Taking Terri Mueller (12 page)

SEVENTEEN

“There's George,” Shaundra said, lilting her voice as they sat down in the cafeteria. “Should I call him over?”

“Woof, woof, Shaundra.”

“I didn't say he was a dog!”

Terri remembered seeing Shaundra and George that morning in the art room, their heads together. “I think he likes you, Shaundra. Do you like him?”

“Well, now that I know him . . . but we're just friends. It's you he likes.”

“He never even talks to me.”

“He
told
me he likes you. Remember when we were having our fight? He told me then.”

“How come he said it?”

“Well . . . I was mad at you, so I brought up the subject. I admit I was hoping he'd say something nasty. But all he said were nice things.”

“Like what?” Terri said, starting to smile.

“Oh, that you were pretty and really smart.”

“You never told me.”

“I forgot.” Shaundra unwrapped a cupcake.

“Something important like that.”

“Control yourself. I'm telling you now.
George likes you.”

“Don't talk so loud!”

“Ye gads, you are touchy these days.”

“I'm
sorry
—”

“And you're always saying you're
sorry.
”

“Well, I am.” Terri bit her lip. She
was
edgy. It was the phone call. It was everything that was happening to her, and everything that wasn't happening to her. It was being nervous about the danger to her father, and it was not knowing how things were going to work out.

Later, in the phone booth, she noticed she was calling at almost exactly the same time as the day before. For once she was glad Shaundra wasn't with her. She really loved Shaundra, but she was too nervous to want her there.

On the first ring, a woman answered. “Yes! Hello?”

“Is this—may I speak to Mrs. Newhouse, please?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Mrs. Newhouse?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

Terri wet her lips. Cars passed on the street. Whisk! Whisk! Whisk! It had snowed a little that morning, then melted. The streets were wet.

“Hello,” the woman said. “Hello! Is this the person who called me yesterday?”

“Yes,” Terri got out. Her heart thumped erratically. She had forgotten everything she planned to say.

“Who is this? Please—” Her tone was sharp. “If you have something to say, say it. What is this about? Who are you? I don't like bad jokes!”

“This is—it's Terri,” she said in a low voice.

“Terri? I can't hear you. Where are you calling from?”

“I'm not going to tell you that.”

“What did you say?”

She took in a lungful of air. “This is Terri. Are you my—is this Kathryn Mueller?”

“Did you say Terri? How do you spell that?”

Nothing was happening the way she'd imagined. “T-e-r-r-i.”

“Terri who?”

“Terri Mueller. Mueller with an
e.
”

“Who told you to say that? Is this a trick? Is this some kind of stunt?”

She was dizzy. She must have been hyperventilating, breathing too fast and taking in too much oxygen. The glass phone booth rushed around her.

“I
said
, Is this a stunt? How did you get that name? You know what I think of you people? People like you! I think you are sick. Sickos!”

“I'm Terri Mueller,” she said, numbly.

A moment later the man she had spoken to the day before was on the line.
“Who is this?”
His voice was rough.

“Terri Mueller.” The phone booth had slowed down, but now her feet burned as if the floor was on fire.

“Where are you calling from? What do you want?”

“I want to talk to my m—to Kathryn Newhouse.”

“Why do you want to talk to her?”

“I want to know if she's my mother,” Terri whispered.

“Look,” he said. “Whoever you are—” Now he spoke
slowly, emphatically. “I am not going to have her put through hell again for the sake of some stupid stunt. Do you understand?”

She shook her head. She didn't understand anything. “I'm Terri,” she said. She couldn't think of anything else to say. “I'm Terri. Terri Mueller. If you don't believe me, call my aunt, my Aunt Vivian—”

“
Who?
”

“Vivian Mueller—no, Vivian Eyes,” she said, thinking that now he would never believe her. Why hadn't Vivian married a man named Jones?

“Who is she?” he said. “Where'd you get that name?”

“She's my aunt.” She began to feel as disconnected from reality as the woman on the street who had told them a car drove over her bed and Pennsylvania had immunity. “She lives in Los Angeles. You can call her, and she'll tell you who I am.” Who am I? she wondered as soon as she said it.

“Wait—wait—” His voice had changed. “Terri—Terri, are you there?”

“Yes.”

“Would you mind answering a few questions? How old are you?”

“Thirteen.”

“When's your birthday?”

“April.”

“April what?”

“April eight.”

“What's your father's middle name?”

“James.”

“What's your middle name?”

“Lee. Terri Lee Mueller.”

“Okay, okay, hold on. Hold it a moment. Kathryn,” he yelled. “Come here. Talk to her. I think it's her.”

“Terri?” the woman said. “Is this really Terri?
My
Terri? My Terri?” she repeated.

“Are you—are you my—are you Kathryn?”

“Yes. And you're Terri?”

