Revelations, is an original story, inspired by the U.S. cult T.V. series BEAUTY AND THE BEAST and was first written in 1998 and published independently. I can confirm that I am the original author.
Copyright refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Ron Koslow, Witt-Thomas Productions, Republic Pictures, or CBS.
CHAPTER ONE.
SUNDAY, 11TH DECEMBER, 1994 - NEW YORK CITY.
The fairy lights winked and blinked silently on the tall, tinsel and bauble bedecked fake Christmas tree in the far corner of the room, and from the hallway beyond the slightly open door came the sound of a small antique brass carriage clock chiming the hour, but the young woman seated at the old Mahogany writing bureau facing the window, neither saw the seasonal lights and trimmings, nor heard the soft tinkle of the old clock ringing out the hour.
She was miles away, across an ocean, on another, distant continent, her large green eyes unfocused, tears rolling unashamedly down her pale cheeks, as faces from her past filled her mind's eye.
Her father, Edward, gone these past twenty years.
Jeff.
Amy.
Vivid recollections of other Christmas celebrations.
All gone.
Forever.
Her loving husband.
Her beautiful baby daughter ,
Dead these past long, bleak two years.
And now ….
This year,
Still more pain.
Still more heartache.
More loss.
Her thoughts inevitably turned to the woman lying in that big, creaky old brass bed upstairs.
Her mother.
Until recently, still so lovely, vibrant and alive, wearing her fifty eight years as if they were nothing.
Andrea Reeve had always been a beauty , slender , fragile , intense blue eyes , a rich, thick, mane of strawberry blonde hair ,
And her daughter had inherited her father's dark, more dominant characteristics.
Mother and daughter had never been close, but it had not been for the want of trying, at least on the daughter's part.
There had always been a coolness, a distance between them, a chasm that could never be bridged.
It was almost as if her mother had been silently punishing her for some nameless crime.
Her father had interceded when she had been very young, employing a string of nurses, nannies and tutors, poor substitutes all for a mother's love, and then, when he had deemed her old enough, he had shipped her off to stay with an elderly Aunt of his in England, a painfully thin and shy ten year old with no confidence and no idea what it felt like to be loved, and been warmly received by the elderly Aunt, and there she had remained, living in London with her Aunt until she was considered old enough, and emotionally mature enough to go to a good girl's boarding school, and spending the holidays either at the house in London, or at the pretty cottage on the South Coast, near Brighton.
It hadn't been so bad.
She had wanted for nothing.
Except a mother's love.
Aunt Julia had tried her best, but she had been unmarried and childless, by conscious choice, and had found it hard to reach out to the child.
Her father had tried to compensate for this lack of motherly love in her life, but his visits had been all too brief and infrequent.
And he had died, suddenly, just two weeks short of her fifteenth birthday.
Her mother had all too swiftly agreed to allow her to stay in England, not wanting to up root her and disturb her education, she had said.
And so, she had continued her education, graduating with distinction, and had then gone on to a medical course at Oxford.
Aunt Julia had died just before she had qualified, leaving her the London house and the seaside cottage, and all her other worldly possessions, none of which could compensate for the lack of affection in her life.
And then she had met Jeffrey Grayson, the archetypal absentminded professor, and quite surprisingly to both of them, they had fallen in love.
She had learned to juggle a glittering career in medicine with a home, a husband, and eventually, their much longed for child, Amy, who had arrived with a great flourish, and angry, red-faced cries, on her parent's fifth wedding anniversary.
Their marriage had lasted six years.
Six wonderful, magical years, the happiest of her life, filled with all the love that she had missed out on in her childhood.
Six years.
Cut tragically short two years ago, when Jeff, bringing their year old daughter back from a routine visit to the local baby clinic, had swerved to avoid a motorcyclist on the wrong side of the road, and had ploughed into a petrol tanker, about to make a delivery to a nearby gas station.
The ensuing fire had been so intense that neither of them had stood a chance.
A mercifully swift ending, the coroner had assured her.
Not even then had her mother offered to come to her, to comfort her.
Nor had she asked her to return home.
She had stayed on in England, throwing herself into her work, but had found the constant stream of patients through her office tiresome, the routine diagnoses of 'flu, pregnancy, cancer , unfulfilling.
And so, she had returned to Oxford to do a post graduate course in forensic medicine, finding a strange peace and comfort in learning the secrets that dead men and women could reveal to those who knew how to ask the right questions, and where to look to seek the right answers.
She had acquired a position with the Home Office as one of it's junior pathologists, and she had built up a reputation for thoroughness and efficiency.
And then, four months ago, at the end of September, quite out of the blue, Andrea had written to her, asking her to come home.
She was dying.
Suddenly hearing the soft sound of approaching footsteps from the black and white checkered marble tiled hallway, she hastily brushed away her tears, pushed a damp tissue up the cuff of her white Angora sweater, and tried to restore order to her hair, a few wisps of dark chestnut hair having escaped from the chignon in the nape of her neck, just as a tall, attractive, elderly man stepped into the room.
Dr Patrick O'Shea, long time family friend and family physician, tall, well over six feet, still attractive and distinguished despite his almost seventy years, his short cropped hair only now beginning to show slight signs of iron grey at the temples and behind his ears.
He wore an expensive and elegantly cut dark lounge suit with a crisp white handkerchief just showing in his top pocket, and an old fashioned watch and chain attached to the pocket of his waistcoat.
He strode purposefully across the room toward her.
She rose to greet him, offering him a pale, cool cheek for him to press cool, dry lips against, then stepped back and smiled wanly.
