Lizzie didn't have any fight in her, and she looked miserable. She must have beaten herself up
over this every day since she drove away from the Lanes' house with empty arms.
I wanted to be the avenging angel. Instead, I felt like a ruthless heel.

---

 
When Your Tabula Is Not Rasa
 
Chapter 17
 

---

"When you're relaxed and happy — that's when they'll strike." — Arrow Adams

---

 

"No offense, but no matter what you say, you're in a cult," I told Jane as we waited to cross the street to the hotel. As if a dam had suddenly opened its gates, a flood of cars blocked our way, keeping us on the diner side of the road.

"A cult?" Jean echoed. "Maybe," she admitted with a shrug, "but are we a good cult or a bad cult?"

I scoffed and asked her, "Is there such a thing as a good cult?"

Jean didn't answer. She just looked at me, at my face. It was the sort of looking you do when you're not sure you recognize someone, and it made me uneasy. The stream of cars suddenly stopped, and the street was clear. I hurried to cross, but Jean put her hand gently on my arm. "Wait," she said. "I didn't come out here to talk about that. I didn't want to talk about that at all. The thing is, I'm pretty sure I know who your father is... or was.

"After you reminded me of... well... what we were doing around the time you were conceived, I thought about the men who were around and in our group at the time. There really weren't that many. If you take your face and subtract all that's Lizzie, what's left looks like Sam. Sam McCloud."

"Nice try," I said, laughing.

"What do you mean?" she asked, puzzled and a little offended.

"Sam McCloud is the name of a TV character. Dennis Weaver played him back in the seventies."

"It was Sam's name, too," she assured me, sounding a little hurt.

Oh, hell, I told myself. She's serious. She's talking about a real person that she knew. Now am I going to have to chase down this guy, as well? I thought that I was through. Out loud I gave a big heavy sigh and said, "I get the impression that he's not a part of your group any more."

"No," she said. "He's dead."

"Ah. Sorry."

She made a sympathetic face, the way one does at a funeral. "It was a long time ago... I guess you would have been four or five when it happened. He was on a long drive with—" she hesitated.

"What?"

"He was driving Ben back from Georgia—"

"From Georgia!? Why didn't they fly?"

"Ben doesn't fly," Jean replied in a quiet voice. "Anyway, it was night. Sam stopped to help a stranded woman change her tire, and he was hit by another driver."

"Oh, my God!"

"The guy didn't even stop. He was drunk and speeding. The police picked him up later, but Sam died there on the road." Jean's eyes teared up. "I can't tell you where he was from or whether he has any family, because we didn't have any names or numbers to call..." she sniffed and pulled out a tissue. "Anyway, what I wanted to tell you is, that judging from appearances, he was your father, and I wanted you to know that he was a good and beautiful man."

In spite of myself, I had to sniff back some tears in my own eyes. I wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand and croaked out a "Thank you." She gave me a teary smile in return.

"Now you better go," she said, with a little laugh. "Get that food up to your mother before it gets cold!"
 

---

 

"Sam McCloud," I said to myself as the elevator doors closed. "Was that even your real name?"
 

---

 

Lizzie was asleep when I entered her room, but she roused herself. "I'm starving," she said, and wouldn't even wait for me to microwave the food. The way she tucked into the food, I could see she was famished, and she didn't speak at all until she'd eaten every bite, and dredged up the remnants with a bit of bread. I made her a cup of tea, which she gulped down, as hot as it was.

"Sorry to make a pig of myself," she apologized, "but it's the first real food I've eaten."

"It's okay," I said. "I'll bring you a big breakfast once the morning rush is over."

"Will you? That's so sweet!"

She gave me a big hug and kissed me on my cheek. "I need to kick you out," she said, bleary eyed. "I desperately need to sleep. Can you come when you get off from work tomorrow?"

When I promised I would, she blew me a kiss, then gathered her bedclothes over herself and turned to face the wall. I turned out the light and softly closed the door.

