eighteen

I followed Doris through a formal living room to a great room that took up most of the back of the home. The huge area was sectioned off by tasteful furniture into a family room and informal dining area. To the far right was a long counter with tall stools that divided the dining area from the kitchen. The entire back wall of all three sections was made up of French doors leading to a patio and a pool area surrounded by grass. Along the back and side stone walls tall shrubs provided more privacy. The lot wasn’t that big, but good use had been made of it. The dogs had followed us to the back of the house and were now curled up together on a large doggie bed.

I had been right about her working out right before I arrived. On a huge TV screen a yoga video was set on pause and a yoga mat was laid out on the floor in front of it. “I’m sorry I disturbed your workout,” I told Doris.

She waved off my comment as nothing. “It was almost over anyway.”

She directed me to a U-shaped sofa. I took a seat on one of the short extensions and she took a seat to my left on the middle section. She grabbed a bottle of water that was set on the coffee table and took a long drink. She offered me nothing. After a second long drink, she said in a voice that chilled me to the bone, “Did he send you?”

“You think Jordon sent me here?” I asked, surprised.

“Well, that’s a possibility I hadn’t considered,” she said, “but it hardly looks from that photo that Jordon has the capacity to do something like that.”

I prickled at the way she was putting down Jordon. I’d only met him, but she was his mother. Yet I was his only advocate in the room. The near tears of a few minutes ago were gone, turned off as easily as a faucet. Was Doris Hoffman really that cold? “As I told you, your son is hardly a vegetable. He has limitations, but his brain functions quite well.”

She got up from the sofa and went to a wall unit I hadn’t noticed before. On it were books and knickknacks and bushels of photos in frames. She plucked out two photos and brought them back to the sofa. She held them out to me. I put my phone on the coffee table and took the photos. In one were three children—a teenage boy and two toddlers, a boy and a girl. The second photo was an action shot of the teen running down a grassy field in pursuit of a soccer ball.

Doris sat back down. “That’s my son. Jordon was smart and funny. A sweet kid with a bright future. He was on his way to UCLA on a soccer scholarship.”

“Your other two children are much younger,” I observed. “Were they from a different marriage?”

She shook her head. “No. When I had Jordon I had a hard time with the delivery. The doctor said the odds of me getting pregnant again were almost nil. When Jordon was twelve, my husband and I got a big surprise: I became pregnant with twins. Once we got over the shock, we were delirious with joy. Even Jordon was excited. Just months after this photo was taken,” she tapped the one with the three kids, “my husband suffered a heart attack and died. He’d hardly been sick a day in his life, but one day on the golf course he dropped dead, leaving me with a teen and two kids barely out of diapers.”

I felt tears welling in my eyes. It was a tragic story. Not that uncommon either. People in their prime often had heart attacks with no warning, usually caused by a defect they never even knew they had. “I’m terribly sorry,” I said to Doris, meaning it. “Truly sorry. And then a few years later to have Jordon cut down. It must have almost killed you.”

“Honestly, I thought I was in hell when Jack died, but to lose Jordon was the real hell.” She reached out and lightly touched the soccer photo. I wanted to tell her that she didn’t lose Jordon, but I didn’t think she needed reminding at that moment. “A hell that still continues,” she added. “I told the young ones that Jordon had died. They were so young when it happened that there was no need to have a fake funeral or anything. It’s what they believe to this day.” She smiled and now touched the photo with the three of them. “George is in law school up north. Marissa moved to London last year to take a job in fashion marketing. I’m very proud of them both.”

I was realizing that Doris Hoffman would have nothing to tell me that could help me. She was a grieving mother, perhaps even trapped by guilt. My Spidey sense had been off. Maybe the heat had warped it or maybe the stress of not having my job had tipped it off balance. But I didn’t want to get up and leave. Something held me to the sofa.

“Who was the he you thought had sent me, if not Jordon?”

She looked at me funny, then quickly looked down. “I don’t recall asking that.”

“You specifically asked if he sent me,” I told her. “I thought at first you meant Jordon, but now I know you didn’t. Who is the he you thought sent me?”

Instead of answering, she picked up my phone. The screen had gone dark and the phone had locked as part of its security system. “May I see the photo of Jordon again?” she asked.

