The Light of Luna Park

by Addison Armstrong

  I’ve done all of this for Stella. I’ve lost my home and my job, broken the law, lied to a grieving mother. By taking Stella as my own, I’ve made a commitment to give her a better, safer life than her parents would have. And I can’t stop now. I don’t get to make decisions for me anymore.

  My decisions must be for Stella.

  I wipe the tears from my eyes and swing my feet to the floor. I pull the sheets up and make the bed. The reality of the situation is painfully simple. I must never see Charlie again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Stella Wright, January 1951

  Hattie has dismissed me. My mother’s place is full of ghosts. A doctor I’ve never seen before recognized me and knew my mother’s name. I can’t call Jack at work again without risking getting him in serious trouble. I feel like a stranger in my own life.

  I flee the hospital, and my feet unconsciously carry me to Rockefeller Center. Disappearing into the masses of early-evening holiday visitors and the anonymity of my hometown will be a welcome respite. If only I were a tourist, with no connections to this place beyond joy at its spectacle.

  I’m in anything but the Christmas spirit, two weeks and a thousand revelations after the holiday. But still the tree that dominates Rockefeller Plaza takes my breath away. I remember the height from my childhood—the tree is something like sixty feet tall—but the decorations have transformed in the decade-plus since I last visited. Hundreds of sparkling orbs dangle from the branches, and garlands thicker than my arms drape in gentle curves like frosting on a cake.

  Last time I was here was the year they opened the skating rink. They celebrated by erecting not one tree but two, and I remember gaping up at the enormous set. At ten years old, I was too short to even graze the lowest branches with my outstretched arms. But Mom didn’t let me stay disappointed for long. She hoisted me up, though I couldn’t have weighed much less than she did by then, and gritted her teeth until I was able to snatch a snow-dusted pine needle from one tree. Then we both collapsed to the ground giggling—until a disgruntled employee chased us away from the display, that is. I smile to myself. That was the naughtiest I ever saw my straitlaced mother.

  My grin disappears. That silly moment may be the only misbehavior I remember from Althea, but I know now it was the least of her crimes.

  I walk over to the ticket seller by the rink and purchase admission for seventy-five cents. Finding a bench to sit on and removing my pumps, I stuff my feet into the rented shoe-skates and then hobble to the rink to join the other skaters.

  I haven’t skated in years, so I should start slow. But I don’t. I pump my legs until I’m gliding, the muscles in my thighs beginning to burn. I want to escape myself, escape the jumble of my thoughts. The skates chafe at my ankles. I keep going. The chilly air is freeing, refreshing. It stings my eyes and freezes the tears on my eyelashes.

  Suddenly a child stops a few yards before me. His big, blinking eyes widen as I speed in his direction. His freckles look like my student Robby’s. I try frantically to stop and finally throw myself to the side in a desperate attempt to avoid hitting him.

  I fall hard on my shoulder, splinters of ice spraying my face. My groan is muffled under my scarf. My hat has flown off and landed who knows where.

  I’m testing my ability to sit up when a pair of ice skates stop on a dime before me. I look up. A man holds my soft green hat in his left hand and reaches with his right to help me up. I stand but wobble, and he steadies me.

  “Thank you.” My words come out stiff with embarrassment.

  “Happens to the best of us.” The man pulls my hat over my head, his large hands on either side of my face. I recoil slightly, my eyebrows drawing together. His gold eyes suddenly look like a snake’s.

  “Well.” I turn to skate away, but the man grabs my wrist. He yanks me back toward him.

  “I don’t think you’re ready to get back out there yet.”

  “I am.” I pull back, but his fingers tighten on my wrist.

  “You took a pretty hard fall.”

  Speak up. I find my voice. “And you’re about to as well, if you don’t let go of me.”

  He raises his hands, releasing my wrist so aggressively that I lose my balance again. I brace the muscles in my legs to keep from falling.

  My “rescuer” skates away with a huff, and I stare after him. Jack is protective, but he’d never be physical like that. My father—God, to think that Michael Perkins is my father—is violent, but my husband is not.

  Jack. I see his golden hair, his bright eyes, his broad shoulders.

  “Damn it,” I whisper under my breath. Even here, under the sparkling Rockefeller trees, I can’t escape my story. I can’t forget my mother, the Perkinses, Jack. And when that child stopped in front of me, I could have sworn it was Robby, out of his wheelchair and not just walking but skating for the first time in his life. It’s been a month since I’ve seen my children—and they aren’t mine anymore—but I can’t forget them, either.

  I make my halting way off the rink and turn in my skates. Whether I want to or not, it’s time to face my childhood home.

  * * *

  —

  I grimace as I pull open the door to our unit, dreading the cold. I’m hit instead with the thick, warm scent of tomato soup and the flicker of candles.

  Has someone been in the apartment? Terror rising, I peer sideways into the next room. I grab the coat rack between two hands and prepare to lift it—and then I recognize the coat hanging from its spindly arms.

  “Jack?”

  “Stella!” Jack comes barreling out of the kitchen as if I’ve conjured him. He reaches his arms toward me, and I wrap my own around his back. I nestle my head against his chest.