In the elevator down, I caught myself smiling. I was beginning to feel genuine affection for Lizzie. Certainly she, like Lane, was a mixed bag of good and bad, but I could see so much of Dexie in her. I'd watched Dexie grow up, and it was odd to see some of her same gestures and facial expressions in Lizzie, a woman she'd never known. The fact that she looked so much like Dexie, albeit a prettier, grown-up version, gave me a sense of familiarity.

When I got to my room, I called Arrow to bring him up to date.

"That's great," he said. "However, I've got to say that I'm disappointed that you aren't the child of Benevolence. That would have been a great thread to unravel. It could have given you some great leverage over the guy."

"I'm relieved," I said. "And I don't want leverage. Now I don't have any reason to go near the guy — and thank God I don't!"

"True," Arrow admitted. "You avoid a big potential danger there."

"And you know what?" I confessed, "I'm starting to feel some genuine affection for Lizzie."

"She is your mother," Arrow said. "It's a biological sense kicking in; it's a real connection."

"Whatever," I laughed.

"But hey— remember: "Don't lower your guard. The cult is still in the picture, and you don't know what they plan for you... quite apart from anything Lizzie wants or knows. Be careful! When you're relaxed and happy — that's when they'll strike."
 

---

 

The next morning, after the morning crowd had thinned, I filled two take-out containers with pancakes, eggs, bacon, hash browns, and toast. I loaded a little brown bag with tiny containers of salt, pepper, maple syrup, jelly, napkins, a real knife and fork, and a hot, toasted blueberry muffin. I hurried across the street carrying them and a huge, 24-ounce styrofoam cup full of coffee.

The joyful look on Lizzie's face was worth the trouble — not that it was very much trouble. She sat at the table, and opening one container after another, had the radiance of child at Christmas.

"I'm really getting suckered in," I told myself as I rode the elevator back down.
 

---

 

After work was finished, I packed two lunches: a steak salad and a chicken salad, along with some sides and bread. I'd let Lizzie choose which salad she preferred. Funny, I told myself as I rode the elevator up, yesterday I couldn't wait to get out of here. Now, I'm in no hurry at all. My situation wasn't bad, actually. I had a job and making pretty good money for a teenager, although at some point I'd have to quit getting paid under the table and get put on the books. If I decided to stay, I'd have to find a room to rent somewhere. Then, remembering, I touched my engagement ring, hidden in my hip pocket. Somehow it called to me, reminding me of Arrow and his stupid marriage proposal.

That was a definite no, in any case, but I would have to bring his car back to him.

If I decided to stay.

As I stepped out of the elevator, I balanced our lunch containers in one hand and extracted Lizzie's room key from my back pocket. Before I unlocked her door, though, I stopped: there were two voices inside. One of them was a man's voice. Could it be Benevolence?

I debated for a moment: I could go away and come back later. I could wait in the hall or in the stairwell, and watch for him to leave. I really didn't want to meet the man, and now that I knew he wasn't my father, I had no reason, and absolutely no desire, to see him at all.

Then I considered: he might have come to meet me, which meant he'd wait. Besides, what harm could he do me? So I gave a knock, unlocked the door, and went in.

It was Benevolence. There was no mistaking it. He had to be Benevolence.

How did I know who he was? It was all in Lizzie's attitude toward him.

He was tall, probably six-four. Thin, bony, and bald. He didn't move much, and he had an expression on his face as though he was listening to something you couldn't hear. His hands were enormous; his fingers were thin, spread wide, and hanging down. They looked like nothing so much as two, large, skeletal spiders. His eyebrows were light brown and bushy: they needed trimming. He wore a nice brown suit that hung as loose as scarecrow's, as if he had no flesh on his bones. Later, when he stood, I saw he had a high, round pot belly, like a fledgling beach ball, but it wasn't apparent when he sat, as he did now, near Lizzie's bed, holding her hands in his.

I don't know whether the word creepy has occurred to you yet, so I'll just say it: The man was undeniably creepy. Something about his skin looked not-quite-sallow but somehow unhealthy, and I didn't want to be anywhere near him.

