Sins of Innocence (57 page)

“Tell me about him.” Susan’s voice was sudden, jarring.

Lisa began to chew another fingernail. Miss Taylor lit a cigarette.

Jess cleared her throat. “He’s tall,” she said. “Very tall. And quite good-looking. Dark hair. Dark eyes.”

“What does he do?” Susan interrupted, with an edge of impatience.

Of course, Jess thought. David’s life would be much more important to Susan than his looks.

“He’s a newspaper reporter. A journalist. He went to Hofstra.” She was relieved she had some information to share, that at least he had told her something.

A smile skimmed across Susan’s full lips. She nodded.

Jess twisted her ring. “It may be my fault if he doesn’t come,” she said. “He was the first I spoke with. I may have said everything wrong.”

There was no hate in Susan’s eyes, no emotion, merely an empty stare from which Jess could not decipher the degree of hurt, the level of pain, that surely Susan must be feeling. But no. Susan—the oldest, the wisest, the strongest of all the girls—sat mute. Jess wished Susan would hurl one of her caustic comments at her. That would at least be expected. That would at least be familiar. Seeing Susan this way, so silent, so still, was more unnerving than any of her biting remarks could ever have been.

“You were real nice to me,” Lisa said, then laughed. “It was pretty scary at first, though. I mean, it’s not every day a stranger walks up to you and says, ‘Hi. You don’t know me, but …’ ” Her thoughts trailed off in mid-sentence, as though Lisa was suddenly self-conscious about her admission, suddenly mindful that her humorous words were inappropriate.

“It’s okay, Lisa,” Jess said. “I’m sure my visit was quite a shock.”

Lisa smiled. “A happy one though.”

The clock ticked.

“What else?” Susan asked. “Is he happy?”

“He seems to be.” Jess paused, as she struggled to recall every bit of what little information David had offered. “His adoptive parents are quite a bit older than us. In their sixties. He told me they have been wonderful to him.”

Susan nodded again.

“He’s their only child,” Jess added.

Miss Taylor stubbed out her cigarette and clicked her fingernails together. “He sounds like a fine young man,” she said. “Smart. Happy.”

Jess agreed.

“You haven’t told me his name,” Susan said. “What do they call him?”

Jess twisted her ring again. There was a small catch in her throat as she said, “David.”

Susan stared at her a moment, then dropped her gaze to her lap.

The clock chimed a low, mournful sound. Four o’clock. Susan stood up.

“Guess I’d better go.”

“Susan, wait.”

Susan waved Jess off. “It’s all right, Jess. Maybe it’s better this way.”

She headed for the doorway, then turned back to Jess. “I have a son at home who needs me very much. It’s all right, really it is. I have a son I love, and my freedom, which I treasure. And believe it or not, I also have a really good man, a really good friend.”

Jess didn’t know what to say. Somehow, saying “I’m sorry” to Susan was all wrong.

“As for this son,” she continued, as she brushed back the hair from her face, “I guess he’ll remain where his father is. Missing.” She raised her head and opened the door. “My grandmother still speaks of the Holocaust. Of the people who vanished. I guess life can continue—even with unanswered questions.” She shook back her hair and nodded, as though reassuring herself. “It’s better this way,” she said. “It’s time for me to move on.”

With that, she turned and left. Jess watched the broad backside go, and she knew Susan would be all right. Susan would always be all right. She would always be able to rationalize things, to be sensible. But Jess knew she would never forget her son, and Jess was glad she’d given the boy Susan’s name and address. Maybe at some other time, maybe when he was ready …

Footsteps sounded in the foyer. There had been no doorbell, but now there were footsteps. Jess looked up. Ginny stood in the doorway. Behind her was a man, an older man with thick white hair and a pleasant face that
glowed with the unmistakable bronze of a California tan. He put one hand on Ginny’s shoulder in a protective gesture.

“Well, I’m here,” Ginny said.

Jess felt a rush of warmth surge through her. She jumped from her chair.

“Lisa,” she said, “I’d like you to meet your mother.”

Ginny’s daughter beamed as she stepped forward.

Ginny and Lisa faced each other, speechless.

“You don’t look anything like me,” Ginny said at last. She turned to the man behind her. “Jesus, Jake, she doesn’t look anything like me.”

Jess smiled. “She’s your daughter, all right. Wait till you hear what she does for a living.”

“I’m an actress,” Lisa said in the same low, throaty voice as her mother’s.

Ginny stared at her daughter. Jess was sure she recognized Lisa’s voice as her own. “No shit,” she said.

“No shit,” Lisa responded, and smiled again.

The man tightened his grip on Ginny’s shoulder. There were tears in his eyes, and his mouth was turned up in a warm smile. Jess saw love there, pure, real love. And Ginny seemed at last content, comfortable. Jess’s heart swelled.

“Film?” Ginny asked.

“Broadway,” Lisa replied. “Off–off–off.”

“You’d be good in film. You’re better-looking than me.

“Do I look like my father? I’ve always wondered about him too.”

Pain shot across Ginny’s face. The memories. The ghosts. Jess held her breath. Ginny’s jaw stiffened. Her eyes locked on Lisa. They didn’t flinch. Is she, Jess wondered, about to run?

Suddenly Ginny broke into a smile. She reached out and hugged Lisa. “There’s a lot to tell you,” she said. She looked at Jess. “Hey, why not? This is the nineties. My daughter deserves to know about her old man.”

“Everything?”

Ginny looked back to Lisa. “She can handle it,” she said. “Something tells me she’s a survivor.”