  “You came.”

  “Of course I came! I wanted to come to the hospital, but I didn’t know which one. I stopped at the café instead and got you some soup.”

  There’s no of course about it. Jack will do almost anything to avoid the city. The fact that he’s here means more than I can express; it shows me that even if he can’t share his past, he can push it aside when it matters.

  “Thank you,” I say as we move to the kitchen to eat. “Speaking of the hospital . . .” I tell him about my conversation with Hattie. “She didn’t claim me, but—Jack, we’re identical. It’s obvious.”

  Jack squeezes my hand. “I can’t imagine how hard this is for you, sweetheart. But if it counts for anything, I don’t care if your mom was Eleanor Roosevelt herself.”

  I smile at him and squeeze back. “Wouldn’t that be neat.”

  Jack scooches closer and puts his lips to my hair. “I just care that you’re you.”

  I sigh. “It’s just that I hardly even know who that is, now. Because of all this—and quitting. I don’t really have any of me left.”

  Jack pulls back and looks into my eyes. “Stella Wright. You are fearless and curious and obstinate. You are smart and beautiful and persistent. Do you need me to go on?”

  I shake my head. “Am I too persistent and obstinate? Am I . . .” I whisper my final words. “. . . like Michael?”

  “No.” Jack grips my shoulder. “You’re the daughter of a brilliant, gentle mother. You’re the daughter of her husband, protective and kind. And perhaps you’re the daughter of Hattie Perkins, who atoned for her earlier sins by sending you away as an adult to save you from her husband. But you are not Michael Perkins’s daughter, Stella. No matter whose blood runs through your veins.”

  I trace Jack’s jaw with my fingers, take in his bright eyes. For him, what matters is the present. He cares who I am, not where I came from. It’s no wonder he can’t understand why I need to probe so deeply into his dark past; he wants to focus on the here and now.

  “Jack.” I lean into him. “Thank you for coming.”

  He takes my hand and laces his fingers with mine. “It was easy to make th
e 5:47 train after work.” He feigns nonchalance.

  Despite the lightness of his tone, he knows what I’m really saying. I’m not thanking him for the train ride or the time taken from his day. I’m thanking him for being here. I’m thanking him for showing me that, however much I’ve doubted it, I matter more to him than his demons.

  * * *

  —

  An hour later, Jack and I lie tangled in my childhood twin. “More cramped than the back seat at a drive-in movie,” Jack teases, and I scold him.

  I reach out so that my fingers graze my mother’s charm box on my nightstand. “Do you want to see?”

  Jack nods and watches as I pull everything out. I show him the flower, the obituary, the photograph, the letter.

  “What’s that?” he asks when I’m done.

  “What’s what?”

  He points to the faded newspaper clippings pressed into the bottom of the box.

  “Oh, those. Just scraps. Mom used them as lining for the box. She said the wood could degrade the paper, or something.”

  “Anything interesting on them?”

  “I doubt it.” The side facing up is part of an advertisement for soap. I peel the brittle pages from the wood anyway, flipping them over to find cutouts from the classified pages.

  I scan through the ads.

  Neat-appearing widow, past 40, refined, good housekeeper and cook. Wishes to meet gentleman who can give good home, object matrimony; best references.

  Young widow, 24, and mother of infant girl. Seeking kind man; object, matrimony. Direct letters to A., c/o M. Wallace, Times Square.

  Young man wishes the acquaintance of beautiful girl, age about 25 years: I like hiking and theaters, do not dance: anyone interested please answer; object matrimony. Box 3251.

  “They’re ads for matrimony!” I exclaim. “What would mine say? ‘Stubborn, obstinate girl seeking easygoing husband’?”

  Jack chuckles. “Better than mine: ‘War vet, twenty-six, seeking passionate young woman who will put up with his episodes.’ ”

  I squeeze Jack. “I don’t put up with you. I’m lucky to have you. In fact, yours should read: ‘Dashing young man, seeking woman to make laugh.’ ”

  Jack kisses my forehead. “Is that woman coming home with me tonight?”

  I suck in my cheeks. “I’m sorry, Jack. It’s just—I’ve been thinking. I want to talk to the doctor. The one who does the incubators at Bellevue. He recognized me and I have no idea how. He knew my mom’s name.”

  Jack nods. “Okay. That I understand. But you aren’t going to go see Hattie again, are you? I don’t want either of you getting hurt.”

  I look up sharply. Jack knows me too well. I had been considering it; she’s my birth mother, for God’s sake. And I know nothing about her.

  But maybe Jack is right. Dismissing me earlier today may have been the only way she knew to save me. And regardless, I don’t want to put her in danger yet again. I look Jack in the eye and promise. “Just the doctor.”

  “I’d like to come with you. It sounded like he frightened you today.”

  I shake my head. “I was just overwhelmed, and shocked that he knew me. I can’t imagine he’s dangerous.”

  Jack sighs. “Okay. But you’ll call me after? And you’ll come home tomorrow night?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Jack kisses me. “I’ll stay the night too, then.”

  “But you have work in the morning,” I protest weakly, hoping he’ll say it doesn’t matter.

  “I can leave early tomorrow.”

