The Concealers (8 page)

“I never knew how much of what little information I had was true. It was military. Who knows what really happened? Or when? I didn't . . . not being Larry's spouse meant I had no standing. It was awful, not being in a position to demand answers. I was the one who loved him. The article didn't refer to Larry at all. I know why it matters to you, and I know why it doesn't matter to me, except that it matters to you.”

Katherine watched her mother rub the back of her neck, and the tears form in her mother's eyes—the dam broke as Katherine could no longer hold her own tears back. She felt her body move over to her mom, and her arms reach out and hold her. They stayed locked together arm in arm for a time, not saying a word. Finally, Katherine heard herself say, “It must have been terrible. I can only imagine.”

“I loved Larry and he loved me. But he loved the Air Force more,” Beth blurted, reaching for the box of tissues on a nearby table. “I tried to get him to marry me, I really tried. And then he was off, gone. Some men would rather fly and fight than . . . if he didn't want me . . . I thought it was wrong to try to keep him. I don't expect you to understand.”

“This much I understand. Larry Manning was not my father. But you know who is.”

Katherine watched Beth's head and shoulders drop, as if her mother were shrinking before her eyes. Then Beth sat up, straightening her back as if raised by an imaginary rope from a pulley in the cabana frame, removed her sunglasses, and brushed the hair back from her face with her hand. Katherine decided not to say a word.

“I was twenty-one and had just graduated from Plattsburgh. Larry had been gone for weeks. Not a word. I was starting a residency program at Roosevelt Hospital, not far from where we are today. One of my first patients was a young, rich guy who wanted—after he was discharged—to take me to dinner. Of course I refused, but when I finished my shift that night he was waiting in a big black limousine. I was exhausted and hungry. And afterward, I persuaded him to ride around for a while.”

“What does that mean?” Katherine asked, not removing her own glasses.

“Well, the club had been great; the limo was luxurious; I'd had a few drinks; and he had been a perfect gentleman. I . . . ”

“Came on to him?” Katherine said.

Their drinks arrived, and Beth paused long enough to drink half of hers at once.

“And more,” she admitted.

“By the end of the summer I knew I was pregnant. I was scared. What would I say to Larry when I saw him again? And what would I tell my parents?”

“What did you do?”

“I went to confession and talked with Father Patterson. He was no help. He told me God would understand, that He would provide a way if I would just listen to Him. I resolved to keep the baby—from the start—and I made up my mind to tell your grandfather about my indiscretion in the city. I wanted to talk with my father, but I just couldn't do it.”

“Then what happened?”

Before we could have that talk, I got the call from Larry's buddy that he had been killed in action—months earlier.”

“Wow,” Katherine said.

“I was a wreck. Coming apart. I told my mother and father about Larry. And then I blurted out that I was pregnant. You know Grandpa and Grandma—they told me not to worry; they'd stand behind me, help me as best they could. They just assumed Larry was the father. I knew I didn't love your father, he didn't love me, and I didn't think it would be fair to bring him into it. I'd met his mother, and I feared she would think I wanted his money. I decided to raise you as a single mom, and let everybody think whatever they would think.”

Katherine worked to process what her mother had just said, trying to force her mind to be objective. She downed the rest of her vodka and waved for another.

“What is my father's name?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Preston Wilson.”

Katherine's mind was spinning out of control. In the unreality of the heat and the bright blue sky, she felt as though she and her mother were in a movie, in a video stuck on fast forward, “Preston Wilson” as though it were another name being called at graduation. She repeated the name, forcing it from her throat. Then she heard herself ask, “Where is he? Who is he?”

Her mother waved a hand vaguely over the city scene below them. “Right here,” her mother said. “He lives in New York. Trump Tower. He's a businessman.”

“What? Trump Tower?” Katherine couldn't believe it. This was not happening—except that it was. Her mother soldiered on with details, something about cars and real estate and a wife. Katherine instinctively pulled out her notepad and recorded the information as fast as she could. The problem was she was not writing about somebody else this time. She threw her pad down on the padded bench. She could see that her mother was tired, drained, and a little tipsy. She wasn't doing so well herself.

