And when she got back to the boardinghouse, she found that Peter had called her from the hospital. She called and had him paged, and told him about the meeting.
“Do you feel better now?” he asked, sounding worried.
“Sort of,” she said honestly. It still hurt her that her father hadn't even wanted to hold her, or kiss her. But that was who he had always been. He had never held her then either, she now remembered. Seeing him had brought back a lot of memories, none of which were pleasant. The only time she remembered him being tender with her, or even something close to it, was the night before he left them. And knowing what he was about to do, he probably felt guilty. “You were right about one thing,” she told Peter, “I think some of the answers are within me. I just didn't know it.” He was relieved to hear it. He was nervous about this odyssey of the past she had embarked on. He suspected that it was going to be very painful for her, and not the homecoming she wanted.
“What are you going to do now?” he asked. They had just paged him again, and he knew he couldn't talk much longer.
“I'm flying to San Francisco tomorrow.” He didn't know why, but he felt as though he should go with her. But he knew she'd never let him. She was determined to slay her dragons single-handed, no matter how dangerous, or how painful. And he admired her for it.
“Will you be all right out there all alone?”
“I think so,” she said honestly. It still frightened her to think of seeing her mother. But she knew she had to. She was the one with the real answers. And especially the one to the final question: Why didn't you ever love me? She felt like a child in a fairy tale, looking for answers under mushrooms. Alice in Wonderland, or Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, and she said as much to Peter.
“If you wait a few days, I'll go out there with you. I've got some time off later this week, and it might be easier for you.”
“I need to do this,” she explained, and promised to call him from San Francisco.
“Take care of yourself, Gabbie.” And then unexpectedly, “I miss you.”
“I miss you too,” she said softly. It was a prelude of better things to come between them, but not until she had resolved her past completely. She knew now, that without the answers, she had nothing to offer him, and he could never reach her. The pain of her childhood and knowing that she hadn't been loved would always stand between them. She would never believe him. And she would always believe that ultimately he would abandon her, just as they had. And the terror of waiting for it to happen would destroy them, or her, in the meantime.
“Call me when you get there,” he told her anxiously, and then he had to leave her to see patients.
She was very pensive as she walked upstairs to pack her suitcase, and as she had the night before, she found the room depressing. It was too full of Steve, and bad dreams, and ugly nightmares. She couldn't sleep all night thinking of the trip to San Francisco, but it was too far to go down four flights of stairs to call Peter, so she just lay there waiting for morning.
Everyone in the house was still asleep when she left, and she left a note for Mrs. Boslicki, telling her where she was going. “I've gone to San Francisco to see my mother.” It would have had a nice ring to it, she thought, if it had been a different mother.
The flight to San Francisco passed uneventfully, and she took a bus into the city, with her small overnight bag. She was surprised by how cold it was, although it was August. There was a brisk wind, it was a foggy day, and it was decidedly chilly, which everyone said was typical of a San Francisco summer.
She stopped and had a bite to eat, and then called the telephone number she'd been given, and then realized instantly how foolish she'd been not to call first. What if they were away on vacation? But instead of that, there was a recording saying that the phone had been disconnected. She didn't know what to do then. She got a cab and drove by the address, but when she rang the bell they said that no one by that name lived there. She was almost in tears by then, and the cabdriver suggested they stop at a phone booth and call Information. All she knew was that the name of the man her mother had married years before was Frank Waterford. She remembered him vaguely as a nice-looking man who never talked to her. But surely he would now. And she followed the cabbie's suggestion, and it proved fruitful. Frank Waterford was listed on Twenty-eighth Avenue, in an area the driver said was called Seacliff.
She dialed the number she'd gotten from Information. A woman answered, but it did not sound like her mother. She asked for Mrs. Waterford and was told they were out, and would be back at four-thirty. She only had an hour to kill then, and debated between calling and showing up, and she finally decided to just go there. They drove up in front of the house at exactly four-thirty, and there was a silver Bentley parked in the driveway.
Gabriella held her suitcase in one hand, and rang the doorbell with the other. It was the same battered cardboard bag she'd been given when she left the convent. But although her wardrobe had improved in the last year, her luggage hadn't. This was the first trip she'd ever taken.
“Yes?” A woman in a yellow cashmere sweater opened the door. She was wearing a string of pearls, and had blond hair that had been “assisted” in keeping its color, and she looked as though she was in her mid fifties. But she looked pleasantly at Gabriella. “May I help you?” Gabriella looked like a runaway with her blond hair tousled by the wind, her big blue eyes, and her suitcase, and she looked younger than her twenty-three years. The woman who opened the door had no idea who she was, as Gabriella asked politely for “Mrs. Waterford” and then looked stunned when the woman said she was. She had come to the wrong house after all, obviously a different Mr. and Mrs. Frank Waterford lived here. “I'm sorry,” the woman said pleasantly, when Gabriella said she was looking for her mother, as a tall, well-built man with graying hair came up behind her. But he was the Frank Waterford she remembered, only thirteen years older than when she'd last seen him.
“Something wrong?” He looked concerned, and then saw the girl with the suitcase in the doorway. She looked lost but harmless.
“This young lady is looking for her mother,” his wife explained pleasantly, “and she's come to the wrong address. I was trying to help her figure out what to do now.”
“Gabriella?” he asked, frowning at her in confusion. He had heard her say her name, and still remembered it, although he had hardly ever seen her, and she looked very different. She was all grown up now.
“Yes.” She nodded. “Mr. Waterford?” He smiled at her then, more than a little surprised to see her. “I'm looking for my mother.” A glance was exchanged between the two Waterfords, who understood now. “I take it she doesn't live here.”
“No, she doesn't,” he said carefully. “Why don't you come in for a minute?” He looked much happier to see her than her father had, and seemed much kinder. They invited her to set down her bag, and come into the living room with them. He offered her a drink, and she said she'd be happy with a glass of water, and the woman with the blond hair went to get it for her.
“Are you and my mother divorced?” she asked, looking a little nervous, and he hesitated, but there was no way to keep the truth from her, and no reason to do it.
“No, Gabriella, we're not divorced. Your mother died four years ago. I'm very sorry.” For a moment, Gabriella was stunned into silence. She was gone, taking all her secrets with her. Gabriella knew instantly that she would never be free now.