A Different Blue

Chapter Twenty





The process was incredibly easy. I met with a Detective Moody, who had been the responding officer on the case more than eighteen years before. He was bald, whether by choice or necessity, I wasn't sure. He was in his early forties, but tired looking, like he had a long life so far. He looked fit and slim in khakis, a dress shirt, and a shoulder holster that he seemed as comfortable with as everything else he wore.

“I can't give you details of the case. Not yet. You understand that if you aren't this woman's child, you have no right to the information. Not to her name, to her child's name, to the details of her death, nothing . . . do you understand?” Detective Moody was apologetic but firm. “But if you are who we think you are, when we get that DNA confirmation back, we'll give you everything we have. I have to say, I hope to hell that you are that little girl. It's bothered me for a lotta years, I can tell you that. It would be a happy ending to a very sad case.” Detective Moody smiled at me, his brown eyes sober and sincere.

I was sent to the lab, and I was given a big Q-tip and told to rub it against the inside of my cheek. And that was it. Eight hours in the car for a buccal swab. Detective Moody told me he would put a rush on it, and he hoped to have it back in three or four months.

“It all depends on whose goose is being cooked in these things. There are priority cases, though. And this rates pretty high up there. It'd be pretty exciting for us to see resolution on this. And we want that for you too.”

Resolution. Redemption. My life had began to circle around these reoccurring themes. Now we could add Reno. That was a new one. Another 'R' to add to the list.

We stayed the night in Reno, Tiffa and I in one room, Wilson in another. Tiffa had put her arms around me as we left the police station and had kept me close through dinner, occasionally rubbing my back or patting my hand, as if for once she had no words. None of us did. The whole thing was stranger than fiction, and the ramifications affected not only me, but my unborn child and the woman who wanted to be her mother. It wasn't until we lay in the darkened room, the long day put to bed, the sounds of the Reno night shut out by heavy curtains and thick carpeting, that I faced the fears that had clawed for recognition since talking to Detective Bowles on Monday.

“Tiffa?” I spoke up softly.

“Hmm?” Her voice was drowsy, as if I had caught her just before she dropped off into sleep.

“What if she was a monster . . . a terrible person?”

“What?” Tiffa was slightly more awake now, as if sensing my turmoil.

“Can that be passed on? Does it hide in our genes?”

“Luv. You'll have to forgive me. I don't have a clue what you're talking about.” Tiffa sat up and reached for the lamp.

“No! Please leave it off. It's easier to talk in the dark,” I pleaded needing the buffer of a shadowy room between us.

Tiffa dropped her hand but stayed upright. I could feel that she was looking at me, letting her eyes adjust in the dark. I stayed turned on my side, looking at the wall, the weight of my stomach supported by the thick mattress.

“You are going to adopt this baby. You say you don't care if it's a girl or a boy. You don't care if the baby is brown-skinned or light. And I believe you. But what if the baby is . . . the offspring of a weak, selfish, evil person?”

“You are none of those things.”

I thought for a moment. “Not all the time. But sometimes I'm weak. Sometimes I'm selfish. I don't think I'm evil . . . but I'm not necessarily good, either.”

“You are much stronger than I am. You are incredibly selfless. And I don't think evil resides with strong and selfless,” Tiffa said softly. “I don't think it works that way.”

“But my mother . . . what she did was evil.”

“Leaving you with a stranger?”

“Yes. And her blood runs in this baby's veins. Are you willing to take that chance?”

“Absolutely. But I don't think it's much of a risk, luv. Jack has diabetes. Did you know that? It's pretty manageable. I never considered not having a child just because the child might suffer with the same illness. I had the most ghastly buck teeth growing up. Thankfully, braces made me a ravishing beauty.” There was laughter in Tiffa's voice. “But what if there were no such thing, and my child was doomed with horse teeth?”

“None of those things compare,” I protested, needing her to understand. Tiffa plopped down on the bed behind me and began to smooth my hair. She would be a fabulous mother. It was all I could do not to curl into her and let her soothe me. But of course I didn't. I lay stiffly, trying not to be so susceptible to a gentle hand. She stroked my hair as she spoke.

