“I see,” she says at last, picking up her fork again. “Perhaps you have a problem with me yourself?” She doesn’t look at Lyle, but concentrates on her food.
“I’m just having a hard time believing it’s a coincidence that Paris gets hurt immediately after you show up in his life.” Lyle has his arms folded across his chest and is glowering at Ursula. I cannot reconcile this sullen, angry man with the easygoing, laidback Lyle that I have come to know.
“Are you accusing me of hurting my own son?” Ursula sets down her fork again, the better to glare at Lyle. I barely restrain a sigh of impatience. There is enough tension between Mrs. Jenson and Lyle without adding this complication to the situation.
“I’m not accusing you of anything.” Despite the soothing words, Lyle’s countenance becomes even more grave. “I’d just like to know why you chose yesterday to contact Paris.” Although I would have phrased it differently, I’d like to know the answer to that question as well. Ursula sits up straight in her chair, losing her insouciance. She places her napkin carefully by the side of her plate.
“Giving up the t—Paris was the hardest thing I’ve had to do in my life. My parents told me in no uncertain terms that I would be out of their house if I kept a child out of wedlock. I cried for the last month of my pregnancy. Jersey? Horrid. The trip to Tijuana? I don’t even remember it.” She pauses to take a sip of water. “Paris was the sweetest, most perfect baby ever. Oh sure, I know all mothers think that but in this case, it’s true. He didn’t cry and when he smiled, I just melted. When the lawyer took him from my arms for the last time, I felt as if my soul was ripped from my body. I had to bite my tongue until it bled so I wouldn’t beg for him back.” Ursula laughs a shade bitterly, bemused by her own stupidity. “I saw him everywhere I went. Of course, I didn’t know his name was Paris. I only knew he was adopted by a healthy Caucasian couple. Back in those days, they didn’t tell you anything! I got on with my life as best I could, but still thought of—him every day. Five years ago, I had a little cancer scare and realized life is short. It was time to reconnect with my past. I hired a private investigator.”
“It took the P.I. five years to find Paris?” Lyle interrupts, his forehead furrowed. “He must not have been very good.”
“She was fine,” Ursula says pointedly before relaxing again. She waves off the server who is hovering behind her. “It’s just, my second husband served me with divorce papers around that time, leaving me for his secretary. What a cliché! That’s when Lois started acting out. One day, she’s a sweet, tiny thing—the next, she’s this big, blond monster. She shot up over night! We moved to San Francisco for the proverbial new start.” She reflects for a minute, her eyes hooded. They clear as she continues. “If it weren’t for the support of a very dear friend, I never would have made it through. Those were some desperate days before my breakout book. ” She made twenty-five million in three years? That’s simply amazing—unless she had money to begin with.
“Still, five years?” Lyle protests. “I’m surprised it took that long.”
I don’t say anything as I digest what I’ve heard. I want to believe her not only because I like her, but because she’s Paris’s birthmother. However, there is so much about her that has been left unsaid. She is glibly explaining why it took five years to find Paris. She didn’t know his name at all, which was a big stumbling block. By the time she started her search, Mr. Frantz was dead and Paris’s mother had remarried which made the trail doubly hard to follow. There were other things she had to deal with in the meantime. I am eager to hear what exactly those other things are, but Ursula declines to talk about them. She also declines to talk more about Paris’s father, saying she doesn’t even know his full name. Seeing the skeptical look on our faces, she hastens to explain that he just told her to call him Benny. She hasn’t seen either him or his sister since high school, and that was almost thirty years ago. I can’t really fault her for that as I have a porous memory myself.
“Holy shit!” I blurt out, pressing my hand to my mouth. Immediately, I feel like a damned ingénue in a cheap novel and drop my pose. “You’re Ursula Meadows.” Talk about fucking coincidences! This is a big one.
“Geez, I can almost feel sorry for her,” Lyle mutters once we make it safely outside. “Her whole fucking life is falling apart.”
I bring up Paris’s birthmother, something both of us have let slide. She did call Paris the afternoon he was hit. Is it merely a coincidence that on the day she calls, Paris is hit? That’s too much to swallow, although coincidences do occur. Lyle and I look at each other, thinking the same thing. Where is Paris’s cell phone? Lyle had assumed the doctors had it, but he isn’t sure. We have to get the cell phone to find out if there is a record of Paris’s birthmother’s phone call. I curse Paris silently for his love of drama. If he had just told one of us who she was before he was hit, we wouldn’t have to waste time tracking her down. Lyle and I both start shoveling in the our food as fast as possible, gabbing the whole time.
I hurry home and take a quick nap before hopping in the shower. Nothing feels as good as the water running down my body. The steam soothes the prickliness I feel, but to my horror, I start to cry. The tears I’ve been repressing all night long storm to the surface and spill over, mingling with the shower water on the way down. I start to sob loudly, unable to control my response. I can’t control my shivering, no matter how hot I make the water. I place my hand on the wall to steady myself, but my knees are trembling and I feel as if I’m going to fall over. I close my eyes and try not to lose my balance. My legs aren’t listening to my commands, and down I go. I land on my ass with a thud—it’s cold on the ground. I wrap my arms around my knees and just let the water fall onto me.
Per agreement, they didn’t try to find the teenager or even speculate about whom she might be. Mrs. Frantz was too tense to relax, but Mr. Frantz managed to enjoy much of the local flavor, especially the spirits of the land. He was fond of rum, which was plentiful in supply. Mrs. Frantz sat in their hotel room and waited, dreaming of her baby boy. By then, she knew she was getting a son, but she was cautious about investing too much emotion in him until she actually held him in her arms. She just sat with the lights out, gazing outside her window, not really seeing anything. Her husband would try to coax her to join him in his revelry, but she rebuffed him firmly. When the first day melted into the second day, she began to get jittery. Their lawyer had said the baby was born already, so she didn’t see the problem. She was afraid to voice the fear niggling the back of her mind—the birthmother had changed her mind. The second fear—the birthmother wanted more money. There was none to be had. The Frantzes had to borrow heavily to come up with the ten thousand, not to mention the trip to Tijuana.
“Lyle, honey, we’re here.” I tap him gently on the shoulder, not wanting to disturb him. He looks up, his eyes blank.
