8
Harper
Tears run down my cheeks as I wrap my arms around my baby. My baby who isn’t a baby anymore. Who doesn’t look like my baby. But when I hug her, when I kiss her forehead, she smells like my baby. “Georgina,” I breathe, knowing that if God wanted to call me home right now, I’d be content. All I’ve wanted for so many years is this moment. To have my baby girl home again.
“Harper . . .”
I don’t know how much time has passed since Georgina walked in the door. Could be fourteen seconds or fourteen years.
“Harper.” Remy squeezes my shoulder and murmurs in my ear. “Let go of her, hon. You’re making her uncomfortable.”
I take a step back, not wanting to let go of my Georgina. Not ever again. As I release her, I realize she didn’t hug me back. She’s just standing there stiffly, holding an old blue backpack. And she’s not looking at me. She’s not looking at any of us. She’s just staring at the entryway floor. “Sorry.” I laugh and sniff.
“I’m Remy,” he says to Georgina. “Your dad.” His voice cracks when he says it and I’m afraid I’m going to start bawling. But he doesn’t hug her. He just stands there looking at her and she lifts her gaze to meet his. And just for a second I’m a little, tiny bit jealous.
“And . . . that’s Josephine. Jojo,” he says, continuing the introductions. “Your little sister.”
Neither of our daughters says anything to each other. Jojo, standing at the bottom of the staircase, her arms wrapped around her waist, is staring at Georgina. Jojo’s still in her school uniform. Ann ended up running over to Ursuline to pick her up for me when Jojo changed her pickup time twice. Ann only dropped her off five minutes ago. Jojo almost missed Georgina’s homecoming with her nonsense.
“Sorry, Katrina, right?” Remy offers his hand. “We spoke on the phone. Remy Broussard, and Harper and Jojo.” He shakes her hand.
“I can’t tell you how nice it is to meet you,” the social worker says. “It’s so amazing to be a part of this.” Her voice fills with emotion. “We don’t get to see a lot of happy endings in my line of work.”
Remy smiles kindly. “No, I don’t suppose you do.”
I can’t stop staring at Georgina. She’s so tall and so beautiful and so . . . grown-up looking.
“Um . . . hi.” I offer my hand to the social worker. “Sorry.” I laugh and she laughs. “I just can’t . . .” I wipe my tears from under my eyes with both my hands and hope I don’t look like a raccoon. I actually put on mascara this morning. “I’m so overwhelmed. So happy. I still can’t believe this is really happening.” I clasp my hands together to keep from grabbing Georgina for another hug. “Thank you so much, Katrina. I still can’t believe you”—my voice catches in my throat—“they found her,” I manage. I wipe at my tears again. “We made lunch.” I gesture toward the dining room. We hardly ever use it. Not with just Jojo and me. Not even when Remy comes over. The funny thing is, when we first moved into the house, when Georgina was born, we ate here all the time. Of course Remy’s dad was still alive then. He lived here with us. We lived here with him.
“Lunch sounds nice. A nice . . . icebreaker,” Katrina says. “Oh.” She points over her shoulder to a gray canvas container on the porch. “Some of Lilla—Georgina’s things. Arrangements will be made to . . .” She stops and starts again. “Someone will go to the house and get whatever else she wants. You’ll be contacted.”
I want to say that it’s okay, she doesn’t need anything from that woman, that life, but I don’t. Instead, I say, “Great,” and look at Georgina. “You hungry?”
“Not really.” She speaks so quietly that I can barely hear her.
I smile, not sure what to say, and look to the social worker. I don’t know what I was expecting, but this isn’t it. I feel so awkward. Clearly we all do. I guess I was expecting a big reunion scene, maybe not with Georgina throwing herself into my arms, but things are certainly chillier in the front hall than I anticipated.
“Let’s have some lunch, Lilla,” the social worker says, touching Georgina on the shoulder, ushering her forward.
