Escape From Fear (6 page)

T
he Paradise Motel was an old, three-story building on a corner lot downtown. Weeping trees surrounded the Paradise like weary sentinels, their thick, ancient trunks blocking most of the view from the street. As with many of the buildings in St. John, the stucco had been painted Pepto-Bismol pink. A sign dangling from a wrought-iron pole showed where to check in with a painted hand pointing to a set of glass double doors.

“Well,” Forrest said, peering out of the Jeep. “Here it is. The Paradise.” He looked scared to death.

“Yes, here it is,” Denise agreed. She pulled into an alley across the way. As she slid the gear into “park,” she turned to ask Forrest, “You sure you want to do this now? Because there's still time to leave.”

Although Forrest looked anything but sure, he nodded. “Yes, I'm ready.”

“All right then. Come on, let's see what's waiting for us. It could be nothing, it could be everything, but we'll never know sitting here in the Jeep,” Denise told them.

As they climbed out of the backseat, Jack let Forrest take the lead. This was Forrest's story, not his, and in a way he felt he shouldn't be there at all. Denise, too, kept a step behind. Jack noticed once again how strong she looked. Her calf muscles rippled as she walked. Forrest, who was already as tall as Denise, appeared spindly in comparison. His feet, encased in expensive sneakers, seemed too big for the rest of him, like a puppy who hadn't yet grown into its paws.

“I hope Cimmaron will be OK with this,” Ashley whispered.

“Me, too,” Jack answered.

“You know, not all birth mothers want to be found. What if she won't talk to him?”

“I'm more worried that we've got the wrong Cimmaron. I think that would be really hard on Forrest.”

Ashley pursed her lips as she waited for a car to chug by. Forrest and Denise were already across the street, walking slowly up the path to the entrance to the Paradise. Checking right, then left, because in St. John the cars ran the opposite way from the way they do on the U.S. mainland, Ashley stepped into the street. “Since when do you care about Forrest?” she asked Jack.

The question surprised him, because it was true things had changed, and he didn't know when or where. No, that wasn't true, he did know. It began back at Miss Amelia's, when Forrest heard Cimmaron's name and told them she was his mother. It was at the sugar plantation, when he'd boldly struck a bargain with Denise. For all of his attitude problems, Forrest had guts. Watching him, seeds of respect had been planted in Jack, who truly wanted this reunion to go well.

“I guess he's not so bad,” Jack mumbled.

“It's weird, thinking of what's about to happen. Unless she's already left for the day, Cimmaron is inside that building, only moments away from meeting her son.”

“
If
we have the right Cimmaron.”

“Right. If.”

Suddenly, thoughts of what could go wrong made Jack's stomach clamp. How must Forrest be feeling? As if in reply, Forrest stopped at the front door and waited for Jack and Ashley to catch up. His eyes were wide. Denise stood beside him, her face tranquil, like someone with all the time in the world.

“You want us to wait out here?” Jack asked.

“No. I'm afraid I'm going to back down. I need you to make me do this.”

“No one can make you but yourself,” Denise told him. “This is your call.”

“Right.” Forrest took a deep breath and put his hand on the brass doorknob. “Let's do it.”

The lobby inside the Paradise was small, filled with European-style furniture that seemed strangely out of place in the tropics. Two ornate chairs, both covered in maroon velvet, sat opposite a couch embroidered with a scene from a fox hunt. A large, carved desk stood at one end with a sign that read Registration.

“May I help you?” a young man asked pleasantly. The badge he wore said Toby.

“Uh, yes.” Forrest cleared his throat. “Is there a maid here, I mean, a woman by the name of—Cimmaron?”

“She's almost off duty. I just saw her ten minutes ago, so I believe she's still here.” Toby looked expectantly from face to face. “Do you want me to call her?”

Forrest barely nodded. The young man punched a button on a phone, speaking into it, “This is the front desk. I have some visitors here for Cimmaron.” There was a pause, and then Toby looked up. “Who shall I say is calling?”

When Forrest just stood there, blank, Jack stepped forward and told Toby, “Friends of Miss Amelia. We were just at her house. She told us to come.”

