Leann Sweeney - Pick Your Poison

He marched ahead of me, and I heard the phone ringing beyond a door across the foyer.

“I’ll find my way out,” I said.

He waited until I was out the front door, but didn’t come too close... almost as if he were afraid of what was out there. He certainly wasn’t afraid of me.

It was raining like God opened the drain, and I hesitated before closing the front door behind me. Just then a gust of wind blew me backward and the door opened, horizontal rain spraying into the foyer. I stepped back inside, deciding to wait a minute or two for the weather to let up.

That was when I realized I could hear Feldman talking in the other room. He said, “When do you think you’ll be here?”

Silence followed. I moved closer to the half-open door.

Feldman said, “I’ve had a visitor. Houston Police.”

His voice drifted closer, as if he might be walking toward me.

Damn.

I hurried across the foyer and crouched behind a large statue of some naked Greek god. I sneaked a peek and saw Feldman step out, his attention on the open front door. He maneuvered around the puddle on the floor, shut the door, and practically jumped away after doing so. As he went back into the other room, I heard him say, “Stupid woman left the door open.”

Taking a path close to the wall, I tiptoed back, stopping outside the room just in time to hear him say, “I understand. But they’re putting things together.”

Another pause before he said, “I know they don’t have any evidence, but she mentioned Eugenia Hayes, and she was one of the judges. If they dig deep enough, they’ll find out Rose made her step down and—Hold on; I’ve got another call.”

My knees almost gave way, and I steadied myself against the wall. Then, not caring whether Feldman knew I’d been listening in, I opened the door and ran out into the stinging rain. I didn’t remember starting the car or navigating through the downpour, but soon I found myself on P Street.

I parked in the driveway and sat there in the Camry, not bothering to even turn off the air-conditioning, my soaked clothing molded to my cold, shivering body. Rain still poured in unrelenting intensity from the swirling slate sky.

I clutched the steering wheel, my knuckles protruding white and sharp through the stretched skin of my hands. The truth, the thing that was supposed to set you free and all that crap, ricocheted between the confines of my skull, cruel and punishing.

Then tears began sliding down my cheeks and under my chin.

The rain let up minutes later, but rivulets continued to trail down the windshield. I watched one and then another and another meander and disappear. I could have easily run to the Victorian during this temporary reprieve, but I remained paralyzed in my car.

Those words, Rose made her step down , kept replaying in my head like a broken car alarm, over and over and over.

I don’t know how much time passed, but my tears had dried. I was left feeling numb and more alone than I could remember. That was when another man’s words came back. Jeff Kline’s words. Ben Grayson was living on your property because he wanted to be there. Yes, indeed. Ben had come to find Daddy, to find Kate and me.

“How very clever of you, Daddy,” I whispered. Was anything he’d told us true? Had there even been a fatal plane crash right before Kate and I were born? I doubted it.

And did he have any idea how much this truth would hurt when it came pouncing out from the past? How did I reevaluate a lifetime founded on deception? Where did I begin?

I felt overwhelmed and unequipped to deal with any of this. I wanted none of such a messy past. But having made the first vital connection, my synapses continued to fire. My father made Hayes step down because someone threatened to expose the judge as corrupt, had threatened to reclaim her children.

Cloris. Also known as Connie. Also known as my mother .

I shook my head, sprinkling the windshield with water from my drenched hair. Don’t think about that part, Abby. Not now.

Rain pummeled my car anew, and for some silly reason—maybe denial was kicking in—I entertained the notion that Daddy could have been honoring a friend’s request when he forced Hayes to resign—simply been helping some friend protect their adopted children, not his own. After all, he had powerful business connections and measurable influence in political circles.

But I knew the truth, and the more I tried to push it away with implausible explanations, the more its presence grew. But that voice in my head came back with, You don’t have solid proof. All you have is an overheard sentence spoken by a cruel old man.

And I had to be one hundred percent sure.

Eugenia Hayes knew everything. At least, she used to know. Could I drag the truth from the cloud of confusion fogging her mind? Maybe if I could hear the words from her, from the woman who sealed the deal, I could accept that I was raised by a man who then spent a generation lying to my sister and me.

The same curly-haired woman sat filing her nails at the information desk at the nursing home. When I marched past her, she spotted me and called out, “You can’t go up there!”

Over my shoulder I said, “I’ll only be a few minutes. I need to talk to Eugenia Hayes.”

I continued toward the elevator.

“Don’t make me call security. No visitors for her.”

I turned and went back to the desk. “Has something happened? Is she sick?”

“You upset her last time, and her son had a fit. Seems she called him and rambled on about bribes and crooked lawyers. She got so worked up she had to have three breathing treatments. After that, Mr. Hayes told the doctor not to let in anyone else.” She lifted her eyes, her withering gaze intended to shame me. “The son doesn’t come here much, you know. Of course, after you explained to me about Eugenia’s operation, I could understand his shame, but—”

“Wait a minute. I never said anything about any operation .”

She kept on talking, ignoring me. “Then I knew what had upset her son so much. Mr. Hayes was worried that little tidbit about his mother’s operation would get around town, don’t you know.” She paused, glanced around the deserted lobby, then whispered, “About her sex change.”

She resumed her normal tone. “I told him I wouldn’t tell—but he kept denying Eugenia started out as his father, Eugene . But we know better, don’t we?” She winked. “So you’re the one who got him so mad.” She smiled, pleased with this logic, and started buffing her index finger.

I had to talk to the judge. Now. So I did what lately seemed to come so naturally to Charlie Rose’s daughter: I lied.

Leaning on the desk, I said, “Eugenia told me about her son, how he keeps visitors away. How he’s embarrassed by her. She’s lonely up there. Craves company. Do you want to contribute to making her last days on earth totally miserable? I don’t think that’s why you work with the elderly, is it?”

She set her nail buffer down. “Well... no.”

“Please let me talk to her. I’m begging for a few short minutes.”

“Maybe I could call the nurses’ station... say you’re an out-of-town relative and have the son’s okay to visit.” She pointed a finger at me. “But you have to give me your word you won’t upset her.”

“I promise.” And that was probably another lie. But I didn’t care.

Judge Hayes sat with the head of the bed propped up, her eyes clear and alert. “It’s about time you showed up,” she said. “I told that man who keeps insisting he’s my son to find you, get you back here,” she said. “Did you locate him?”