much when she was growing up, or at all since the divorce. Advancing years, he'd said, had imparted wisdom and caused him to reshape his priorities, with family now being number one. Maybe he even meant it; certainly, with his second family, he acted as though he did.
"I've asked you before not to call me Barty."
"I'll try to remember." Lisa's brow knit as a thought occurred. "I wasn't adopted by any chance, was I?"
She knew the answer, of course. Or at least, she was as sure as it was possible to be that she did. But something--his lifelong relative indifference to her as compared with his attentiveness to his stepsons, who were not, after all, even related to him by blood; her resemblance to Angela Garcia; the damned doll--caused the question to spring into her mind out of nowhere.
There was the briefest of pauses.
"Why on earth would you ask me something like that?"
"Because I came across a cold-case file today at work concerning the disappearance of a family from this area in the 1980s. The thing is, I look like the dead mother--Angela Garcia. A woman I work with thought so, too. She gave me the file, I brought it home, and I was just looking at the picture again when you called. The resemblance is unreal. And I thought if I was adopted, that would explain so much."
Like why you've never loved me, she thought, but didn't say it aloud.
She could hear him spluttering on the other end of the phone.
"That's the stupidest thing I ever heard! Of course you're not adopted. Your mother gave birth to you on April seventh, 1981, around seven in the morning, in some hospital or another--I've forgotten its name--in Silver Spring, Maryland. I was there, she was there, you came out the natural way. There's probably even a videotape of it around somewhere. Listen here, Lisa, if you want to succeed as a lawyer, you've got to put that over-the-top imagination of yours to rest."
The fact that she 'd had an imaginary friend when she was a little girl, and then, as a preteen and beyond, been sure enough that the house was haunted that she'd had to sleep with a light on, was, no doubt, the basis of his "crazy imagination" crack. It didn't make her feel any fonder of him.
"Lisa! Supper!" Robin's voice floated up the stairs.
"Look, Barty, I've got to go. Tell Todd good luck from me when you see him Friday."
"Lisa--"
But whatever else he had been going to say was lost as she disconnected.
"Lisa!" Robin yelled again. Knowing that such volume meant that her mother was already making her way toward the table, Lisa stuck her phone in her pocket and hurried from the room.
"Coming!" she called back.
When she got downstairs the visitors were gone and her mother was sitting in her state-of-the-art wheelchair at the head of the highly polished mahogany table in the dining room, where they still ate simply because they had always done so, despite the fact that the kitchen would have been much more practical. Hand-painted Chinese wallpaper, a thick Aubusson carpet, and heavy gold silk draperies gave the room a formal feel. Pretty place mats had been topped with her mother's favorite Herend china, and Robin was in the process of ladling delicious-smelling soup into bowls.
"Annalisa." Her mother's still beautiful blue eyes brightened as Lisa entered the room, and a warm smile curved her mouth. Annalisa Seraphina was her full given name, chosen, Martha had often told her, because the name Martha Ann was so plain and she 'd wished for something more romantic her entire life. Therefore, she'd bestowed a wonderfully romantic name on her daughter. Lisa was only glad that no more than a handful of people knew it.
"Hello, Mother."
Before taking the chair beside her, Lisa dropped a quick kiss on her cheek. Her mother's skin felt soft and dry and fragile as old silk beneath her lips. Martha had once been five-foot-six with an athletic build and enough energy to make teenage Lisa want to stay perpetually flopped on the couch in self-defense. An
"I've asked you before not to call me Barty."
"I'll try to remember." Lisa's brow knit as a thought occurred. "I wasn't adopted by any chance, was I?"
She knew the answer, of course. Or at least, she was as sure as it was possible to be that she did. But something--his lifelong relative indifference to her as compared with his attentiveness to his stepsons, who were not, after all, even related to him by blood; her resemblance to Angela Garcia; the damned doll--caused the question to spring into her mind out of nowhere.
There was the briefest of pauses.
"Why on earth would you ask me something like that?"
"Because I came across a cold-case file today at work concerning the disappearance of a family from this area in the 1980s. The thing is, I look like the dead mother--Angela Garcia. A woman I work with thought so, too. She gave me the file, I brought it home, and I was just looking at the picture again when you called. The resemblance is unreal. And I thought if I was adopted, that would explain so much."
Like why you've never loved me, she thought, but didn't say it aloud.
She could hear him spluttering on the other end of the phone.
"That's the stupidest thing I ever heard! Of course you're not adopted. Your mother gave birth to you on April seventh, 1981, around seven in the morning, in some hospital or another--I've forgotten its name--in Silver Spring, Maryland. I was there, she was there, you came out the natural way. There's probably even a videotape of it around somewhere. Listen here, Lisa, if you want to succeed as a lawyer, you've got to put that over-the-top imagination of yours to rest."
The fact that she 'd had an imaginary friend when she was a little girl, and then, as a preteen and beyond, been sure enough that the house was haunted that she'd had to sleep with a light on, was, no doubt, the basis of his "crazy imagination" crack. It didn't make her feel any fonder of him.
"Lisa! Supper!" Robin's voice floated up the stairs.
"Look, Barty, I've got to go. Tell Todd good luck from me when you see him Friday."
"Lisa--"
But whatever else he had been going to say was lost as she disconnected.
"Lisa!" Robin yelled again. Knowing that such volume meant that her mother was already making her way toward the table, Lisa stuck her phone in her pocket and hurried from the room.
"Coming!" she called back.
When she got downstairs the visitors were gone and her mother was sitting in her state-of-the-art wheelchair at the head of the highly polished mahogany table in the dining room, where they still ate simply because they had always done so, despite the fact that the kitchen would have been much more practical. Hand-painted Chinese wallpaper, a thick Aubusson carpet, and heavy gold silk draperies gave the room a formal feel. Pretty place mats had been topped with her mother's favorite Herend china, and Robin was in the process of ladling delicious-smelling soup into bowls.
"Annalisa." Her mother's still beautiful blue eyes brightened as Lisa entered the room, and a warm smile curved her mouth. Annalisa Seraphina was her full given name, chosen, Martha had often told her, because the name Martha Ann was so plain and she 'd wished for something more romantic her entire life. Therefore, she'd bestowed a wonderfully romantic name on her daughter. Lisa was only glad that no more than a handful of people knew it.
"Hello, Mother."
Before taking the chair beside her, Lisa dropped a quick kiss on her cheek. Her mother's skin felt soft and dry and fragile as old silk beneath her lips. Martha had once been five-foot-six with an athletic build and enough energy to make teenage Lisa want to stay perpetually flopped on the couch in self-defense. An
Similar Books
