This Golden State, page 20
If Carol Gilbert was seventy-five, could this Carol Gilbert be my great-aunt? Or a cousin? For having a mathematical brain, I was confused by how we might fit together if she was the one.
I typed in one of her known relatives—“Joseph P. Connelly, Jr.”—thinking maybe the name was more unique than Carol Gilbert. Mainly because I didn’t know what to do next.
A short obituary came up. But for a Joseph P. Connelly, no “Jr.”
Joseph P. Connelly, born at home in Manhattan on October 1, 1917, died peacefully at Sequoia Hospital in Redwood City on December 21, 2002. Joseph is preceded in death by his wife, Emma, and grandson, Joseph III. He is survived by his daughter Carol Gilbert (Harold Gilbert) of San Francisco, son Peter (Frances) of Hayward, and son Joseph Jr. (Maryann) of Redwood City, five grandchildren, and one great-grandchild on the way.
Emma. My sister’s name.
It was probably a coincidence.
I scanned the long obituary, feeling like I was taking a left turn, a step too far away from Carol Gilbert.
Skimming the obituary, I learned that after a decorated military career, Joseph P. Connelly had moved with his wife, Emma, to the then-sleepy Northern California coastal town Pacifica. He began an electrician business carried on by his son, Joseph Jr., after the senior Joseph’s retirement. Blah, blah, blah. I scanned through his volunteer work with veterans, his hobbies—deep-sea fishing and spending time with his grandchildren. I was about to click off when my eye caught on two words, deep in the text: Navy SEAL.
I slowed down, reading more carefully.
It was about Joseph’s grandson, Joseph III. He had carried on his grandfather’s commitment to military service, making his grandfather exceedingly proud. He’d just completed SEAL training before his untimely death.
Untimely death. That there was no elaboration made me curious. Wouldn’t they have said if he died in the line of duty, serving his country?
My fingers flew, almost of their own accord. My body knew it before my mind. “Joseph Connelly III Pacifica.” Enter.
I blinked. That was it. That was all the time it took for the computer to load a screen full of hits and a collage of images.
One of the images was my mother. She stared back at me. She looked like a girl. Maybe twenty years old.
She wore fatigues and posed with a rifle, a tiny, all-knowing smile on her face. The iconic San Francisco Coit Tower appeared in the background behind her.
“Poppy? There’s someone I want you to meet.”
No! In the split second between taking my eyes from the screen and meeting Harry’s, I had to somehow not go insane.
“This is my mom.”
In one motion, I closed the laptop, stood, and faced Harry’s elegant mother, Maya Kumar, standing arm in arm with her son.
“I’m Maya,” she said, leaning slightly forward while she grasped my hand in both of hers. She was so warm, a consummate politician, a pro at connecting.
“I’m Poppy. It’s so nice to meet you.” It was the oddest sensation—floating away from my body. From some distance above, I watched this other Poppy carry on.
“Here, Mom, take a seat.”
I crashed back down. The story of my life was right in front of me, but I couldn’t get to it.
Harry asked the table behind us if he could borrow an empty chair. He gestured for his mother to sit, wanting to make everything nice for her.
Harry’s mom’s voice was rich and smoky. “Thanks for your patience; I didn’t know if I’d be able to make it. I was down the road at Apple, and after the service yesterday, I really wanted to see my son. But things always run long and…” Maya unwound a lightweight scarf from her neck.
“How was the service?” Harry asked.
“It was really sad,” Maya said.
From seemingly out of nowhere, a young woman with a large leather tote over her shoulder took the scarf and handed Maya a cup of coffee. Maya nodded her thanks but otherwise, Harry and Maya ignored the assistant.
Harry scooted his chair as close to me as he could get and put his arm around me so we were facing his mother. It was like he was presenting me to her. He’d thoughtfully placed his mother’s chair so her back was to the restaurant. A few people had noticed her, and an excited current was traveling through the restaurant.