"How is she?" She asked solemnly, her voice soft and low.
"Pretty much as you described, Josephine, I'm sorry. She is in a lot of pain, but I can't give her any more medication," he explained, walking away from her now toward the black marble fireplace with it's gently crackling log fire blazing cheerfully in the hearth.
He turned, leaning against the mantle, to regard the young woman, sighing sadly, his sympathy all for this forlorn, desperately unhappy, lonely girl.
"I know, Patrick. Thank you for coming by," she spoke softly, her manner demure, and polite.
He had known her all her life, had nursed her through most of the usual childhood ailments.
And had been captivated and enchanted by her grace, beauty and poise, even at the tender age of four.
She had grown into a real beauty.
Her father's daughter, Edward's dark good looks and sparkling green eyes with tiny flecks of gold in the irises, so unlike Andrea's cool blonde, blue eyed beauty.
Patrick O'Shea was aware of the strained relationship between mother and daughter, although not the reason for it.
Did not even begin to try to understand it.
He regarded her now, taking in her slender figure and pale complexion, the red-rimmed eyes and the neat way that she had her hands folded in her lap now that she was seated again.
She had been away too long.
Exiled.
Twenty five years, all told.
It was a long time.
Where had the years gone?
He recalled the bright, energetic ten year old that Edward had brought to his office, when he had come to ask Patrick to send her medical records to his relative's doctor in England, explained why he felt it beneficial for her to go and live over there, and for the life of him, Patrick had not been able to find a convincing argument to stop Edward from doing what he intended.
It had been the right thing for Josephine.
Now, it was no wonder that the two women were complete strangers.
Edward Reeve had done his best to cajole, persuade, even shame his wife into loving and accepting their daughter, but, in the end, he had decided that the child would benefit from being away from Andrea.
He had been right.
She had thrived.
Edward had been much relieved to watch his only child growing stronger and more confident, happy, forging a successful life for herself, with people who showed her at least a little warmth.
She was more English than New Yorker now.
Patrick liked her accent.
He liked the understated way that she spoke, dressed, carried herself, almost as though she were loathed to draw attention to herself in any way.
She was a shrewd, intelligent young woman.
There was only one thing lacking in her life.
A mother's love.
It was such a pity about her husband and child.
But she had survived that ordeal.
And she was stronger now.
He wondered if the bitter, cold, heartless woman upstairs had any inkling as to just how much this young woman loved her, and needed to be loved in return?
No.
Probably not.
Andrea had always been too wrapped up in her own problems, too self obsessed.
It was almost as if she had never conceived Josephine, had no maternal feelings toward her at all, had, indeed, firmly rejected the child at birth.
Andrea had never spoken of it to him.
But, as her physician, Patrick was aware that she had delivered another child before Josephine. He had no idea what had become of the child.
It certainly wasn't Edward Reeve's ….
And Patrick suspected that Andrea had been punishing Josephine all these years, for not being that other child.
The brother or sister that Josephine, he was certain, even to this day, knew nothing about.
"Josephine, I can stay a while longer," Patrick offered softly.
"No, thank you," she sighed softly, unaware that she was wringing her hands as they lay folded in her lap. "I'll be all right," she assured, unsure how to deal with his kindness and sympathy.
"She …. she doesn't have very long, Josie, and you don't have to go through this alone. Let me help you, please …."
"I know, Patrick, and I hear what you are saying …." She lifted her gaze to meet his then, those big green eyes full of pain and agony. "But, she is my mother, and I will stay with her, to the end."
Patrick could both see and hear her resolve now, and his heart went out to her.
"I am no stranger to death, Patrick, and this is the last thing that I can do for her," her voice suddenly caught in her throat, and she lowered her eyes quickly then, so that he would not see the fresh tears that were suddenly brimming there.
"Josie, you're tired, you're overwrought , please, let me help you."
"No, thank you, Patrick …." She made a visible effort to control her emotions now. "I made a promise, and I won't go back on my word."
"Someone should be here with you …."
"Why? I'm not afraid. Death has no mystery for me. He's no stranger. He's been hovering over my shoulder this past month, Patrick. I'm getting quite used to his being there …." She produced a badly shredded paper tissue from the sleeve of her fluffy white sweater, and gracefully dabbed at her tears.
"Josie …."
"She's not afraid to die, either, Patrick," Josephine told him softly. "In fact, I think she'll welcome it …." She sighed.
"Yes, the pain has been …. It will be a merciful release."
Josephine nodded gently in agreement, but did not add that she believed that her mother would welcome death for an entirely different reason.
Simply because she was sick of living.
Heart sick.
Soul sick.
Her life was a burden to her.
And so were the people in it.
Some terrible ordeal, some terrible tragedy had touched Andrea when she had been very young.
Her father, Josephine now recalled, had explained to her once, a very long time ago, and Andrea had never recovered from it.
Whatever it was ….
Now Andrea was grateful to be free of the weight of it.
"You'll call me …. As soon as it's over? I'll come straight over …."
"Yes, thank you, Patrick. You've been a good friend …. To both of us."
Josephine rose gracefully from her seat at the Mahogany writing bureau, and walked slowly across the room, into his open arms, pressing a soft warm kiss to his slightly rough cheek.
"Josie …." She could clearly see his concern for her in his pale, watery old blue eyes, and hear it in the tightness of his voice.
"I know, Patrick. Bless you …."
She drew away from him quickly then, lest her rigid hold over her emotions crumble, and pinned a brave smile on her lips.
"I'll be fine," But the words were more for her own reassurance than for his.
