Текст книги "A Different Blue "

Автор книги: Amy Harmon

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

“You were born on October 28, 1990.”

“Only two days before Melody's birthday,” I remarked, touched once more.

“October 28 was also the day you submitted a DNA sample to find out who you were,” Heidi Morgan offered. “Interesting how things come full circle.”

“I'm twenty-one,” I marveled, and, like most young people, I was pleased that I was older than I had thought.

“But your drivers license still says twenty, so we won't be pub-hopping or hitting the casinoes tonight,” Wilson teased, making everyone chuckle and relieving some of the emotional pressure that had built in the room.

“You are welcome to look at everything in the file. There are crime scene pictures, though, and things you might prefer not to see. The pictures are in the envelopes. Everything we know is in the file. We'll leave you alone for a while if you'd like. Contact information for your grandmother is there, as well as for your father. Your grandmother is still living on the reservation, but your father is in Cedar City, Utah, which isn't all that far from there.”

Wilson and I spent another hour pouring over the contents of the file, trying to get a more complete picture of the girl who had been my mother. There wasn't much to learn. The only thing that struck me was that when my mother's car had been recovered there was a blue blanket in the back seat. It was described as having big blue elephants on a paler blue background, and it was clearly designed for a young child. A picture of it had been tagged as evidence from a possible secondary crime scene.

“Blue.” The word sprang out of me as a sliver of recognition wormed its way to the surface.

“I called that blanket 'blue.'”

“What?” Wilson looked at the picture I was staring at.

“That was my blanket.”

“You called it Blue?”

“Yes. How is it that I remember that blanket but I don't remember her, Wilson?” My voice was steady, but my heart felt swollen and battered, and I didn't know how much more I could take. I pushed the file away and stood, pacing around the room until Wilson stood too and pulled me into his arms. His hands stroked my hair as he talked.

“It's not that hard to understand, luv. I had a stuffed dog that my mother eventually had to pry from my hands because it was so filthy and worn out. He had been washed a hundred times, in spite of the severe warning label on his arse that promised he would disintegrate. Chester is literally in every picture of me as a child. I was extremely attached, to put it mildly. Maybe it was like that for you with your blanket.”

“Jimmy said I kept saying blue . . .”  The puzzle piece clicked into place, and I halted midsentence.

“Jimmy said I kept saying 'blue,'” I repeated. “So that's what he called me.”

“That's how you got your name?” Wilson was incredulous, understanding dawning across his handsome face.

“Yes . . . and all the time, I must have just wanted my blanket. You would think she would have left it with me, wrapped it around me when she left me on that front seat. That she would have known how scared I would be, how much I would need that damn blanket.” I pushed away, fighting out of Wilson's arms, desperate to breathe. But my chest was so tight I couldn't inhale. I felt myself cracking, the fissures spreading at lightning speed across the thin ice that I had been walking on my whole life. And then I was submerged in grief, consumed by it. I fought for breath, fought to rise to the surface. But there was lead in my feet, and I was sinking fast.

“You've had enough for today, Blue.” Wilson gathered me against him and pulled the door open, signaling to someone beyond the door.

“She's had all she can take,” I heard him say, and someone else was suddenly there beside me. My vision blurred and darkness closed in. I felt myself being lowered to a chair, and my head was forced between my legs.

“Breathe, Blue. Come on, Baby. Deep breaths,” Wilson crooned in my ear. My head cleared slightly, and the ice in my veins began to thaw the slightest degree. One breath, then several more. When my vision cleared I had only one request.

“I want to go home, Wilson. I don't want to know any more.”

We left the police station with a copy of the file. Wilson insisted I take it, as well as the contact information for people who shared my blood but had never shared my life. I wanted to throw the file out the window as we drove and let the pages spill out across the road and into the Reno night, a hundred pages of a tragic life tossed into the wind so they could be forgotten and never gathered again.

We ate a drive-thru, too weary and subdued to leave the car or even converse. But home was eight hours away and our flight wasn't until 8 the next morning, so we found a hotel and paid for one room for one night. Wilson didn't ask me if I wanted my own. I didn't. But there were two double beds in the room, and as soon as we checked in, I brushed my teeth, pulled off my jeans, and crawled into one, promptly falling asleep.