Hearing Katrina call our daughter Lilla, the name the woman who stole her from us gave her, grates on my nerves, but I don’t correct her. “Um . . . we just made sandwiches, Remy’s version of muffalettas, and there are chips and grapes and sweet tea.” I take a step back to lead them to the dining room. “But . . . if you don’t eat meat, you can just pull it off. Or we can make you something else. Do you eat meat, Georgina? Are you a vegetarian? Jojo was a vegetarian for a while, until she realized she couldn’t really eat shrimp po’boys if she was vegetarian.”
“Mom,” Jojo groans from behind me.
“I’m not a vegetarian.” Again, just a whisper from my eldest daughter.
“Oh, good, okay. I mean . . . not good. I don’t have anything against vegetarians. My patients like them. I’m a vet.” I hear myself laugh and I’m afraid I sound like a complete moron. I don’t want Georgina to think I’m a moron. This is so much harder than I thought it was going to be. How did I not know this was going to be hard?
The social worker smiles kindly. I can tell she’s feeling my pain.
“You can leave your backpack there, Georgina.” I indicate the foot of the front staircase where Jojo is parked.
Georgina takes a hesitant step toward the stairs and Jojo sidesteps out of her way. I want to shake Jojo, but I’ve never shaken my daughter in my life. Either of them. I want to blurt out, “She doesn’t have the plague.” Instead, I lead the way to the dining room, which is just off the hallway that runs through the center of the house.
“This is such a beautiful home,” Katrina remarks, glancing up the staircase at the huge oil portraits on the wall. All men, all Remy’s family: judges and lawyers. “I love historic homes.”
“It’s been in the family, Remy’s, since it was built over a hundred years ago.” I eye Georgina. She’s set her backpack down and is slowly walking our way.
Remy brings up the rear. “You girls want to help me carry lunch into the dining room?” he asks casually. He doesn’t look at either of them as he walks past them, following the hall instead of cutting through the dining room.
Jojo huffs but follows her dad. Georgina doesn’t say anything. But she goes with them.
I lead Katrina into the dining room, watching Georgina disappear from my view. I close my eyes for a moment. I know I can’t watch her every moment of the day for the rest of my life, but she’s only been here five minutes. After fourteen years, I feel as if I have the right to want to get a good look at her.
“It’s going to be all right,” I hear Katrina say. She takes my hand.
I open my eyes, surprised to find her so close. “I know,” I say, trying to get a grip on myself.
“It’s going to take her a little time,” she continues.
I nod.
Katrina smiles kindly as she lets go of me. “And it’s going to take you a little time, all of you, to adjust to this new family dynamic.”
I exhale slowly. “Right. Of course. I just—” Against my will, tears fill my eyes. I’ve got to stop crying. I can’t be the mom who cries. What will Georgina think of me? “I’ve waited so long for her to come home. Everyone said she was dead. I thought she was dead.” My last words come out as a whisper.
I get another kind smile and Katrina glances at a large oil painting over the antique maple serving buffet. It’s a pastoral painting of sugar cane fields rolling down to the Mississippi in the days before the levees. I’ve always liked it, despite its semi-gaudy, ornate, gilded frame. Another Broussard family treasure. I hear Remy chatting in the kitchen. Nothing from Georgina or Jojo. “Remy’s great-great-aunt was an artist,” I say. “The house in the background is the Broussard home, in Evangeline Parish where they owned land. It was called Maison Douce,” I say, taking pride in the fact that my French is decent. “I think it’s about . . . 1887.”
She studies the painting and I study her. She’s a small woman, my age, maybe a little older. Her face is weathered; she looks like a smoker, though I didn’t smell cigarettes on her. Her brown hair is cut in a bob. She needs a touch-up at the roots, but she’s an attractive woman for her age. Our age. I wonder what made her want to be a social worker. For the state. I can’t fathom why anyone would want to deal with other people’s suffering all day long. See the things she must see in the city. I can barely deal with a dog in pain. It’s a calling, I suppose. Thank God someone has the calling, otherwise, who would bring little girls home to their mothers?