"She doesn't deserve you, Josie …."
There was anger and bitterness in his voice now.
"Or your love …."
"Of course she does, Patrick. Whatever else she might be, she is still my mother."
"She was never that. At least not the kind of mother that you needed …. Deserved …."
Why was she defending Andrea?
He could not believe her dignity and compassion toward the older woman, knowing that if their positions were reversed, Andrea Reeve would have had no such feelings toward her daughter.
"I love her," Josephine spoke softly, more tears brimming in those beautiful, flashing green and gold eyes.
Patrick O'Shea felt a lump rise in his throat, and wanted nothing more than to fold his arms around this extraordinary young woman, and make the pain and heartache go away, make everything all right for her.
He swallowed convulsively, watching her wrestle with her tears.
If she had been his daughter things would have been so very different.
"I love her …." Josephine said again, her voice thick with emotion. "I can't help that, any more than she can't help not being able to love me …. I accepted that a long time ago, Patrick. She needs me now, and that is enough for me. I must do as my heart and my conscience dictate," she let out a long, ragged sigh.
"Josephine, please …. Prepare yourself for …. The worst …."
"Patrick, I have been preparing for the last month."
"No, child , I mean, prepare yourself for the fact that by morning it could all be over …."
"I know that too, Patrick. I know …. but …. we can't live forever. If it's mother's time to go …."
"What will you do? When it's over, I mean?" He asked solemnly, unable to shake the sudden feeling of dread and foreboding that settled in his heart.
"Do? I don't know, yet. I still have my work."
She had managed to secure a temporary exchange with the New York Field office of the F.B.I., hastily arranged through a good friend back in England, when she had received word that her mother was ill.
She had managed to work on a part time basis, thus allowing her to leave home later in the mornings, after tending to her mother, and return home earlier in the afternoons to help with her mother's evening routine.
However, when her mother's health had deteriorated quickly at the beginning of December, she had requested compassionate leave, which the senior agent in charge had been happy to grant, on an indefinite basis, understanding the nature of her mother's illness, and her own need to be close as the end grew closer. He had told her that she would be welcomed back as soon as she felt able, when it was over, and that there was a possibility of a more permanent position becoming available in the New Year.
Josephine had been grateful for his understanding, and the offer of a permanent post, but she had made no commitment to stay on past December 23, and he had told her to think about it and let him know after the holidays.
"I guess I'll find some way to keep busy," she bestowed a watery smile on him then. "Don't worry, Patrick , I wont curl up and die too," she assured softly, although that was exactly what Patrick O'Shea was afraid of. "Thank you. For caring," she smiled again, reaching out now to take one of his old hands in her own. "I am so very grateful to you, Patrick. You've been my rock these past months, but please, do not worry about me. I've survived worse …." She swallowed involuntarily then.
"I am worried, Josie, you've become like one of my own daughters," Patrick swallowed the lump in his throat then, and pulled her gently in to his arms. "Know that I am here for you, Josie ,always."
"I do …." She choked out, trying desperately not to give in to the tears that threatened to strangle her, knowing that if she truly welcomed this kindly old man's fatherly embrace, it would be her undoing.
"Thank you," she pulled away from him then, noting the tears welling up in his pale blue eyes.
The carriage clock in the hall chimed out the half hour, as Josephine withdrew from his embrace, and took a step away from him.
"It's getting late and the weather is deteriorating," she pointed out, taking a deep breath. "Your family will be concerned."
"I suppose you're right," he sighed heavily. The last thing he wanted to do was leave her alone in this quiet old house.
"And I had better go and see if mother is awake. She might want some tea."
Together, they walked out of the drawing room and across the wide black and white checkered tiled lobby toward a wide central staircase.
Josephine watched as Patrick collected his dark, heavy winter top coat, a thick woolen scarf, a neatly brushed old fashioned bowler hat, walking cane and umbrella, then pressed a soft kiss of farewell to his old cheek.
"Josie …." She smiled softly then. He was the only one who still called her that and he so reminded her of her father at that moment, that she felt a lump rise in her throat once more.
"Goodnight, Patrick. Take care when you leave. The steps are bound to be slippery."
She turned away from him then, and gracefully began to climb the wide, red carpeted stairs to the first floor, without looking back.
Patrick O'Shea watched her go, his heart in his mouth.
Tonight he was going to lose yet another old friend, in Andrea Reeve.
And despite her assurances, he had a terrible feeling that he would lose Josephine too.
She was already slipping away.
Not eating.
Barely sleeping.
Nursing her dying mother with tenderness and love.
Still trying to wring one last drop of love and affection out of the cold hearted, bitter old woman.
But Patrick feared that it was a hopeless cause.
Andrea Reeve was simply incapable of loving the girl.
And that was her greatest loss.
Patrick had meant what he had said about being there for Josephine.
Hadn't needed Andrea's unexpected insistence that he promise to watch over her, for he loved Josephine as if she were one of his own daughters.
This unexpected request of Andrea's, had, for the briefest instant, given him a fleeting hope that she was softening toward the girl, at last.
But, Andrea had swiftly disabused him of that notion, no love in her, even at the end, her concern all for her need to be sure that all her last wishes and instructions would be carried out to the letter.
Josephine had reached the white balconied landing now, and with a natural grace and poise, walked slowly toward Andrea Reeve's bedroom.
Patrick watched as she turned the door knob, gently pushed the heavy door open, then disappeared inside without a word, as the door clicked shut behind her.
