What You Wish For

by Janet Dawson

  I know what it means, you stupid old prune. Annabel thumped her shoes against the chair and knocked the lid from the candy dish.

  “Please wait in the outer office,” Miss Simpson snapped. “I’ll try your aunt’s number again in a few minutes.”

  In that office, Annabel sat in a chair near the hallway door and thumped her shoes against the chair leg. The secretary gave her the evil eye, glaring at Annabel over the newspaper she was reading when she was supposed to be working. Annabel looked at the headlines, about that man John Glenn, orbiting in a space capsule. She’d like to strap Miss Simpson onto a rocket and shoot her into outer space.

  When she wanted to, Annabel could be quiet as a whisper. The secretary got up and went into the supply closet. Annabel slipped out and hurried down the corridor, out the front door, and down the steps to the street. Fog moved through the Golden Gate and crept up the hills to Pacific Heights. Spread out before her was San Francisco, where Father had a big office in a tall building, and Chinatown, where Lily lived. The Bay Bridge stretched across the water to Treasure Island and Oakland.

  The house where she lived—big, old, and gray like the fog—was on the corner of Octavia and Washington, near Lafayette Park. The garage door was open. Lily must have forgotten to close it when she went to the grocery store. Annabel walked through the detached garage and across the backyard. She found the extra key Lily kept on a ledge under the steps, unlocked the back door, and entered the house.

  Lily had been baking. The big kitchen smelled of almonds and vanilla. The dish drainer held a cookie sheet and baking utensils. Annabel pried the lid from the round tin on the table, revealing plump golden-brown cookies topped with almonds. She popped one in her mouth and savored the sweet buttery flavor. She couldn’t make tea because she wasn’t supposed to turn on the stove. Instead she used a chair to climb onto the counter. She took a glass from a cupboard and poured milk from the bottle in the refrigerator, careful not to spill any. She sat at the table, drinking milk and eating cookies. Then she left the glass and tin on the table and left the kitchen, heading to her room upstairs to read until Lily got home.

  On the hallway floor was a silver pineapple. Annabel picked it up and held it in the palm of her hand. It should have been on the half-moon table at the bottom of the stairs. Mother said the pineapple was a symbol of hospitality, of welcoming people. She had a collection of pineapples on that table, different sizes, made of china, wood, ceramic, glass. Fragments of glass and china now crunched under Annabel’s shoes. Broken glass glittered near the front door. The pineapples, some in pieces, were scattered across the floor. Annabel picked up a crystal fragment and tucked it into her skirt pocket, along with the silver pineapple. Her heart thumped as she inched forward. The newel post at the end of the polished stair rail was carved to look like a pineapple, and it was smeared with red.

  “Mother?” she whispered.

  Mother was past hearing, sprawled on her back at the bottom of the stairs, eyes open. Blood pooled under her head, stained her shiny black hair and clothes. Annabel leaned over and touched her mother’s face, careful to avoid the blood. She heard steps on the front porch. That wouldn’t be Lily. She’d use the back door. A key turned in the lock, the front door opened, and Aunt Rebecca walked in. She looked strange in her black raincoat and gloves, carrying a key ring in one hand and a shopping bag with handles in the other. Aunt Rebecca stared, her mouth a wide, shocked O. She dropped the shopping bag and more bags spilled out, along with her purse. She grabbed Annabel’s arm and pulled her through the living room to the study, pushing her into a leather chair.

  “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in school?” Annabel didn’t answer. Aunt Rebecca picked up the telephone. “Miss Simpson has some explaining to do.”

  But it wasn’t Miss Simpson that Aunt Rebecca called. “This is Mrs. Megarris, Mr. Dunlin’s sister. I need to speak to him immediately.” Aunt Rebecca listened for a few seconds, then she snapped, “Get him out of the meeting. It’s urgent.” She fiddled with a strand of blond hair that had escaped from her bun. A moment later she said, “It looks like she fell. How do you know? What the hell do you expect? Lily? No. Annabel’s here. She seems to be in shock. I said I would. You owe me, George.” Aunt Rebecca slammed the phone receiver back into its cradle. She stared down at Annabel. “What the hell am I going to do with you?”

