The Seventh Mother (24 page)

“S
o, what’s the plan?” Lorelei poured coffee into a mug and set it on the table for Emma.

“I’m not sure,” Emma said. “Part of me wants to start looking for Jenny’s grandmother right away, but I’m just so tired.”

She looked tired. Her face was pale, her shoulders slumped, arms folded across her pregnant belly. She looked nothing like the Emma I’d met in Idaho.

“Well, then,” Lorelei said, sitting down at the table, “how about we just have a quiet afternoon? You can always start looking tomorrow.”

Emma smiled at her.

We ate turkey-and-cheese sandwiches with milk.

“Are you feeling any better?” Lorelei asked, watching Emma.

“Actually, yes,” Emma said. “In fact, I’m thinking maybe we should find the house on Layman.”

“My grandmother’s house?”

She nodded. “You said it’s not too far from here?” she asked Lorelei.

“Just a few minutes,” Lorelei said. “Let’s change clothes and I’ll take you.”

Soon we were in Lorelei’s car, driving down windy, shaded streets.

“It looks like a Norman Rockwell painting,” Emma said, gazing out the window.

“Irvington is a great neighborhood,” Lorelei said. “I grew up here. It’s been through some hard times, but it’s making a comeback. I wouldn’t live anywhere else.”

After only a few minutes, she parked the car at the side of the street.

“That’s it,” she said, pointing to a small brick house with a screened front porch. An American flag flew from a pole beside the front door. A huge tree shaded the lawn. A black cat lounged on the walkway. I stared, blinking back tears. This was where my mother had lived, before she met my dad. This was where she’d walked home from school, maybe sat on the front porch reading books, playing in the sprinkler on the front lawn on hot summer days.

“It’s pretty,” Emma said. She turned to look at me. “Are you ready?”

I swallowed, took a deep breath, and nodded.

We got out of the car and stood a minute, just looking at the house. Was my grandmother inside? Would she be glad to see me? Or would she hate me because I was my father’s daughter?

Emma took my hand, and we walked up the driveway to the porch door, Lorelei behind us.

“Here we go,” Emma said, raising her hand and knocking softly on the door.

A dog barked inside, and before I could say, “Maybe we should go,” the door to the house opened and a young woman stepped onto the porch, a toddler on her hip.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“We’re looking for Mrs. Imogene Wright,” Emma said, her voice shaking. “Does she live here?”

“Oh, Imogene.” The woman smiled. “She used to live here. We bought the place from her four years ago.”

My stomach dropped.

“Oh, well . . .” Emma stammered. “Thank you.”

“Do you know where she lives now?” Lorelei asked, her hand on my shoulder.

“She moved into one of those town houses on Johnson,” the woman said. “But you can probably find her at the store. She usually has it open on Sunday afternoons.”

“What store is that?” Lorelei asked.

“Bookmamas,” the lady said. “On Johnson, just around the corner from the Irving Theater.”

“I know where it is,” Lorelei said. “Thanks so much.”

We walked back to the car. I was shaking so hard I thought my legs might just fold underneath me.

“Okay,” Lorelei said firmly. “Bookmamas, let’s go.”

“Do you think we should just show up there?” Emma asked. “If she’s at work, it might be kind of awkward.”

Lorelei laughed. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Bookmamas is pretty laid-back. You’ll love it.”

She drove toward the main street we’d driven down earlier, and I stared out the window at the little shops and restaurants. Then we turned onto a side street and Lorelei parked the car.

“There it is,” she said, pointing to a little storefront in a big brick building. The bicycle rack out front was empty, but the sign read, OPEN.

We walked across the street and Lorelei pushed open the door to the shop. A bell tinkled, announcing our presence. We stood just inside the door, looking around at the shelves of books. The store appeared to be empty.

“Hello!” An older woman appeared from the back of the store, leaning heavily on a cane. “Welcome to Bookmamas. Can I help you find anything?”

“I, um . . . we’re looking for Imogene Wright?” Emma smiled at the woman.

“Well, you found her.” The woman limped forward and smiled back at her. “I’m Imogene. What can I do for you?”

I stood staring at her, this woman who was my grandmother, my mother’s mom.

“My name is Emma, and this is Jenny.” Emma pulled me forward slightly.

“It’s nice to meet you, Jenny.” The woman smiled at me now and held out her hand. “We’ve got some wonderful young adult books just back here.” She turned and limped to a shelf. “Did you have something specific you were looking for?”

