local military unit who’d brought them into Guatemala City—” Evelyn broke off. “I’m sorry, Vicki. I forget how difficult this must be for you. Does it bother you to talk about it?”
“Not at all,” Vicki said truthfully. “I never knew them after all. But if this is hard for you . . .”
“It’s been twenty years,” Evelyn said gently. “It’s time they were remembered, especially by their daughters.”
“Then I’d like to hear the rest,” Vicki said. “How were they killed? Was it a car accident?”
“Oh, it was no accident. That was in the news coverage, though not much more. I guess it was assumed to be one more car-jacking or robbery. When they were identified, my first concern was you and Holly, so I went to the embassy. All they would tell me was that you two girls had already been evacuated to the States. I was sorry I couldn’t say good-bye or keep in touch. You both were so precious to me.”
Evelyn stopped again to scrutinize Vicki. “You really don’t remember any of this? I mean, Holly was just a baby, but you were five. Surely you must have some memory.”
Vicki lifted her shoulders. “I don’t remember anything that far back. My first memories are the orphanage where Holly and I used to live.”
Evelyn looked at Vicki in dismay. “I . . . I had no idea. I’d always assumed you went home to family. At least—well, I knew Victoria was raised in foster care, one of the reasons she was so interested in my work, but I thought Jeff had family. I am so sorry.” Her hands shook with distress as she closed the photo album.
Vicki gently touched Evelyn’s arm. “Really, it’s okay. We weren’t always in an orphanage. We were in and out of foster homes until we finally settled down with Mom and Dad Andrews.”
Vicki had always known that it was her fault. Many families were anxious to take in an adorable blonde toddler, but a stubborn first-grader who refused to speak was a different story.
“Andrews. The people you said adopted you?”
“Yes. They were retired schoolteachers. They’d never had children of their own, and they missed them when they stopped teaching, so they volunteered as foster parents. We were their first—and last—assignment. After a couple of years they adopted us.”
The memories came clearly to Vicki’s mind because they were the first that didn’t clutch at her stomach with that dark, cold queasiness. The old white-framed farmhouse. The big apple tree with its rope swing. The barn and its animals that had immediately captivated Holly.
And for Vicki the attic bedroom. It was not a child’s room with its neat twin beds, old-fashioned wallpaper, and braided rugs, but the girls had found two new dolls on the pillows and a small white bookshelf stuffed with children’s classics. Vicki had walked over to pick out a book and sat down to read. By then she was seven, Holly almost five.
Vicki had read incessantly through the first weeks while Holly chattered excitedly about animals and flowers. The Andrews made no attempt to dissuade Vicki, interfering only to insist she ate and slept.
Then one day she’d emerged from her fantasy world to follow the smell of cinnamon downstairs where Mom Andrews and Holly were shaping snickerdoodle cookies for the oven. Sitting on a tall stool with the Andrews’ fluffy Persian cat in her lap, she’d related to them the entire story of Frances Hodgson Burnett’s The Secret Garden.
“Were you happy there?” Evelyn asked. “Were they good to you?”
“They were very kind to us. More than I deserved, I’m sure. Holly doesn’t remember anything earlier. They were just Mom and Dad to her, and she loved the farm and the animals. I’d always thought that was where she’d picked up that song. Holly just wouldn’t stop singing it. To her it was about God making a beautiful world. To me it was about a father who wasn’t there. I mean, I loved
“Not at all,” Vicki said truthfully. “I never knew them after all. But if this is hard for you . . .”
“It’s been twenty years,” Evelyn said gently. “It’s time they were remembered, especially by their daughters.”
“Then I’d like to hear the rest,” Vicki said. “How were they killed? Was it a car accident?”
“Oh, it was no accident. That was in the news coverage, though not much more. I guess it was assumed to be one more car-jacking or robbery. When they were identified, my first concern was you and Holly, so I went to the embassy. All they would tell me was that you two girls had already been evacuated to the States. I was sorry I couldn’t say good-bye or keep in touch. You both were so precious to me.”
Evelyn stopped again to scrutinize Vicki. “You really don’t remember any of this? I mean, Holly was just a baby, but you were five. Surely you must have some memory.”
Vicki lifted her shoulders. “I don’t remember anything that far back. My first memories are the orphanage where Holly and I used to live.”
Evelyn looked at Vicki in dismay. “I . . . I had no idea. I’d always assumed you went home to family. At least—well, I knew Victoria was raised in foster care, one of the reasons she was so interested in my work, but I thought Jeff had family. I am so sorry.” Her hands shook with distress as she closed the photo album.
Vicki gently touched Evelyn’s arm. “Really, it’s okay. We weren’t always in an orphanage. We were in and out of foster homes until we finally settled down with Mom and Dad Andrews.”
Vicki had always known that it was her fault. Many families were anxious to take in an adorable blonde toddler, but a stubborn first-grader who refused to speak was a different story.
“Andrews. The people you said adopted you?”
“Yes. They were retired schoolteachers. They’d never had children of their own, and they missed them when they stopped teaching, so they volunteered as foster parents. We were their first—and last—assignment. After a couple of years they adopted us.”
The memories came clearly to Vicki’s mind because they were the first that didn’t clutch at her stomach with that dark, cold queasiness. The old white-framed farmhouse. The big apple tree with its rope swing. The barn and its animals that had immediately captivated Holly.
And for Vicki the attic bedroom. It was not a child’s room with its neat twin beds, old-fashioned wallpaper, and braided rugs, but the girls had found two new dolls on the pillows and a small white bookshelf stuffed with children’s classics. Vicki had walked over to pick out a book and sat down to read. By then she was seven, Holly almost five.
Vicki had read incessantly through the first weeks while Holly chattered excitedly about animals and flowers. The Andrews made no attempt to dissuade Vicki, interfering only to insist she ate and slept.
Then one day she’d emerged from her fantasy world to follow the smell of cinnamon downstairs where Mom Andrews and Holly were shaping snickerdoodle cookies for the oven. Sitting on a tall stool with the Andrews’ fluffy Persian cat in her lap, she’d related to them the entire story of Frances Hodgson Burnett’s The Secret Garden.
“Were you happy there?” Evelyn asked. “Were they good to you?”
“They were very kind to us. More than I deserved, I’m sure. Holly doesn’t remember anything earlier. They were just Mom and Dad to her, and she loved the farm and the animals. I’d always thought that was where she’d picked up that song. Holly just wouldn’t stop singing it. To her it was about God making a beautiful world. To me it was about a father who wasn’t there. I mean, I loved
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