“This is ridiculous. I don't want to talk anymore. Actually, I don't want to listen anymore either,” Katherine said softly, trying to push back her emotions but finding the hole in the dam too big to block.

Beth nodded, either in agreement or resignation. Katherine accompanied her mother back to her room, waited for her to change and lie down to rest, and went down to hail a cab. But first she placed another call, to the only friend she knew she could count on at such a time.

Susan picked up on the second ring even though Katherine knew she hadn't yet left her office for the day. “What's up, Masters Kelly? How'd it go?”

“Hennessey's. Now. Ground rules: darts, drinking, no questions.”

“Sounds serious. Give me half an hour,” Susan said.

“What are we drinking?” Susan asked. “Or is that a prohibited question?”

“Guinness for me. Blue Moon for you? But I must tell you, I've had a head start.”

“You look absolutely awful,” Susan said.

“Thanks. You look like a grasshopper.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Always. Are you?”

“Well, I never even had lunch, now that I think about it.”

The waiter led them to a booth in the back, where they ordered beverages and burgers.

“So, I know you wanted to come to my graduation,” Katherine said. “But the truth is I also knew you'd think I looked awful, and you'd want to know why.”

“It's all right. You still look awful,” Susan said. She held up both hands, like a school crossing guard. “Hey, no questions, no problem. Let's just hang out and play some darts.”

Susan had been Katherine's sidekick, sounding board, and sometime rival throughout college. She, however, had also been her staunchest ally when it came to making a difference in the world. Their career plans differed, but they shared common ground. Both women had been moved by a guest lecturer's description of the state of diagnostic health care in underdeveloped countries. The speaker, Dr. Kristen DeStigter, co-founder of Imaging the World, explained that many pregnant women in Uganda died in childbirth—their pioneering program using portable ultrasound identified risky pregnancy situations so the women could get help in time for safe deliveries. The success rates were impressive, and Katherine and Susan both wanted to be a part of it.

Katherine was impressed with the depth and diversity of Susan's interests and talents. A drama and theatre arts major, a talented pianist and singer, and a fluent speaker of French, Susan was also fun, always able to make Katherine laugh. It was during their month-long volunteer stint in Uganda that Katherine discovered Susan's talents as a photographer. Katherine marveled at her ability to capture the feelings and character of the people she photographed.

But Katherine had also seen Susan's dark side and at times had witnessed changes in her behavior when drinking.

They devoured their food, talking about Susan's family, Katherine's job search, anything but the elephant in the room.

Finally, Katherine could hold back no longer. “I wasn't sure what was going on, Susan. I needed to talk to my mom. But I didn't want to screw up the day for her, and she didn't want to screw it up for me, either. She loves me, and she's proud of me,” she said, finishing the Guinness and signaling the waiter for another.

“It's deep, isn't it?” Susan said.

“Yeah, it is. We had a long talk.”

Susan picked at her fries, letting Katherine take her time.

Katherine drank deeply of the second beer.

“I've mentioned to you from time to time some of my feelings about wanting to know more about my father.”

Susan nodded and kept eating.

“Well, lately, I found out a lot more about him.”

Susan nodded and emptied her glass.

Katherine took out her pen, grabbed a napkin, and drew a couple of boxes. With her pen she pointed to the box on the left. “This is about a man named Larry who died during an Air Force special op before I was born and who I thought—until a few days ago—was my father,” she explained to Susan. Pointing to the box on the right, she said, “This is about a man named Preston, whom my mother met as a twenty-one-year-old nurse in the city—and a few hours ago I learned is my father.”

Susan dropped the French fry on her plate. “Oh, my God.”

“This gets a little complicated,” Katherine said.

“You think?”

Katherine retold the story in as much detail as she knew. It helped to say the facts out loud, to try and make sense of so much new information. “My mother didn't lie outright to anyone. She just let everyone go on believing what they assumed was true. She made the call to leave it that way. I'm not sure how I should feel about that—but right now it makes me angry as hell.”

