She clutched her hand in a fist against the wall, her eyes scrunched tight to stem the flow of tears, and finally found some composure to speak. ‘But why… why didn’t he say something earlier? Or maybe you… why didn’t you call me and tell me?’
‘What was there to say? That he tried to find your son that he’d given away twenty-odd years ago — but in the end he’d failed? And before he died, he swore me to secrecy. He said there was little point in telling you if there could be no possible good end resolve. It would just build up your hopes only to dash them again, and besides you’d probably blanked it all from your mind long ago. Too painful to think about.’
‘Yes… that was partly true, I suppose.’ She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand, sniffed back the remnants of tears. She felt uncomfortable admitting that it was spot-on, that her father knew her so well; and just like her father she’d kept the truth and her real emotions buried from everyone, going one better by keeping them even from her own husband. Oh Jesus she was her father’s daughter more than she realized.
‘…He said that only if you decided to find him — when you were finally sure you wanted to fill that gap in your life — should I tell you.’
‘I see.’ Still her voice was uncertain, she feared she might collapse again into tears at any second. She felt nothing but empty inside, as if a team of emotional burglars had stormed through her and upended every drawer: love, hate, family closeness, hopes, ambitions. There, now you try and sort it all out. And she was left to pick through the ransacked mess, one hand braced against the wall of a diner full of strangers while keeping her head turned from them so that they wouldn’t see how destroyed she was, or the tears streaming down her face, or notice that her whole body was shaking uncontrollably with her legs threatening to buckle at any second, and meanwhile her mother at the end of a crackly line three thousand miles away had, in the space of less than fifteen minutes, told her that nothing in her life so far had been quite what it seemed.
But there was only one possible silver lining she could see now, one way to repay how she’d unknowingly betrayed her father’s memory and left her mother to grieve alone these years past. ‘One good thing, mom… partly why I was phoning now. I think I might have found him: one of the nuns ended up giving me the details of the family that took George in. I’m seeing them tomorrow.’ She didn’t add that the one quirk of fate to stab Sister Bernadine’s conscience to finally give her the address had been her father sat in the same spot six years ago, head in hands. If he hadn’t have visited, she probably would never have got the address. It was as if an invisible hand was reaching out: ‘I tried to make good while I was alive… but at least you might now be able to succeed where I failed.’ ‘…When I catch up with George, I’ll try and convince him to come to England sometime, and we can all have a big reunion.’
‘That would be nice, Elena. But you know you don’t need to make promises just to make me feel good. I’d be happy enough just to see more of you when you get back. But you need to find him for yourself, Elena. To fill that gap in your heart and soul that your father was never able to fill.’
TWENTY-SIX
‘You know, you’re quite a little girl for your age.’ Alphonse beamed and reached across the bar, playfully pinching Lorena’s cheek. He looked towards Elena perched at the bar stool next to Lorena, seeking confirmation.
‘She certainly is.’ Elena nodded with a rueful smile and took another sip of her champagne. ‘Particularly on holiday. You get twice the questions — so of course you need twice the energy just to keep up.’ She hardly looked at Lorena as she spoke; she found it hard to meet her gaze directly knowing what was coming — very likely packing her back to England in the morning, or at the latest soon after she’d seen the Donatiens.
They’d grabbed a quick pizza on the outskirts of Montreal, then headed back to the hotel. Alphonse was all smiles, asking how their day had been. Elena didn’t want to get into the rollercoaster dramas of the day, just said that they’d finally tracked down this long-lost relative and were seeing them tomorrow — ‘So maybe a celebratory drink is in order.’ She ordered a bottle of Moet and mixed Lorena’s with orange juice. Lorena wasn’t sure she liked it at first, only warming to it after a few sips; then at the start of her second glass, she became more talkative.
Alphonse was originally from northern Yugoslavia, ‘The part that is now Slovenia,’ and had been in Montreal fourteen years. But rather than him swap notes with Lorena on the one area they had in common — hardships of life in the Eastern Bloc — Lorena wanted to know all about Canada. How deep does the snow get in winter? How cold does it get? Do you go hunting? Are there a lot of bears? ‘We get some too in the mountains in Romania.’
As Lorena deftly shifted to what to do if you were out in the forest and got surprised by a bear and didn’t have a gun, and she suggested to Alphonse that because he was big, ‘Maybe you could wrestle with it,’ he reached over and playfully pinched Lorena’s cheek. Though short with his six-pack long ago sagged to a barrel, Alphonse was extremely broad with forearms like tree boughs.
‘I remember a dancing bear once in Bucharest,’ Lorena commented thoughtfully. ‘He looked so sad. His owner was getting him to dance and hit a tambourine and act like he was happy — but all the time his eyes were so sad.’
So sad. She should have been pleased seeing Lorena come out of her shell, become more lively, animated. Except for the sessions with Lowndes when the reminder of her problems would weigh heavy again, Lorena had been better each day since leaving England. But Elena’s first worry with her talking so openly, excitedly, was that Lorena would suddenly say the wrong thing and give the game away. Elena herself sometimes forgot who they were meant to be each time: Elena Waldren and daughter Elena for Lowndes; daughter Katine for customs and the police, and now Alphonse as well because she’d had to show her passport on registration.
Perhaps Lorena’s liveliness and change of spirit confirmed Lowndes’ finding that it was all a ruse just to get her attention: Lorena had got almost nothing but attention these past days, no wonder she was happy. But what if she was wrong? What if the smiles were coming back to Lorena’s face purely because she was free of Ryall’s clutches, and tomorrow she’d be sending her back to England to…
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes, fine… bit tired, that’s all.’ She gripped her champagne glass firmer to mask her hand shaking. She was still far from wound down from the day’s slings and arrows, and this final nagging doubt with Lorena wasn’t helping.
Alphonse repeated the bit of conversation Elena had faded out: ‘What Lorena says is true — you do share the same first name with Ceaucescu’s wife.’
‘I know.’ Elena grimaced tautly. The ex-Romanian Dictator and his wife were blamed for most of the country’s orphan problems by encouraging couples to have large families. Elena reached across and lightly pulled Lorena to her for a second, but still she avoided direct eye contact. ‘One Elena to cause the problems, another as saviour. Hopefully she’s forgiven me by now.’ Her driver Nick used to joke about it whenever they got a difficult border guard or policeman. ‘Just tell them your name, and they’ll quickly do the sign of the cross and wave us on.’ But she was careful not to add that: right now she was Elena the mother, not the aid worker.