Bittersweet Homecoming (22 page)

“Maybe.”

I had too much time on the airplane to process my trip home. I’m not sure I helped Emily grieve, and I know for a fact that Charlotte would have been better off if I hadn’t been in town. The only thing I had succeeded in doing was breaking up Kambria when there was really nothing wrong with our relationship. It was a little routine and boring, but maybe I was expecting too much.

“You’re being awfully verbose,” Claire observes. “Did Minnesota break you?”

“Just saving all my words for my next play, Boss,” I say.

Claire looks unconvinced, but she knows better than to pressure me to talk when I’m not feeling like sharing. I’ll come to her when I’m ready.

A phone call interrupts our awkward interaction. My phone flashes a number I don’t recognize, but it’s a southern California area code, so it could be work related or totally random. I normally let unknown numbers go to voicemail, but I’m happy for the distraction.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Ms. Henry, this is Daniel Hanson,” the voice on the phone introduces.

It takes me a second to recall how I know that name. “Oh, hey. How are you?”

“I found her.”

My stomach drops at his announcement. “You did?” My voice raises an octave in surprise. Hearing the change in my tone, Claire looks on curiously.

“If it’s convenient, I’d like to meet with you at my office to discuss the details.”

“Yes, yes. That will be fine.” My travel fatigue is momentarily forgotten with this news. “Is right now too soon?”

“That will be fine. See you soon.”

When I hang up, Claire continues to regard me with curiosity. “Who was that?”

“Think you can give me a ride to the Valley?” I ask.

“Why? Running low on porn?”

I ignore her attempt at humor. “No. A few months back, I hired a private investigator. That was him on the phone.” I take a deep breath. “He says he found my mom.”

Hanson Private Investigators is located in a small office at the end of a strip mall in the San Fernando Valley. Daniel Hanson, the man who’s been working on my case for the past few months, sits at a desk in front of me. He’s young, maybe even younger than me, with a medium build and sandy blond hair. Daniel’s the fourth private contractor I’ve hired over the years to find my mom. The first two had come up empty, and honestly I’d given up on the task until Private Eye number three, a woman named Kinsey, had tracked my mom to southern California. A family health emergency had kept Kinsey from following up on her leads, but before leaving, she’d given the case to the man seated across the room from me.

“Can I get you something? Coffee? Water?”

There’s a mini-fridge behind him stacked with bottled waters that I remember from our first meeting. A single-cup coffeemaker—the kind you might find in a hotel—is perched on one of the metal filing cabinets that crowd the room. It’s mid-summer in July and an oscillating fan rotates and splits its time between us.

“No, thank you,” I decline. I’m eager to learn what he’s found, and any distractions or delays are unwanted.

Daniel opens the top drawer of his desk and produces a plain manila envelope. He pushes it across the desk toward me with the tips of his fingers. Inside the envelope are glossy black and white images of a woman going through a daily routine: drinking coffee in a shop by herself, pushing a grocery cart down an aisle, filling her car with gas from a pump. I stop on one image; she’s at a park, playing with a young girl.

“That’s her granddaughter,” Daniel says, noticing what or who has captured my attention.

“She …”

“Remarried,” he supplies. “Has a son. His name is Samuel. The little girl’s name is Emily.”

A cry gets caught in my throat. Is the name a coincidence I wonder?

“Your mother gets coffee at a little place in Bunker Hill on Tuesday mornings. I’d say that’s your best bet to bump into her. I have her home address, but the most successful confrontations usually occur in public.”

I nod my understanding. “How did you find her?”

“Trade secret,” he winks. “Actually, Kinsey did all the real work. I just kind of connected the dots she’d already laid out.”

I clutch the envelope containing the surveillance photos. “Thank you for this.”

He runs his fingers through his hair. “I’d save that Thank You if I were you.”

I give him a puzzled look.

“Yours isn’t the first missing person case I’ve worked on,” he explains. “This doesn’t always end with the happy reunion most people are looking for. Your mom made herself damn near impossible to find. There might have been a reason for that.”

