Sins of Innocence (56 page)

“Pop!” she called, and went to greet the man.

“Miss Jess. Miss Jess. Oh, it’s good to see you.”

They hugged.

“Gosh, you look wonderful,” Jess said. Behind her she heard the telephone ring.

Pop chuckled. “Nah. Workin’ around here ain’t what it used to be. ’Cept I finally got rid of the station wagon. Got me one of those ‘minivans’ now.”

Jess laughed. “We could have used that.”

“Durn tootin’.”

“Jess?” Miss Taylor interrupted them. “Jess, there’s a phone call for you.”

Jess looked at the housemother quizzically.

“It’s P.J.”

“Oh,” Jess said, as she twisted her ring and walked toward the desk. She picked up the receiver and nodded to Pop. “Maybe I’ll see you later.” Pop waved and disappeared, no doubt to his workshed.

“P.J.?” Jess said into the receiver.

“Jess. I didn’t want you to think I forgot.”

Jess pulled at the phone cord. “You’re not coming, are you?”

“It’s not what you think, Jess. It’s not because I don’t want to.”

“What is it then?”

There was a long pause, then P.J. spoke again. “I’m sick, Jess. I have cancer.”

Jess slid onto the chair. “Oh, P.J., why didn’t you tell me?”

“When I saw you, I didn’t know. But I’ve decided it wouldn’t be fair for my son to meet me, then”—she half laughed—“then have his mother go and die on him or something.”

Jess couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Oh, P.J.,” was all she could seem to say.

“It’s okay, Jess, really it is. Chances are, he won’t show up, anyway.”

“But if he does … what should I tell him?”

There was another pause, then, her voice quivering, P.J. said, “Tell him I’m sorry.” Silence lingered another moment, then she added, “Tell him I will always love him.”

When Jess hung up the phone, she looked at Miss Taylor.

“She’s not coming,” she said. But her heart was aching so badly, she couldn’t tell Miss Taylor why.

The doorbell rang.

It was Susan.

She lumbered into the library, gave Miss Taylor a perfunctory handshake, then sat awkwardly on the chintz-covered chair, her long legs protruding from the smallness of the seat.

“P.J.’s not coming,” Jess blurted out. “She has cancer.”

After a moment of shocked silence, Susan and Miss Taylor spoke at once.

“God, that’s horrible,” Susan said.

“Oh my,” Miss Taylor murmured.

“Will she be all right?” Susan asked.

Jess shrugged, stood up, and walked to the window. She put her arms around herself and hugged herself from the chill in the room. She’d forgotten how drafty this old house could be.

She stared out the window. Behind her Jess could hear Miss Taylor and Susan speaking in soft whispers, as though someone had died. Someone has, Jess reminded herself. My daughter. And now, maybe P.J. will die too. Jess looked out across the sweeping front lawn, feeling the loss of the daughter she had never had a chance to know, and of P.J., whom she probably had never really known. On the distant street Jess noticed a white car. It looked as though it was parked. Of all the girls, Jess thought, I thought P.J. would be the one to come. No matter what.

“What kind of cancer is it, Jess?” It was Susan’s voice, but it was soft, quiet.

As Jess turned to look at Susan, she thought she saw the car pull away.

“I don’t know,” she answered. “She didn’t say.” She rubbed her arms and walked back to the desk. She wondered who had been in that car. She wondered if it had been any of … them. It wasn’t, she reminded herself, P.J. No. Not P.J.

“Is Ginny coming?” Susan asked gently.

Jess shook her head. “I don’t know that either.” She looked at the grandfather clock, which still stood, marking time, in the library: 2:45. “I’m glad
you
came,” she said to Susan.

Susan nodded. “Miss Taylor told me about your daughter.” She cleared her throat and brushed a few strands of graying hair from her face. “I’m sorry.”

It wasn’t difficult for Jess to detect the sincerity in Susan’s voice. She remembered hearing Susan speak those words once before, long ago.
I’m sorry
. It was the day Susan had run over the kitten, the day she had killed Larchwood. It had been the first time—the only time—Jess had seen Susan cry.

Jess swallowed and tried to smile, appreciative of Susan’s words, aware that any display of emotion did not come easily to Susan.

The doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” Miss Taylor announced. She lifted herself off the chair with surprising agility and went into the foyer.

“Maybe it’s Ginny,” Susan said.

