Her Mother's Shadow (25 page)

M
ackenzie could not possibly be his daughter. If Bobby had had any doubts, they were erased now as she sat in the sunroom with him, trying to draw a picture of a dog from a photograph in a magazine. Artistic talent ran in his family as surely as alcoholism did, and this child had absolutely none.

She'd wanted an art lesson, and he loved that she'd asked him to give her one. But her dog looked more like a rabbit. It was hard for him not to laugh. She was only eleven. Maybe he'd been as clumsy with a pencil at that age, but he didn't think so.

“I'm not too good at this,” she said sullenly. She sat at the other worktable in the sunroom, which he had carefully cleared of the glass Lacey was cutting for her work in progress. Mackenzie's stubby nails were painted an almost nauseating fuchsia, and at her request, he had added a small, delicate sunflower to the nail of her ring finger. Every few minutes he'd catch her lifting her hand to admire his artwork.

“I think you're trying too hard,” he said, looking up from the scrimshaw belt buckle. He was using a fine blade to cut
fur lines onto one of the dogs in the illustration, a task that would have been impossible without the sunlight that filled the room. The light came with a price, though: heat. He'd opened all the windows, but the thick, clammy air worked its way into every corner of the room, putting waves of dampness into Mackenzie's drawing paper. “Loosen up a little,” he said to her. “You don't need all the details. Start with just getting the basic shape down.”

She shook her head, leaning away from the table. “I think I'm giving up,” she said.

He smiled. “You can't be good at everything.” He ran a hand over his scalp, a habit he'd developed when he'd had hair to run his fingers through. It still surprised him sometimes to feel nothing there. “Look at how much skill you have with animals,” he said. “With dogs. They love you. Clay said you could be a trainer yourself someday.” He hadn't seen much of Clay and Gina since his arrival in the Outer Banks; dinner the night before had been the first quality time he'd spent with them. Clay had looked familiar to him. Bobby couldn't recall meeting him during the summer of '91, but perhaps he had. He was grateful for the way Clay had taken Mackenzie under his wing.

“I'd like to be a vet,” Mackenzie said, holding her ring finger up to study the sunflower. “Clay's father is a vet.”

And so is Lacey's,
he thought. He knew how much it bothered Lacey that Mackenzie simply would not connect with her, and he felt sorry for her. The harder Lacey tried, the more she failed.

“He's Lacey's father, too,” he said. “Maybe she could take you to his office for a visit sometime.”

Mackenzie shrugged, tapping her fuchsia fingertips on the photograph of the dog.

“I could see you as a vet,” he said, not wanting to lose the momentum of the conversation. “How are you in math?”

“Pretty good,” she said. “I'm even better in science.” Then she let out a great, dramatic groan and flopped her head and arms down on the worktable. “I can't
believe
I have to start school in three weeks. August eighteenth! That is so crazy. In Phoenix I wouldn't have to start until after Labor Day.”

He set down the blade he was using. It was always dangerous to try to make exacting cuts in the ivory when he could not give it his full concentration. “Are you scared about going to a new school?” he asked.

“No. Just pissed.”

Of course she was scared. Who wouldn't be?

“The kids around here are really nice,” he said.

“How would you know? You're not from here, either.”

“But that's just the way it is here,” he said. “People are friendly.”

“All the kids are going to know each other, though.”

“I bet there'll be other new kids.” He swiveled his chair to face her directly. “People move here all the time. And even if you're the only one, you'll fit in fine. Just one warning.”

She looked a bit alarmed. “What?”

“You have to stop saying ‘in Phoenix this' and ‘in Phoenix that.' It drives people crazy and they'll talk about you behind your back.”

“I can't help it if Phoenix is so much better than this place.”

“When I was a kid,” Bobby said, “my family moved from Norfolk to Richmond, and I fell into that trap. I was always saying, ‘in Norfolk our school was newer,' ‘in Norfolk we had pizza in the cafeteria,' and pretty soon people starting answering me with ‘so go back to Norfolk then.'”

Mackenzie laughed. “Okay,” she said. “I'll try not to say it.”

“Bite your tongue when the word ‘Phoenix' comes into your mind.”

“Okay.”

