The Biggest Lie
XXX
NICOLE JEFFORDS FICTION
We would never see our mother again. That’s what our father told us during a summer visit to his home in upstate New York. From then on we would be living with him, whom we barely knew.
The three of us were little at the time, all under the age of seven. Up until then we had lived with our mother, Anna Weber, in Santa Monica, where we had had good times playing on the beach and riding our bikes up and down the street. I, Michelle, the eldest, was the only one with a true memory of her. She had been gorgeous, with white blond hair, a face that could have been on the cover of Vogue and a beauty mark that she enhanced with eyeliner right at the corner of her voluptuous mouth. I had adored her.
We were told she had died in a car accident on a curvy road somewhere on the coast of California.
Of course we had no reason not to believe that. And so we began our life with our father, remaining with him until we left for college and were launched into our adult lives.
A lot of time has passed since. I married, had children, became a teacher and then the principal of a high school in Concord, Massachusetts. Out of curiosity, just kind of goofing around, I recently went on a genealogy site and looked up Anna Weber. It said she was deceased, as we had been told. However, from that same site I learned that I had a half-sibling named Eli Jackman.
What the hell?
I immediately sent him a message – “We are half-siblings? I don’t understand. My mother’s name was Anna Weber who died in a car accident many years ago, and my father was a Jewish man named Jonathan Litvak, also deceased.”
I heard back less than twenty-four hours later. “My mother, Leora Jackman, is still, at 83, very much alive. Must be some kind of blip.”
I thought, yes, possibly. But I also knew that was unlikely because the site I used was very accurate. Playing detective, I tried another site and got the same results. I then looked up my own name, which I’d never done before. My mother’s name was listed as Anna Weber, same as on my birth certificate. But there, too, it said I had a half-brother, Eli Jackman, born in 1981, eight years younger than I was. So this was a mystery, one I was determined to solve.
I messaged Eli Jackman, saying I thought it would be a good idea if we met in person. He agreed, though I’m not sure how enthusiastic he was at the prospect. All I really knew about him was that he owned a car dealership outside Detroit, Michigan. I’d never even been to Michigan before, but I booked a flight there, checking into a hotel in Royal Oak outside Detroit. We agreed to meet at a bar/restaurant later that evening.
When I arrived, I scanned the room, not knowing who the hell I was looking for. I had no clue, of course, until a guy with a brown mustache stood up and waved at me. He was neatly dressed in jeans and a sports jacket, expensive shoes. I walked quickly to his table, where we shook hands and gave each other an uncomfortable half-hug. Then we sat down and stared at one another. At first I didn’t see any resemblance. He had slicked-back brown hair, striking blue eyes (my eyes were dark brown) and a tall, strongly-built body. I was delicate in comparison – years of Pilates had kept me lean. It wasn’t until we began to eat that I saw similarities. He held his fork exactly the same way I did and slid food into his mouth in exactly the same neat and precise manner. In fact, as I gazed at him I saw beneath his mustache that our teeth were the same – a straight white line without much length between the front ones and incisors. That was some kind of clue, I thought. I also noted that he radiated a tremendous aura of strength and competence – the kind of guy who’d pull over to the side of a highway and fix your flat tire, or help you out of a jam when you accidentally scraped someone’s car in a parking lot and the person was hurling insults at you. I could imagine women easily forming crushes on him, wanting to sleep with him.
“So …” I said. “I’m really confused. We’re half-siblings but we don’t have the same mother or father. The whole thing makes absolutely no sense.”
We stared at one another again, this time harder. I was the first to look away.
“You say your mother died in a car accident?”
“Yes, years ago. I was seven at the time.”
“Do you remember what she looked like?”
“Drop dead gorgeous. She could have been a fashion model.”
He gave a belly laugh. “My mom’s certainly not gorgeous.”
“What does she look like?”
“Well … her hair’s white now, but it used to be a reddish brown. And she never lost her pregnancy weight after she had me, so she’s kind of heavy.”
Anna Weber had borne three children and remained elegant and slim. I remembered that distinctly.
“I’d like to meet her,” I said.
“Really? Why?”
I studied his even white teeth. “I guess because there’s a question mark. Things just don’t add up. And our teeth are the same.”
That made him laugh again. “Really? Our teeth?”
“Yeah. Look at your phone and pull up your lip. You’ll see.”
He did as I suggested. Then he looked at me again. “You’re right," he said. “But that might not necessarily mean anything.”
“I think it does,” I said. “I’ve gone by a story all these years and who knows if it’s the right one.”
“Why would your father have lied to you?”
“That’s why I want to meet your mom,” I said. “I think maybe – just maybe – she might have some answers.”
