The Last Flight(34)

I imagine Eva, spinning her lies. Making this woman believe Eva was someone who needed help. I study the woman’s face, wondering where she is now, whether she might come looking for Eva, and what she’d say to find me, with the exact same haircut and color as Eva’s, living in Eva’s house, wearing her clothes. Who’s the con artist now?

At the back of the drawer, underneath a pair of scissors and some tape, I find an envelope. Inside it is a handwritten note dated thirteen years ago, clipped to some pages behind it. I remove the clip and flip through them, paperwork from a place in San Francisco called St. Joseph’s. A convent? A church? The handwriting is spidery and faded, and I tilt it toward the window so I can read it better.

Dear Eva,

I hope this letter finds you well, studying hard and learning a lot! I’m writing to let you know that after over eighty years, the St. Joseph’s group home is finally being absorbed into the county foster system. It’s probably for the best, as we are all getting older here—even Sister Catherine.

I remember you used to frequently ask about your birth family, and while we were prohibited from answering your questions at the time, now that you’re over eighteen, I want to give you all the information we have. I’m enclosing copies of our notes on your intake and the general records from your years here. If there are any specifics you want to know, you’ll have to petition the county for your official records. I think the social worker who worked on your case was Craig Henderson.

You should know that I tracked down your mother’s family after your last foster placement failed, hoping they might have had a change of heart. But they hadn’t. Your mother struggled with addiction, and her family was overwhelmed with the burden of monitoring and caring for her. That was a large part of why they surrendered you in the first place.

But despite that beginning, you’ve grown into an incredible person. Please know that we talk of you still—and are so proud of your many accomplishments. Sister Catherine scours the newspapers for your name in association with a magnificent scientific discovery, although I have to remind her you’re still in school and that’s probably a few years off yet. We would welcome a visit or a call to learn what kind of wonderful life you’ve built for yourself at Berkeley. You are destined to do great things.

Much love in Christ,

Sister Bernadette

I set it aside, looking at the rest of the papers that were attached with the clip. They’re photocopies of handwritten notes, dating back over thirty years ago. They describe the arrival and adjustment of a two-year-old girl at a Catholic group home.

Child, Eva, arrived at 7:00 p.m.; mother, Rachel Ann James, declined interview, signed documents for termination of parental rights. St. Joseph’s submitted paperwork to county, awaiting response.

Another page, dated twenty-four years ago, was less clinical.

Eva returned to us last night. This was her third placement, and I fear her last. We will keep her as long as the Lord guides us to, and give her a spot here at St. Joe’s. CH is the social worker assigned to her case this time, which means we won’t be seeing much of him.

A student at Berkeley explains the science textbooks downstairs. Perhaps she never finished—either because she couldn’t afford to, or her grades weren’t good enough to graduate, leading her to become a server at a steakhouse. And a con artist, spinning lies in a New York airport.

It also explains why the house is so bare, empty of anything Eva might have accumulated from a family—photo albums, birthday cards, notes. I know what it’s like to wake up alone every day, with no family to worry about your well-being. Your heart. Whether you’re happy. At least I had that for the first twenty-one years of my life. It’s possible Eva never did.

This is what it’s like to die, having left so much unfinished. It still tethers you—like an unbreakable thread, always leading your thoughts back to if only. But if only is a useless question, a spotlight shining on an empty stage, illuminating what never was, and never will be.

I tuck the letter back into the envelope and return it to her drawer, trying to imagine this new version of Eva into existence. But she dances, like quicksilver—a flash and then gone. Never settling long enough to see her clearly, an ever-shifting shape just outside my peripheral vision.

*

I need a shower, stray pieces of hair making the back of my neck itch. The only clothes I own are the few items I grabbed from my suitcase in the bathroom stall at JFK. My jeans. One pair of underwear. No bra or socks other than the ones I’m wearing. I look between the bag and Eva’s dresser, filled with clothes that don’t belong to me. Not just jeans and shirts, but intimate things. And it hits me again. I have almost nothing. I hesitate before sliding open her underwear drawer again, my stomach clenching, steeling myself against the idea of wearing her clothes. I close my eyes, thinking of other people who have had to resort to much more horrific things to survive than wearing someone else’s underwear. It’s just cotton and elastic, I tell myself. And it’s clean.

I pull my own clothes from the bag, wondering if a person can live indefinitely with only two pairs of underwear, and hurry into the hall where I pull a towel from the linen cupboard. In the bathroom, I run the water hot, letting the room steam up and obscure my reflection in the mirror until I’m just a faint outline. A blurry facsimile of an anonymous woman. I could be anybody.

*