by Joy Fielding
“Busy day?” Jeremy asked later at breakfast.
“Some things I have to get done.” Vicki was already on her feet, dropping the morning paper to the table, kissing her husband good-bye.
“Where are you going?” Kirsten asked, entering the kitchen, her brother hanging on to the rear pocket of her jeans.
“Work.” Vicki blew kisses at her children as she walked briskly to the front door.
“It’s Sunday,” Kirsten reminded her.
“I’ll be back later.”
“The play starts at eight.”
“I’ll be back in plenty of time. Don’t worry. Break a leg.”
Vicki was in her car and halfway to Cincinnati before she allowed herself time to think. She checked her watch. Only ten o’clock. She had plenty of time. Don’t worry, she assured herself. You’re doing the right thing.
“I’m so glad you could make it, Mrs. Latimer,” the nurse was saying. “He was asking about you just the other day.”
Vicki followed the portly black nurse down the long, peach-colored hall of the nursing home, holding her breath, trying not to inhale the heavy, stale air. Like everything else in the four-story, yellow-brick building, the air carried the scent of decay and despair. No matter how brightly you painted the walls, how vigorously you scrubbed the floors, how often you disinfected the rooms, there was always this stench—the sad smell of the discarded, of those who were taking too long to die.
“He asked about me? What did he say?”
“He asked why his daughter hadn’t been around to visit him for so long.”
Vicki ignored the well-intentioned rebuke, deciding not to respond. What was the point? Besides, what could she say? The nurse was right. It had been months since her last visit, months since she’d last stared into her father’s blank eyes hoping for some sign of recognition, months since she’d stood beside his bed hoping to hear him utter her name. “How’s he doing?”
“Seems a bit better today. He ate all his breakfast. Went for a little walk down the hall.”
“Did he really ask about me?” Vicki stopped in front of the door to her father’s room.
“Well, not in so many words,” the nurse admitted. “But he looked at me in that way—you know, that cute little look he gives sometimes—and I knew he was thinking about you.”
“Thank you,” Vicki said, thinking that cute was not a word she would have used to describe her father.
“I’ll be right down the hall if you need me.”
Vicki looked down at the well-scrubbed floor, exhaled a deep breath of air, then pushed open the door to her father’s room.
The man in the single bed in the middle of the small room was the color of pale yellow chalk. “You almost match the walls, Daddy,” Vicki said, inching toward the bed, staring at the frail figure of the man who was only five years older than her husband.
He stared at her through watery hazel eyes a shade lighter than her own and smiled the same tight grin Vicki remembered from her childhood, but she could tell instantly he had no clue who she was. It had been at least a year since he’d had any memory of her at all.
“So, how are they treating you, Daddy?”
“Good,” came the immediate response. “Very good.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t been around to see you in a while.”
“You’ve been busy,” he said, as if he understood.
“Yes, I have. Do you remember what I do, Daddy?”
“You’ve been very busy,” her father said again, staring at the painting of a snowy landscape that hung on the wall across from his bed.
“I’m a lawyer, Daddy. Just like you. With Peterson, Manning, Carlysle, over on Mercer Street. You remember them, don’t you?”
“Of course,” he said, his head nodding up and down atop his skinny neck, his Adam’s apple jutting out at such a pronounced angle it looked as if a child’s building block were wedged in his windpipe.
Vicki leaned forward, smoothed down the few white hairs jutting from the top of her father’s balding head, adjusted the collar of his blue flannel pajamas. “I was made a full partner last year. I’m not sure if I told you that.”
“You’ve been busy.”
“Well, I don’t have to tell you how crazy things get at a major law firm. But it’s been good. I won a huge judgment in the McCarthy case. You may have read about it in the papers. It made the front page.” She stopped. What was she babbling on about? Her father wouldn’t have a clue what she was referring to. She doubted he’d glanced at the front page of a newspaper in years.
“That’s very good,” her father said. “Good for you.”
