The Truth is in the Wine (18 page)

“Ginger, I am sorry; I really didn't mean it that way,” Brenda said. “You're that child's mother and you've been a great mother, too. That's why she's such a fine young lady, because of you and Paul. I'm sorry. I was not trying to disrespect you. Why would I?”

“Well, thank you for saying that, Miss Wall. I am very sensitive around this subject. That girl feels like she came out of my stomach,” Ginger said.

“And that's why we don't have to tell her about her biological parents,” Paul said. “She's as much a part of you as if she came out of you.”

“But that's not right,” Madeline said. “She should know where she comes from. She should understand her history.”

“That's right, Mother,” Ginger contributed.

“But even if that history is not going to make her feel good?” Brenda said.

“It's not a pretty history,” Paul said, “and I don't want my baby thinking anything less of herself because of the sperm donors' horrible lives.”

The divide and animosity was palpable: mother and son felt one way; daughter and mother felt another. And as sweet and wonderful as it felt at the restaurant, it was that sour and antagonistic at the winery.

They sat at the table in the tasting room, which had all but emptied, and had a knockdown drag-out. Paul and Brenda's position was based on the knowledge that the natural parents of Helena were criminals who would not see freedom for another five years. The mother, in fact, gave birth with one arm hand-cuffed to a hospital bed.

A week from delivering a child, she and her co-criminal boyfriend robbed a gas station convenience store and were caught after an extended high-speed chase. They shot the worker, although he gave up the money without hesitation. The pregnant mother was the driver of the getaway car police followed for miles through Atlanta traffic before finally being cornered, ironically enough, on Freedom Parkway.

There was a shootout for several minutes or until they ran out of bullets. It was then that they surrendered. Had the television cameras not been present, they likely would have gotten shot, despite giving up.

Two days later, Helena was born—in the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary hospital. The mother got a day to recover and was back in her cell where she faced multiple counts of armed robbery, attempted murder of a police officer (because of a shootout with authorities) and possession of an unregistered gun and stolen goods, among other charges.

The father was in prison on the same charges when the baby
was born. They were a criminal team that worked in tandem wreaking havoc for years, robbing people, assaulting people and generally being a menace to society.

They both expressed no interest in even seeing the baby. And because their families' lives were just as troubled, there was no one to turn the baby over to if they wanted; no one who could do the child good, that is. Even in their psychosis of committing crimes, they understood the best option for the child was to put her up for adoption.

“Take it out of me and give it a chance to do some good,” the woman said before going into labor. “I don't deserve nobody to call me ‘Momma.' What can I do for a baby? If I wasn't going to jail, what can I teach a child? How to be a criminal? That's what happened to me. I might have messed up my life, but I ain't trying to create another me. I know enough to recognize that's wrong.”

“And you want me to tell my daughter that's where she comes from?” Paul said. “That's not fair to her. It would be one thing if they said, ‘Let me at least see the baby. Let me hold her.' They said the opposite. So if they don't want to know the baby at all, why should we put her in that crazy world that they come from? It could make her look at herself in some kind of crazy way. I think she's fragile enough to be affected by it.”

Ginger saw it differently. “That's so wrong, Paul,” she said. “We all should know where we come from. And although we raised her from her first days on this earth, she has natural parents that she should know about. And knowing about them shouldn't break her or make her look at herself in some strange way; we raised her to be strong and independent.

“It would be very selfish to prevent her from knowing this truth, Paul. That's not how it should be.”

“And,” Madeline contributed, “I was a nurse for thirty years.
The fact that you all do not know her family's health history is not good. So many health issues and conditions are handed down through bloodlines. Heart disease. Diabetes. You just don't know. And even mental health issues. If her parents were both doing criminal things, there could be a gene that triggers such behavior. All this is very important.”

“Haven't you all been on top of her visiting the doctor and taking all sorts of tests?” Brenda asked. “You've done your part. You think you're going to get the information you need from that family about family history? It's as dysfunctional as it gets. I don't have to tell you this. You did the research. You knew from the beginning that they would be in prison and they wouldn't be the kind of people you'd want Helena associated with. So why now, when she's in college and her life is great? All it's going to do is upset her. No good will come out of it.”

They had asked for a bottle of Cab while Paul was in the bathroom, and it arrived just before Ginger was to add to her argument. The server wanted to pour the wine, but Paul told her, “I got it. Thanks,” so she went on and they went on.

“Nothing bad will come out of it, either,” Ginger said. “I…”

She went silent. “I don't feel so good; a little queasy,” she said.

“No more wine for you for a while,” Paul said, handing her a glass of water.

“You OK, Ginger?” her mom asked.

After a few sips of water, she sat back in her seat.

“This argument is making me sick,” she said. “Paul, Miss Wall, what if Helena finds out about her parents from some other source? What if they are rehabilitated while in prison and in a few years—they are eligible to be released in five years—and they decide they want to at least meet the child they created? And they find us and approach Helena. You've seen the movies and how that turns out; it's ugly.

“I have never seen or even heard of a case where a kid is not upset when he finds out that his parents did not tell him about his birth parents. There is a natural interest to know where you come from, whether it's good or bad.”

“I don't know about that,” Paul said. “I wouldn't want to know that my parents were criminals. That wouldn't make me feel good.”

“But would it make you feel good,” Madeline interjected, “to learn that your parents who raised you made a decision to be dishonest with you about something really important?”

“Well, who says she has to know?” Brenda jumped in. “Who's going to tell her?”

“Brenda, that's not the right approach,” Madeline said. “We can't have something like this hanging over her, over the families.”

“It's been like this for eighteen years and I don't feel bothered by it,” Paul said. “And Helena is living her life, having a great time. It's not hanging over her, either.”

