Private Lives. Karen Young
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it is to wake up in the mornings when you go to bed too late.” Elizabeth rose from the side of the bed, but Jesse caught her hand, stopping her.
“Will you stay beside me until I go to sleep, Aunt Lizzie?”
It had been weeks since Gina had arrived in the middle of the night with Jesse, pale and frightened and clinging to her mother’s jeans, but the ordeal was far from forgotten by the child. Jesse played hard during the day and even seemed okay at kindergarten, but at bedtime her anxieties surfaced.
Elizabeth was sympathetic to Gina’s plight, but her first thought had been for Jesse that night when she’d opened the door and the little girl had flung herself into her Aunt Lizzie’s arms. There was no telling what the child had witnessed in that final scene between Gina and Austin, as Gina had never quite revealed all the ugly details. But tension—and worse—between the child’s parents had taken a toll whether Gina allowed herself to see it or not.
“I think I will just have a seat in this old rocking chair,” Elizabeth had said in a reassuring tone as she pulled the antique close to Jesse’s bed. “I’ll rock awhile and you can count sheep.”
“Don’t turn off the light, Aunt Lizzie.”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t close the door.”
“No way. G’night, sweetheart.”
Jesse’s eyes darted to the window. “Does my daddy have a key to this house, Aunt Lizzie?”
“No, darling. Only your mommy and I have a key.”
“She might give it to Daddy.”
“She won’t. She promised. It’s just for her.”
“Good.” Jesse paused a beat or two. “Could he get in the window, do you think?”
“No, sweetheart. I have a security system, remember? When a door is opened or a window is raised, it goes off and the police hurry over here.”
“Police are good. They help people.” Reassured somewhat, Jesse yawned widely, eyes heavy at last, wanting to close. “We learned that in school.”
“Yes, police help people.” Elizabeth had reached over and rubbed the child’s back, her own throat tight with emotion. It wasn’t fair for a child to have these fears! “Don’t worry, Jesse. You’re safe here with me. Always.”
“Is my mommy safe?”
“I’m sure she is, but she’s probably stuck in traffic, sweetheart. She’ll be home soon.”
“I’m glad you’re not stuck somewhere, Aunt Lizzie. I need you to be here…with…me.” Words had slurred into silence then. And with a last flutter of lashes, Jesse had finally surrendered to sleep.
Elizabeth had actually felt the tension easing from the child’s body. Recalling it now, Elizabeth wrestled with conflicting feelings of loyalty to Gina and her love for Jesse. With a sigh, she rested her hands on the railing of the gazebo and felt frustration and not a little fear. Jesse was safe now, and yet Elizabeth knew how tenuous that security was. She was unable to control the other forces threatening this child of her heart. How many lectures had she given Gina about her responsibility to Jesse? And how little did anything she said matter when Gina’s obsession with Austin was so much stronger? It mystified Elizabeth how Gina could choose the brutal, unsafe existence she had with her lover over other options. And to subject Jesse to it defied understanding.
The truth was, no matter how Elizabeth wished it otherwise, Gina was basically flawed as a parent. She was a less-than-perfect mother. Of course, Elizabeth would never tell her that, or anyone else. She, above all others, understood Gina, knew where she came from. Her personality had been set in their early years as they’d been shuffled from one foster home after another, both longing for permanency and parents of their own. Knowing firsthand the damage that was done when children were denied the stability of a good home, why didn’t Gina do the right thing? It was this failure on Gina’s part to protect Jesse from the damage they’d suffered that confounded Elizabeth most.
Watching Jesse now, Elizabeth knew the bittersweet pain of loving someone else’s child. If Jesse were hers, she’d never be subjected to the terror of feuding adults. If Jesse were hers, she’d treasure the child as a gift from God. If Jesse were hers, it would be a second chance for her and she’d be a good mother the second time around. And this time, she’d never let go.
Two
Elizabeth received an e-mail the day after the article appeared in the newspaper, and her first reaction was total surprise. The address on the screen was unfamiliar, but the subject grabbed her instantly, which was exactly what the writer intended, she decided later. Usually, she went through her messages and deleted anything she didn’t recognize, as well as annoying advertisements and worse. How she’d managed to get on some of those lists, she hadn’t a clue. But the highlighted e-mail wasn’t an advertisement or a pitch to draw her into a porn site.
“Daughters of Judge Matthew S. Walker,” she read. The sender was somebody named Blackstone at a local television station. The name meant nothing to Elizabeth. She decided it was probably something to do with the article in the newspaper yesterday. Unlike Elizabeth, her editor had been pleased over the publicity. She’d probably dance a jig at the possibility of a live TV spot in a market as large as Houston. Still…
“Daughters of Judge Matthew S. Walker,” she read again, her hand hovering on the mouse. Being only human, curiosity got the best of her and she opened the e-mail.
Hi, Elizabeth.
You don’t know me yet, but it’s my hope that you will want to. I’m Lindsay Blackstone. You may have seen my show on WBYH-TV, “Lindsay’s Hour,” which is now canceled, I’m sorry to say. Anyway, I read the article about you in the Sunday Chronicle and, guess what? My sister Megan and I are your sisters! After Judge Walker’s death twenty-five years ago, we were adopted by Joseph and Emily Blackstone and now we would like, more than anything, to meet you.
Elizabeth’s heart was beating wildly in her chest now. Her sisters’ good fortune had been hard for the five-year-old Elizabeth to accept. While they’d been basking in the attention and care of two loving parents, she’d been surviving the trauma of numerous foster homes. Everything about that time was so painful that she never—absolutely never—allowed it to surface in her mind.
Megan is doing her residency at Hermann Hospital and hardly has a life at all, but she’ll make time to meet you. She’s as eager to know you as I am. Also, I was telling my producer here at Channel 6 about you being my sister. He saw the article, too, but as he has small children, he already knew about you and that you’d won the Newbery. Oh, by the way, congratulations on that! He said he hoped I had inherited some of that talent. He’s always trying to one-up me, but this time I have to agree. However, I hardly think my gift of gab is in a class with your awesome talent as a writer. Which brings me to this: When can we get together, Elizabeth? Just name the time and place. It’ll be wonderful to reconnect, don’t you think? Please call.
Elizabeth stared at a string of numbers, three for Lindsay, her office phone, her cell phone and her home, as well as numbers for Megan. There was even a number for the Blackstones at home. She’d signed the e-mail, “Love, Lindsay.”
She sat looking at that salutation for a long time. Rejecting it. Disbelieving it. Drumming up some kind of relationship with her biological sisters was the last thing she wanted or needed now.
Her throat was tight and her hands, resting on the keyboard, were unsteady. First, the article exposing facts from the past that she’d worked so hard to forget, and now this. She had known when she won the Newbery Medal that some of her cherished privacy would be compromised, but she hadn’t expected her whole life to become an open book. Hand on the mouse, Elizabeth deleted the e-mail.
She clicked the icon to bring up her word processing program and opened a new document