“I see.”
“No, you don’t. This isn’t what it looks like. I promise you, I had no idea where this would lead when I got involved in this part of it.”
“And how did you . . . get involved?”
“It started with a call from a friend of your mother’s.”
“Who?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both.”
“I’m just supposed to take your word?”
“There are rules about divulging sources. But I can tell you that the things she told us came from your mother’s mouth. About how your father forced her to sever all ties with her family, how she was forbidden to speak a word of Yiddish or even French, ever, and the threats he made if she ever breathed a word about her heritage to you or your sister. But she found a way to tell you anyway. The stories she used to tell, the words that weren’t real words. You remember telling me about them, the songs and the prayers. They were Hebrew words, Belle. They were prayers in Hebrew. It was her way of sharing her faith, her heritage, with you without your father knowing.”
A pair of tears tracks down your cheeks. You close your eyes, absorbing the pain of it. I search for something to say, something that will comfort you and exonerate me, but there’s nothing in the English language for this.
“I’m so sorry, Belle.”
But you’re not interested in my apology. Your face has gone hard and blank. “The rest of what it says, about the day my mother died and the way she died—her friend couldn’t have known that.”
“No. She never visited your mother at Craig House, but she had her reasons for being suspicious. Not long before her breakdown, Helene confided that she’d become afraid of your father. Unfortunately, her claims grew more and more outrageous, until one day she made the woman swear that if anything ever happened to her, she’d go to the police and tell them it was your father’s doing. The woman began to question everything she’d been told. It sounded like the plot from a Hitchcock film. Then, a few weeks later, Helene suffered her breakdown and was shipped off to Craig House. The woman’s first reaction was relief that your mother would finally get the care she needed, but then, not quite a year later, she heard . . .”
“That there’d been an accident.”
The way you say it, so flat and empty, makes my gut twist. Your throat convulses as you turn your face away. This isn’t how I wanted to tell you, but you were always going to know, and I was always going to be the one to have to tell you. But not like this. Never like this.
“Yes,” I say gently, the way one soothes a child after a nightmare. “They said it was an accident. But you told me yourself that it wasn’t true. The hospital claimed she fell while holding a knife and that by the time she was found, it was too late, but that isn’t what happened. There was a knife, but your mother didn’t fall. She’d already tried to end her life twice. The first time by throwing herself down the stairs and then by hacking at her wrists with the butter knife from her breakfast tray. They found her and stitched her up, but a few weeks later, she tried again and succeeded. Because your father paid a janitor to drop a utility knife in her room. The kind they use to cut up boxes. He wanted to make sure she made a proper job of it the next time. Because he knew there would be a next time.”
You sag back onto the sofa, a sob bubbling up from your throat. I take a step toward you but you hold out a hand, warding me off. The silence spools out, thick, unbearable. Finally, you look up at me. “Why now? If all of this is true, why are you just finding out about it now?”
“Because someone finally started asking questions. The hospital’s version of events never smelled right. There was no way a utility knife should have been in a patient’s room. And there was talk. Your father made an unscheduled visit just the day before and apparently had a little chat with one of the janitors on your mother’s floor. But no one had the guts to say what everyone was thinking—that Helene’s so-called accident might actually be a cover for something more sinister. Unfortunately, your father’s name carries a lot of weight. Enough to squash the whispers, apparently. And a sanitarium charging thousands of dollars a month wouldn’t have wanted the publicity. Better an accident than a suicide. Or worse.”
You eye me stonily, giving no sign that what I’ve just said has registered. “You still haven’t answered my question. Why did it take thirteen years for this so-called friend to tell someone? And how did that someone happen to be you?”
“Her husband was an associate of your father’s. When she shared her suspicions with him, he forbid her to say anything. A few years ago, he died, leaving her free to come forward, but so much time had passed and your father had become even more powerful. She didn’t believe anything would come of it.”
“And then a few months ago, out of the blue, she suddenly had a change of heart?”
You’re still not convinced, still trying to poke holes in my story. But at least you’re asking questions. If I can just keep you talking, keep you listening, I can fix this.
“She did, as a matter of fact. When Lindbergh went to Iowa and said what he said. When she read his comments in the paper, blaming the Jews for Roosevelt’s interventionist stance, she remembered something her husband said once. He said your father had praised Hitler as a visionary, predicting that one day this country would come to realize what Germany had—that the only good Jew was a dead Jew. That’s when she knew she had to keep her promise to your mother. She felt the public should know what kind of man your father is.”
“And this janitor, the one who was supposedly paid to leave the knife in my mother’s room—he’s admitted this?”
We’ve reached the part of the story where things start to get murky now, and admitting it isn’t going to help me much. But I won’t keep anything back. I have to tell you all of it. “He can’t admit anything. He’s dead. He was quietly fired a week after your mother died, but he did a little bragging on his way out. Two of the staff from that time—an orderly and another janitor—both heard him bragging that he’d cashed in on the French lady.”
You glare at me, both horrified and astonished. “So you were writing a story accusing my father of . . . I don’t even know what to call it, based on something a dead man is supposed to have said? And you learned all this because some woman claiming to be a friend of my mother’s decided to pick up the phone and call you instead of the police?”
“She doesn’t claim to have been a friend of your mother’s—she was a friend of your mother’s. I verified it. And she didn’t call me—she called Goldie. She didn’t think the police would take her seriously. Not after so many years. But she thought the Review might. Or that we’d at least do a little digging.”