Jess leaned against the edge of the desk, trying to balance her unsteady legs, trying to balance her seesawing emotions. “I hope so.”

But it wasn’t Ginny. It was Ginny’s daughter.

“Lisa,” Jess said. She forced herself back from the desk, waited a brief moment, then, as if in slow motion, moved toward the young woman. “Lisa, I’m so glad you’re here.” She silently wondered if anyone noticed the trepidation behind her words.

Lisa smiled at Jess. It was, Jess noted, a beautiful smile, a smile of hope, a smile of … innocence. Then Lisa glanced around the room. Her eyes rested on Susan.

“No, Lisa,” Jess said quickly. “This is Susan. She’s not”—Jess paused, not wanting to sound brusque—“she’s not your mother.”

Lisa reddened, visibly embarrassed by the awkward
moment. Her beautiful smile vanished. When Jess had met her backstage, she thought she’d recognized the same hard edge that Ginny had. Now she saw something else equally familiar: vulnerability, defensiveness.

“Your mother’s not here yet.” Jess tried to sound reassuring, though suddenly she was swept with apprehension herself: fear that none of this was going to work out, that no one else was going to show up, that those she’d involved in her own selfish quest were going to be nothing but hurt. She took Lisa by the arm and introduced her to the woman who’d made such a difference to all of their lives.

“We’re so glad to meet you,” Miss Taylor said, as she extended her hand to the girl.

“This is something I’ve always wanted,” Lisa replied. “But I never knew how to make it happen.”

“Sit down, dear, and tell us about your life.”

Lisa smiled again, though this time with guarded uncertainty. Jess motioned her to the chair across from the housemother, then sat beside her.

“Have you had a happy life?” Miss Taylor asked.

The girl nibbled at a thumbnail. “Yes and no,” she said, then put her hands in her lap. “Like everybody, I guess. My mother and I don’t always get along. But my dad, he’s cool. He’s the one who encouraged my acting.”

“Do you have brothers or sisters?”

“Sure. Two sisters. Twins. They were adopted after me. They’re twenty-one now.” Jess wondered if they were as pretty as Lisa, as seemingly confident.

“One of them’s going to be a doctor,” the girl added.

From the corner of her eye Jess caught sight of Susan. She was sitting quietly, disinterested.

“What does your father do?” Miss Taylor asked.

Lisa laughed. “Right now he’s struggling. He’s a contractor. Sheetrock.”

The doorbell rang again.

Please God, Jess thought, let that be Ginny.

Miss Taylor went to the door, and returned with a young man. He was more handsome than Jess remembered. He was dressed in a gray suit, a pale gray silk shirt, and a blue-and-gray tie. His round face was eager, the pink in his cheeks a hint of the charismatic personality Jess had witnessed when they’d first met. In his hand, he carried a single red rose.

Susan’s alert expression faded instantly as she some-how knew that this was not her son. She turned her head away.

Jess greeted him, then turned to the small group. “Everyone,” she said, “this is P.J.’s son.”

Jess watched Phillip’s eyes dart around the room, an expectant smile on his face. He’s looking for her, she thought. He’s looking for his mother, and she’s not here. Jess twisted her ring and stood up.
My God
. She cringed.
What have I done?

“Phillip,” she said, “why don’t we go in the other room? I’d like to talk to you.”

He followed her into the dining room. Jess hesitated a moment in the doorway. It was the same mahogany table, the same matching sideboard, the same silver candlesticks. She fought back the memory.

“Sit down,” she said quietly, as she sat in a chair—
her
chair, where she had spent so many meals, so long ago. She felt an eerie sensation of P.J.’s presence in her place across the table.

Phillip set the rose on the table and took the chair beside her. Jess stared at the smooth red petals. Soon they will wither, she thought. Soon they will die. Slowly she told him of his mother. She told him of the illness.

“Believe me, I never would have gone to you if I’d known she was sick,” Jess finished.

Phillip’s eyes—emerald, just like his mother’s—were filled with bewilderment and pain.

“What difference does it make if she’s sick?” he asked with a watery voice.

Jess shook her head and reached for his hand.

“I don’t know,” she said, “but it seems to matter to her. Apparently she’s afraid it wouldn’t be fair for you to meet her, and then have her …”

“Have her die?” A pink flush again crept into his cheeks. “I would think,” he said bravely, “that would be all the more reason she’d want to see me.” His tears finally betrayed his courage, and they spilled down his face.

