"Has she talked about me?"

  "No," Agent Lundy said. He motioned for them to follow him. "Let's go meet her."

  *****

  Paul Lundy reached for the handle of the door, and Frances wondered if he could sense her fear. "Wish me luck, Agent Lundy," she whispered, hearing her voice coming from a long way off.

  "Good luck."

  Frances gripped Elena's hand. "Come with me."

  "I will."

  The room looked comfortable. Fresh white paint. Orange couch. Table with magazines. Water cooler with an abundant supply of Dixie cups.

  Two women were at a table in a far, dim corner. Looked like they were working a jigsaw puzzle with a girl. The girl. But the girl was more like a shadow. The women got up. "Agent Rita Richards," one said. She shook Elena's hand, and then Frances's. "This is Gail Connors with the DCFS. Child Services."

  "Victoria," Gail Connors called. "Your mother is here."

  Frances was paralyzed. She wanted to move, had never wanted to move more, she wanted to go to the girl and put her arms around the girl, but she could not.

  The shadow stood, and invisible fingers prodded it forward bit by bit. Frances still could not move, but Elena met the girl halfway. Little pink tutued girl grown up, three years old gone on fourteen. She had red, swollen eyes. Green hair pulled back in a ponytail. Parallel hips, no curve, flat chest. But deep, dark, suspicious, betrayed grown-up eyes.

  "Hello, Victoria. My name is Elena."

  "I know you," the girl said. "You're one of the prost--"

  "I'm your mother's girlfriend."

  They looked good together, the girl and Elena. Natural. Elena was good with people. This girl--Frances could not call her Marissa just yet, or Victoria--this could not be her child, how could this be her daughter all of a sudden in the same room as her, after eleven excruciating years?

  "Have they treated you okay here?" Elena asked.

  The girl glanced toward Agent Rita Richards. "They've been real nice. I guess. Do I call you Elena?"

  "Sure."

  "You look better in person than on TV."

  Elena laughed. "Thank you. I think."

  "I'm sorry about your son. He had cool hair."

  Elena grinned. "Almost as cool as yours, huh? Should I call you Victoria?"

  "I guess. Whatever. I don't remember my mother. I don't remember being Marissa."

  "When I was little, I called myself Victoria sometimes. I also liked to call myself Mary or Elise. Sometimes, I'd use a whole bunch of names in the same day."

  The girl's eyes glinted in interest. "I like your real name best." She ventured a tiny, quick, timid look at Frances, and Frances's heart skipped several beats.

  Elena curled her arm around the girl's waist and whispered something, Frances had no idea what. Maybe: She barfed at the Memphis airport. Everything's out, so don't worry. Your clothes are safe.

  Or: Your mother loves you.

  Elena tugged the girl forward. "Victoria, this is your mother." Frances, this is your daughter.

  The many ways their reunion could play out flashed in Frances's mind again. Running into each other's arms. Wailing. Smothered cries of: "I love you. I missed you." Or a slow, gradual, but no less meaningful, hug.

  Nothing was happening--unless staring counted.

  This girl was Marissa only by blood. Not by memory, not by feel, and certainly not by name. She was Victoria Cove. She was lovely, though, with her tear-stained brown eyes, startling green hair, track pants and blue polo shirt. She looked curious. Sympathetic to Frances's pain and indecision.

  The girl held her right hand out. "Hello."

  Frances took the hand, felt calluses, hard work, years of labor, years of character, on the girl's hand. This was not Marissa's smooth baby skin.

  "Hello," Frances said. "Hello, Victoria."

  The girl smiled, a fleeting movement, but enough. These were her daughter’s brown eyes, the same shining brown eyes looking at Frances with love. "You're pretty," the girl said. She smiled again. Looked at Elena. "You too."

  Frances realized her hand was still in Marissa's. In her daughter's hand.

  "Where's my father?"

  "I don't know."

  "What's going to happen to him? You meant it, didn't you? That you'll try to help him and--he's bad. He's in bad shape. He’s an alcoholic. I don't like to think about him alone."

  "I meant it," Frances said. She glanced around to find Rita Richards. The FBI agent and the child care worker had retreated to the door. Too close for comfort. Frances whispered her reply. "He'll probably call. Hopefully soon. You can talk to him. I don't know what happens after that."

  "I don't want to answer FBI questions about him."

  "You don't have to. I'll get a lawyer for you. It'll be all right."

  "But he has to give himself up. He can't keep hiding. He needs help."

  "We'll work together. You and I. We'll talk with the FBI. We'll get him a good deal. He'll get a lawyer. We'll get your father and his lawyer to talk to the FBI or prosecutors on the phone. We'll get him in rehab. We'll help him."