Lizzie glanced at me, smiled and nodded when I entered, but her adoring gaze immediately returned to Benevolence's face. He turned toward me for a moment, then back to Lizzie, without acknowledging me at all.

"Okay, then," he said to her. "Two more days. Three at the most, and then you can go back to the house."

"Thank you," she replied, and bowed her head in a slight, quick dip.

Benevolence gave her hands a squeeze, then he stood and turned to me. I had to tilt my head back to look into his face. "So you're Benevolence," I said.

He gave a kind of sideways nod. "Most people call me Ben," he replied, and gave what I'm sure he thought was a winning smile. "And you're Dexie. How you've grown."

"Yes," I said, and rather absurdly added, "How have I." I know it's stupid. I put it down to teen hormones.

"I see a lot of Lizzie in you," he observed, "and that's a good thing. I see something else, as well: you're an old soul."

If you only knew, I said internally. Out loud I said, "Do you see any of Sam McCloud in me?"

That took him by surprise, and Lizzie sat up straighter in bed. Was she surprised, too?

Benevolence let out a long breath. "Sam," he said quietly, remembering the man. He put his hand to his chin for a moment, then opened that hand to gesture I don't know. "I don't want to look for Sam in you," he said. "If he is your father, know that he was a good man."

"Can I ask you one thing?" I said. "Why is my mother in this hotel room?"

Benevolence glanced back at Lizzie, who for some reason looked alarmed. He gave her a look, and she nodded. Then he left without another word.

I waited until I heard the elevator close, then said, "Oh, yes, and goodbye to you, too."

Lizzie fussed and fidgeted in her bed. "Dexie, Dexie, Dexie! Ben doesn't like being asked questions."

"I'm sorry," I said in a sarcastic tone. "I didn't mean to make him cry."

Her jaw fell open in surprise. "Ben is very special person," she explained. "He is truly an extraordinary man."

I slowly shook my head. I liked Lizzie, I felt genuine affection for her, and didn't want to hurt her feelings. Still, it seemed like a good time to draw a line that needed drawing: I wanted nothing to do with her cult, and even more than that, I wanted nothing to do with Benevolence. In the best of all worlds, I'd never meet or even see him again.

I mean, really: If I had to, if I wanted to, I could leave right now. I'd done all I was obliged to do, hadn't I? I met my mother, I found out that my father is dead, and I verified that Benevolence's little group was a bona-fide cult. That was my to-do list, done. No one could fault me for not finding my birth parents. I'd finished everything that Dexie wanted to do, and now the future was mine.

Honestly, I could go either way at this point: stay or go. If I had to leave, now was a good time to cut the cord.

So I told Lizzie, plainly but not unkindly, "Ben may be special to you, but he's nothing at all to me."

"In time you'll see his value, and understand his mission," Lizzie assured me.

"No, I won't," I assured her.

"You have to understand that our group, our work with Ben, is very important. At least you can see that it's the most important thing in my life."

"More important than your daughter?"

She flushed. "Yes, I'm sorry, but our work is more important than you. Please don't force me choose."

"I don't have to force you," I countered. "You already made your choice: long ago, when you left me on the Lanes' doorstep. And the man wasn't even my father! He had every right to give me up himself!"

"That wasn't—" she began, then stopped and sighed. "It's complicated," she said. "We had our work here..."

"Oh, yes, I know. Non-stop sex out at the farm! Climbing from one bed to another, to keep from being bored!"

Lizzie didn't reply at first. "I guess I deserve that," she admitted. "But it wasn't as sordid as you make it sound. We were working on ourselves."

"And having a baby around got in the way?"

"Frankly, yes."

"Was I the only baby who was given up? Was I your only child?"

"Yes, you are my only child, and no, you aren't the only child who was given up." Lizzie's voice was quiet now, and she was looking down. "Desiree gave up her little girl, and so did a few other women who are no longer with us. Gloria had a daughter in her early teens."

"What happened to her?" I asked.

"She went to stay with her father."

