saying? Your mother? It was my intention to tell Ellie, and leave it entirely in her hands as to how or when this information should be conveyed to you. I’m sorry to have to handle it in this fashion. Your mother died this morning at five minutes after five.”
Rowan was too stunned to respond. The woman might as well have struck her. This wasn’t grief. It was too sharp, too awful for that. Her mother had sprung to life suddenly, living and breathing and existing for a split second in spoken words. And in the same instant the living entity was pronounced dead; she existed no more.
Rowan didn’t try to speak. She shrank into her habitual and natural silence. She saw Ellie dead, in the funeral home, surrounded by flowers; but there was no coherence to this, no sweet bite of sadness. It was purely terrible. And the paper lay in the safe, as it had for over a year.
“There is no need whatsoever for you to come here,” said the woman with no perceptible change of attitude or tone. “What is necessary is that you contact your attorney immediately, and that you put me in touch with this person as there are pressing matters regarding your property which must be discussed.”
“Oh, but I want to come,” Rowan said, without hesitation. Her voice was thick. “I want to come now. I want to see my mother before she’s buried.” Damn the paper, and this unspeakable woman, whoever she was.
“That’s scarcely appropriate,” said the woman wearily.
“I insist,” said Rowan. “I don’t wish to trouble you but I want to see my mother before she’s buried. No one there need know who I am. I simply want to come.”
“It would be a useless journey. Surely Ellie would not have wanted this. Ellis assured me that-”
“Elite’s dead!” Rowan whispered, her voice scraping bottom in her effort to control it. She was shaking all over. “Look, it means something to me to see my mother. Ellie and Graham are both gone, as I told you. I … ” She could not say it. It sounded too self-pitying and too intimate to confess that she was alone.
“I must insist,” said the woman in the same tired, worn-out feelingless voice, “that you remain exactly where you are.”
“Why?” Rowan asked. “What does it matter to you if I come? I told you, no one needs to know who I am.”
“There isn’t going to be a public wake or funeral,” said the woman. “It doesn’t matter who knows or doesn’t know. Your mother will be buried as soon as it can be arranged. I have asked that it be done tomorrow afternoon. I am trying to save you grief with my recommendations. But if you will not listen, then do what you feel you must do.”
“I’m coming,” Rowan said. “What time tomorrow afternoon?”
“Your mother will be buried through Lonigan and Sons on Magazine Street. The Requiem Mass will be at St. Mary’s Assumption Church on Josephine Street. And the services will take place just as soon as I can arrange for them. It is pointless for you to come two thousand miles-”
“I want to see my mother. I ask you please to wait until I can get there.”
“That is absolutely out of the question,” said the woman with a slight touch of anger or impatience. “I advise you to leave immediately, if you are determined to come. And please don’t expect to spend the night under this roof. I have no means of properly receiving you. The house is yours, of course, and I shall vacate it as soon as possible if that is your wish. But I ask that you remain in a hotel until I can conveniently do so. Again, I have no means of making you comfortable here.”
Carefully, in the same tired manner, the woman gave Rowan the address.
“You said First Street?” Rowan asked. It was the street that Michael had described to her, she was sure of it. “This was my mother’s house?” she asked.
“I’ve been awake all night,” said the woman, her words slow, spiritless. “If you’re coming, then everything can be explained to you when you arrive.”
Rowan was about to ask another question when, to her astonishment, the woman rang off.
She was so angry that for a moment she did not feel her hurt. Then the hurt overshadowed everything. “Who in the hell are you?” she whispered, the tears rising, but not flowing. “And why in the world would you speak this way to me!” She slammed down the phone, her teeth biting into her lip, and folded her arms. “God, what an awful, awful woman,” she whispered.
But this was no time for crying or wishing for Michael. Quickly, she took out her handkerchief, blew her nose and wiped her eyes, and then reached for the pad and pen on the kitchen counter, and she jotted down the information the woman had given her.
First Street, she thought, looking at it after she’d written it. Probably no more than coincidence. And Lonigan and Sons, the words Ellie had mentioned in her delirium when she had rambled on about her childhood and home. Quickly she called New Orleans information, then the funeral home.
It was a Mr. Jerry Lonigan who answered.
“My name is Dr. Rowan Mayfair, I’m calling from California about a funeral.”
“Yes, Dr. Mayfair,” he said in a most agreeable voice that reminded her of Michael at once. “I know who you are. I have your mother here now.”
Thank God, no subterfuge, no need for false explanations. Yet she couldn’t help but wonder why did the man know about her? Hadn’t the whole adoption been hush-hush?
“Mr. Lonigan,” she said, trying to speak clearly and ignore the thickness in her voice, “it’s very important to me that I be there for the funeral. I want to see my mother before she is put into the ground.”
“Of course you do, Dr. Mayfair. I understand. But Miss Carlotta called here just now and said if we don’t bury your mother tomorrow … Well, let’s just say she’s insisting on it, Dr. Mayfair. I can schedule the Mass for as late as three P.M. Do you think you could make it by that time, Dr. Mayfair? I will hold everything up just as long as I can.”
“Yes, absolutely, I will make it,” said Rowan. “I’ll leave tonight or early tomorrow morning at the latest. But Mr. Lonigan-if I get delayed-”
“Dr. Mayfair, if I know you’re on your way, I won’t shut that coffin before you arrive.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lonigan. I only just found out. I just … ”
“Well, Dr. Mayfair, if you don’t mind my saying so, it only just happened. I picked up your mother at six A.M. this morning. I think Miss Carlotta’s rushing things. But then Miss Carlotta is so old now, Dr. Mayfair. So old … ”
“Listen, let me give you my phone number at the hospital. If anything should happen, call me please.”
He took down the numbers. “Don’t you worry, Dr. Mayfair. Your mother will be here at Lonigan and Sons when you come.”
Again the tears threatened. He sounded so simple, so hopelessly sincere. “Mr. Lonigan, can you tell me something else?” she said, her voice quavering badly.
“Yes, Dr. Mayfair.”
“How old was my mother?”
“Forty-eight, Dr. Mayfair.”
“What was her name?”
Obviously this surprised him, but he recovered quickly. “Deirdre was her name, Dr. Mayfair. She was a very pretty woman. My wife was a good friend of hers. She loved Deirdre, used to go to visit. My wife is right here with me. My wife is glad that you called.”
For some reason, this affected Rowan almost as deeply as all the other bits and pieces of information had affected her. She pressed the handkerchief to her eyes tightly, and swallowed.
“Can you tell me what my mother died of, Mr. Lonigan? What does the death certificate say?”
“It says natural causes, Dr. Mayfair, but your mother had been sick, real sick for many years. I can give you the name of the doctor who treated her. I think he might talk to you, being that you are a doctor yourself.”
“I’ll get it from you when I come,” Rowan said. She could not continue this much longer. She blew her nose quickly and quietly. “Mr. Lonigan. I have the name of a hotel. The Pontchartrain. Is that convenient to the funeral home and the church?”
“Why, you could walk over here from there, Dr. Mayfair, if the weather wasn’t so hot.”
“I’ll call you as soon as I get in. But please, again, promise me that you won’t let my mother be buried without … ”
“Don’t worry about it another minute, Dr. Mayfair. But Dr. Mayfair, there’s one thing more. It’s my wife who
