Chapter 3- Father, daughter, and mother reunions
Now I said Mr. Wayne looked mad when I said my name was Rachel, but I don't know if that anger was exactly directed at me. The muscles in his face tensed with anger, but they relaxed as he looked at me again. He could probably see that if he was angry it wouldn't endear him to me in the slightest particle.
He closed his eyes briefly and gripped my wrist tightly as he half-dragged me to an office. Shutting the door, he then turned and looked at me. "Sit down, Roberta," Mr. Wayne ordered quietly. So much for my telling him that my name was Rachel. I obeyed him, nevertheless.
I don't know what it was about him that made me want to obey him instantly. By the look on his face he struck me as a father who did care and loved me very much.
"You've changed, Robbie," Mr. Wayne said, hesitating slightly.
"I've grown, I guess," I said, feeling hesitant myself. He probably remembered me more as a three-year-old that loved to be held by him. He had probably had no idea that I'd ever really come back and that I'd be tall and thin.
"That's not exactly what I meant. I'm glad you're here," Mr. Wayne said, grabbing me by the shoulders and holding me tightly in his arms again. The man liked to hug. My own father didn't even hug or kiss me that much. One kiss or hug in the morning and another in the evening and that was it. The Seneca were not like Mr. Wayne with their children. They loved their kids, but they told them more in action and words than in hugging and kissing. Of course the Seneca's' idea of punishment was to duck someone under a freezing cold river and I wasn't about to tell Mr. Wayne about that.
I stood there, biting my lips. I didn't know what I could say to him. I felt like Janie when she went to go stay with her biological family; that I had wandered into a bank and was told to call the manager "Dad."
Mr. Wayne looked at me again as he cupped my face gently with his hands. Let me just mention his hands. His hands weren't soft like I'd thought they'd be. They were hard and callused. They were sort of like my father's hands. They were also gentle too. His gentle fatherly manner finally opened me up to want to talk with him.
"How did you know I wasn't lying?" I asked, noticing the pleased expression crossing his face.
"I just knew. Also you took after me more than your mother," Mr. Wayne said, stroking my face with his thumbs.
Could I really argue with that? Like I said before parents must know their children from anywhere and my father was no exception to the rule.
"Where have you been, Roberta?" Mr. Wayne asked as both of us sat down on the soft leather couch.
"I've been living in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Before I lived on a reservation in upstate New York. My, um, father is a doctor," I said, hesitating over calling Patrick Hamilton my father. I didn't know how Mr. Wayne would respond to my calling someone else my father. I was right.
"Roberta, that man is not your father," Mr. Wayne said, his eyes getting hard again.
"I know that now. I just always thought he was," I said, feeling my insides shrink slightly as I met his hard gaze.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you," Mr. Wayne said, taking my hands in his and kissing my own hard, callused palms gently. I was slightly ashamed of my hands. They were proof that I had worked hard and were tough like an old suitcase.
Mr. Wayne then looked at both my hands. It was like he couldn't believe that they had gotten so tough either. He looked up at me, the question in his eyes. "I'm sorry. The Seneca that I've lived among believe in hard work," I apologized, feeling all the blood rush to my face. I felt foolish having to apologize, but Mr. Wayne made me feel remorseful.
"I just never dreamed-" Mr. Wayne started to say, still looking at my hands. I was saved from having to answer by a cell phone. It took me a minute to realize it was mine.
I reached into my backpack slung over my thin shoulder. My cell phone continued to ring and Mr. Wayne looked at me with a puzzled look on his face.
"Hello?" I asked, punching the send button. I debated putting it on speaker phone, but if it was Mom or Dad wanting to yell at me I didn't want Bruce Wayne to hear that.
"RACHEL JANE HAMILTON, WHERE ARE YOU?!!!!" My father's voice screamed over the phone line so loud that I had to hold the phone away from my ear.
"Dad, do you really have to use my full name?" I asked quietly, as my father screamed. Talking that calmly caused my phone line to go silent.
"Hello? Dad, are you still there? Mr. Wayne, I think my dad's speechless," I said, raising my eyebrows slightly at Mr. Wayne. He looked pained. Probably because I had just called Patrick Hamilton my dad, again.
"Dad, will you please answer me. I don't like talking to a dead telephone," I said frostily, standing up and pacing around the room.
"Where are you?" My dad said calmly.
"Gotham City, Dad. Don't worry, I'm okay," I said brokenly. I wasn't okay and Dad knew it. He also knew I wasn't telling him the truth.
"Yeah, right. I hate it when you try to convince me that you aren't crying when you are," Dad said sarcastically.
"Dad, it's great that you know me, but I think you know me a little too well," I said dryly.
"It's a gift. All fathers get it," Dad said, causing me to grin slightly.