“Sorry I didn’t tell you my mom was coming. I wasn’t sure she was going to be able to make it.” Harry’s eyes were doing their sparkly, dancing thing that happened when he was happy or exhilarated. So were his mother’s. They were the exact same pretty eyes. Their fondness for each other was palpable.
“So, Poppy, you and Harry met in math class?” Her gaze was direct, making me feel like the only person in the room.
“That’s right.” I nodded, hoping the smile on my face was convincing. My eye was on the laptop, sitting like a bomb between us. I wanted to scream at everyone to leave me alone, to go away.
Meanwhile, Harry was in his own movie. It was suddenly clear to me why he wanted his mom to meet me: he wanted her approval. And I was perfect mom material. He’d met me in math class, not at some clothing-optional rooftop pool party.
In reality, I made his past girlfriends look awesome.
I was sitting across from a serious politician with the highest aspirations, and I had one parent quite possibly wanted in her state. The other was supposed to be dead. My mom with a rifle, San Francisco cityscape in the background. Joseph Connelly III, somehow tied to that young, young woman in the photo.
I shouldn’t even be in Maya’s presence.
“Harry, see, why did you resist summer school?” Maya joked, smiling at me.
“Um, because it’s one more thing you guys are making me do so I’ll get into an Ivy League school?” Harry joked back.
“But wasn’t I right that you’d like it? Aren’t I always right?” She laughed and threw an arm around the back of her chair, giving us the illusion that she had all the time in the world. Her silk blouse was peach colored and complemented her luxurious hair and glowing skin. I wondered what she was really like beneath the facade.
Harry pulled me closer, actually kissing my temple, branding me as his girlfriend in front of his mother. Maya appraised us, giving Harry an amazed look, but they carried on their joking banter about summer school.
“So, Poppy, tell me about your family. Do you have any siblings?”
“Yes. One sister,” I heard myself say.
“Ahhh. Sisters are the best. I have one also. Older? Younger?”
“Younger.”
“Much younger. Isn’t she, like, eight?” Harry added.
I nodded. I saw a middle-aged couple taking photos of our table with their phones. I quickly shifted left. I couldn’t be in those pictures.
“That’s quite a big age difference. Different marriages?” Maya stirred her iced coffee. Trails of cream swirled down the tall drink.
“Yes. Different marriages,” I said.
“I thought you said you had the same parents,” Harry said.
“Oh, what? Yes, sorry. Same marriage. Just a big gap.” I picked up my water to sip. The ice cubes rattled. My hand was shaking.
Harry gave me a strange look.
“That’s lovely. Your parents must love having a little one around the house.”
“Unless she’s having a tantrum or making them sleep with her,” I said. I moved away from Harry and placed the laptop on top of my backpack, beneath the table.
“I forgot about those days. Harrison used to come to my room with his little bear every night for years and tell me his bear needed to sleep with me. Mr. Ruffles.”
“Mr. Riffles,” Harry said, slightly embarrassed.
Amazingly, I could feel that touch my heart. The rest of me felt numb.
“Then you saw your father’s sleep-apnea mask and you never came back again!”
“That scared the shit out of me. I still remember. God, it feels like a long time ago when you two were married.”
“Yeah, well. I had to give up so much, but I’m happy with where I landed.” Maya glanced up. “I had to be my full self,” she said, looking directly at me.
The assistant reappeared. Maya placed both hands on the table and stood. Please leave, I pleaded. I was having trouble with the shaking.
“Are you cold?” Harry asked me.
“Would you like my scarf?” Maya asked, holding it out to me.
“Oh, I’m fine. Thank you, though.”
Maya rewound the delicate scarf around her neck. “Next up, Facebook. I’m so sorry to run. I had a funeral yesterday, so today’s schedule is packed. Let’s find a time for you to bring Poppy to the city.”
“I thought you were campaigning nonstop for the rest of summer?” Harry said.
