Kaleidoscope (32 page)

“Do you remember that I was married to someone before your father? I mean before Pierre …” It was going to be just as difficult as she expected, and Alexandra narrowed her eyes thoughtfully, and then nodded.

“Yes … sort of … I suppose that was my real father … but to be honest I don't remember him. All I remember is Papa.”

Margaret nodded. That's what she had always thought. “Well, I was married before, and that was obvious because I think you might remember that Pierre adopted you right after we got married.”

Alexandra smiled at the dim memory. She had almost forgotten, until her mother jogged her memory. But now she vaguely remembered. They had gone to a lawyer's office, and the
mairie
, and then they had all gone to lunch at Maxim's to celebrate. It had been the happiest day of her life … and it was odd that in a way she had forgotten. “You know, it's funny. I think I'd almost forgotten I was adopted.” And then she blushed. “I suppose I should have told Henri, but I never really thought it was important. And Papa said …” They both knew what Pierre had told her. And she had instinctively sensed that Henri would be very angry if he knew she were adopted. So she had never told him or allowed herself to remember.

“Your father thought of you that way. You were like
his own flesh and blood … and more …” she added softly. And then she went on with her painful story. “But you were adopted”—she paused as though trying to gain courage—“not only by Pierre … but by my previous late husband. We adopted you when you were almost six years old, your parents were both dead, and a partner of George's firm came and spoke to us about you … and we fell in love with you the first time we saw you.” The tears were pouring copiously down her cheeks and dripping on their clasped hands, as Alexandra stared at her. What was she saying? What did she mean? Margaret was not her mother? Suddenly, her arms went around Margaret, and she held her tight, as though afraid to lose her.

“I don't remember that part at all, I thought … I always thought … that you were my mother….” How could she have forgotten? … How was it possible? … Not that it really changed anything. But who had her parents been, and who was really her mother?

Margaret sniffed and blew her nose again. This was even harder than she had expected. “You were four or so when your parents died … your mother anyway … and your father died a few months later. You were left with an aunt, I believe, on your father's side, but she didn't feel able to keep all … to keep you …” She stumbled and went on. “So a friend of the family was looking for someone to adopt you. And you made us the happiest people in the world, and six months later George died, and we came to France, and you remember the rest after that.” She was glossing over some of it, but Alexandra was still trying to digest the fact that Margaret wasn't her mother.

“How did my parents die?” There was a long silence
as their eyes met and held, and Alexandra felt a chill go up her spine. She knew deep in her heart that something terrible had happened. Margaret closed her eyes and then opened them, speaking in a gentle voice.

“There was a terrible argument no one ever understood … he was a famous actor on Broadway, and they said she was very beautiful …”

“That's not what I asked you, Maman …” The tears were pouring down Alexandra's cheeks as she waited. She knew, she already knew, that was the awful part, but now she needed to hear it from Margaret.

“Your father killed her.”

Alexandra spoke in a haunted whisper, looking beyond her mother at the garden. “And my father committed suicide. They told me he had killed himself …” Her hand flew to her lips and a sob escaped her, as Margaret took her in her arms and let her cry. “And I forgot … I forgot all of it … how could I forget that? … and my mother had red hair … and … she spoke French, didn't she? Oh, my God … but that's all I remember.” And then she looked up at Margaret again, the pain of the memories etched on her face ravaged by the tears born of what she suddenly remembered. “Was she French?”

Margaret spoke with obvious pain as she answered. It was terrible beyond words, and she hated John Chapman and Arthur Patterson for visiting this on them so unnecessarily, so many years later. “I think she was French … probably …” And she probably had red hair, because Alexandra did, when she wasn't rinsing it blond to please her husband. And little Axelle looked so exactly as Alexandra had at the same age. It was like seeing her again as she had the first time each time Margaret saw her.

“Why did my father kill himself? Because he killed her?” She wanted to know. It was awful, but suddenly she needed the answers to questions that were so long forgotten.

