Authors: Mary Alice Monroe
She took another long puff. No, that was unlikely. Ann was already twenty-six years old and probably wasn't still living with her parents. Jilly's best hope was they'd tell her where Ann was living, if she was married and what her new last name was. That wouldn't be so hard.
She got up and paced the narrow strip in the room. In any case, she told herself, obsessing about it wouldn't change the outcome. She might as well get on with it. Besides, she knew her sisters were hanging outside the door waiting for word. She took another drag from her cigarette then set it down in a plastic cup. She sat on the bed, picked up the phone and punched out the number before she could chicken out.
“Hello?” It was a woman's voice.
“Hello, Mrs. Neville?”
“Yes?”
Jilly's heart was pounding and her mouth was dry. “Is Ann there?”
There was a long pause. “Who is this?” The voice was suddenly guarded.
“You don't know me. I don't mean to intrude, but my name is Jillian Season and I believe I may be Ann's mother. Her birth mother, that is.”
There was a pause, longer this time. “That can't be right,” Mrs. Neville replied shakily. “No, that can't be right.”
“Is Ann Josephine Neville your daughter?”
“Yes. She was.”
Was?
Jilly felt a shiver run down her back. “I'm afraid I don't understand.”
“My Ann died four years ago.”
Jilly's mind went blank.
“In a car accident. The Lord took her from us.” Her voice shook.
Jilly couldn't believe what she was hearing. She was prepared for them to hang up when she called, or to say they didn't want contact. She was ready to engage them in a long conversation to learn about birth dates and birth places, details that would help determine if
this
Ann was
her
Ann. But she didn't have a response planned for this answer.
“IâI'm sorry.” Her hands trembled at her lips. Could her search for her daughter end like this? “I'm at a loss for words.”
“I don't think you have the right family,” Mrs. Neville said after she'd collected herself.
“It doesn't matter. I'm sorry if I intruded. You have my sympathy.”
“I said,” the woman replied more urgently, “I don't think you have the right family. We've already met Ann's real mother. Six or seven years ago. Ann wanted to find her when she found out she was carrying Ben. She tracked her down and they met, though nothing much came of it. I never felt that I mattered any less to Ann for her wanting the meeting. I know I was Ann's true mother. I'm the one who took care of her and loved her for twenty-three years.”
“Of course,” Jilly responded. “I'm sure there was never any doubt.”
“I just wanted you to know that Ann was happy to have met the woman who gave her life. It meant a lot to her. And I'm happy knowing that she had that much before she died.” There was a deep sigh. “Soâ¦good luck to you. I hope you find your daughter.”
Her last words were choked in a sob. Jilly mumbled a heartfelt goodbye and hung up, then wept for Ann Josephine Neville and both her mothers.
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“I need a drink,” she told her sisters when she staggered into their room.
When she told them what had happened, they were unified in their horror and grief.
“The scariest part is that it never occurred to me that something bad might have happened to my daughter,” Jilly said, clutching her throat. “I mean, in all these years, almost anything could have. She could have been in an accident. She might be paralyzed. Or missing a limb. Or what if she's sick and dying?” She covered her eyes with her palm. “Or dead. She could be dead like poor Ann Josephine Neville.”
“Yes, she could be all of those things,” Birdie said calmly, coming closer to put her arm around her shoulder. “That's part of life.”
“I don't know, Birdie,” Jilly said, leaning her weight against her hip. “I'm not sure I could stand to go through that again. What if my Anne was the Ann the woman was talking about?”
“We've come this far in our search. We can't stop now. What is, is.”
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Birdie took her turn at the phone. She went outdoors and sat in her car, running the engine for warmth and listening to the radio. The sun was setting on another day and the evening chill was making itself felt in the blue-gray skies. The others were getting dressed for their evening walk to the diner. Maude had promised them her world famous beef stew tonight.
The easy listening station was playing “Unchained Melody” and Birdie took it as a positive omen. That was her and Dennis's favorite song while they were dating in college. She thought back to the very evening when she knew this would be “their” song. They were at a party at her sorority house celebrating
Northwestern's swim team's state championship. Birdie had won a new record for the team and was exhilarated not only for the win, but because Dennis Connor had been cheering her on. They'd met again at college and had been dating for a few months. On that particular night, Dennis was walking toward her carrying their drinks while this song was playing. They were margaritas. She watched him carry the drinks with the seriousness that had always endeared him to her. Looking down, one lock of his long blond hair fell from behind his ear into his face. Just then, another guy drunkenly bumped into his shoulder causing him to spill most of a drink down his shirt and pants. Birdie gasped. The guy apologized profusely, succeeding only in spilling more margarita down Dennis's shirt in his slobbering attempt to help. Dennis looked up and, instead of cussing the guy, he met her gaze, smiled a crooked, self-mocking smile and shrugged. Birdie, who had lived in a household of ill humor and tight lips, knew in that moment that this man was right for her.
Oh, my love, my darlingâ¦
She'd worried about getting too attached to Dennis Connor, knowing that Jilly had dated him. But she couldn't help herself; she'd always been in love with him. She had looked into his brown eyes later that night, eyes so dark and fathomless that she felt she was looking into his soul, and believed him when he'd told her that Jilly was a summer's high school fling, nothing to compare with what he felt for her.
“And what is that?” she'd asked him, only half-teasingly. “What do you feel for me?”
