CHAPTER 9
Zoie began her morning in the office attic reviewing the books and following up with deliveries. The two young men that she’d hired to do the harvesting were already at work, picking and packing the tomatoes, cucumbers and greens. She watched their progress from the attic window.
She was still torn about what she should do about the business and about Jackson. Although she was beginning to believe that the relationship between her and Jackson had hit a major crossroads, there was still a corner of her heart that wasn’t quite ready to let go. In the past, it had been her and her relentlessness that led to the downfall of their relationship. Was she using her need to find out about her father regardless of the cost to others merely as a smokescreen for her inability to truly commit? And then there was Lena.
When he’d first come to her and told her of Lena’s pregnancy her initial reaction was shock, but she gave herself enough room to understand that it would have never happened if she’d never left. Jackson made it clear that his heart was with her, not Lena, and he wanted to make it work, but he would be a father to his child. Lena insisted to him that she would continue to work her job at Xavier College, her sister would help with the baby, and that she did not want a relationship and he’d agreed. He’d pressed that point. She believed him. She convinced herself they could make it work.Yet, again, as soon as things seemed to be on solid ground, she sabotaged it. Why? Why? What was it in her DNA that refused to allow her to be satisfied and happy?
She turned away from the window, walked to her desk and put away the ledgers then went to look for her mother.
Zoie found Rose sweeping the back porch, humming to herself. She paused at the door, taking the moment to enjoy the lilt of her mother’s voice. When she was little, the earthshaking thunderstorms that raged across NOLA would send her racing to her mother’s bed. She’d burrow under her mother’s arm while Rose cooed and soothed her, stroking her hair and planting calming kisses on her cheeks. But it was only her mother’s angelic voice that ultimately quieted the tremors and slowed her racing heart. Even now, all these years later, her mother’s voice still settled the restlessness inside of her.
But since she’d confronted her mother about wanting to know what happened with her father, conversation between them had been reduced to basic pleasantries. It had taken literally tearing her family apart with her digging into the past and finding out the truth about Kimberly and the Maitland family before she and her mother ventured on the road to rebuilding a mother-daughter relationship. They were getting to a good place until she blew everything up again with her need to know. She silently wished that the only thing she needed right now was her mother’s singing to make things right.
“Mornin’ Ma.”
The note hung in the air. Rose stopped sweeping and slowly turned toward her daughter. “Mornin’. You didn’t come down for breakfast. Left you a plate in the oven.” She went back to sweeping.
“Thank you.” She let the screen door close behind her. She shoved her hands into the back pockets of her jean shorts and drew closer to her mother. “I need to talk to you.”
Rose’s gray-green eyes slid toward Zoie then returned to her task at hand. “If it’s about your father, I done told you . . .” She shook her head as if she could scatter the words away on the morning breeze.
“It’s not about my father.”
Rose propped the broom up against the wood railing and stared at her daughter. “What is it then?”
“It’s about Nana’s vegetable business. I went to see the attorney about the clause, since my year is up . . . actually passed.”
Rose’s doe-brown face darkened. She walked over to the padded rocker and sat. She folded her hands in her lap. “Ready to cut and run,” she quietly accused.
Zoie would not allow herself to be baited. It’s what they did with each other, but not today. She walked over and sat in the chair next to her mother.
“Nana’s will stipulated that I had to remain here for one year and run the business or the house would be lost.” She cleared her throat. “There was a clause that I was not privy to until the year had elapsed. It states that at the end of the year if the business is successful I would turn everything over to you and the aunties and go back to New York.” She pulled in a breath. “Or I can retain full control of everything.”
Rose leveled her gaze on her daughter. “And? I’m sure you’ve come to a decision or we wouldn’t be sitting here.”
Zoie rested her forearms on her thighs. “When I first came back for Nana’s funeral, the only thing I wanted to do was honor my grandma and get back to New York on the first thing smoking.” She snorted a laugh. “Nana had other plans.”
Rose almost smiled. “Mama always did things her way.”
“But she knew what she was doing. She knew I needed to stay, and forcing my hand was the only way to make that happen. She wanted it for us.” She looked her mother in the eye. Rose pressed her lips tightly together. “For a while it worked, at least I thought it did, until I screwed up again pressing you about my father.” Rose’s nostrils flared. Zoie reached over and clasped her mother’s fingers. “And I’m sorry. I’m sorry for upsetting you, I’m sorry for cracking the fragile glass we were walking on. But Mama, I’m not sorry for who I am. I won’t apologize for wanting to know all about the pieces that made me who I am.” She paused. “And that includes my father.”