Yes, good for me, Vicki thought, pulling up the chair that was resting against one wall and plopping down into it, savoring the irony. “Good for you”—probably the nicest thing her father had ever said to her, and he had no idea what he was saying. She almost laughed, looking past her father at the tree brushing against the window on the far wall, its bright October leaves slapping against the leaded panes. “It’s pretty warm for this time of year,” she said.
“Yes,” her father agreed.
“You should get them to take you outside for a walk.”
“Outside for a walk. Yes, it’s pretty warm for this time of year.”
Vicki pulled the red cardigan she was wearing more tightly around her. Despite the unseasonably warm temperatures and the overheated room, she was feeling cold. “So, I should fill you in on everything that’s been going on.” Her voice resonated fake cheer.
Her father smiled his tight little grin, the same grin he’d used when mocking her for losing the fifth-grade spelling bee competition, for placing second on the debating team in high school, for getting only an eighty-seven on her final English exam at college. Nothing she did was ever good enough. Was it, Daddy? Vicki thought now, wishing she could wipe that awful grin off his face. Nothing anybody ever did was good enough.
Is that why her mother left?
“Your grandchildren are doing very well,” Vicki said loudly, trying to block out the rumble of unpleasant thoughts. “Kirsten is growing like a weed. She’s thirteen now, and almost a full head taller than I am. Wait, I have a picture.” She fished inside her large black Bottega bag for her wallet, extricated a slightly crumpled snapshot of Kirsten, stretched it toward her father. “Well, actually, this one’s a few years old. Damn, I thought I had a more recent one.” She was pretty sure Kirsten had given her the latest school picture for her wallet. What had she done with it? “Anyway, you can see how pretty she is. Her face has thinned out quite a bit since this was taken, and her hair’s much longer. She’s letting it grow to her waist. And she’s doing very well in school. First in her class last year. You’d be very proud.”
Would he? Vicki doubted it. Eighty-seven? she could hear him sneer. Hardly a figure to be proud of
“She doesn’t have a boyfriend or anything yet. Well, she’s still so young.” Vicki sank back into her chair, fought back the surprise threat of tears. She’d been barely fourteen when she’d lost her virginity. Was it possible Kirsten was similarly active? That she was having sex?
No way, Vicki decided, although how would she know? She wouldn’t have known that Kirsten had started menstruating if the housekeeper hadn’t complained of Kotex plugging up the toilet. Kirsten was relatively guarded about such matters, and she rarely confided in her mother, preferring to keep personal matters private, which was fine with Vicki. If she wants to know about anything, she knows where to reach me, Vicki reasoned. At least she knows where her mother is, which is more than I could ever say about my mother.
“She got the lead in the school play,” Vicki said out loud, tiring of her inner monologue. “Nancy in Oliver! You remember the musical Oliver!? ‘Oliver, Oliver,’ ” she sang softly, as her father bobbed his head to the gentle beat. “Well, luckily, she has a better voice than I do, although I have to tell you, the thought of a thirteen-year-old girl singing ‘As Long As He Needs Me’ is kind of horrifying. A
nyway, I’m going to see her tonight. It’s the last performance. I couldn’t make it for opening night. It was on Wednesday and I had to work late, so …” Vicki stopped when she saw her father’s eyes drift to a close. “Daddy? Daddy, are you asleep?”
“You’re very busy,” he said, almost as if he’d been listening.
“Anyway,” Vicki persisted, “we’re all going. Jeremy and Josh, who isn’t much of a student yet, but that could change, you never know, stranger things have happened. And my friends Susan and her husband, and Barbara, plus their kids, they’re all going to be there. Not Chris,” Vicki said, hearing her voice drop. “Nobody’s seen or heard from Chris since they left Grand Avenue. It’s like she disappeared off the face of the earth.”
Like someone else we know, Vicki thought.
“I’m going to see her,” she said suddenly.
