Black Diamond (22 page)

The
doctor
said,
‘There’s
no
way
to
stop
the
bleeding.
’

I
wanted
to
see
Alma.
‘Where
is
she?’
I
asked
them.
‘I
want
Alma.’
But
nobody
could
hear
me.

*

On the plane to California Alma wrote three letters. The first was to Merle. The second was to the state police, to thank the two officers who had helped her. She’d found their names, with the number of their patrol car, in the notebook she carried in her shoulderbag. She still had no memory of writing down anything during her journey to the hospital. In a p.s. she said that she’d been asleep when the bus accident had happened, and that she’d been in shock when she saw the plane crash at the airport, but if they wanted to ask her any questions about what she
remembered
, they could find her at the school where she worked.

The third letter was supposed to be for Bruce, but she couldn’t finish the first sentence. After a while she came to the conclusion that it would be no use trying to say anything; she was too angry. She thought:
What
was
so
important
that
you
couldn’t
come
to
your
own
mother’s
funeral?
What
have
you
done
to
your
father
by
staying
away?
And
what
have
you
done
to
yourself?
There’s
no
way
you
can
get
back
that
time
and
do
it
over.
That
was
your
time
and
you
refused
it.

She slept. She ate part of the airline meal. When the lights were turned down, she got out her pad of paper again. She wrote to Bruce. She described to him the crash she’d been in. She said that it could have been some other kind of disaster – not a catastrophe that threatened physical danger and death, but an emotional calamity. It might not have had to harm her in any way, simply to make her think.
The
way
I
feel,
she wrote,
is
that
I’ve
survived
and
that
it
isn’t
worthwhile
or
right
to
hang
on
to
petty
things.
I
don’t
think
you
should
nurse
a
sense
of
injury
and
vengeance
against
these
other
people.
It
can’t
be
good
for
you
to
be
tormenting
yourself
so.
It’s
hurting
you
much
more
than
you’ll
ever
be
able
to
hurt
them.
Let
it
go.
Let
people
live
their
own
lives
and
forget
what
you
think
they
did
to
you.
I
won’t
say
anything
else
about
not
coming
home
for
the
funeral,
except
that
it’s
important
for
people
to
participate
in
death
when
it’s
a
death
in
the
family.
Dad
and
I
are
very
sad
and
grieving,
but
that’s
part
of
it.
She’s
with
us
and
she’s
gone.
But
what’s
happening
in
your
heart?
You
know
I
love
you.
We
all
love
you.
Why
don’t
you
love
anybody
back?
Couldn’t
you
go
home
and
stay
with
Dad
for
a
while?
And
then
come
to
California
– or
I
can
come
to
you. I
feel
like
we
could
lose
each
other.

She mailed the letters as soon as she landed. Bruce answered quickly: he must have written the moment he got the letter.
Don’t
worry
about
losing
me,
he told her.
Of
course
I
love
you
back.
I’ll
go
see
Dad
when
all
this
business
is
finished
and
then
I’ll
come
see
you.
He’d crossed out a sentence that had begun
Maybe
we
can,
and another that had started out,
As
soon
as
I’m
free
of,
and below that he’d just written the word ‘love’, and signed his name.

*

We
can
shape
history
to
a
certain
extent.
The
course
of
it
follows
a
pattern
of
the
human
mind
–
or,
maybe
it’s
just
that
we
think
it
does
because
that’s
how
we
interpret
events.

Even
though
some
causes
or
ideals
seem
wrong
to
us,
as
far
as
history
is
concerned,
the
right
one
is
the
one
that
wins.
Victory
is
only
for
a
while,
anyway.
Everything
could
all
come
back:
the
Dark
Ages,
the
wars
for
a
hundred
years.
If
you’ve
got
a
chance
of
winning,
isn’t
it
better
to
fight
for
a
hundred
years,
rather
than
go
under?

*

Rose was careful not to ask Alma too many direct questions. She asked around the edges: was there someone to look after Alma’s father, would she need to take a break to go home again fairly soon, could any of them do anything? No, Alma answered; everything was fine. The two boys, Jerry and Toby, broke the ice: they wanted to hear all about the bus crash. They wanted to see Alma’s cut, which had almost healed. Their interest in the scope of the death and mutilations was intense and ghoulish. She was amused, but she told them something of what it had really been like. She didn’t include too many details; despite his pleading for gory incident, Toby still had nightmares after seeing monster movies.

Alma thought that she was getting over it; that she was easing herself back into a routine again. But one afternoon in the library, when the two of them were alone at the desk, Rose said
something about a mother being a real mother even if, as Alma had told her, she was adopted; and Alma began to cry.