  I reach over and hug him. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” he says. “But I’m starving.”

  “I’m sure we can rummage something up in the kitchen,” I say. We have leftover soup, and I bought a loaf of bread and cheese the first day.

  “You don’t want to go out?”

  I look at Jack, who was too frightened three days ago to even come to the city. “No.” I grin at him and wink. “Let’s stay in.”

  * * *

  —

  The next morning, I wake up early alongside Jack so I can walk him downstairs and kiss him as he steps into the taxicab. “I love you,” I tell him, and I’ve never meant it more.

  Once he’s gone, I climb into my own taxi and head for Bellevue. It’s too early for visiting hours, which is a blessing. I’m afraid that I won’t be able to resist the temptation of stopping in on Hattie otherwise.

  I knock on the doctor’s door again. This time, I’m prepared for his recognition.

  “Stella! You’re back.”

  “Good morning, Doctor. I’m so sorry about the way I left yesterday. I was overwhelmed. But I do have a few questions for you, if you have time to chat with me?”

  “I have a few minutes now,” the doctor says, staring at me. “But if you want to come back around noon, we can take an hour and go get lunch.”

  I remember Jack’s fears and decline. “Now is fine.” Nothing can happen to me in the hospital.

  The doctor ushers me into his office, and I sit.

  “We didn’t officially meet,” the doctor smiles wryly as he offers me a hand. “Dr. Morrison.”

  “Stella Wright.” I shake it. “But you already knew that. And you knew my mother, Althea?”

  Dr. Morrison nods. “I did. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  I shake my head. “It is now. Yesterday, I was just dropping in to ask you about the incubators for premature babies. I think I was premature, but back before the incubators were at Bellevue. When they were only out on Coney Island.”

  “You think? Stella—”

  I cough. “Mrs. Wright.”

  “Mrs. Wright.” He runs a hand through his graying hair. The color matches his eyes. “I’m sorry. I knew you when you were a baby. I almost—I almost felt as if I were your father.”

  “How is that possible? I had my own father.” I narrow my eyes. “Horace Johnson.”

  Dr. Morrison opens his mouth to speak, but I raise an eyebrow. “Let me explain why I’m here,” I say first. “Then you can tell me what you know.”

  I explain about the pink ribbon and what I learned from Hildegarde and Louise, and Dr. Morrison’s face slowly drains of color. He shakes his head slightly, and his lips move. No sound comes out.

  “Doctor? Are you all right?”

  He closes his eyes. “All of these questions you have . . . why are you asking me, instead of her?” His voice falters like he already knows the answer. “And you’re sorting through her things . . .”

  “Oh,” I say softly. “Oh, I’m so sorry. My mother . . .”

  Dr. Morrison puts up a hand, and I stop. I don’t want to say it any more than he wants to hear it.

  “When did it happen?” His voice is choked, and I feel my own tears threaten.

  “September fifteenth,” I whisper. “Cancer.”

  Dr. Morrison’s eyes close again, and his chest rises and falls. I sit awkwardly across from him, used to being on the receiving end of sympathy for my mother’s passing and not knowing what to say now that the roles have reversed. “I’m sorry,” I repeat. “You didn’t know?”

  “It’s been years since I saw her.” He shakes his head. “Last time I saw you, you were an infant.”

  I need to keep us talking so we don’t fall apart. “I don’t understand,” I say. “How did you know my mom? Did you meet here when she was a nurse?”

  He shakes his head. “I’ve only been here the last seven years. I used to be a private physician, and I treated Mrs. Wallace.”

  “Mrs. Wallace . . .” The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. “I don’t know her.”

  He explains that my mother worked for her as a caretaker when I was an infant. “Althea was so proud of you and Couney’s incubators. I can’t believe she never told you about the
island.”

  “There was a reason for that,” I say slowly. I hesitate to share my mother’s secrets with this man, but then I have nothing more to lose. “I don’t think I was truly hers.”

  Dr. Morrison looks at me quickly with an emotion I can’t pinpoint, and then sits with his head bowed as I tell him the rest of the story. I explain Hattie’s note, Margaret’s birth and death certificates, my missing birth certificate. When I tell Dr. Morrison I was born September 5, 1926, he looks up at me and shakes his head. “I met you in September. You were already two months old, born July 5.”

  “Just like Margaret,” I say.

  Dr. Morrison cradles his head in his hands. “Yet you’re so like Althea.”

  “What?” My whole life, people have commented on our differences: my rounder face, lighter hair, softer body.

  “Your mannerisms. You pull your ear the same way she did.”

  I can envision it so vividly, the way she would tug on her ear when she was eager or impatient. I feel a rush of affection for my mother so strong I nearly collapse.

  “You also see things as clearly as she did, as black and white.”

  “Except that I don’t see anything clearly right now.”

  Dr. Morrison collapses into the chair behind his desk, head in his hands. He deliberates for a moment, my foot tapping impatiently, and then looks up. “Your mother never did anything without great intention, Ste—Mrs. Wright.”

  “It’s okay,” I interrupt gently. Something in his voice—and his grief—tells me he may have been more than a colleague to my mother. “Stella is fine.”