Chapter Thirty-Eight Mary
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Mary
Two years ago
My parents didn’t see me at first—him dropping their bags in the foyer while she plucked the small stack of mail off the walnut table.
“Ah, home again, home again,” he said to no one in particular. “I am so looking forward to sleeping in our bed tonight.”
“Mmm. I know. You never do sleep well away from home,” she agreed. “Oh, here’s the invitation to Jay and Nancy’s wedding.”
“I was hoping maybe we wouldn’t make the guest list,” Dad grumbled. “I wouldn’t know them if they stood next to me in an elevator!”
“Oh now, come on, Doug,” she chided. “He’s your CFO’s son; it’s the least you can do. Besides, the invitations are finally starting to trickle in again since . . . you know, since all the fuss.”
They were talking about me. And Sam.
“Oh please,” he countered, and I could just imagine him rolling his eyes. “Everyone wants us at their wedding because they know we’ll buy the most expensive thing on their registry—just so no one can accuse us of being cheapskates!”
It was clear his attempt at humor wasn’t working as she sighed heavily.
“Do you think we’ll ever get to do this?” she asked wistfully, waving the invitation around.
“Do what?”
“Announce our daughter’s wedding? Walk her down the aisle? Hold our grandbabies?”
I could hear the tears in her voice, and it almost softened my resolve.
Almost.
“I wouldn’t hold my breath about meeting those babies,” I said, stepping out of the shadows.
They both jumped.
“Mary! Oh, dear Lord!” Mom gasped, startled. “What on earth are you doing lurking in the shadows like that? You scared me half to death!”
“There’s my Marebear!” Dad said, making a move to embrace me.
When I held up a single palm, he halted right in his tracks.
“Don’t,” I said coolly. “Just don’t.”
“Sweetie, what is it?”
When I held up the file folder, I watched the color drain from their faces simultaneously, expressions morphing from confusion, to concern, to horror. I swear I heard my father gulp just like they do in the cartoons. If I hadn’t been so enraged, I might have laughed at the absurdity of it.
“I wanted to get a closer look at the trust documents, so I decided to just have a quick peek in the safe . . .”
“I’m not sure what you think you came across,” Dad began slowly, as if I were a skittish animal he was trying to trap, “but whatever it is, it’s out of context.”
“Oh, there’s plenty of context,” I said as I opened the folder and began flipping through the pages.
I held up an official document. “Birth certificate for one Mary Louise Langston, born June ninth, to Douglas and Theresa Langston.” I slip the paper to the back of the stack and hold up the next one.
“Death certificate for Mary Louise Langston dated six days later, June fifteenth.”
“Mary, let me explain—” Mom started.
“Don’t you dare!” I threatened. “You’ve been lying to me since the day I was born.
Literally! That stops here. Now.” I shuffled the second document behind the first and continued my little game of show-and-tell.
“Let’s see what we have here . . . Oh, yes, a second birth certificate.
Hmm . . . Birth name: Mary Louise Langston.
Again. Except this date of birth is June nineteenth.
Parents: Douglas and Theresa Langston. You actually gave birth to a little girl—a little girl who died.
Then you adopted another little girl who was born not five days later. ”
My mother was crying now, big fat tears rolling down her cheeks as she shook her head, right hand covering her mouth as if afraid something might slip past her lips. My father, on the other hand, was starting to look pissed. As if I cared at that point.
“We never lied to you about being adopted,” he asserted. “Not once.”
I placed an index finger to my chin and pretended to think hard. “Hmm . . . Seeing as how you didn’t tell me until I was seven, that’s kind of a lot of lies, no?” I posited with faux thoughtfulness.
“Oh, come on now. A lot of parents wait until their child is a little older.”
“Or until their own parents die,” I say.
They both froze, and when their eyes met for a beat, I knew I was right.
“What—what are you talking about?” my mother asked carefully.
She was probably thinking I couldn’t possibly have connected the dots.
And maybe on my own, I wouldn’t have. At least, not right away.
But with Sam’s help, I’d figured it out.
Up until that moment, there had still been a part of me that wanted to be with them, to trust them—to trust their love.
It made me blind to the ugly truth that had been staring me in the face for so many years.
I pulled out the envelope containing my grandfather’s last will and testament. Then I cleared my throat and began reading.