+ + +

The next time Tuesday shows up on my calendar, I find myself taking a cab out to Bunker Hill. The coffee shop that my mother frequents is actually an independent bookstore. I keep my distance and try to observe her without being noticed. She hasn’t seen me since I was five, so there’s probably no chance she’ll recognize me. Without the images the private investigator had given me, I probably wouldn’t have recognized her either. She’s dressed conservatively in a sleeveless blue silk shell with a fashion scarf tied around her neck. She’s a brunette with a few lighter streaks that could be blonde highlights, or they could be grey hair. I can’t tell from this distance. Between hiding from Charlotte at the grocery store or from my mom, I’m getting better at this unobtrusive staring thing, but I’ve got some work to do.

There’s a worn photograph in my hand, not one from the private detective, but one that I’ve kept in my wallet for a dozen years. I run my finger over the deep fold in the center of the image. It’s a picture of my mom and dad. She’s lying in a hospital bed, face sweaty and exhausted looking. My dad sits on the edge of the bed, holding a tiny bundled newborn in his arms—Emily. I’m in the picture, too. I’m two or three with a mouth full of tiny white teeth, hair fashioned into uneven pigtails, courtesy of my dad, no doubt.

My dad had once kept pictures of my mom around the house, but once Emily was old enough to know what they were, she’d thrown them all away, including the picture frames they’d been displayed in, but I’d been able to salvage a few. One of my favorites is of my mom and me on a blue sled. We’re stacked in a row with her seated behind my smaller frame. The picture is tight on our faces, like an original selfie. My cheeks are rosy from the cold weather, and my dark brunette hair is tucked under a knit cap with just the ends of my bangs sticking out across my forehead. I’m probably four or five, not far away from when she left us. I used to wonder, as I stared at that image of a moment from my childhood that I could no longer remember, if she had already known she was going to take off when the picture had been taken.

I’ve thought about this moment for most of my adult life. I haven’t made up my mind up yet if I’m going to approach her today or not. Daniel Hanson commented that she’s a creature of habit, so as long as I continue to live in the area, every Tuesday morning holds the possibility of a reunion. Maybe today will only be surveillance before I’m brave enough to actually talk to her. Maybe we’ll join the same book club and become friends. Maybe someday I’ll tell her who I really am.

I didn’t always want to seek her out, but as I grew older, particularly as I approached and passed the age at which she’d left Grand Marais in search of a different life, I started to wonder about her and what had become of her. I never imagined that she would have remarried and had had new children to replace the two daughters she’d left behind, but I suppose it was naive of me to not consider it a possibility.

I glance once more in her direction. She reads a book, unaware of my stare. I don’t think I can do this. Not yet, at least.

She looks up from her novel to take a sip of her drink, and I immediately avert my eyes and pretend to be browsing the bookshelves. I’m in the children’s literature section, non-fiction. Despite the high-pressure situation, the words on the binding of a slim hardcover book catch my attention. It’s a children’s book about fireflies. I take a moment to flip through its glossy pages, momentarily distracted from the purpose of my stakeout. It’s mostly science and fun facts about the insect. It’s perfect.

I clutch the book in my hands, and as if on autopilot, I bring the book to the cashier at the front of the store. He’s a middle-aged man who’s beginning to go bald.

“Hi,” I greet. I set the book on the countertop. “I’m wondering if I could have this shipped to someone’s house.”

“Sure thing. What’s the address?”

My confidence falters. I have no idea what her house number is, but I know the name of the street. “Amelia Johansson. Two s’s. She lives on Prospect Street in Grand Marais, Minnesota.”

“And what would you like the note to say?”

I see movement in my peripheral vision. The woman whom I’m told is my estranged mother is gathering up her things and getting ready to leave, but I’m mid-transaction.

The man behind the register tries to garner my attention. “Ma’am?”

My mother is pushing in her chair. She buses her own coffee cup and a small ceramic plate, dusted with crumbs.

I whip my head back in his direction. “Sorry?”

“The note,” he repeats. “We typically put a card inside the packaging so the recipient knows who the book is from.”

I realize I’m standing right next to the front entrance. In order to leave the store, my mother will have to walk past me.

“Oh. No note,” I say distractedly. “She’ll know who it’s from.”

