Melancholy Baby

“You got any other basis for doubting Mrs. Markham?” Brian said.

“Not really,” I said.

“But...”

“But I sure as hell would like to know where Lolly Drake fits in.”

“If she fits in,” Brain said.

“She’s in here somewhere,” I said. “She keeps popping up.”

“You think she might be my mother?” Sarah said.

“She keeps popping up,” I said.

We were quiet with our coffee. The scones were gone. Rosie refused to accept the fact, however, and kept up her beady vigil under our feet. Sarah’s eyes were teary. She wasn’t quite crying, but her voice shook a little.

“Why did I do this,” she said.

“You had a right to know,” I said.

“Why didn’t I let it go, and just live as I had. Mother, father, go to college, get a boyfriend, get married. Why didn’t I do that. None of this would have happened.”

“You don’t know what would have happened,” I said.

She looked at me. Brian was quiet, drinking his coffee. One of his assets as a detective was how still he could be.

“Why did I do this,” she said.

I realized it was not a rhetorical question. She wanted me to tell her.

“You seemed kind of mad at them,” I said.

“You think I did this because I was mad at them?”

“We do a lot of things,” I said, “for reasons we don’t understand. Maybe this was a way to get back at them for not being the parents you wanted.”

A couple months of therapy, and I was Dr. Phil.

“So now,” Sarah said, “if you’re right, I got none.”

“Or others,” I said.

“Yeah, right, others. What am I going to do, sleep on your couch the rest of my life?”

“That’s an inductive leap,” I said, “that I’m not sure I understand.”

“Fuck it,” Sarah said. “I don’t care if anybody understands.”

She began to cry and got up and went down the length of my loft and stood with her face pressed against the window, looking out and crying. After one hopeful glance, Rosie paid no attention to her, and continued to stare at the empty plate where the sweet scones had rested.

“I feel like a bad mother,” I said.

“If you were,” Brian said, “you wouldn’t be alone.”

50

Mrs. Markham’s face began to get gray as I talked with her. “Of course, George was Sarah’s father,” she said.

“No,” I said. “DNA says he wasn’t.”

“They could be wrong.”

“Not a good bet,” I said.

Her face got grayer.

“How do I know you’re not lying to me,” she said.

“Why would I lie?”

“You’ve been trying to destroy me since I met you.”

I sighed and took a copy of the lab report from my purse and gave it to her.

“I can’t read this,” she said.

“Take it to your doctor or your local hospital or to another DNA lab. The Andover cops can refer you.” I said. “Or call the Boston cops. Brian Kelly is the investigating officer.”

“I can’t do all of that,” she said.

“Any of that would be enough,” I said.

“I’m alone,” she said.

“You could choose to trust me,” I said. “I’m not, in fact, trying to destroy you. I’m trying to help your daughter.”

“He’s not her father,” Mrs. Markham said.

She looked as if she was cold, or as if she was trying to be smaller.

“No, ma’am,” I said. “He’s not.”

“My God,” she said.

“So, would you know who her father is?” I said.

She wasn’t looking at me. She was staring past me, staring at nothing. She shook her head.

“You don’t know her father?”

She shook her head again.

“I don’t mean to be indelicate, Mrs. Markham, but if the father is not your husband, shouldn’t you have some idea who else it might be?”

“She wasn’t mine,” Mrs. Markham said. “She was George’s.”

“Tell me about that,” I said.

“She was George’s daughter from a previous marriage.”

“You told me she was born in 1982.”

Mrs. Markham nodded.

“When were you and George married?” I said.

She looked at me without any sign that she understood the question.

“What did you say?”

“I asked when you and George were married,” I said.

“I don’t remember exactly.”

“You were already married,” I said, “when George was working in Moline in 1979.”

She did not speak.

“Which means Sarah was conceived while you and George were married.”

“She must have been born earlier,” Mrs. Markham said.

“1978?”

“Yes. That must have been when.”

“Which would make her what? Twenty-six?”

“I guess so.”

“Mrs. Markham,” I said. “Sarah is not twenty-six.”

“I don’t know what else to say. She is George’s daughter from a previous marriage.”

“Except that she’s not George’s daughter.”

Mrs. Markham put her gray face in her hands and began to cry.

“Who’s the father, Mrs. Markham?”

She shook her head.

“Were you so promiscuous,” I said, “that you don’t even know?”

“I was never promiscuous,” she said without taking her face from her hands.

“Then who was the father?”

“I don’t know.”

“And you’re not her mother?” I said.

“No.”

“Who is?”

She shook her head.

“Somebody is,” I said.

Mrs. Markham shook her head again.

“How did she end up with you and your husband.”

Still bent forward, with her hands covering her face, she shook her head again. She began to rock.

“Mrs. Markham,” I said. “She had a father and mother.”

“Stop it,” she said. “Stop it.”

She raised her face, the pallor parchment now, with two feverish red spots high on her cheeks. She began to pound on her thighs with her fists.

“Get out,” she said.