-in-law’s silver-plated golf trophies placed strategically on the sideboard, glittering in the background—a dead man’s paradox.

  A dark horse.

  Wilbur Mason had lived a lie.

  The sort of person, Tommy understood, who had been caught by circumstance, but had surrendered to his own fear and ego, letting it take over his life. He had perjured himself and those around him. His whole marriage to Sylvia’s mother had been a lie.

  Tommy did not—he was clear about that now—want to be that sort of man.

  He did not want to be a liar.

  But there was no chance he could talk to Sylvia about how things had panned out in LA. Not now. Not after what had happened with Grace. His wife was barely holding it together, and he was all she had. He didn’t want to bring the subject up—just mentioning it could tip her scales.

  He had to be strong for her.

  For Grace.

  Things could be worse, he told himself. At least Ruth wasn’t a killer. She wasn’t going to sexually abuse Grace and bury her in a ditch somewhere. At least, he sure as hell hoped not. No, she wanted Grace for herself, to fulfill her perverted, fantastical dreams of motherhood. All that frozen egg business proved it. It didn’t work out, so she stole Grace. What a sicko.

  Every now and then, Sylvia asked him if there had been some mistake, that perhaps Ruth and Grace had both been abducted. Tommy understood that his wife just couldn’t fathom how a woman could do that to a child; to thieve a happy, well-adjusted little girl from her family to feed her own needs and ego. Perhaps, Sylvia reasoned, it was just a sort of holiday, and Ruth would bring Gracie home. His wife always did see the good in people. She was far too trusting. That’s what had gotten them into this mess in the first place. Sylvia’s trust. Tommy didn’t blame her, though; it was her sweet nature. And he hadn’t suspected Ruth at any point, either. In fact, he blamed himself for not being more on the ball. Then again, how could anybody imagine a person like Ruth could be that crafty? That wicked?

  He’d scrutinized Ruth’s e-mails and Facebook posts. She was a selfish bitch with an inflated opinion of herself; clever yes, but a nasty piece of work. Someone who would obviously stop at nothing. She’d committed fraud—a serious offense. She’d stolen money. There was no way she’d turn back now. This Ruth bitch was in it for the long term. And the only thing he could possibly do . . .

  Was hunt her down.

  CHAPTER 20

  Sylvia

  Four days had passed since Grace’s abduction. They’d done everything to find a trace of Ruth. The FBI was treating this as top priority, obviously. A detective named Agent Russo was in charge of their case. She’d told Sylvia that they could access Ruth’s DNA with blood tests from the clinic. But what use would that be? The DNA of someone who didn’t figure on any database? Ruth had given the clinic a false name and had even paid for the treatments in cash. There were no credit cards in the name of Ruth Vargas, at least not that Ruth Vargas. There were twenty-seven women called Ruth Vargas on Facebook alone, but the police could find none to match the Ruth Vargas. Ruth Steel. Same difference. She didn’t exist. Her laptop had
had its IP address hidden all along. Another “convenient” thing in her favor that made it impossible to trace any of her last movements, assuming she had even taken her laptop with her. She seemed too wily for that.

  Sylvia went over it once more with Tommy, just to be sure.

  “Explain this IP address thing again,” she said.

  Tommy’s eyes were sharpened flints. “If she told you an ex of hers had tweaked her laptop, or bought a program to hide her address so she could watch American TV in Europe, then that must have been what happened. In order to get an American IP address you have to connect to a VPN server.”

  “What’s VPN?”

  “Virtual private network—it’s far less complicated than it sounds. When you connect to a VPN server it will act as a middleman between you and the website you want to connect to, and if the VPN server is located in the United States it will then look like you are there, too. There is even a provider called Hide My Ass Dot Com. Anyway, the woman’s no fool. She will have dumped her laptop by now, with all your money she could buy as many laptops as she wants.”

  “Our daughter. Our money,” Sylvia mumbled.

  Tommy continued in a monotone, “We know her last stop was Guatemala—where she went after is anyone’s guess. Two hundred and forty-seven thousand, seven hundred and twenty dollars, and eighteen cents. What cheek to use your passport, Sylvia.”