Patrick let out a long, deep sigh, and squinted the tears from his eyes as he turned and walked across the lobby toward the door to the street. Adjusting his thick black woolen scarf around his neck, he silently let himself out into the dark, New York night, his breath a plume of white vapor in the cold, snow filled air, as he carefully negotiated the four, wide stone steps of the stoop, down to street level, and walked stiffly to where his chauffeur driven, black Rolls Royce awaited him, his grey uniformed driver, Roberts, already out of the vehicle, holding the back door open for him.
As the car pulled away from the curb, Patrick could not resist one last look back at the house, his heart heavy, an errant tear rolling down his cheek.
If he lived to be a hundred, he would never understand Andrea Reeve's attitude toward her daughter.
But at least, after tonight, she would no longer have the power to hurt Josephine.
And maybe the girl would at last find some peace, and the happiness that she deserved.
/a\
From her mother's bedroom window, holding back the heavy, dark red velvet drapes, Josephine Grayson watched Dr O'Shea's car pull away from the curb, then continued to watch the silent fall of snow covering the street below.
Somewhere down the street, a brass band was playing Hark The Herald Angels Sing, and young children's thin voices struggled with the high notes in the chorus.
Josephine let the drapes fall back in to place, and then, half turning, stared down at the pale, gaunt old woman, looking so thin, so frail and weak, in the large brass bed, propped up by several fat white pillows, her long, lifeless hair, once so vibrant and so beautiful in its coloring, now streaked with grey, fanned out around her head, her skin almost translucent, her expression pinched with pain, even as she slept.
Josephine knew a death pallor when she saw one.
Patrick was right.
Andrea did not have very long.
The cancer had finally beaten her.
Even the Morphine no longer had the power to take even the edge off the pain.
And yet, she had stubbornly refused the sedative that Patrick had offered to her earlier.
And it had been then, that Josephine had known that there was some unfinished business that her mother intended to attend to before her passing.
Josephine pulled up an old gate legged chair with a faded red velvet cushioned seat, positioning it beside the bed, before sitting down with a heavy sigh, her gaze drawn to the fire dancing in the white marble fireplace across the room, crackling and sizzling as the logs moved, sending showers of yellow and orange sparks up the chimney to mingle with the snow.
Tonight, not even the dancing flames of the fire had their usual soothing effect on her.
Tonight, she was too wound up.
Filled with dread.
Filled with a sense of foreboding.
A sense that something momentous was about to happen.
And not just her mother's death.
Although, that was momentous enough.
No ….
It was something more.
Almost like she was about to discover the ultimate meaning of life.
Her mother's sudden harsh, hacking coughing pulled her thoughts back to the present, and rising swiftly from her chair, Josephine poured out iced water from a beautifully engraved Waterford crystal decanter, in to a matching tumbler.
With the glass in one hand, Josephine gently slipped her other arm under the pile of pillows, raising her mother's head so that she could press the small glass to her dry, cracked lips.
Her mother took two small swallows of water, then sank back against the pillows with a little moan.
"Its all right, Mother. I am here," Josephine assured softly, perching on the edge of the bed and taking her mother's frail right hand in her own. "I'm here …."
"Yes …." Andrea rasped. "But why are you here?" She croaked, regarding her daughter with intense blue eyes. "By rights, you should hate me!" She choked out now. "I wouldn't blame you if you did."
"I don't hate you, mother."
"Liar."
"No, I don't hate you. I don't understand you …." Josephine sighed deeply. "But I have never hated you."
"You should."
"No …."
"Yes!"
"Mother, please …."
"You think that I don't love you, don't you?" The old woman regarded Josephine with a harsh expression on her face. "Well , you're wrong. I do love you .…" Josephine's eyes grew wide with shock at this sudden, unexpected revelation. "But not as a mother loves. You're quite right about that …." Andrea began to cough once again.
"Stop this Mother, please. Save your strength …." Josephine advised, offering Andrea the tumbler of iced water again, but she refused it, pushing the glass away with a frail, bony hand.
"Why? So I can endure one more day of pain and guilt? No. My time is over. Thank God, and good riddance!" The old woman began to cough again, harsh, hacking rasps that robbed her of breath and the power to speak.
With tears shimmering in her big green and gold eyes, Josephine reached out and gathered the frail old woman in to her arms, rocking her gently back and forth, stroking her once rich red/gold hair, now thin and wispy and streaked with grey, in a reassuring rhythm, as she murmured soothing noises and tried to calm the old woman.
"It's all right, Mother. Please don't upset yourself. I'm here …. I'm here …."
When the coughing fit stopped, the old woman pushed away from Josephine's tender embrace with surprising strength, and leaned back against her pillows.
"How can you even bear to look at me?" She rasped in a dry voice. "Knowing that I have never loved you as a mother …." Josephine could not answer. She had no words. "I tried to make myself care, and I am very proud of you …."
"Mother …."
"But, I could never love you as you deserved to be loved. I just couldn't …."
Tears suddenly welled up in those intense sky blue eyes, her voice a thin whisper now, only her stubbornness and her will power preventing her from succumbing to death's embrace.
"Listen to me, my girl, I know I've left it too late, but …. there are things that you should know. You deserve to hear the truth …." Andrea rushed on now, between painful gasps, her strength almost gone now.
"Sh, Mother, whatever it is, it doesn't matter now," Josephine assured, tears rolling unashamedly down her pale cheeks, shocked by her mother's admission that she did indeed love her, in some small way.
Shocked by the admission that it had not been the love of a mother for a daughter.
"Yes it does matter!" Andrea snapped. "I can't live with this any longer, and I don't want to take this secret with me to my grave! I have kept quiet about this for too long, and now I need to tell someone. You! I need your understanding, and your forgiveness …."
