Private Entrance (The Butterfly Trilogy) (39 page)

     Ophelia picked at a thread on her robe. "I had a difficult decision to make. I needed to be alone, to think."

     Difficult decision? Abby now sensed a troubling undercurrent in the room. Something was not right here. She turned to David and said, "Dr. Messer, would you mind if I had a few minutes alone with your fiancée?"

     He looked at Ophelia, who said, "I would love some ice cream. The desert sucked all the moisture from my throat."

     After he had gone, Abby tried to think of how to begin. She had thought that Ophelia, in love, pregnant and about to be married, would be deliriously happy, setting Abby's mind at rest that her daughter was living a wonderful life. She said, "I hope you were able to make your difficult decision," and waited for Ophelia to volunteer an explanation.

     "I apologize, Ms. Tyler," Ophelia said, struggling to rise from the settee. Her ankle was wrapped in an elastic bandage, her foot red and swollen. "I don't mean to drag you into our personal problems." She hobbled to an ornate armoire inlaid with pastoral scenes. Pouring two glasses of Evian, she said, "Tell me, how did I win the contest? I never enter contests."

     Abby thought of telling Ophelia what she had told Coco and Sissy, about Sam Striker's philanthropy, but the falsehood had no place here. Abby needed to know the source of Ophelia's problems, needed to know if and how they were going to be resolved.

     Ophelia handed Abby a glass—no asking, Abby noticed, Ophelia was a woman who took charge—and returned to the settee. Her eyes moved to the closed door again and Abby knew by her troubled look that she wasn't really interested in the contest.

     Abby had to take the plunge. This woman was her daughter. For thirty-three
years, Abby had not been there for her. Now she would be. "Do you want to talk about it?"

     Ophelia looked at her hostess. Ophelia had heard somewhere that Abby Tyler was a recluse. She had created this resort fourteen years ago and hadn't set foot outside since. A trim, attractive woman in her late forties, tastefully dressed, her most striking feature was her eyes—direct, open, like windows to an understanding soul. "It's because of my pregnancy," she said quietly.

     In the desert, trapped among the rocks, all alone with the wind and the sand and the sky, Ophelia had gone to find answers but instead had experienced a stunning epiphany.

     As she had walked beneath the sun and listened to the silence, she had thought it was like a prehistoric world, innocent and untouched, like the landscape that had given birth to humanity's ancestors, themselves innocent and untouched. The wind had encircled her, whispering, fanning her face with hot-cold breath and she had felt her soul slip backwards in time. The world of books and TV shows and picket lines faded as the colors of the desert brightened, and her senses grew sharp until she could almost understand what the red-tailed hawk, circling overhead, was saying to her in its echoing cry.

     When Ophelia had paused to rest, she squatted on rocks and imagined herself wearing animal skins, eating roots and berries, and caring for her young. She reached within and found her primal self, Cro-Magnon Woman, a female for whom there were no questions, no dilemmas, no painful decisions to make. Life was life. That was the sum total to the equation of her existence. The question of keeping or destroying the life in her belly would never come up. Life was sacred and vital to the survival of the species.

     A talk show host had once asked Ophelia if she practiced what she preached, making a joke about what her cave in Beverly Hills must look like, asking where she found mastodon meat on Rodeo Drive. Making it sound like she couldn't possibly practice what she preached, her world being so different from that of humankind's hominid ancestors.

     But Ophelia knew now that she
could
practice what she preached. It didn't matter the clothes, or type of dwelling, or the fact that Neanderthals never drove cars. This was something
within.

     Now, back in the modern world, Ophelia said to Abby, "I went out into the desert because I had an important decision to make regarding my baby. I wasn't supposed to get pregnant. My oral contraceptive failed. Ms. Tyler, I am of Ashkenazi Jewish descent and so is David. He tested positive for a mutant gene that causes a disease called Tay-Sachs."

     "I've heard of it."

     "Then you know what it would mean if I brought this child into the world. Which is why I considered abortion."

     Abby's hand flew to her throat.