He texted me later saying his mom didn’t want to meet me.
“Why not?” I texted back.
“She won’t say. But she looked extremely upset.”
“Then grill her.”
“Lol, my mom’s not a person to be grilled. She nearly shat a brick when I told her about you.”
“What did she do?”
“Yelled at me, saying I should mind my own business. Then went to her room and shut the door for hours.”
“She lives with you?”
“Yes, much to my wife’s chagrin. It's supposed to be temporary, but …”
I had done my homework prior to flying to Michigan. I knew where Eli lived, so I got in my rental car and drove over there. The house was quite grand from the outside, muted brick, two storeys, tall gorgeous trees, a winding driveway. I sat in my car for a few minutes, studying the place. It was seven o’clock on an early July evening, still bright as daylight. There were no cars in the driveway, but I spotted a separate building that must have served as a garage. The house itself looked dead quiet, even possibly empty. Through the tall windows facing the street, I saw no signs of movement whatsoever. I got out of the car and headed for the front door, rang the bell. After a moment, a maid in a frilly white cap opened the door and peered at me.
“I’m here to see Mrs. Jackman,” I said.
“Name?”
“Andrea Stiller.” Andrea was made up and Stiller was my married name, which I assumed Leora didn’t know.
The maid asked me to wait a moment. When she came back, she asked what my business with Mrs. Jackman was.
“It’s personal,” I said. “I have something to give her.“ I held up a small shopping bag from a fancy department store. Inside was a box of chocolates and, nestled into the satin bow, a copied photo of us, the Litvak family, that must have been taken before our parents separated.
My heart was beating so fast, I could barely breathe. It was impossible to imagine that my supposedly dead mother wouldn’t want to see me.
But I was wrong.
The maid took the shopping bag and disappeared into the house. It was a good five minutes before she returned. “Mrs. Jackman cannot meet with you,” she said, a ruddy blush coloring her cheeks.
“What about tomorrow?”
“Not tomorrow either.”
An arrow of hurt shot through me. Suddenly I was devastated, totally forlorn. I felt like a little kid about to start bawling. “I have to see her!” I exclaimed. “I will stand on this doorstep all night if that’s what it takes.” Already I could feel tears welling in my eyes.
The maid shrugged. “Then we will call the police.”
“Good! Call them and the truth will come out!”
The maid shook her head almost pityingly and shut the door. I went back to my car, not quite knowing what to do. Did Leora ever leave the house, I wondered. Eighty-three wasn’t necessarily that old for a woman these days, not if she kept a good diet and took care of her body; but for all I knew, Leora’s feet were bad and she had trouble walking. And who knew about the condition of her brain?
I decided if I wasn’t allowed through the front door, I’d find another way in. This was kind of crazy, but I was determined, which perhaps added up to a little crazy. I also decided to wait to gain entry until the next morning, assuming the burglar alarm was set at night. Didn’t want any bells or sirens going off.
I could barely sleep that night. In the morning I drank three cups of coffee and dressed myself carefully in knee-length khaki shorts (it was hot out!), sneakers and a white camisole top. I drove to the Jackmans, parked half a block away, checked myself in the mirror. My short curly brown hair was frizzy from the humidity – nothing to do about that. Small dots of perspiration ran from my temples to my jawline. I wiped them off with a kleenex and settled my expensive sunglasses firmly on my nose. If I wasn’t ready now, I never would be. But I was terrified.
My whole body shaking with anxiety, I crept toward the rear of the house, staying close to the tree line. I had to be careful planting my feet on the ground to keep from falling. From the back, I saw nothing – just an empty patio with cushioned chairs and a striped white and blue umbrella throwing shade. My mouth was so dry I could barely swallow. I stood there a moment, wondering if I could actually do this. I felt sick to my stomach. But I was here and I had to do this, had to get inside that house.
At fifty-three years old, I felt like I was seven (the same age I’d been when I’d last seen my mother). The house struck me as unfriendly, almost even sinister. But I forced myself to move forward, each step as dangerous as if I were an enemy soldier walking an open field in wartime. There was no way to camouflage myself. I just had to act as if it were normal for me to be creeping across this lawn, as if I were part of the landscape, a frazzled middle-aged woman with a sweaty face.
A set of French doors led from the patio into the building. I crept toward them and twisted open one of the knobs, slipping silently into the house. Inside was a living room filled with furniture that could have come from a swank hotel lobby. The only personal thing I saw was a large gray sweatshirt flung across the back of a chair – probably Eli’s. From somewhere in the interior, I heard the sound of a TV. Bingo! All I had to do was follow the sound.