“We don't know what kind of life your mother had. We don't know what her reasons were. But look at you. You're brilliant! And that's enough for me, Blue. What if my mother had chosen not to adopt Darcy? She never met his birth mother or father. She knew nothing about them but their names. But she loved Darcy, maybe best of all, and he was a complete unknown. His father could have been a serial killer, for all we knew.”

“Wilson was adopted?” I was so stunned, the words came out like a shriek. Tiffa's soothing ministrations faltered along with my heart. She lay down on the bed beside me, curling up against my back, and resumed stroking my hair.

“Yes! Didn't he tell you? Mum and Daddy tried to have another child for years. They adopted Darcy when he was only days old. It was arranged through our church.”

“No . . . he didn't tell me.” My voice cracked, and I cleared my throat to disguise my dismay.

“He looked up his parents when he turned eighteen. His mother was young, like you are, when she got pregnant. She is married now with several children. She was happy to see him, happy that he had turned out well. His father was a copper in Belfast. He and Wilson hit it off. I think they still talk every now and again. Jenny Woodrow and Bert Wheatley, I think their names were. I can't remember Jenny's maiden name.”

I lay in the dark, my thoughts whirling like pinwheels in a storm. And a hurricane was brewing. I felt betrayed. Wilson was adopted. Adopted! And he hadn't said anything at all. No words of wisdom or encouragement when Tiffa and I had broken the news to the family. No “adoption is a wonderful thing, look at me” commentary. He had stayed silent; there had been no revelations.

Tiffa was apparently unaware of the gathering storm. She hadn't said anything for several minutes, and before long I heard her breathing change, and knew she had fallen to sleep, lying beside me. My hips ached. My lower back had been killing me all day, my ankles were swollen and I was too uncomfortable, too pregnant, and far too angry to sleep.

Redemption, resolution, revelations. The 'R' words just kept stacking up. Reno was just full of secrets. I was ready to go home.





Jack flew into Reno Friday morning for the medical conference and Tiffa stayed with him, sending me and Wilson on our way in her Mercedes. They would fly home on Sunday evening, which meant I was trapped in tornado ally with Wilson for eight long hours. Accusations were buzzing in my head like angry bees, threatening to break loose and swarm Wilson with a stinging barrage. I sat in angry silence, giving curt responses to every question, not looking at him, not laughing with him. He seemed flummoxed, but tried harder and harder the meaner I got, until I finally pushed him too far and he pulled off the seemingly endless highway into a rest area. Shoving the car into park, he turned toward me and threw his hands in the air.

“What is wrong with you, Blue? Did I do something? Are you in pain? For God's sake! What is the matter?”

“You were adopted!” I shouted and promptly burst into the kind of tears that squirt out of your eyes like a hose and make your nose run. I grabbed for the jockey box, but Wilson was there with his damn hanky, blotting my cheeks and shushing me like a doddering old man.

“Tiffa has such a bloody big mouth.”

“She had no idea you hadn't told me! Why wouldn't you tell me, Wilson?”

“Would it have helped you?” Wilson wiped my eyes, his gaze penetrating, his brow wrinkled in consternation.

I angrily pushed his hands away, shoving the door open and hoisting my awkward body from the confines of the car, furious in a way I had never been before.

My back was on fire, and my neck was sore and my heart hurt like it had been dragged behind the car. I waddled toward the restrooms, needing space and, frankly, needing to pee. I was nine months pregnant, after all.

I used the toilet and washed my hands, trying to stem the angry tears that wouldn't quit. I held a cold, wet paper towel to my cheeks and wiped the mascara away. I looked miserable. Even my nose was puffy. I looked down at my ankles and tried not to wail. I used to be hot . . . and I used to be thin. And I used to trust Wilson. The tears flowed again, and I held the towel to my eyes, willing them away.

“Are you all right, dear?” A little voice spoke just to my right. An old woman who barely reached my shoulder stood looking at me with a frown etched on her thin lips. Wrinkles rimmed her mouth like legs on a centipede. Her grey hair was in neat little curls all over her head, and she wore a scarf over them, presumably to protect her hair-do from the wind that had kicked up outside. I'd brought the storm with me, apparently.