I dreamed of strings of paper-doll cutouts with my mother's face and blankets in every color but blue. I dreamed I was still in high school, walking through endless hallways, looking for Wilson but instead finding dozens of children who didn't know their names. I came awake with tears on my cheeks and terror writhing in my belly, convinced that Wilson had left Reno while I slept. But he was still there in the bed next to mine, his long arms wrapped around the spare pillow, his tousled hair a dark contrast against the white sheets. Moonlight spilled onto him, and I watched him sleep for a long time, memorizing the line of his jaw, the sweep of long lashes against his lean cheeks, watching his lips as he sighed in his sleep.

Then, without giving myself time to consider my actions, I crept into his bed and curled myself around him, resting my head against his back, wrapping my arms around his chest. I wanted to seal him to me, to fuse him to my skin, to reassure myself that he was actually mine. I pressed my lips against his back and slid my hands up under his T-shirt, pressing my hands against his flat abdomen, stroking upward to his chest. I felt him come awake, and he turned toward me, his face falling into the shadows as he held himself above me. Moonlight limned him in white, and when I reached up and touched his face, he was perfectly still, letting me trace his features with my fingertips, letting me rise up and rain kisses across his jaw, across his closed lids, and finally against his lips. Then, without a word, he pressed me down against the pillows and captured my hands in his. My breath caught in anticipation as he pulled me firmly against his chest, trapping my hands between us.

But he didn't kiss my mouth or run his hands along my skin. He didn't whisper words of love or desire. Instead, he tucked my head beneath his chin and wrapped me in his arms so securely I could hardly move, and he didn't let me go. I lay in stunned surprise, waiting for him to loosen his grip, waiting for his hands to touch, for his body to move against mine. But his arms stayed locked around me, his breathing remained steady, and his body remained still. And there, in the circle of his arms, held so fiercely that there was no room to doubt him or fear his loss, I slept.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

When I awoke the next morning, Wilson was already up, showered and clean-shaven, but his eyes were tired, and I wondered if holding me all night had taken a toll. And I was a little embarrassed that I had been rebuffed, as tender as his refusal had been. He didn't act awkward or uncomfortable, so I pushed away my hurt feelings and rushed through a shower and a quick breakfast so we could make our flight home. I was preoccupied and quiet, Wilson was introspective and morose, and by the time we dragged ourselves through the doors of Pemberley, we were both in need of our separate corners, the weight of the last twenty-four hours hovering like a black cloud. Wilson carried my duffle bag to my apartment and paused before heading to his own.

“Blue. I know you're exhausted. I'm absolutely knackered, and I'm not the one who's had their world turned upside down over and over again over the last few months. But you need to see this through to the end,” he entreated.

“I know, Wilson.”

“Would you like me to call her? It might make it easier to take the next step.”

“Is that weak?” I asked, really wanting to let him but not wanting to do the easy thing if it meant I was a wimp.

“It's delegation, luv. It's ensuring it gets done without tying yourself up in knots.”

“Then, yes. Please. And I'll be ready whenever she is.”

It turned out Stella Aguilar was tougher than I because she was ready immediately. So Wilson and I headed for St. George, Utah, the very next morning in Wilson's Subaru. We had both had a solid twelve hours of sleep in our own beds . . . separately, which concerned me a little, mostly because I didn't know what to make of it. Wilson was a completely different kind of guy than I was used to. He was a gentleman in a world of Masons and Colbys. And I was very afraid that the fact that I wasn't much of a lady was going to be a problem.

“Tell me what it's like,” I pleaded, my thoughts narrowed on the task that lay ahead .

“What what's like?” Wilson replied, his eyes on the road.

“Meeting your birth parents for the first time. What did you say? Tiffa said you did it on your own. You are obviously braver than I am. I don't think I could do this alone.”