I took my phone and unlocked the screen using my thumbprint. It instantly lit up. I opened Jordon’s photo and gave Doris the phone. She studied the photo. “He still has the same warm eyes.” There was a catch in her voice.

Before I could stop her, she turned off the phone. I was worried she was going to destroy it, but she didn’t. She just turned it off and held on to it. “What are you doing?” I asked. “Give me my phone back.”

“I had to make sure it was off,” she said, still clutching it. “I needed to make sure you’re not recording this. Who knows, maybe you’re a reporter, and all that about you and your husband is BS. He warned me that someone might start snooping around and connect us. I guess he got some bad press recently, and that always stirs up his enemies—and here you are, right on cue.”

“Who is he?” I asked in frustration.

“The man who put Jordon in that wheelchair, that’s who he is.”

My mind was reeling. “Wait a minute,” I said, both of my hands raised in “stop” mode. “I was told Jordon was injured in a DUI accident. I assumed he’d been drinking. You know, a crazy kid out with his friends.”

“Jordon never drank,” Doris said, getting defensive. “He was hit by a drunk driver.”

I fell back against the sofa, a hand slapped against my mouth in surprise. “That’s why the trust, isn’t it?” I asked when I found my voice. “He’s being supported by the settlement from the accident when you sued the driver of the other car.”

“We didn’t sue. It never went to court, and the police reports say that Jordon was at fault. He saw to that. It was all done behind closed doors in private.” Her lower lip trembled. “He told me if Jordon shouldered the blame and we took the settlement—which was astronomical—and didn’t drag him into court or the news, he’d make sure Jordon was cared for until he died, and that I would be supported until I died.” She looked me in the eye. “If we didn’t take the deal, he said we’d end up with nothing. He said he’d make sure of that. I believed the bastard. I still believe he’d ruin us if he felt the need.”

Tears started running down her cheeks. She picked up the towel she’d dropped on the coffee table and dabbed at her face. I wanted to reach out to her, to give her comfort, but didn’t get the feeling it would be welcome.

“I sold my son, Odelia. I sold the light of my life for a life of comfort for the rest of us. That’s why I can’t bear to visit him. I live with enough guilt without seeing it in the flesh.” She looked up at me again and I saw that her grief was real and as deep as a cavern. This woman had been suffering a long time in silence. I wondered if I was the first person to hear this story.

“But what could I do?” she continued. “I was a widow working a dead-end job to support three children. Jack owned his own small business, but when he died I found out he’d gotten us deep in debt trying to keep it afloat. We lost everything. When Jordon was in that accident, I knew he’d never be the same boy he’d once been and that his future was gone. So I traded doing the right thing for doing what I felt was best for my other two children.”

“Did your second husband know about this?” I asked.

She gently blew her nose into the towel. “No, he knew nothing about it. I told him the money came from the accident and my first husband’s insurance. When we married, I insisted on a prenup and I kept the funds separate, saying it was for my children’s future. Dave Hoffman is a sweet guy and understood.” She snorted softly. “Too sweet for the likes of me. I was bored and withdrawn, and he was frustrated trying to make me happy. After two years of marriage, we went our separate ways. He remarried shortly after I moved back here with Marissa and George. We don’t keep in touch at all.”

“So who is this guy who hit Jordon?” I asked. It had to be someone in the public eye, a politician maybe.

“I can’t tell you that, Odelia. If I do, it will all go away, including Jordon’s support. And I can’t destroy the life I built for the other children. They can never know I lied to them.”

“Don’t you think they’ll find out one day? Things like this have a way of leaking out.”

She glared at me. “So you do intend to cause trouble?”

“I intend to cause no trouble,” I assured her. “Like I said, some things happened to my husband and me this past weekend that led me to Jordon and to you. What you’re telling me doesn’t appear to have anything to do with our problem.”

Doris took another drink of water. I was as parched as sand, but still she didn’t offer me a drop. After she swallowed her water, she said, “What’s this about some woman claiming Jordon is the father of her child? They told me he’s totally paralyzed.”

“We’re not sure,” I told her. “But we think some college girl who used to work at Bayview put his name down on the birth certificate.”