  She looks really mad, Annabel thought. I wish she’d go away. I want Lily to come back. She’ll hug me and feed me tea and cookies.

  Aunt Rebecca took a deep breath and a muscle twitched in her jaw as she shook her index finger at Annabel’s nose. “You stay right here in this chair. Don’t move an inch.”

  Aunt Rebecca walked back through the living room and gathered up the shopping bags. She went upstairs. Floorboards creaked above the living room as Aunt Rebecca moved around the bedroom Annabel’s parents shared. Then Annabel heard water running. What was Aunt Rebecca doing in the bathroom? Curiosity drove Annabel from the chair to the hall. She avoided looking at Mother’s body and stared up the stairs. The water stopped running and the floorboards creaked again.

  Annabel retreated to her mother’s desk, in the alcove formed by the bay window at the front of the house. A pink envelope lay on the blotter next to the phone. The spikes and swirls of black ink resolved themselves into a name, Father’s name. George Dunlin. Annabel reached for the envelope.

  “I told you to stay in the study.”

  Annabel dropped the envelope and turned around, tears pricking her eyes. Aunt Rebecca looked different. She’d removed her black raincoat, revealing a green suit, and she carried two big shopping bags. She set the bags by the front door, picked up the envelope, and tucked it into one of the bags, dangling her key ring from one finger. “Go to the study, Annabel.”

  When Annabel complied, Aunt Rebecca opened the front door and went outside. Annabel ran to the bay window and looked out. Aunt Rebecca was putting the bags in the trunk of her car. By the time she returned to the house, Annabel was back in the study. Aunt Rebecca tucked her keys into her pocket and smoothed her hair. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. I know it’s awful for you to see your mother like that. But we have to be brave.” The phone rang. Aunt Rebecca jumped and reached for the receiver. “Dunlin residence.” She listened for a moment, then her mouth twisted as though she’d bit into a sour pickle. She spoke sharply into the mouthpiece.

  “Yes, this is Mrs. Megarris. Annabel’s here, Miss Simpson. I’m quite upset that you let her leave school and come home by herself. You shouldn’t have let her out of your sight. We will discuss this later, Miss Simpson. Now is not the time.” She banged down the receiver. “There. I hung up on her. The dried-up old bitch.”

  Aunt Rebecca took a deep breath and picked up the telephone. “Operator, get me the police... This is an emergency, an accident. My sister-in-law fell down the stairs. I think she’s dead. No, I just found her. I’m Mrs. Lawrence Megarris, at the home of my brother and sister-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. George Dunlin, in Pacific Heights.”

  Aunt Rebecca recited the address. Soon the doorbell rang and Aunt Rebecca opened the front door. Now the house seemed crowded with people. Some wore uniforms and some didn’t. There were loud voices and strange noises and flashes of light from the hallway.

  Two men—one short, the other tall—told Aunt Rebecca they were inspectors from the San Francisco Police Department. Annabel thought inspectors were supposed to look like men in the old Sherlock Holmes movies she and Lily watched on television, with pipes and funny English accents. But these inspectors looked and talked like ordinary men. They wore suits and hats, like her father.

  “The principal called me to let me know Annabel wasn’t feeling well,” Aunt Rebecca said. “Before I got to the school, Annabel left and walked home on her own. I came over here to check on her and found my sister-in-law dead. I called the police and my brother.”

  Annabel wondered why Aunt Rebecca messed up the order of things. Miss Simpson hadn’t been able to get
through to Aunt Rebecca, because the phone was busy. She’d called Father before she called the police, not the other way around. And she didn’t tell the inspector about going upstairs and running water in the bathroom, or putting the bags in her car. Was that supposed to be a secret?

  Father came, and the grown-ups talked, their voices a jumble. Then Lily rushed to the study, took Annabel in her arms, and talked in Chinese. Annabel didn’t know what Lily was saying, but she felt safe and comfortable. Her father’s voice, like a cold splash of water, told Lily to pack a suitcase, because Annabel was going home with Aunt Rebecca. No! She didn’t want to go home with Aunt Rebecca. She wanted to stay here with Lily.