He heard the back screen door slam shut and knew that Lacey was home. So did Mackenzie, apparently, because she suddenly became engrossed in the drawing of the dog once again.

Lacey walked into the sunroom, instantly filling the room with her presence, at least in his mind if not in Mackenzie's. Her hair was pulled back by a black scrunchie and her fair, freckled skin glistened from the heat. She had on a long, light blue wraparound skirt that hugged her hips and a cropped navy blue top that suggested, but did not flaunt, the curve of her breasts. Since the moment he'd arrived in Kiss River, he'd wanted to kiss her, to take off whatever clothing she had on and make love to her. He wanted to undo the sloppy way he'd taken her virginity from her. It would be so much better now, when his desire for her body was both tamed and heightened by his affection for her. He liked her gentle way with people, he admired her artistic talent and the sympathy he felt over her struggle with Mackenzie ran deep.

“Hi, you two,” Lacey said. “How's the art lesson going?”

“Great,” Bobby said quickly before Mackenzie could deny it. She was leaning over her drawing, moving her pencil around on the page as though she were focussing on the work. “I hope you don't mind that we appropriated your table.”

“No problem at all.” Lacey looked at Mackenzie. “Can I see what you're working on?” she asked.

Mackenzie answered her by turning her drawing face-side down on the table. “I think Bobby should live here instead of at Rick's,” she said out of the blue. “He's here all the time, anyway.”

He was both surprised and touched by the suggestion. “I
have a perfectly good room at Rick's,” he said. It would be harder for him to see Elise if he lived in the keeper's house, yet the idea was seductive.

“Actually, I've been thinking about that.” Lacey leaned against the wall and folded her arms across her chest. “It really would make sense for you to be here,” she said to him. “Your work is here. Mackenzie's here. We have a big pot of coffee brewing every morning.” She smiled, as if that would be the one enticement sure to win him over. “Why don't you consider it?”

“I'd love it,” he said, forgetting about Elise for the moment. He liked the idea of being closer to Mackenzie. And, if he was being honest with himself, he liked the idea of being closer to Lacey, as well. “How soon can I move in?”

F
aye lay nestled in Jim's arms. He'd been in a wonderful, generous mood tonight, and the lovemaking had been so tender it had made her cry. Now she felt content. Her body was heavy from the warmth of the hot tub and there was an undeniable bliss inside her she had never expected to feel. In her chronic pain program, one of the tenets she emphasized was that peace and happiness could only be found inside oneself, that perfect health or a million dollars or another person could never have the power to make someone happy or unhappy. She was beginning to wonder if her theory might be wrong about the “other person” part of that equation. Having someone special in your life certainly didn't hurt.

She felt Jim press his lips to her temple. “I know something you don't know,” he said, sounding like a little boy with a secret.

The childish taunt intrigued her. “What?” she asked.

“Can't tell.”

Gently, she pounded her fist against his chest. “That is so mean of you.”

“Yes, you're right. But I'm still not going to tell you.”

“Well,” she said, “can I assume it's something good?”

“You can assume anything you like.”

“When will you tell me?”

“Tomorrow.”

“First thing in the morning?”

“I don't think so.” If she were not in love with him, she would be getting angry. Instead, she laughed.

“
When
then?” she asked.

“I'm not sure.”

“Jim!”

He laughed. “I really am sorry. I shouldn't have said anything.”

She wanted to press him for more information, but he stopped her questioning with a kiss.

 

The following morning, she was sitting in on a pain management class, evaluating the young nurse who was teaching it, when Judy poked her head in the door and motioned for her to come into the hallway. Quietly, Faye left the classroom.

“You have a call,” Judy said.

“It couldn't wait?” Faye was surprised that Judy would drag her out of the classroom, since the physical therapist certainly knew how critical a thorough evaluation could be for the nurse's advancement.

“They said it was important,” Judy said. “Sorry.”

Faye walked down the hallway to her office and lifted the phone from her desk. “Faye Collier.” She hoped her annoyance wasn't evident in her voice.

“Hello, Ms. Collier,” a woman said. “My name is Sharon Casey and I'm president of the San Diego County Nurses Association.”

The woman's name was familiar. “Yes,” she said, “I recognize your name. What can I do for you?”

