23

Harper

I stand in the kitchen, alone, sipping a cup of coffee in semidarkness. The only light on is the one above the stove. I know I shouldn’t be drinking coffee at seven p.m. I’ll never sleep. It doesn’t matter; I’m not sleeping much anyway. And it’s not due to too much caffeine. It’s Georgina. It’s Remy. It’s Jojo.

Me.

Most of all, me.

I know nothing is ever quite as good as you think it’s going to be. I’m not naïve. But Georgina’s been here three weeks and our household doesn’t remotely resemble what I thought it was going to. What I dreamed of, for fourteen years, when I prayed to God to bring her home.

No one is getting along. No one can agree on anything. Except maybe their dislike of me.

No, that’s not true. Remy and Georgina are getting along great. She never gives him that dark-eyed stare. She never gets angry with him. Even though I make him be the bad guy whenever I need a bad guy. Remy was the one who told her she had to continue at Ursuline even though after three days she said she wasn’t going back. He told her she couldn’t get a part-time job. Not yet. And he’s the one who’s been putting her off for weeks about contacting Sharon. And now we know where she is.

I swear, I feel as if I’m living in an alternate universe. The woman who kidnapped my child, a woman in prison, has actually become a person in my life. Her name actually comes out of my mouth as if she were a neighbor or an acquaintance from church.

The house phone rings. I don’t pick it up. No one else does. I think we’re going to disconnect it. No one we want to talk to ever calls the house. Just telemarketers. Anyone we want to speak to has our cell numbers.

After the fourth ring, it stops. It’s the second or third time it’s rung today. I haven’t checked the messages in days. And certainly no one else in the house checks them. Last week someone called from a newspaper and left a phone number, making a reference to Georgina’s kidnapping. We’ve been fortunate that we’ve been able to keep her safe return out of the media. Remy and I had agreed we would give no interviews and we didn’t want any of the information released to the public. The fact that Georgina is still a minor helped make that happen. So, obviously I won’t be returning the reporter’s call.

I sip my coffee and fan myself with a takeout menu. Hot flash.

Friday we had our first family counseling session. It wasn’t a disaster, but it certainly wasn’t a roaring success. Mostly I talked. Georgina did the same thing she always does. She answered direct questions, but she didn’t elaborate. Remy’s the only one she will talk to. They’re in the living room right now, talking. I don’t know what they’re talking about, but I can hear their voices. They’re watching some awful nineties horror movie together while she does homework and he works on something he brought home from the office.

I don’t bring work home. I do my charts as soon after I see my patients as possible. And when I do my charts, I don’t want anyone talking to me, I don’t want to listen to music, and I certainly don’t want to watch anything associated with Wes Craven’s name. Jojo doesn’t do well with distractions, either. She goes to her room to do her homework. Remy and Georgina laugh and chat while they work, and she comes home with A’s.

I’ve never been a jealous person, but I’m jealous of Remy. I suppose I should give myself a pat on the back for recognizing that. I hate feeling this way. I’m jealous of how easy this transition, having Georgina back in our lives, has been for him. I’m jealous of how much she seems to like him.

This morning she called him “Dad.” I had to leave the room so neither of them would hear the green monster in my voice. Or see the tears in my eyes.

I hear footsteps in the hall and then Jojo’s voice. Now the three of them are talking.

Ann has suggested, as gently as possible, that I’m being hypersensitive. She’s been doing some reading for me, reading I can’t do myself. Then she relates what she’s read, serving as my buffer. She says it’s common for adopted children, when first placed in their new home, to resent the mother in the family. It all has to do with their birth mother abandoning them. I tried to make the argument, loudly, that we didn’t adopt Georgina. She was ours to begin with. Ann humored me because she’s the best friend a woman could ever have. She also reminded me that Georgina has had, whether I like it or not, a mother figure in her life all this time. She has not had a father.

And I see what she’s saying, even though I didn’t want to. A child removed from her home where she was happy, even a foster home, has to be angry with someone. And as much as I don’t want to think about it, I’ve pretty much come to the conclusion that Georgina really was happy with Sharon. I don’t have to take her word for it. She was clearly never abused, physically or emotionally. Georgina acts like a teenager who was well adjusted and happy. Was being the operative word. Because I ruined that the day I walked into Perfect Cup.

