Haunted Ground (26 page)

I couldn’t help but smile as we pulled up outside of HM Lincoln Prison.  The red-brick building with truncated towers, graceful arched windows, and a massive tower gate that at one time probably came with an equally massive portcullis was like something out of a picture book about knights and princesses, and nothing like I would expect a prison to look.  Only in England could a prison look like a castle and not a high-security, cinderblock monstrosity surrounded by chain-link fences crowned with barbed wire and guard towers.  The inmates probably had a chef and tennis courts, and practiced gardening as part of their rehabilitation. 

“Would you like me to come in with you?” Aidan asked, already opening the driver’s door, but I put my hand on his arm and shook my head.  I needed to do this alone, and I needed to do it now, before my nerve failed me.   It was all well and good to want to confront the man who killed your mother and was biologically your father, but my stomach was doing somersaults and backflips, and the tea that I’d drunk that morning was rising up my esophagus like mercury in a thermometer. 

I tried to keep calm as I signed in, went through a mandatory search, just in case I was trying to sneak in weapons, drugs, or a cell phone, and was led to a utilitarian room with a barred window set high in the wall and a scarred plastic table flanked by two chairs.  I expected to talk to Neil Gregson through a partition, using a telephone, as I had seen people do in movies, but the realization that I would be sitting so close to him nearly drove me to change my mind.  I wasn’t afraid for my safety, but the partition provided a mental separation as well as a physical one, whereas now we would be sitting here like father and daughter, facing each other across the narrow table for the first time in over two decades. 

My legs shook under the table as a guard led my father in.  He was wearing a prison jumpsuit and his hands were cuffed, but I still leaned back into my chair as far as I could.  I was tempted to look away, but I’d have to face him sooner or later, so I braced myself and looked up.  The man in front of me was no longer the lean, young man of the pictures.  He was still handsome in his own way, but he’d gained weight, and his hair, which was once worn carelessly long, was buzzed and almost all gray.  The dark eyes were round with shock behind rimless glasses that reflected the fluorescent light fixture from the low ceiling. 

I wasn’t sure what I expected, but it wasn’t tears.  Neil Gregson slumped heavily into a chair as his shoulders heaved and his face contorted with grief.  He raised his cuffed hands to cover his face from me and buried his head in them, blowing his nose loudly when the guard silently offered him a tissue and patted him on the shoulder.  It took Neil a few moments to finally compose himself before he could meet my shocked gaze.  His eyes were glistening with tears behind his glasses and his skin was ashen, as he absentmindedly tore the tissue to shreds with nervous fingers.  I was speechless.  I opened my mouth several times to say something, but no sound came out.  I seemed to have lost my voice.

“Sandy,” he whispered.  “Oh, Sandy.  I’m so sorry, so very sorry.  They never let me see you after what happened, never let me try to explain or even say goodbye.  I didn’t think I’d ever lay eyes on you again.”  He wiped the tears from his eyes and the guard, who stepped from foot to foot in obvious embarrassment, handed him another tissue just in case.  He wiped his nose and eyes and gave me a watery smile.  “You’re so like her,” he said hoarsely, “so like your mother.”

“Why?” I asked.  I’d finally found my voice, but that was the only question I could think to ask.  “Why did you do it?”

“It was an accident, a terrible accident.  I never meant to hurt her.  I loved her since I was a boy.”  His eyes were pleading for understanding, but I couldn’t understand; not my mother’s death, and not my father’s subsequent refusal to fight for his own life.   If he’d agreed to legal representation the charge could have been reduced to manslaughter, if it had truly been an accident.

“Why did you refuse an attorney?” I asked, not sure I wanted to hear the answer.

“Because I’d killed the love of my life; I’d robbed you of a mother, and I’d taken a daughter from a woman who treated me like a son.  I didn’t care how long I got.  I could never lead a normal life again.  It just didn’t seem to matter at the time.”

“Why did you hit her?” I whispered. 

