Betrayed (7 page)

“And now?” There was something uncomfortably
seeing
in Evelyn’s shrewd gaze, the gentle question.

Vicki shrugged. “You mean, the Father being God the Creator, Father of the world and all that? Sure, I managed to figure out my error as I got older. I’m certainly no atheist, if that’s what you mean. I went to Sunday school. I believe the Bible. It’s just . . . ”

Under Evelyn’s steady, encouraging gaze, the words twisted out of Vicki as she whirled back to the window. “Just take a look at that. The starving kids. The dirt. The wars. The . . . the pain. My Father’s world—it . . . it’s like a bad joke. What kind of sick parent creates a world like that and calls it beautiful?”

Evelyn shook her head slowly. “Do you think it’s really fair to blame God for that mess? It’s we humans who’ve played havoc with His creation, after all. ”

“Oh, sure,” Vicki said impatiently. “We humans made the mess, and we probably do deserve anything we get. But if God bothered enough to create all this in the first place, it seems He should care enough to do
something
to clean it up. Then maybe people like you wouldn’t have to give up your whole life—” She stopped, astonished at herself. What on earth was independent, hardheaded Vicki Andrews doing spilling her guts like this to a total stranger? There was something about this old woman.

She managed a rueful smile. “I’m sorry. This all started as an apology for cutting you off. I must seem pretty silly to you. It’s just . . . well, I hadn’t heard that old song in years, not since I finally broke my sister of singing it over and over.”

“Of course you don’t seem silly,” Evelyn answered firmly, “and you really don’t need to apologize. You mentioned your sister. Would that be Holly?”

Vicki’s eyebrows shot up. “Yes, how did you know? Not many people guess; we don’t look anything alike.”

 Evelyn smiled faintly. “For one, you act like sisters.”

“Yes, well, you’re right. Holly is about two-and-a-half  years younger.  She used to drive me crazy singing that song. There were times I wanted to strangle the person who taught it to her.”

“Well, actually—” Evelyn coughed before she finished apologetically—“that would be me."

Chapter Five

Vicki was so dumbfounded that she could do no more than stare.

“You
are
Vicki and Holly Craig? Or were, since I see you now go by the name Andrews. Your parents were Jeff and Victoria Craig?” Evelyn looked at Vicki with bright eyes. “I thought I was mistaken when you told me your name. But when you introduced your friend—sister, that is . . . well, Vicki and Holly are not a particularly common combination, and you do look very much like your mother. Add to that a favorite hymn two little girls I once knew loved to sing over and over again. That’s when I was sure.”

 Vicki’s head was whirling so much that she could hardly breathe, and she found herself groping for the support of the windowsill. “You’re saying you met my parents and knew Holly and me when we were children? Then that’s why you—this place—seemed so familiar. I thought I was imagining it. But I don’t understand how you could know us. And who were my parents? Where did you meet them—and us?”

“Why, right here. Your parents were living in our guest quarters when you were born. ” Evelyn leaned forward to study Vicki’s face. “You really have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

Vicki shook her head. “I never even knew I’d been in Guatemala until my birth certificate was turned over when I went off to college. Not the original either since Holly and I are adopted. But it lists Guatemala as my birth country. Are you sure you have the right people? That this isn’t some kind of weird coincidence?”

“Well, that’s easy enough to establish. Come with me.” Evelyn took Vicki by the arm.

Vicki was too stunned to talk as she accompanied Evelyn out of the room, into the freight elevator, through the connecting gate into the Casa de Esperanza courtyard and up a veranda stairway into an upstairs apartment.

It was small with an open kitchen and living area. The few pieces of furniture were sparse and well worn. One wall held floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a scattering of bright, newer book spines amidst the ancient mildewed bindings. Like everything else Vicki had seen, the place was ruthlessly clean, and its very simplicity held a certain attraction.

“My retreat when things get too noisy around here,” Evelyn said with quiet humor as she ushered Vicki in and began rummaging through a bookshelf. “Though back when you were born, it was our guest quarters. Such a sweet baby you were. And Holly, though of course she was already a toddler before I saw her. Sit! Sit!”

As Vicki sank obediently into the armchair, Evelyn came back with a photo album, old enough that its binding was cracking. Carefully she spread it out on a coffee table.

“There you are, the whole family. That was the last time you were here, just before—”

Vicki stared in astonishment at the black-and-white photo. The background was easily identifiable as the courtyard below, the broad staircase behind the group the same she’d just climbed.

There were four people in all. And, yes, the blonde toddler being held up for the camera was definitely Holly, while the small, brown girl in front looked much like Vicki’s early school photos. Though none of those had carried such a joyous grin. Vicki studied the two adults. Could these really be her birth parents? The woman holding Holly looked startlingly like the image that confronted Vicki in the mirror. Her hair was long and parted down the middle. The man was tall and blond, one hand resting protectively on Vicki’s shoulder.

“It
is
us,” Vicki said blankly. “But how did you—?” Then she saw the picture on the opposite page, identical except that in this one a younger Evelyn replaced the man.

“I took that one.” Evelyn tapped the first photo. “The only picture I’ve got with your father in it, since he was always behind the camera, of course.”

She caught Vicki’s puzzled look. “Jeff was a photojournalist; didn’t you know? He was hitchhiking through Central America, right out of journalism school and determined to find a story that would win him a Pulitzer. He was fascinated with the basureros, a phenomenon that was new back then as peasants displaced by the civil war flooded into Guatemala City. I’d just raised the funds to buy this place for a children’s home. Your mother was one of our volunteers. Your father arrived and fell in love with the children, the country—and your mother. He went home with some news stories that roused enough interest and funds to get this place outfitted for the first fifty kids.”

