I'll Let You Go (37 page)

The
Scream
man talks about the film he's going to make “about a
place like Mac,” starring Boulder and the Flying Nun, but Amaryllis doesn't hear a word: her heart pounds away as she gathers the nerve to approach her after the talk. She plays out the encounter in her head, wondering if Boulder will remember her. She was just reading about her in a magazine at the cottage—the “What's in Your Makeup Bag?” column of
Twist
, where they asked Ms. Langon that very thing. Now she stares at Boulder's Prada purse to calm herself, trying to recall the starlet's exact response, forcing herself to do a real-time inventory, neuro-perceptually retraining her brain to organize data:
a Power Bar and my StarTAC
, she said,
and lots of sunscreen
…—
lots of lipsticks …—
yes! that's right. There were lipsticks and lotions that Boulder called “Mac” (for MacLaren?) …

They wanted to know when the movie would be made and if they were going to use any kids from the center. They wanted to know when he was going to make another
Scream
. They asked Boulder about
T'morrow
, her show on The WB. They asked how much money she made and where she went to school and if she had a boyfriend—everyone laughed when a cracked voice called out, “Do you want one?” Boulder said she was waiting to find a soul mate (the same thing she said in the article Amaryllis read in
All About You!
), which elicited more hoots, whistles and offers, quickly suppressed by staff. The last thing she said, with almost rehearsed gravitas, was that her “prime aspiration” was to attend a place called Yale just like her friend Claire Danes, whom she recently had the privilege of meeting at an “affiliates” luncheon at the Ritz-Carlton in Pasadena.

The
Scream
man brought some CDs and signed glossies, and the boys scrambled for them while most of the girls went over to Boulder, who signed T-shirts, forearms and scraps of paper with her name. The Flying Nun stood off to the side with the fawning staff. Amaryllis thought her best chance was to wait by the door. She stood there patiently, imagining the encounter again, but just when it looked like Boulder was about to leave, a staffer came up to Dézhiree, who then told Amaryllis she had a visitor.

“Who?”

“A
visitor
,” she slyly remonstrated.

It had to be Lani, with news of the babies.

W
hen she returned to the cottage, Amaryllis was met by a Mac psychologist.

As they walked, she cheerfully engaged the girl in pleasantries, or at least tried to, before arriving at a far-corner office of the main building's second floor.

Instead of Lani, there stood a man in a brown shirt and thick brown tie. He reintroduced himself as Samson Dowling, the “public servant” who had picked her up at “the Hotel Higgins.” He remarked on how pretty she looked.

“Are they taking care of you?” he bantered, with a wink to the therapist, not really expecting an answer. Amaryllis shrugged diffidently. She wanted to know if he was a policeman, and he said
kind
of—a detective. He said detectives helped find people. He asked if she really remembered him; the foundling nodded tenuously.

“That's OK,” he said. “You weren't in the greatest shape. You've been through an awful lot.” He said it was nice to see her looking so much healthier and what a sick little puppy she had been. Then he crinkled his eyes and asked if they could talk about her “friend.”

“Lani?”

“Not Lani,” he said, smiling. “The
big
fellow. Do you remember me asking about him before? Well, he's a friend of yours, at least I
think
he is, and I wanted to ask a few questions about him. Do you think that would be OK?” She nodded. “Can you tell me his name? He's a pretty unforgettable fellow from how I've heard him described! Big beard,
very
strong. Wears ‘interesting-looking' suits; probably a better dresser than I am.” He winked at the psychologist again. “Can you remember his name, Amaryllis?”

“Topsy …”

“Yes! That's right. Was Topsy a nice man?” She nodded. “You got along OK?” Another nod. “I'm going to ask you to remember a few more things, OK? Is that OK, Amaryllis? When you left your mom at the rooming house—remember how they chased after you? That must have been pretty scary, huh. When you left your mom, where did you go?”

“I don't know.”

“Did you wander around awhile? You were probably frightened, and a little hungry. Did you go see Topsy?”

“He found me.”

“He found you? Where?”

“The building.”

“Which building? The place where we met? The empty building down the street from the St. George?” She nodded. “OK, good. Thank you for helping me answer some of these questions—that's a big help. Because I'm an older guy, and this way I don't have to run around so much. Now, after Topsy found you, what did you do? Did you talk? Did you have a little supper?—”

“We went to sleep.”

Detective and psychologist exchanged glances. “You went to sleep. OK. You were tired. You were
both
probably tired. Now, I want you to be truthful with me, Amaryllis, because I'll always be truthful with
you
. OK? Fair enough. Someone saw you—you and your friend Topsy—someone saw the two of you leave that building
very
late at night. Do you remember that?” She nodded, staring at the floor. “The person who saw you and your friend said Topsy was carrying you. Was he carrying you against your will?”

Amaryllis thought he was asking
how
she was being carried; the therapist saw her confusion and intervened. “What the detective means,” she said, “is did you
not want to go with him
. Did your friend
make
you—”

She shook her head vigorously, still staring groundward. A finger was now in her mouth, and she chewed it.

“Why was he carrying you, Amaryllis?” asked the detective.