     "But it never went beyond a brief consideration. I'm keeping the baby, Ms. Tyler. He or she might not live long, but then none of us is guaranteed a long life. But while my child is alive, he will know love and joy and happiness. David and I are going to see to that."

     Abby looked at her in confusion. Was Ophelia not her daughter after all? "You tested positive for Tay-Sachs?"

     "I haven't had the genetic test yet. I intend to do that as soon as I go home."

     "But if the test comes back negative,"
and it will!
"then you have nothing to worry about."

     But Ophelia said, "I would worry every single day of my life. How can I trust a lab test when I couldn't trust a birth control pill? I would go from doctor to doctor to make sure, and when would I be satisfied? The cloud would always be over me, did the lab make a mistake, am I going to give birth to a child that will die before its fourth birthday?"

     There was more: the excitement of her and David's intimacy lay in its spontaneity, keeping them both keenly interested in each other, always watching for the signals, the romance staying fresh and thrilling. Would they lose all that? Would the worry of pregnancy turn them into cautious partners who watched the calendar and carried condoms?

     Abby rose from her chair and went to the fireplace where rococo figurines and gilded clocks stood on the mantel. Outside, the desert wind whipped the trees and shrubs of The Grove in a wild late night dance. Abby turned to Ophelia. "Dr. Kaplan, what if you weren't of Ashkenazi descent?"

     "But I
am
of Ashkenazi descent."

     "Hypothetically," Abby said. "For the sake of discussion." The moment was here. She drew in a steadying breath. "Dr. Kaplan, I need to tell you something about myself. When I was sixteen years old," she said, returning to her chair, "I had a summer romance with a boy who did not stay in my life for long."

     Ophelia listened, wondering about the change of subject.

     "A murder was committed in our small town, I was accused and arrested. I didn't do it, but I had poor defense—my public defender even dozed off during the trial." She cleared her throat. "I was pregnant at the time and didn't know it. When it was revealed by the jail doctor, it caused a sensation. This was in Christian Bible Belt country. The men in the jury box were outraged. I was found guilty and sent to prison."

     Abby paused to take a sip of water while Ophelia waited and wondered what this story had to do with her.

     "My baby was born in prison and," Abby met Ophelia's eyes. She struggled for control. "They took my baby from me and sold it on the black market."

     She left it at that, to let Ophelia take it in. Ophelia no longer looked patiently polite or puzzled, but deeply concerned. "That's awful," she said, thinking of her own baby, just weeks into life, but already a person, a soul.

     "When I got out of prison, I began searching for her. It took years, a lot of money, and many private investigators. I hit dead ends, followed false leads. I collected facts and dates and names and compiled them into a database. I subscribed to clipping services and had them send me news articles that mentioned illegal adoptions, blackmarket baby selling, adoptees searching for birth mothers, mothers searching for babies taken from them. But in all that growing information, nowhere did I find any threads that might take me to my own child."

     She took another sip of water. "And then, finally, the last detective I hired got a lucky break."

     Ophelia watched Abby set her glass aside, rise from the Louis XIV chair and go to the window. It was closed, but the howling of the Santa Anas could be heard on the other side. Abby saw a world in turmoil. Her precious, delicate resort at the mercy of desert winds.

     "He tracked down the warden of the prison where I gave birth to my
child. Previous private detectives had tried to interview the woman, but she wouldn't talk about the past. This time, however," Abby turned to face Ophelia, "my investigator found the retired warden to be in the advance stages of liver failure and she
wanted
to talk about the past. During her years with the Texas penal system, she had been involved in various illegal activities and, I guess, being close to death, she wished to unburden her conscience. She gave my investigator a lead."

     While Ophelia wondered where this was going, Abby went on to explain how her private detective narrowed the trail to one man: Spencer Boudreaux whom he found in a seedy hotel and who was willing to talk for a bottle of red wine. "He had 'run babies,' he said, back in the sixties and early seventies. Although Boudreaux himself was hazy on details, he said the nursemaid had had a sharp mind and would be able to fill in the blanks. My investigator found her and she provided other names that led my investigator to more information until he finally narrowed it down to three infants that could have come from White Hills Prison on the night of May 17, 1972."