Susan nodded. “Darts?”

Katherine woke up with two mad roofers competing to see who could pound the most nails into her head. Hearing the noise from the garbage trucks outside and the heavy rain against the windows, she knew she would pay for last night. She also knew that her mother would have to return home that afternoon, and their conversation was far from finished. She groped for her iPhone and hit the speed-dial number. She was amazed at how clear her mother sounded.

“Good morning, Kat. Have you had breakfast?”

“Uh, no, Mom, no . . . having a little trouble getting going this morning. Listen, I'm really sorry about leaving you in the lurch for dinner—”

“It's okay, I understand. I ordered room service and then slept for twelve hours. I'm guessing whatever you did, you needed to do.”

“I just bent Susan's ear all night, that's all.”

“I'm bringing you a bagel and coffee. Black, one Splenda, right?”

“You don't have to do that, Mom, I'll come—”

“I'm right here at the Starbucks around the corner. I'll be right up.”

Katherine fell back in bed but then forced herself to open her eyes again.
Mom made a real effort to be here
and
open her heart. I match that with a litany of questions, give no response to her answers, get drunk, and now leave her alone.
She showered and managed to pull on jeans and a Columbia T-shirt before the doorbell rang.

Her mother stood at the door, umbrella and overnight bag dripping, coffee tray and bagel sack in hand. Katherine showed her over to the small round table, where they unwrapped their bagels in the gray light of the apartment's lone window. Hailey followed them expectantly but lay down at Katherine's feet when she saw no treat was forthcoming for her.

Beth spoke first. Her words were measured and deliberate, and Katherine suspected she was struggling to keep control. “I know I've hurt you deeply, Katherine. I'm sorry. Really sorry. I hope somehow you can forgive me.”

Katherine fumbled in her handbag to retrieve her pen, and drew a straight vertical line on the Starbucks paper napkin. “You don't want to hear this, but I have to ask you more questions.”

“Ask.” Beth Kelly let out a sigh like air out of a punctured balloon.

Katherine drew two small circles on the left side of the line on the napkin. “I know why you didn't tell Grandma and Grandpa and why you didn't want to tell Preston. But did you ever feel that they had a right to know?”

“I had a lot of feelings. I was three years younger than you are now, unmarried, pregnant, and the man I loved was dead. I was scared to death, wondering how I could survive. What kept me going was the thought of raising my child—raising you. I couldn't see how telling Preston would make that easier. Deep down, I was afraid he would want to . . . make the situation go away. I couldn't do that. I decided to raise you myself, whatever it took.”

Katherine put a check in one of the circles. “So you've never tried to reach him? Have you ever thought about him?”

“I did reach him, finally,” Beth said.

The rain beat down harder on the window.

“When? How?”

“A little over three weeks ago, April 5 to be exact. On the telephone.”

“Why? Why then?”

“Because I knew you wouldn't let it go. I thought if I told him, it would be better for both of you.”

“How did you know where to reach him?”

“I'd thought about him over the years. I knew where to find him.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That he had a wonderful daughter, living in New York, that he would be very proud. And, that you could use a father.”

“A little late for that, don't you think?” Katherine said, sorry the second she said it, then, not sorry at all. She chose a different tack.

“Did you ever feel Grandma and Grandpa had a right to know?” Katherine asked, drawing a third circle on the napkin.

Beth seemed to think about the question but continued nibbling on her bagel.

“Did you ever feel
I
had a right to know?” Katherine asked, her lip beginning to tremble.

Beth stopped eating and turned her gaze directly at Katherine. “Let me ask
you
a question. Do you want a father?”

“Will you
please
just answer me? Did you feel I had a right to know that I had a father?” Katherine said, crying in earnest now.

“Of course you had a right to know. My mother and father had a right to know, too. And so did Preston. And I didn't have the courage to tell them or you. I've been living a lie for twenty-four years,” Beth said, her face distorted with a twisted half smile. She wiped tears away from her own eyes.

