Kiss Mommy Goodbye (36 page)

Donna swore, first silently, then aloud. She wanted to blow her horn, but was afraid of attracting the Plymouth’s attention. She could still see the car—as long as she could see it, she told herself, it would be all right. But the Plymouth seemed to be picking up speed while the sports car seemed to be constantly reducing his. “Move it, you bastard!” Donna yelled, bursting with frustration.

As if he had heard her, the driver of the sports car suddenly picked up speed, stepping hard on the accelerator and throwing the car into fourth gear, easily overtaking and then zipping by the Volare, leaving a huge cloud of dust and a raised middle finger in his wake. “Jerk!” Donna muttered, once again filling the space between herself and her child.

The woman’s left signal suddenly flashed and Donna followed the car ahead onto the by now familiar Ocean Avenue. The woman then continued west on Ocean to Casanova where she turned left and proceeded along Casanova for five more blocks. Donna followed at a distance of half a block. She saw the woman pull the car into the driveway of a large yet unassuming house.

Was this where they lived?

The woman honked the car horn, first once, then again a moment later, with less patience. This was not their home, Donna concluded, remembering the woman’s earlier words—“We’ll go pick up your brother and then go home.” There was no response to the woman’s beeping. Leaving Sharon strapped securely inside her infant seat, the woman got out of the car and proceeded to the front porch.
Just as she did, the door of the house opened, and several youngsters came spewing out, one on top of the other, all boys, all approximately the same height, one perhaps slightly chunkier than the others. They were laughing and wrestling, falling all over each other as the woman moved with determination to the center of the mêlée and pulled one of the struggling boys free.

Donna strained to see his features more clearly, but she was too far away. She watched him break free of the woman’s hand and madly circle the car several times in an effort to get in at least one or two more parting shots. The woman finally secured him into the back seat beside his sister and then opened her door, waving a final goodbye to another woman who seconds ago had come out onto the porch. Donna improvised their parting dialogue—“Goodbye, Mrs. Smith, and thank you for letting Adam play here after school.” “My pleasure, Mrs. Jones, anytime at all.”

No, thank you, Mrs. Smith, Donna thought. No, thank you, Mrs. Jones. There will be no more times. No more times.

The woman backed out of the driveway and out onto the street, Donna again following from a comfortable distance behind. Both her children were there in that car now. She was separated from them by a distance of maybe twenty-five feet. Twenty-five feet of steel and glass and chrome and concrete. How much longer until she had them with her? She tried to project ahead until the evening. In another few hours, this would all be over. All the pain and fear and longing she was suffering now would be part of her past. Everything would be resolved—one way or the other.

The woman continued down Casanova several more blocks till Thirteenth Avenue, where she signaled and
turned right, heading toward the ocean. She drove for three more blocks to a street named San Antonio, whose backyards directly overlooked Carmel Bay. It was a breathtaking sight, the beach, stretched out before the fading sunlight, only a stone’s throw away. The woman continued for only a few dozen feet before pulling the car into the driveway of one of these ocean-view cottages and then stopping. Donna continued driving past several more homes and then pulled her car to a halt. She quickly got out of the car, shutting her door gently, not locking it, and walked over around to where she could observe the woman with her children and yet not be observed herself. The woman opened the front wrought-iron gate and the children scrambled inside. “You can play in the backyard till dinner’s ready,” the woman called after them, opening the trunk of the car and lifting out one of the large brown bags.

Dinner! Donna thought, realizing it must be after five o’clock. Victor could be on his way home any minute. There certainly didn’t appear to be any sign of him around. Donna watched a few cars passing her by, thought for a moment of Mel, stranded up in the Carmel Valley, and then directed her attention back to the woman, now lifting the second bag of groceries from out of the trunk.

Hurry up, damn it, she wanted to scream. We don’t have all day!

But the woman was in no such hurry. One by one she unloaded her bags of groceries and carried them through the gate and into the soft-brown painted wooden house with its white clapboard shutters. When the last parcel had been disposed of, and the woman had disappeared inside, Donna moved with great speed toward the house. She was
almost at the gate when the front door opened and the woman appeared again. Donna ran quickly to the nearest shrub and hid behind it breathlessly, feeling, for some unknown reason, like Jim Rockford of
The Rockford Files.
Oh, please, don’t see me, she prayed. Not now. Not yet.

