Chapter 6 - The Woman Who Remembered
The next morning, Damian sat beside his mother's bed holding the photograph.
Beatrice was eating toast.
Not feeding herself particularly well, but trying.
Tessa sat nearby with a cup of tea.
She'd chosen to return to work after spending the night at a hotel. The police investigation continued, and new access arrangements had been put in place at the estate.
Damian had resisted her return.
Tessa had resisted his resistance.
She'd won.
"Mother," Damian said gently, "do you recognize these people?"
Beatrice looked at the picture.
Her brow creased.
"Anthony."
"Yes. That's Dad."
She touched the photograph.
"He was always wearing those terrible ties."
Tessa smiled.
Damian didn't.
"And the other man?"
Beatrice's finger moved.
She stared at Salvatore.
Then her hand began to shake.
"No."
Damian leaned forward.
"Mother?"
"No."
"It's okay."
"Get him away."
Her breathing quickened.
Tessa immediately set down the tea.
"Damian, move the picture."
He hesitated.
"Mother, I just need—"
"Move it," Tessa repeated.
Something in her voice cut through his urgency.
Damian lowered the photograph.
Beatrice's eyes filled with tears.
"He took her."
Damian froze.
"Who?"
Beatrice pressed both hands against her mouth.
"He took her. Anthony said we couldn't keep her. He said we had to let her go."
Damian felt the room tilt.
"Mother, who are you talking about?"
Beatrice began rocking.
"No, no, no."
Tessa moved closer.
"Beatrice, look at me."
But Beatrice was no longer listening.
She was somewhere else.
Somewhere terrible.
Damian stood, suddenly furious at himself.
The independent nurse entered after Tessa pressed the call button.
Together, they helped Beatrice settle.
Damian left the room without another word.
He reached his study, closed the door, and threw the photograph across the desk.
For thirty-eight years, he'd believed he was his parents' only child.
Now his mother had spoken about a girl.
A girl Salvatore might have taken.
But Beatrice's dementia made memories difficult to interpret. She might have been describing a relative, someone else's child, or an event distorted by time.
Damian knew that.
He also knew his mother hadn't looked confused when she'd seen Salvatore's face.
She'd looked terrified.
Paul entered an hour later.
"I've been going through the family archives."
"And?"
"Your parents were involved with a privately funded maternity clinic in the early 1990s. It closed after financial irregularities."
Damian looked up.
"Why haven't I heard about it?"
"Your father's business records don't contain much. There are charitable donations, property transfers, and several confidential settlements. Nothing conclusive."
"Find the people who worked there."
Paul hesitated.
"Boss, if your mother was remembering something traumatic, pushing her for answers could make things worse."
Damian closed his eyes.
"I know."
Paul studied him.
"You don't always have to solve everything by tonight."
Damian looked at the photograph.
"Someone's been frightened of Salvatore for thirty years."
"Maybe."
"And if that someone is my mother?"
Paul didn't answer.
That afternoon, Tessa found Damian standing on the terrace.
The ocean below was gray and violent.
He hadn't noticed her approach.
"Dr. Whitmore said your mother is resting."
Damian nodded.
"I'm sorry," she added.
He gave a short laugh.
"That's becoming a common phrase around here."
"She didn't mean to upset you."
"I know."
"She might not remember the same thing tomorrow."
"I know that too."
Tessa leaned against the stone railing a few feet away.
For a while, they watched the water.
Then she asked, "Did you ever lose somebody before you could ask them the questions that mattered?"
Damian looked at her.
"Yes."
"Then you know why I'm saying this."
He waited.
"Don't turn every good day she has left into an interrogation about bad things she can't explain."
The words hurt because they were true.
Damian looked toward the house.
"She used to know everything."
"Maybe she still knows some things."
"Not enough."
"Enough to know when she's loved."
He looked at Tessa.
She immediately seemed uncomfortable with what she'd said.
"I don't mean—"
"I know what you mean."
His voice had softened.
She studied him.
"Do you?"
Damian looked at the sea again.
"No," he admitted. "Not always."
That evening, they brought dinner to Beatrice's room.
Tessa sat beside her.
Damian remained nearby.
Beatrice refused the soup.
Tessa tried another spoonful.
"No?"
Beatrice made a face.
"Terrible."
"I agree. Somebody put way too much celery in it."
Damian looked at the bowl.
"The chef makes that soup for me every Sunday."
Tessa smiled.
"Then somebody should probably tell him."
Beatrice laughed.
It was a real laugh.
Small, unexpected, and utterly unmistakable.
Damian stared at his mother.
For several precious seconds, she wasn't frightened or confused.
She was simply amused.
Later, when Tessa went to refill the water pitcher, Beatrice caught Damian's sleeve.
"My boy."
He bent close.
"Yes, Mom?"
"Don't become him."
Damian's stomach tightened.
"Who?"
Beatrice looked at him with heartbreaking seriousness.
"Your father."
Then she glanced toward the door where Tessa had disappeared.
"That girl has already buried too much."
Damian froze.
"How do you know?"
Beatrice blinked.
The clarity vanished.
"Is dinner ready?"
Damian sat there for a long time.
He didn't ask another question.
At midnight, Paul's research produced something unexpected.
An archived legal notice showed that the maternity clinic had faced complaints involving falsified parentage documentation.
The case had never reached trial.
Several families had accepted settlements.
And one of the clinic's former administrators had disappeared shortly afterward.
Her name was Margaret Vale.
According to a public obituary, Margaret had died eleven years earlier.
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She had left behind two daughters.
Tessa and Emily Miller.