“Mrs. Wright,” Emma said. Her voice faltered and she cleared her throat. “My last name is Bohner. My husband is Brannon Bohner.”

The woman turned so fast, she nearly fell. “Brannon Bohner?” she whispered.

“Yes, ma’am.” Emma nodded.

“Do you know Hailey?” she asked. “Where’s Hailey?” She looked past Emma as if she might see her daughter standing there.

“No, ma’am, I’m sorry I don’t know her. Do you want to sit down?”

The woman’s face was white.

“Yes,” she said, pointing to some chairs set in a circle at the back of the store. “Let me just lock up.”

She limped to the front of the store, locked the door, and turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED.

“How can you not know . . .” She paused, removed her glasses, and wiped her eyes, sinking into a chair across from Emma.

“I met Brannon last summer,” Emma said, her voice gentle. “He was working in Idaho at a campground, and I came with him to Kentucky last fall.”

“But where is Hailey?” The woman stared at Emma, her voice shaking.

“Brannon told me that Hailey died several years ago,” Emma said. “I’m very sorry.”

“Oh.” That was all the woman said, just, “Oh.”

She sat for a minute staring straight ahead. I don’t think she even saw us. Then she slumped forward and began crying, low, moaning sobs.

Emma rose and went to sit beside her, wrapping her arm around the woman’s shoulders. They sat like that for several minutes, the old woman crying, Emma rubbing her back.

Finally, the woman raised her head to look Emma right in the face.

“But the baby . . .” she said. “What happened to Hailey’s baby?” “She’s here,” Emma said, pointing at me. “Jenny is Hailey’s daughter.”

The woman made a small, strangled sound as she stared at me.

“Her eyes,” she whispered. “You have her eyes.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I whispered back. “That’s what my daddy told me.”

Everything seemed frozen for a minute. No one moved. No one spoke. I felt sweat begin to bead on my forehead. Would she tell us to leave? Would she hate me because of Daddy?

She rose then, leaning heavily on her cane, and held open her free arm.

Lorelei pushed me slightly, so that I rose, too. I walked to the woman, not sure what to say. But then I didn’t have to say anything. She pulled me to her tightly and began crying again; her cheek rested on my head.

“Jenny,” she whispered. “Jenny . . . I’ve wanted to see you for so long. Oh my God, Jenny. I can’t believe it’s really you.”

I glanced over at Emma. She was smiling and wiping tears from her cheeks.

The woman, my grandmother, stepped back and stared into my face.

“You’re so beautiful,” she said, gazing at me. “How old are you now?”

“I’m eleven.”

“And how old were you when Hailey . . . when your mama . . . died?”

“I think I was three,” I said. “At least, that’s what Daddy told me.”

She looked over her shoulder then, eyes wide.

“Is he here, too?” she asked. “Is your father with you?”

I shook my head.

“We ran away from him,” I said.

“Does he know you’ve come here?”

“No, ma’am.” Emma rose and put her hand on the woman’s arm. “We left while he was at work. He doesn’t know where we are.”

“You’re afraid of him, too?”

“I wasn’t,” Emma said. “But Jenny found some boxes in the attic with a bunch of driver’s licenses from women who’d lived with him before, and then we Googled them and some of them are missing and two of them are dead, so we left. We left right then. We drove to a place with nuns and that’s where I met Lorelei.” She nodded to where Lorelei sat, watching us all. “She brought us here and . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“I know I sound crazy,” Emma said, sighing. “But yeah, I’m afraid of Brannon.”

My grandmother put her arms around Emma then and patted her back.

“You did the right thing, running,” she said. “I told Hailey she should run. I wrote to her and begged her to come home. I told her she could live with me, or with her aunt and uncle. But I never heard back.”

“We found your letter,” I said.

She turned to stare at me.

“She was writing back to you. We found her letter, too. It wasn’t finished.”

She groaned and sank back into her chair, covering her face with her hands.

“Brannon told Jenny that her mother died of the flu,” Emma said. “But we’re not sure if that’s true. We think maybe he killed her, and the other women, too. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Wright.”

The woman sat quiet for a minute, then raised her face. “No Mrs. Wright, dear,” she said. “Everyone around here calls me MommaJean. That’s what my grandkids called me, and it stuck.”

“You have more grandchildren?” Emma asked.