"Daddy, you're terrible!" I said, rolling my eyes slightly.
Bruce Wayne stood then. I guess he was tired of hearing me call Patrick "Dad." "May I have the phone please, Roberta?" Mr. Wayne asked stiffly. I shrank slightly as I handed the phone to him, pressing the speaker phone on. I wanted to hear the whole conversation.
"Rachel? Rachel, what's going on?" My father's voice sounded tinny over the connection. Also he sounded very upset. I couldn't say that I blamed him. If my fourteen-year-old daughter had ditched school and was in Gotham City I'd be upset too. I'd be calling the Army, the Navy, the Marines, and everyone else I could think of. But then again that's probably how Mr. Wayne and his wife had to have felt when I disappeared.
"This is Bruce Wayne," Mr. Wayne said, not bothering to take the phone off the speaker phone.
"The billionaire? What's Rachel doing with you?" My dad asked astonished.
"She came here looking around," Mr. Wayne said flatly.
"Oh. Well, I'm sorry if she bothered you, Mr. Wayne," my dad said contritely,
"I don't mind. Especially since she's not really your daughter," Mr. Wayne said harshly. I probably wouldn't have told my father that way, but Mr. Wayne was not me.
My father inhaled sharply. "How did you know that?" Dad asked.
"Just by looking at her. She is my daughter and she is never coming back to you," Mr. Wayne said, looking first at me and then back down at the phone. Those words confirmed my worst fear. Mr. Wayne was going to take me away from my parents and force me to live with him and his wife.
"What? Rachel, what's going on?" My father's voice asked, tinged with panic.
I didn't know how to answer that question. Looking up at Bruce Wayne I bit my lip hard. I wanted to go home and admit this was a mistake in my coming here. I felt like crying, but all Seneca children are taught to mask emotions so I was unable to.
"Rachel?" My father's voice broke through my thoughts.
I looked at Mr. Wayne and then at my phone. "I'm sorry, Dad," I said in a voice that was mine, but I couldn't believe was mine.
"I don't understand," Dad said.
"Go in my room. In a junk drawer in my nightstand you'll find a milk carton. Look at the picture on it and then call me back. If you don't understand it still I can explain it," I said, taking my phone and disconnecting the line.
I flopped back down onto Mr. Wayne's leather couch and waited, turning the phone over in my hands.
"Roberta, I meant what I said. You are not going back there," Mr. Wayne said, touching my shoulder gently.
I looked down at his hand on my shoulder. He looked as if he wanted to not be angry at my father or the situation, but it wasn't working. He was.
"I give it five minutes or less. The milk carton isn't that difficult to find," I said, trying to avoid the conversation that Mr. Wayne was trying to start. I could only deal with one crisis at a time.
My phone then rang, causing me to jump slightly. I answered it, dreading my father's reaction. "Hello?" I asked, my mouth as dry as cotton.
"I found it. Rachel, why didn't you tell us about this?" My dad asked.
"What if I was wrong? Did you want me to be?" I asked, feeling annoyed.
"No of course not. I would have thought you just made an honest mistake," Dad said.
"I was hoping that maybe I had until I found old newspaper articles. Dad, I am sorry. I never meant for this to happen," I said, the tears finally falling. As I said before Seneca rarely have displays of emotion, but this time I couldn't hide how I was feeling. Some Seneca I am, I thought ruefully.
"It's not your fault," Dad said consolingly.
"I feel like it is. And you saying that doesn't make me feel better," I said bitterly.
"It's not. It was mine. We just took another man's word for it that you were an orphan and we didn't even think to check things out," Dad said, his voice heavy with self-pity.
"Who was it, Dad? Was it someone you knew really well?" I asked.
"Not really. He had heard that your mom and I couldn't have kids and it would take an eternity to cut through all the red tape involved in adoption," Dad said.
'Was my adoption even legal, Dad?" I asked.
"At the time we thought it was. He said he came from Asia and had a huge success rate in putting kids who didn't have homes with good people," Dad said ruefully.
"Did he have a goatee and a blue flower on his jacket?" Mr. Wayne asked, reminding me that I wasn't alone in this conversation.
"Yes, why?" Dad asked.
"I know who the man was who gave her to you," Mr. Wayne said grimly.
"Who is it?" Dad asked uneasily.
"His name's Henri Ducard. He's otherwise known as Ra's al Ghul. He's a criminal that wanted me to help him destroy Gotham and when I wouldn't do it he became my enemy. Now I know he took my daughter as an act of revenge," Mr. Wayne said.
"Oh, boy!! I am so sorry! We should have checked things out before he dumped a little girl on us," Dad said. If I could have seen him I would say he was probably blushing. My father's face had a tendency to turn as red as a tomato at the drop of a hat.