“Not a thing,” the woman said. “I'm calling to tell you that you are the recipient of the Nurse of the Year award for San Diego County.”

Faye was quiet as the news sank in. “I am?” she asked, incredulous.

“Many doctors and several nurses submitted your name for your work with chronic pain. I've read your new book. It's rare to read something that can speak to both the professional and the lay person so beautifully. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” She lowered herself to the chair behind her desk, smiling now. “I don't know what to say. I'm just amazed and…and thrilled.” She knew this had to be what Jim had teased her about the night before. Somehow, he'd been privy to the information.

“We'll be presenting your award along with others at the annual awards ceremony in September, so mark the twentieth on your calendar.”

“I will,” she said. “Thank you so much for letting me know.”

She paged Jim the minute she hung up the phone, and he called her back almost instantly.

“How did you know?” she said, without even saying hello.

Jim laughed. “I'm a longtime friend of Sharon Casey's, and she knows I'm seeing you and couldn't stop herself from spilling the beans.”

“You didn't influence the outcome, though, I hope.” For a moment she felt the wind leave her sails.

“Honey,” Jim said, “you've earned this all on your own.”

She spent that night at his house. They'd both had to work late, but Jim had still been determined to take her out for a
celebratory dinner, and now the lobster she'd devoured far too close to bedtime rested heavily in her stomach. Unable to sleep, she got up and put on her robe. She walked through the house and out the sliding glass door, skirting the pool and hot tub, until she reached the bench overlooking the city. The night was clear and cool, and La Jolla was a blanket of twinkling lights below her.

Nurse of the year. It was still so hard to believe.

“Hey.”

She turned to see Jim walking toward her in his satin robe, and she smiled at him. “Hi,” she said.

“Too excited to sleep?” He sat next to her on the bench, putting his arm around her.

She rested her head on his shoulder. “I used to live in a trailer park,” she said. “I never told you that. It was too embarrassing. I lived there when I was married to Zach. I lived in a trailer park, and I had a husband who murdered someone, and I got fired from my job as a school nurse because I was such a mess I couldn't concentrate, and my son essentially divorced me as his mother.” She shook her head. “And now, by some miracle, I'm nurse of the year.”

Jim took her free hand in his. “Not by some miracle,” he said. “Can't you get it through your head that you've earned this? That you're worthy? No, you didn't have an easy time of things. You didn't have money. You didn't have stability. That's all the more reason why you need to give yourself credit for what you've achieved.”

She shut her eyes. He was right. She'd worked hard. She'd set goals for herself and exceeded them. But none of that erased her one failure: her son.

“I want to talk to you about Freddy,” Jim said, reading her mind.

“What about him?”

“It's time, don't you think?” he asked. “Time to find him? Wouldn't you love to have him at the awards ceremony?”

She laughed, though the sound was bitter. “I can just imagine,” she said. “He hates me, and I get in touch with him and say, ‘Hey, come look what I did. I deserted you and then went on to make a name for myself. Come see me get my award.'”

“You didn't desert him.”

“I'm sure he felt like I did.”

Jim was quiet for a moment. “I know you want him in your life,” he said. “You don't even know if he's still angry with you, and you've made it very hard for him to find you. You've moved a couple of times. You took back your maiden name. I'm willing to bet that Freddy grew up and realized you did the right thing by taking him to the shelter that night.”

“I doubt it,” she said.

“Do you think about him?”

La Jolla and its display of lights blurred in front of her. “Only every day,” she said. “I pray for him. I pray that the scars from that night have healed. That he's doing okay. What's the chance of that, though, given the start he had in his life?”

“If he inherited your fighting genes, he will have turned out just fine,” Jim said.

God, she wanted to see her son! Hold him. Beg him to forgive her for trying to do what she thought was right. “If I wanted to find him, how would I do it?” she asked. “Hire a detective or what?”

Jim stood up. “Come with me,” he said, holding his hand out to her.

She took his hand and walked with him into the house. He led her downstairs to the small study and told her to take a seat next to the desk.

“We'll Google him,” he said, seating himself in front of the computer.

Faye leaned sideways to see the screen. “You mean, put his name in a search engine?” she asked.

“Have you ever tried it?” Jim logged on to the Internet.