“Love,” he'd answered with devastatingly sincerity. And then he'd kissed her slowly, tenderly, as though he had all the time in the world. She closed her eyes and she was swimming again, stroking her arms and moving through wave after wave of lust
and limbs. She heard his intake of breath as he plunged into her. She gulped for air, drowning.
I've hungered for your touch
â¦.
They made love for the first time that night to this song, and they danced to it at their wedding a year later. It occurred to Birdie, sitting alone in the car staring at the cell phone in her hand, that they had not listened to the song together in a very long time.
She lifted the phone and quickly dialed her home phone number in Milwaukee. The phone rang five times. She exhaled each time. Then the dreadful machine answered and she heard his voice, so cold, talking to strangers. Beep.
“Dennis, it's me. Birdie. Call me on my cell phone. Please.”
She hung up without saying more. Tears flowed down her cheek as the song reached a crescendo, filling the car.
Are you still mine?
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Rose took advantage of being alone in the room to quickly turn on the computer and check her e-mail, something she'd not done in the past several days. She told herself that she just needed a day to think about it, then one day turned to two, then three, four, until she'd built up a wall of fear against replying to DannyBoy at all. What she didn't know wouldn't hurt her, right?
But when she saw Jilly confront her fears and place the call to the Nevilles, Rose knew she was just being a chicken-heart. Only a coward would leave a man like DannyBoy hanging after he'd asked to meet her.
There were four e-mails waiting for her from DannyBoy. She couldn't
not
read them. She clicked the first letter and it flashed on the screen.
Dear Rosebud,
There was some bad weather in the southwest today. Tornadoes were flying around a dime a dozen. Trucks were pulled off the road and we had to find what shelter we could. I was lucky to get off the road and into a room and not have to wait it out under an overpass like I've heard some other poor fellows did. But it was a tense night of waiting. When that Texas sky turns a murky green that stretches for miles and the humidity is so thick you can cut it with a knife, all eyes are turned toward the heavens. Have you ever been in a tornado? I have. It's not an experience you ever forget.
I see the weather has been pretty good up in Wisconsin. You're getting a little bit of spring. I'm glad. There's nothing more beautiful than the hills of the Midwest when they start turning green and the air smells so fresh your lungs hurt. I can hardly wait to go home. I'd like to take you to some of my favorite hiking places, that is, if you'd like to. There's one spot where there are so many wildflowers you won't believe it.
This tornado delayed my trip. I won't be back for a week.
Gotta go. The surge protector is flicking. It must be those storms.
DannyBoy
Dear Rosebud,
I'm wondering if there was a problem with the e-mail on account of the storms. I haven't heard from you. Maybe you're having trouble with your connection on the road? If you receive this, write back so I know all is okay.
The weather here is clear again. A town twenty miles away got clobbered by a twister, poor folks. Houses were
torn up and three dead. Makes you realize every day how lucky we are just to be alive.
DannyBoy
Dear Rosebud,
Not finding your letter waiting for me at the end of the day is a real disappointment. It makes me realize how important your lettersâ¦youâ¦have become in my life. I'd hate to lose your friendship.
I know you said right off that you were the shy type. I like that about you. I've tried not to do or say anything that might make you uncomfortable. I went over my old mail and I see where in my last e-mail to you before you stopped writing I asked you if we could meet. Now I'm wondering if that is why you stopped writing me back.
Please don't think I'm trying to rush you. If you don't want to meet, that's okay. I won't deny that I'd like to. I've heard that some people are afraid that the other person won't like what they see and that's why they never want to meet. I don't feel that way. I'll be glad to send a picture and I know I'd love to receive one from you. We can do that if it makes you feel better.
Or if you'd rather not meet at all, I won't say I'll like it, but I'd rather have your friendship on e-mail than lose your friendship altogether. So please, write back and tell me what you're thinking.
Your friend,
DannyBoy
Dear Rosebud,
Well, I guess I can take a hint. I keep hoping that you're on this trip and something's happened to your computer
and you can't reach me. Maybe you're as upset as I am about missing our letters. (I hope so.)
But if that's not it, I'll stop pestering you. If you want to write me, I'd love to hear from you. I hate to think we'd just stop without saying goodbye.
DannyBoy
Rose read and reread the letters three times. Each time she cried a little harder. When the knock sounded on the door, she was too upset to worry about being seen crying and just rose from her chair to answer it. Hannah was at the door and when she saw Rose crying, her smile fell flat.
“Are you okay?” she asked, stepping into the room to give Rose a hug.
“I'm fine,” Rose said, slipping away and walking across the room to grab a tissue from the vanity.
Jilly walked into the room and closed the door behind her. “I'm really worried about Birdie,” she said to them, tossing her purse down on the floor. “I saw her sitting alone in the car. Crying.”
Hannah nudged Jilly in the ribs.
“What?” She turned her head, blinking. When she looked to where Hannah was pointing, she saw Rose standing at the sink. In the reflection of the mirror, she could see that Rose was crying.
“Honey, what's going on here?” Jilly asked, coming immediately to her side. “You and Birdie have a fight or something?”
Rose tried to laugh but it came out more of a hiccup. She was cringing inwardly at having been caught teary-eyed. “No, no,” she said, not looking at her. “It's nothing like that.”
“Then what is it?”
She shredded her tissue, wondering how she could tell Jilly what was happening. She hadn't told anybody about
DannyBoy. They might snicker, or perhaps warn her against it. DannyBoy meant too much to her to have people laugh at their friendship. “It's nothing, I told you.”