“Friends of Miss Amelia,” Toby repeated. “All right, I'll tell them.” He hung up the phone. “She'll be right down. Please, make yourselves comfortable in the lobby. It will only be a moment.”

“Thank you,” Forrest answered woodenly.

Jack sat on the sofa, feeling as stiff as the tapestry that rubbed against his skin. Forrest, his hands clenched behind his back, wandered from painting to painting, pretending to be interested in the reproductions. Denise and Ashley sat in the chairs, facing Jack. No one spoke. Moments later, a door swung open, and a black woman entered. She was tall and thin, with thick hair pulled back into a bushy ponytail.

She was beautiful. High cheekbones set off large, almond eyes that looked coolly from one face to the next. While Forrest's skin was the color of creamed coffee, Cimmaron's was a dark mocha. Head high, back straight in perfect posture, it seemed as though she were the owner of the Paradise rather than the one who cleaned the rooms. Walking directly to Denise, she said, “Miss Amelia, she sent you?”

“Not me,” Denise replied, pointing to Forrest. “Him.”

Cimmaron turned. If Jack had expected instant recognition, mother to son, he was wrong. Cimmaron, her weight on one leg and her elbow resting on her jutting hip, looked at Forrest. “Well?” she demanded.

“My name is…uh…Forrest.” He said it so quietly that Cimmaron might not have heard. A little louder, he added, “I live in Denver, in the United States.”

“If it's baskets you be wanting, Miss Amelia's are better. Mine are strictly amateur.”

Forrest flinched. “No, I didn't come for baskets. Um—is there somewhere we could go? To talk? What I want to say is—private.”

“Whatever you want to tell me, you can do it here.” Cimmaron looked at Forrest through narrowed eyes.

Toby, who'd been watching from the desk, cleared his throat. “Nobody's around right now, so I think I'll go back and grab a cup of coffee. Will one of you come get me if a guest arrives?”

“I will,” Ashley volunteered, raising her hand.

“Good. I'll be right through those doors there.” With that, Toby disappeared, leaving the five of them alone in the lobby.

After hesitating, Forrest took a step toward Cimmaron. It could have been Jack's imagination, but he thought he saw a clear resemblance between the two. Cimmaron had the same perfect bone structure, the same lean build, the same way of holding her head so that every inch of her height counted. But it was more than just the physical—there was a fire inside them, a nobility, that mirrored flame to flame.

“Who are the others?” Jack knew she meant him and Ashley and Denise.

Without hesitation, Forrest answered, “My friends.”

“You want them here?” Cimmaron's face betrayed no emotion.

“I do. Maybe we should…could we sit down?”

Jack jumped off the couch to offer it to them, but Cimmaron waved him off. “There is no need. I will stand. Why don't you just come out with it and ask me whatever it is you're going to ask me? What has happened—has the cat got your tongue?”

It looked as though Forrest didn't know what to say. For once, words seemed to dry up inside him. Eyes wide, fists jammed against his sides, he stood silent.

Cimmaron's chin tipped toward the ceiling. “Since you're afraid to speak, let me see if I can guess. You're here looking for your birth mother. Am I right?”

His mouth barely moving, Forrest croaked, “Yes.”

“You want to ask me about January 21st, the day you were born. You come all the way from the United States to ask me this. To find your roots. To find your blood.” A beat later, she added, “To find me.”

Forrest's voice sounded strangely flat. “So I was right. You are my—mother.” His shoulders sagged, as if he'd gone soft in the middle.

“I am the one who bore you. Your mother is someone else. Why did you do this to me?” Cimmaron looked almost angry, and Jack's mind flashed to what his sister had said only moments before. Some people didn't want to be found. It looked as if Cimmaron was one of those. “You are not mine, not any longer,” she went on defiantly. “Why stir up the past?”

Forrest squeezed his eyes shut, and Jack wondered if it was to hold back tears. He felt suddenly angry. Why did Cimmaron have to be so cold? There was no need for Forrest to have to stand there as if he were naked in front of them all; there was no purpose in making him squirm. What mother wouldn't want to meet her own child?

“Maybe we should go,” Jack said out loud. When it seemed as though no one heard, he stayed in his seat. One way or another, the scene would have to play out.