I hear someone clear his or her throat. I look in the direction of the sound and see my mother, standing nearby and smiling warmly in my direction. I stop breathing.

“Have a nice day,” she says.

I open my mouth to speak, but the words won’t come out.

“Thanks. You, too, Linda,” the man working the register returns.

The bell above the coffee shop’s entrance jingles, and I watch my mother leave.

“That’ll be twenty-three, sixty two.”

My eyes jerk once again in the direction of the store clerk. I’m going to give myself whiplash. “What?”

The man blinks. “The book. Do you still want it?”

“Oh. Right.” I dig my wallet out of my bag and hand him a credit card. “When will it be delivered?”

“Morning orders go out the very same day, so either tomorrow or the next day.”

“So soon?” I squeak. I start to second-guess the impulse buy even though the man has already run my credit card.

His face scrunches. “Is that a problem?”

“No, that will be fine.” I bite my lower lip. “Do you know the woman who just left?”

“Sure,” he says, finishing up the transaction. “She’s in here a couple of times a month. Always gets a coffee and an apple tart.”

“Does she usually come in on Tuesdays?”

“I guess I’ve never noticed. Why?”

“Oh, n-no reason.”

The man regards me for a long, silent moment. I can’t blame him. Between my bumbling about the book and asking questions about one of his regular customers, I’m sure my behavior has raised several red flags. I leave the coffee shop without further incident and return to my apartment. It’s one of those days I wish I could start over. With no proper office to go to and no meetings or conference calls to attend, I relish the opportunity to go back to sleep.

Hours later, I’m awoken by the sound of plastic blinds being yanked open, and I’m assaulted by late afternoon sunshine. I hold my hand over my brow to shield my light-sensitive eyes from the blinding sun.

“What the fuck, dude?” I groan into the light.

“Change your locks if you don’t like me barging in.”

“Consider it done.”

“Please, girl,” Anthony scoffs. “You should consider yourself lucky.”

“Why?” I would call myself a lot of things based on the events of the past few days, but “lucky” is not one of them.

“Because you got me in the divorce, obviously.”

“You don’t have to do that, Anthony,” I say with a frown. “Why can’t you still be friends with both of us?”

“I don’t know if I should even be telling you this, but I spotted Kambria at Club Charlie last night getting friendly with a red-headed glamazon. Didn’t take her long to move on,” he sniffs archly.

“Everyone deals with breakups in their own way.” I’ve got no moral legs to stand on. I can’t even muster a crumb of indignation.

“Well, whatever. I can’t stand anyone who looks better than I do in a dress. I only became friends with you two because you averaged the couple out. “

“I’ll pretend that wasn’t a veiled insult,” I deadpan.

“Your apartment is disgusting, by the way,” he remarks.

“It’s really nice of you to stop by, Anthony. You should do it more often.”

Since returning to Los Angeles, my diet has been a lethal combination of delivery food and fruit rollups. My bed is littered with plastic wrappers and my floors are a blanket of pizza and Chinese delivery boxes. It’s starting to look a little like that garbage island the size of Texas that floats around the ocean, but I don’t have the energy or desire to clean it up.

Anthony perches a hand on one hip. “Sorry if I’m just a little concerned about my good friend.” His face doesn’t look like he’s sorry at all. “Are you planning on sleeping your life away? When’s the last time you got any sun? You’re looking pale, even for you.”

“It’s too hot for sun,” I complain, flopping my head back onto my pillow. “And don’t give me that nonsense about it being a dry heat. One hundred degrees is still one hundred degrees.”

“If you don’t like the heat, you’re living in the wrong part of the country.”

“Well maybe I’ll move,” I stubbornly threaten.

“To where? Back to Minnesota?” he clucks.

“It wouldn’t be so bad,” I defend.

“Oh honey, I know it’s bad if you’re actually considering going back to the farm.”

“I didn’t grow up on a farm,” I huff. “I keep telling you it’s northern Minnesota, not Iowa or Wisconsin.”

He arches a painstakingly manicured eyebrow. “Is there really a difference? And what is this?”

Before I realize what’s going on, Anthony snatches my notebook off of the ground. I’m surprised he could even see it underneath the dirty tissues and food wrappers.