  "Thank you."

  "Can I--could I hug you?" Frances asked.

  "Whatever. I don’t care. Yeah, I guess you can."

  Frances kept Victoria’s hand in hers and slid her other hand around Victoria's back. She closed her eyes, held her daughter to her, and enjoyed the feel of them together.

  Chapter 40

  Elena parked at the Howard Johnson. She tugged her hood over her head and hurried to the third floor. The door was unlocked, as promised. Frances was in a chair, reading a set of orange stapled papers.

  They kissed hungrily, and Frances guided Elena to her groin.

  "Are you wearing a dildo?"

  Frances laughed. "Yes, ma'am. I'm excited to see you."

  The Marissa phone rang, and Frances grimaced. "You're early. I was going to turn it off."

  It was true. Elena was fifteen minutes early. She winked. "Answer. We have four hours."

  "Hey, sweetie," Frances said into the phone. "What's up?"

  While Frances talked, Elena skimmed the front page of the orange set: Victoria's rough draft speech for opening night, which had been pushed to the end of January. Victoria had been back only six weeks, but she wanted to be involved. Frances had objected that it was too early, that Victoria might be overextending herself.

  In one of Victoria’s ears, out the other.

  Victoria had written the speech herself. She was adjusting remarkably. Loved the attention. She would go far, this media darling. The cameras loved her, and she loved the cameras. Frances and Elena had a handful and then some with Victoria. Already Frances was fretting about Victoria dating and getting pregnant, and Elena would smile and kiss Frances, and then Frances would blush and laugh. They would not have it any other way.

  Elena turned to the second page to find the section Frances was talking about earlier. The section was supposed to explain the rationale behind the shift of The Daniel Group, which was supposed to have been the organization to help track down missing children.

  My first day home, my mother, Elena, Brenda, and I played Pictionary. Guess what? My dad was right about my mother's artistic ability. She can’t do butterflies. No offense, Mom!

  We're a good family, the four of us. I'm where I should be, but someone's missing. This didn't have to happen. I should have my mother and my father. I'm confident he'll get in touch someday, but a lot of damage has been done. That first night home, after I finished teasing my mother about her butterflies that were really bats, and after she pointed out that my mice looked like rabbits, I told her that there were already a lot of missing children organizations. Maybe something along the lines of mediation, training, conflict prevention, resolution, whatever, would be more practical. When I was two years old, my mother kept me from my father. Later, my father kept me from my mother. I'd still be with him if I hadn't run away. I'd still think my mother was a dead woman named Susan. Both my parents lost sight of who they were hurting most. Me. Their child.

  The Daniel Group aims to get parents working together toward a solution that's best for their children. Come home, Daddy. Please. Do it for me. Do it for you.

  "Elena?" Frances held the phone out. "Your mom's asking if Victoria can try your black nail polish." Brenda was watching Victoria while Frances and Elena had their date night. Brenda and Victoria had immediately taken to each other, and Brenda spoiled her rotten.

  "Hey, Ma. That's fine. Victoria gonna do your nails, too?"

  Victoria's laughter rang out in the background. Victoria's voice: "Elena! I'm gonna dye your mom's hair green! So we match." Victoria had re-dyed her hair green last week.

  Frances raised an eyebrow. Wow, she mouthed.

  "Uh, wow," Elena said, echoing the sentiment. "Be gentle with Ma."

  More laughter. "I will."

  Brenda spoke: "Have a good night, dear. Don't eat too much." Victoria and Brenda thought Elena and Frances were at a restaurant.

  "Be careful, Ma. See you later." Elena hung up. "Did you hear what my mother said?"

  Frances’s lips twitched, but then laughter spilled forth. "Don’t eat too much. Oh, Elena, sweetie. Please. Please. Eat the hell out of me."

  "Turn the phone off now?"

  Frances grabbed Elena to her. "Yesss. You're so hot tonight."

  Elena was wearing a skirt, and Frances unzipped her pants. She fell back into the chair and unsheathed the dildo. Elena straddled her and moved her underwear aside to let the dildo in. Its fullness was bracing. Perfect.

  "Oh, God," Elena breathed. "Just what I needed. Been horny all day."

  "Been thinking all day about fucking you."

  Their mouths met in a kiss, and Elena shifted her hips to allow Frances better access to her breasts. "You better tip me well."

  "Oh, I will, baby."

  THE END

  Look for Q. Kelly's next book

  WAITING

  Coming soon!

  Dale Ismay is transgender and in a persistent vegetative state. Her family, including her wife Caris and daughter Lena, deal with the PVS in different ways. Caris and Lena eventually find their path together.

 

 

  Q. Kelly, Strange Bedfellows

 

 

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