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"I'm talking about my real father . . . finally my real father. The one by the pool."
My remark had hit home. I savored the look of unease creeping into her face. For once I wasn't the one who had to answer about the past. I wasn't the one made to feel ashamed. She was.
She stared at me uncomprehendingly and then brought her hands to her bosom.
"You don't mean that Mr. Longchamp? You're not still calling him your father, are you?" I shook my head. "Well, what are you talking about? I can't take this." Her eyelids fluttered. "It's making me feel very faint."
"Don't pass out before you tell me the truth, Mother," I demanded. "I won't leave your side until you do anyway. That I promise."
"What truth? What are you babbling about? What have you been told now? Who have you been speaking to? Where's Randolph?" She gazed at the door as if he were right behind me.
"You don't want him here," I said. "Unless it's time he knew it all. How could you give me up?" I asked quickly. "How could you let someone take your baby?"
"Let . . . someone?"
I shook my head in disgust.
"Were you always this weak and self-centered? You let her force you to give me up. You made your bargain—"
"Who's been filling you with these lies?" she demanded with a surprising burst of energy.
"No one's been filling me with lies, Mother. I have just come from talking with Mrs. Dalton." Her angry scowl wilted. "Yes, Mrs. Dalton, who was my nurse, whom you said Grandmother blamed. You just wanted to shift the blame to someone else. If Grand-mother blamed her, why did she give her a year's salary? And why was she rehired to care for Clara Sue?
"There's no sense trying to think of another lie to cover that one," I added quickly when I saw her start to speak. It was better to keep her on her toes. On the defense before she could gather her wits and retaliate with more lies. "Mrs. Dalton's very sick and wants to make her peace with God. She regrets her part in the scheme, and she is willing to tell the truth to anyone now.
"Why did you do it? How could you let anyone have your own child?"
"What did Mrs. Dalton tell you? She's sick; she must be babbling madness. Why did you even go to speak to that woman? Who sent you there?" my mother demanded.
"She's sick, but she's not babbling madness, and there are others here in the hotel who can support her story. I'm the one who is sick," I snapped. "I'm sick of lies, of living a life of lies.
"You lay here in bed pretending to be weak and tired and nervous just to hide yourself from the truth," I said. "Well, I don't care. Do what you want, but don't lie to me anymore. Don't pretend to love me and to have missed me and to pity me for having been taken away to live a poor, hard life. You sent me into that life. Didn't you? Didn't you?" I shouted. She winced and looked as if she would burst into tears. "I want the truth!" I screamed and pounded my thighs with my fists.
"Oh, God!" she cried and buried her face in her hands.
"Crying and pretending to be sick won't save you this time, Mother. You did a terrible thing, and I have a right to know the truth."
She shook her head.
"Tell me," I insisted. "I won't leave until you do."
Slowly she brought her hands away from her face. It was a changed face, and not just because tears had streaked her makeup and made her eyeliner run. There was a tired, defeated look in her eyes, and her lips trembled. She nodded slowly and slowly turned to me. She looked even younger, more like a little girl who had been caught doing something naughty.
"You mustn't think badly of me," she said in a tiny child's voice. "I didn't mean to do terrible things. I didn't." She pursed her lips and tilted her head as a five-year-old would.
"Just tell me what really happened, Mother. Please."
She glanced toward the doorway and leaned closer to me, her voice in a whisper.
"Randolph doesn't know," she said. "It would break his heart. He loves me very much, almost as much as he loves his mother, but he can't help that. He can't," she said, shaking her head.
"Then you did give me away?" I asked, a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Until this moment . . . this moment of truth . . . a secret part of me hadn't wanted to believe what I'd been told. "You did let Ormand and-Sally Jean Longchamp have me?"
"I had to," she whispered. "She made me do it." She gazed out of the corners of her eyes at the doorway. She was like a little girl trying to shift the guilt onto another little girl. My anger subsided. There was something very pathetic and sad about her. "You mustn’t blame me, Dawn. Please!" she begged. "You mustn't. I didn't want to do it, honest, but she told me if I didn't, she would tell Randolph things about me and have me cast out a disgrace. Where would I go? What would I do? People would hate me. Everyone respects and fears her," she added angrily. "They would believe anything she said."
"So you did make love with another man and got pregnant with me?" I asked softly this time. "Randolph was always so involved in the hotel.
He's in love with the hotel," she complained. "You don't have any idea how hard it was for me in those days," she said, her face twisting. Tears filled her eyes. "I was young and beautiful and full of energy and wanted to do things, but Ra