The woman walked back to the car and opened her car door, pushing some sort of remote control unit attached to one of the car’s sun blinders which obviously served to open the garage door. Then she drove the car into the now opened garage. Seconds later, she walked out again and back through the gate toward the house. Donna sat for several interminable seconds behind the shrub that had shielded her, and then stood up. Just as she did so, as if the woman inside the house had been aware of her presence all along and was scheduling her actions to coincide precisely with Donna’s to arouse her maximum fear quotient, the garage door noisily came lowering back down. Donna stopped, her heart pounding. Nancy Drew, Mel had called her. No, she thought, conjuring up a mental image of the teenage sleuth, no. Nancy Drew was definitely out of her league, not to mention Jim Rockford. She belonged more with Sherlock Hemlock, the fumbling detective of
Sesame Street.
The thought immediately wiped away her fear. Her own little Big Bird was in the backyard waiting for her. There was no more time for fear.

She walked slowly and carefully toward the front gate. What if Victor were to pull up right now? What if his car came barreling up beside her? She heard footsteps. Oh God, no, she thought, feeling him walking up behind her. Abruptly, she turned. A young man walked past her without acknowledging her presence. Maybe she wasn’t really
here, she thought. Maybe this was all a dream—like the snakes. Well, if it’s a dream, she said to herself, turning back to the gate and opening it with great delicacy, we might as well see it through to the end. The gate opened easily and noiselessly. Once inside the pleasant front garden, she brought the gate closed with her hand and then stopped, listening to the sounds of her two children playing in the backyard.

The cottage had a large glassed-in front porch. Donna stared at it for a minute, her mind trying to decide exactly what to do. She would steal quietly around the side of the house, get into the backyard, see her children, explain who she was, and then run with them to her car. Donna peered inside the glass windows of the front porch. If only she knew where the woman was. She was most likely unpacking the groceries and trying to get things organized for dinner. That meant she was undoubtedly in the kitchen, and the kitchen was very probably at the rear of the house overlooking the backyard. Damn, Donna thought. Somebody help me. You’ve got no one but yourself, a voice suddenly told her. Her own voice. A voice she was hearing more and more from in the past few months. Stronger. Louder each time. Get moving, Donna, it said. Donna took two tentative steps toward the side of the house, and immediately found herself tripping over a large yellow beach ball she had somehow failed to see. Recovering quickly, she tossed the ball off to her side, watching as it came to rest just below the front steps.

A concrete pathway of reasonable width lay before her and it led straight to the rear of the house. Donna, keeping one eye on the side wall for any unexpected windows, moved slowly along the pathway toward the backyard. The
ocean was roaring its encouragement; Donna was feeling tingly and light-headed. She came to the first window and peered inside at a neat and conservative living room, a few toys scattered with almost deliberate precision at regular intervals. There was something so organized about even this amount of disorder. Donna continued along the wall. The next set of windows looked into a bedroom, probably the housekeeper’s—it looked too small to be Victor’s, too colorless to be for the kids—followed fast by the windows of the kitchen. Donna felt her stomach beginning to churn. Surely, the woman would see her here. Donna slid her body up along the side of the exterior wall.

The woman was at the opposite side of the room, still unloading the various groceries, putting them in their appropriate places. The room was large and square, all white with occasional splashes of yellow and green. It was surrounded on two sides by windows, another side led inward to the rest of the house, and the last side, the most westerly side, led into a combination breakfast nook and sunroom, which, in turn, overlooked a patio, the backyard and the ocean. If the woman remained busy in the kitchen and didn’t come out into the sunroom, Donna felt she had a fair chance of getting to her children without attracting the woman’s attention.

Donna remained frozen for several seconds at the side of the house. Then, her shoulders straightening instinctively, she thought, I didn’t drive this far to leave here empty-handed! She moved softly to the corner of the house where she could now see her children playing.

They were playing ball—a small, bright, multicolored, rubber ball—tossing it back and forth. Or more correctly,
Adam was tossing and Sharon was running back and forth.

