Sondra felt the eyes of the monsignor following her when she fled from church. Trying to muffle her sobs, she jogged hack to the hotel. Once there, she showered, ordered coffee, then pressed cold wet cloths against her swollen eyes. I’ve got to stop crying, she told herself fiercely. I’ve got to stop crying! The concert was so very important, and she had to be prepared.
At nine o’clock she was scheduled to go to her rented studio in Carnegie Hall and practice for five hours. She had to get herself together. She knew she had been off form yesterday, distracted, not playing nearly to her usual standard.
But how can I think about anything but the baby? Sondra kept asking herself. What happened to my little girl? For these past seven years she had been picturing her living with a wonderful couple who maybe hadn’t had a child of their own and who loved and worshiped her. But now she had no idea who had found her-or even if she had been found at all.
She looked in the mirror. What a mess! She thought. Her face was blotchy and her eyes swollen. There was nothing more she could do about her eyes, she decided, but her long, delicate fingers moved deftly as she dabbed base makeup over her face to cover the evidence of her tears.
I’ll walk past the rectory again this afternoon, she decided. That thought at least was calming. It was the last place where she had seen her baby, and she felt near to her when she was there. Also, when she prayed at the portrait of Bishop Santori, something of the same peace her grandfather had described feeling when he prayed there all those years ago seemed to come to her. Her prayer was not to have the baby back. I don’t have the right to ask for that, she thought. Just give me a way to know she’s safe, and loved. That’s all I ask.
She had taken a parish bulletin from St. Clement’s, and now she dug it out of the pocket of her jogging jacket. Yes, she saw there was a five o’clock Mass. She would attend it, but she would arrive a little late. That way the monsignor wouldn’t have a chance to try to speak to her. Then she would slip out again before it was over.
As she twisted her dark-blond hair, gathering it up at the back of her head, she wondered if the baby had grown to look even a little bit like her.