MommaJean nodded. “Six,” she said. “My son, Rudy, has four; my daughter, Lily, has two boys.”

She rose and took my hand. “And now I have seven,” she said, smiling at me.

“Come on,” she said abruptly, walking toward the front door.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Home,” she said. “We’re going home.”

I
mogene lived just up the block from her store in a narrow, three-story brick row house set back from the street. We followed her to the end unit and she opened the door. It hadn’t even been locked.

“Is anyone else at home?” I asked.

“No, it’s just me.”

“But your door wasn’t locked.”

She laughed. “I never lock it. Seems like every time I do, I end up losing the key. We’re safe here; everyone watches out for everyone else.”

I glanced next door before we went inside, and indeed, a face appeared at the window and an old man smiled and waved.

“That’s George,” Imogene said. “He watches out for me.”

The small front room had high ceilings and hardwood floors—and it was cluttered. Books lay in stacks on tables and the couch and the floor.

“Excuse the mess,” she said. “I’m not usually this bad, but with my hip, I can’t do a lot of lifting. I’m going to get a hip replacement one of these days.”

I sat down beside Jenny on the couch. Lorelei moved a stack of books from the wing chair and sat down. Imogene limped into the kitchen.

“Does anyone want a soda?” she asked.

“Let me help you.” Lorelei rose and walked into the kitchen.

I put my arm around Jenny’s shoulders and squeezed.

“So, how are you doing? You okay?”

She nodded. “It’s just kind of weird, you know?”

“Yeah,” I said. “But it will get better.”

Lorelei carried a tray from the kitchen with four glasses. Imogene followed with a bag of cookies. She sat down in a rocking chair, put the bag of cookies on the coffee table, and stared hard at Jenny.

“I can see your mama in your face,” she said. “Not the hair, of course. You must have gotten your father’s hair. But your face and your eyes, my goodness, you look so much like my Hailey.”

“I found a photo album in my dad’s boxes,” Jenny said. “It has lots of pictures of my mother.”

Now it was my turn to stare. I’d heard nothing about a photo album.

“I didn’t tell you,” she said, turning toward me, not meeting my eyes. “I found it the first time I was in the attic, that snow day, remember? I was afraid you’d make me put it back.”

“Do you still have it?” Imogene asked.

“It’s in my suitcase at Lorelei’s house,” she said.

“I’d love to see those pictures. Meantime”—she rose and walked slowly to the steep wooden stairs—“I’ve got some pictures you might like to see, pictures of your mama when she was just your age.”

She climbed the stairs slowly, her cane thumping on each step.

I took a sip of my drink and wrinkled my nose. Diet . . . ugh.

“She seems really nice,” Jenny said quietly.

“Yes, she does.” Lorelei had risen from her chair and was looking at a framed picture on the wall. “She has good taste, too. This is a Monet print.”

I stared at her blankly. I knew nothing about art.

“He was an impressionist,” she said. “He painted a whole series of these water lilies. Isn’t it beautiful?”

We heard the cane thumping down the stairs.

“Can you take these, dear?” Imogene carried a stack of photo albums under one arm. Lorelei took them from her and set them on the coffee table next to the bag of cookies.

I picked up an album and opened it, as Imogene settled onto the couch on Jenny’s other side.

“There,” she said, pointing to a photo of a young blond girl holding up a blue ribbon and grinning. She was standing in front of the house we’d just seen on Layman. “That’s Hailey when she was twelve. She’d won a ribbon at the county fair for one of her paintings. Did you know she painted?”

Jenny nodded. “Daddy has two of her paintings at home. One is of daisies and the other one is a tree in a big field.”

Imogene’s eyes opened wide. She struggled up from the couch and held her hand out to Jenny.

“Come here,” she said. “I have something you’ll want to see.”

I followed them up the stairs, Lorelei behind me. Imogene was panting now. I wondered how she managed those steps every day.

“These stairs will be the death of me yet,” she said. “Usually, I sleep on the couch. But you have to see this.”

We walked into a bedroom and there, hanging above an unmade four-poster bed, was the same tree in the same field, only the leaves on the tree were orange and gold and red.

“That’s just like mine,” Jenny told her. “Except mine’s in the spring.”

Imogene sat down on the bed and wiped her eyes.