“Because I was sleeping.”

“Because you were sleeping. I see. OK. And where did Topsy take you?” She said nothing. “Did he take you to the bakery? Where Gilles works?” She nodded. “Did he say
why
he was taking you there?”

“He said it would be ‘no good with him.' That Gilles was his friend. He said Gilles would do ‘right well' by me.”

“Did he mean that Gilles would take care of you?”

“He said not to say he brought me there.” She looked up, her face filled with worry. “Is Topsy in trouble?”

“He
may
be,” said the detective. “Would you like to help him? You would, wouldn't you. Well, he's missing and we'd like to talk to him—Gilles and Lani want to help him, too.
Everyone
wants to help him. How long did the two of you know each other?”

“Not very long.”

“A month or two?” She shrugged her shoulders. “Did your mom
know him? Did he ever come see you or your mom at the motel?” She shook her head. “You said you found your mother in bed—”

Her lip began to quiver. The psychologist put a hand on the girl's shoulder. “It's all right, Amaryllis. There's nothing to be afraid of.”

“Absolutely,” said the detective. “I know how hard this has been. But no one's going to hurt you now, so you should just tell the truth—your friend Topsy's life may depend on it. OK? Can we go a little longer? Do you need a tissue? Let's get you a tissue.” The woman handed her some Kleenex and she blew her nose.

“Amaryllis … did he do things for you? He did things for you, no? He was a good friend? He brought you food? Food from the bakery?” She nodded. “Did he ever bring your mother food?”

“No.”

“But he—”

“He gave me food for my brother and sister.”

“That was very nice of him. Very nice. Did he ever meet them?”

“No. He gave it to me and I gave it to them.”

“Did he ever bring food to the motel? To the St. George?”

She shook her head. “He gave it to me.”

“Where?”

“Under the bridge.”

“Where he was living? Did you ever stay with him there? I mean, stay overnight? Did he ever take you anywhere?”

The psychologist chirped in: “Did he take you to the movies?”

“Lotsa great movie palaces downtown,” said the detective unctuously. “Historic.”

“And he never touched you, Amaryllis”—asked the psychologist—“in a way that made you feel funny? You know, that uncomfortable feeling we get in our stomachs when something isn't quite right? Sometimes when people are sick or lonely they do things like that and it makes your tummy upset—even if they don't know or mean what they're doing. Even if they're your friend. And it's not your fault, Amaryllis,” she said, grinning like a moron. “It wouldn't be your fault.”

“Is Topsy sick?” she asked.

“Well, we're not sure,” said the detective. “That's why we want to talk to him. Now, he said not to tell anyone about leaving you at the bakery. Was there anything else he ever told you not to tell? About
any
of the
things you did together? Even the good things? Did he share secrets with you, like a good friend would? Did he ever tell you he did something bad to anyone? That he hurt someone, even by mistake?”

“It's OK to tell, sweetheart. Otherwise, we won't be able to help your friend.”

Amaryllis burst into tears, and the psychologist looked into Samson's eyes, signaling the meeting should end.

“Thank you, sweetheart. You've been very helpful. I didn't mean to make you cry! Amaryllis—that's a beautiful name, do you know that? Did your mother give you that name? That's a beautiful flower. A Christmas flower.”

He reached into a briefcase and pulled out a stiff plastic envelope. He held it out to her; encased within was a deep-blue handkerchief speckled with gold scallop'd teardrops. “Have you ever seen this before?” he asked.

She cautiously nodded.

“Where?”

“It's Topsy's.”

“Something he wore?”

“Around his neck.”

“Did he give it to your mother?”

“I don't know.”

Her jaw clenched and she stared at her shoes. He was losing her again.

“Know what they call it? An ‘ascot.' I'd like to return it to him.” He stood up, then bent to kiss her cheek. “Keep getting stronger, now—you're doin' great. Isn't she?”

“She sure is.”

“Not mad at me, are you? Can I have a smile?”

Amaryllis eked one out.

“Mr. Dowling has something else to tell you,” said the psychologist.

“I sure do. Saffron and Cody are coming to see you.”

She looked at him, dumbfounded.

“We were able to locate them, and they're on their way.”

“From what I understand,” said the psychologist, “they should be here either tonight or tomorrow morning.”

C
ome they did, later that evening. The woman at the foster home where they'd been placed soon after their departure from the St. George could no longer take care of them. That's all that was said.

As curious as we are to observe the intimacies of the reunited, time and good taste have their limits. We shall leave them alone, for their moments together are precious and deserve exile from prying eyes. Briefly, it may be said that upon first seeing Amaryllis, the young babies, three and five years of age, were stunned and insensate, clasping each other in an odd pantomime of displaced, abject fear; then, spoken to in a persistent, cooing, complex language of animal sounds and shared remembrances, they slowly came around until the trio were overwrought to an ecstasy of desperation, Amaryllis coating them with kisses the way a mother licks her cubs clean. Even the stoic, efficient Dézhiree came undone. So let them be: allow the small, improvised party at the cottage—donated cupcakes, candles and bears all around—to proceed behind closed doors.