“You do this to bring me pain,” Cimmaron said, again defiant. “I have enough pain. You do not need to bring more.”

“No, not for…I needed to…there are many reasons. Why did you give me up?” he asked abruptly.

Now it was Cimmaron who seemed to flag. “I gave you away so you could have a better life. Your parents, they have been good to you?”

Forrest didn't answer.

“They promised me,” she said, her voice tight. “They said they could give you a better life.”

“I have money. I'm educated. But it doesn't change the fact that you—you didn't want me.”

“Child, child, of course I wanted you. But life is hard. We all do what we must do.”

“Is that ‘must' or ‘want'?”

Before she could answer, the door to the lobby opened. An elderly couple came inside, pulling two suitcases as if they were dogs on a leash. The man, dressed in a bright orange shirt, looked around expectantly. The woman fussed behind him about how much he'd tipped the cabbie, until she realized the front desk was empty. “Now look, there's no one here to give us a room. How are we going to check in?”

In a flash, Ashley was on her feet. “Toby just stepped out for a minute. I'll get him for you.”

“Oh, thank you, dear,” the woman clucked.

While Ashley vanished behind the door, Denise went to where Forrest stood and placed a hand gently on his shoulder. “Perhaps it would be better if we moved to another place,” she said quietly. Then, to Cimmaron, “Are you hungry? There's a restaurant where we could go eat, on the street right across from the Park Service. The Songbird. Do you know it?”

“Of course,” Cimmaron said, nodding tersely.

“Then I suggest we continue the conversation there. When you get settled I can run and get the Landons—”

“Who are they?” Cimmaron demanded.

“It's a long story. Forrest can explain. It would be better if we go now. All right?”

Forrest seemed to hold his breath until Cimmaron finally agreed, saying, “But I want to take my own car. I'll meet you there.” With that, Cimmaron turned and walked through the door. She never looked back.

 

The Songbird restaurant had an outside terrace filled with tables that had large green umbrellas. Two sets of stone steps led to the patio, where customers could sit and watch the harbor ships while sipping a cool drink. It was nice, and, Jack realized as he glanced at the menu, expensive. “I'm buying,” Forrest announced, as if he could read Jack's mind. “Order whatever you want.”

“Oh, no, the bill will be too high,” Denise protested as she sank into her chair. “I thought we could just buy a Coke and wait for Cimmaron.”

“Don't worry about cost. I've got plenty of money.”

For some reason, Forrest's remark didn't set Jack's teeth on edge this time. It was just a fact, like saying he had brown eyes. Since Jack was starving, he quickly decided to accept the offer, and he could tell by the way Ashley was studying the menu that she wanted to accept, too. As she glanced at him, Jack gave a quick nod. Ashley wiggled her eyebrows and went back to checking out the food items, smiling happily when she saw the picture of a giant, chocolate malt. When it came to food, Ashley could out-eat almost anyone.

Forrest had seated himself so that he could watch the street, which he did intently. Two open-air taxis puttered by, followed by a tour bus and a silver Mercedes. Throngs of people floated across the terrace below, the way petals floated in the breeze; some laughing, others linked arm in arm. Directly across the street, a wide concrete lot led to the Park Service building. Denise would be able to walk there in two minutes.

The waitress came by once, twice, then a third time to take their orders. Each time Forrest told her no, they were waiting for a fifth member of their party. After the fourth query, he reluctantly ordered. He barely touched his food when it was set in front of him.

By the time the plates were cleared, Forrest no longer watched the street. Instead, he took his straw and stabbed the cherry resting at the bottom of his glass until nothing remained but pulverized fragments. The few times Ashley tried to draw him out were met with stony silence. When Ashley asked if she could order a piece of key lime pie, Forrest only nodded. He seemed fascinated with his glass, running his finger across its rim as if daring it to sing. “She's not coming, is she,” he finally said.

“It must have been a shock for her,” Denise told him gently. “Don't take it too hard.”

“She didn't want me then, and she doesn't want me now. It's obvious.”

“No, that's not it. Cimmaron's got a lot to think about. Give her some space, Forrest.” Glancing at her watch, Denise announced, “It is time now for us to find the Landons. The meeting should be over. Can you take your pie with you, Ashley?”