‘That’s just it,’ she sobbed. ‘He didn’t come. He wouldn’t even come to her funeral. He wanted us to make this pact a long time ago: about how we’d go to the adoption agency to find out about our real parents and then we’d hunt them down. He wanted to get back at them some way. But I never felt like that. I figured it was better to forget everything and just think how lucky we were to be here at all and have a good mother and father: even if we were adopted and they weren’t the real ones. He wouldn’t even come to her funeral. She was the only mother we had all our lives. And she loved us, even though she wasn’t my real mother.’ She stopped, to catch her breath. She wiped her hands across her face. Rose put her arm around her and patted her back.

Alma got out a kleenex. She blew her nose. She took a deep breath. ‘You’re my real mother,’ she said. ‘That’s why I came out here. That’s why I got this job. I wanted to see you.’

‘Oh,’ Rose said. ‘My goodness.’ She looked at Alma as if trying to recognize someone who was standing a long way off. ‘Oh,’ she said again. Her eyes filled with tears.

Alma steered her into a chair. ‘Let me go get you a glass of water,’ she said. But Rose caught hold of her hand and wouldn’t release it. Alma pulled up a second chair. She sat down. ‘I wasn’t going to tell you,’ she said. ‘I thought it might upset you. I shouldn’t have said anything.’

‘It’s my dream come true. I’ve just been thinking about you for too long. My little girl. Do you have another one of those kleenexes? I’ve thought about this moment so many times.’

‘Me, too,’ Alma said. She pulled a kleenex out of her pocket and handed it to Rose.

*

History
is
only
what
other
people
say
about
you
after
you’re
dead,
or
–
if
you’re
lucky
–
what
you
get
to
say
about
yourself,
as
long
as
you’re
holding
the
reins.
None
of
it
matters
at
the
time,
only
afterwards.

*

Over the next few days Rose began to tell Alma about her own
parents, about her highschool boyfriend and his family: they all still lived in the same town; she’d even seen him again. For a long time she’d hated him, but she’d come to realize that he’d just been young, as she had been. He had a family himself now and she felt nothing against him, or for him. She still couldn’t forgive her parents. That was another reason why Tom and the boys meant so much to her. Tom knew the whole story; she’d told him before they were married.

Alma asked all the questions she’d been storing up for years.

‘Right at the beginning,’ Rose said, ‘I was horrified. I couldn’t believe it had happened. I wanted so much for it not to be true. I thought of getting rid of it, I really did. If I’d known a little more, I’m sure I would have. But I didn’t know what to do. I told him and he told his parents, and they told mine, and they all got together. I still feel bitter about that, to this day. That’s why I don’t have much to do with my family any more. They were trying to do their best for me. They said so. I’ve just never been able to believe that again, not completely. Maybe they wanted to think that was true at the time. It’s hard to face the disapproval of a whole town. I wouldn’t want to, myself. But if it was a question of my child’s future or the town’s opinion, I’d get up and go. If I could. I guess it was my father who decided that they couldn’t. Anyway, I’m sorry I never met your mother. I could have. When it was getting near the time of the birth, I wanted to. And the agency said it would be all right. But my parents wouldn’t allow it. They were afraid of it coming back on them later in some way.’

‘I wish you’d met her,’ Alma said.

‘So do I. I really do. But you can tell me about her. Did she name you after a relative in her family?’

‘Yes. One of her grandmothers.’

‘It’s strange to think of you being called Alma. I never knew anybody named Alma.’

‘You had another name for me.’

‘Yes. It was –’

‘Don’t tell me what it was. Please. I’m the way I am now. I can’t be somebody else.’

‘No, of course. You’re right.’

‘You could meet my father.’

‘If he’d like to.’

‘Good. I’ll talk to him about it.’

They went for a long walk together late one afternoon while the boys were playing over at a neighbor’s house. Alma said, ‘I think it’s inhuman that they never let you see me.’

‘It wasn’t the society’s policy in those days. Maybe it still isn’t. They didn’t want the mothers to change their minds. They thought it was better to knock you out in the delivery room and then you’d come to, and all the problems would be over. Everyone was very nice to me. They made me feel as if they thought that there had been a mistake, but it wasn’t my fault, and that if I went along with all their advice, I’d be proving how sensible I was; how much character I had. They hardly mentioned the baby once. They just kept saying that there was nothing to worry about. They did tell me it was a girl, that’s all. One of the nurses told me; I don’t think she was supposed to: she let it slip. You know, while I was carrying you, before I even knew if I was going to have a girl or a boy – I was so mixed up about everything. Sometimes I hated it. Sometimes I had this feeling of hope, of buoyancy – I didn’t know what it was: like happiness. It was only later, about ten days after the birth, that I knew how much I loved you. I tried everything to get you back. They told me I’d change. They said it was part of the reaction and I’d get over it. But I didn’t. I got worse. I was desperate. They gave me pills and they told me that I had to think about the future: I should ask myself if I wanted it to go down on my record that I was unstable. I might never be able to get a job. So I gave up writing the letters and making the phone calls. I think my mother started to have a bad conscience about me then. But it was too late. I felt that something had been done to me that could never be put right, ever.’