Lizzie continued to look at the floor. She didn't have any fight in her, and she looked miserable. I was beginning to feel like a bully, and I didn't like it. Of course, what she did was stupid and selfish, but she was just a kid who had no one around her with a lick of sense. She must have beaten herself up over this ever since she drove away from the Lanes' house with empty arms. I wanted to be the avenging angel. Instead, I felt like a ruthless heel.

I managed to soften my tone as I asked the next question: "Were any of them Ben's children?"

She shrugged and shook her head. "I don't know. They could have been."

I took a deep breath. My anger cooled off as quickly as it had ignited. As I stood looking at my penitent mother, my mind went back to something I really did want to know. "Lizzie? Is Sam McCloud my father?"

Lizzie looked into my face and nodded. "Probably, yes, I think so. You do look like him... in some ways. If you could pick a man to be your father, you'd want it to be someone like him."

"But you're not sure?"

"No. Sorry."

"How much did you know about him?"

"I know he came from Tulsa. Born and raised. He had that Okie twang, you know?" She smiled at the recollection. "His birthday was, uh... June 4. He was born in 1963. Nice man. Helpful, strong, responsible."

"Do you think McCloud was his real name?"

Lizzie looked puzzled. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"Sam McCloud was a character in a TV show in the seventies. And Jane said that when Sam died, you couldn't find any family."

"Anything's possible," Lizzie conceded. "But I never got the feeling he was running from anything."

We lapsed into silence. Then I asked, "Why are you here? I mean, here in this hotel room? Where is home for you?"

"Ah, home is a house here in the city. I live there with five— with the five women you've met. It's one of the houses that belong to our group. I'm here because Ben has a rule that when someone is sick they get set apart, quarantined."

"Why here?"

"Ben rents this whole floor from the hotel, so there's always spare rooms when we need them. If I knew when you were coming, I could have arranged one for you."

"The whole floor? What does he do up here?"

"It's office space. For his businesses."

"Businesses? Plural?"

"Yes, he's a motivational speaker. He's very good! I can get some of his CDs for you. Also, he does management retreats... business consulting, that sort of thing. He helps people and companies find and define their mission."

Oh, yes. I'd seen that sort of thing. It always amazed me, the junk that executives will shell out money for. I actually knew a guy who did that for a living. He cooked up some crazy slogans and put together three days of exercises. I sat through it once. He invited me along to fill up the numbers. It was trash. But he did it, over and over, all around the world, and made good money at it, too.

While I stood there, fishing for something to say, Lizzie turned her head and placed her hand on a book. It was one of those black and white composition books, the kind that kids use in elementary school, and it was sitting on her nightstand.

"I got this for you, Dexie. Or, I had someone bring it to me. It's for you."

I walked closer, and she handed it to me. I looked at the cover and took a quick look inside. It was the usual thing: pages with widely spaced blue lines and red margins. "It's empty," I said.

"Yes," she agreed. "It's a blank slate, like our relationship: you and me. We can fill it up together."

"No," I told her. "Our relationship is not a blank slate. We have history, you and me."

"No, no," she contradicted, shaking her curly locks. "We will start today and make everything new."

I considered it for a few moments. She watched my face, and saw the wave of contradiction coming. I'd seen Dexie grow, and was full of indignation at what she'd gone through. Lizzie could choose to live in a dream world, if that's what she wanted, but I wasn't going to let her off the hook for what she'd done to Dexie. But before I had the chance to throw cold water on her enthusiasm, Lizzie jumped in, saying, "At least let me tell you about your family history. You might be curious some day, and when your doctor asks about your medical history, you'll have answers. Okay?"

I considered...

"Please, Dexie? Please?"

"Okay," I said. It made sense. I could be civil. Dexie would have done that; she would have wanted to do that. And Lizzie was right; it was something I needed to know.

"Sit down," she invited, and she handed me a pen.

