“Can I have a glass of water?” Alison asked.
“Later. After you tell me.”
Tears fell the length of Alison’s face. Her color was ashen, a once vibrant photograph fading before my eyes. “I don’t know where to start.”
“Start with who you really are. Start with your name.”
“It’s Alison.”
“Not Simms,” I said matter-of-factly.
“Not Simms,” she repeated dully. “Sinukoff.” A sudden spark of interest. “Does that name mean anything to you?”
“Should it?”
She shrugged. “I wasn’t sure if it would or not.”
“It doesn’t.”
“I didn’t know if it would. I had to be sure.”
“Sure of what?”
“I didn’t want to make another mistake.”
“What are you talking about? What kind of mistake?”
Alison’s head rolled back across her shoulders, swayed precariously, as if it might fall off. “I’m so tired.”
“Why did you come to Florida, Alison?” I demanded. “What were you after?”
“I came to find you.”
“I know that. What I don’t know is why. I’m not rich. I’m not famous. I have nothing that could possibly interest you.”
She steadied her head, concentrated all her attention on my face. “You have everything,” she said simply.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to explain that one.”
Her eyes fluttered to a close, and for a moment I thought she might have succumbed to all the sedatives in her system, but then she started to speak, slowly at first, and with obvious effort, as if trying to keep track of her words, as one thought merged with another, and one word slurred into the next. “I’d been looking for you for a while without any luck. I decided to hire a private detective. The first one didn’t work out, so I hired someone else. He said you were working in a hospital in Delray. So I went there to see for myself. That’s when I saw your notice at the nurses’ station. I couldn’t believe my luck. I made up the story about Rita Bishop. I thought it would give us a chance to get to know one another before …”
“Before what?”
“Before I told you.”
“Told me what, for God’s sake?”
“Don’t you know?”
“Know what?”
“I don’t understand. You said you read my journal.”
“Know what?” I repeated, my voice a low roar, like the sound of an approaching wave.
Her eyes locked on mine, snapped into focus, as if seeing me for the first time. “That you’re my mother.”
For an instant I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I did both, the strangled sound emerging from my mouth foreign even to my own ears. I jumped to my feet, began pacing back and forth in front of her. “What are you talking about? That’s impossible. What are you talking about?”
“I’m your daughter,” she said, fresh tears forming in her eyes.
“You’re crazy! Your mother lives in Chicago.”
“I’m not from Chicago. I’m from Baltimore, like you.”
“You’re lying!”
“I was adopted as an infant by John and Carole Sinukoff. Did you know them?”
I shook my head vigorously, distant images flashing through my mind like a strobe light. I shielded my eyes, struggled to keep unwanted memories at bay.
“They already had a son, but they couldn’t have any more children, and they wanted a daughter, so they picked me. A mistake,” she acknowledged, licking at her lips. “I was this awful kid. Pretty much like I told you. I never felt I belonged. I was so different from everyone else. And it didn’t help that my perfect older brother kept reminding me I wasn’t really part of the family. One Christmas when he came home from Brown, he told me that my real mother was a fourteen-year-old slut who couldn’t keep her legs together.”
“Oh, God.”
“I kicked him where it counts. He certainly didn’t have any trouble keeping his legs together after that.” She attempted a laugh, wheezed instead.
“But what you’re saying is impossible,” I told her, my head spinning as much as hers. Images of the past snuck through decades-old defenses to assault my brain: Roger Stillman clumsily pushing his way inside me in the backseat of his car; my frantic eyes checking my underwear every day after that for signs of a period that stubbornly refused to come; my child’s belly growing more distended every day, no matter how baggy the clothes I wore. “It’s impossible,” I repeated, more forcefully this time, trying in vain to frighten the images away. “Do the math. I’m forty. You’re twenty-eight. That would have made me twelve—”
“I’m not twenty-eight. I’m twenty-five. I’ll be twenty-six …”
On February 9, I mouthed silently as she spoke the words out loud. I covered my ears with my hands in an effort to block out her voice. When had it gotten so loud, so strong?
“I was afraid if I told you my real age, you might figure everything out before you had the chance to get to know me. And I didn’t know how you’d feel about having me back in your life. I wanted so much for you to like me. No, that’s a lie,” she said, correcting herself. “I wanted more than that. I wanted you to love me. So you wouldn’t be able to give me up again.”
I sank back into the Queen Anne chair. She was crazy, of course. Even if some of what she said was true, it was impossible for her to be my daughter. She was so tall, so beautiful. Just like Roger Stillman, I thought. “It’s not true,” I insisted. “I’m sorry. You’ve made a mistake.”
“No. Not this time. The first detective I hired found some woman in Hagerstown he thought was you. I got so excited, I went to see her, but it turned out he was wrong. Then I found you. Lance said I was crazy to come all the way down here, that I was only going to get hurt again, but I had to see you. And the minute I did, the minute I talked to you, I knew I was right. Even before you told me about Roger Stillman, I knew you were my mother.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but you’re wrong.”
“I’m not wrong. You know I’m not.”
“The only thing I know is that you’re a stupid, stupid girl!” I heard myself shout.
My mother’s voiced bounced off the walls.
You’re a stupid, stupid girl!
“No, please don’t say that.”
How could you do this? How could you let some ridiculous boy stick his awful thing inside you?
I’ll take care of the baby, Mommy. I promise I’ll take good care of it.
Don’t think for one minute that I’m going to allow a bastard child into this house. I’ll drown it in a basin, just like I drowned those damn kittens!
“Terry,” Alison was whispering. “Terry, I’m not feeling very well.”
