And yet, despite all this good service, there was something about the girl that disturbed Esther. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. But something just didn’t feel right. It was like the old adage “If it sounds too good to be true . . .” Somehow Esther suspected this might be the case with this Christine Bradley. If that was her real name. One couldn’t be too careful these days. She had just read about an elderly woman getting swindled in a bank deal. The old lady had been befriended by a young handyman who had worked for her a few days. After gaining her trust, he’d told her that his father was trying to transfer some money to him so he could rent an apartment, but the bank wouldn’t accept the transfer unless he opened an account and deposited enough money to cover the transfer. Naturally, “enough money” had amounted to several thousand dollars. Several thousand dollars the poor old woman would never see again. People prey on the elderly, Esther reminded herself as she eased into bed.
Still, Christine didn’t exactly seem like a scam artist to her. Although you can never be too sure, she told herself. Kids were sharp these days, and everyone has an angle. She just wished she could figure out what Christine’s was. She seemed too smart of a girl to be stuck living in a college dorm during the holidays, then working as a housekeeper, of all things. Why, other kids her age were probably off doing exciting things like skiing in the mountains or sunning down in Florida or whatever it was that college kids did these days. More and more it seemed that young people had become a bit of a foreign commodity to her. The last young person to live in her home had been Lenore. And even she’d been something of a mystery. Then, to make matters worse, just consider what her own daughter had done to her. Well, maybe she’d better watch out for herself with Christine. Maybe she just shouldn’t trust young people at all.
She laid her head back on the pillow and sighed. Still, she had to admit she liked the girl. And despite her misgivings and suspicions, this particular girl had a way of growing on a person. But perhaps that was simply the result of Esther’s temporary handicap. She’d read accounts of victims, people who had been kidnapped by hoodlums, but after a while they learned to love and actually trust their ruthless captors. She thought it was called Stockholm syndrome, but she wasn’t positive. Perhaps that was happening to her with this caregiver or housekeeper or whatever it was she’d been trying to classify Christine as.
It was hard being needy like this. But, in reality, it wasn’t going to get any better in the coming years. Good grief, she’d be eighty soon. She’d never intended to live this long, to outlive two husbands and wind up all alone like this. She didn’t like feeling so vulnerable and defenseless. And to be so dependent, and to have to rely on a perfect stranger like this. Well, it was downright discomfiting, and she’d be highly relieved when this nonsense was all over and done and she could be back on her own two feet again. Although her doctor had said that wouldn’t be until after New Year’s.
Despite her worries, Esther smiled to herself in the darkness. She’d been surprised at how easily Christine had interacted with Jimmy’s kids. It was rather sweet, really, and perhaps a sign that the girl wasn’t of a criminal character after all. Didn’t they say that children and animals had good instincts about people? Of course, Esther had never had a knack for children herself and it didn’t mean that she was a bad person. Surely, it was simply the result of growing up as an only child. But then if she remembered correctly, it seemed that Christine had been an only child too. But then Christine was majoring in elementary education, so of course she’d be comfortable around children. She obviously just had a natural affinity for them. Well, some people were like that. Some were not. She definitely was not.
Christine, Christine, Christine. She should have something better to think about than that silly girl. It was as if she was becoming obsessed with this young woman. And what was the sense in that? This was a temporary arrangement at best. Good grief, for all she knew the girl might not even show up tomorrow. And even so, Christine would return to her classes after the New Year, and that would be the end of that. Isn’t that the way young people were nowadays? They draw you into their lives and immerse you into their problems; then, just when you feel that you know them, they whip the rug right out from under you by doing something totally out of character. Or else they simply leave and you never hear from them again.
Esther pressed her hand against her forehead. Now who was she really thinking about here? Christine or her own daughter, Lenore? And why was she getting so confused? Perhaps Felicity was right. Perhaps she was getting a bit senile, or maybe it was even the onset of Alzheimer’s. Good grief, she hoped not. She’d watched her best friend Barbara Winfield deteriorate from that dreadful disease until they’d finally put her in an awful nursing home. Esther had gone to visit a couple of times, but her friend had never recognized her, and after a while she’d quit going altogether. It had been something of a relief to everyone when the poor woman finally passed away. Esther would rather take a bottle of pills than end up like that. No, certainly, this wasn’t Alzheimer’s.