Rose turned her face away, gazed off into the distance. “But look at what you needing to know and digging has already done.”
Zoie tugged in a breath. “No, the outcome wasn’t perfect. But you finally found out what happened to your daughter and all the reasons why she was taken away. We all did.”
Rose turned a hard look on her daughter. “And to what end, Zoie? What good did it do any of us? And I’m sure that’s the reason behind Kimberly dropping out of the race and who knows how it affected her family.” She sighed heavily. “And I still have no daughter. I don’t know if it’s worse believing for years that she was dead at birth or to find out years later that she’s alive and doesn’t want to have nothing to do with me—cause I’m the wrong color.” She snorted a laugh and looked away. “That’s what all your diggin’ brought us.” She rested her elbow on the wooden arm of the chair and propped her chin on her fist. “Now you wanna go digging up Hank Crawford. How much more do you want to hurt me, Zoie?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
The vice of her guilt tightened around her throat. Her eyes stung. “Mama, I—”
Rose flicked her hand in dismissal and turned her face away.
Zoie straightened then got to her feet. She wanted to share with her mother her fears and reservations, her doubts about Jackson and what she should do. She wanted her mother to simply stroke her hair and tell her that everything would be fine, that she was a wonderful daughter in every way, and that she was loved. She sniffed. That’s all she needed.
She opened the back screen door and went inside. She’d never gotten around to talking to her mother about everything the lawyer said or ask what she should do. She checked her pockets for her keys and cell phone.
What difference did it make anyway? There was no point in hoping to get counseling from her mom. They had not had that kind of relationship since she was a teen.
She took off at a slow jog down the lane from the house that led to the street. Running helped to clear her head and burn off the fire that constantly simmered in her belly. When she ran, her mind focused on her body; the beat of her sneakered feet against the pavement, the speed of her heart, the racing of her pulse, the beads of sweat that trickled down her spine, the flex of her muscles. The humid air coated her skin, turned her hair into sparkling ringlets. How many miles had she run away from what plagued her thoughts? Not far enough. It seemed that no matter how fast or far she ran, the euphoria of being disconnected from her fears and troubles was temporary, just like the buzz from the rush of adrenaline. Once she wound down from the high, her reality came racing back. But at least for now she could put a mile or two between her and what ailed her.
She turned the corner intent on cresting the rise before completing two laps around the track at the park. Her Blackberry chirped. She reached into her back pocket and pulled out her phone. There was a news alert on the screen; an explosion had gone off on the campus of Xavier College, several casualties, dozens injured.
Zoie frowned while she read. Her pace slowed. Journalistic instincts kicked into gear. She turned and raced back to the house, thankful that she’d kept her company account with The Recorder that maintained its subscriptions to all the major news outlets. Even though she wasn’t doing the hard news she’d been accustomed to in New York, she still kept her hand in and her skills sharpened by periodically writing articles for The New Orleans Clarion, and her monthly small business column was beginning to get some notice.
Breathless, she hurried straight to the family room. She turned on the television. The screen filled with first responders, fire trucks, police vehicles and smoke. In the corner of the screen was an insert showing the panicked surge of bodies being herded to safety by the police.
The entire country was still in recovery from the devastation of 9/11. The images and the losses were still fresh. Every fire, loud boom and low flying plane fed the trauma. Mammoth holes and mountains of debris in lower Manhattan were physical reminders that would take years to rebuild. Now this.
According to the broadcaster, it was unclear if it was an act of terrorism or something else. The explosion was confined to the academic affairs building. The names of the deceased and the injured were being withheld pending the notification of family.
Sage and Hyacinth meandered into the room.
“What’s going on?” Sage asked, coming to stand next to Zoie.
Hyacinth plopped down on the couch. “Looks bad.”
“Explosion or something at Xavier University,” Zoie replied, with her eyes glued to the screen.
“That’s where that nice girl works. Jackson’s friend,” Hyacinth said.
“What?” Zoie said.
“Use to bring her ‘round.” Hyacinth frowned. “Ain’t seen her in a while. Not since you been back.” She smiled at Zoie. “Lisa, Laura . . .” Hyacinth struggled to recall.
“Lena,” Rose said, joining the gathering around the television.
Zoie’s cell vibrated in her hand. She turned the phone over. Her old boss’s name appeared on the screen.
“Mark. Hey. Yes, I’m watching right now. Really? Not a problem. I’ll get right over there. Yes. I still have my press pass. Sure. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have something.”
“Who was that?” Rose asked.