“‘I, Lloyd Edward Langston of Coral Gables, Florida, being of sound mind and memory, do hereby make, publish, and declare this to be a codicil to my last will and testament. I hereby revoke Paragraph 27, which previously disinherited my son, Douglas Lloyd Langston. In light of the birth of my grandchild, Mary Louise Langston, I wish to amend my will to include my son, Douglas Lloyd Langston, as a beneficiary . . .” I paused to look up at their horror-stricken faces.
“Shall I go on? Or maybe not, because I assume you know how this ends, right?”
“It is not what it looks like—” my mother started, but I cut her off.
“No? Which parts? The part where your daughter—your actual, biological child—was born? The part where Grandpa Lloyd, who wanted to reconcile for the sake of his new granddaughter, agreed to write you back in the will? The part where your baby, Mary, died at six days old? Was it maybe when you adopted me and passed me off as your dead baby so he’d keep you in the will?
Oh, I know! It was when you waited till he died to tell me I was adopted!
You know, once the will had been executed and you had all the money and the company . . . and nothing left to lose.”
“You have to understand,” my mother began.
“We were out of our heads with grief. After trying for so long to get pregnant, we finally had our miracle baby. But then she just . . . She was gone. And with no concrete reason. They said it was a case of SIDS. We were heartbroken. Your grandfather heard about the birth, but not the death . . .”
She stopped, I suppose realizing that she was just digging their grave a little deeper with every word.
“The point is,” my father jumped in, “that we wanted a baby more than anything. And then there was the chance to have you. Your grandfather was dying, honey. He’d been given six months to live.
It wasn’t about getting his money—it was about making him happy for what little time he had left by giving him a granddaughter.
And, well, you needed a home, parents who loved you, a chance at a good life. ”
“Oh!” I exclaimed with exaggerated understanding. “Oh, I see now! It was a win-win, right? Hmm, except that he didn’t live six more months; he lived six more years. Six years of believing I was his granddaughter.”
“You were his granddaughter!” my mother said harshly enough to stop me and my father in our tracks.
“You were our daughter! You are still our daughter! We could not have loved you more. We gave you everything—a home, an education, and unconditional love. You made a dying old man happy. You made us happy. And we still couldn’t love you more, Mary. ”
“But not Sam.”
“What? What do you mean?” she asked, perplexed. “What about her?”
I felt my mouth twist up into a sneer. “Exactly. She was never once in your thoughts, was she?”
“I don’t understand . . .” Dad began.
My mother shook her head furiously, tears spilling. “Mary, that’s not true. We didn’t know. We were told there was only one baby available for adoption.”
“That’s convenient,” I said coldly. “One perfect, paperwork-ready baby—no mention of the other?”
“We weren’t lying to you,” Dad insisted. “We truly had no idea there was another child.”
“Until when?” I shot back. “Until she showed up on your doorstep with me?”
“Mary, that’s not fair,” my mother cried. “We never would’ve abandoned a child. Never.”
I stared at her, that single word—never—echoing in my head. And then, something darker clicked into place.
“Really?” I said quietly. “Because there’s another little girl you left behind, isn’t there?”
She blinked, confused. “I don’t understand—”
“Yes, you do,” I said evenly. “The real Mary. The baby who died. Where is she buried?”
They froze, glancing at each other in that guilty, wordless way that told me everything.
“I don’t think that’s important,” my father managed finally.
“No grave, huh?” I said, voice rising again. “What did you do—scatter her ashes over some bridge somewhere and say a prayer for her soul, then pretend she never existed, same as you did with Sam?”
My father opened his mouth to speak but then thought better of it. I knew then that I’d guessed correctly.
“No, you couldn’t bury her,” I said quietly as the realization of what they’d done washed over me. “There couldn’t be a grave—in case someone got wind of all this . . . in case Grandpa Lloyd got wind of this. No body, no DNA.”
My mother took a determined step toward me. “We love you. We adore you. We’d give our lives for you, Mary. It doesn’t matter how you came to be ours—the fact is you are ours.”
I couldn’t even find it in myself to maintain the fury. It had been replaced with the kind of deep, unmovable sadness that comes from betrayal. A wound that cut so deep that you wondered if you’d survive it. That you wondered if you wanted to survive it.
“I’m leaving, and I’m taking these with me,” I said, tucking the papers into my bag. “And you won’t contest the trust distribution.” I started for the front door.
“Wait! Where are you going?” my father asked. “You can’t just leave. Not like this . . .”
“Mary!” my mother called after me, sobbing.
I paused then without looking back.
“Your Mary is dead,” I told them and walked out.