by Renée Rosen
Faye took to stirring her tea. I thought she was avoiding the question until finally she said, “How did you find out?”
“You did know.” I was still holding the photo.
She tapped the spoon against the lip of the cup, before gently placing it in the saucer. She looked up, her lips tightly pressed together, her nod barely perceivable.
I can’t say why this bothered me—especially since I already knew it was true—but something about her knowing felt like a betrayal. “How long have you known?”
She cracked a reluctant smile. “About twenty-two years.”
“What?”
“Alice, I think it’s time we discuss a few things.”
“What things?” I stared at the platter of schnecken, thinking they looked sickeningly sweet, my stomach roiling.
Faye folded and unfolded her napkin, stalling for a moment before she said, “I knew your father long before he ever met your mother.”
“What?” This second what came out sharper, louder.
She got up from the table and busied herself at the sink. I saw her looking out the window. A light was coming from the garage next door, illuminating the basketball net. The sound of the neighbor’s son dribbling the ball on the blacktop was steady as a heartbeat. With her back toward me, she said, “I bet you didn’t know I grew up here in Youngstown. Born and raised. Your father and I were high school sweethearts.”
“What?” There was no other word I could find.
She turned around and came back and sat at the table. “I know this is hard to hear but you asked about your parents, and well, I think you deserve to know the truth.”
The truth? I clasped the side of my head. It was like something had exploded inside my skull.
“Your father and I were going to get married. But then the war came and he went off to fight. I waited for him, wrote him every day. But you see, when your father came home, he told me he’d met another woman. I thought she was in Europe—you heard about that sort of thing happening all the time. But it turned out she lived in New York City. He told me she was pregnant and that he was going to marry her. I knew he would do the right thing by her. That was just the type of man he was, and it’s one of the reasons I always loved him so.”
I swallowed hard. “And what about you? What happened to you after that?” Had they been carrying on in secret all these years?
“Well, naturally, I was devastated—just heartbroken, really. I couldn’t bear to stay here in town with the two of them so I moved away and lived with my aunt in Columbus. Eventually I met Sid there—my first husband. He was older—twelve years older than me. But he was a good man. Kind. Very bright. An engineer. We had a nice life together. No children but still it was a good life.
“When I heard the news that your mother died, I was still a married woman. And I loved my husband, so I never contacted your father. But then about two years ago, I lost Sid. That was when your father called me.” She got up from the table again and stood at the stove. The light was out next door. All was quiet, no more basketball dribbling. “Would you like another?” she asked, holding up her cup.
“So did he ever love my mother?” I knew Faye was the last person I should have asked, but there was no one else left and I needed to know.
She sat back down. “Oh, sure. Of course he loved her. It was a different kind of love than what we had—but you have to understand, your father and I were so young. Ours was an innocent love. We had no problems. Not until the war and your father met your mother. But yes, he loved her. Very much. And they both loved you. Your parents were good for each other. As different as they were—your mother, the big-city gal, him, just a small-town fellow—but still they were good together. I know he was beside himself when she died.”
If ever I was going to cry, it was just then, but I blinked, clearing my tears away.
Faye got back up, went to the stove and prepared two more cups of tea. All this time, I’d had no idea about my father and her. I thought she was just another casserole-bearing widow looking to swoop in and land a husband. I felt I owed her an enormous apology, and as I was trying to compose my words, she came back to the table with two steaming cups and set them down.
“You know,” she said before I could get started, “there’s something else—I don’t know, maybe I shouldn’t even bring it up. Your father went back and forth, trying to decide whether or not to tell you, but you’re a grown woman and—”
“What is it?”
“It has to do with your mother’s family.” I heard the reservation in her voice.
“Her family?” I clutched my cup, too hot to hold, but still I couldn’t let go.
“You see, when your mother got pregnant, it was very upsetting for her family. Her father was a prominent judge and, well, they just wouldn’t stand for it. They disowned her. Just like that.” She brushed one hand off the other. “Completely wrote her off. The whole family did. Your father tried to make it right with them, but they wouldn’t give him the time of day. I was told your grandfather sat shiva for a week after he threw your mother out.”
Something Elaine Sloan said about my mother’s father being a real shit came rushing back to me.
Faye cleared her throat and continued with what I thought was a non sequitur. “You know I never had any children. And like you, I was an only child and my parents are both gone. I know what loneliness is. I know how important it is to have family. I realize you don’t think of me as family and I understand, but—and as I said, maybe I shouldn’t be telling you all this, but you’re a grown woman now. I think you have a right to know.”
“Know what?”
“You were always told that your mother’s parents died before you were born, but . . .”
“But? But what?” I could feel my eyes growing wider, urging her to get on with it.
“Alice, sweetheart, your mother’s parents . . .” She sighed. “I don’t even know where to begin.” She shook her head. “They didn’t die. At least if they did, it wasn’t before you were born. They were alive. Presumably they still are.” She reached into the box and pulled out a tattered address book. “Your grandparents live in Stamford, Connecticut. Or at least they did.” She opened the address book to a page yellowed and stained with a coffee ring. “This is the last address your father had for them. I believe it’s the same home your mother grew up in.”