“It’s tight, but we can figure something out. By the way, I need you on the twenty-fifth for a breakfast. It’s the San Francisco Big Brothers Big Sisters of the Bay Area. Your new Little Brother will be there. I’ll need the perfect son for two hours. Can you bring him?” She was joking/not joking. Obviously still a little pissed off at Harry about the lawsuit and embarrassing publicity.
I saw Harry tip his chin back at the slight. “I thought I was excommunicated for the summer,” he said.
“Not if you can be the Harrison Addison we know and love.”
Harry laughed humorlessly but dutifully took out his phone. “That’s the day we have our final test. It’s only offered that day.” He looked up at his mother. She looked right back. Harry replaced his phone. “I’ll figure it out,” he mumbled.
“Like your father says, everything is negotiable. I can’t wait until you’re back at home, Harry. It’s not the same without you. We both need someone to tell us to put down our phones.”
Harry stood and hugged his mom. She held Harry tight, her eyes squeezed shut for just a moment. “I love you,” I heard her whisper.
“I’ll be back from exile soon,” he joked.
“Very funny. You’re fine with your father, Harry. You know how to handle him. And he loves you.” Harry stiffened ever so slightly at her words, pulling away first, left to deal on his own.
“Poppy, so nice to meet you. Thanks for keeping my son out of trouble.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Maya left the scent of bergamot in her wake.
Harry returned his mother’s chair to the table behind us. He hadn’t said a word to me yet, maybe wondering when I was going to compliment his mother.
“You changed the agreement,” I said. I should shut the hell up and play along. Then disappear.
“What?” Harry moved his chair so he was facing me again.
“This isn’t what we agreed on. You said we had to be a secret, that your family couldn’t know about me and that you couldn’t date anyone.”
Harry was about to take a sip of water, but his hand froze midair. Then he took a long drink. It had never occurred to him that I wouldn’t want to meet his mother. That it wasn’t some big gift.
Harry’s expression closed off. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bombard you.”
Our food arrived: baguettes, butter, ham, salad, soup, chocolate cake. Harry began to help the server make it all fit like puzzle pieces on the small tabletop.
I didn’t want to eat a thing. I didn’t want to make conversation. I wanted to get back to the computer. I didn’t know how I was going to get through any of the minutes I had to spend eating.
I forced myself to pick up some bread and begin the charade.
“What’s wrong?” Harry asked.
“Nothing.”
“What the fuck, Poppy? Why are you breathing like that?”
“Like what?”
“You’re hyperventilating.”
“No, I’m not.”
“What do you call those rapid breaths?”
I shook my head, as in I’m fine.
“Come on. Let’s go outside.” Harry grabbed my hand to help me stand. I resisted, sweeping my hand under the chair, searching for the laptop. “I’ve got it,” Harry said curtly.
“No, I’ve got it.” She was holding a rifle. Right there for Harry to see if he opened the screen. And that half smirk. I’d never seen my mother so self-satisfied. I held the computer tightly to my chest. Harry and I stared at each other, in a sort of face-off.
“Follow me,” he finally said. He led me past the long line of people snaking through the restaurant doors. We sat in the shade on a low concrete bench near the fountain. “You need a paper bag. Hold on.” Harry came back a moment later with a white paper bag. “Breathe,” he ordered. He gently pried the laptop away and set it between us.
“No! Why would I breathe into a bag?”
“Because you’re having a fucking panic attack. Just listen to me.”
It was so stupid, but I took the bag and began to breathe in and out. Harry rubbed my back and wouldn’t let me stop. “You don’t have enough carbon dioxide. You’ll feel okay in a minute.”
Sure enough, the feeling that I was having a heart attack at age eighteen receded. I stopped, then covered my face with my hands, trying to get a grip, trying to reset.
Harry, who I’d been a jerk to moments before, was still rubbing slow circles on my back.
“What happened?” Then it dawned on him. “Your DNA test?”
I shrugged.
“What do you need, Poppy?”
I was so spent. I dropped my hands to my lap. “I need time with that computer.”
“Done.”
* * *
Our stuff was splayed on the table where we’d left it. Harry began moving plates of uneaten food to a newly empty table behind us. I placed the laptop down.
