Where is the Baby? (19 page)

‘But in a few months you'll be eighteen, legally an adult.'

‘I won't make it, Connie.' The tears finally came. ‘My being eighteen won't stop him being executor of my trust fund. That goes until I'm twenty-one. And I can't wait that long. I was given that money as a reward for saving the baby.' For just a moment she saw again – as she so often did – a mental image of the baby and was stricken with a yearning to see her that was so intense it was physical. A moment, and then it was gone. She had to take a deep breath to settle herself.

‘I want to be able to use the money to have my own place, to pay my school fees if Stefan decides not to keep on covering the tuition.

‘I know it's hard to believe, Con, but I felt better about myself when I was living in that van with those two fuckheads. At least I knew what to expect. And they didn't give a shit about what I
thought
. That was my life and it was the only one I knew. Every little kid thinks their life is ‘normal.' That was my normal. It was horrible but it was what I knew.'

‘I understand,' Connie said in a whisper.

‘But when they took the baby . . . when I knew they were going to hurt her . . . that's when I had to try to make it stop.' Wiping her face on her sleeve, struggling to get the words out, she lost the fight to maintain control and cried out, ‘And I did it! I made it stop. I didn't let them hurt the baby and they were arrested. I got taken to the hospital where everyone was nice to me. And then that evil bitch from DCF gave me to Stefan. And he and his parents have made me feel so
ashamed
, as if everything that'd happened to me was
my own fault
.

‘I was scared a lot of the time with Wolf and Toadman because I never knew what would make them mad so they wouldn't feed me, or where they'd take me next and what would happen to me when they left me alone with some man. But Stefan and his parents
shamed
me, Connie. They turned me into a case study and sold me to the world. I've never had a chance to forget any part of my life with Wolf and Toadman. The Lazarus doctors go on TV and radio, they appear at conferences; they go here, there and everywhere and talk endlessly about what happened to me. They have all the details of everything I was able to tell them all those years ago: they know who did what and as much as I could remember about how I felt. But they don't
know
me. They have
no idea
who I am. They would never,
ever
allow me to forget any of it; they won't allow me to grow beyond the experience. They can't stop probing – as if they're afraid that if it all gets relegated to a part of my history they'll lose their status, their fame. So I'm stuck in the past and it's all fresh in my mind. I might as well still be locked in that van.

‘You and Brian and Jan and Lucia, even the captain, you all know me better than the Lazarus family does. Rosa the housekeeper, Monica once upon a time, the people at the donut shop – you all know me better and treat me with respect. But not the Lazarus clan. I'm a convenience to them, like a goddamn public toilet: something to use any time they feel the need.

‘If I don't get out and try to live some kind of sane life now, while I can still fight for myself – before they suck my brain out through my ears – it'll never happen.
I have to get away from them
. To do it, to get free, I need to make a deal with the devil I know. I have to hope that somewhere inside of Stefan there's some tiny bit of humanity left that I can reach.' She drew a ragged breath. ‘Because if I don't, if I can't get through to him, I'll die! I can't go on this way anymore.'

‘Poor you,' Connie crooned. ‘Poor old you.' As before, in a hospital room years ago, Connie drew the girl into her arms and silently rocked her until Faith fell asleep, her body shaken by residual sobs. Holding her, feeling the warmth of Faith's slight weight, Connie silently prayed that everything would work out in the girl's favor, because if anyone deserved a happy ending, Faith did.

F
aith took a swig of Scotch straight from the bottle before going to knock at the door to Stefan's ‘library.' So pretentious, she thought, then reminded herself to go in humble or he'd start analyzing her attitude and this chance would be lost – perhaps forever. A notion that made her innards cramp, as if suddenly flushed with ice water.

Without looking up from the papers on the desk he was reading, he said, ‘What's up?' No inflection, no interest.

Letting a bit of a slur slide into her enunciation, she said, ‘I needa talk to you, Stef'n.'