Neil shook his head as if trying to ward off the memories.  It took him a long time to answer, but I waited patiently, needing to know what led to the moment that left me motherless.  “We had a terrible row that night.  We’d been fighting more and more, and I had no idea how to get through to Kelly.  It just seemed as if she couldn’t find peace; something was gnawing at her.  She was like a caged tiger, pacing back and forth, growling, clawing at the bars, but unable to escape.  I’d brought up the notion of having another child, thinking it might make her happy. 

She’d been serene when she was pregnant with you and for a time after you were born, but the idea seemed to infuriate her.  I couldn’t understand why she was so angry.  She loved being your mum, so her fury took me completely by surprise.  It’s as if something came unhinged at the thought, and she turned on me, furious.  That’s when she finally told me that you weren’t mine.  She said she’d never known what love was until she met your father, and that I was just a stand-in for the man she loved.  I was second best.”  He sighed and looked away.  “I never meant to hit her.  It was just a knee-jerk reaction of someone who was coming undone.  She broke my heart that night.”

I just stared at him.  I was reeling.  I thought that what I’d remembered last night was just a child’s interpretation of the quarrel, but it seemed that I had it right.  According to Kelly, he wasn’t my father.  But maybe she’d just said that in anger.  Maybe she’d been taunting him because she wanted to hurt him. 

“Are you certain you’re not my father?” I asked, not sure anymore what I wanted to hear.

Neil nodded miserably, his eyes on his folded hands.  “I requested a paternity test after I was arrested.  I had to know.  Had you been my daughter, I would have fought for my life, would have fought for you, but the test came back negative.  You were never mine.”

“I’m sorry; I really am,” I said and meant it.  This man was so broken that no prison sentence could come close to the suffering he was inflicting on himself.  I just wanted to flee from that room, but there was one more thing I needed to know.

“Mr. Gregson, why did they give me away?  Why didn’t my grandmother and Myra raise me?”

Neil Gregson looked up at me, his eyes clouded with the recollections of the past.  He shrugged, as if everything that happened had been completely out of his hands, which I suppose it had.  “Myra was living in New York when it happened, and your grandmother suffered a breakdown after Kelly’s death.  She didn’t object when Myra took you away.  I’d assumed she was going to raise you, but it seems she decided to put you up for adoption.  Myra never really cared for children; she wanted a career.”

“Thank you, and I wish you well.  I doubt we’ll meet again,” I said as I rose to leave.

“I loved you, Sandy, and I still do.  It doesn’t matter if you were mine or not, I would have loved you till the day I died,” he said to my back.  His words choked me up and I wanted to say something comforting to him, but nothing came to mind.  Intentionally or not, this man was responsible for everything that happened to me, and although I wanted to pity him,I couldn’t ignore the resentment that was blooming in my bell
y
—
so I just left.

The rain pelted the countryside, rivulets of water coursing down the windshield as I sat in the passenger seat and stared at the road ahead.  The sky appeared low and menacing, the gray clouds pressing down on the hills like shreds of a dirty blanket with its stuffing hanging out.  The landscape was deserted except for several fluffy balls that on closer inspection appeared to be sheep.  They bahhed miserably, drops of rainwater sliding down their noses as they shook their heads in an effort to get the rain out of their eyes. 

I could barely make out the road, so I leaned back against the seat and closed my eyes.  It took me a moment to realize I was crying, the tears silently sliding down my face and into my mouth: hot, salty, and bitter.  So many things now made sense, and I felt a bubbling rage at the people who’d let me down, not the least of them my adoptive parents. 

As a child, I suffered terribly from separation anxiety, screaming in terror if my mother so much as walked out of the room.  My eyes were always following her, terrified of being left behind and forgotten.  She told me I was a silly girl as she gave me a hug and a kiss and promised that she would never leave, but the fear never left.  As I got older, I had difficulty forming lasting friendships, my fear of abandonment turning me into either a clingy mess or later, an emotionally distant, guarded woman.  Several men had given up on me, tired of trying to break through the wall of self-doubt and mistrust that I had built around myself to protect my fragile heart. 

