Silent Bird (30 page)

I took two steps closer and leaned against him so that his arms went around me, holding me securely at the chest. And it felt peaceful that way, though I could imagine the position becoming sexual. I wanted to hunger for that, wanted to feel aroused by it, to love and relish every bit of it when it happened.

Arm in arm we walked into our garden.
The effect at night was startling: darkness that was not scary but lush and seductive and sweet with secrets. I could sense the mimosa that no longer bloomed.

Jeannot shut the backyard gate gently and cradled my hand as we waded through the
weeds to the plastic furniture that weathered all of France's four seasons. He righted an upside-down chair and gestured for me to sit. I shook my head, so he sat and beckoned me to his lap.

I went without hesitation.

We didn’t speak for a while. Looking over his shoulder, I saw the French doors to our bedroom, as always open just a fraction.

I was on the other side
of now, and it was a mixed blessing, like finding a shell you wished for and then turning it over to see that an animal had once lived inside, taking nourishment, and now you had a souvenir. Starfish, too, broke my heart, for they were lovely and graceful, with curling, beckoning arms; they were not nearly as wonderful in a jar.

“You know what?”
Jeannot murmured. “You really are stubborn. If I had suggested this myself—that you travel, see Europe a little, and perhaps return home to think about things—you would not have considered it. But now, because of this—because of my father...” His voice trailed off.

“
I know,” I said, almost lulled into sleepiness from the scent of his skin and his green apple shampoo, and the tangled calm of the garden. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

With my eyes closed I
saw another image, and strange as it was, it comforted me.

A small girl gleefully pedaling along on a new hot pink bicycle, finally without training wheels, up and down the block in front of our house.
And my father standing there on the sidewalk, nodding and smiling all over his face. The little girl reached the end of the block where she had to turn around, and cried: “Daddy, I can’t do it! I’m going to fall!”

He called back:
“Oh, no, you’ll be fine, love! Just keep telling yourself that, and you’ll always land on your feet!”

So
the little girl closed her eyes to concentrate, which wasn’t very smart because immediately the bike tipped over and dumped her rudely onto the sidewalk…

And
I landed with a gusty howl.

But on my feet.

Despite the pain, I landed on my feet.

Dearest Pilar,

I know you want to talk when you get home, and I want that too. But first there are some things you should know about your father and what happened when you were five. I have never been able to tell you the whole story, and I feel bad about that. I want to change.

You can’t imagine what I went through back then. No one but a mother could understand how terrified I felt when he took you from me—stolen from your own home by your own father!

The treacherous, immoral, drunken bastard. Sorry again, but I still feel that way…sometimes. At least I don’t hate him; for a while I did. I feel affection for his memory, or some of them. I hope you do too.

Back then, everything was so confusing. So frightening, for both of us.

No mazal,
I remember thinking while I waited for the plane with you on it to land at Kennedy Airport.
No luck.
It was raining hard. That terrified me too. A plane carrying you,
my baby
, had to land in that mess. I remembered how you felt about rain; how you loved it and feared it and expected the giant to come.

Well, that was Sunday, almost five o’clock, and in less than fifteen minutes flight 602 from London would return you to me after thirty-five days of unspeakable absence.

I didn’t want to think about the loss anymore.
I am lucky
, I kept telling myself.
My child’s coming back to me. What could be luckier than that
?

But how to forget something so traumatic? Before your father phoned to say you were with him in Sark
,
I’d been almost insane with panic. After he hung up all I felt was rage. I called his awful mother first, then the police, the British Embassy, and finally the State Department.

“Didn’t you supervise your daughter?” that man dared ask me. He said I’d have to wait. Wait for proper channels to operate; wait for reports to be filed. He acted as if I was too impatient—as if needing you back
right now
was unreasonable.

All alone in that big monstrosity of a beach house your father built us, I wanted to scream. I longed to hurt somebody—to hurt
him
. I had to take control, not wait. I had to go to Sark even if it took me twelve planes, five boats and a parachute.

But for that, I needed money.

I discovered, to my shame and shock, just how much control I did
not
have; had never had. For years I had taken nothing out of savings without Robert’s agreement. Now, suddenly, there was almost nothing left, just enough to pay for the house that month.

I would sell it of course; how could I ever live there again? But that wouldn’t happen fast enough. I didn’t have enough money for planes, boats, and parachutes to travel to that puny island in the Atlantic. I was afraid to ask my parents for money, afraid to give them both a heart attack if I told them the truth: that you had been stolen. As the man at the State Department said, I had to wait.

I ransacked your father’s study, searching for hidden credit cards, for photos of “the other woman”; for something,
anything
to explain why,
why
, he would do this to his own family, and how I could get you back.

All I found was more evidence that he cared only for his work. Houses, houses, houses. He read about them, wrote about them, drew them, made money from them, money that was suddenly missing…

What had he done with it? And what did he plan to do with you?

The only oddity I recall from that study was a photograph that had fallen out of one of his oldest books. It was one of those snapshots he always took after a completed project. I recognized the house in the background—his most spectacular creation in East Hampton. Yet it seemed incidental to what was in the foreground: a girl of about fourteen caught twirling and laughing in bright daylight. The client’s daughter.