“My managing editor from New York. He wants me to go over to the college and cover the story.” She hoped she didn’t sound as excited, almost giddy as she felt. But the mere idea of running down a story, for her, was like giving a kid a bag of sugar. “I need to get ready.” She started to leave.
“I hope that girl is okay,” Sage said and shot Zoie a hard look.
Her aunt Sage had a sweet spot for Jackson, even though she’d put him through the wringer when he and Zoie were together years earlier. And although she was happy that Jackson was “back in the family,” she barely disguised her displeasure of how Jackson and Zoie were reunited. ‘No good ever comes from the heartbreak of others,’ she’d warned Zoie.
“I’m sure she’s fine.” She hurried away and went to her room.
The first order of business was her press pass which she found in the top drawer of her dresser. Hopefully it would give her all the access she needed to ask questions and take some pictures.
She checked the battery life on her phone. Dammit. It needed charging. She’d do that in the car. The drive was about thirty minutes. That was plenty of time. More than likely the streets surrounding the college would be blocked off. There was no telling how far away she’d have to park. Comfortable shoes were definitely in order.
She took off her tank top and shorts and changed into a T-shirt, jeans and sneakers. She hung her press pass around her neck, the grabbed her backpack and filled it with her notebook, pens, her tape recorder and charger. That was everything.
Ticking off the list of things she needed kept her from zeroing in on what hovered in the back of her mind. Lena.
She stopped at the entrance of the living room on her way out. The family was still gathered in front of the television.
Aunt Sage glanced up. “Six confirmed dead.”
Zoie’s stomach tumbled. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Be careful, Zoie,” her mother said with the first note of care in her voice since they’d argued about her father.
Zoie offered a tight-lipped smile. “I will. Thank you,” she added.
As she backed the car out of the driveway, from her rearview mirror she spotted the white car parked across the street from the house. By the time she reached the curb, the car sped off and turned the corner. Her desire to know battled with her commitment to the story that lured her like a seducer. Torn, she succumbed to the lure of the journalistic beast and drove off in the opposite direction.
She turned on the radio to catch any updates. One building had almost been leveled, there were now fifteen confirmed dead, dozens missing. Covering disasters was nothing short of life altering; the devastation, the lives upended, the aftermath. As much as journalists were trained to be objective and impartial, it was impossible not to be impacted by the pain and loss of others. When she’d first witnessed the destruction of 9/11, photographed the ruins of the iconic markers of New York City and talked to first responders and survivors, she understood, perhaps for the first time in her career, the importance of getting it right. She didn’t dig into stories for sensationalism or personal glory, but to reveal the truth for the world, no matter how ugly. Because, for her, knowing the truth was what set you free and put you on a path not to make the mistakes of the past. The events of 9/11 had begun to change the world. It changed the rules, it changed how large groups of people were viewed and treated. It changed laws, chipped away at personal freedoms. What was once considered impossible—no liquids on planes, no shoes during check-in, cameras on every corner, invoking war, orange alerts, and an entire branch of government formed to oversee and root out terror—was now becoming normal. She believed in her bones it was her responsibility to tell that story, not from the view of the government, but the voice of the people who would never be the same. Her series on 9/11 had won her numerous accolades and there’d been talk of a Pulitzer until she was reassigned to cover Kimberly Maitland-Graham. Look how that turned out.
The cry of sirens signaled that she was closer. The muffled commands from bullhorns grew louder as she neared. The air turned gray the closer she got. The smell of burnt wood, metal and something unnamed assaulted her. Flashes of the huge holes in the ground, the smoke that still rose from the ground days and weeks later, the eerie silence around ground zero, loomed in front of her, as vivid as the day it happened.
Barricades set up two blocks away from the campus stopped her from going any further. Police, donned in tactical gear and long guns, manned the corners. Red and blue lights from police and fire department vehicles swirled in the gray cloud that hovered above the entire area.
A local cop, dressed in his uniform and an iridescent orange vest, waved her away.
She rolled down her window and was hit with cloying fumes. “I’m with the press.” She held up her pass.
The officer leaned closer. “You can’t bring your car in there. You’ll have to walk. You need to back out and park on a side street.”
“Thank you. How bad is it?”
His expression darkened. “Pretty bad.”
She rolled up her window and went in search of a parking space.
“I thought about everything you said last night at dinner,” Kimberly said to Gail as they walked through the quarter, stopping every now and then to peek into some of the shops.
Gail peered into the window of a handmade jewelry and candle shop. “Oooh, I love that necklace. Let’s go in here.” She pushed open the door. Kimberly trailed behind.