“What? Speak up,” her father demanded, as the tears that had been lurking behind Vicki’s eyes gathered force, threatened to break free. Did you hear me? I said speak up. You think I’m going to let you go to the dance with marks like these?
Vicki waited until the threat subsided before she spoke. “I said I’m going to see her.”
“Oh,” her father said, not asking for further elaboration. Not interested in explanations.
“Mother,” Vicki said, the word feeling heavy on her tongue.
“You’re very busy.”
“In Louisville.” Vicki was speaking for her own edification now. “At least I think it’s her. I won’t be sure until I actually see her, talk to her. I’ve had detectives looking for her for some time now. Off and on. They thought they found her a few years back living off the coast of Spain. But it wasn’t her. I mean, she was American and she fit the general description and everything, but once I saw the pictures, I knew it wasn’t her. This woman in Spain was much too tall to be her. But this woman living in Louisville sounds like she could be the one. She’s the right height and age, and she calls herself Rita Piper, which, of course, was Mother’s maiden name. She’s not married. Apparently she lives alone. So, it sounds like it could be her. And the pictures the investigator sent me look like she might look now. Of course, it’s hard for me to remember because I was so young when she left, but—” Vicki’s voice came to an abrupt halt. “You don’t really care, do you?” she asked her father bitterly. “You don’t care at all. That’s why she left, isn’t it?”
Except why did she have to leave me too? Vicki asked silently. Why couldn’t she have taken me with her?
“Beats the shit out of me why I’m doing this,” Vicki said, throwing her hands into the air, feeling them slap her thighs when they landed. “I mean, it’s not exactly like she’s been knocking herself out trying to keep in touch. It’s not like she doesn’t know where to find me.”
And she hasn’t tried. Not once. In all these years.
“So, I’m not sure what the point of this little exercise is, but, hey, it’s a nice fall afternoon, and I feel like a drive.”
“It’s a nice afternoon,” her father agreed.
Vicki checked her watch. “Anyway, it’s getting late. I really should get going. I have to be back in time for Kirsten’s final performance. Can’t miss that. I told you she got the lead in Oliver!, didn’t I?” Vicki jumped to her feet. Now she was the one who couldn’t remember things. She had to get out of here before the nurses mistook her for one of the residents. She leaned forward, her lips hovering around her father’s dry forehead. She kissed at the air, patted his shoulder, felt him shake off her touch. Even now, she thought. “I’ll drop by again soon. Let you know how I make out.”
“Yes,” her father said, as if answering a question.
Vicki stood in the doorway for several seconds, watching her father watching the wall, feeling years of indifference pushing her into the hall. “Good-bye, Daddy,” she said, and closed the door behind her.
* * *
It took a little over an hour to reach the small, white clapboard house in Louisville. Vicki drove by the house three times, circling the block repeatedly, trying to decide how best to approach the woman who could be her mother. Probably she should have phoned ahead of time, given her time to prepare for their meeting. Given her time to pack up her bags and flee, Vicki thought, which was why she’d decided not to call. Her mother was very good at packing her things and leaving town. She wasn’t going to give her another opportunity.
No, it was better to surprise her, to confront her directly, although what exactly she was planning to say to her, Vicki couldn’t be sure. She’d been trying out various speeches for days, ever since Bill Pickering had called her office with the news he’d located a woman named Rita Piper matching her mother’s description, and she wasn’t living off the coast of Spain, she wasn’t holed up in a rustic log cabin in Wyoming, she hadn’t fled to Canada. She was living right next door in Louisville, Kentucky, not more than a stone’s throw away from the daughter she’d abandoned thirty-six years ago. Close enough to keep an eye on her, to follow her accomplishments in the paper, to keep tabs on her. Close enough for her daughter to find her, should she choose to go looking.