"Please Mother …." Josephine begged. "You don't need to say anything. I love you. Whatever it is, I forgive you …." She declared on a sob.
"Shut up Josephine! Shut up and let me do the talking …." Andrea suddenly reached out with a withered hand and grabbed her daughter's hand. "Listen to me, please …." She squeezed Josephine's hand with surprising strength, her eyes staring intently in to the face that so reminded her of Edward.
"Josephine, you have every right to hate me, to be angry with me, because I have been punishing you all these years …. for not being …. him …. my first born …. my son …."
"What?" Josephine gasped.
"That's right, child. You are not my only child. You were not my first born …."
All the fight suddenly seemed to drain out of Andrea at this confession, and releasing Josephine's hand, she sank back heavily against the pillows supporting her back, shoulders and head, tears glistening in her eyes as silent sobs caused her chest to heave violently.
Josephine regarded her mother with open mouthed astonishment and disbelief, completely lost for words.
"Yes child …. You have a half brother …." Andrea's voice was a breathy whisper now, barely audible over the sizzling and crackling and spitting of the fire.
"Did my father …."
"Yes. I told Edward about him, but not the truth. I never told anyone the truth …. Edward thought that I had been raped, by my stepfather …. It was easier to allow him to continue to believe that. The truth would have killed him …." Andrea gasped raggedly.
"Oh Mother …." Josephine found her voice at last. "How awful!" The word was so woefully inadequate, but she could find no other to express herself.
"I wasn't raped, at least …. I don't think so, but I was no willing participant either!"
There was a bitterness in her voice now, and her gaze seemed to turn inward now, with the memory.
Josephine fiddled with a rumpled tissue in fingers that seemed to have a mind of their own.
Where on earth was her mother going with this?
A brother?
I have a brother ,
Andrea Reeve let out a deep, shuddering sigh, drawing her daughter's pained green/gold gaze.
"Josephine, what I am about to tell you, no-one else has ever heard from my lips …." She confessed raggedly. "I couldn't bare to speak of it before …. but now …. I must …. I must!" She exhaled, her breath a long, ragged hiss then inhaled deeply.
"When I was seventeen years old, my mother remarried. My father was killed in the war, in Japan when I was only six. Well, the man that she married was a vile, viscous brute, fond of using his fists, always leering at me, making lewd comments, finding excuses to get me alone, pressing his vile, sweaty body against mine …." She shuddered.
"He would come home drunk, walk in on me in various states of undress, expose himself to me …." She paused briefly, closing her eyes, as though trying to arrange her memories of that time. "I told my mother, but she just made excuses for him. She needed him more than me, I guess …." Again Andrea paused to take in another shuddering breath.
"One night, he came home drunk. I was alone. Mother was out working a late shift at the local diner …."
She closed her eyes again then, against the awful memory, and Josephine instinctively reached out for her old hand.
"Mother, please …. Stop this. You don't have to go on …."
"I can't stop. I've hidden the truth for too long, Josephine …."
The look on Andrea's face was one of such despair and pain, that Josephine could hardly bare to look at her.
"Why mother? Why now? What good can it do now?"
"It needs to be told, please, Josephine …. Hear me out."
"All right, Mother," Josephine sniffed, regarding the frail, almost skeletal form in the centre of the old brass bed, and again saw the pain in her deep blue eyes.
And something more.
Guilt.
Shame.
Despair.
And her need for her daughter's understanding and forgiveness.
Absolution.
The weight of almost forty years of carrying this terrible burden alone, almost crushing her.
"I'm listening …."
"As I said, one night, he came home, drunk as usual …. and he tried to force himself on me …."
"Oh Mother …"
"He didn't succeed child. Thank God. He couldn't …. Because of the alcohol, I guess, but that didn't stop him taking out his frustrations with his fists …." Andrea flinched at the remembered pain, and Josephine squeezed her bony hand gently.
"He beat me, to within an inch of my life, as the old saying goes …." Her lips suddenly twisted cynically, in a bitter smile. "My mother came home from the diner, saw my battered face, heard his drunken ravings about how I had thrown myself at him …. and she threw me out in to the street!"
"Oh my God!" Josephine exclaimed in genuine disgust.
"No, I couldn't believe it either!"
Another fit of coughing halted Andrea's tale at this point, leaving her pale, drained and breathless.
"Mother, you must stop this, now …." Josephine admonished sternly. "Can't you see this is killing you!"
"I'm dying anyway child …. Got to finish …. Must go on …. Can't stop now!"
Josephine let out a deep sigh of resignation.
"Josephine, I was so badly beaten, I could hardly see. I staggered around the neighborhood, no idea where I was going. I must have had a concussion, I think, because I remember being very sick and light-headed and I remember being almost run down by a cab, and then, staggering in to some filthy, stinking alley and collapsing amongst the garbage …."
"It's a miracle you didn't die …."
"Later, I wished that I had …." Andrea breathed huskily. "Some time later …." She forced herself to continue, and Josephine watched her with concern. "When I came around, there was a man. A stranger. Talking to me. Trying to reassure me. He had an accent. English, I think. He told me that he was a doctor, that he could help me. That he had taken me to a safe place. That he would nurse me, had tended my wounds …."
She faltered for a moment, squeezing a fresh crop of tears from between her fine lashes.
"Bastard drugged me …." She forced the words out through clenched teeth. "Kept me doped so I wouldn't ask too many questions about where I was, what he was doing to me, but I knew that I wasn't in any damned hospital!"