Katrina turns to me. When she speaks, her voice is soft; she glances through the doorway that leads to the kitchen. Obviously she doesn’t want Georgina to hear us. “She’s had a rough few days. She had no idea she’d been kidnapped as a baby. She thought Ms. Kohen was her mother.”
“No idea at all?” I ask. It’s a question I’ve been asking myself since the day I saw her in the coffee shop when I first thought there might be the slightest chance she was coming home to us.
Katrina shakes her head. “Definitely not. It’s important that she be allowed to have her feelings.”
“Of course,” I say.
“This has all been quite a shock. As I know the police told you, she was well cared for.” She hesitates. “She was loved,” she says without smiling.
“Loved?” I whisper. “That woman abducted my baby.” My ire rises out of nowhere, but I force myself to remain calm. Georgina is only twenty-five feet from me. I want her homecoming to be perfect. Getting into an argument with her social worker wouldn’t be the way to go. “The first days she was gone . . . I thought I was losing my grip on my sanity. I considered committing suicide,” I continue. What I don’t say is that the only reason I think I didn’t do it was because of the church. As scary as it is to think about, even now, I really could have killed myself. “Because of that woman,” I say from between clenched teeth.
“I hear what you’re saying,” Katrina says softly. “Just keep in mind, your daughter had nothing to do with the kidnapping. It isn’t her fault it happened. And it isn’t her fault that the woman who took her really did love her. It’s only natural for a child to love the person who cares for her and loves her.”
When I wasn’t imagining my daughter buried in the bayou somewhere, her face covered in mud, I was dreaming she was in a happy home. Well cared for, even loved. Now I’m having a hard time dealing with the idea that the monster who took my baby loved her. Worse, that Georgina loved her in return.
I stare at my boots on my feet. I must have dressed and redressed half a dozen times. What does a person wear to be reunited with their daughter who’s been missing for fourteen years? Jeans, ankle boots, and a white oxford shirt, I decided in the end. Casual but not sloppy. “Do you know why she did it?”
“The kidnapper?” We’re whispering again.
I nod. The police told me her name. Sharon Kohen. Our daughter has been living as Lilla Kohen. They have not been in New Orleans for fourteen years. They only moved here three months ago, from Baton Rouge. Apparently they moved a lot, typical for someone who had a secret to hide, according to the police. If you keep moving, it’s more difficult for people to get to know you, more difficult to rouse suspicions.
The social worker takes her time to respond to me. She’s probably debating how much to tell me. We have an appointment with the police next week. We’re supposed to get more information then.
“She lost a two-year-old to Tay-Sachs disease,” Katrina explains.
“So she stole my daughter?” As the words come out of my mouth, I realize how cold they sound. How lacking in sympathy. I can’t help it. I thought my baby had been murdered. Sexually abused and murdered. I know I was taught better, but I’m a little short on sympathy today.
“The mind is a strange thing. People respond to the same events in very different ways. Some women, when they lose a child, commit suicide.” Katrina meets my gaze. “Others kidnap a child, substituting one for the other, not just in their life but their mind. I didn’t interview Ms. Kohen myself, but I read the initial psych evaluation. Most of the time, she thought your Georgina was her Lilla.”
“If I hadn’t seen Georgina in that coffee shop . . .” I hesitate, trying not to go there, not able to hold myself back. “I might never have known she was alive.”
“It’s a lot to take in. A lot to process. As we discussed on the phone, we think it’s important that Georgina get counseling. I gave you a couple of names. What we didn’t discuss is that we recommend the same for you and your husband and daughter.”
“Remy? Counseling?” My smile is thin. “He’s not going to go for it. I used to see a therapist regularly. I can see him if I feel the need.”
“Bring it into the dining room,” Remy says loudly, walking from the kitchen toward us.
Our cue to stop whispering.