Paul sipped his wine and it began to settle in. He felt a little lightheaded, which intensified his emotions.

Ginger stared at her husband from across the table. It was not an angry or a comforting look. It was as if she could see what was in his heart.

“You're scared,” she said to Paul, who swirled his wine as if he did not hear Ginger. “Look at me, Paul. You're scared.”

“Scared?” Paul said, looking confused. “Scared of what?”

“Scared that your baby will look at you differently,” Ginger said.

Paul just looked at her.

“Paul, honey, don't you know nothing could change who you are to her?” Ginger said. “You are the apple of her eye, and vice-versa. She's a daddy's girl. You're a girl's daddy. No one comes before you.”

Paul's eyes began to water. Alcohol increased his emotions.

“You took her to her doctor's appointments when she was a baby,” Ginger went on. “You taught her how to ride a bike and how to drive a car and everything in between: basketball, golf and cards and even how to get what she wanted out of me.

“When I dropped her off at college, we both cried in the room. I said, ‘Why are you crying?' She said, ‘'Cause I miss Daddy already.' You and I have had our issues, yes. But that is your daughter. She loves you more than anyone in the world. You've got to know that.”

Tears rolled down Paul's face, and he did not even bother to wipe them.

Brenda put her arm around her son. “Is that it, Vino?” she said in a comforting voice. “Is that what you think? Oh, no, son. You can't lose that girl. You're everything to her.”

She treated him as if he were a three-year-old, wiping his face clear of tears. He just shook his head.

“It's OK,” Brenda said.

“I just… We just put so much of ourselves into her,” Paul said. “I don't want anything to take away from that.”

“But nothing can, Paul,” Brenda said. “Because we've put so much into her we must be honest with her on this. Remember when she was a tiny baby and we sat in the living room, on the couch, and you held her in your arms and you looked at me and said, ‘She deserves us and we deserve this little angel.' ”

“I do remember that,” Paul said. “I'm shocked you remember it. That was eighteen years ago.”

“I remember it because it was important,” Ginger said. “You said she deserves us because you knew we would never let her down and teach her and mold her and protect her and be there for her. She deserved that. Well, she also deserves to know about her parents. To not tell her would not be protecting her. It would be letting her down.”

And those were the words that turned Paul—and his mother. The idea of letting down Helena did not compute with him. It was not an option. He lavished her with love and attention—and all the latest technological gadgets, too—but mostly with love. The fact that he considered breaking up his family spoke to how jumbled his mind and self-esteem were at the time.

“You're right,” Paul said. “It would be letting her down—and not believing in the bond we have—to keep it from her. So, how do we tell her something so delicate? When do we do it?”

“Should have already been done,” Madeline said. “I thought four years ago, when she went to high school was the time. But…”

“Well, we can't go back in time,” Brenda said.

“She's coming home for Christmas,” Paul said. “That gives us about a month to figure out how to tell her.”

“Drink plenty of wine,” Brenda said. “It will help the truth come out.”

They laughed, finally, and lifted their glasses.

“To Helena,” Paul said. “My daughter.
Our
daughter.” And they tapped glasses and drank of the wine.

B
ecause Madeline and Brenda were afraid to drink more, considering how the previous night ended, and with Ginger complaining of a queasy stomach and lightheadedness, the group decided to go back to the hotel after the discussion.

“How about I order some appetizers and we sit by the pool and relax?” Paul suggested. “There is still some sunlight left in the day.”

Ginger pulled Paul aside. “So you just insist on spending all your money?” she said.

“No, that's not it,” Paul answered. “I want to maximize this trip, this place. It's beautiful out here.”

“Don't you think maybe we should talk some more about Helena?”

“OK,” Paul said. “I thought we were done. Can we do it out here? It's a nice day to sit outside and talk.”

“Fine,” Ginger said.

Madeline and Brenda told their children they would connect with them for dinner. “This was a really nice day, Paul,” Madeline said. “I enjoyed all of it.”

“Me, too,” Brenda interjected. “Looking forward to a nice dinner—after I get a nap. Between last night and the wine tasting, I need to rejuvenate.”

And off they went. Paul grabbed Ginger's hand and led her to the pool area, where he ordered a glass of Viognier. Ginger passed.

“The truth of the matter is I have something that needs to be said,” she started. “I don't know if it's the wine or if it's my conscience. It's probably more the wine because I haven't felt the need to say this when I'm totally sober.”

She looked around to see if anyone was near; they were the only guests by the rectangular-shaped pool. The sun was brilliant, so much so that Ginger dug through her purse to pull out a pair of sunglasses. She had Paul's in there, too, and handed him his.

“What's wrong, Gin?” Paul wanted to know. “It's OK. I agree with you and your mother. Let's tell Heather about her natural parents. I'm OK with it.”

“I'm glad you are,” she said. “But that's not it. Well, that's not totally it. Talking about it today, telling you that she deserved to know it and that we owed her the truth, made me realized I owe you the truth, too.”

Paul's thoughts were all over the place. Was she speaking of his firing because of the sexual harassment complaint? Had that woman contacted her? He met a woman at Whole Foods one day, got her phone number but never called when the woman indicated she worked at the same building as Ginger. Could she have said something to his wife? Did she know about him winning the lottery?
How could she
, he thought. He only told Big Al, and he knew Big Al was as trustworthy as could be.

He pondered all those possibilities as quickly as he could to come up with an answer that might minimize the presumed trouble he was in. But Ginger wanted to speak of something else.

“I must preface this by saying that there was a period several months ago where we were over in my mind,” she began. “And if the wine didn't have me buzzing, I probably wouldn't even say
anything now. Anyway, you told me you wanted a divorce and that you didn't want me anymore. And—”