"Mother …."
"He kept me prisoner, this so called doctor. Some place, underground, I think …. I could hear the subway trains rattling overhead, smell wet earth and candle wax, although I was kept mainly in the dark."
Josephine watched her mother wrestle with the memories, although she found it very hard to believe.
She realized that there was no point in trying to stop her, and arguing with her only made the coughing worse.
There had to be some point to all of this, and it was obviously important to Andrea to get it off her chest.
But where did her brother come in to this?
"And while I was drugged, the bastard conducted experiments on me …."
"Experiments? What kind of experiments?" Josephine quizzed with a deep frown etched in to her brow.
"What kind of experiments do you think, child!"
"Mother, did he rape you?"
"No."
"Then what?" There was confusion in Josephine's voice now.
"Medical experiments of course. Some kind of new technique he called it. Oh he was a great talker was John, always going on about his genius. How the world would fall at his feet when they knew about his great work …."
"Mother, what are you saying?"
"I'm saying that he made me pregnant!" Andrea choked out. "But not the way that other people do it!"
"If he didn't rape you, Mother …. Are you saying that he impregnated you using artificial insemination?" Josephine asked in disbelief.
Forty years ago that had been a very experimental technique, conducted mostly on animals.
"Yes, that's it. That's what he called it."
"Oh my God …."
"But that's not the worst of it, child …."
"How much worse can it be? Keeping a young woman hostage, conducting medical experiments on her against her will …."
Josephine's voice trailed away, as she stared at her mother with fresh eyes, wondering about what she must have endured all these years, understanding at last that she would not have been able to confide in anyone.
"I told you he was a great talker, well, sometimes, when he thought I was too doped to understand, he talked too much, let on that he was married, and that although they had tried to have kids of their own. They couldn't …. His fault, but, if this new technique worked, he could use it on his wife. I was his test case and he was very careful about documenting his brilliance!"
"He must have been completely mad!"
"I thought so too, but there were times when he was quite lucid, rational, even kind, for a maniac who kept me bound and gagged most of the time. I was grateful for any crumb of kindness that he showed me," Andrea explained hoarsely.
"I don't even think he knew what he was going to do with my child once it was born. If it survived …. He was so wrapped up in his own importance …." Andrea let out a long, shuddering sigh.
"Josephine, I did not see the light of day for eight months. I had no idea where I was, no contact with anyone, except this man, John. He brought my food and took away the dirty dishes, he monitored my health, and gloated over his success every day my belly grew bigger!"
Andrea paused briefly, while Josephine continued to regard her with stunned disbelief.
"I almost went mad," Andrea confessed raggedly. "There were times when I wished that I was dead, prayed I were dead, would perhaps have even tried to kill myself …. if he had just given me half a chance, but …." Andrea faltered then, drawing in several short, rasping, labored breaths. "There was the child …. This thing, growing inside me. This whole new person who was counting on me to survive and it was so strange, but …. It was like I knew his every thought, feeling, his need to survive. I felt every kick, every heart beat, and I knew he was …."
"Mother?" Josephine frowned at the abrupt way that Andrea had halted her narrative.
"I'm all right, child," Andrea assured softly. "Oh God, Josephine …. How was I to know? I was so young, so naïve. What did I know?"
"Mother?"
"The pregnancy, it wasn't easy. It wasn't …. Natural …."
"What happened, Mother? Did he let you go after the baby was born?" Josephine quizzed, anxious to know all of it now, before time ran out, and she was left with only questions that would never be answered. "Did he keep the child?"
"Oh no, no child, I don't think he ever intended to let me go, and as for the child …. I don't know. I knew too much. He thought that he was oh so clever …. But he wasn't. He was careless, and eventually, that was my salvation …."
"The last time he came to see me, I was already in labor, the early stages. I tried my damnedest not to let him see the pain and the fear that I was feeling, but, he could tell and was gloating again. I could hear the glee in his voice, saying that everything was prepared and that he would come back for me, soon, but, like I said …. He got careless …."
"You escaped?"
"No, not exactly …." Andrea let out another shuddering breath. "Someone else found his hiding place. A woman. His wife ..."
"Oh my God …."
"She had followed him, frightened that he was having an affair."
"Poor woman!"
"Yes, poor woman. She got more than she bargained for, finding me, eight months pregnant and in labor, and her husband keeping me prisoner …."
"What happened?"
"When she saw me, she seemed to grasp the situation immediately. Her face …. I will never forget her face …. So kind. So lovely. Such love in it …. For him, despite the terrible things that he had done. I will never forget how relieved, how grateful I was to her …."
"She helped you?"
"Yes, she helped me. She guided me through dark tunnels. I don't really know where he had kept me, and I was in so much pain, with the labor, my mind cloudy from all the drugs …. I didn't take that much notice of where we were going. By the end of it, I was so weak, I could hardly walk. All I know is that one minute we were below ground, the next, I could feel the wind and snow on my face, in my hair. Fresh air had never smelled sweeter …."
"I can imagine."
"I do remember her talking to me, so gentle, so understanding, and I realized that despite everything, she loved him. John. She kept saying that he was a good man, a loving husband and that all he wanted was a son. That he wasn't really a bad man. That what he had done had been in the name of love. Love of her …. That if I should blame anyone, it should be her, for the dream of a child of their own was hers too and he had only wanted to make her happy …."
"What happened then, Mother?"
"She told me that we were near to a hospital. St Vincent's. Only a few more yards to go, but it was too late. I couldn't make it inside, so, I gave birth, with her help …. To a …. Boy. January 12th, 1955, the coldest damned night of the year …." She stopped suddenly, closing her eyes against the painful memory.