Jess reached over and hugged the young man. He was big, bigger even than Chuck. His back felt strong in her fragile arms; sturdy, muscular. But no matter the strength, no matter the composure, Jess felt his fragility, his sensitivity. Not, she thought, unlike his mother. Trying to maintain control on the outside, while suffering on the inside, way down, deep inside.

“My father died two years ago,” Phillip blurted out. “Of Hodgkin’s disease. He was only fifty-six.”

Jess was startled. She pulled away and looked into his eyes. “How awful for you.”

“Yeah. We were pretty close.”

Jess wanted to tell him that P.J.’s father—his grandfather—had also died young. But she felt that it wasn’t her place to tell him. It was P.J.’s.

“What about your mother?” she asked.

“She took it pretty hard. She still does. But she’s got me—and my older brother. We try to look out for her.”

Jess thought of P.J. Sick. Alone. With no children to look out for her. “And you’re in law school,” she said.

“Yeah. My last year. My brother, Joe, took over our father’s practice. I’ll be joining him.”

“In Fairfield?”

Phillip shook his head. “No. In the city. Mom wants us both to get a place there. But I can’t picture her selling the house and moving to a condo. So Joe and I will commute. For a while.” He propped his elbows on the table and leaned on his hands. “I love my mother,” he said quietly. “But I’ve always wanted to meet my birth mother too.”

He hesitated a moment, and Jess sat quietly, allowing him to gather his thoughts. Slowly his words came out.

“I always wanted to know about her. And about my real father.” He sat up straight. “I didn’t tell my mother I’m doing this. I planned to though, when the time was right.”

His eyes glazed over again. “Now I guess it won’t be an issue,” he said.

On impulse Jess said suddenly, “Would you like me to take you to her?”

He fingered the stem of the rose, lightly touching each spiny thorn. “Yes,” he said. “I’d like that very much.”

Jess cleared her throat. “She may not feel up to meeting you,” she warned. “No promises, okay?”

“That’s okay.”

And any reservation about what she was about to do was dispelled by the look of gratitude in Phillip’s eyes.

“But first,” Jess continued, “I’d like to go back into the other room and wait with my friends for a bit.”

Phillip nodded. “Can I stay in here?”

“Of course. I’ll come back when it’s time to go.”

She left the dining room and returned to the library. Miss Taylor was chatting with Lisa. Susan was staring into space. Jess glanced at the grandfather clock: 3:15.

“He’s not coming,” Susan said.

“It’s still early,” Jess answered, but her voice sounded unconvincing, even to her.

The room grew silent. The clock ticked. Jess looked around the room: Miss Taylor sat, hands folded in her lap, eyes closed; Lisa studied the worn carpet as though it might hold the answers about her mother; Susan—Susan just sat.

Jess, once again, thought back to her meeting with David, Susan’s son. In the driveway of his parents’ home she’d told him that she was a friend of his birth mother’s. She’d told him why she had come. He’d scowled at first, then continued washing his car.

“Why should she give a damn about me?” he’d asked.

Jess had been unprepared for that question.

He’d picked up the snakelike garden hose and released the pressure. A sudden burst of water exploded onto the sudsy car. Its force ricocheted against his khaki T-shirt, his torn jeans shorts, and trickled down his long, lean, still boyish-looking legs. He blinked quickly, but avoided Jess’s eyes.

“And why should I give a damn about her?”

Jess had murmured a few more words, then managed to ask him a few pointed questions. Could she at least tell his birth mother how he was? How he had been raised? What things he enjoyed doing? He had answered in perfunctory phrases, revealing only the facts, none of the feelings. Before leaving, Jess handed him her carefully written instructions: the time and date of the reunion and directions to Larchwood Hall. She had no idea whether or not he would come, though it hadn’t seemed probable. Still, Jess was glad that, as an afterthought, she’d included Susan’s name, phone, and home address in Vermont. She’d watched as he scanned the paper, then put it in his pocket. He had not, as he could have, thrown it away.

And now Susan sat silently. Jess could only imagine the thoughts spinning through her mind—thoughts of being the ugly duckling, the always-a-bridesmaid, the wall-flower at the school dance. The only one nobody wanted. She wondered if Lisa was feeling the same way.

Maybe this reunion wasn’t right, after all. But then Jess remembered the boy in the next room. She would take Phillip to P.J.’s, and maybe there would, after all, be one happy reunion. Hang on to that thought, she kept telling herself.