“He killed himself because he was convicted of killing her. It was a terrible, shocking story. And it left you and … it left you an orphan.” But she couldn't keep avoiding the rest of the story. That was the worst of it. She had to tell her. She took Alexandra's hand in her own again, and gently stroked the graceful fingers that looked nothing like her own. In fact, physically, they were very different, but Alexandra had never given it much thought. And suddenly she understood it … but all she could remember was the red hair, and nothing else … there was no face to go with it. She felt her heart was being torn from her chest, as though pain and memories long buried were rising to haunt her. “You had … you had two sisters as well.” Her words struck through Alexandra like a knife, and she could feel them echo in her head like ricocheting bullets … two sisters … two sisters … two sisters … Axie, I love you … I love you … My God, how could she have forgotten? She remembered the touch, the smell … black, black hair, and big sad eyes … Hillie … Hillie … and a baby. Without thinking Alexandra pulled away from her mother and walked across the room to stare out at the garden. “We couldn't take all three of you … we didn't feel …” Alexandra wasn't listening to the voice, the apologies, she kept hearing the same words … “always remember how much I love you … I love you, Axie …” and a little girl sobbing uncontrollably. Who was that little girl? Was it her sister?

“What were their names?” She had to know now.
She had to, but Margaret shook her head. She knew very little about the others.

“I don't know. I only know that one was older than you …”

Alexandra finished the sentence for her as though in a trance, “… and the other one was a baby.” She stared at Margaret as though in great pain. “I remember them, Maman … I remember something now. How could I have forgotten?”

“Maybe it was all too painful for you then. Maybe it was easier to forget. You didn't do anything wrong. You had a right to a new life. We loved you very much, and we did everything we could to make you happy.” She looked so bereft, suddenly it was as though with one fell swoop she had lost her only daughter, and Alexandra went to her and put her arms around the woman she had known as her mother for thirty years.

“You
are
my mother, Maman. You always will be. None of this will ever change that.”

“Do you mean that?” She needed to hear it, and cried unashamedly as Alexandra reassured her. “It's so awful that these people have come back to haunt you now, they have no right to do so.”

“Why have they come back?” Alexandra looked at her with eyes full of questions.

“Arthur Patterson, the man who arranged your adoption, was a friend of your family's … of your parents … and he wants to know now that you and your …” She almost choked on the word, “… sisters … are all right. And if possible, he wants to bring you together.” Alexandra looked shocked.

“Do they know where the others are?”

“Not yet. But they're looking. And they found you, so I suppose they'll find the others.”

Alexandra nodded. It was a lot to absorb at once. Suddenly, in one afternoon, she had acquired two sisters, and a father who had killed a mother with red hair who was probably French, and the mother she'd loved all her life was no longer her mother, not to mention two adopted fathers she'd discovered instead of one. It was a bit much to swallow at one sitting, and she smiled weakly at Margaret and took a big swig of wine, with an apologetic look.

“I think I need it.”

“So do I.” And with that, Margaret stood up, and rang for André, and when he appeared she told him to bring her a double bourbon. “American habits die hard, particularly in moments of crisis.” And then she turned to Alexandra, over her drink, as she slowly swirled the ice cubes with one finger.

“Do you want to see them, Alex?”

Alexandra looked up at her thoughtfully. “I don't know. What if we all hate each other and are terribly different? Thirty years is a long time.”

“That's what I told Chapman. In truth, it's ridiculous. What can you possibly have in common?”

Alexandra agreed, and yet there was an undeniable attraction to meeting the others. But there was another problem she had to deal with first, a more pressing one. Her husband. “What do you suppose Henri would say to all this, Maman?” She eyed her mother cautiously, but they both knew what Henri would say. He would be outraged. “Do you really suppose it will make a difference to him?” Margaret could see that she desperately wanted reassurance. But she
couldn't give it to her. The scandal would surely be too much for Alex's husband.

“It shouldn't, if he loves you. But I think it would be a shock to him. That's inevitable. And frankly, I still don't see why you should tell him. Your father and I talked about it when you married him, and we decided it wasn't important. We love you, you are our daughter in every possible way and what happened thirty years ago is no one's business. Perhaps not even your husband's.”