“So what are you going to do about what I said?” Gail asked while she lifted the chain onto her palm. It was jade-colored stones, embedded on an oval-shaped base that hung from a thin gold chain. There was a wide band bracelet to match.
“Before my life totally blew up in my face, my half-sister Zoie had planned to write an entire expose about me. The true story.”
“I met her—briefly—didn’t I?” she asked with a frown of concentration knitting her brows together.
“Yes! That’s right you did. She came to the office once.”
“Hmm.” She flipped the base of the chain over to check for the price. “What? Two hundred and fifty bucks! Are they serious? Definitely not handmade prices.” She shook her head. “So, go ahead.”
“I was thinking it’s time I contacted her. Contacted . . . my family.” She swallowed. “I want her to write the story. Get it published. Call out my family, and Rowan. He won’t be able to simply get away with what he’s doing. The one thing he hates is bad publicity.”
Gail stopped examining jewelry and looked right at Kimberly. “Are you sure that’s the route you want to take? It could get messy.”
“It can’t be any messier or any uglier than it’s been.”
“Hmm, that’s true.” She placed her hand on Kimberly’s arm. “You need to be prepared for the fallout.”
She nodded. “I know. But if it’ll peel back the ugly curtain of who my family is and get my children back, it will be worth it.”
“Are you ready to meet your real mother?” she asked softly.
Kimberly’s nostrils flared. “I think so.”
“Good. However I can help, I will.”
“Thank you.” On impulse, she pulled Gail in for a hug and it felt good to realize that she had a real friend. She stepped back, a bit flustered by her uncharacteristic behavior—but she’d done a lot of things out of character lately. She smiled. “I’m in the mood for a beignet. You haven’t lived until you’ve had a for real Louisiana beignet.”
Gail laughed. “I’m along for the ride.”
They walked out.
“So what’s the story with Nick?” Gail asked as they sat at an outdoor cafe. She lifted the delicate pastry filled with fruit to her lips and took a bite, and the sweet confection tossed in powdered sugar was like manna from heaven. Her lids fluttered closed in euphoria. “Oh, my goodness. This. This is delicious.”
Kimberly laughed. “Told you. It is one of my absolute favorite decadent treats.” She lifted her cup of latte. “I was having another ‘bad day’ and wound up in a bar on Bourbon Street. Very apropos,” she said wryly. “Anyway, I’m on my third, maybe fourth drink and he stops me. Makes me eat. Starts talking to me. I mean actually talking to me and for whatever reason, I didn’t take it as a come on or a ‘this is what bartenders do’ kind of thing. He seemed to actually care. We talked off and on all night until he got off. I . . . brought him to my hotel room.” She held up her hand when Gail’s eyes widened. “Nothing happened. We talked until we fell asleep.”
“Seriously?”
She nodded yes. “The next day was a different story.” She felt her cheeks heat.
“Umm, umm.”
“Silly, but afterward, as wonderful as it was, I felt guilty.”
“Guilty. Why?”
“I mean that thing with John . . . that was . . . crazy.”
“And dangerous.”
“I know. But Nick . . . it was different. My head was clear and I knew exactly what I was doing. He asked me three or four times if I was sure. So I went into it with my eyes wide open.”
“And?”
“It was the first time that I’d knowingly cheated on my husband. Until this week, I’d never been with another man besides Rowan.”
“I totally get it. But,” she leaned in, “you have nothing to feel bad about. It’s not as if you set out to hurt him or deceive him. You were looking for something that you needed and you found it in Nick. For whatever it’s worth.”
Kimberly sniffed. “I suppose,” she said.
She stretched her hand across the table. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’ve been through hell. If anyone deserves to be taken care of, it’s you. Just continue to keep your eyes open. When we’re hurt it’s easy to confuse lust with deep like.”
Kimberly snickered. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“So, what are you going to do about Rowan and your family?”
She pushed out a breath. “I need to speak with Zoie and I want to meet Rose, my real mother. I’m going over there. Today. Now. Before I change my mind.” There, she’d said it, over the pounding of her heart.
Gail slowly nodded. “I’ll go with you.”
When they left the cafe and wandered back into the flow of human traffic it was clear that something had happened. There were pockets of people gathered around cell phones. Anxious faces replaced relaxed ones. That old flutter of anxiety rippled through Kim’s stomach. That feeling of absolute terror for her children and her husband swept through her like a raging storm. She knew those looks. She’d lived it the day the towers fell.
“Something’s going on,” Gail said, as they passed a group huddled near the corner.
