The Last of the Stanfields(104)

“With the party in full swing, the getaway was smooth and easy, our driver waiting for us outside. Before we knew it, we were home at the loft. It was over. The deed was done.”

May fell silent, looking lost and staring out in the void. Her face withered back to its normal age. I could tell there was nothing else I would learn that day and feared she might not even know who I was, until she sighed wearily and told me once more how much I looked like my mother. Then, without hesitation, May rose and snatched the deck of cards from her neighbor, shuffled the deck, and asked if I knew how to play poker. Indeed, I did . . . or so I thought.

I proceeded to lose a hundred dollars in a matter of minutes. When George-Harrison returned, his mother discreetly slipped the money into her pocket. She greeted her son as though she hadn’t seen him in weeks, telling him how nice he was for paying his mother a visit.

George-Harrison announced that Mr. Gauthier had died before they had made it to the hospital.

“I called it! You didn’t believe me, but I told you he wouldn’t make it through the year!” May exclaimed with a hint of joy.

We spent the whole afternoon by her side, with her mind far away throughout. At about three in the afternoon, the sky cleared, and George-Harrison took his mother for a walk around the grounds. I took advantage of the time alone and tried to sort my head. Once more, I had uncovered a new wave of revelations, but once more they were all about my mother. We were no closer to learning who George-Harrison’s father was. I had no idea how to break the news that I hadn’t used May’s moments of lucidity to ask about his father. Especially in light of the promise I had made.

When the two returned, I looked at George-Harrison regretfully, sending the message that my lucky streak had ended and the visit had been fruitless. After the three of us had chatted for a while over a cup of tea, George-Harrison told his mother it was time for us to leave. May hugged her son and then turned to me.

“Oh, Melanie, I can’t tell you how glad I am you two got back together!” she said. “You really do make a lovely couple.”

As we crossed the parking lot toward the pickup, I told George-Harrison I had to run back to the reading room to get my phone, which I must have forgotten. It was a lie.

I found May sitting in the same spot, holding a cold cup of tea in front of her, her glazed eyes fixed on the chair where Mr. Gauthier had been sitting that very morning. Taking a cue from our poker game, I strode up to her and went all-in.

“I have no idea if you’re still in there, but if you can hear me, you need to listen to me. It’s my turn to give you some advice: you won’t be around forever. Don’t take your secret to the grave. Not knowing who his father is is tearing George-Harrison apart, and I can’t bear to watch him suffer. Can’t you see what you’re putting him through? Haven’t all these secrets caused enough pain and sadness? How can you still think some things are better left unsaid?”

May turned to me, her eyes sharp and full of spite. “Lovely sentiments, dear. But I’m not dead yet, thank you very much. You think that he’d be happier knowing that his father died years ago, and it was his mother’s fault? Some things are better left unsaid. So, if that’s all you’ve got to say, girl, you can go on your way now. I don’t like you keeping my son waiting.”

“Where are all the letters my mother wrote to you? Do you still have them?” I insisted.

May slapped my hand softly, as though scolding an impetuous child. “There are no letters from your mother! It was one-sided, except once, when we were making arrangements to meet. Your mother thought even writing to me would be like cheating on her husband. She chose to turn the page and move on. The only exception came at my insistence, when your family went to Spain on vacation . . . You must have been about fourteen years old . . .”

I could still remember that holiday perfectly. My parents only took us abroad three times. Once we went to Stockholm, where Maggie never stopped complaining about the cold. Then there was Paris, where my parents ended up flat broke after Michel went overboard with the pastries. Then came Madrid, which so enchanted me that I vowed to travel the world as soon as I was old enough. May sipped at her tea and continued.

“Six months before the trip, I wrote your mother to tell her I was sick. It was just a small lump they had taken out of my breast, but it could have been quite serious. I began wondering who would be there to raise my son if anything ever happened to me, and I thought of your mother. Words alone would never convince her, so I thought it might be different if we met face-to-face . . . although maybe that was all just an excuse to lay eyes on her one last time, to see her family in the flesh. She agreed to come, that we could see each other, but not meet or interact in any way.

“On the Sunday of your visit, you went walking in Retiro Park. Right there on the front steps of the Crystal Palace, facing the reflecting pool, I saw you sitting with your mother, father, brother, and sister. You were a beautiful family. George-Harrison and I sat on the stairs just to your left. I think it may have brought me more pain than joy, but for those few short minutes, it was like leaping into the past. That one moment was well worth the trip. That trip also has a special place in my heart because it was one of my son’s happiest childhood memories. Your mother and I exchanged a smile that told me all I would ever need to know.

“Soon after, your family rose to leave, and I saw that Sally-Anne had left a notebook behind on the steps. It was her diary; the same one she had kept since her boarding school days. In it lay the whole Baltimore saga—from the moment we met as young journalists, to our move into the loft. She described all our friends, Keith with the most detail. Reading it was like reliving those crazy days leading up to the Independent, and the wild nights at Sailor’s Hideaway . . . all our hopes, dreams, and heartaches. Your mother even wrote about the famous ball, and all that happened after . . . everything, until the very day she left for England. After that? Nothing. She hadn’t written a single word about her new life.”