  The inspector told Lily to take Annabel to the kitchen, so he could talk with her. Her father and aunt didn’t like that. While the grown-ups argued, Lily took Annabel’s hand and led her to the kitchen. She sat Annabel at the table and told her that things would be all right. Annabel took cookies from the tin and stacked them on the table, in a row, like a wall.

  The inspectors came back to the kitchen and talked with Lily. Then the tall inspector turned to Annabel. “My name’s Gary. I’m a policeman. Will you answer some questions?” Annabel ate a cookie and decided to trust him. She nodded.

  8

  “I’m going up to Ashland next week, to the Shakespeare Festival,” Lindsey told Nina on Friday afternoon.

  Nina was at the kitchen table, with her laptop and cell phone, looking at job listings. “I’ve never been to Ashland. Can I go with you?”

  Given their prickly relationship, Lindsey was surprised Nina wanted to join her. Even if it was just the enforced togetherness of the day-long drive up to Oregon and they went their separate ways in Ashland, it was a splash of mother-daughter time after a long drought, so she’d take it.

  “Sure. I’m leaving early next Thursday, coming back the following Monday. I’ll show you the schedule.” Lindsey retrieved the brochure from her office, and handed it to Nina, pointing out the red ink circles she’d drawn on several pages. “These are the plays I plan to see.”

  While Nina leafed through the brochure Lindsey called the bed-and-breakfast inn and changed her reservation to a room with two beds. Then she opened the refrigerator, picked up pen and paper, and started a grocery list, moving from the refrigerator to the kitchen cupboards. “I need groceries. Anything special you want?”

  Nina glanced at the list. “I’ll eat whatever’s here. No fruit or veggies?”

  “I’m going to the Farmers Market tomorrow.”

  Nina’s cell phone rang and she answered it, walking into the living room. When she finished the call she returned to the kitchen. “That was a friend of mine who works in downtown Berkeley. We’re going to meet for coffee. She knows about some job openings here in the East Bay. Give me the grocery list and I’ll stop at the store on the way back.”

  “Thanks. The shopping bags are in the hall closet. I’ll get some money.”

  “I’ve got cash,” Nina said. “I’ll pitch in while I’m staying here.”

  Since Nina was without a job and a place to live, Lindsey assumed her daughter was in financial straits. But pointing that out might be construed as meddling. Besides, she was picking up the tab for the Ashland trip.

  Nina collected several canvas bags and opened the front door just as Gretchen came up the steps, looking as surprised as Lindsey had yesterday when Nina arrived. “Hi, Gretchen,” she said, heading down the front steps.

  “You can close your mouth now,” Lindsey said. “Come in. I’ll make tea.”

  “When did this happen?” Gretchen asked, following Lindsey to the kitchen.

  Lindsey poured water into the kettle and set it on the stove. “Yesterday. She split up with Chad.” She scowled. “There’s a bruise on her arm. Fading now, but it must have been ugly when it was new. Other than telling me I was right about him, she hasn’t said anything.”

  Gretchen frowned. “He hit her?”

  “I’m sure he did. I’d like to wring his damn neck. I suppose eventually she’ll tell me what happened. In the meantime, it looks like I have a houseguest for the foreseeable future. She’s out of a job. She’s been underemployed for the past couple of years. Her career choices haven’t worked out the way she’d hoped. I know how that feels.”

  “Much as we’d like to protect our children from every possible harm, we can’t put guards around them,” Gretchen said. “It will be interesting for you, having her home. You’ve lived alone for so long.”

  “The nest is never really empty. Nina and I lived with Mom and Dad in Paso Robles when I took the job at Cal Poly, until I bought my house in San Luis Obispo. We’ll manage.” The teakettle whistled. Lindsey got up and made a pot of Earl Grey tea. “What brings you to my doorstep this afternoon?”

  “I’m here to invite you—and Nina—to brunch on Sunday.” Gretchen added sugar to her tea. “Come over about ten.”

  “Thanks. What would you like me to bring? I’m going to the Farmers Market tomorrow morning. I’ll pick up some fruit.”

  “I’ll be at the market, too,” Gretchen said. “It’s too early for peaches and apricots. But they should have strawberries.”

  The doorbell rang and Lindsey went to answer it. Another surprise, this time Annabel’s older daughter. “I hope you don’t mind my dropping by without calling,” Tess said.