They had left Phillip’s car at the train station in Greenwich, and Jess drove into the city. It had been an odd drive, dotted with spurts of conversation about P.J. between long, thoughtful silences. Now, as they stood in the lobby of P.J.’s condominium building, Jess prayed P.J. would let them go up.

The doorman rang. From upstairs came a man’s voice.

“Yes?”

“A lady and a young man to see Ms. Davies,” the doorman said into the speaker.

There was a pause.

“Who is it?”

“Lady’s name is Jessica Bates.”

Another pause.

“What does she want?”

Jess stepped in front of the speaker. “Please,” she pleaded, “are you P.J.’s friend? Please, I don’t remember your name, but there’s someone down here I think she really wants to meet.”

The seconds ticked by.

“You’re Jess, right?” the voice asked.

“Yes.”

“Walter,” the voice directed the doorman, “send her up.”

The door opened. Inside stood the same man who’d breezed by Jess the night she’d gone to see P.J.

“I’m Bob,” he said quickly. “She’s in the bedroom. “I’m not sure if she’ll see you.”

Jess smiled. “Thanks for letting us come in.”

Jess and Phillip stepped into the living room. Seated on the low white sofa was an older woman. Jess looked quickly, then knew. It was P.J.’s mother.

The woman stood up.

“Hello, Mrs. Davies,” Jess said, and extended her hand. The woman took it questioningly. She looked at Jess.
She looked at Phillip. She stared at Phillip. Then she dropped her gaze to the rose he clutched in his hand.

She left the room without saying a word.

The man gestured toward the bedroom, and Jess and Phillip went ahead.

Inside, the room was in semidarkness.

“P.J.?” Jess called softly. “It’s me. Jess.”

A form on the bed turned over. “Jess. What are you doing …?” She stopped talking. She was staring at Phillip.

“P.J.,” Jess continued, “I’ve brought you your son.”

P.J. pulled the comforter over her turbaned head. “No!” she screamed. “You had no right.…”

Phillip held his hand up to Jess, then walked toward the bed. “It’s my fault,” he said. “I wanted to see you. I wanted to meet my mother.”

Slowly P.J. pulled the comforter from her face.

“Well, take a look,” she said sharply. “If you want to look closer, I’ll take off this rag, and you can see the bald freak that’s your mother.”

“P.J.…” Jess said.

Phillip sat on the edge of the bed and moved closer to P.J. “Your eyes,” he said. “I’ve got your eyes.”

P.J. blinked.

With a shaking hand he extended the rose to her. “I brought you this. It’s a little droopy. I’m sorry.”

P.J. took the rose. “Oh, God,” she said. “Oh, God.” Then she shivered and started to cry. She reached out and touched Phillip’s face. “You are so handsome,” she said. “You are so handsome. You look just like …”

“His grandfather.”

Jess turned and saw P.J.’s mother standing in the doorway.

“He looks exactly like his grandfather,” she repeated in a voice that sounded distant, blurred by time.

P.J. held her hands to Phillip’s face. “It’s incredible. You do. You look just like my father.”

Phillip smiled. “I take it that’s okay?”

P.J. smiled through her tears. Her mother crossed the
room and sat on the bed beside Phillip. “I guess it will have to be, now won’t it?”

Jess suddenly felt the salt tears on her cheeks. She stood in the doorway, watching what she had hoped for all along. And yet there had been more than she’d expected: P.J. had welcomed her son; Ginny had come to her daughter. For Susan, and for herself, there would be no reunion. But now, they at least might be able to close the book on their pasts.

Jess turned and left the room, passing Bob as she left.

“Thank you,” he said.

Jess nodded, unable to speak. There was only one thing left for her to do.

It was a pretty cemetery, banked by golden oaks and trimmed with well-kept evergreens. Jess climbed a small knoll, following the directions she’d been given at the gate. And there it was: a rose-colored headstone, engraved with a single rose and a simple cross.
Amy Hawthorne
, the inscription read,
1968–1979
.

Jess said a silent prayer, then stooped to the ground. She unsnapped her purse and took out a small brown-paper-wrapped package, then peeled back the paper. In her palm lay the red satin Santa with the marabou beard. Gently Jess placed the ornament in front of the headstone. She brought two fingers to her lips, kissed them, then touched the stone.

“I did find you, my little girl,” she whispered. “I did find you, after all.”

Behind her Jess felt someone’s presence. She didn’t turn around. But part of her wished it was Charles.

“I was wondering,” he would say nervously, “I was wondering if we could go somewhere and talk.”

She would look at him without speaking, and she would see tears in his eyes
.

“I want to come home,” he would say. “I want to come home to my family.”

Jess stood up and brushed the dried autumn leaves
from her skirt. She looked behind her. It wasn’t Charles. It was the gatekeeper.

“Find what you were looking for, miss?”

“Yes,” Jess replied. She clutched her purse and twisted her emerald-and-diamond ring. “Yes, I did.” She glanced back at the headstone, then turned and walked toward her car.

Jess

It was her birthday. She would have been twenty-six. Jess returned to the cemetery—this time with a pale white orchid in hand.

It had been a long, difficult year. In the spring she’d had a note from Phillip Archambault, saying that P.J. had died quietly in her sleep. Phillip, Bob Jaffee, and P.J.’s mother had been at her side.

Jess had not heard from Susan; she hadn’t expected to. Her son might never want to meet his birth mother—that, Jess knew, was his right.

She’d had a few quick phone calls from Ginny. Happily Lisa had moved to Los Angeles, where Jake had lined her up with some film roles. Lisa had stayed with them
“until she drove me crazy,” Ginny had commented. “Mothers and daughters shouldn’t have to live under the same fucking roof,” she’d said, but added that Lisa came every night for dinner.