she told him, being a lawyer. Her age-statutory rape. He was also worried some grower would find out and use it against the union. Instead of shouldering his responsibility, he gave the girl every dollar he had with him and left town. That’s when he joined the public defender’s office. But it never stopped bothering him, and he began driving around California trying to find her-he said her name was Sharla and that she wasn’t sophisticated but she had a good heart. He never found her.
“‘But let’s face it, Mom,’ he told me. ‘If I’d wanted to badly enough, I would’ve, right? I’m not sure I want to know-Father’s right, I am a coward, spineless, no use to anyone.’ I told him the fact that he was telling me now showed he was extremely courageous-he still had a chance to buck up. I promised to do everything I could to help him find the girl, make financial arrangements for the child. If there was one- because I was skeptical, thought the girl was out for money. That infuriated him. He began pounding the bed, shouting that I was just like all the others, everything was money, money, money. Then he blew out the candle and stomped out. I’d never seen him like that and it shocked me. I thought I would let him cool down. The next morning, he was found floating in Lake Arrowhead. They said it was an accident. I never looked for the girl. I was never sure it was true. I did wonder from time to time… and then I saw the picture in the paper. And I knew. And now you’ve found him, Detective Connor.”
Petra took another look at the photo and handed it back. Too close to be anything but righteous, and the time line was right. William Bradley Adamson. William Bradley Straight.
“What is it you want me to do for you, Mrs. Adamson?”
“Detective, I know I have no right to-maybe legal rights, but morally… but this child. He must be my grandson. There’s no other rational explanation. I’m sure we can prove it with genetic tests. But not now, not with all he’s been through-I want to… help him.”
Suddenly, she looked down at her lap.
“I don’t have the resources I used to have. My husband ran into some… misfortune before he passed away.”
Petra found herself giving a sympathetic nod.
“The truth is,” said Cora Adamson, still averting her eyes, “I’ve been living off savings for several years, but I know how to budget and I’m by no means penniless. Learning about Billy-this Billy-has crystallized my plans. I live in a grotesquely oversized house that I’ve been thinking of selling for some time. Until now, I lacked the incentive- and the will-to make the change. Now, it’s clear. There’s no mortgage on the house. Once I sell it, even after taxes, I should have enough to support myself and my grandson in a reasonable manner.”
A pleading note had entered the woman’s voice. Here she was, Chanel suit and all, applying for parental rights. What do you say to that?
Cora Adamson’s head rose. “Perhaps it’s all for the best. Too much privilege can create its own difficulties.”
Petra wanted to say, I wouldn’t know. Instead, she nodded.
“I love children, Detective Connor. Before I was married, I taught school. I always wanted lots of children, but Billy’s birth was difficult and the doctors forbade it. Other than the loss of Billy and Bill and my parents, learning I couldn’t have more children was the saddest moment of my life.”
A thin white hand clutched her sleeve. “What I’m saying is I sincerely believe I have something to offer. I make no excuses for the lack of- Detective Connor, can you see it within yourself to help me?”
The woman’s eyes locked onto Petra. Hungry, desperate.
Delaware was flying into town tonight. Why couldn’t he be here now?
“Please,” said Cora Adamson.
Petra said, “Let’s talk about it.”
CHAPTER
82
Yesterday, Dr. Delaware told me about Mom. My stomach caught fire and I wanted to rip the IV line out and punch him in the face.
He sat there looking sad. What right did he have to be sad?
I rolled over and ignored him. No way would I let him see me cry, but the minute he left, I started crying and I went on crying all day and all night. Except when someone came into the room, and then I pretended to sleep.
Sometimes when they thought I was sleeping, they’d discuss me-nurses, interns.
Poor kid.
He’s been through so much.
Tough little bugger.
I am not tough. I’m here because what’s my choice?
Thinking about Mom made me want to be dead, too, but then I thought, What good would that do? There probably is no God, so I wouldn’t get to see her anyway.
That first night I dug my nails into my hands, made them bleed. A little extra pain felt right.
It’s the next day and I still can’t believe it, I keep thinking she’s going to walk through the door. I’ll say I’m sorry for running away, she’ll apologize, too, we’ll hug-then it hits me. She’s gone. That’s it. Never again. Never! This hurts so much!
I cry a lot, fall asleep, wake up, cry some more.
Haven’t cried for an hour. Maybe I’m all dried up, no more tears.
Hey, Doc, put some tears in the IV.
I spit on the floor. If I could empty my mind the way the orderlies empty my trash can. Out with all the garbage.
When I’m alone I think of her. Even though it hurts. I want to hurt.
Being alone is what I’m used to; I don’t get enough of it. With all the doctors and interns and the nurses, sometimes I can’t stand all the noise and the sympathy; want to punch all of them.
Not Sam. He comes every morning, brings me candy and magazines, pats my hand and talks about how we’re two peas in a pod, tough, survivors. How he won’t let anyone “mess” with me-don’t worry, he’s got connections. He repeats things, and sometimes his voice puts me to sleep. I fight to stay awake, don’t want to make him feel bad. He was my friend when no one else was. One time he came with Mrs. Kleinman, but she annoyed me, touching my cheek, bringing food I didn’t want to eat, trying to feed it to me. I was polite to her, but maybe Sam could tell, because he never brought her again.
Petra brings me books. She’s very pretty, not married, not a mom, and I think maybe she likes me because it gives her mom practice. Or it’s a vacation from being a detective.
She killed him. She’s a serious person, doesn’t tell jokes, doesn’t try to cheer me up when I don’t want it. Even when she smiles, she’s serious.
Even if I’m totally exhausted, I can’t be anything but nice to her.
She’s about Mom’s age-why’d Mom have to take that idiot Moron in, let him run her life, let him put a split in our family?
Why couldn’t Mom learn to be alone?
Dr. Delaware said it was probably an accident, he pushed her and she fell, but that doesn’t make her any more alive.
I keep thinking: If I’d been there, I could’ve saved her.
Dr. Delaware talked to me about guilt, how it was normal but it would pass. How it was the parents’ job to take care of children, not the other way around. He said Mom did love me, she meant well, but she’d hit some bad luck. He also said that what happened to her was terrible-no way would he try to tell me everything was okay, because it wasn’t.
He was certain, though, that Mom would be proud of how well I’d done on my own.
Maybe.