“Hi, Mom. Remember me?” Vicki said out loud, pulling the car to a stop halfway down the block. She couldn’t very well park right in front of the house. Shiny new red Jaguars weren’t the least inconspicuous of cars. She didn’t want to alert her mother that someone was watching the house, give her the opportunity to escape through the back door. Vicki put the car in park, breathed deeply, and watched a small square of the front window fog with her breath. “You probably don’t remember me,” she started again, then stopped. “Excuse me, are you my mother?” she asked with a roll of her eyes. Sure. Great. That’ll do it.
“What do I say?” Vicki asked the neat white house, not much different from any of the other homes on this decidedly working-class street. Why haven’t you tried to contact me? You have to know who I am, whom I married, what I’ve achieved. There’s no reason for you to be living in such modest surroundings when you could be living in the lap of luxury. Jeremy is a generous man. He’d do anything to make me happy. “And you don’t have to worry about him anymore,” Vicki said, knowing, as she had always known, that her father was to blame for her mother’s abrupt departure. Not that he’d been physically abusive, like Chris’s husband. Vicki doubted her father had ever had to raise his hand in anger to make his displeasure felt. All he had to do was look at you with those cold hazel eyes, and you knew you’d been judged and found wanting, that try as hard as you could, you would always be a disappointment to him.
No wonder her mother had left.
Vicki checked her watch. Almost one o’clock. Bill Pickering had told her that the woman calling herself Rita Piper volunteered every Sunday morning at a local hospital and was usually home by one. Of course, she might have gone shopping or stopped off for something to eat. Vicki felt her stomach rumble. Probably she should have stopped at McDonald’s for a Big Mac and a strawberry milk shake. Maybe an order of fries. The very real odor of imaginary food immediately filled the car. “Maybe there’s time for me to get something,” Vicki said, about to put her car into drive when she saw the old-model, green-and-tan Plymouth round the corner and pull into the driveway of the small white house. “Oh, God,” Vicki said, holding her breath, watching as the car came to a stop and the driver got out.
“Mother …,” Vicki whispered, peering through the Jaguar’s front window at the small, auburn-haired woman who emerged from the front seat, laughing as she closed her car door. Why was she laughing?
And then the door on the passenger side of the car opened and another woman got out. She was taller, broader, bigger in every way than Rita Piper, her hair permed into a big blond ball on top of her head, and she too was laughing. Obviously someone had said something funny. Maybe told a joke. What kind of sense of humor did her mother have? Vicki didn’t know. Her father had refused to speak about her mother after her desertion. He’d destroyed all photos of her, except one that
sat on the dresser in Vicki’s room, a picture of mother and daughter he’d probably forgotten about, and which Vicki later secured under her mattress, sensing it was in danger.
Vicki reached into her purse, extricated the small picture hidden behind her driver’s license, stared at the photograph of a beautiful young woman, only twenty at the time of her daughter’s birth, shoulder-length red hair pressed against her baby’s smooth cheek, joy and sadness present in equal measures behind luminous green eyes. “I got my father’s eyes,” Vicki noted, tucking the red hair she’d inherited from her mother behind her ears. “Lucky me,” she said, watching as the two women entered the white clapboard house and closed the door behind them.
Now what?
She couldn’t just go knocking on the door to claim her birthright when her mother had company. She’d have to wait until the visitor left. Vicki leaned back against the black leather seat, wondering how long that would be. She turned off the car’s engine, closed her eyes, trying to ignore the hunger gnawing at her stomach, and quickly drifted off to sleep.
The sound of something smacking against the side of the car woke her up.
“Sorry, lady,” a small voice called out as Vicki bolted upright in her seat. A young boy darted in front of the car to retrieve a blue rubber ball from the road, then threw it to the other young boy waiting across the street.
What was happening? Where was she? What time was it?
The answers came as quickly as the questions. She was sitting in her car in Louisville, Kentucky, waiting to confront her mother, and it was almost four o’clock in the afternoon. “Four o’clock!” It couldn’t be four o’clock. She couldn’t have been asleep for three hours! It was impossible. She never took naps in the middle of the day. Something must be wrong with the clock. Damn Jaguar. Something was always wrong with the stupid thing.