I’m considering seeing my therapist again. On my own. In addition to the family counseling. Maybe the family doesn’t need counseling, maybe it’s me. I also wonder if Remy and I need to try marriage counseling again. I felt so close to him when he first moved back in, but now it’s beginning to feel as if I was imagining there was more than there is between us. I just don’t feel as connected to him as I did those first few days. I keep thinking that maybe it’s just the honeymoon is over and that we’re back to being a couple who’s been married for twenty-plus years. Or twenty-minus years, depending on whether you count the fact that we’re not actually married anymore. I want to tell myself I’m just being paranoid or imagining things, but I have the nagging suspicion that’s not true.

I hear footsteps from the direction of the living room and turn to see Jojo coming into the kitchen. “What are you doing in here in the dark?” she asks. It’s rhetorical. She flips on the overhead lights from the light switch on the wall.

Electricity was added to the house after it was built, so we have those cool little round switch boxes on the walls. They allow for the wiring that runs on the exterior of the walls, rather than through them. You don’t see it in the U.S. much anymore, but there are plenty of homes in Europe still wired this way. Years ago, Remy and I discussed having the whole house rewired properly, but the cost was astronomical, and I like it the way it is.

As my eyes adjust to the brighter light, I watch Jojo go to the refrigerator and get out a can of carbonated, flavored water. Then she goes to the pantry and pulls out a box of wheat crackers. She’s wearing sweatpants and a tight long-sleeved T-shirt and I realize her body has changed from a child’s to a woman’s. I’m not sure how I missed that. I was here for buying first bras and tampons and even a discussion on menstrual cups, but I realize that while I might have been here, I wasn’t fully present. And it makes me sad. Sad for her and for me.

“What’s up?” she asks me.

I smile. I know Jojo is in the throes of teenage self-absorption, but she seems to be the one person in the house who ever asks how I am. At least on occasion.

“I’m making a list of things I have to get done tomorrow. I’m working all day Tuesday. Samantha’s going to be out all day. She’s got that new vet she hired part time, but she said she’d be more comfortable if I was there.”

She sets the can on the counter beside my coffee cup and digs into the box of crackers. “I think that’s a good idea. You going back to work.” She stuffs several crackers into her mouth.

I sigh. “You’re probably right. I wanted . . . I wanted to be here for Georgina.” I talk softly so they can’t hear me above the female screams on the TV. “I thought maybe we could both take a couple of weeks off, from school and work and . . . get to know each other.”

She meets my gaze. Shrugs. “She likes school, maybe not Ursuline, but school in general. I don’t get it, but . . .” She pops more crackers into her mouth. “Whatever.”

“I know, I just . . .” I just what? I wanted to hang out with her? I wanted her to tell me everything that’s happened to her since that last time I saw her in her stroller on Napoleon Avenue?

“You do better when you’re busy, Mom. You’re happier.”

Jojo’s embarrassingly right. The less free time I have, the less time I have to overanalyze my life and everyone else’s. I reach for my coffee. “I was looking at rentals. What’s your vote for our Mardi Gras vacay? Austin, Texas, or Panama City Beach, Florida? Hopefully the weather is going to be good.”

Every year, since the first anniversary of Georgina’s kidnapping, we’ve gone away at least part of the week of Mardi Gras. I can’t stand Mardi Gras parades; I can’t stand any parades. Just the thought of one makes me break out into a sweat. For years, Remy, Jojo, and I did mini vacations. We made our escape from the city, and its traffic and drunks urinating on our sidewalks, fun. One year we even went to Disney World. When Jojo was still into Disney princesses. After the divorce, Remy still went, but Ann and George and Makayla joined us. For the last two years, Jojo’s put up a fight about going. She’s getting to that age where she likes the parades, or the confusion revolving around them. I brace myself for an argument.

“Whatever. We going for a whole week?”

“Um. Probably not. Your dad doesn’t want to miss too much work.”

She bobs her head. “Aunt Annie and Uncle George and Makayla coming?”

I’m pleasantly surprised that she doesn’t bring up staying in town. I want to hug her, but I don’t want to run her off. I should probably take what I can get and be satisfied to stand here and talk with her. Jojo’s never been a particularly physical child, but she doesn’t freeze when I put my arms around her. Not like Georgina does. Remy suggested I back off and let Georgina be the one to initiate physical contact. I suggested to him that I wasn’t certain I would live long enough.

