The Last of the Stanfields(34)

“So, if I understand correctly,” he began, forefinger raised in his signature way, “you will depart for a distant city in hopes of meeting someone you do not know. Someone who, as you claim, is supposed to tell you things you don’t know about your own mother, things that will help you know who you are . . . I’m beginning to understand why my doctor is so eager to meet you.”

My brother’s deadpan humor always caught me off guard. Michel paused for a moment, then rose to his feet, dead serious now.

“Mum worked in Baltimore,” he said, dropping the bomb and then departing for the kitchen with our dishes in hand.

I leapt to my feet and followed my brother, joining him as he began washing the dishes.

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“Because she told me that was the place where she spent the happiest days of her life.”

“What a lovely message to give her own child!”

“I made the same observation, but she was quick to clarify: happiest days before we were born.”

“Michel, please. I’m begging you here. Tell me everything Mum told you.”

“She was in love with somebody there,” he said matter-of-factly as he handed me a tea towel. “Although she never specifically admitted it. On the rare occasions she mentioned Baltimore, she seemed rather sad. As she claimed to have spent some of the happiest days of her life there—albeit, prior to our birth—this was not a very logical connection. I therefore deduced that perhaps she suffered from nostalgia, and in all the books I’ve read, such contradictions seem to always involve a love story.”

“She never mentioned a name?”

“She never mentioned anything, as you would know from my prior statement, had you been listening carefully.”

Michel put away the rest of the dishes and took off his apron.

“I must sleep now, or else tomorrow I’ll be tired and I won’t perform my tasks adequately. Don’t tell Dad about this. I entrusted you with this secret because you have confided in me as well. It was in the spirit of equal exchange. And even though the rest is just mere conjecture—conjecture that I am fully confident about, but nonetheless—I fear that Dad’s feelings might be hurt. Men always feel worse knowing their wife loved another before them, rather than not knowing it at all. Or at least, that’s the case in the majority of books I’ve read. It seems far-fetched that such a trend would come solely from the imaginations of writers, wouldn’t you say?”

My brother had started nervously nodding his head. I knew any more questions might push him over the edge, so I decided to drop it for the night. His yawns told me it was time to go. I waited in the living room as he ducked off—for what seemed like ages—to retrieve my jacket. When at last he returned, he seemed to have calmed down. He draped my coat around my shoulders with a tender look in his eyes that let me know he wanted a hug. I took my brother in my arms and held him tight.

I promised I would call from Baltimore to give him a full report on the city, and, of course, to fill him in on anything I uncovered about Mum. It was a bald-faced lie. I had no way of knowing if I would find any answers at all. Everything now rested on a critical encounter with an anonymous correspondent. The outlook was pretty grim.

The next morning, I called Dad with a major favor to ask: I needed him to give Maggie the news that I was heading off.

“Well, you certainly have got some nerve asking me something like that!”

I had to admit, sometimes cowardice can lead to pure genius. I could almost hear the sad smile on my father’s face as we spoke. Just like Michel, he had started by asking where I was headed and if I would be gone for a long time—the exact set of questions I was always asked before my trips. I told my dad how much I would miss him and apologized for not being able to say goodbye face-to-face. My flight was too early, especially considering I still had to drop by the office to get the ticket. This, of course, was just another lie. Plane tickets had gone electronic a long time ago. The truth was, I didn’t have the heart to look him in the eye and feed him some half-baked story, especially knowing how hard he’d grill me about why I was really leaving in such a hurry.

I called Maggie during the cab ride to Heathrow, letting her know from the start that I’d hang up if she started to lecture me. She made me promise to keep her informed on all my discoveries. As always, traffic was bumper-to-bumper around the airport, and the last stretch was so bad I began to fear I would miss my flight. As we pulled in, I could tell it was going to be tight.

On your marks, get set, go! I leapt from the taxi, scrambled across the terminal, ran up the escalator two steps at a time, begged for forgiveness again and again as I cut to the front of the line, and made it to the security check with “last call for boarding” flashing ominously in red on-screen next to my flight number.

I rushed toward the X-ray scanner and dropped my keys and iPhone onto a tray. Then, as I rummaged through my jacket pocket, I was shocked as my fingers landed on a worn leather pouch. I had never seen it before and didn’t have a clue how it got there. I had definitely been running too fast for even someone sneaky to slip anything in. There was no time to figure it out. I took off my shoes, finally made it through the metal detectors, snatched up my things, pushed my way past several more people, and took off running again. As my gate came into view, I shouted an impassioned plea to the flight attendant at the ticket scanner, panting and nearly collapsing as I apologetically handed over my boarding pass. Then, I tore down the gangway like a madwoman. The overhead compartment was jam-packed, and cramming my bag inside took the very last ounce of energy I had left. I slumped into my seat, completely knackered.