“That painting was the last thing I ever had from Hailey,” she said. “After I wrote to her and never heard back, I got worried. I wrote another letter, telling her I was going to drive down there to Cincinnati and get her. Not a week later, I came home from work and found this on my porch, wrapped in brown paper. There was a little card taped to the paper that said, ‘I love you, Mama. And I’m fine.’

“I thought maybe she’d come back then. I mean, she must have been in Indianapolis, right? She left the painting right on my porch. But she never did come home. And she never wrote or called again.”

Jenny sat down beside her on the bed and took her hand.

“At least she said, ‘I love you,’ ” she whispered.

I stood staring at the picture. Brannon had told us he’d sold the other paintings. How had this one ended up with Hailey’s mother? Had Hailey brought it? Or had Brannon?

We walked back downstairs and sat on the couch again, looking at pictures of Hailey and her brother and sister. They looked like a normal, happy family, the kids playing in the yard, sitting at a picnic table in front of a huge watermelon, dressed in their Easter Sunday best and holding pastel baskets with brightly colored eggs.

“Where’s her dad?” Jenny asked.

“Oh,” Imogene said, sighing heavily. “Hailey’s father died when she was six. Henry was his name. He was a good man, a good father. He had the cancer, you know, in his lungs. It nearly broke Hailey’s heart when he died. She was his favorite, his special girl.”

I stared at a picture of fourteen-year-old Hailey, dressed in very short shorts and a cropped top, her belly bare. She was tan and lean and pretty, grinning at the camera. No wonder Brannon had fallen for her.

“Mom?”

A young woman, maybe a few years older than me, stood in the doorway, her arms filled with grocery bags.

“Lily!” Imogene cried out as she stood. “Come here, dear. Come in. You’ll never believe who this is.” She pulled Jenny’s hand until Jenny stood beside her.

Lily looked hard at Jenny, shook her head, and stared again.

“You look like . . .” Her voice trailed away.

“It’s Jenny!” Imogene said. “It’s Hailey’s little girl, Jenny, eleven years old. Can you believe it?”

Lily stood staring.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” Imogene said, frowning slightly. “Come here and say hello to your niece.”

Lily put her grocery bags on the floor and walked slowly toward Jenny.

“You sure do have her eyes,” she said, wrapping her arms around Jenny.

“And this is Emma,” Imogene said.

I rose and held out my hand.

Lily reached for it as Imogene continued, “She’s Jenny’s step-mama.”

Lily’s hand dropped. She glared at me. “Where’s Hailey?” she asked. Her voice sounded like shards of glass.

“I’m so sorry,” I stammered. “Hailey died when Jenny was three.”

Lily looked from me to her mother and ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

“You’ll have to forgive her,” Imogene said, shaking her head. “Lily just idolized Hailey. Hailey was her big sister and . . . well, she took it real hard when Hailey left. Will you excuse me?”

She walked down the stairs yet again. I stared after her, wondering if we’d done the right thing coming here. Lorelei rose and gathered the grocery bags from the floor, then walked downstairs into the kitchen. We heard the refrigerator open and close, then a cabinet.

Jenny and I walked downstairs and sat back down on the couch together.

“I have an aunt?” she said. “And an uncle, too, I guess. My mother had a brother and a sister.”

Lorelei walked back into the room and knelt in front of Jenny.

“You have family, honey—your mother’s family. You don’t know them yet, but you will. And they will love you.”

I sat watching them, my stomach churning. Jenny had a family—a grandmother, an aunt, and apparently an uncle. And cousins. She belonged somewhere . . . somewhere without me.

Then Jenny leaned heavily against my shoulder and I draped my arm around her.

“I already have a family,” she said firmly. “I mean, I want to know MommaJean and Lily and my cousins and . . . and all of them. But, Emma is my family. She’s the one who loves me. She’s the one that matters.”

“Hey.” The voice was soft, small. We looked toward the door where Lily stood, her eyes and cheeks red.

“I’m sorry I was rude,” she said. “I just . . . it’s been so long since we heard from Hailey. I guess I hoped . . . Anyway, I am glad to meet you, Jenny, so glad.”

She put her arms around Jenny again and held her quietly for a long minute. Then she turned to me and extended her hand.

“I’m glad to meet you, too, Emma,” she said.

I ignored her outstretched hand and opened my arms. She hesitated for just an instant, and walked into my arms.

“I’m so sorry to bring you such awful news,” I said. “I wish I could undo what happened.”

She squeezed me hard for a minute and let her arms drop.

“At least you brought Jenny back to us.”