“To be determined,” I tell Jojo. “Annie was waiting on George.”

“I hope they’re coming.” She’s still munching on the crackers. “Otherwise it’s going to be a total drag.”

I almost laugh aloud at her choice of words. A drag? I wonder where she got that. It’s not something you hear often in this decade. “I’ll text Ann to see if they know what they’re doing yet.”

She grabs her drink. “Guess I’ll go back upstairs and kill a couple more brain cells trying to do my geometry homework.”

I nod and reach for my phone. “Hey, what’s going on in the living room?” I lift my chin in that direction.

Jojo arches her eyebrows. They seem thinner than they usually are. And darker. “Dad and Lilla?”

This is why I feel like everyone is against me. Now Jojo is calling her by that name. “What are they talking about?”

“How would I know?”

“You were just in there. I heard you guys talking.”

Jojo shakes her head. “Mom, you have to chill. We weren’t talking about anything. I mean . . . we were talking, but . . . like about the commercial on TV or whatever. Dad asked me what I was doing upstairs. Lilla said she’d help me with my geometry, if I want.”

“You should let her help you. I’m sure she—”

Jojo motions with the box of crackers in one hand, the can in the other, as if she’s trying to signal a speeding car to slow down. “Mom, chill.”

She walks out of the kitchen.

“I’m just saying that if you need help—” I let it go. She’s already gone. “I love you, Josephine!” I holler after her.

“Love you!” she calls back.

Which means my life isn’t as terrible as I’m making it out to be, standing here in a dark kitchen, chugging high-test coffee. I have a roof over my head, a good job, a good husband, ex-husband, whatever. I have one daughter who loves me and another who’s come back from the dead. How can I complain?

Smiling, I pick up my cell off the counter and text Ann.

Austin?

The little dots appear. Then her text pops up.

G’s taking his evening constitutional. Get back to you

I chuckle and set my phone on the counter. I doubt George would appreciate his wife sharing his bathroom habits. I take another sip of coffee, carry it to the sink, and pour out the half cup still in the mug. Jojo’s right. I need to chill.

Remy walks into the kitchen, his flip-flops slapping the backs of his heels. “I talked to Lilla about the boxes the movers brought over from her old house,” he says, going to the fridge to refill his water glass.

I cross my arms around my waist as if I can somehow protect myself.

“The stuff she said she wanted went up to the attic. She says for me to donate the other things. Sharon’s.”

My gaze shifts to the leather roll on the counter next to our knife block. It seems to glow radioactively. At least in my mind. Sharon’s knives. We made dinner together tonight, noodle bowls. Everyone chopped vegetables. It was actually kind of fun, and we covered family meeting stuff while we did it. But it was hard for me to watch Georgina use Sharon’s chef’s knife.

Remy comes to stand beside me, drinking the water. “I’m not sure if that’s what I should do. I could just pay to put it in storage for now.”

“If she says she doesn’t want it, shouldn’t we respect that?”

“Her feelings for Sharon are pretty up in the air, baby.” He finishes the water and sets the glass down. He looks at me. “I think we need to think about letting her talk to her.”

I don’t have to ask him to clarify what he’s talking about. I just stand there.

“Or at least write to her,” he adds.

I don’t know what to say. Remy knows how I feel about this. I cover his hand, resting on the counter, with mine. “Maybe we need to talk to the family therapist about it. Without the girls.”

He doesn’t move his hand away from mine, but he doesn’t take it, either. “Harper . . .” He stops. Then goes on. “I’m fine with the group therapy thing, but . . .” He exhales. I can tell he’s searching for patience. “She’s our daughter. Don’t you think we know what’s best? I know we’re just getting to know her, but I feel as if . . .” He looks away, then back at me. “If we want her to trust us, don’t we have to trust her? She understands the situation. She knows this is permanent. I think she just needs closure with Sharon.”

I take my hand from his. I thought having Georgina home again would bring us closer together, but I’m feeling more distant from Remy with each passing day. “I don’t know, Remy.” I walk away from him, raising my hands in the air. “I don’t know.”

He doesn’t say anything.