"It's all right, Mother …." Josephine soothed, gently squeezing her mother's frail hand.
"He ….he was …." Andrea faltered again, her raspy voice trailing away.
"Mother?" Josephine frowned deeply, concerned by her mother's lack of strength.
"Oh God, Josephine , he was …." Andrea's face suddenly twisted in to a grotesque mask. "I don't know where that bastard got the seed to impregnate me with, but the child …. the boy wasn't …."
"Was he disfigured, Mother? Was he deformed?" Josephine asked softly, noting the revulsion on Andrea's face.
Under the circumstances, it would not have been surprising if there had been birth defects, Josephine surmised to herself.
"He …. wasn't …. Human!" Andrea expelled a deep breath. "He wasn't human. He looked …. unlike any child I have ever seen …." She spoke in the merest whisper now. "Oh God, forgive me …. forgive me! My first reaction was one of revulsion. How could I have given birth to that …. thing …."
"Tell me, Mother …."
"He was …. different …. like …. like a little …. lion cub! Tiny clawed hands, feet …. That face …. It broke my heart to look at him …."
"Oh Mother, how awful for you!" Josephine squeezed her mother's hand tightly.
"No! No child, not awful …." Andrea glared at her. "Because, when I held him, really looked at him, I saw that he was really quite beautiful. I saw his intelligence, felt his power, knew his soul …. I knew that I wasn't worthy of him …." Andrea paused for breath and Josephine watched in awe at the play of emotions on her pale, weary face.
"He didn't even cry when he was born, just made this soft sort of mewling sound, and he lay in my arms, looking up at me with the most incredibly beautiful blue eyes I had every seen, and I knew that I couldn't keep him …. Didn't deserve him …. That he had been born for some higher purpose, and I was not meant to have him to myself …."
"What happened to him, Mother?" Josephine demanded, deeply hurt by the look of love and awe that she saw on her Mother's face, directed at the son that she had lost, a look that had never been there for her daughter.
"She took him from me, to find something to wrap him in, to keep him warm, and while she was hunting around in the garbage looking for a scrap of rag, anything to wrap him in, I dragged myself down the alley, towards a flight of metal steps that led down to the basement laundry."
"I thought that I was dying, child, there was so much blood. I prayed I would die …. As I watched her looking for me, cradling him in a pile of filthy rags against her breast …. As I would never be able to hold him …. She called out to me …. must have known that I could not have gone far …."
"What did she say?" Josephine whispered, hardly able to believe what she had heard. No wonder her mother had not been able to speak of it all these years ,
"She said, my name is Anna, Anna Pater. I'll take your son to some place safe, to someone who will care for him …. somewhere away from John. If you change your mind and you want your son back, look for me, ask anyone in this neighborhood, they will know where to find me, to get word to me …."
Andrea closed her eyes and lay still and silent for a long moment, only the sound of her shallow, labored breathing evidence that she was even still alive.
"Mother?"
"I'm all right …." Andrea let out a long, deep, shuddering breath, and opened her eyes at last.
"What happened after that?"
"Well, by this time, it was snowing hard, and the child was beginning to fuss. I watched her hurry away in to the night, a part of me aching to call her back, needing to hold him, my heart breaking, but my mind reasoning that if was for the best, that I couldn't take care of him, could not offer him anything …. Yet knowing that I would never forget him …. Never love anything or anyone as much as I loved him …."
"But you never saw him again?" Josephine asked in a tight little voice. Andrea shook her head sadly. "Did you go to the police?"
"Of course not, child! Who would have believed me?" Andrea sighed deeply.
"But, what the man did to you was criminal …. outrageous …. Immoral!" Josephine raged.
"And he gave me the most precious thing that I ever had in my life. My son."
Josephine heard the words, and felt a stab of pain in her heart.
"How can you say that?" She gazed at her mother with incredulous green eyes.
"Because, it is the truth. He was the most beautiful gift that I could ever have had. I only held him just that once, and I can't explain how, but, he was everything …."
"Do you remember anything after this woman, this Anna, took the child away?"
"Not much. I passed out, was found by one of the hospital orderlies and spent some time in the hospital. The doctors asked a lot of questions about the baby, but I told them that it had been born dead, that I didn't remember when or where, and I was so sick, no one was really interested in pursuing the finer points."
Andrea sank back deeper against her pillows with a weary sigh, and closed her eyes.
Josephine released her mother's bony hand then, and slipped off the bed, suddenly finding the room too hot and airless.
She walked over to the window, pulling back the drapes once more to stare, with unseeing eyes, out at the night, the steady fall of snow heavier now, the brass band and carol singers long since moved on.
"So-o-o-o, now you know …." Andrea's voice was soft, her breath rattling in her chest.
"Yes. Now I know," Josephine sighed deeply. "My God Mother, it's just so …. Incredible, mind boggling …."
"And every word of it the truth, child!"
"Yes," Josephine paused then, turning back to regard her mother with big, hurt green eyes. "And, I guess, after giving birth to a child such as that …. I was a big disappointment …." She said bitterly.
"That remark is beneath you, Josephine," Anger edged Andrea's voice now. "But I suppose you have the right. Believe this now, child, you were never a disappointment to me. Its just that letting him go …. took all the love that I had …. there was just nothing left …."
"Not even for father?" Josephine asked in a low, hard voice.
"Not even for Edward," The old woman confirmed sadly. "I was always very fond of him, Josephine, always wanted to be, and tried to be a good wife. When I told him about the baby, my stepfather, he assumed the worst, and in a way, it helped …. Stopped him from asking too many questions," she let out another ragged sigh.