“The circumstances are completely different, Blue. Don't ever believe you aren't brave. You are the toughest bird I know, and that, luv, is a compliment. I was eighteen when I met my birth parents. My mum had maintained contact with them throughout the years so that someday I could. She thought there might come a time when it might be important to me. My dad was against it. He thought it was unnecessary, and he was certain it would be distracting. I was one semester away from graduating, and I had been burying myself in school, which was very like me, I have to confess. I'd managed to fit four years of school into two-and-a-half, keeping to a schedule my father and I had mapped out. My father was an incredibly driven man, and I thought being a man meant being just like him. But it was semester break, and I was restless and irritable, and frankly, I was a powder keg, waiting to explode. So I flew to England and stayed with Alice. And I looked up the folks,” Wilson finished glibly, as if it had been no big deal. “My mum and I thought we could keep it a secret from Dad. Bad idea. But that's another story.”

“What was it like?” I prodded.

“It was bloody awful,” he answered promptly. “And enlightening and . . . very confusing.”

I had no idea what to say to that, so I just waited, watching his thoughts play across his face. He brooded for a moment, lost in remembering.

“When I met my birth father my first impression was that he was a bit of a bum,” he mused. “After a few hours talking to him, walking around, seeing his neighborhood, meeting his mates, I began to see him a little differently. We went to a pub where he liked to have a bitter after shift, a place called Wally's, where everyone seemed to know him and like him. Bert's a copper.”

“A copper?”

“A policeman. Which seemed so at odds with his personality. He is incredibly jovial and free-spirited. I always thought coppers were the strong, silent type.”

“Maybe more like your dad?”

“Yes! Like John Wilson. Driven, hard, serious. And Bert Wheatley was anything but serious or driven. He said he was a copper because he loved his neighborhood. He liked being with people, and when he was a boy he'd always wanted to drive a car with lights and a siren.” Wilson laughed and shook his head. “That's what he said! I remember thinking what a nutter he was.” Wilson looked over at me as if I was going to scold him for his opinion. I just stayed quiet.

“But I noticed other things. Bert seemed very content. And he was very fun to be with.” Wilson laughed again, but his laughter was pained. “In those ways, he was very different from my dad, too. John Wilson was never satisfied – rarely happy – and he wasn't exactly a pleasure to be around most of the time.” Wilson shook his head and abruptly changed the subject.

“My birth mother's name is Jenny. She never married Bert, obviously. She married a plumber named Gunnar Woodrow. Gunnar the plumber.” Wilson said it like Gunna the Plumma, and I tried not to snicker. I'd gotten to the point where I didn't even notice his accent . . . most of the time.

“She and Gunnar have five kids, and their house is like a zoo. I stayed for an hour or two, until Gunnar got home from work, and then Jenny and I slipped out and had tea around the corner where we could talk without the monkeys interrupting.”

“Did you like her?”

“Very much. She's lovely. Loves books and history, loves to quote poetry.”

“Sounds like you.”

Wilson nodded. “We have a great deal in common, which thrilled me, I must say. We talked about everything. She asked me all the things mothers are interested in: what my hopes and dreams were and whether I had a girlfriend. I told her I didn't have time for girls. I told her that history and books were the only loves in my life so far. We talked about school, and she asked me what my plans were for my future. I rambled off my ten year plan, involving grad school, medical school, and working with my father. She seemed a little surprised by my career goals and said, 'But what about the loves in your life?'”

“She was worried about your love life? You were only eighteen,” I protested, ridiculously grateful he didn't have a past like mine.

“No. She wasn't worried about my love life. She was worried about the 'loves in my life,'” Wilson repeated. “History and books.”

“Oh!” I responded, understanding.

“Meeting my parents had me questioning myself for the first time ever. I suddenly wondered if I really wanted to be a doctor. I found myself thinking about what would make me happy. I thought about lights and sirens.” Wilson's lips quirked, a hint of a smile. “I thought about how I wanted to share everything I learned with anyone who would listen. In fact, I drove my parents and my sisters crazy, constantly reciting this or that historical fact.”

“St. Patrick?”

“St. Patrick, Alexander the Great, Leonidas, King Arthur, Napolean Bonaparte, and so many others.”

“So being a doctor lost some of its luster.”

“It had never held any luster, and once I realized that, I told my dad I wasn't going to medical school. I had kept my mouth shut until graduation, quietly making different plans while my dad continued to map out my future. I told him I wanted to teach, hopefully at a university someday. I told him I wanted to write and lecture and eventually get my doctorate in history. He found out that I had contacted my birth parents and blamed my change of heart on my trip. He was furious with me and my mother. We fought, we yelled, I left the house, my father was called to the hospital, and I never saw him alive again. You've heard that part of the story.” Wilson sighed heavily and pulled his hand through his hair.