“Yes. I'm your, I'm your—” She couldn't go on.

“Terri,” her mother said. She was crying.

Tears came to Terri's eyes. She stood in the phone booth, listening to her mother crying in California, and crying herself.

“Terri, is that really you?”

“Yes, it's me. Why didn't you believe it was me?”

“This has happened before,” she said. “Someone calling, saying, This is your long lost daughter, and then—Oh! Such cruel people! People can be so cruel.” She was crying again. “This time it's true, though? It's you?”

“It's me,” Terri said, her voice thick.

“Where are you? Are you with Phil? You've come back, is that it? He's brought you back? I want to see you! When can I see you? Are you here in Oakland?”

“I'm—I'm far away,” Terri said. “I'm calling long distance.”

“But you're in California?”

“No, no. I'm far away.” And then in a rush, “I can't tell you where I am.”

“Why not? Why can't you tell me? Terri, I've got to
know. I want to see you. My god, please, where are you?”

“I can't let my father be hurt,” she said softly.

“What? I don't understand.”

“You could—what he did—I won't do anything to hurt him. You have to—” She faltered, couldn't say,
You have to promise me
. . . She didn't know how to talk to her, this woman who was her mother. She heard her mother's voice, heard her crying, but she didn't know who she was, or what she was thinking, or how much she hated Terri's father.

“If I told you about him,” she said, “you could have him arrested.” Her face burned. What if her mother hadn't known that? Why had she said it?

“Does Vivian know where you are?” Her mother was onto something else.

“Aunt Vivian won't tell,” Terri said.

“She knows?” She answered herself. “Of course she does. That's why you said to call her.
She knows!
I always thought so.” Suddenly she almost screamed. A long hoarse cry of pain. “She knows. She always knew!” Behind her, Terri heard the sounds of a child's voice. After a moment, her mother said, “When can I see you?”

“I don't know. I can't get Daddy in trouble. I won't—”

“Trouble? He's already in trouble!”

Alarmed, Terri said, “I better hang up now.”

“No, no, no.
Wait.
Please. All right, I understand. You're protecting Phil. Is that right? That's it, isn't it? Oh, my dear,” she said, “I hate that man. For god's sake,
I hate that man,
but he is as safe with me as he would be with his poor mother. God rest her soul,” she added. “I want to
see
you. All I want
is to see you again.”

“Do you—do you pr—”

“I
promise
you,” her mother said. “Do you think I'd do anything now,
the least thing
, that would keep me from seeing you? I promise you in every way I can think of to promise, that if you will come back to me, I won't do anything to Phil.”

“Should I visit you?” Terri said.

“Visit? I want more than that! After all these years—
yes,
I want more. And you, Terri, you—what do you want?”

“I—I don't know,” she said.

For a moment there was silence, then her mother said, “Oh, my dear, I'm sorry. I don't mean to press you. How do you want to do things?
Will
you come to visit? Please come. Please come right away.”

“Well, there's school,” Terri said. “And—I don't know what Daddy will say—”

“Yes, Daddy. Must consider Daddy.
Daddy,
” she said. “Oh, that liar! He's the only man I have ever—” She stopped. Terri heard her draw in breath. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that. It's wrong of me. Sorry,” she said again in a softer voice. “I'll try not to do that again. Let's just talk calmly. You're thirteen. A young woman. You were a baby the last time I saw you.” Terri thought her mother was going to cry again. “Eight years,” she said. “Eight years . . . eight years . . .”

“I have to hang up now,” Terri whispered, near tears.

“No, don't, not yet. Let me call you. Tell me the number there—”

“I can't.”

“Terri, I promise you—!”

“I'll call you,” Terri said. “I'll call you again.”

“Oh, please,” her mother said. “When will you call me? Terri, don't let me lose you now that I've just started to find you.”

“I'll call again,” Terri said. “I promise.”

“And do you keep your promises, Terri?”

She wanted to say her father had brought her up to be honorable. “Yes,” she said. “I do.” And for the first time she realized that her mother didn't know her, either. They were truly strangers to each other.

EIGHTEEN

“Shaundra? Hi, were you in bed already?”

“No, that's okay. I was watching TV. Why are you whispering?”

“Can you hear me okay? My father's in the living room. I just wanted to talk to you privately. Listen, I told him. I told him I called my mother. I started to tell him that she cried, but he said, ‘
Don't,
Terri. Not unless you want to lay a lot of guilt on me.' So I didn't say anything else.”

“Gee,
tough!
Did that make you feel real bad?”

“Shaundra, I
wish
—I wish I could just see her, and not have to tell him, or talk to him about it. It would be so much better if I could just do it, and not make him feel bad.”

“Well, you can't, Terri. I know what you mean, but you can't. You never
can
do things that way. They won't let you.”

“Hello,” Terri's mother said.

