The Last of the Stanfields(84)

“Sure, hang on, I’ll just slip into my room.” I heard my father grunt as he sat down on the bed, his knees acting up as usual. “Okay, I’m all yours. Is everything all right, dear?”

“Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

“What’s the weather like over there?”

“It’s long-distance, Dad. Forget the weather. I want you to tell me the truth, all right? What was Mum doing in Baltimore?”

I heard my father sigh heavily into the silence that followed.

“So, you leaving in such a hurry wasn’t for an assignment after all, was it?”

I couldn’t lie to my father, even over the phone. I confessed the truth about the letter and the implication by the mysterious poison-pen that she had committed a robbery. I left out the part about the old photo of Mum kissing George-Harrison’s mother. After I had finished explaining, there were a few more moments of silence, followed by another weary sigh, before my father at last began to speak.

“When I said that your mother came home to England, it wasn’t altogether true,” he began. “Her real home was back in the United States. She was born and raised in Baltimore, then sent away to boarding school in England. Your mother was terribly lonely there, until the day we first laid eyes on each other at that pub. The rest you know. We were together for a few years before she decided to reconnect with her family. She spent a good ten years there before coming back to me.”

“But Mum didn’t have any family. You always told us she grew up in an orphanage.”

“Well . . . when you’re sent away to a boarding school at twelve, so far from home and entirely against your will, it’s a bit like growing up in an orphanage.”

“Why lie about all that?”

“Only your mother could answer that, and sadly, it’s too late now. Elby, please. I implore you. Don’t go digging into your mother’s past. You know deep down inside how much she loved you—you even more than your brother and sister. Let her and her past rest in peace. Hold on to your memory of who she was as your mother.”

“Dad? You didn’t even flinch when I said your own wife had committed a robbery. So, does that mean you knew about it?”

“I will not have you thinking your mother was a thief. It’s a bald-faced lie!” my father insisted.

“I’ve got proof. I spent the whole morning at the police station. I’ve seen the police report, Dad. Thirty-six years ago, Mum committed a major crime. She robbed a wealthy family blind in their own home. Please stop lying. I’m too old for Santa Claus and Prince Charming. You’re the only one I still believe in! Can’t you just tell me the truth?”

“My dear girl . . . it wasn’t just any wealthy family. It was her family, her own.”

It was now my turn to be speechless. I took a deep breath.

“You’re telling me . . . that Mum was Robert and Hanna Stanfield’s daughter?”

“Yes, that’s what I’m telling you, essentially. Since you’ve already got your hands on the police records, you would have uncovered the truth yourself sooner or later. Your mother’s maiden name, the one you knew her by, was actually her grandfather’s, a man by the name of Sam Goldstein. She claimed it as her own as soon as she returned to England, when we reunited.”

“Why change her identity?”

“Because she had left that part of her life far behind her and insisted that you and the other kids never learn the truth under any circumstances.”

“But why?”

“To break the curse! She wanted her children to be Donovans, not Stanfields. Never that.”

Stanfields. I still couldn’t believe it. “What curse? What does that mean?”

“The betrayals, the lying, the souring of any semblance of love . . . the tragedies that plagued the family members and their spouses alike.”

“What happened to my grandparents? Why didn’t I ever meet them?”

“Those people were not your grandparents. They renounced their own daughter!” my father cried. “They’re dead and gone, Elby. You go digging around in their graves, all you’ll do is make your mother turn over in hers. Is that understood?”

In all my life, I had never heard my father so angry. His hoarse, raised voice left me dumbstruck. Even at my age, I felt myself shrinking back like a frightened little girl. And then, even worse, my own father hung up on me. Sitting alone on that stupid bench, I burst into tears. After one look at me, George-Harrison came running over and pulled me into his arms.

“What in the world happened?” he asked, a warm, comforting hand on the back of my neck as I curled up and let him hold me. I couldn’t hold back the tears, no matter how hard I tried. When at last I could speak, I told George-Harrison about the conversation with my father, my voice broken, my eyes still wet with tears.

Just one phone call had brought my whole world crashing down around me. Mum had told outright lies about her past for the lion’s share of her existence, and for all of mine. As rotten as my grandparents may have seemed to her, I might have at least met them, but my mother had made that decision for me. What’s more, I had also discovered I was half American. But that wasn’t the most stunning revelation from my father’s outburst. I now knew that we were more than just Donovans. We were the last of the Stanfields.