“Is that what you meant when you said meeting your birth parents was dreadful . . . because it set so many other things in motion?”

“No. Although, I guess it could be construed that way. It was dreadful because I was so unbelievably confused and lost. Two feelings I'd never felt before, ever. I know, I lived a sheltered life, didn't I?” Wilson shrugged. “I met two people who were very different from the people who raised me. Not better, not worse. Just different. And that's not a slight against my mum and dad. They were good parents, and they loved me. But my world was rocked. On the one hand, I was very confused about why Jenny and Bert couldn't have made it work for my sake. Had I meant so little to them that they passed me along to a rich doctor and his wife and went their merry way, washing their hands of me?”

I winced, knowing intellectually that this wasn't about me. But there was guilt all the same. I wondered if Melody would ask me the same question someday. Wilson continued.

“On the other hand, I suddenly came to realize that I didn't want the things I always thought I wanted. I wanted to pursue things that made me happy, and I wanted a certain amount of freedom that I had never experienced. And I knew that meant taking a very different road from the one I'd been on.”

“I can understand that,” I whispered.

“Yes. I know.” Wilson's eyes met mine, and there was a heat there that had my heart doing a slow slide inside my chest. How was it that he could look at me that way yet manage to hold me all night long without a single kiss?

“The last week in England, I left Manchester and took a coach to London. Alice is a lot less protective of me than the rest of my family. She kind of shrugged and said, 'Have fun, don't get killed, and make sure you're back here in a week to catch your flight home.' I met up with some mates from school, and I spent the week completely sloshed doing things I'm rather embarrassed to talk about.”

“Like what?” I said, half-aghast half-thrilled that Wilson might not be squeaky clean after all.

“I was absolutely desperate for companionship. I lost my virginity, and I don't remember most of it. And it didn't stop there. Night after night, club after club, girl after girl, and I just felt worse and worse as the week went on. I kept trying to restore my equilibrium by doing things that just made me dizzy. Does that make sense?”

I nodded, knowing exactly what he meant. I understood dizzy.

“One of my mates ended up driving me back to Manchester. He made sure I got on that aeroplane and back to the States in one piece. And over the next six months, I managed to stop the spinning in my head and find my balance again for the most part. But in many ways being with you through your journey has been a journey for me, too. I understand myself and my parents – both sets – so much better now.”

We drove without talking for a long time. Then I asked him the question that had been bothering me since waking up alone the morning before.

“Wilson? What happened in Reno? I mean . . . I thought you would want . . . I mean, are you not attracted to me?” I felt like I was asking the star quarterback to the prom, and my knees shook. Wilson laughed right out loud. And I cringed, trying not to slump down in my seat and cover my face to hide my rejection. Wilson must have seen the humiliation on my expression, and with a screech of brakes and some illegal lane changes he was swerving over to the side of the road, hazards on and everything. He turned to me, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe I didn't get it.

“Blue. If this was simply about attraction, you and I would never have left Reno. We would still be in that crappy hotel room, starkers, ordering room service . . . or, more likely, pizza from down the road. But for me, with you, sex is not the goal. Do you understand that?”

I shook my head. No. I totally did not understand that.

“When you climbed into my bed in Reno, all I could think of was how I felt in London in that awful week when I'd had more sex than any teenaged boy could dream of. And how gutted I felt at the end of it. I didn't want our first time to be like that for you. You were emotionally rocked in Reno, just like I was in London, and you needed me. But you didn't need me that way. Someday . . . hopefully bloody soon – because I will combust if I ever have to spend a night like that again – you will want me because you love me, not because you're lost, not because you're desperate, not because you're afraid. And that's the goal.”

“But, Wilson. I do love you,” I insisted.

“And I love you . . . most ardently,” he responded, twisting my hair in his hands and pulling me toward him.

“Pride and Prejudice?”

“How did you know?” he smiled.

“I have a thing for Mr. Darcy.”

