“
Ms. Liang,” the inspector nods at my mother, then frowns. There is the apparent problem of confusion of address with two Ms. Liangs in the room.
“You can call me Songbird,” my mother says helpfully, drawing a raised eyebrow from the inspector and a giggle from me. “Or Susannah,” my mother adds, anxious to make Inspector Robinson more comfortable.
“How about Mrs. Liang,” Inspector Robinson says cautiously. In this day and age, it’s more common than not to offend women by offering to call them ‘Mrs.’.
“That’s fine, too,” my mother says cheerfully. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Um, no, thank you, ma’am,” Inspector Robinson says, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. My mother has that effect on people. “Ms. Liang, would you please show me the mailbox??” Inspector Robinson is so bewitched by my mother that she doesn’t even protest when my mother trails behind us as we retreat downstairs again. I remember to lock the door.
“Here it is,” I say, stepping aside to let the good inspector view the remains of my mail box, which she probably saw on her way in. She keeps her hands in her pockets as she examines the box—there isn’t much to see.
“Did you touch anything?” She asks, her voice laced with weariness. My mother looks at her sympathetically, which doesn’t escape the inspector’s attention. There’s a rap on the door which startles my mother and me. “There’s the team. Why don’t you take your mother upstairs and wait for me there?”
“I didn’t touch anything,” I say rapidly. “But upstairs, the front door, there are scratches. I touched that, obviously.” She nods, smiles briefly, then goes to let her people in. I can hear one of them bitching loudly, probably raising his voice on purpose for my benefit.
“Christ, Inspector, this is fucking ridiculous. Why the special treatment? This chick your girlfriend or something?” Inspector Robinson’s response is immediate and scathing.
“If you object to doing your job, Donaldson, let me know, and I’ll be sure to inform your supervisor of your distaste.” Donaldson glowers at the inspector, but stops complaining.
“I like her,” my mother said admiringly as we reentered the apartment. I don’t bother to answer as I head for the coffee table where I keep the mail. I leaf through it, but don’t find anything other than bills and advertisements. “Do you think she’s a lesbian?” My mother continues speculating. “That comment her coworker made gives me hope.”
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.