Again Doris snorted. “She must be a gold digger after the money he lives on.”

“No,” I said with a shake of my head. “The child would have been born over twenty-five years ago, and she’s not made a single claim on Jordon in all this time.”

“And what does that have to do with you?” Doris narrowed her eyes at me.

“Well,” I began, deciding to tell her a partial truth, “we think the child might be my husband’s. The mother is someone he dated about the same time that she worked at Bayview. The mother of the child recently passed and we want to reach out to the girl, who we know is still local, but that’s about it. I went to Bayside hoping to find out more.”

“Interesting,” Doris said, her guilt replaced by curiosity. “Most women would tell their husbands to forget about it—that he dodged a major bullet.” Another soft snort of laughter. “Unless you intend to give this love child a poisoned apple.”

I didn’t find the reference to Snow White at all funny, especially with me in the role of the wicked stepmother. “Nothing of the kind,” I said, getting to my feet.

I was dying of thirst and needed to pee, but I didn’t think my request to use the guest bathroom would be met with courtesy. Doris Hoffman was on the edge, careening between hate, guilt, and paranoia like an Olympic bobsled bumping along on an icy run.

“If you’ll give me my phone, I’ll be on my way.” I held out my hand for the phone. “I’m meeting a friend shortly. I need to call her.”

She handed me the phone, and I put it into my bag. At the same time I pulled a card out and gave it to her as we walked to the front door. She opened the door for me as she glanced down at my card. I had one foot outside on the landing, one foot still at the threshold, when her eyes shot up from the card to my face.

“How dare you!” she yelled at me. “He did send you, didn’t he? He’s checking up on me, making sure I behave. Is he trying to get out of paying for what he did to my son? Trying to see if I would break the confidentiality agreement so he can stop the checks? Well, he’ll have a fight on his hands, believe me.” My ears were ringing with her shrieking.

“What do you mean, Doris?” I asked, surprised by her attack. “No one sent me. I’m telling you the truth.”

“Then how did you find me if not through him?” Before I could respond, she screamed, “Get out of here!” She followed it up with a hefty shove, her palms squarely against my chest, just above my breasts.

I teetered on the one foot planted on the stoop, while the one that had been just inside the house went off kilter from her forceful thrust. The air filled with a strangled scream as I lost my balance and fell backwards. My arms flailed as I tried to grab for the wrought- iron railing and missed. I tumbled down the three brick steps and, with a cry of pain, hit the paved walkway.

I lay there crumpled and dazed. Everything hurt, but especially my left shoulder, which had taken the brunt of my fall. Above me, Doris was still screaming accusations while her two dogs barked and growled. As a final gesture, she flashed a middle finger and said, “Go back and tell him that!” Then the door slammed hard enough to rattle the front window a few feet away.

Slowly I started testing my limbs, making sure nothing was broken. Surprisingly, both legs worked fine, but I had some nasty scrapes on them, particularly my left one, which was bleeding from a gash just below the knee. I raised myself up using my right arm, which had received the least damage, and heard talking. Turning my head, I saw two elderly women, each with a small dog at the end of a leash, standing across the street. They were staring at me and talking to each other, but neither approached to see if I needed any help.

“Thanks for your offer to help,” I called out to them. “But I’m fine, just a broken hip.” They immediately took off.

My hip was not broken. Neither was my left shoulder, although it hurt like hell. I slowly got to my knees and used the railing as support as I got my feet under me, first one, then the other. It was then I realized that my tote bag had come off my arm and spilled across the walk. I spied my phone on the grass just off the path and stiffly went to it, but when I bent down to pick it up, I became dizzy and felt nauseous. I grabbed the phone and straightened again, then began feeling around my skull with one of my hands, wondering if I had received a blow to the head but was too stunned to feel it yet. I felt no injury there, so I gathered up my tote bag and its spilled contents and made my way to my car.

I was hurting but knew the pain would be much worse tomorrow. Maybe I should go to urgent care just in case I was injured more than I realized? Or maybe I should call an ambulance or an Uber? Instead, I put my keys in the ignition, started the car, and drove off to the nearest McDonald’s. I still needed to pee and was surprised I hadn’t wet myself in the fall.