“Hello, ah—ah—Hello, this is your—this is Terri.”

“Terri! Hello, Terri! How
are
you?”

“I'm good. I just came from school.”

“Oh, this is wonderful that you called. Leah is taking a nap, and I was thinking about you.”

“You were?”

“I was. I always think about you. Not a day has passed for eight years that I haven't thought about you.”

“Oh! Who is Leah?”

Her mother paused. “Leah is your sister,” she said. “Your little sister. Merle is her father.”

Stupidly, Terri was shocked. Her
sister.
She had a sister? Yes, Leah, the telephone fiend, was her sister. And Mr. Merle Newhouse was her stepfather.

“Merle,” she said, “—he's not the man you were going to marry?”

“Merle and I have been married four years.”

“No, I mean the man who was going to teach in Italy, in the American School in Milano.”

“How odd that you know that! How do you know that?”

“Daddy—”

“Phil remembered Clem?”

“Yes, he told me. Did you go to Italy with him?”

“No, of course not! Phil had stolen you, I couldn't—”

“Please don't say that! Please don't say he stole me.” Her head began to ache. “He—took me.”

“Ahh, I see. Well, to me, you were—I'll say, lost. Lost to me. You were
lost
to me.” In a moment, she went on. “After that, leaving the country was out of the question. I didn't know how long you'd be—gone. I kept hoping, praying. He'll bring her back. Every day I woke up and thought, Today. He'll bring her back today. I couldn't go to Italy. I couldn't even go across the street, for months, for fear the phone would ring, and it would be Phil saying he was
bringing you home.”

Terri toed a greasy paper toward the door of the booth. The phone booth was like a little island, had even come to seem homelike in a grungy way. She didn't want to talk about her father. Today Kathryn said his name without emphasis, but Terri felt her mother's hostility slip through like . . . something raw.

“Terri, will you send me a picture? What do you look like?”

“I'm tall—”

“You are? I am, too.”

“I know. Aunt Vivian told me.”

“And what else? What color is your hair? It used to be the most beautiful silky black—”

“It's not silky, not really. It's dark and pretty long.”

“You know what I wish? I wish I could just put my arms around you this instant. I dreamed about you last night. You were a little child and I was holding you, hugging you. Terri? When are you coming?
I want you here.”

“I have to talk to Daddy.”

“I know, I know, we need to take this thing in steps. Is that what you're thinking? And I'm impatient. I don't want to
wait
for anything.”

Terri made some sound of agreement. Thinking? She didn't know what, or if anything, she was thinking. Cars slapped past spraying up water. She had wanted this—the right to talk to her mother, to know her. She hadn't thought any further. Now her mother wanted her to come at
once,
while her father didn't want to hear her mother's name. She
saw that her hand on the phone was strained white. Why had she thought finding her mother would be one simple explosion of happiness? In fact there had not been a single moment she could pinpoint—
here . . . now . . . this instant . . .
when all feelings came together, when it was simply—
good.

“I'm trying to form an opinion on you from your voice,” her mother said. “I keep wondering if you're the same person you were when you were five years old.”

“I don't know. I don't think so. What was I like then?”

“Like a rubber ball. Nothing could keep you down. Loved to skip and run.
Ran
, never walked anywhere.”

“Do you remember a lot of things like that about me?”

“Not enough. After you were gone, I wanted to remember everything. It grieved me so that my memory was faulty. Terri, this call is going to cost a fortune. I can't let you keep spending money this way. I want to talk—I could talk to you all day. Give me your phone number and let me call you—”

“No, I can't. Not yet.”

“Does Phil know you're talking to me?”

“I told him I called you.”

“Well, then—? Is he anxious? I understand.
All right?
I understand. Look, ask him to call me, and
I
will reassure him that he's in no danger from me.” Terri heard the deep intake of breath. “Let's all agree the past is the past. All I want now is to see my daughter and get to know her again.
I want you to come here.
Will you have him call me, Terri?”

“I'll talk to him,” she said. She wanted to hang up and cry, and she didn't know why all this was so hard. “I'll call you back tomorrow.”

“Terri? You can call me Mother. Or Mom. Or—”

“All right. Thank you.”

“Thank you!”

Terri winced. She, too, had heard the primness of her words. Why couldn't she be spontaneous and warm? For a moment she hated herself, her mother, her father. . . .

“Look,” her mother said, “
Kathryn
is okay. If that's what you want to call me, if that's how you feel comfortable.”

“Tbank you,” Terri said again, more softly, meaning it.

“So—good-by for now, Terri. I love you.”

She went into a photobooth in Wess's Variety Store, pulled the green curtain, and took five snapshots of herself. She didn't like them. In each one she appeared to stare beyond the camera into something unseen—a spacey look—and besides, her nose seemed angled, distorted. Her mother would think she was
ugly.
She tore up the pictures.