“I never thought of trying it.” She'd spent hours researching chronic pain information on the Internet, but it had never occurred to her to research her son.

Jim typed in the name “Fred.” Then he glanced over at her. “What's his last name again?” he asked.

“Pointer.” She moved her chair behind his to be able to see better, and she watched him type in the surname that had once been her own and which she had come to loathe. He clicked on “search,” and scrolled through the many references that appeared on the screen. Several of them contained both the words “Fred” and “Pointer,” but never together as a name.

“Try ‘Frederick Pointer,'” she suggested.

This time, several Frederick Pointers appeared, but they all seemed to be part of someone's genealogical research, and the men had died long before her Freddy had even been born. There was one reference to a runner in a 10K race, and Faye sucked in her breath as Jim clicked on the link to read more about the race and its participants. Sure enough, a Frederick Pointer had been in the race—he'd even placed fifth—but he was thirty-five years old. She shook her head.

“Freddy would only be twenty-seven, now,” she said, discouraged.

“Don't give up,” Jim said. “Let's see if we can find him in one of the address locators.”

Jim's fingers flew across the keyboard as though he did this all the time. In a moment, the name, Frederick L. Pointer, was on the screen along with an address in Prince
ton, New Jersey. Faye lifted her hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God,” she said.

“Does the middle initial fit?” Jim asked.

She nodded. “Leonard,” she said. She searched the address for more information, for something that would tell her if this was her son. There was a phone number, but no other clue to his identity. She straightened up again. “It doesn't make sense that he'd live in Princeton,” she said.

“We could call the number and find out.”

She shook her head. The thought was terrifying to her. If the number
did
belong to Freddy, and he hung up on her, she would lose any chance she had of ever talking to him. She would rather simply imagine that it was him, imagine the call, imagine the warm reception. Better to imagine it than to know a sad reality.

Jim had returned to Google. “Just on a whim, let's see if there's a picture of him on the Web,” he said. He typed in the words “Pointer” and “Princeton.” Several pictures, none of them containing a human being but rather mechanical drawings of one sort or another, appeared on the screen. Jim scrolled down the display, though, and the image of three young men suddenly appeared. Faye drew in her breath.

“That's him!” she said, pointing past Jim toward the screen. “Oh, my God, Jim, I think it's really him.”

Jim stood up and let her have his seat directly in front of the monitor, and she realized that her hands were shaking as she sat down. She clasped them together in her lap as she studied the picture. Freddy was the man in the middle. “His hair's darker,” she said. “He was nearly blond when he was a child. But look at those eyes! Oh, he's beautiful.” She hadn't thought about loving this boy in many years, but now her chest swelled with her love for him. She touched the screen, touched his hair, the shoulder of his dark suit, and tears ran down her cheeks.

“You know what?” Jim leaned over her shoulder and squinted at the screen. “I think that's the chapel at Princeton in the background.”

For the first time, she noticed that Fred and the other two men stood in front of a church. “That's too big to be a chapel,” she said.

Jim laughed. “I think it's one of the biggest in the country, if my memory serves me well. I've attended more than one conference in Princeton.”

So had she. Was it possible that she'd been in the same town at the same time as her son?

Jim reached around her shoulders to type on the keyboard, and she leaned her head back against the warmth of his belly.

A Web site for the Princeton campus appeared, and in an instant, Jim had found a picture of the chapel. Sure enough, it was the same church.

“He
does
live in Princeton,” she said. Her eyes still on the monitor, she reached behind her to grab a fistful of Jim's robe. “Oh, Jim, I want to know everything!” she said. “Did he go to school in Princeton? Are the two guys in the picture his closest friends? What's happened in his life since the last time I saw him? Can we get back to that picture of him?” She was nowhere near done studying the grown-up face of her son.

Jim tapped a few keys to return Freddy's picture to the screen, then stood up straight and rested his hands on Faye's shoulders. “Do you want to call him?” he asked. “Or do you want to write to him?”

She shook her head, thinking. Planning. “I need to go in person,” she said. “This is something I can't do over the phone.” She sat back in the chair and grasped Jim's hands in her own. “All I want is a second chance to know my son.”

She felt Jim kiss the top of her head. “Of course you do,” he said. “And you're going to get one.”