“Yes.” She pulled out her Blackberry from her tote. It took a while to get a signal before she could search for the big news outlets. There were several notifications from the news services that The Recorder subscribed to. CNN, The Washington Post, The New York Times, all blared the headlines of a possible bombing at Xavier University. There were multiple casualties.
“Oh my god,” Kimberly muttered and shared the screen with Gail.
“Oh no. Is it an attack?”
“It doesn’t say. Still investigating.”
“How far is that from here?”
“From what I remember maybe about fifteen, twenty minutes from here.” She looked around and every face that her eyes landed on had that same stunned expression, the same expression that had gripped the nation little more than a year ago. “I need to get my car.”
“We’re not going over there are we?”
“No.” She dragged in a breath. “We’re going to see Zoie and my mother Rose.”
Zoie wound her way back along the streets crowded with double and triple parked cars, emergency vehicles, knots of onlookers, and first responders wheeling the injured into ambulances. The air was thick with acrid smoke that hung velvet drape heavy. It stung her eyes and burned her nostrils. She squeezed past bodies, flashing her pass when required until she got as far as the police would allow.
Controlled chaos. Rubble. Smoke. The ominous black zip-up plastic bags that lined the street.
She finally spotted the command vehicle and cornered one of the officers. After identifying herself, the captain shared what details he could and informed her that there would be a press briefing in about a half hour.
While she waited, she moved through the crowd and lucked out on finding a young woman, Madeline Fuller, who had been inside the building but managed to get out moments before the explosion. The shock still registered on her face and her voice shook as she spoke. She shivered beneath the blanket that EMS had put around her. The noise she kept saying over and over. “Screams. Glass everywhere. The blast threw me to the ground. I didn’t know what happened at first. My friends . . .” She began to cry.
“Do you know if they got out?” Zoie gently asked.
She shook her head no. “I don’t know. I don’t know.” Her shoulders shook with her sobs.
An EMS worker came to her to let her know that transportation was ready to take her to the hospital.
“Where are they taking the injured?” Zoie shouted to the worker over the continued wail of sirens.
“The most serious are going to University Medical Center, the rest to LSU Medical Center.” He helped Madeline into the ambulance.
Zoie turned in a slow circle. It was déjà vu. Trauma revisited. But she couldn’t let her own feelings of helplessness overwhelm her. She was there to cover a story, to get the word out to the world about what had happened here so that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t happen again.
She was able to get a few words from an exhausted rescue worker before inching her way over to where the makeshift podium had been set up for the press conference. The minute it was over she was going to drive to University Medical, talk with the staff and maybe some family members of the victims.
She took her tape recorder from her bag and turned it on when the mayor stepped to the microphone. She aimed her recorder in the direction of the mayor. She didn’t want to miss a word.
Mayor Hatchett adjusted the microphone and looked soberly out onto the gathering. He cleared his throat and straightened some sheets of paper on the podium.
“This morning at approximately 11:45 am, there was an explosion in the Academic Center Building. The blast leveled the second floor, which collapsed onto the first. Once the structure was compromised the building fully collapsed at twelve thirty.” He took a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his blue suit jacket and dabbed at his forehead. “At the present time, we have twenty confirmed fatalities, multiple injured. The injured were taken to local hospitals. We will not release the names of the victims until all families have been notified. Rescue crews are continuing to search the debris for survivors. According to the most current information we have, there are forty employees unaccounted for.” He lifted his chin. “We have no idea how many students may have been in the building at the time of the explosion. We will keep you all updated as more news becomes available. I will take a few questions.”
Everyone shouted out questions at once hoping to get called on.
“Do you know if it was a bomb? And are there any suspects?” a reporter from the local news channel yelled.
“ATF has determined that it was a bomb. But I don’t have more details than that. And no, we have no suspects and no one has admitted to the crime.”
“Had the college received threats? Could it have been a student or disgruntled employee?”
“We are investigating every possibility.” He held up his hand to tamp down any more questions. “That will be all for now. There will be another briefing later this evening when hopefully we have more information.” A trickle of sweat slid across his forehead. “In the meantime, please pray for the families of the lost, the survivors and our university. Thank you.” He turned away from a barrage of more questions that went unanswered.
Zoie turned off her recorder and stuck it back in her bag. She needed to get to the hospital.
“That’s the house,” Kimberly said when they pulled the car to a stop in front. For several moments she simply sat there.
Gail touched her hand. “You don’t have to do this if you’re not ready.”
“I have to do this.” She unfastened her seatbelt, opened her door, and got out.
Together they walked to the front door.