I tiptoed down a carpeted hallway, praying I wouldn’t run into the maid. Maybe she was out buying groceries? My stomach felt as if it had shrunk to the size of a pea. I gritted my teeth and kept walking. When I was outside the door the TV buzz came from, I knocked gently. Nothing. I knocked harder and a thin voice shrilled, “Come in!”
I opened the door, my heart in my throat. Inside was a large bedroom with pale green, satin-brocaded walls. A woman with scraggly white hair sat in front of a huge flat-screened TV. Her chair looked like a throne, tall and imposing. Even though her body was chubby, she was practically swallowed by it. I entered, closing the door behind me. She didn’t seem aware of my presence, so I went and stood in front of her. I was tempted to say, “Hey Mom!” but I couldn’t get my voice to work. I waited a moment and then said, “Leora?”
Her body gave an odd little jerk. She turned her eyes on me blankly and I could see no recognition in them at all. Of course not – what had I expected? The last time she’d seen me, I’d been a knobby-kneed little girl.
“Leora,” I said again. “It’s Michelle … your daughter.”
There was a long silence. And then the old woman put her hands to her cheeks and shrieked: “No! Go away! I want nothing to do with you!”
Her reaction was shocking. Perhaps she thought she was seeing ghosts – which she was in a way. I went and knelt down beside her. There was nothing familiar about her at all, not her talcum smell, not her white hair, not her flabby body. But gazing up at her face, I did recognize something: the fleshy little mole at the corner of her mouth. Only now, unadorned with eyeliner, it looked like a pinkish wart.
“Why would you want nothing to do with me? I’m your daughter!” I said as calmly as I could.
“No, you’re not! You want to kill me!”
Oh, so she’s paranoid, I thought, surprised Eli hadn’t brought that up.
But then she added, “Just like your father.”
Wait, what?
“Just like my father, what?” I asked.
“Your father wanted to get rid of me,” she said. “I was inconvenient.”
“Inconventient? Why would he say that?”
She gave a cackling little laugh. In fact, she laughed so hard she started coughing and had to clutch at her sides. I was afraid she was going to have a heart attack and grabbed for her hand, which she batted away. After a few deep, shuddering breaths, she cleared her throat, sat up straighter and said, “You father didn’t like it that I was a businesswoman. He made me shut down all my shops, or else … “ She faltered, dug her nails into her palms, stared into my eyes. “Or else,” she continued, “he’d call the cops.”
“Why would he do that,” I whispered.”
“Because, dear, I owned some gentleman’s clubs that made me a lot of money.”
“But why call the cops?”
She cleared her throat again. “There were some improprieties.”
I decided not to question that, worried about another fit of coughing. Instead I asked how she and my father had met. I’d been told they were introduced at a party, but I wanted her version.
“To you,” she said, “I can tell the truth. I picked him up at a bar.“ She gave an odd little giggle. “I was a loose woman back then. If I saw someone who looked rich and available, I’d flirt with them. You can never tell anyone this.”
Loose woman. Did that mean prostitute? I didn’t dare ask. My father had come from a wealthy family and had been a successful businessman. There were rumors he’d had a penchant for low class women, which, if what Leora said was true, meant she might indeed have been a prostitute. I didn’t care one way or the other. I just wanted the truth.
“And now,” she continued, “you really have to leave.”
“Why? You're my mother. We’ve finally met again after all these years.”
“Because,” she said hesitantly. “Because your father paid me to divorce him and move to another part of the country. For doing that, he would keep me in comfortable circumstances for the rest of my life on the condition I’d never make contact with my children. I kept that promise, which is why you have to leave.”
“If you saw us, the money would stop coming?”
“Yes.”
“But he’s not alive anymore, so why should that rule apply?’
She hitched a meaty shoulder. “It’s all managed through lawyers. They keep an eye on me. They know exactly what I’m doing.”
So maybe she really was paranoid, I thought.
In any case, I was suddenly in a hurry to get the hell out of there. I didn’t want one minute more with this fat little woman who’d agreed, for a large sum of money, never to see or make contact with her children again. That was… I didn't even have words for it, although ‘criminal’ came to mind. I abruptly grabbed my fanny pack and stood up.
“Well, it’s been nice,” I said.
She didn’t answer, but when I looked at her, I saw her eyes were filmy, perhaps from emotion, perhaps from all that coughing. I turned on my heel, made my way out of the house. I didn’t look back. Why should I? She was as dead to me as I was to her. Someone must have paid to say she was deceased on all genealogy websites. The Anna Weber who’d been my mother was gone. Leora Jackman was someone else, and after spending an hour with her, I didn’t want to waste another minute of my time.