Maybe it was simply that Christine was about the same age Lenore had been.
Oh, she knew Christine was a year older and probably much more mature, but she still looked young. She had that youthful innocence about her. Not so unlike Lenore back before she went away. Esther sighed. For so many years she’d tried not to think about Lenore. She’d trained her mind to move on quickly whenever a memory sneaked in uninvited. She’d become an expert at distracting herself from thinking about the things that hurt.
But being laid up like this, with too much time and emptiness on her hands, made it more difficult than ever. Or maybe it was Christine’s fault. Perhaps it was the presence of that silly girl that had placed Lenore on Esther’s mind more than ever lately. But, in all fairness, she’d been thinking about her missing daughter even before she’d slipped and ruined her ankle. Perhaps that was even what had caused her to fall. Perhaps she hadn’t been paying attention. Her mind might’ve been wandering down memory lane, wondering about all the what-ifs and whys about their lives, and as a result she’d stumbled. Who knew?
She’d confessed her troubles to her psychologist friend, May Ferrer, a couple months earlier. May had told her that it was only because she was growing older and naturally regretting some of her choices in life. And maybe that was true. But there seemed to be little to be done about it now. She’d always thought Lenore would come back home one day. She’d been certain of it. Many times Esther had imagined her pretty brown-haired daughter standing at the front door, sad-eyed and repentant, saying that she was sorry, that she’d been wrong, asking for her mother and stepfather to forgive her and allow her to return to her home and make a fresh start. And, naturally, Esther would’ve taken her back – in a heartbeat. She would’ve completely forgiven her only daughter. Oh, perhaps she would’ve given her a stern lecture first, about how she’d made bad choices but how we can all learn from our mistakes . . . But Lenore could’ve returned to her home, attended college, and gotten on with her life. She’d be close to forty by now. Forty? It seemed impossible. Esther couldn’t imagine her sweet young daughter being forty. But then Esther had been a young forty herself. She’d gotten pregnant for the first time when she was all of thirty-nine. Perhaps forty wasn’t so old after all. Esther knew she’d be just as happy to see her daughter at forty as she would’ve been when she was still nineteen. She wondered if Lenore had finished her schooling. Had she married? Were there children?
She’d always figured Lenore had the kind of beauty and intelligence to marry quite well. Esther had, in fact, already been scouting out available young men in the local community when Lenore was only eighteen. Not that she’d wanted her to marry young, but there seemed no harm in looking. And, naturally, she’d always considered those well-bred young men, always the sons of her closest friends, and coming from families of influence. In the early years, back when she expected her daughter to come home like a prodigal, she’d imagined the sort of wedding she’d give her. Something quiet and discreet, but certainly elegant. Perhaps with a reception in the backyard with a small orchestra from the music department. Oh, she knew Lenore wouldn’t have been able to wear white. No sense being hypocrites. But then Lenore had always looked good in ecru. Esther had always imagined her lovely daughter going down the aisle in a beautiful lace gown of ecru.
She felt tears rolling down her cheeks and scolded herself for allowing her mind to run away with her. Goodness, she knew better than to dwell on Lenore like this. It only broke her heart. Again and again and again. Oh, why hadn’t that foolish girl come home? Why had she been so stubborn? Why had she stayed away so long? Never called, never written, never looked back? How could anyone be so cruel and coldhearted?
9
It was after ten that night when Christine returned to her dorm. She’d never been a girl to be easily spooked, but after walking across the silent, empty campus, and then hearing the sound of her footsteps echoing down the hallway of the mostly vacant dorm, she suddenly imagined herself being followed, envisioned someone breaking into her room.
