Mom yawns again. I wonder if I’m even more boring than the television. But she smiles. “Good girl,” she murmurs.
“The other night she was so upset, her two beloved goldfish died,” I continue. “I wasn’t sure I could connect with her, help her at all. Seemed like it was a job for a mom, I thought. But you know…”
I pour out the story of our private discussion under the bedspread and my realization that Penny was searching for security. And how my heart seemed to open to her, and then to myself.
“And remember I told you Dorinda and Gaylen?” I say. I put my bare feet on Mom’s quilt, scooting down in my chair, and stare at the ceiling, immersed in memories. The room is peaceful and cozy, fragrant with flowers and scented powder, silent except for the beeping vital-signs monitor. And for some reason, maybe it’s Penny, maybe the wedding, Mom really seems to be listening to me. Maybe this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
“Well, they have this secret sign, you know? That they devised when Gaylen was a little girl.” I glance down at Mom. Her eyes are drooping a little, but she smiles and nods, Go on.
I explain the sign, holding up my two fingers, and describe the deeply lasting connection it symbolizes. “And when I showed it to Penny, it was such a moment. Almost like I was passing along a timeless bond between mothers and daughters.” I shrug, a little embarrassed by my own sentimentality. “Okay, sappy, I know. But, Mom?”
I can’t look at her, because I may lose my nerve. I keep talking, my words spilling out. “You know, what you were saying the other day. You just want me to be happy. I guess I do know that. But can’t you see, I’ve just been trying to please you? Make you proud of me? I guess we both want the same thing. Each other to be happy. You think?” I look up, worrying there’s some way she’s going to be offended. Or misunderstand.
But there’s no answer. I wait, but there’s just silence. She’s sound asleep. I guess the pills have kicked in. I sigh, feeling, for the first time in so many days, even a little relaxed. I laugh to myself. That’s not a word I use too much. Except when I’m telling someone else to do it.
Another tap on the door. This time it must be my food. I swing my feet to the floor, but before I can get up, the older nurse who brought Mom’s pills comes back in. He closes the door behind him. Damn. No food.
“Yes?” I say softly. “Mom seems to be asleep now, thanks so much. We’re fine. I was hoping you were my chicken and salad.”
He doesn’t smile back. He steps closer, holding out a little ruffled pill cup. He dumps a pile of yellow and white capsules into his hand. “I need you to take these,” he says.
For some reason, ingrained reporter training or insistence on logic, my reaction to his incomprehensible request is to check the name embroidered on his nurse’s whites. There isn’t one. And why does he look familiar? Graying wavy hair, taut tanned skin over cheekbones just too sharp, his mouth just too full. Attitude verging on swagger. Not a nurse.
Before I can remember I shouldn’t, I glance at the nurse call button. It’s on the other side of the bed. And the “nurse”? Sees me do it.
“Yeah, that’s disconnected,” he says. “From the nurse’s station. So don’t bother.” He pats the place above his breast pocket, the place where a name should be. “And I see you’re wondering who I am. You know, though, correct?”
I do. “Bresnahan,” I say. “Tommy Bresnahan.” Hiding behind nurse’s whites. And lax late night security-lulled by the diva’s entourage of strangers-must have ignored yet another newcomer.
“And that’s why you get the big reporter bucks,” he says. “But I fear you’ve been sticking that reporter nose into too many places it shouldn’t go. That Ray…stole my life from me. Stole my Dorie from me. Now he’s dead. And that’s what he deserves.”
His face twists, then he looks at me. He holds out his arms, as if performing.
“‘My love is deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite,’” he says. “That’s what she said to me. Now Dorie’s behind bars. And that’s where she deserves to be. If she hadn’t gone down for her husband’s-” he spits out the word “-for her husband’s murder, I’d have taken her out, too. But that all worked out just as I planned.”
Now I’m confused. He’s quoting Juliet? From Romeo and…
And that’s why I think I’ve seen him. I have. He’s the Swampscott High School Romeo. The king of the prom. He looks exactly like the computer-aged prom court photo, where he and Dorie shared the throne. But that can’t be.
“CC Hardesty?” I say. “Dorie’s high school sweetheart? You’re dead.”
“You think?” A smile knifes across his face. “Just got a Navy buddy to make a phone call, how hard is that? Doctor a couple of veterans office records at city hall? Who’s gonna know? Who’s gonna care? Now take your medicine.”
He grabs one of my hands, twisting my wrist to open my palm, and pours six capsules into it. “Take them. You deserve it. For screwing around in other people’s business. No one can know I’m alive. And you-do. But not for long.” He points at me, demanding. “Do it. And then I can wake mommy dearest here right up from her megadose of narcotics. The longer you wait, the more likely Mother here won’t make it either. I’d say she’s got five minutes. So, your call. It’s you. Or her.”
I’m watching Mom’s chest rise and fall. She’s oblivious. I’m fighting hysteria. What drug did he give her? How much? I look at the pills in my hand, revolting little death bombs. I’ve never wanted chicken and salad so much. If the food arrives, this’ll be over. Saved by room service. I have to stall.
I dump the pills onto the rolling table positioned across Mom’s bed, then reach out and grab her hand before Hardesty can stop me. If I stall too long, though, it won’t matter. This man’s obsessed. Maybe I can use that. And I bet I know his weakness.
“Gaylen,” I begin, clutching Mom’s hand. “Did you know…?”
“Sweeney. Dorie. They took my life from me. It was time for me to get it back.” He’s pacing now, muttering, covering the width of the room in four long steps, then turning back. He stops, narrows his eyes at me. I can see he’s losing patience. “Pills,” he says. “Right. Now.”
“Gaylen,” I say, ignoring his demand. “Gaylen Sweeney. I have evidence you’re her real father.”
I pause, gauging whether this lie sinks in. “And if that’s true, what have you done? You’ve framed the mother of your own child, sent her to prison for life. You’ve sent your only daughter into hiding, misery and guilt. And you’re responsible.”
I fleetingly wish I’d listened more attentively in my college psych classes. I hope this isn’t pushing too hard. But there’s no time to ponder Maslow, or whoever it was. “Listen,” I say. “You leave. I’ll call the nurse, and after they wake Mother I’ll tell you how to find Gaylen. You and…” I play my ace, even though it’s counterfeit. “You and your daughter can be together.”
He barely considers my offer. “Right,” he says, sarcastic, rolling his eyes. “Then you set me right up for the cops. Not for a moment of the past twenty-five years have I forgotten. Not a moment of the past twenty-five years have I wavered. If I couldn’t have her, nobody could have her. I lived for it, worked for this, planned for this. I even…died for this.” He laughs, without a shred of mirth. “Dorie. She ruined my life. My only goal was to ruin hers.”