I sat there, speechless.
“I honestly don’t know how they would react if you were to contact them, but I know that what happened between them was a long, long time ago. People mellow. They change. And well, I didn’t want you to leave here without knowing that you’re not alone. You do have a family.”
And those were the words that unlocked the floodgates. Before I could stop myself, my eyes glazed over and the tears let loose. I cried so hard I couldn’t catch my breath, and when Faye got up from her chair and came over to wrap her arms around me, I collapsed into her embrace and cried even harder.
“I didn’t know about you and my dad,” I said, bawling into her shoulder, feeling guilty for being so cold and indifferent to her all this time.
“Shssh.” She held me close and collected all my heartache. “Shsssh.”
I sat there blubbering, crying for my mother, for my father, and for the first time in years, I cried for myself. And when all my crying was done, and I was drained and drying my eyes, I felt a certain grace, or lightness, come over me. It was a shift that I couldn’t explain, but I knew something inside me was different. I’d finally released the weight of my unshed tears.
CHAPTER THIRTY
I took a morning flight, and when I arrived at LaGuardia one week later, I was relieved to be back in New York. It didn’t exactly feel like home, but then again, I was a stray with no real place to call home anymore. Still, I relished the chaos and the bustle of Manhattan. It helped drown out all the noise inside my head
.
Ever since Faye told me about her past with my father and about my mother’s family, I’d been emotionally messy. Without warning, I would burst out crying. Wherever I went, clumps of damp tissues seemed to sprout up. It was as if I was making up for all those years of holding everything inside.
On the flight home, I forced myself to look onward, toward the future. I knew my father had left me a little money, and I had decided that I would use some of it to buy a new camera, a Nikon, like the one Christopher used, and a handsome leather portfolio. I was also going to finally work up the courage to take a photography class. I was ready now to put my work to the test, and surely Helen would understand if I needed to leave work on time once a week for a night class. Surely she would.
I went to the baggage claim and got my suitcase, lugging it along, inching forward in the taxicab line. As we were leaving the airport, traffic slowed to a crawl. The taxi driver switched the station on the radio and the song “You’ll Never Walk Alone” came on. I’d heard that song a thousand times but never really listened to the words. When it got to the chorus and the music swelled, my eyes misted up. Through my blurred vision, I saw the signs for the turnoff to the Long Island Grand Central Parkway. Something snapped and pure impulse took over.
“Driver”—I leaned forward toward the clouded cutout window—“change of plans. I’m going to Stamford instead.” I reached into my pocketbook and read off the address I’d copied out of my father’s old address book.
I didn’t know if this was the smartest thing I’d ever done or the stupidest. Maybe I was looking for some sort of resolution, or maybe I was a glutton, looking to punish myself. All I knew was that ever since Faye told me about my mother’s parents, I’d begun thinking of myself as illegitimate. The realization that her family had been out there all along and had never once tried to find me made me feel dirty, worthless and unwanted. Unlovable.
Maybe I should have telephoned first but there was a sense of urgency, that if ever I was going to confront them, it had to be now. My cab crossed the Bronx-Whitestone Bridge stretching over the East River, the Manhattan skyline to my left. The roads were winding and tree lined, their overarching branches forming a canopy. Foliage and ravines rolled away in the distance, and out my window, I saw the tracks of the New Haven Railroad—the same train my mother used to take into the city, the very train I would be taking back into town, since this taxicab ride was going to wipe me out. The meter was ticking higher and higher, already up to $6.75.
We passed exits for New Rochelle, the New York State Thruway, past White Plains and Rye before we came to Stamford, lush and green with rolling hills. The homes were getting more majestic by the block. I knew my mother’s father had been a successful judge, but never would I have imagined her growing up in such opulence.
We pulled onto Long Ridge Road and my heart began beating twice as fast. It was too late to turn back, and I hadn’t a clue of what to say, what to do. The cab turned into a long curvy drive leading to a grand Victorian house that looked like it belonged on a postcard with its mansard roof, wraparound porch, all the spindles and a three-car garage.
With my suitcase in tow, I made my way up to the front door and took a deep breath before reaching for the brass knocker. It felt like I was waiting for an eternity, my palms sweating, heart racing. At last the door opened and a tall, graceful older woman with clear blue eyes, translucent skin and perfectly coiffed dark hair stood before me. Here she was, the source of my mother’s beauty.
She stared at me, dumbstruck. The look on her face was one of a ghost’s sighting. I’d always known I strongly resembled my mother but this confirmed it. As she looked at me, one manicured hand went to her mouth, the other to her chest.
“I’m Alice,” I said. “Vivian’s daughter. May I come in?”
I’m not sure if she said anything, but she stepped aside and I took that as my invitation to enter her home. As we stood in her marble foyer, beneath a spectacular chandelier, I began to take in the rest of her—the cashmere sweater, the gray wool slacks, the diamond earrings and creamy pearls about her neck. In silence, I followed her into an elegant living room with an enormous fireplace, the mantel lined with photographs. I wanted to study them, but she gestured toward the Queen Anne settee, asking if I wanted coffee or tea, which, no doubt, would have been served in fine china, on a silver tray.