"Your father was a good, loving man, and he understood. He was a fine husband and a loving and devoted father …. You …. you were at least one good thing I could bring to our marriage, and I was so happy when you were born, but then I remembered him …. How it felt to lose him, and I knew that if I got too close to you, and anything should happen to you …. The pain of that loss would kill me. I will always be grateful to Edward for the way that he looked after you, raised you, because I could not. It took every bit of strength I had just to go on living …. without him …."
"I know," Josephine sighed raggedly then. "I felt the same, about Amy, Jeff …." Tears streaming down her face now, Josephine turned to face her mother. "So, I have a brother. A half brother …." She sobbed softly. "He came first …. It's only right that you should love him more …."
"You don't have to be so …. damned …. reasonable about it, girl! Scream and shout and rant if you want to …."
"Why? What good would it do? It's not his fault that you could never love me."
"No," Andrea confirmed. "And, it gladdens my heart to hear you say it, because …. Josephine, I …. I want you to find him!"
"What?"
"Find him, please, find him …. and tell him how much I loved him …. regretted letting him go …. Promise me, Josephine, please!" Andrea pleaded raggedly.
"God, you've got some nerve!" Josephine sneered. "You really do! You lie there, telling me that I have a brother, and that losing him was the most God awful thing that ever happened to you …. that he is the reason why you could never love me …. and then you try to use my compassion, and my good nature …. You really do think so little of me!" She railed. "He really is all you care about!"
"Not all …. I do care about you too. I want you to do this, but not just for me …. but for yourself, child! Don't you see …. You need to do this for you, because you will not be alone anymore!"
"That's rich!"
"But the truth."
"So you told me all of this for my sake? Well, thank you …."
"Promise me. Please Josephine, promise me!"
"But, for God's sake, you have no idea what happened to him …. anything about him …. even if he survived!"
"He did! I know it!"
There was such certainty and conviction in Andrea's voice now.
"I feel it! Now promise me!"
"All right, all right …. Calm yourself, mother. I promise," Josephine acquiesced. "But for me, not you …."
"I don't care why you do it …. just do it!"
"Fine. Now rest."
"Yes …. Now I can rest …." Andrea let out a deep, shuddering breath. "Thank you."
Andrea closed her eyes then and settled back against her pillows.
"Why did you tell me?"
"I wanted you to know it, from me. The truth of it. You see, when I'm gone, you will find things, documents, papers …. I didn't want you to find out like that."
"How considerate," her tone was edged with sarcasm now.
"So, the reasonable, ever pleasant child has a backbone after all. Good. You never really needed me, did you? You're stronger than you realize …."
"One thing I did inherit from you."
"Maybe," Andrea conceded.
"Rest easy now, Mother. I'll find your son, and pass on your message"
"Thank you."
Josephine walked back to the bed then, sitting down carefully on the edge, and took her mother's hand in her own.
"I'm sorry," Andrea choked out, her eyes fluttering closed now. "I wish it could have been different," she let out a long, deep, shuddering breath, and was suddenly still.
"Mother," Josephine, tears streaming down her pale cheeks, regarded the frail, doll like figure lying perfectly still in the centre of the brass bed. "Oh Mother …." She spoke thickly, knowing that her mother was gone. "Goodbye. I hope you find peace now. I love you …."
Without thought, Josephine gathered the old woman close to her, rocking her limp, lifeless body back and forth, as silent tears cascaded down her face, and harsh, rasping sobs wracked her slender body, grieving for the years of love and happiness that had been denied her because of this terrible injustice that had been done to her mother, this terrible violation, this horrific loss.
And then, her thoughts turned to the boy who had been abandoned.
Her brother.
Half brother ….
Was he still alive?
Andrea had been so sure ….
Could something like that have survived?
What were the chances that a child like him could have been born in the first place?
And yet, he had been born.
If Andrea had been right about the way that he looked ….
Memory was a strange thing ….
Forty years on ….
She could have been mistaken. Shocked from her ordeal, drugged all those months, terrified and in pain ….
What if what she had really seen was a child with Downs Syndrome, or some other recognized deformity that had been less well documented back in 1955?
But Andrea had been so sure about what she had seen.
Josephine thought about what she had promised her mother, as she laid her lifeless remains back down gently on the bed, straightening a wisp of hair from her cheek with shaking fingers, caressing the still warm flesh.
To find him.
If he was still alive.
What good would it do Andrea now?
Maybe nothing ….
But it would do Josephine a power of good, for no matter what he was like, handsome, ugly, good or bad ….
She had a brother.
There was another soul on this earth, somewhere, that she was connected to.
And she would never be alone again.
They would have each other.
And she would be able to provide at least some of the answers to the questions that he must surely have.
Her mother had set her an almost impossible task.
Forty years ….
Forty years next month ….
Surely the trail would have gone cold after all that time?
But Josephine knew that she must pursue it, had to try to find him …. or at least try to discover what had happened to him, for her own peace of mind.
If she didn't ….
She would always wonder …. She would always regret it.
Poor Andrea ….
She had spent the remainder of her life looking for that unique something that she had seen in the face of her new born son, had felt as something tangible ….
And had found her daughter a poor substitute.
Josephine knew that she should be angry, bitter ….
But she wasn't.
She was just relieved.
Merely gladdened to know that she did not walk this earth alone anymore.
Maybe ….
And if he was alive?
She vowed that she would find him.
She would search for him, until her dying breath.