Now it all made sense.  I’d watched my mother die before my eyes, and in the space of a few weeks lost the man I believed to be my father, my loving grandmother, and then my aunt.  I was torn away from the only home I’d ever known, given to strangers who did little to help me overcome the emotional trauma I’d suffered as a child.  And now I was back where it all began, led here by some unseen force of destiny, my psyche subconsciously begging for some resolution and peace of mind.  What was I to do?  My adoptive father was gone, but my mother was still very much alive.  Was I to hold her accountable for her mistakes?  Had she even known what happened to me, or was she simply handed a three-year-old girl with no notion of her past?  Could I blame her for failing to help me or was I just looking for someone to vent my anger on, someone to blame? 

They’d known I came from England.  Their reaction to my drawings and dreams showed by the pained looks on their faces, the pursing of the lips and the desperate attempts to change the subject.  How much had they known when they took me on?  How much had they cared?  They’d even changed my name, taking away the only thing left to me by my mother.  I went from being Sandy, short for Alexandra, to Lexi, still short for Alexandra, but completely different – a different name for a different girl.

And my mother…  It hurt to think of her, especially after my conversation with Neil Gregson.  He hadn’t painted her in a very favorable light, despite his love for her.  Had she been selfish and manipulative, or simply a frightened girl of nineteen who got in over her head and had no idea what to do?  Maybe she truly believed that I had been Neil’s until she saw something of my real father in me, something that gave her pause.  Had she loved me, or was I just a mistake she should have taken care of when she’d had the chance?  And who was my real father?  Did he even know of my existence?  Had he known I was given up for adoption or had he gone on with his life, completely unaware that somewhere out there a little girl’s life had been torn apart by one act of violence?

I was sobbing hard now, the sound of my anguish lost in the howling wind and rumble of thunder that now echoed over the distant hills.  And I’d have felt completely alone in the world had Aidan not pulled over and held me in his arms, whispering softly in my ear that everything would be all right somehow, just as my grandmother did the night my life fell apart.

The rain finally let up, and Aidan pulled away from the shoulder, his anxious eyes seeking reassurance that I was all right.  He never asked where to take me, but drove straight to his house in Upper Whitford, and I didn’t object.  I barely noticed the tidy kitchen or the living room that was so masculine in its lack of ornament and frills.  I just needed to lie down.  My head was pounding, and my eyes were closing of their own accord, my mind desperate to find oblivion after the events of the past twenty-four hours. 

I barely noticed as Aidan drew a blanket over my shoulders and closed the blinds to keep the dreary afternoon light at bay so that I could sleep.  I fell asleep before my head hit the pillow, dreaming of things that had nothing to do with the events that were crowding my mind.  I suppose the mind has a way of protecting itself and distancing itself from things that are too much to bear, so I was able to sleep peacefully and find some solace in my dreams. 

By the time I woke up it was fully dark, and I could smell the appetizing aroma of roasting chicken and potatoes wafting from the kitchen.  I smiled at Aidan as he came into the room and gathered me into his arms.  “Are you feeling any better?” he asked, his voice full of concern.  I did, and I lifted my face to his, my mouth finding his lips as I ran my tongue over them in invitation.  My hands went to the buttons of his shirt, opening them one by one as the kiss deepened, and I felt a jolt of desire coursing through my body.  At this moment, Aidan was the only person who could make me feel better and take me away from my turbulent thoughts, if only for a little while, because tomorrow I would have to re-evaluate the facts and proceed to step two. 

Aidan was surprised when I asked him to drive me home after dinner, but I needed time to think, time to process everything that had occurred in the past twenty-four hours.  My life had imploded, but I still didn’t have all the answers, and the only person at this point who could answer my questions was the woman who’d taken me to New York and given me away all those years ago. 

Deep in my gut I felt a burning resentment toward Myra, but it wasn’t fair to judge her without hearing her side of the story.  She was only a few years older than Kelly, so maybe she simply couldn’t take me on, especially since she didn’t have a family of her own, and would have had to completely change her lifestyle to accommodate a three-year-old. 

I needed to speak to Myra, but I had no idea how she would react to hearing from me after all these years.  I suppose I could have found her phone number, but what I wanted to do was ambush her and talk to her face to face.  It’s too easy to fob someone off over the phone, but it’s considerably harder to maintain an emotional distance when looking into someone’s eyes.  I could think of one person who probably knew where to find Myra, but I would have to approach her in such a way that she didn’t suspect anything, or she just might withhold the information and blame it on some confidentiality clause. 