“Your husband sent me in to check on you. He's worried about you.”

I didn't correct her. I was so obviously in need of a husband, since I was so obviously about to have a child, and I really didn't want to explain who Wilson was. I followed her out and saw Wilson conversing with an equally small old man. When they saw me, the old man patted Wilson's shoulder and nodded knowingly. Then he offered his arm to the old woman, and they teetered toward their car, holding each other against the wind that had started to rage.

“I'm sorry, Blue.” Wilson had to raise his voice to be heard, and his dark curls whipped around his head.

“Why didn't you tell me? I don't get it! I lay in bed all night thinking about it. And I can't think of one plausible explanation.” My hair streamed into my mouth and flew around me like Medusa's snakes, but I was not getting back into the car . . . not until I had an answer.

“I didn't want to influence your decision,” Wilson shouted, “I had a great life. Wonderful parents. And my parents never hid the truth from me. I grew up knowing that they had adopted me. But I can't tell you it didn't bother me because it did! I often wondered about the woman who didn't want me and about the man who hadn't wanted either of us.”

I felt his words like a kick to the stomach, and I wrapped my arms around my abdomen, holding the life inside me, shielding it from him. He winced but kept talking, yelling into the wind.

“I didn't want my feelings to sway you, can you understand that?”

“You think I don't want this baby? You think I'm giving it away because I don't want it?”

Wilson's eyes searched mine, and a myriad of emotions crossed his face as he struggled for words that weren't easy to say.

“When you told me that you had decided not to keep your baby, I thought you were making a mistake. Yet how could I say a bloody thing? My sister is over the moon with joy. And you seemed at peace with your choice.”

The wind moaned and the sky darkened. Wilson reached for me, but I stepped away, letting the wind howl and pull at me. It seemed fitting.

“My mother didn't give me up for adoption, Wilson. But she should have. She should have!”

Wilson braced his legs against the wind and shoved his hands into his pockets.

“She didn't love me enough to give me up. I am not going to ruin this baby's life just because I need someone to love.”

Thunder rolled and a flash of lightning had Wilson reaching for me again. This time I wasn't quick enough, and he wrapped an arm around me, pulling me toward the car. The rain hit as we slammed our doors, and we were cocooned in grey, the rain so heavy that the world was liquid beyond the windows.

The Mercedes purred to life, and heat billowed at our feet and warmed the seats beneath us. But Wilson didn't resume our journey. There was still too much to say.

“I didn't mean to hide it,” he appealed, his grey eyes entreating me. I looked away, not wanting to listen. But he was insistent, and he turned my chin toward him, demanding that I hear. “I didn't speak up when I should have. It never seemed appropriate or timely. And then it was too late. And honestly, the fact that I was adopted, it's irrelevant, Blue.”

“Irrelevant? How can you say that?” I cried, yanking my chin from his grasp. As if Wilson's opinions had ever been irrelevant to me. He had become the most relevant thing in my life. Redemption, resolution, revelation, and now relevance. I fisted my hands in my hair. “I've been blindly trying to figure things out. I am days away from giving birth, and you don't think your own adoption is relevant? Your perspective might have changed everything.”

“Exactly. But instead, you've come to your own conclusions, you've made your own decisions, and that is how it should be.”

“But you said I was making a mistake,” I whispered, trying not to cry again. I looked for the anger I had felt, but it had blown away somewhere between the restroom and the car, and I couldn't call it back.

Wilson reached over and clasped my hands in his, turning toward me as much as the wheel would allow.

“Blue, this whole experience has been a revelation to me.”

I tried not to recite all the R words in my head as he continued.

“I, like every human being, needed to know who I was. My parents understood that, and, unlike what you've dealt with, there were no secrets in my life. I knew everything . . . except the why. I never understood why my biological mother made the choice she did. I always thought if someone really loved me, they would never give me away. Watching you go through all of this, I think I finally understand that that isn't necessarily true.”

My eyes were glued on our clasped hands, our fingers laying side by side. I couldn't look at him. Not when the words he spoke were so intensely personal that the glare from the truth hurt my eyes. Wilson continued, his voice choked with emotion.