Now he looked up, a hand immediately moving to stroke his Doctor-Spock's-Evil-Twin goatee. Such an affectation, that goatee. It didn't suit him at all. But no matter. She had his attention. This was the third time in six weeks she'd done this semi-drunken performance for his benefit, each time adding a minor embellishment. Tonight it was the slur. And he was responding as she had hoped he would. The man was a jackal when it came to symptomology – something, she was certain, he'd copied from his parents. Whenever she was in their company she felt as if their mouths were slightly open, waiting to swallow anything of interest she might say or do.

‘Sit, talk,' he said.

She allowed herself to lurch very slightly as she sat down in the heavy wooden armchair in front of the desk, her skirt rising, just as she'd practiced, to reveal the razored skin just above her knees.

His eyes absorbed everything, from the lurch to the scabbing-over tail-ends of the cuts.

She hated every aspect of this encounter: the play-acting, the necessary deceit, his calculating aspect, his long-suffering demeanor.
Keep it together
, she told herself. She was fighting for the right to live her life.
Just remember you're doing what needs to be done
.

She could tell that he smelled her alcohol-tainted exhalations, and his eyes kept returning to the cuts. It was all going according to plan. He was taking the bait, just as she'd anticipated he would.

‘Are you drunk, Faith?' he asked, showing no anger, only curiosity.

‘Oh, no,' she said quickly, then dropped her eyes, adding, ‘I just had a small drink for courage.'

‘Courage for what?'

‘Because I need to talk to you. It isn't easy.' So true. She vowed she would never make anyone feel the way he made her feel; she would never be so oblivious to what was right in front of her.

‘Go on,' he said. ‘Talk to me.' He sat back in his chair, hooking his thumbs under his red suspenders, a display of expansiveness combined with skeptical interest. ‘Tell me what's got you so nervous.' She couldn't help but marvel at the mannerisms he'd acquired over the years, as if he'd seen too many second-rate actors playing doctors in made-for-TV movies. There seemed to be nothing authentic left of him. He was putting on his own performance here. They were two actors without an audience, each trying to upstage the other. She would have to be the more convincing one.

She swallowed, and took a deep, shuddery breath that was genuine. ‘I need a place of my own, Stefan. And I need to be closer to school. Commuting every day . . . it's hard.'

‘It's a half-hour drive each way. How hard can that be?'

‘I-95 is a nightmare. You'd have to experience it to know just how much of a nightmare it is what with the truck traffic and everyone speeding.' He rarely did any highway driving but she could tell he was unimpressed by this argument, so she shifted direction. ‘I need a place of my own.' She kept her eyes on his. ‘I want a place of my own.'
Don't you cry!
she warned herself.
Don't give him the satisfaction of seeing you crumble
.

‘I see. What you're saying is you want to live on your own.'

‘Yes, I do.'

‘And what's brought this on, all of a sudden?' So patronizing. For a few seconds, she wanted to lean across the desk and smack him, jolt him into reality, into awareness. He was still in there, somewhere. He was; he had to be. If this current persona, this replica of his gelid unyielding mother had subsumed the original Stefan, Faith had no chance of reaching him.

She was experiencing a sudden rise in her body temperature and had to take a few moments to remain calm. ‘It's not “all of a sudden,”' she said quietly. ‘I've wanted this for a long time.'

‘So why haven't you said anything?'

Again, she said, ‘Stefan, it's not easy to talk to you.' Her tone was too sharp. She brought it down a notch. ‘It's not easy to talk to you, or your parents, but you in particular because my relationship is with you, not with them. The thing is, anything I say in this house could wind up in a book. It's already happened once. Knowing it could happen again makes me self-conscious and nervous.'

‘It shouldn't,' he said reasonably.

God! There it was again: the lack of empathy. ‘Maybe to your way of thinking it shouldn't, but it does. It was hard enough when I was a little kid living with just one doctor and his wife' – she felt a sudden pang, missing Monica – ‘but it's really tough with three doctors. I feel as if I have no privacy.'

‘Of course you do,' he argued. ‘You have your own suite.'

‘I'm not talking about
rooms
, Stefan. I'm talking about my
life
. I need my own place and control of my own money. I don't even get to see the financial statements. I have no idea what I've actually got.'