I walked over to the window and gazed over the dark stretch of lawn, the creek invisible, but the rushing of the water still audible over the sound of the falling rain. I watched the pinprick of light that was my ghost’s candle as he read, resting his back against the wall, his legs pulled up on the narrow cot.  Tonight I knew just how he felt, for tonight I was a ghost myself, a person whose life had been turned upside down and whose soul couldn’t find peace until some kind of resolution presented itself. 

***

Last night’s rain had tapered off by morning, leaving a thin fog in its wake that swirled above the ground and softened all the edges until the trees and houses seemed to float directly out of the mist.  It was cool for July so I pulled my denim jacket closer around me as I walked up the nearly deserted street.  It was just before 10 a.m. and most places of business were still closed, their windows looking forlorn and slick with moisture as they floated out of the fog to meet me. 

I slowed my gait in the hope that Paula would be in the office by time I got there.  Thankfully, the light was already on in the estate office, Paula’s face clearly visible through the window as she typed something, her fingers flying over her computer keyboard.  I took a deep breath and entered, hoping that this would be easy rather than hard.  At the moment, Paula was about the last person I really wanted to see.

Despite her smile of welcome, there was a noticeable frostiness to Paula’s demeanor as she offered me a seat.  Neither one of us made any allusion to Colin, who was awaiting a hearing, but what happened between us was like a two-thousand pound elephant in the room, ready to charge us at the slightest provocation.  I could see wariness in Paula’s eyes as she waited for me to state my business.  I was proving to be a nuisance, her gaze said, but she was a consummate businesswoman and would kill me with courtesy and kindness.  I could see that Paula’s façade of civility was fragile at best, so I plunged in.

“Paula, I wonder if you might help me out?” I began.

“Is this about the ruin again?” she asked with a false smile as she took a sip of her coffee.  “I swear to you, I don’t know any more than I did a few days ago.”

“No, it’s not.  Actually, I came for a completely different reason.  You see, I’ve cleared out the house, but there are some family pictures and personal papers that I just don’t feel comfortable throwing away.  I’d like to mail them to Myra Hughes and let her decide what she wants to do with them. Would you happen to know of a way I can get her address?” I asked innocently.  Technically, the house had been sold by Roger Hughes, but it wasn’t him I was interested in.  However, if that’s all I could get, I might approach him next.

Paula was about to refuse, but seemed to waver for a moment, fully conscious of the harm her brother had tried to inflict on me.  It wasn’t her fault, but I could see guilt lurking in her nervous gaze as she made up her mind to give me this little bit of assistance to appease her conscience.  “I think I have it in the file somewhere.  Myra lives in London now.  I shouldn’t be giving it to you,” she said as she handed me the address written on a post-it, “but I would hate for someone to throw away a part of my history.  She probably thought that Roger cleared out the house, but Roger is not one for sentimental clap-trap, never has been.”

“Thank you.  I’m sure she’ll be happy to have the albums returned to her.”  I rose to leave, but Paula called out to me.

“Have you given up on your ghost then?” she quipped as I turned around to face her, just in time to see the color drain from her face in alarm.  I’d never said anything about a ghost; that I was sure of.

“You do know something, don’t you?” I said, staring Paula down over the top of her computer monitor and nailing her with my relentless gaze.  A telltale flush spread across Paula’s cheeks as she quickly averted her eyes and began to scan the contents of the file in front of her. 

“I’ve heard it said that old Mrs. Hughes was always ranting and raving about the man in the ruins, especially after Kelly died, but she’d had a breakdown.  Dot Martin is not one for being discreet, so word got around that Mrs. Hughes was mad as a hatter.  Personally, I thought she’d lost the plot long before that, but it’s not nice to speak ill of the dead.”  Paula finally looked up, her cheeks flushed with shame.

“No, it isn’t,” I replied and walked out of the office.  It was encouraging to know that I hadn’t been the only one to see the ghost.  Mad or not, my grandmother had seen him too, and it was quite possible that so had Myra.