Gail stroked Kimberly’s back. “I’m right here,” she said softly.
Kimberly gave a tight-lipped nod and then rang the bell.
It was several moments before the door was opened.
Aunt Sage answered. “Yes? Can I help you?”
“I’m Kimberly Maitland.”
Sage blinked. “What?”
“I’m Rose’s other daughter. This is my friend, Gail.”
Sage gripped the doorknob. “Kimberly? Is that really you?”
“Yes. It’s me.”
Sage stood there, frozen, staring in disbelief. Finally, she gathered her wits and her manners. “Come in. Come in.” She held the door open and stepped aside.
“We prayed and prayed that you would come one day,” Sage said while she closed the door behind them. She stared into Kimberly’s face. She reached out and caressed her cheek. “You have our eyes.”
Kimberly’s throat clenched.
Sage took Kimberly by the hand and led her to the sitting room. “Please sit. I’ll get you some refreshment and . . . Stay right there.” She ambled out of the room as fast as her weight and feet could take her.
“You okay?” Gail asked as Kimberly folded down onto the couch.
“I think so. I don’t know. Wasn’t sure what to expect.”
“Who was that? One of your aunts?”
“I believe she’s my aunt Sage, from the pictures that Zoie showed me.” Kimberly looked around in wonder, taking in the homey atmosphere from the overstuffed but well-worn couches and chairs, the mantel lined with family photos and souvenirs. Sheer, off-white curtains gently fanned in and out of the bay windows. There was an old record player in a place of honor on a gleaming wood table, and a piano that looked to have had better days. A far cry from the mansion she grew up in or her lifestyle in Manhattan, yet there was a warmth here that was missing in her high-end abodes.
She turned at the sound of a gasp. A woman with skin the color of warm honey and waves of thick black hair that fell around her shoulders, stood frozen in the doorway. Her hand flew to her mouth. Another woman, not Sage, stood next to her. Those same eyes but a bit unfocused. All three women were versions of each other.
“Kimberly,” came a timid whisper, a combination of a question and a prayer. Rose tentatively took a step into the room.
“Who’s those white ladies?” Hyacinth asked, peering at Kimberly and Gail from the doorway.
“Hush,” Sage cautioned. “That’s Rose’s girl, Kimberly, and her friend.”
“Well now. Ain’t that something,” Hyacinth said and clapped her hands.
“Kimberly,” Rose whispered again. She walked closer.
Kimberly licked her lips. “Yes, it’s me.”
“Oh god, oh my god.” Rose’s eyes filled with tears. She walked up to Kimberly and cupped her cheeks in her hand. “I didn’t know if I would ever see you.” Her voice cracked into tiny pieces. “I . . . they told me you were dead. That you’d died during birth.” Tears flowed freely down her cheeks. “Zoie found you.” She blinked rapidly, wiped her eyes. “She found you.” She wrapped her arms around Kimberly and hugged her stiff body against her own. “She found you,” she repeated. Slowly she let go and took a step back. She wiped her eyes, focused on the patch of floor between them. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“No,” she shook her head. “It’s fine. Really.” She glanced around nervously.
“This is your aunt Sage.” Rose extended her hand toward Sage. “And that’s your aunt Hyacinth.” She wrung her fingers together. “Let’s sit down.”
“Why don’t I take your friend out to the kitchen for some refreshment,” Sage said.
Gail jumped up from her seat. “Thank you. I’d like that.”
Sage grabbed Hyacinth by the arm. Gail followed them out.
Rose walked over to the velveteen love seat and sat. Kimberly sat opposite her on a matching side chair.
“How much do you know about what happened?” Rose tentatively asked.
Kimberly’s face tightened. “Only what Zoie told me . . . and my . . . mother didn’t offer much.”
“You talked to her about everything?” Rose asked, incredulity lifting her voice.
“Lou Ellen Maitland is not someone you actually have a conversation with. It’s generally an exchange of sound bites, directives, declarations, and observations.” She glanced away, lowered her head.
“All these years I didn’t know,” Rose said softly. She linked her fingers together on her lap. “I was so young. But I was in love.” A wistful smile teased her lips. “Kyle,” she quickly looked at Kimberly, “your father was an incredible man. So smart, and caring and handsome.” Her gaze drifted away. “It was all a fantasy. I know that now. Back then a wealthy, well connected white man, marrying the barely of age black daughter of the housekeeper was unthinkable.” She drew in a long breath. “My mother sent me to New York. Well, I found out much later that it was the Maitlands that took care of everything, including faking your death certificate, paying my mother to never speak a word of it by taking care of all my college and living expenses. My sisters resented me for years because of that. They knew why girls got ‘sent away’ and felt like I was being rewarded for being a slut.” She snorted a laugh. “I was so broken after believing I’d lost you, I didn’t care. I didn’t want to come back. And Kyle was dead. I had nothing to come back to.”