He leaned forward at this, elbows on the desk, chin resting on his folded hands, eyes narrowing slightly. ‘It's substantial. I don't know that you're capable of handling . . .'

Sensing what was coming, needing to derail him from going in that direction, she said, ‘Excuse me for a minute,' got up and walked out of the room. She went to the liquor cabinet in the living room and took another swallow of the Scotch, shuddered at the burn of it going down, then returned to the ‘library.' Three rows of reference books and a stack of journals, plus the numerous foreign editions of
The Stolen Child
hardly constituted a library. Why couldn't he just call it his office?

‘What was that?' he asked, as she slipped back into the chair.

‘What was what?'

‘What did you just do?'

‘I had another drink. I needed it. Talking to you . . .' Abandoning the pretense all at once, needing to know, she asked, ‘What
happened
to you, Stefan? I remember the first time we met, when I was at the hospital. You were
nice
to me; you were
sweet
to me. We sat on the floor together and played a game.' Her voice wobbled and tears were dangerously close to the spilling point. ‘I know it was part of the analysis but that doesn't matter. You were a thoughtful man, someone kind, someone who listened to me. I really don't know you now.'

Appearing embarrassed, as if being reminded of his younger self was a burdensome bit of his evolutionary history, he gruffly pointed out, ‘You were a small child.'

‘Yes, I was,' she agreed. ‘But I haven't changed – I haven't been allowed to change. I just got older. You've changed, though.'

‘What are you suggesting?'

‘I'm not
suggesting
. I'm stating a fact. You're not a kind or thoughtful person anymore. You're
Doctor
Lazarus, co-author of a best-selling book about that child – who just happens to be me. But I'm not the resident stolen child anymore. I'm grown up, I'm a
person
!' she cried, her wobbly voice betraying her. ‘I want my life! I don't want to be constantly watched, in case I say or do anything of interest, something book-worthy. I just want to be left alone, to let the past be the past.'

‘You're drunk,' he said quietly, a measure of sadness entering his tone.

‘Maybe,' she allowed. ‘Probably. I'm not happy, Stefan. Drinking makes it all more manageable.'

He sat studying her for a time, as she fought to maintain a grip on her emotions. If she lost it and went to pieces, he might never let her go. She couldn't be sure she was getting through to him. It was like psychological surgery.

All at once what had taken place more than a dozen years earlier in the pediatric interview room came back to him in its entirety, every detail crisp, vivid. And he remembered how deeply ashamed he'd been of his arrogant assumptions, and how tender that tiny damaged child had been. She'd comforted him; she'd patted his shoulder and told him it was all right.

And what had he done for her since then? Nothing really, beyond providing the basics: room and board, an education, health and dental benefits – as if she were no more than a live-in employee. But back then he'd helplessly allowed her to minister to him and he'd grieved for the terrible losses she'd suffered. And subsequently, when he'd brought her home after each hospital stay, he was saddened by the physical damage that had necessitated three rounds of surgery and her resulting inability ever to bear children. She'd been stolen and badly harmed. Yet throughout it all she had remained a clever, caring child, eager to learn, able even to laugh.

Gazing at her now, realizing that she had also suffered at his hands and those of his parents, he wondered how he could have forgotten that initial meeting. How had he managed to misplace his recall of the tidal emotion she'd aroused in him, and the sudden knowledge that he had very little to bring to the table? The child had more life experience than he did; she had more understanding of pain, of betrayal, of the often casual cruelty of people, than he did. She was fearful yet remarkably brave and truthful. He'd known at their first meeting that he was not up to the job of dealing competently with her. Yet he'd gone forward regardless, sensing that he could profit from his involvement with her. And he had profited. In truth, he had made much use of her, just as her kidnappers had. Only the manner of use was different. But, use was use. Indisputable. And he'd been rewarded with international recognition and a third of the substantial income derived from the perennial bestseller he'd penned with his parents. The only honorable thing he'd done was to put half his share of the income from the book into her trust fund.