For the next two and a half hours we talked, with breaks for water and the bathroom. At her insistence I wrote down carefully, as neatly as I could, names, dates, and places... Lizzie's memory was remarkable. And Lane was right: she had a beautiful, enchanting voice. Her genealogical info went back as far her ancestors arrival in the US. "I know where they came from in Europe, but that's all. Who they were, and everything tht happened in the Old World, even just names, dates, professions... I don't know any of that. All the stories and anecdotes I managed to gather... they're all from this side of the Atlantic."

"How is it that you know all this?" I asked her, gesturing to my notebook.

"At one time Ben asked all of us to research our families," she said with a shrug.

"Why?"

"Does it matter? He asks us to do things so we have the opportunity to give up self-will," she replied. "Another time he asked us not to use the world really for three months. The exercise might have some other purpose, but mainly it's about self-will."

"Oh, brother," I groaned.

"You can't be sure you have free will unless you can do things you don't want to do."

I closed my notebook and put the cap on my pen.

Lizzie frowned. "Let's not get stuck on this," she said. "Let's try to find what's good and useful for you, and leave out everything that isn't. Okay? We don't need to talk about Ben or our group or anything else you find repugnant. Can we try that?"
 

---

 

We did try that, and it worked out pretty well.

We laughed and talked and hit a few rough spots, but on the whole, it was a wonderful afternoon. Sure, Lizzie wasn't perfect. But she was charming and open and fun.

... and, she was my mother.

I have to confess that, almost from the beginning of the trip, I'd been fantasizing that at some point I'd shout at Lizzie, "YOU'RE NOT MY MOTHER!" and leave. Forever. Hopefully, I'd get to slam a door. I'd played that fantasy a lot in my head. I resented so deeply having to come to Spokane at all. Beyond that, it seemed like the appropriate thing to do; I would have done it for Dexie — or so I thought. Probably I would have done it to relieve my own frustration as a spectator in Dexie's childhood. But now my feelings were turned on their head. I really felt that I belonged with Lizzie. No matter what our past, she was really all the family I had now.

It struck me as she was telling an incident of some long-dead Martineau who lived back when Canada was still being settled. A light came on inside me, and I saw that it was true: These people are my ancestors. These people are a part of me. It was a physical fact: my history as Fred was, in a sense, purely metaphysical. My genes, my atoms, my bones and body all came from French and Scottish families who'd come to America, and it was all funneled down through Lizzie, to me.

Finally, though, my energy began to fade, and had to take the elevator down to my room, so I could sleep.

Still flush with the excitement of this new life I'd found, these new connections, I was a little irritated to feel my phone vibrating on my hip. I took it out and saw the signal vanish. "They'll call back," I said aloud, to no one. I knew it wasn't Arrow. Part of his Mission Impossible protocol was that he never called me.

"That way, I won't accidentally reveal that you have an active life-line," he explained.

So, who was calling? I went into my room, dropped heavily onto my bed, and looked at the face of my phone. Immediately it started buzzing again. It was Kristy. What could she be calling for?

"Hello?"

"Fr— Dexie! Oh, Dexie! Something's happened! You have to come!"

"What is it?" I cried, sitting up quickly. My heart began to pound. "Is it Carla? Is she okay? Is she hurt? Are you hurt?"

Kristy paused. I could hear someone talking in the background. Then she said to me, "Wait." After a few anxious moments, she resumed. "I'm sorry. Yes, we're fine. Carla's fine, I'm fine. How are you?"

"I'm fine, too! But tell me what's wrong!"

"Ah," she said, letting out a long breath. "You won't believe it. Are you sitting down?"

"God, Kristy, you're killing me! Just tell me!"

"The aliens have come back."

"What?"

"The aliens, the guys from space, have come back."

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. "The aliens? The aliens are back? The ones from the accident?"

"Yes," Kristy said. "And not just them: their parents are here, too."

I was struck dumb.

"Hello?" Kristy called. "Are you there?"

"Yes, yes," I stammered. "But what do they want?"

She paused, and I heard a voice in the background, prompting her to tell me. "What they want..." she said. "What they want is to bring Dexie back."

© 2014 by Kaleigh Way