He enters the dining room carrying a tray of sandwiches. Jojo has the pitcher of sweet tea. Georgina brings up the rear carrying a plate of grapes in one hand, a bowl of chips in the other. I still haven’t heard her say more than a few words at once. She’s walking with her head down, her gorgeous dark hair covering much of her face. I meet Remy’s gaze. He offers a tight-lipped smile. He’s warning me to chill. I’m trying.
“Sit anywhere you like,” I say, sounding a little bit as if I’m a cruise director. Of course, how would I know? I’ve never been on a cruise. Remy tried to get me to go on one several times, back when we were trying to make things work, before he moved out. I wanted to go. I wanted to make him happy, but I just couldn’t bring myself to leave Jojo for a week, not even with Ann.
I watch Georgina set the food down and gaze at the table. Then at the dining room. And I realize she may be a little intimidated by the house. Ann, who lives in a cute double shotgun, says our place looks like a museum: the big, balconied exterior, the antique furniture, the portrait of Remy’s three-greats-back grandmother Marie, looking down on us from above the marble fireplace here in the dining room. For us, it’s just home. But from Georgina’s perspective, it could be overwhelming.
But wouldn’t she remember something? We brought her here, home from the hospital. Wouldn’t something in the house look familiar? Wouldn’t we look familiar, even if she didn’t remember us?
We’re all still standing around the table. Remy, the voice and action of reason, takes the chair at the end of the Victorian-era flame mahogany table that seats eight with the leaves out. He looks to Georgina and she slowly takes the chair to his left. Katrina sits to his right. I stand there for a second, debating whether or not to walk around the table to sit beside Georgina. Would I rather be able to look at her or touch her? Because I’m pretty certain she doesn’t want me touching her just yet, I take the chair closest to Katrina.
“Can I skip lunch?” Jojo asks. “I ate at school.”
“Right. Tacos.” Remy points at the table.
With a huff, Jojo takes a chair, but not the one beside Georgina; she sits on the very end so she’s facing her father. As I pick up my napkin I meet Remy’s gaze. We silently agree to let it go.
Remy picks up the platter of mini muffalettas, takes two, and passes it to Georgina. She puts one on her plate and turns to Jojo. Jojo doesn’t say anything, she just points at me. Georgina hands the plate across the table to me, which is a reach. I have to come partway up from my chair to take it. Georgina doesn’t make eye contact. The grapes and chips go around. Georgina takes grapes, no potato chips. Everyone, including my sulking daughter on the end, accepts a glass of sweet tea. I may have grown up in Philadelphia, but my mother was born and bred in Louisiana. I know how to make sweet tea.
The conversation, as we eat, is awkward. Mostly it’s Katrina asking us questions: what Remy does at Tulane, where Jojo goes to school, where my office is. Georgina doesn’t say a word, except when asked a direct question. I haven’t asked her any of the questions I want to ask because Remy made me promise not to grill her, at least not in the first hour after she arrives home. His thought is that we’ll have the rest of our lives to talk about the years she was gone from us. I understand what he’s saying, but there’s so much I want to know. Need to know. But we agreed we’d start on the easy questions: which subjects she likes in school, what her favorite color is, if she plays a sport. Her responses are monosyllables, for the most part. Her favorite class is statistics—I can’t imagine why. She doesn’t play a sport and she likes gray. What sixteen-year-old likes gray? The more time that passes over lunch . . . drags, the more worried I become. Adjusting to our new family is going to be hard on everyone.
“Any plans for this afternoon?” Katrina asks cheerfully. We’ve finished lunch and we’re edging toward the time when the social worker will leave us.
I look to Remy, who’s just getting to his feet to clear the table. “We were thinking we’d take a walk through the park. How’s that sound, Georgina?”
She stares at me across the table. Doesn’t smile. In fact, I haven’t seen her smile yet.
“Or . . . we could do something else.” I sound more upbeat than I feel. “What would you like to do, Georgina? Anything. You name it.”
I meet my daughter’s gaze and her eyes that are my Remy’s eyes fill suddenly with tears. “I want to go home. I want my mother.”