Rose looked at her daughter who’d risen from her seat.
Kimberly walked toward the window with her arms folded tightly around her slim body. “Secrets are an ugly thing,” she said in a faraway voice. “I don’t know who I am. I’ve lost everything because of secrets and lies.”
Rose came up behind her and placed a tender hand on her back. Kimberly shrugged her away. “As much as I despise what my mother did, I benefited from it. I had a good life, loveless, but good. I had a career and aspirations. I married well. I have two beautiful daughters. All of that is gone now. I have nothing. Zoie did that. If she had only left things alone.” She slammed her hand against the wall.
Rose lowered her head. “I never stopped thinking about you,” she said softly. “What you could have been. What you would look like. When I lost you, I lost a part of myself that was never really filled.” She frowned in thought. “I think at times I even blamed Zoie.”
Kimberly turned around. “Why?”
“I wanted to make her into what I thought you would be and that wasn’t fair to her. I held on.” She fisted her fingers. “So tight. I wanted to bind her to me because I was so afraid of losing her. I couldn’t lose another child.” She crossed the room and sat back down. “But I lost her anyway.” She sniffed, wiped away the tears from her eyes and looked up at Kimberly. “The two of you favor each other.”
“Where is she? Zoie?”
“She’s at the University. The explosion. Did you hear about it?”
“Yes.” She paused. “I suppose she’s covering the story.”
“Yes.”
“Humph. It’s what she does isn’t it. Uncover things.”
“Would you have rather not known the truth? Would you have rather gone on for the rest of your life not knowing your family? Me? Your aunts and yes, your sister.”
A tear spilled from her eye. “Yes! I want my life back! She ruined it all with her digging and probing.” Her body shook.
Rose tried to touch her.
Kimberly held up her hand. “Don’t.” She snatched up her purse from the couch. “You can let her know she finally got what she wanted,” she said, a coating of defeat weighing down her voice. She strode to the door. “Gail!” she called out.
“Kimberly don’t leave like this, please,” Rose begged. “Stay, let’s talk.”
“What else is there to say? Nothing. Nothing. Nothing!”
Gail emerged from the kitchen with Sage and Hyacinth close behind.
“Let’s go.”
“Thank you for the cake and tea,” Gail said and rushed behind Kimberly to the door.
The three sisters stood in the doorway, watching Kimberly and Gail get into the car and drive off.
Sage put her arm around Rose’s shoulder. “You okay?”
Rose hung her head and shook it slowly. “No,” she whispered.
All the major news outlets had the same idea that she did. When she arrived at University Hospital the street and the parking lot were littered with news vans and satellite dishes. Zoie found a place to park a block away and walked back to the hospital as two ambulances raced by.
The ambulance bay took in vehicles as quickly as they pulled out. Swirling red and blue lights spun through the sky. The pungent scent of fear, chaos and confusion burned her nostrils, setting off a physical reaction.
The scent hurled her spiraling backward. Images of destruction from that fateful New York morning flashed like strobe lights in front of her making her momentarily lightheaded, blurring her vision. She leaned against the side of a police van and dragged in gulps of air. She was never sure when the visceral reaction to scent would hit her. Since the day she’d stood frozen in terror staring upward as flames shot from the windows of the towers and bodies leaped to their deaths she’d had moments of flashback, usually triggered by smell. In the beginning, it was extremely difficult for her to work on her Trade Center series, but she’d pushed through. The doctors said it would take time, but eventually the symptoms would disappear. The episodes had lessened, but when they hit she was rocked.
She wiped the sheen of sweat from her forehead, adjusted her backpack and walked toward the hospital entrance where a cluster of reporters had gathered. She recognized several of the local anchors broadcasting for their networks. What she needed was access to either the doctors or emergency personnel.
She hipped and elbowed her way closer to the front. A reporter from WVUE Fox 8, WDSU, and WWL Channel 2 were doing their live broadcast. She took several photos of the entrance to the hospital to get her establishment shot. Her phone vibrated in her hand.
“Jackson?” She put a finger in one ear so she could hear him over the noise.
“Zoie I know you heard about the explosion at the university.”
“Yes. I’m at University Hospital now,” she shouted.
“So am I, but they won’t let me in. I’m trying to find Lena. She’s not answering her phone. She’s not at home.”