“Loving someone means putting their needs above your own. No matter what. Somehow, you figured that out. I'll be damned if I know how, but you did. So, no. I don't think you're making a mistake, Blue. I think you're bloody amazing. And when I get home, Jenny Woodrow is going to get a call. She deserves a little thank you – finally – for loving me and letting me go.”

We sat quietly for several breaths, letting the emotion ebb, our hands intertwined, heat circling the interior of the car and fogging the windows.

“What did the old man say?” I questioned softly.

“He told me not to worry. He said, 'Women cry. If she's crying over you, she still loves you,'” Wilson tried to mimic the shaky voice of the old man. He looked at me and grinned playfully. “He said I should only worry when you stop.”

I couldn't smile back and swiftly looked away. I was the one who should worry. Not because I had stopped crying, but because I'd started in the first place. The old man had it all figured out.





We tried to wait out the rain, but it never let up. We got back on the road only to fight rain and snow for the next three hours. Snow in Boulder City was almost unheard of, but we were a long way north of the Las Vegas area, and snow in Reno was commonplace. However, October snow was not. My anxiety grew as the journey lengthened. I didn't want to whine or worry Wilson, but my back and lower belly had been cramping steadily since we had stopped at the rest area. Maybe it was the stress of the trip, or all the R words raining down without relief, or maybe it was simply time. Two weeks early wasn't really considered early. It was considered full term. And I had a sneaking suspicion I was in labor.

“I'm going to pull off wherever I can find a hotel. We're still three hours out, maybe more at this speed, and I've had enough,” Wilson sighed, squinting to make out road signs.

“We have to keep going,” I insisted, gripping the armrest as a wave of pressure moved through my lower body.

“Why?” Wilson didn't look at me, he was so intent on the road ahead.

“Because I really don't want to have a baby in a Super 8 Motel.”

“Bugger!” Wilson's head swiveled toward me, his eyes wide with horror.

“I'm not in any pain. Not really. It's just uncomfortable. And it's been going on for about three hours. Just keep going and we'll be fine.”

The next three hours were the longest three hours of my life – Wilson's too, I'm guessing. He was white around the lips, and his face was haggard by the time we saw the Vegas lights smeared like an oil spill beyond the windshield, a muted rainbow in a sea of black. I had timed my contractions, and they had grown steady and increasingly painful at about five minutes apart. I had no idea what that meant, or how far I had to go. But we were both too tired to go home and wait for it to get worse. Getting to the hospital was a feat in itself. Some of the roads were knee deep in water, and the rain wasn't letting up.

We pulled into the parking garage, and Wilson was out and at my door before I could get my seat belt off. Together we made our way to Labor and Delivery, breathing a small sigh of relief that we had made it. Visions of highways births had been our constant companion for three long hours. I'm sure it was a relief for Wilson to turn me over to the perky blonde nurse who oozed competency. She got me settled in a room, set out a gown, and told me she'd be back momentarily.

Wilson turned and walked toward the door. Panic bubbled up in my chest as I watched him leave. My fear made me bold.

“Will you stay with me?” The words came out in a jumble and my face felt hot with shame that I had even uttered them. But I had, and I didn't want to take them back. He was frozen in place, his hand still resting on the door handle.

“Please.” I didn't know if he heard the final plea, and I had to close my eyes so I didn't see his response. I was afraid to see him shrink, to see his eyes shift away, to hear him make excuses.

The bed shifted, and I opened my eyes to see him sitting beside me. His eyebrows were drawn together and his grey-eyed gaze was filled with apprehension. But he didn't fidget or shrink, and his eyes held mine.

“Are you sure?”

“I can't do this alone, Wilson. I wouldn't ask . . . but . . . I don't . . . have anyone else.” I bit down on my lip, stifling the urge to shamelessly beg. His face softened, and the worry in his eyes faded.

“Then I'll stay.” He slid his hand into mine and held it tightly. His hand was large and cool, his fingertips calloused. My relief was so intense that I couldn't immediately respond for fear I would lose my composure. I wrapped both of my hands around his and held on gratefully. After several deep breaths, I whispered my thanks as another wave of pressure and pain built within me.