In response, Darcy himself captured my mouth with his, and showed me just how ardently he cared.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

If it hadn't been for a diesel truck blasting us with his horn and shaking the Suburu as it flew by, we might have been very, very late for our appointment with my grandmother. As it was, we found Stella Hidalgo's home on the outskirts of the Shivwits Indian Reservation after a little backtracking, and a consult with Wilson's trusty Garmin, which didn't seem to work especially well when it came to Indian reservations, or Utah for that matter. I had only been to the St. George area once before on a school trip, but I remembered the red rocks and the jutting plateaus outlined against blue sky and desert sand. It was as harsh and inhospitable as it was beautiful, and I wondered briefly how my ancestors had survived in the area for hundreds and hundreds of years before modern conveniences. Water was scarce, food must have been even scarcer, and growing anything would have been close to impossible.

We rolled up to Stella Hidalgo's home, noting the boxlike rambler with white siding and red shutters in need of a paint job. It was neat and clean but unadorned, and the yard was kept simple with desert rocks and Joshua trees. We stepped out of the car into a silence so heavy I could hear my heart beating like an ancient drum. Stella Hidalgo opened the door before we reached the front steps.

She was a slight woman of medium height. She was probably close to sixty, though she had an ageless beauty that made estimation difficult. Her skin was unlined, and her hair had streaks of silver amid the black. She wore it simply, parted on one side and bobbed at her shoulder. She wore a loose white dress shirt and white slacks, her skin a golden brown contrast against the pale outfit. She had white sandals on her feet and turquoise stones at her ears and around her wrists and throat. She had the look of a woman who knows how to present herself to the world and is confident with what she sees in the mirror. She invited us in, and the only indication that she was just as nervous as I was the tremor in her hand as she beckoned us forward.

“The police told me very little about your life.” Stella Hidalgo's voice was soft and cultured when she spoke. “In fact, when Detective Martinez called me last week and told me they had a DNA match, he was careful to explain that because you are a legal adult with a right to privacy they could encourage you but ultimately it would be your choice whether or not to make contact with me. He didn't even tell me your name. I don't know what to call you.”

“You can call me Blue.” I extended my hand and she clasped it in hers. I wouldn't ever be Savana Hidalgo or Savana Jacobsen . . . or anything else. I was Blue Echohawk, and that wouldn't change.

“It suits you.” She smiled tremulously. “Please call me Stella.” Her eyes shifted to Wilson, waiting for an introduction.

“Hullo. I'm Darcy Wilson, but everyone calls me Wilson. I'm in love with Blue.” Wilson also extended his hand, and Winona dimpled, completely taken in from the word “hullo.”

“How nice!” she giggled, and I loved Wilson more in that moment than I had ever loved a single soul. Thanks to Wilson's charm, Stella's hands seemed steadier as she showed us into her little home and invited us to sit on a couch covered with a multi-colored blanket across from a pair of deep brown chairs. Several framed awards were hung along the walls, along with a picture that I could have sworn was Jimmy Carter with a woman who was most likely my grandmother thirty years ago. I don't know what I expected when Sergeant Martinez told me Stella Hidalgo lived on a reservation, but this wasn't it. A few pictures were placed on the mantle, and a large Indian-style rug covered the wooden floor. I knew nothing about the Paiute Indians – their customs, their history, their lifestyle. It would be something I hoped this woman could teach me about myself. Someday.

Stella's eyes kept drifting to my face, like she couldn't believe I was there. I let her look her fill and drank her in as well. The moment was beyond surreal, and I have wondered since how we must have appeared, staring at each other in silence, the clock on the mantel marking time as we tried to absorb more than eighteen years into the present.

We made small talk for several minutes, discussing our trip to Reno and our drive to St. George, but soon the talk turned to my mother. I had the distinct feeling that my grandmother needed me to understand her daughter. Maybe because she was still struggling to understand her as well.

“Winnie was full of personality, and she loved being the center of attention, which she usually managed to be both here at home and at school. My parents doted on her, and she always had lots of friends. She loved cheerleading and was very popular, especially with the boys. I was always just the opposite. I was so shy around boys . . . never could figure out what to say.” Stella paused, and I wished she hadn't told me my mother was popular with the boys. It made me worry once again that we were alike, and I didn't want to be anything like her. My feelings of despair deepened as Stella touched on her daughter's unexpected pregnancy.