I remember staring at the picture, noticing for the first time how rarely your father included human beings, even clients, in his photos. So why this girl? How many times had he said, before we were married, that he didn’t want kids, wasn’t interested in them?

How little I know him, I realized.

Ten days later he called again and said, “It turns out Pilar is not adjusting well. Perhaps living with my mother is too much of a strain for all of us. In any case, she needs her mother. I will be bringing her back Sunday, five-fifteen in the evening, British Airways. Please meet us at the terminal.”

That was it. No explanation, no apology. Just a slurred voice and instructions where to go if I wanted my baby.

At JFK, I pictured you in a great tube of metal sitting next to this man I’d married and had a child with but didn’t know. Were you clean, well-fed, well-rested? What were you wearing? Were you scared? Excited? Confused? You had never trusted storms, especially when the thunder got too loud. “The giant’s gonna come,” you would whisper.

Anyway. I had a lot of time to think. On our wedding day your father had worn a long coat, a tall hat, and a smile rich with hope. All that seemed to change after you were born. Why did the hope turn sour, a parody of itself? Glass of whiskey in hand he retreated to his damn study, working at the drafting table, drawing dream houses for people who could still dream. His mind, once as sunny and open as that beach house, became filled with shadows and closed doors. He became remote, retreating inch by inch—and then all the way across the ocean, as if he couldn’t get far enough away.

But why take you?
And then decide to bring you back?

Your flight’s arrival was announced. Hugging myself, my purse, and a toy I’d bought you—a baby ballet dancer in yellow tutu and slippers—I ran to greet you.

Finally, finally, people began to walk up the jet-way: men, women, children, trailing little carts or listing from the weight of shoulder bags. I latched my gaze onto each one, each flash of clothing, each face. A man in a trench-coat grabbed a pretty young woman and swept her up. Others cried and laughed to see their relatives and friends. The flow on the jet-way thinned.

But no Pilar.

No Bob.

I thought I would lose my mind if I didn’t see you.

I heard you first. “Mommy!” you screamed.

Then: there you were, not remembering your manners, running and scrambling through legs and around legs and almost knocking people over—

—right into my arms!

My God!
You felt solid, alive; healthy. Unharmed.

You grabbed the doll—my gift—and examined its tutu, your eyes wide and clear and as blue as ever; your face more perfect than the doll’s. In your other hand you dangled that old dishwater green stuffed rabbit that you loved so much.

“It stormed,” you told me. “And the giant was coming come ‘cuz it was raining, but we were flying so fast we got away!”

Over your head, I spotted Robert. Dressed immaculately, of course. “Hello Alesia,” he said.

People continued to move around us. I had to force my mouth to move. “Thank you for bringing her home.”

‘Right.” His nose looked puffy and red. He’d been drinking on the plane. Of course. “Well, you have her now, don’t you, so everything’s all right then.”

I nearly choked. “’Everything’s all right then?’ You’ve got a lot more to say than that. A lot more!”

“This is no place for a discussion. Please, I don’t have time. I’m returning to England straightaway.”

“No, you can’t leave like this. We have to talk. I’m getting a lawyer.”

“I know. I don’t blame you for that.” He sighed. “Look, Alesia, I am terribly sorry. But I can’t explain what went wrong. Not just with…Pilar, but…everything. Perhaps geography had something to do with it. I was a fish out of water, so to speak.”

“No, you were
drinking
like a fish.”

“I warned you I was not set up for marriage or fatherhood. You’re the one who refused to believe it.”

“Why? Why weren’t you set up? I thought—”

“Alesia.” He reached out—actually reached out to tenderly touch my cheek, and I let him! “Love was never the problem,” he said. “You know that. But love does not solve all problems, as your Hollywood may imply.”

“
My
Hollywood?”

“It is better this way, to simply end it here like two civilized human beings.” He reached down and stroked
your
hair this time. And you whimpered. I’d never seen you do that before.

I snatched you away from him.

I mean: nothing made sense. Why had he photographed that child in East Hampton if he didn’t like children—didn’t want to be a father…and then why the sudden need for you, the tenderness, the misery? In some ways here was the same old Robert Russell, but ten years older and lightyears farther away. He used to
smile
, damn it, and tell me his secrets. Like how much he despised his mother. How controlling she had been, and quick with her hands. How
his
father had died in a boating accident when Bob was small, and he felt frightened becoming a father, didn’t think he knew how. Until you came along and he held you and fell in love with you and said he would prove himself wrong.

“The sins of the fathers,” he said. His voice was so soft that I wasn’t sure I heard right.

Then he switched the subject and told me he would need to sell the house. It was nothing personal, he said, just necessary.

“We’ve got to do what we must do. You will need to be more independent,” he said.

“Yes,” I said. “That’s one thing you’re right about.” And so, turning my back on him I carried you away.

It was all so very long time ago. And I’ve been here for you ever since, even when
you
weren’t here.

I raised you mostly alone. That’s not easy, Pilar. You can’t imagine. I don’t know what else I can say to bring us closer.

I don’t understand what’s happened to you, but I hope to find out when you get home.

Love always,

Mom