“But that's so dishonest, Maman. I owe it to him to tell him. Don't I?” Her eyes were still full of questions.

“Why? Why upset him needlessly?” Margaret tried to sound calm, but the whole thing was turning into a nightmare.

“Because the fact that I'm the daughter of the Comte de Borne is very important to him, Maman. He believes in all that lineage, and you know it. He's barely able to tolerate the fact that you're American, for heaven's sake, and only the fact that he knows what a fancy family you're from makes him willing to overlook it. How about telling him instead that my father was an actor, and killed my mother, origin unknown. I am the daughter of an unknown murderer and suicide, American to boot, with two unidentified sisters.” She grinned in spite of herself. It was a difficult situation. “Frankly, I think he'd drop dead from a heart attack. And if he survived, he'd divorce me. And take my daughters if he could get away with it. But if I don't tell him, I'm being knowingly dishonest.”

“Don't be foolish, Alex. This isn't the Dark Ages. He couldn't be that unreasonable. And besides, I still don't think you should tell him.”

“You don't know my husband. If I tell him, he
might leave me and the girls, but the rest of it's not so farfetched. Particularly with his political aspirations. My God, mother, he'd die…. And if he found out in some other way … if I didn't tell him … if someone else found out.” Alexandra visibly shuddered as she paced the room, and Margaret couldn't disagree with her.

“I told you. Don't tell him.”

“And if he finds out? If there's a scandal? At least before I didn't know most of it myself. But now that I do, how can I not tell him? That's deceitful.” It was before, too, but now she was hiding a veritable mountain of information.

“Oh don't be so bloody innocent for heaven's sake.” She took a huge sip of bourbon and looked at her daughter. “You can't always be the perfect wife. You have to think of yourself from time to time, not that you do it very often. And it would be stupid to make a confession to Henri. What purpose would it serve except to cause you a great many problems?” And she could hardly disagree with her mother. There was so much at risk. She could lose everything. Her husband. Her marriage. Her children.

“But what if I decide I want to see the others? How do I explain that? How do I slip away to America to meet my sisters? I can't exactly say I'm coming here to lunch and then disappear for five days, can I?”

“Are you so sure you want to go?” Margaret was disappointed to hear it, but Alexandra shook her head.

“I'm not at all sure … but if I wanted to, I don't know what I'd tell my husband.” Margaret's solution would have been not to go at all then, but she knew it wasn't fair to say that. She had her own reasons for not wanting Alexandra to go, it was foolish but she
was afraid that in some way she would lose her, to the specter of a mother long dead, and three sisters who would help prove that blood was thicker than water. It was childish, but she wanted Alexandra to turn her back on them. But she was wise enough not to say it.

“I don't think you should say anything to him, Alexandra. Nothing at all. You would be wisest if you kept your own counsel.” She scribbled something on a piece of paper then, and handed her John Chapman's name, and the name of his hotel and phone number. “Mr. Chapman wants you to call him, so he can explain it all to you. If you want to, you can call him at the Bristol.”

“Why is he here?”

Margaret hesitated, but only for an instant. “To see you.”

“That's why he came to Paris?” Margaret nodded in answer. “Then I'll call him. I owe him that at least.” And as she slipped the paper with his name into her bag, she saw the time. It was after five o'clock, and she was horrified. She had to get home to Henri and the children. It had been an amazing afternoon, full of unexpected admissions. And Margaret walked her to the door, and hugged her long and hard before she left, as Alexandra looked into her eyes with tears rolling down her cheeks again. “Maman, please know how much I love you.”

“You'll always be my little girl.” The tears began sliding down her cheeks again, and the two women held each other for a long time before Alexandra left her. It had been a shocking afternoon and she could hardly think straight on the drive home. She kept hearing a voice from the distant past … Axie … always remember how much I love you….

Chapter 21

Alexandra was still in shock when she got home. It was difficult to absorb everything her mother had told her. She felt as though she were moving in a dream, and she kept trying to remember things that had been gone for years … the woman with red hair … and the little girl she had called Hillie.