“No!” the small male voice yelled over at his sister. “No, I keep telling you—keep both hands up—not like that!”

Donna stared hard at the little boy, quite tall for his age, slender, beautiful. So much a little man. Unmistakably her son. Adam, she mouthed silently. My baby.

“Are you going to listen this time?” the boy demanded impatiently. “I’m not going to keep telling you.” He walked quickly toward his sister and grabbed her hands. “Like this. Now, keep them like that.” He brought his head up and stopped.

He had seen her. Was staring right at her. Not moving.

The little girl did a slow turn in Donna’s direction. They all stood staring at each other from their respective positions.

“Hi,” Sharon spoke.

“Daddy said never to speak to strangers,” Adam admonished. Donna felt the tears spring to her eyes. Damn, she did not want to cry. Adam looked warily toward the back door.

“I’m not a stranger,” Donna whispered.

“What?” he demanded. “I can’t hear you.”

Donna raised her voice just slightly. “Don’t you know who I am?” she asked. He was old enough. Surely, he must remember, even a little.

“Who are you?” the boy asked, a protective arm draping instinctively across his sister’s shoulder.

Donna swallowed hard, lowering herself till she was crouching at their eye level. “I’m your mother,” she said. “I’m your mommy.”

Sharon’s eyes opened wide with curiosity; Adam’s opened
with fear. He took several steps back. Sharon remained stubbornly where she was.

“You’re not our mommy!” Adam said defiantly. “Our mommy left us. She didn’t want us anymore!”

Donna stared into the boy’s frightened eyes. How could Victor have told you that? she asked him silently. How could anyone be that mean? How could anyone hate that much?

“That’s not true. I never left you. I have always wanted you. I have been searching for you ever since your daddy took you both away from me.”

“Liar!” the little boy shouted. Donna immediately looked toward the window but the woman was still busy, by now undoubtedly used to the constant shrieking of her young charges.

“You know I’m not lying, Adam,” Donna said softly. “You’re old enough to remember me. You can’t have forgotten me completely. You know I’m your mommy!”

“You’re not my mommy!” He was starting to cry now.

“Oh, please, honey, I don’t want to make you cry. I just want to hold you. I want to kiss you. Take you home with me. Back to Florida.”

“I live here! You’re not my mommy!”

“I
am
your mommy. I want you more than anything in the whole world.”

Adam just stood staring at Donna through his tears, which were now streaming down his cheeks. Suddenly Donna became aware that Sharon was no longer standing still, that she was moving slowly but with great determination in Donna’s direction. Donna kept her eyes on both
children as Sharon moved closer and closer toward her, her large eyes burning into Donna’s.

She walked to within a few inches of where Donna sat crouching. Slowly, she raised her right hand into the air and gently reached and stroked Donna’s cheek. “Mommy?” she asked softly.

Donna’s arms shot out from her side and wrapped themselves around the small child with an urgency she had never known. “Oh, my baby,” she cried. “My beautiful, beautiful baby!” She smothered Sharon’s cheeks with kisses. “Oh God, I love you. I love you so much.”

“She’s not our mommy!” Adam screamed, a note of hysteria now obviously present in his voice. “Our mommy didn’t want us! She didn’t want us!”

Donna heard a car door slam shut from the front of the house. Good God, Victor! Scooping Sharon up under one arm, she raced at Adam and brought her hand around his mouth just as he was preparing to scream. He kicked at her, biting her hand, trying to pry her hand away from his mouth.”

She heard the front door close. Victor was inside the house.

Her only hope was to run toward the front of the cottage as Victor was walking toward the rear.

Not realizing she had such strength, Donna pitched the struggling boy under her other arm and started to run.

“Daddy!” he screamed. “Mrs. Wilson!”

Mrs. Wilson heard her name, recognized the intensity with which it had been shouted, and looked toward the sound. She saw Donna, a child under each arm, just as Victor walked into the kitchen. Victor turned toward the window. Everything froze—a photograph suspended and
enlarged. In the split second that followed, Victor’s eyes locked with Donna’s, once two matching shades of blue, now jarring, unforgiving oceans of hate.