With no indication of whether she was pleased or about to throw me out, she said, “What brings you here, Alison?”
“It’s Alice. My mother, she called me Ali.” I felt horrible correcting her but even worse that she didn’t know my name to begin with.
“Well, Alice, I’m Ruth.” She smiled, placing a hand over her heart, and with the first bit of warmth I’d felt from her, she said, “I suppose this makes me your grandmother.”
I nodded and we both gave off the same queer-sounding laugh. The awkwardness lingered for another moment or two until she sat back and asked me about myself. I explained that I was living in New York, working for Cosmopolitan magazine. I told her that I’d just come from my father’s funeral and how Faye had told me everything and given me her address.
“Well, I doubt she told you everything,” she said, picking an imaginary piece of lint off her slacks. “But my goodness, you have been through a lot, haven’t you?”
More silence. I was beginning to think this was a huge mistake.
“Is your husband still alive?” I asked tentatively.
“The judge? Oh, yes. He’s not well, though,” she said, shaking her head. “Dementia. Hardening of the arteries. He doesn’t remember the accident. For the most part, I don’t think he realizes that Vivian is gone.” She hesitated for a moment, asking again if I wanted a cup of coffee. Another moment passed. “I’m afraid I’m at a loss here,” she said. “You’ve caught me by surprise.”
“I realize that. I’m sorry. Until an hour ago, I didn’t know I was going to come here, either.”
She reached up, twisted one of her diamond earrings. Everything about this encounter was strained and I was about to apologize for the intrusion and make my exit when she said, “You must think we’re terrible people. I suppose you’ve heard what happened between your mother and her father?”
“Bits and pieces. I have a feeling there’s more.”
“There’s always more,” she said with a sad smile. “Honestly, when Viv came and told us she was pregnant, we didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t the sort of thing we’d ever expected to hear. I wanted to send her somewhere. There was a home in Vermont for unwed mothers, but the judge wouldn’t hear of it. He was very proud. Very stubborn.” She squeezed her eyes shut, the faint lines in her face suddenly growing deeper. “Oh, the yelling that went on. You can’t imagine the terrible things the two of them said to each other. It was awful. People who love each other should never talk like that. He was a bear back then. Headstrong and so hard on her. When he told her to get out, I was sick inside. I tried but I couldn’t reason with him. No one could. But believe me, he suffered over what he did to Vivian. Oh, how he came to regret that. And by the time he was ready to make amends, it was too late. We heard about the accident from her friend Elaine.”
So Elaine knew. Of course she knew the truth. This explained some of the odd things she’d said to me, or had tried to say.
“So many times I wanted to reach out to your mother and, then, out to you, but Morris, he wouldn’t allow it.”
“You mean you wanted to find me?”
She looked surprised. “My goodness, you’re my daughter’s child. You’re my blood.”
Without warning, her words broke me. I sobbed when she said that. Just bawled into my hands. She reached over and gave me a delicate monogrammed handkerchief. I kept apologizing and she kept hushing me as I dried my eyes.
After another awkward, agonizing silence, she said, “I’ll bet Vivian was a wonderful mother.”
T
hat ushered in another wave of tears, and through glassy eyes, I looked at the photograph on the end table. It was a grainy black-and-white of four girls, all close in age, sitting on what very well could have been the same settee we were seated on just then. “Is that her?” I asked, pointing to the one in the middle. They were all pretty girls, but my mother had a different kind of beauty. She had something magical, even back then.
Ruth picked up the photo and sat next to me. “That’s her with her sisters—”
“Sisters?”
“Your aunts, I suppose. That’s Laurel, Sylvia and Muriel.”
Aunts? I have aunts!
“This was hard on them, too,” she said. “They wanted to stay in touch with Viv—I think Laurel might have written to her once or twice, but that was it. Their father forbade it. The girls were scared of him. We all were, I suppose.”
“Are they still . . .”
She nodded. “Laurel is in New York. Married with a daughter, about your age. That’s her.” She reached for another photograph. “That’s Susan. And Sylvia”—she returned to the photo of the sisters—“she’s in Greenwich. She has a daughter and two boys. And Muriel is in White Plains. Married with three boys.” She smiled, got up and pointed to another photo on the mantel. “These little rascals are your other cousins.”
Just then an older man with stooped shoulders, black bushy eyebrows and a full head of snow-white hair shuffled into the living room. So this was him, the beast. The almighty judge.
“Who’s here? Who’s”—he stopped, mouth open a good ten seconds before he spoke—“Vivian? What are you doing here?”
“I’m Alice. Ali. Vivian’s daughter.”
“Morris, go back in the study and sit down.”
But he didn’t budge. Ruth turned to me, speaking softly. “His memory goes in and out. He gets confused.” She turned back to him. “Did you hear me, Morris? Go back and sit down.”