Ariel's Crossing - Bradford Morrow [122]
A truly complicated look plagued Sarah’s face. Mary thought she’d never seen Marcos’s mother quite this old. Beautiful wrinkled face, weathered eyes. If she and Marcos ever had a daughter—and they never would—she might have looked a little like this in sixty years.
“I just, I wish you wouldn’t talk to me like that. I mean, you called me up in the middle of the night and I came right out.”
Sarah waited.
“They’re going to Delfino’s old ranch, Kip and Delfino are.”
“No.”
“Marcos and Ariel went after them to talk them out of it,” and she began to cry, the last thing on this earth she wanted to do.
Worst fears confirmed, Sarah rose, walked to the telephone and dialed Delfino. Nine rings, ten, twelve; no answer. Replacing the handset on the wall phone, she turned toward the young woman and wondered if the right moment hadn’t arrived to let her in on the fact that she more or less knew who she was, had known her identity for days. Clifford was the one who had first posed the problem. Mad Clifford, who continued to ask Sarah when Mary was coming again to visit.
“Who do you think Mary really is, Clifford?” Sarah had asked.
“Why, she’s my nice niece.”
“That was good of her to visit you that time, wasn’t it?”
“Very good of her. Very nice.”
“You remember when you first came here?”
“No,” he said, empty-eyed.
“Me either. You’ve been here a while, haven’t you.”
“Long time.”
After asking Clifford if he was sure Mary was his niece, she returned to her office and pulled up his records on the computer. Nearest of kin: Russell Carpenter, brother. Home confirmed as Gallup.
Sarah had spoken with the girl’s mother not long after Franny and Marcos climbed Tsankawi. Rebecca Carpenter wanted to know where Mary was, whether she was all right, how Sarah had discovered her whereabouts, when could she see her daughter? But while Sarah answered as many questions as she thought was appropriate, she did refuse to provide any address or phone number. At the time it felt deviant, this resolve to side with Mary even as she persisted agilely with her fake identity and Franny persona. But as Sarah told Mrs. Carpenter, not knowing whether she was breaking some law by doing so, “It’ll be Mary’s decision when she wants to tell me who she is, just as it seems to me it’s her decision to be in touch with you. She’s fine, but she’s got to work this out for herself.”
Sarah asked Mary now, “Why did you run away from home?”
“Where’d you get the idea that I ran away from home?”
Sarah thought, Go forward. “Because your mother told me.”
“My mother?”
“You act as if you forgot you had one.”
“I mean, she’s not that easy to find.”
“Being such a busy mathematician and all.”
Mary said nothing.
“I don’t think it adds up, speaking of math. Do you?”
She knew that Sarah knew, though she softly answered, “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“Funny how sometimes when you’re completely certain you understand another person, it’s just exactly the moment when you’ve totally got them wrong. That ever happen to you?”
Mary knew it was now merely a question of how, rather than if or when, to concede the charade. Hers was a tired burden and Sarah might be the last counsel left among her dwindling acquaintance. With a last gasp of false innocence, she asked, “What are you saying?”
“What I’m saying is you’re probably going to find that the way back to yourself might be a little more treacherous than simply telling the truth.”
“I’m lost,” she said, honestly.
“I know, Mary.”
Mary sat down on the tile floor, her back against the cool adobe wall. Sarah came over and sat next to her, put an arm over her shoulder. “You must’ve had good reason to do what you did, Mary.”
“I’m not used to being called that.”
“Nobody’s going to call you Franny anymore, not in this house, anyway.”
“Does Carl know?”
“Not if you haven’t told him.”
“I hope he’ll be able to forgive me.”
“He’ll forgive you because that’s his way. Whether he’ll understand you is another question. But what he needs to know first is where his brother and son are, and so do I.”
Mary