“Being pregnant was hard for her, as it would be for any sixteen-year-old girl. When Ethan didn't want to have anything to do with her or the baby, she was despondant . . . wouldn't come out of her room, cried a lot. Her pregnancy was miserable, and after you were born, she was inconsolable. The doctor said it was postpartem depression As time passed, she was less depressed, but she became so angry, and I took care of you most of the time. You were a sweet baby, such a calm little thing. You hardly ever fussed. You made it easier for Winnie to ignore you, I think. For me, it was that much easier to love you. As long as you had your blanket, you were content.”

“Was it blue? With elephants on it?”

“Yes! It . . . it was!” Stella stuttered in surprise. “Do you remember?” My grandmother's lips trembled, and she pressed her knuckles to them to suppress the emotion that was evident in every line of her face.

I nodded, suddenly unable to speak.

“Winnie hated it.” Stella's voice wobbled, and she cleared her throat. “She said blue was for boys. But I chose it because you had such blue eyes. Your eyes were so striking. In every other way, you looked Native, except maybe not so dark. Your eyes were what finally convinced Ethan's family that you were his. His family gave Winona some money when you were almost two years old. She took the money they'd given her, stole all the money in my savings account as well as my car, and hit the road. Unfortunately, she didn't leave you behind. I have always regreted not contacting the police and having them throw her in jail. It might have saved her life, and I would never have lost you.

“But she needed to grow up, and I thought getting out of town would be good for her. So I didn't report it. I just . . . let her go. In fact, if she would have just asked me for the money and the car, I most likely would have given them to her. She ended up staying with a friend in Salt Lake City, and she found a job. The friend's mother ran a daycare, and you were being looked after by people I knew and trusted. I kept tabs on her through her friend and thought things were going fairly well. She was there for about six months until she wore out her welcome. She ended up stealing a fairly large amount of money from the friend's mother. And they did report her. After that, I heard from her every once in a while, enough that I knew she was okay.”

The conversation trailed off, and I studied my grandmother's face as she studied mine. It was Wilson who finally spoke up.

“The police report says they had a tip from someone in Oklahoma who swore that a girl matching your daughter's description was caught shoplifting several items from a convenience store. The shop owner ended up not pressing charges because he felt bad for the girl. She was stealing diapers and milk. He ended up giving her the milk, some groceries, and a case of diapers, along with some money. When the store owner saw her picture on the news, he remembered your daughter and her little girl and called the police.”

“Oklahoma?” Stella Aguilar seemed stunned, and she shook her head, muttering under her breath. “No . . . that isn't possible.”

“The police say nothing ever came of it. It only muddied the waters without giving them anything more to go on,” I interjected. “I just noticed it because my father – the man who raised me – had family on a reservation in Oklahoma. I wondered what in the world she would be doing there.”

“What was your father's name?” Stella Hidalgo's voice was faint and there was an odd stillness about her, as if she were waiting for an answer she already knew.

“James Echohawk . . . I called him Jimmy.”

Stella slumped back in her seat, shock and dismay written in bold across her face. She stood up abruptly and raced from the room, leaving us without a word.

“Something's wrong. Do you think she knows Jimmy?” I whispered.

“She sure acted like she recognized his name,” Wilson replied, his tone just as hushed. We were interrupted by crashing and muttering, and we rose to our feet, all at once anxious to leave.

“Maybe we should go,” Wilson said loudly. “Ms. Hidalgo? We didn't come here to upset you.”

Stella rushed back into the room holding a box.

“I'm sorry, but I need you to wait . . . please. Just wait . . . for a minute.” We sat back down reluctantly, watching Stella as she pulled the lid from the box and lifted out a photo album. Frantically, she flipped through the pages and then stopped short.

“Some of the pictures are missing. Someone has taken some of the pictures!” Stella tore through the pages, her eyes flying from one photo to the next. “Here. This isn't a very good shot . . . but it's him.” She tugged the picture from beneath the plastic covering. It had obviously been there a long time, and it had adherred to the plastic sheet. She tugged and the picture began to tear. She gave up and brought the book to me, walking across the small space on her knees as if she were six instead of sixty.