Evelyn’s smile was reminiscent. “Then he came right back and proposed to your mother. They got married and stayed here, your mother working as our nurse, your father taking pictures and writing. They traveled together until you came along, though it was none too safe with all the civil wars going on, but Jeff never worried. He had this
fearlessness
, almost recklessly so, as though nothing could touch him. He was outraged about injustice, especially the civil war. He wanted the world to know what was going on down here.”

She’s describing Holly
, Vicki realized with incredulity.

“And he
was
getting noticed. Associated Press and Reuters were beginning to pick up some of his photos and news coverage.” Evelyn turned the album pages as she spoke.

There were group pictures of Evelyn and Victoria with Guatemalan children. Close-ups of haunting faces and sad eyes. Photos of
basureros
and Casa de Esperanza, clearly before its renovation.

Vicki stared at a photo of Victoria with a baby in her arms, then bent forward to read the tiny lettering on the bottom right-hand corner. The date was followed by
Jeff Craig Productions
.

Evelyn nodded. “Yes, Jeff always stamped his pictures with name and date to protect his copyright. That one would be you at . . . three months. Which sounds right because that’s when he was offered a graduate fellowship back at Columbia. I didn’t see Jeff and Victoria for several years after they left, but they always kept in touch. I knew Jeff was doing well because I’d see his name on a news photo from Sri Lanka or a magazine spread on Kenya. He
did
have itchy feet.”

Like his daughters
. Vicki bent forward again to look at a
National Geographic
layout of an African refugee camp that might easily have been one she herself had surveyed. For the first time she was beginning to feel that these unfamiliar people in the photos really might be connected to her and Holly. Her parents.

Then why was it all such a blank, as though she were listening to a story about total strangers? She strained to remember something—
anything
—but the effort brought a familiar queasiness to her stomach. She asked hastily, “So how did they end up back here? By the photos they must have come back.
We
. . . I mean.”

“Jeff had been given a grant to do a book on the modern-day Mayans. He believed the beauty of this country needed to be preserved on film before it was gone forever, and he wanted to include the
basureros
in the book, since they’re Mayan too. I invited him to bring the whole family here. So you came. Victoria settled right back into helping with the children while Jeff traveled around the country, taking pictures, doing interviews. You girls loved it. Playing with the children. Having tea with me in this apartment. Singing.”

Evelyn gestured to the ancient pump organ in a corner, a worn hymnbook lying open on its rack. “That’s where you learned ‘This Is My Father’s World.’ That’s even the same book. I sang it for you one day because it seemed to fit what your father was trying to do. You and Holly latched onto it and begged me to sing it, though you never managed to get past the first line. Funny to think that stuck even when you forgot everything else.”

“I can’t believe it.” Vicki shook her head. “I always assumed we’d learned that song at Sunday school. I can’t imagine
choosing
to sing it.”

“Well, you did, over and over.” Evelyn gave a ghost of a smile before she went on. “I’d have been happy to keep you here forever. But Jeff persuaded the leaders of a Mayan village to allow him to live there and photograph their daily lives for his book. He convinced them that this would be an opportunity to communicate their plight to the outside world. It was the height of the civil war, and the Mayan peasants were getting the worst of it. Jeff was sure this would be Pulitzer material. The only drawback was leaving his family for such an extended time.

“Victoria dug in her heels and said you’d all go. It would be safe since you’d be under the auspices of the Mayan tribal leaders, and there was a strong army presence in the area as protection against any guerrilla activity. Besides, as a nurse, she could handle any medical emergencies, even make herself useful in the village while Jeff was working. I’ll never forget you and Holly climbing into the Jeep to take off, still singing ‘This Is My Father’s World’ at the top of your sweet little voices. That was the last time I saw you.”

“Because Jeff and Victoria were killed?” Vicki was touched to see tears in Evelyn’s eyes. It seemed odd that to this woman these people were friends—even family—while to Vicki, their daughter, they were strangers.

“Yes. There was no easy communication in those days, certainly not in the mountains, so it was no surprise for a month to go by without hearing from Jeff and Victoria. In fact, the first I knew of any trouble was when the embassy announced that two Americans had been killed in the Mayan highlands east of here. The bodies had been recovered and turned over to a local military unit who’d brought them into Guatemala City—” Evelyn broke off. “I’m sorry, Vicki. I forget how difficult this must be for you. Does it bother you to talk about it?”

“Not at all,” Vicki said truthfully. “I never knew them after all. But if this is hard for you . . .”

“It’s been twenty years,” Evelyn said gently. “It’s time they were remembered, especially by their daughters.”

“Then I’d like to hear the rest,” Vicki said. “How were they killed? Was it a car accident?”

“Oh, it was no accident. That was in the news coverage, though not much more. I guess it was assumed to be one more car-jacking or robbery. When they were identified, my first concern was you and Holly, so I went to the embassy. All they would tell me was that you two girls had already been evacuated to the States. I was sorry I couldn’t say good-bye or keep in touch. You both were so precious to me.”

Evelyn stopped again to scrutinize Vicki. “You really don’t remember any of this? I mean, Holly was just a baby, but you were five. Surely you must have some memory.”

Vicki lifted her shoulders. “I don’t remember anything that far back. My first memories are the orphanage where Holly and I used to live.”

Evelyn looked at Vicki in dismay. “I . . . I had no idea. I’d always assumed you went home to family. At least—well, I knew Victoria was raised in foster care, one of the reasons she was so interested in my work, but I thought Jeff had family. I am so sorry.” Her hands shook with distress as she closed the photo album.