This Secret Thing, стр. 68
Calvin had gone silent recently, and his silence scared her more than his incessant phone calls and texts. She didn’t dare think the silence meant he’d given up. No, the silence meant he was devoting his efforts in a new direction, with the same intended outcome: getting at the money he felt he was entitled to. She’d changed its hiding place again just before they left to come to the jail, as if moving the money around Norah’s house would render it invisible. Mostly she just wanted to do something to make herself feel safe, like she was at least trying to protect herself. Still, she felt Calvin out there somewhere.
The door opened and a man walked in. She’d seen his picture in the news articles about Norah, but they’d not had occasion to meet. It was Norah’s attorney. He thrust his hand at Polly. “I’m Jim Sheridan,” he said. “Norah’s attorney.”
Polly shook his hand. “I’m Polly Ca—” She stopped short of giving her last name, which was Calvin’s last name. She waved her hand in the air like it just plain ole didn’t matter who she was. “I’m Norah’s mother.”
“Good to meet you, Norah’s mother,” the attorney said. He turned to Violet and greeted her with a wide, genuine smile. “Hey, Violet,” he said, and squeezed her shoulder. “You OK?”
Violet nodded even as she looked stricken. “Is my mom coming?” she squeaked out.
“Oh yes. She’s about to come in. Just wanted to go over the ground rules before she does.” He pointed at the glass wall. “This meeting will be monitored, and Norah’s been instructed not to say anything pertaining to the case, as it could be held against her later, and, depending on what you guys say, you could be subpoenaed to testify about this conversation in court if it comes to that.” He clapped his hands together, the loud sound resounding in the small room. “So, what I’m saying is, it’s best if we avoid any and all mention of the case. Use your twenty minutes together to catch up on other things.” He looked from Polly’s face to Violet’s and back again. “Capiche?”
They both nodded in unison. Jim Sheridan looked at them both again and smiled. “Man, the family resemblance is uncanny. It’s like I’m looking at different versions of the same person.”
“Thank you,” said Polly, though she didn’t know why, especially since, in his scenario, she was the old version.
He clapped his hands together again. “OK, let’s go get your mommy,” he said to Violet and gave her shoulder one more squeeze before darting out of the room.
Violet looked at Polly. “Mommy?” she said.
Polly laughed. Under the table, she reached for Violet’s hand, resting on her lap, and gave it a squeeze. She waited for Violet to let go, but she didn’t. So Polly didn’t, either. And so it was that Norah shuffled in, the chains on her wrists and feet making a jangling noise not unlike Barney’s collar. Startled by the noise, they let go of each other in an instant, as if they’d been caught doing something wrong. She wondered if Norah had even realized that her mother and her daughter had been holding hands. And if she did, if she cared. There was that litany running through Polly’s brain lately: the one that said Norah should be grateful to her for coming to stay with Violet. Just grateful, and nothing else. But it was never that simple with Norah.
She took the seat across from them, and Polly was struck by two things: One, that Norah’s bottom lip was trembling, which meant she was holding back tears upon either the sight of her daughter or the emotion of being reunited with her mother in this way, or some combo thereof. And two, that she looked awful. A far cry from the glamorous photos shown in all the news articles. In those photos, taken at various society events and fundraisers through the years, Norah had looked beautiful, radiant, expensive. But now she looked wan, drawn, and cheap. Her roots were showing. Her eyes had bags under them big enough for an overseas flight. Her complexion verged on a yellow-green color.
“Are you sick?” she heard herself ask, the first one to speak. Because once a mother, always a mother, she guessed.
Norah forced a smile. “Hello, Mother.” She looked over at Violet, “Hi, Vi.”
Beside her, she felt Violet relax at the sound of her mother’s voice. Had her voice ever done that for Norah? She hoped so.
“And yes,” Norah added, turning back to Polly. “I am sick.” She looked over at Violet. “Sick of being in here.” She gave a little laugh, intended to put her daughter at ease. She was probably thinking, If I can still joke around, then I must be OK, no matter how things appear.
“Are you coming home soon?” Violet asked, sounding much younger than Polly had ever heard her sound.
“We’re working on that,” Norah said.
“No you’re not.” Violet’s response was wounded and automatic.
Across the table, Norah inhaled sharply. “Violet, yes, we are. Mr. Sheridan and I are doing everything we can to get me out of here.”
Violet had a response at the ready. “I’ve read the articles just like everyone else. I know you’re not telling them where your client list is. I know that if you did, they’d let you out. So, no, you’re not doing everything you can. Because you could turn that list over.” She crossed her arms and glared at Norah, daring her to disagree. The thing was, the child was right. Except she didn’t totally understand. Not like an adult would. Not like Polly did. To Violet it was cut and dried. Turn over the client list and come home.
But Polly understood that