Her stomach knotted listening to the panic in his voice. “How can I help?”
“Would they let you in? Maybe you could find out something.”
“I’m in the front of the hospital. Where are you?”
“Around the corner at the emergency entrance.”
“Stay there. I’ll come to you,” she said. She disconnected the call, stuck the phone in her pocket and made her way over cables, around trucks and through the crush of media.
Jackson was pacing in front of the emergency entrance. “Z,” he breathed in a moment of relief upon seeing her come around the corner. He walked up to her and grabbed her in a short embrace. “Thanks.”
She nodded, tight-lipped. “I’m not sure how much I can do, but I’ll try. So far, they aren’t letting anyone in beyond the waiting areas, except victims and immediate family.”
He heaved a breath, ran his hand across his face and turned in a slow circle. “This is making me crazy.”
Zoie placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure she’s okay. Just out of touch for now. Maybe it’s as simple as she can’t get to a phone in all the chaos. I’m sure the lines are all down at the college. Let’s not look for the boogeyman. Okay?” She squeezed his shoulder.
Jackson looked into her eyes. “I know this is awkward for you. I don’t want to put you in a—”
“Stop. I’m here because I want to be, because you’re important to me and you asked for my help.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Okay. So let me see if I can find out anything from the emergency folks. Sweet talk someone.” She pushed through the revolving doors of the emergency entrance. The entire area was littered with stretchers, medical carts, bandaged and bleeding patients and harried staff trying to manage it all, mixed in with reporters and anxious family members. The blare of emergency calls over the loud speakers only intensified the scene of unreality.
“Wait right here,” she said to Jackson. “I see someone I know from my grandmother’s church.” She wound around the obstacles and up alongside one of the nurses. “Miss Janet. It’s me Zoie. Claudia’s granddaughter.”
Janet Felix frowned before her expression registered recognition. “Zoie. What are you doing here? Is someone hurt?”
“Actually, that’s what I’m trying to find out. We think Lena Banks may be here. She works at Xavier and we’ve been unable to reach her since the blast.”
“Zoie, I can’t give out information on patients if it’s not family.”
“I know. I understand. All we want to know is if she’s here.” She swallowed and lowered her voice. “She’s pregnant.” She looked over her shoulder. “That’s the dad over there in the denim jacket. He’s going crazy with worry.”
Janet craned her neck to see around the moving bodies and spotted Jackson. She pressed her chart to her chest then focused on Zoie. “I’ll see what I can find out and only because Claudia Bennett would have cussed me out if I didn’t. Give me a minute.”
Zoie clasped Janet’s arm. “Thank you, thank you. Whatever you can do.” She walked over to where Jackson had begun pacing. “That’s a woman from Nana’s church. She’s going to check and see if Lena is here. Okay? And if she’s not here, maybe she’s at LSU. Only the really critical were brought here. So, if she’s not that may be a good thing.”
He nodded, but Zoie wasn’t sure if he’d actually heard her.
“Does Lena have family here, someone you can call?”
He shook his head, no. “Father passed. Her mom is in North Carolina. No siblings. I wouldn’t know how to reach her mother.”
“Friends?”
“Don’t have numbers. Just the name of her one friend, Diane,” he said as if realizing just how fragile relationships are. “They work together.”
She linked her fingers with his. “We’ll find her.”
They found a corner of a space in the tightly packed area to wait for some word from Nurse Felix.
“Did you go to the college?” Jackson asked.
“Yes. I went there first.” She stole a look at his stricken expression.
“I was in the car on my way to the housing complex when I heard the news on the radio.” His features tightened into ridges and valleys. “I thought I was mistaken. I changed the station and they were saying the same thing.” He shook his head.
An EMT worker rushed in pushing a stretcher. Jackson jumped forward trying to get a glimpse of the person being wheeled in.
Zoie grabbed his arm. “It’s not her. It’s not her.”
His shoulders slumped, deflated as if jabbed with a pin. He leaned up against the wall and momentarily squeezed his eyes shut.
As much as she knew this entire surreal time was overwhelming and traumatic for everyone, it was still hard to watch Jackson’s angst over another woman—albeit the mother of his child. She got it, of course. If he was indifferent or not overly concerned that would be worrisome. So why did she feel a way about his anxiety over Lena? He should. But was it simply concern for someone that he knew and cared about, or was it really more than that? Shit. What kind of person was she to even think along those lines? Always digging, always looking under rocks. She dragged in a breath.
“Hey, I’m gonna see if Nana’s friend found out anything.”
“Thanks.”