  “You’re always welcome. Come in. Gretchen’s here. We’re having tea.”

  “Good. That’s just as well,” Tess said. “I want to talk with both of you.”

  “Is Annabel all right?” Lindsey asked, worried.

  “Yes, she’s better. It’s just that...” Tess sighed. “I don’t know where to begin.”

  Lindsey waved her toward the living room. “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.” She walked back to the kitchen. “It’s Tess. She says ­Annabel is fine, but she wants to talk with us about something. She’s in the living room. You grab the cups, I’ll get the rest.”

  “I hope nothing’s wrong,” Gretchen said.

  When they were settled in the living room, Lindsey asked, “Now, what’s this all about?”

  Tess sipped tea. “I asked Mother a question, but she won’t—or can’t—answer it. I thought you might be able to.” She took a deep breath and plunged on. “Who is my father?”

  Mothers and daughters—and fathers, a dangerous subject.

  Not this again, Lindsey thought. And from a different, unexpected source.

  Gretchen looked stunned. “What makes you think Hal isn’t your father?”

  Tess set her cup on an end table. “He can’t be. I found out after Mother had her stroke. It’s taken me weeks to process that information. After Mother’s stroke, we—me, Sharon, Adam, Dad...” Tess stopped, as though the word had suddenly become alien, at least with respect to Hal Norwood. “We thought it would be a nice gesture to donate blood. We were so appreciative of the people at the hospital and how marvelous they’d been. We went to a blood bank in the city and they typed all of us. That’s how I found out what blood types we are. My blood type is B positive, and neither Mother nor...Hal...have that type. He can’t be my father. No matter what it says on my birth certificate. My real father has type-B blood.”

  “Your real father,” Lindsey echoed, the phrase replete with snares and booby traps. Just what was a real father? Merely biology, the provision of the sperm to fertilize the egg? Or was it something less tangible? A memory came, Hal shepherding the children down the stairs at the Point Reyes lighthouse, pointing out the whales breaching offshore.

  Words tumbled from Tess’s mouth. “I saw Mother earlier this afternoon. I finally screwed up my courage and asked her. She just closed her eyes and ignored me.”

  Gretchen shook her head. “Your mother is ill. This isn’t a good time.”

  “Will there ever be a good time?” Tess countered.

  “Why does it matter so much?” Lindsey had never gotten a satisfactory answer from Nina, during their acrimonious discussions about her ow
n daughter’s paternity. Maybe Tess had formulated a better response. Maybe it was easier dealing with someone else’s conundrum, rather than her own.

  “Hal is not my father,” Tess said.

  “He raised you,” Gretchen said. “In every respect but one, he’s your father.”

  “Yes. But...” Tess hesitated. “I don’t know whether he knows I’m not his child. But now I know. It’s eating me up inside. I have to know the truth.”

  Careful what you wish for, Lindsey thought. “Sometimes the truth isn’t pleasant. Are you sure you want to go there?”

  “I’ve asked myself that question, over and over,” Tess said. “I have to know. I’m a person who has to know things, the where, the why, the how.”

  Lindsey sighed. “All these years I’ve thought Hal was your father. I don’t know the answer to your question.”

  “You were her closest friends,” Tess said. “You two, and Claire. You must know something. You all lived together in college.”

  “Hal was around on a regular basis that year,” Gretchen said. “They had an understanding. When Annabel told us they were getting married, I wasn’t surprised.”

  I was, Lindsey thought. But I was too preoccupied by my own life to notice what was going on with Annabel.

  “Mother must have been involved with someone else that spring,” Tess said. “I thought surely you’d know. You have to help me. I’ve collected Mother’s keepsakes in a box. There are some envelopes I haven’t opened yet. Before I do, I thought maybe the two of you could take a look, a fresh pair of eyes, or two.”

  Gretchen shook her head. “I couldn’t invade your mother’s ­privacy.”

  Isn’t that what historians do? Lindsey thought. Invade the privacy of others? Poke around in diaries, journals, correspondence, scribbled notes, and business records? Historians prized such sources, because they were close to the grain of life. But it was usually the relics of the deceased that historians examined. Annabel wasn’t dead.