I turn around and we stand there and look at each other. An impasse.

After a moment, he picks up his glass and goes to refill it. “I’m going up to take a shower. I didn’t get one after I worked out.”

I watch him walk out of the kitchen. Listen to him amble down the hall. Up the stairs. I grab my cell, tuck it into the back pocket of my jeans, and walk out of the kitchen. I take a breath, gird my loins, and walk into the living room. The TV is off. Georgina is sitting on the end of the couch, a pile of books beside her, her laptop on her lap.

“Hey,” I say.

She glances up. “Hey.” She looks down at her laptop again.

I consider surrendering. Just going to bed and trying again tomorrow. But I’m not a quitter. I’m not. I clear my throat. “I’m going to see Granddad tomorrow. You want to go? I can pick you up after school. Jojo has basketball practice.”

She doesn’t look up from her laptop. “Sure.”

“Okay. Good. He’ll be tickled to see you.” I stand there trying to think of something to say. Then I remember why I came in to begin with. I really am perimenopausal. “I was talking to Jojo . . . We always go away for Mardi Gras. The city’s packed to the gills. There’s no place to park . . . And you and Jojo have the whole week off from school. We were thinking about Austin, Texas. Have you ever been there?”

She looks up. A frown. “We’re not going to be here for the parades?”

It takes me a second to respond. “No. No, we don’t stay in town for Mardi Gras.” The reason seems obvious, but she’s sitting there looking at me like I’m an idiot. “Georgina . . . After . . . after you went missing, we . . . I couldn’t stay in the city. For me, all the revelry, the parades, even the beads, they all . . .” A lump rises in my throat and I fight it. I look down at the floor. The area rug needs vacuuming. I will not cry. I will not cry. “They all bring back the painful memories of when you went missing. I just can’t handle it.”

“So I’m not going to get to see the Mardi Gras parades.” She meets my gaze.

I’ve been looking for emotion from my daughter; well, here it is. Defiance. Anger.

“You’re not. At least not this year,” I add.

“But I’ve been looking forward to Mardi Gras since we moved here. I got to see a couple of random parades, but I really wanted to see some of the real parades. The Mardi Gras parades. Sharon and I were going to go see one uptown and one downtown.”

“I’m sorry, Georgina.”

“But I wanted to go.” She’s speaking slowly now, her lips tight. “I went to the Mardi Gras Museum. I learned all about the parades. Can’t you . . . Maybe you and Jojo can go to Austin. Dad and I will stay here. He’ll go to the parades with me.”

“We take our vacations as a family.”

She closes her laptop abruptly. “What if I don’t want to be a part of the family?”

“It’s too late, Georgina.” My voice gets testy. “You already are. You were the day you were born.”

She pushes her laptop off her lap onto the pile of books. “I’m not going!”

I walk toward her without even realizing I’m doing it. “What did you want me to do, Georgina?” I say in a voice close to shouting. “When I walked into that coffee shop, and I saw you there. What was I supposed to do?” I demand.

She just sits there staring at me, her face a mask of anger and something that looks very much like hatred.

“Was I supposed to just walk away? And leave you to live your life with Sharon, never knowing you were ours?” My last words are definitely at a volume that could be considered yelling. I don’t think I’ve ever yelled at Jojo in my life. “Never knowing she took you from me?”

“Yes!” Georgina shouts at me. “You should have left me there. Because I was happy!”

I take a breath. A strange calm comes over me. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t walk away, knowing it was you. And I know you may not be able to understand that, right now. But someday . . . when you’re a mother, you will.”

We’re both still looking at each other. I wait for what she’ll say next, but she doesn’t say anything. Her eyes are wet, but she isn’t crying.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly. I start to turn away and then turn back. “But for what it’s worth, I love you, Georgina. And even if you don’t love me back, I’ll still keep”—my voice catches in my throat—“I’ll still always love you. You’ll still always be mine.”

I walk out of the room and down the hall.

Remy meets me halfway between the stairs and the living room. “What’s going on?”

“You should probably go talk to her,” I say. Tears are running down my cheeks.

He looks at me and then in the direction of the living room.

I lay my hand on his chest. “Just talk to her, Remy,” I whisper. And then I make a retreat to my bedroom, hoping maybe I can find a hole to crawl into.