“Stop it!” she chided herself as she locked and dead-bolted the door to her room behind her. She knew she was being ridiculous. But still the idea of spending the holidays alone in the dorm did feel a bit daunting just now. Of course, she had her grandmother’s holiday party to plan and possibly, if she were lucky, to attend. Although she shouldn’t assume too much. For all they knew she was simply the hired help. Certainly, they’d expect her to make herself scarce when it was actually time to celebrate Christmas. After all, she had no doubts that people like her grandmother and Felicity weren’t the sort to invite the housekeeper to a social event. Of course, tonight had been an exception since the old woman had needed a ride. And even then Christine had mostly felt on the outside of things. Of course, she’d enjoyed the children and felt a real connection with them. But that would probably be a one-time thing.
That is, unless she decided to end this game of deception and break the news to her grandmother. Grandmother. It still sounded so foreign and unbelievable. She couldn’t even believe she’d already been using that title for the cranky old woman. Especially since the only grandmother she’d previously known was her father’s mother. Talk about your opposites. That grandmother had been tiny and soft-spoken, with curly white hair and soft, rosy cheeks. But she’d died a few years ago at the age of eighty-seven. But besides the physical differences, this grandmother hardly seemed like a grandmother at all. Not even to her two sweet little grandchildren. Even if they were her stepson’s children, they seemed to have accepted her as their own.
But that was all beside the point, she told herself as she hurriedly prepared for bed. The dorm was colder than usual, and she’d been bundling up at night to stay warm. She layered on flannel pajamas, fuzzy socks, sweats, and even a knitted hat. The point was, she reminded herself, that she was suffering from a terribly guilty conscience for the way she was deceiving not only her grandmother but also her stepuncle, Jimmy, and his family. It was wrong, wrong, wrong, and she knew it. Even more than that, she knew she hadn’t been brought up this way. And she knew her father would be disappointed in her. But perhaps worse than that, she knew God expected more from her too. Like honesty. As a result of all this guilt, she’d had difficulty praying this past week. And that was starting to take its toll on her in many ways. She felt more stressed and worried than ever, and she was actually starting to feel somewhat depressed too. And that was completely unlike her.
Tears of frustration began spilling down her cheeks, and she knew she had to make this right somehow. But that would mean blowing her cover and revealing her true identity. And she just wasn’t sure she could do that. Not without risking everything. And, for some reason, it seemed more important than ever to find out about her birth mother and her family before they threw her out on her ear for tricking them. This need to know made her feel that no sacrifice would be too much.
She wished she could pray about it, to lay it all out there and simply ask God to help her, but she knew that was wrong. You can’t very well ask God to help you deceive someone. Finally she settled for a quick “I’m sorry” and “Please help me” kind of prayer. It wasn’t much, but it was more than she’d managed all week. And at least it was honest, or sort of honest. Maybe she’d wake up in the morning and everything would make sense again. And she’d know the perfect way to clear up this little misunderstanding. And everyone would be perfectly fine and happy. At least that’s what she tried to make herself believe as she fell asleep.
As she walked to her grandmother’s home the following morning, she didn’t feel so hopeful or confident. The dense, wet fog seemed only to add to her feelings of heaviness and gloom. At least Saturday was supposed to be a half day for her, and then she had Sunday off. And so she firmly told herself,
You have until noon to figure a way
to tell your grandmother the truth.
But by eleven thirty, the opportunity still hadn’t arisen. Or perhaps she’d missed it completely. It didn’t help matters that her grandmother had been in a foul mood all morning. Christine wasn’t sure if this was because of the impending unwanted Christmas party or simply a result of being laid up with a bum ankle. Even so, Christine did her best to make the old woman comfortable and happy, but nothing seemed to help.
“My coffee is cold,” her grandmother complained.
Christine considered telling her that it was cold because it had been sitting there too long, but she held her tongue. “I’ll get you some more.”
“Make it a fresh pot. I don’t want any stale stuff.”
So Christine made a fresh pot. But on the morning went, and nothing seemed to satisfy this cantankerous old woman. By the time it was noon and Christine had set a nice lunch tray next to her grandmother, she was emotionally exhausted.