Katherine put her pen away and tore up the napkin. “I'm exhausted. Don't know what else to say. Do you want another cup of coffee? I can make some.”

“No, no thanks. But there is something else I'd like.”

“What?”

“I'd like you to try to forgive me,” Beth said, blowing her nose, tears returning. “I need to know that this will not . . . that we . . . that you will get over this, at least as to us.”

Katherine thought about her mother's bottom line question. Would their relationship survive? How could it not be affected by a lifetime's worth of lies? Not only lies to her, but to her grandmother and grandfather, her teachers, her friends, everyone. Not to mention what this meant to Mr. Wilson, wherever he was at this moment and whatever he was thinking.

Katherine felt like a car hitting a huge pothole, not only wrecking the tire, but forcing a total realignment of the car's body. Only it was her body, her mind, and her heart. She knew this would take time to sort out—for each of them. A lot of time. More than her mother had today. More than she would have for a lot of tomorrows. She decided to change the subject. She knew she had ruined her mother's trip and wanted to try to end on the best note she could.

“What's going on with your eyes?” Katherine asked, sensing her mother's relief at the shift in conversation. “You seem to be doing well.”

Beth relaxed into nurse mode. “There is a notable drusen increase in both eyes, crowding the maculae, but they're still dry. So far it hasn't interfered with my work, but that may change.”

“You're in the best place to get excellent care, though, right?”

“So far, so good. What about you, your headaches? The commotion brought on yesterday's, I'm sure. But have you had more?”

“Only a few recently . . . mostly when I was working on class deadlines or my job search.”

“You're worried about a job. I hate that I'm adding to the worry,” Beth said.

“I told you about the Career Expo in March, and the three best choices. An internship would be a foot in the door, and there are some very good ones, but the ones I've looked into don't pay much, maybe a thousand a month. Starting salaries in the City, fresh out, are better—maybe $58,000 or so—but it costs a lot more to live here. If I stay, I'd have to move to Brooklyn and commute. If I go to D.C. with
Mother Jones
—the magazine—my living expenses would be less—but so would the pay. Other than that, I've put out resumes, filled out a lot of applications, and had some phone interviews, but nothing else seems interesting yet.”

“What's Professor Simpson's advice? Didn't he want you to go to the
Times
?”

“I'm meeting with him in the morning.”

“Say hello,” Beth said, looking at her watch.

“You're okay for LaGuardia. How's Grandpa?”

“He's fine. He's missed you this year—it's not like when you were an undergrad at Columbia and could come home for breaks or long weekends.”

“I know. It's been pretty intense. The Fletcher Thomas program drives you hard, but the professors say in the end it'll pay off. Maybe once I get settled—wherever that will be—I can come back up for a real vacation.”

“That would be nice.” The rain hammered down. Beth went to use Katherine's closet-sized bathroom and repair her makeup, while Katherine phoned the car service.

Downstairs, Katherine, barefoot, held the umbrella and saw her mother into the sedan as the driver put the one small bag in the trunk.

“You didn't have to spring for luxury on your budget,” Beth chided her daughter.

“It's only a small thing. You'd have waited forever for a cab in this downpour.”

“Some things are a long time in coming,” she replied. She put her hand on the door to leave, and Katherine put her hand over it. “Wait, Mom, there is one more thing. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Beth said, patting her daughter's cheek and climbing in. “LaGuardia, please,” she said to the driver.

For hours later, watching the rain outside her window, Katherine replayed in her mind the conversation of the last two days. She was trying to absorb the disturbing realization that the idyllic construct of her father as a hero who died serving his country—and from that fact, must have been a man of strength, character, and purpose—was a myth. The foundation and architecture of his image, and her genetic connection and identity, a complete fabrication. Her desire, no,
compulsion,
to not disappoint this larger-than-life father—which had so driven her to excel in all she did—was a house built on quicksand.