I moved swiftly to her side, wrapped her in my arms. “- It’s all right, Alison. Don’t worry. You won’t throw up. I know how much you hate throwing up.”
“Please take me to the hospital.”
“Later, sweetheart. After you’ve had a little nap.”
“I don’t want to fall asleep.”
“Ssh. Don’t fight it, darling. It’ll all be over soon.”
“No! Oh, God, no! Please. You have to help me.”
We heard the noise at the same moment, our heads twisting in unison toward the kitchen door. Pounding, yelling, ringing. “Alison!” a voice bellowed over the cacophony of sounds. “Alison, are you in there?”
“K.C.!” Alison exclaimed, her voice scarcely audible. “- I’m here. Oh, God, help me! I’m in here.”
“Terry!” K.C. hollered. “Terry, open this door right now or I’m calling the police.”
“Just a minute,” I called back calmly, gently extricating myself from Alison’s side, hearing her groan as she toppled over, too drugged to move. I walked quickly to the back door. “I’m coming. Hold your horses.”
“Where is she?” K.C. pushed roughly past me into the house. “What have you done with her?”
“Who are we talking about?” I asked him pleasantly. “Erica? Or Alison?”
But K.C. was already in the living room. “Alison! My God! What has that lunatic done to you?”
I reached into the sink and carefully removed the butcher knife from the white enamel basin. It fit comfortably into the center of my hand, as if it belonged there. I squeezed it, felt it damp against my tender skin as the cut reopened in my palm. Then I returned to the living room, watching from behind the dying branches of the Christmas tree as K.C. struggled to lift Alison to her feet.
“Can you walk?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Put your arms around my neck. I’ll carry you.”
How can I describe what happened next?
It was as if I’d been handed the starring role in a play. No, not a play. More like a ballet, full of grand gestures and exaggerated mime, each move carefully planned and choreographed. As Alison raised her arms, so did I. As K.C. was bending to scoop her up, I was swooping down. As he took the first of several awkward steps, I was flying across the room with savage grace. As Alison was resting her head against K.C.’s shoulder, I was plunging the foot-long blade into his back with such force the handle snapped off in my hands.
K.C. staggered forward, Alison dropping from his arms and landing with a dull thud on the floor. K.C. spun around in a sloppy pirouette, his hands losing their graceful rhythm and flailing about for the blade that was buried deep in his back. The growing swell of Alison’s screams filled the air, like a third-rate orchestra, as K.C. balanced on his toes, his arms extended toward me, as if asking me to join him for one final twirl around the room. I declined his silent invitation, taking a step back as he fell forward, his disbelieving eyes glazing over with the approach of imminent death. He hit the floor, the top of his head just missing the base of the overturned tree.
It took a few seconds for me to realize that Alison had stopped screaming, that she was no longer sprawled carelessly across the floor, that she had somehow managed to gather whatever strength she still possessed and was making a desperate scramble for the front door. That she actually succeeded in getting it open and was halfway down the front steps before I caught up to her is a great tribute to her strength and determination.
The instinct for survival, the will to live, is an amazing thing.
I remembered having had similar thoughts about Myra Wylie. Only Erica Hollander had gone quietly, dozing off within minutes of finishing the late-night snack I’d prepared. The pillow I’d subsequently held over her nose and mouth had brought only token resistance.
“No!” Alison was screaming as I reached for her arm.
“Alison, please. Don’t make a scene.”
“No! Don’t touch me! Leave me alone!”
“Come back inside, Alison.” I grabbed her elbow, dug my fingers into her flesh.
“No!” she screamed again, wresting her arm away from me with such force I almost lost my balance. She made it halfway to the street before her legs simply gave out, and she collapsed like the proverbial rag doll. Even then, she refused to give up, crawling on her hands and knees toward the sidewalk.
It was then we heard the barking, followed immediately by the click of high heels on pavement. Bettye McCoy and her two lunatic dogs, I realized, trying to drag Alison to her feet.
“Help me!” Alison cried as the third Mrs. McCoy wiggled around the corner in a pair of leopard-print capri pants. “Help me!”
But Alison’s cries were drowned out by the angry yapping of the dogs.
“It’s okay,” I called to the aging Alice in Wonderland. “—She’s just had a bit too much to drink.”
Bettye McCoy tossed her overly teased blond mane disdainfully over her shoulder and gathered the two dogs into her arms before crossing the street and walking briskly in the opposite direction.
“No, please!” Alison called after her. “You have to help me! Help me!”
“You really need to sleep this off,” I said loudly, in case anyone was listening.
“Please,” Alison begged the now empty street. “Please, don’t go.”
“I’m right here, baby,” I told her, gathering her into my arms, guiding her toward the house. “I’m not going anywhere.”
When we reached the door, she stopped fighting. Whether it was the drugs or the realization that such struggles were useless, I don’t know. She simply sighed and went limp in my arms. I carried her across the threshold, as a new husband lovingly transports his bride.
Do they even do that anymore? I don’t know. I doubt I’ll ever have the opportunity to find out. It’s too late for me, just as it was too late for Alison. And it’s too bad, because I think I would have made a fine wife. That’s all I ever really wanted. To love someone, to be loved in return, to make a home, have a family. A child on whom I could lavish all the tenderness I’d been denied. A daughter.
I’ve always wanted a daughter.
I carried Alison to the sofa, cradled her in my arms. “Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra,” I sang tenderly. “Too-ra-loo-ra-lie …”
Alison raised her eyes slowly to mine. Her mouth opened. Whispers filled the air. I think I heard the word Mommy.