     Abby paused then, her heart pounding. Now was the moment she could stop, walk through the door and leave Ophelia ignorant of the true facts of her birth. Were it not for the pregnancy and Ophelia's fears for her child, Abby would do just that. But Ophelia needed to know the truth. That she was not of Jewish descent and therefore could not possibly carry the mutant gene.

     Ophelia frowned. "May 17,1972 is the day
I
was born."

     "I know," Abby said. She had brought the papers with her, just in case. As she reached into her shoulder bag and brought out a folder, she said, "My daughter was born in the early hours of the seventeenth and was delivered on the evening of the seventeenth to this address. This is why I have reason to believe that you are my daughter."

     "What!" Ophelia took the folder and opened it, scanning the words on the papers within.

     "We know that Boudreaux already had two babies in the car with him when he stopped at White Hills prison," Abby said. "We just couldn't determine which of the three was the one he picked up that night. I have since ruled out the other two candidates, so that leaves just you."

     Ophelia gave her a blank look. "You think I'm your daughter?" She handed the folder back. "It's a mistake. I know who my family are."

     "Dr. Kaplan, you didn't win a contest. It was a way to bring you here—"

     "Ms. Tyler, I was
not
adopted. Your private investigator made a mistake."

     "The facts are there," Abby said, pointing to the folder. "I'm sorry. I had not intended to tell you. It is not my place. You have your own life. What right do I have to disrupt it, and the lives of all who are connected to you? But circumstances have changed. You are not of Ashkenazi descent. My ancestors were Scottish. Your baby is not in any danger."

     "This isn't possible," Ophelia said, getting to her feet. "My mother would have told me—" And then suddenly the room was filled with the thick scent of white narcissus. It overwhelmed her.

     Abby shot to her feet. "Are you all right?"

     Ophelia reached for a chair to steady herself. "Oh my God..."

     Abby watched, holding her breath.

     "I have a memory," Ophelia said suddenly, "it was buried for years, but when I was in one of your gardens yesterday, I smelled white narcissus and it brought the memory to the surface. I have been trying to remember. It had something to do with my grandfather. I was sitting on his lap..."

     She stopped and stared. "I remember!"

     The Santa Anas howled beyond the window, sending palm fronds thrashing against the glass panes.

     "I was seven years old. It was at a family gathering. I remember trying to put my arms around my grandfather's neck. He pulled them away. He lifted me from his lap and set me on the ground. And he said to my mother." Ophelia turned wide eyes to Abby. "He said, 'She is not one of us and never will be.'"

     Ophelia looked down at the paper lying on the coffee table.
Baby girl delivered May 17, 1972 to Rose and Norman Kaplan, 633 Dos Padres Drive, Albuquerque, New Mexico. They named her Ophelia. Graduated 1995 from UCSB with a degree in Anthropology...

     The ormolu clock on the mantel ticked and then chimed. Ophelia looked up. She saw Abby Tyler's pale face, the anguish in her eyes.

     Ophelia went to the phone and dialed. Time seemed to stop as she
waited for the other end to pick up. Abby heard a crash outside and the frantic shrieking of birds in the aviary.

     "Hi Dad," Ophelia said with a dry mouth. "Is Mom there? Yes, everything's all right. I sound strange? It must be the connection. I know it's late but...I need to talk to Mom for a minute."

     Ophelia placed her hand on her abdomen as she waited, the scent of narcissus suffocating her.
She is not one of us.
The names and address on the private investigator's report, the irrefutable facts. It couldn't be!

     "Mom? I need to ask—Yes, I'm fine. Listen. I need to know—Mom, I said I'm fine. Just listen. I need to ask you something." Ophelia drew in a deep breath. "Mom...was I adopted?" She listened. "It's not a silly question, Mom. There is a woman here who claims
she
is my mother. She even has papers."

     Ophelia listened. She frowned.

     "What is it?" Abby whispered.

     "My mother says we need to talk. But not over the phone."

     "Invite them to come here. I will send the private jet."

     "Mom, is it true?" she said into the phone. Abby saw Ophelia's knuckles go white, she gripped the receiver so tightly. "
Am I adopted?
"