“Sorry. I knew you were in the middle of something. Bad timing,” Harry said.
“No, I’m fine. Sorry about that.” I wiped my nose with the back of my forearm, catching some of the wetness from my cheeks. I wasn’t sure if it was rivulets of sweat or tears.
“Take as long as you need. I can go next door to the bookstore.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. It was unclear what I was apologizing for—my reaction to his sweet introduction to his mother, my meltdown, or for everything. For being me.
“You always apologize. You don’t need to apologize. You’ve seen me worse.” Harry kissed my temple.
Harry gallantly pulled out my chair for me. My backpack weighed it down and it tipped backward. I leaped to catch it.
When I looked up, the laptop was already open on the table. Harry leaned down and typed in the passcode for me.
Shit.
My search lit the screen. There was my mother. My mother holding a rifle. I left my body the moment Harry saw it. This beautiful woman, girl really, posing like a model, pretending to be a militant. Though she wasn’t pretending.
Maybe I thought Harry would see the arresting photo and be curious, then confused about what I was searching. That was bad. What I hadn’t expected was the outpouring of enthusiasm that followed.
“Oh my god. Have you been reading the news? Maisie Bell.”
I slowly sat down then leaned forward, curving my palms over my knees.
“Her brother, Andrew, just died. My mom went to the funeral. Yesterday.”
“What?”
“You know this story?”
I shook my head.
“Like, I’ve met the family. At fundraisers. It’s so crazy. They’re old-school San Francisco. They own a shipping company that was the first to have routes to Hawaii. Anyway, they had this daughter, Maisie, who was kind of wild.” Harry gestured to the computer screen.
“Wild?”
“Like she was in and out of Catholic boarding schools before she ran off to Amsterdam, and they had to bring her back. She got clean and started college at Santa Clara. Everything seemed fine. Then one day, some kind of neoguerrilla group who’d targeted her broke into her apartment. They beat up her roommate and they kidnapped Maisie Bell.”
Harry was actually telling me my mother’s story.
“Who were they?” I knew I wasn’t breathing.
“Some crazies with a leader. I think they were a bunch of young white people who were anarchists and became domestic terrorists to get attention. So they kidnapped this heiress and asked for ransom.” Harry’s eyes glittered with the telling of a good story. “But the family refused to pay. I think they blamed her for all the shit she’d already put them through—who knows. But then months later, she resurfaces with that picture sent to the media. She had joined the cause.”
“What did she do?” My voice sounded like a different person’s. Low and quiet.
“They robbed banks—that’s all I remember hearing. But no one could catch them even though they seemed really stupid. They had this compound up in Oregon, and the FBI or ATF or whoever organized a siege. But the leader lit the entire place on fire, so they killed themselves instead of getting caught.”
A little brown bird flew through the open doors of the restaurant and distracted Harry, who followed it with his eyes as the bird soared wildly beneath the ceiling.
I waited for him to remember what he was saying. Some employees gathered in a corner, pointing and debating how to get the bird out.
I couldn’t stop myself. It felt like he held my fucking life in his hands. “So what happened?”
Harry turned back to me and tried to refocus.
“Everyone died?” I pushed.
“Oh. No. Everyone thought there were no survivors, but then, sometime later, Maisie Bell waltzes into a bank in Sacramento wearing a wig. She somehow took out a shitload of her money. And she’s never been caught since. Growing up, I’d hear rumors of sightings, because we sort of know the family. But it’s been a long time. I’m sure she’s in another country by now.”
I thought of Des Moines. Maybe that sighting had made the news.
Harry laughed to himself. “It’s so badass. Especially because her parents are total assholes. Andrew—Maisie’s brother who just died—told my mom his parents refused to acknowledge he was gay.” Harry looked satisfied with the end of his story. “Anyway, it’s just been in the news again lately because of her brother passing.”
Andrew was my uncle and he’d just died. “Your mom went to the funeral?”