"Dad, it's not your fault that you are a complete and total idiot," I said without thinking. At those words I clapped my hand over my mouth in shock. "Sorry. I think I left my brain on the train here," I said.
"No, you're right. I was an idiot. I am so sorry, Rachel," Dad said ruefully. Dad disconnected then, leaving me standing there with the phone in my hands and next to a total stranger I could barely remember who had his arm around my shoulders.
"Roberta, I'm going to take you home. Your mother is going to be so happy when she sees you again," Mr. Wayne said, gently running his fingers through my hair. I looked at him blankly. Home? Then I realized he meant his house. In my memories his house was big. That was all I could remember.
I was confused and scared. I know that I shouldn't have been, but I was. Mr. Wayne wrapped his arm around me and walked with me to the elevator. It was a protective stance he was taking. My father would have done the same thing. It was then I remembered my necklace. I was not leaving without it. I broke free from Mr. Wayne and went over to the metal detector. My necklace was on a metallic tray. Picking it up I put it around my neck.
"Roberta?" Mr. Wayne asked, his voice close to my ear. I looked at him. His green eyes were a mirror of confusion.
"I just want my necklace. My Indian grandmother gave it to me on my last birthday," I said, hoping that was explanation enough. I slipped it around my neck, hoping Mr. Wayne didn't take it from me. My necklace is important to me. My grandmother has given one to each of the five granddaughters she had, including me. Each of us has our English name written on it and the Seneca translation written on the back. The big problem was that the metals she used stopped all kinds of metal detectors. Mine was a combination of rock quartz, metal, lead, and gold melted together.
Fortunately for me Mr. Wayne didn't press it and make me give up my necklace. This was a huge relief.
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The ride to his house was long to say the least. Mr. Wayne tried to talk with me, but I'm not a great conversationalist. I preferred silence over talking and so I sat there, just looking out the window as Gotham City gave way to the countryside.
"You live outside the city, Mr. Wayne?" I asked, after a few uncomfortable minutes of silence.
"Yes. You, your mother, and myself we live outside Gotham. Our family has always done that and have been here for generations," Mr. Wayne said, keeping his eyes on the road as he drove. I also want to mention his car that he was driving. Now it was a nice car and it cost probably more than my father made in a year being a doctor.
"That's good. I don't like the city," I said staidly, turning my attention back to the countryside.
Mr. Wayne and I lapsed back into silence. I still didn't know what I could possibly say to him. I didn't know even what to call him. "Mr. Wayne" seemed natural since I already called someone else "Dad." But he seemed upset when I called him by his last name.
My eyes were dazzled when we stopped in front of the biggest mansion I had ever seen. It looked as if it could house the whole Seneca reservation and then some. I paused as I looked at it. Mom and Dad would never believe me when I told them about this!
"Come on, Roberta," Mr. Wayne ordered gently, wrapping his arm around my shoulder and taking me to the house. An old man answered the door. I didn't understand much of the conversation that Mr. Wayne had with him. I knew that his name was Alfred by the introductions, but I was too busy looking around with my eyes at the huge foyer that I had found myself in. Alfred looked at me, a shocked expression on his face. It was then I realized he had said something to me.
"I'm sorry. I didn't hear what you said," I said, feeling my face flush with shame.
"I said, welcome home, Miss Roberta," Alfred said, taking my ratty backpack.
I grabbed it out of his hands when I realized what he was doing. "Where are you going with my backpack?" I asked.
"Give Alfred the backpack, Roberta. He's just taking it to your room," Mr. Wayne said, taking my backpack out of my hands and giving it to Alfred.
"That's right, Miss. You'll get it back," Alfred promised, looking concerned.
"Okay, I guess," I said reluctantly.
Mr. Wayne then wrapped his arms around me and took me towards the parlor. "Rachel?" Mr. Wayne called. It took me a minute to realize that he was not calling me. It was a disadvantage to be given the name Rachel and then to be told that I couldn't go by it.
"In here, Bruce," a woman's voice floated out of the parlor.
"Stay here. I want to surprise your mother," Mr. Wayne said, kissing me gently. I couldn't argue with him so I sat down on a chair in the hallway and looked around. I was so busy looking at wall hangings I never noticed Mr. and Mrs. Wayne coming out of the parlor until I heard a soft gasp.
I turned at that moment. Mrs. Rachel Wayne was beautiful with brown hair and brown eyes that looked like river sludge as they looked at me. I didn't know what to say. Should I have said hello? What do you say to a mother that you hadn't seen since you were three?
I found out then I didn't have to say anything. Mrs. Wayne had covered the distance between us and had me in her arms before I could even blink. She was crying and kissing my cheeks at the same time. For the moment I just let her cry.