Norah didn’t know where she was going. She only knew she had to get out of that studio as quickly as she could. She tramped through the streets of Manhattan, trying to sort through explosions of fury so powerful that she felt like she could lift pedestrians off the sidewalk and throw them out of her way. How dare she! How dare she! The words matched the cadence of her march as she found herself heading straight for the Algonquin Hotel.
When she entered the Blue Bar, she barely noticed that it was filled with dozens of patrons, enjoying evening cocktails. It didn’t matter. Crowd or not, she was going to summon Dorothy Parker.
She was heading for the shelf that held the guest book when someone grabbed her arm. “You again,” he said. “If you had a change of heart, you’re going to have to prove it to me, baby.”
She stared at him for a moment as she got her bearings. It was the man in the aviator glasses who had tried to buy her a drink and then called her that despicable word. He pointed to his cheek, as if he expected her to give him a kiss before he released her arm.
Norah took a careful breath. Her first instinct was to raise her knee so far into his groin it came out his mouth. Instead, she leaned in until she was close enough to lick his ear, then whispered, “Don’t fuck with me, Russell, or I will take those stupid glasses off your face and shove them up your—”
Russell released her and teetered back. Norah turned around and understood why. Dorothy Parker had materialized in the middle of the bar.
“What the hell?” Russell said.
“Norah, dear,” said Mrs. Parker, ignoring him, “you look like you could use a drink. Let’s have a seat, shall we?”
Russell fell back onto his barstool as Norah glared at Dorothy Parker.
“Traitor,” she said through closed teeth.
“Come, dear, let’s not make a scene in public.”
“And why not? After what you did!”
Customers started to turn around and look at them. A waiter rushed over. “Can I get you ladies a table?” he said.
Reluctantly, Norah let him lead them to a dark booth in the back.
“You’re a monster,” Norah said as she slid into her seat.
“I hardly think so.”
“How could you!”
“I imagine you spoke to Teddy and that he told you I spilled the beans. Was it a joyous revelation?”
Norah narrowed her eyes. How could she find words in the face of such betrayal? “That wasn’t your secret to tell.”
“It wasn’t yours to keep.”
“I see,” Norah said, gripping the table as if the booth were too small to contain her fury. “You think he has a right to know.”
“Doesn’t he?”
“His rights are not more important than mine.”
“Come now. Deep down, you wanted him to know.”
“That’s not true!”
“Because I trusted you.”
Dorothy Parker let out a small laugh. “Oh, my dear, that simply isn’t possible.”
Norah didn’t want to cry. She wanted to scream or put her fist through something. But she knew there was no one left to hurt but herself. She closed her eyes for a moment, picturing her mother’s face, trying to find a way to convey how sorry she was.
She tried to recall the details of the day her mother had told her about Ted as they sat at the kitchen table. So much of it was so indistinct. Her most vivid memory—the one that wouldn’t leave—was waking up that August morning after she had the vision of her mother coming to say good-bye. How long had she lain in bed, trying to convince herself that it had been a dream and that she would hear her mother’s wheelchair rolling down the hall any minute?
When she rose at last, she had a decision to make—check on her mother first, or just pick up the phone and call her uncle? She stood outside her mother’s closed door and knocked.
“Mom?” she had called, feeling foolish, for she knew there would be no answer. “Are you up?” She paused. “Are you dead?” She waited several minutes, and then pushed the door open a crack and saw her mother, blue and stiff, as dead as anything she had ever seen. Norah slammed the door shut, called her uncle, got dressed, and sat at the kitchen table, feeling like she was living in a strange space, on hold from reality.
Later, when her uncle told her, “There was nothing you could have done,” Norah nodded. After all, her mother was clearly dead when she found her. But later, when she learned that her mother had choked to death on her own mucus, Norah had a terrifying thought: maybe she could have saved her. If only she had been listening that night. If only she had heard her mother coughing. But no. She had watched an episode of Melrose Place and gone to sleep.
Norah tried not to blame herself—she was just a kid, after all. But she decided there was something she could do—protect her mother’s secret. And she had been faithful to that self-made promise all these years. Now even that was over. Norah stared at Dorothy Parker, then let her head fall on her hands as she wept.
The waiter came back and asked if he could get them anything. Norah didn’t lift her face.
“Two appletinis would be lovely,” Dorothy Parker said.
Norah looked up and knew she was a mess of tears and runny mascara. Dorothy Parker handed her a cocktail napkin from the table and she wiped her face.
“My mother didn’t want him to know,” she said.
“Because she was ashamed,” Dorothy Parker said.
“So what if she was? You and I can agree that she shouldn’t have let shame rule her life, but it was her decision. If she wanted to keep her illness and me a secret from him, that was her choice to make—not mine . . . and certainly not yours.”
“You think Ted didn’t know about her illness?”
“He didn’t.”
“He most certainly did. He didn’t know the diagnosis, but he knew there was something wrong. She tried to hide it, but he saw.”
“Where are you getting this from?”
Dorothy Parker laid a key card on the table and pushed it toward Norah.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“It’s the key to Teddy’s room,” Dorothy Parker said. “He and I had a long talk after I told him about you, and he gave it to me.”
“Why?”
“So I could pass it on to you with these instructions: If you look in his closet, you’ll find a green suitcase. Inside are copies of the three manuscripts he turned over to Pete. These are the books he’s written since Settlers Ridge. Read the one called Genuine Lies.”
“Because your mother thought he would have turned against her if he knew she was ill. Please, dear. At least take a look at those pages.”
“Did you read it?” Norah asked.
Dorothy Parker shook her head. “No, but we discussed enough. And I have a good guess as to the rest.”
Norah pushed the key back. “I have no interest.”
“Do you know what he said when I told him he was your father?”
“I can imagine.”
“I don’t think you can.”
Norah folded her arms. “I suppose you’re going to tell me.”
“He said, ‘This changes everything.’”