my mother's bedroom.
"Dawn. How nice," she said, looking up from her tray of food. It had been placed on a bed table, and she was propped up against her pillows as usual; and as usual, she had her face all made up as though she were going to throw off her covers and jump into a pair of shoes to attend a party or a dance. She wore a soft-looking silk nightgown with a silver lace collar. Her fingers and wrists were laden with rings and bracelets. Gold drop earrings dangled from her lobes.
"Did you come to play me some dinner music on the piano?" she asked, smiling softly. She did have an angelic face with eyes that betrayed just how fragile she was. I was tempted to do only what she asked—play the piano and leave without telling her about the horrible events.
"I was going to come down and join everyone for dinner, but when I began to get dressed, I was suddenly stricken with an ugly headache. It’s diminished some now, but I don't want to do anything that would bring it back," she explained.
"Come, sit by me a moment and talk to me while eat," she said and nodded toward a chair.
I brought the chair closer to the bed. She continued to smile and began to eat, cutting everything up into tiny pieces and then pecking at the food like a small bird. She rolled her eyes as if the effort it took to chew exhausted her. Then she sighed deeply.
"Don't you sometimes wish you could skip eating, just go to sleep and wake up nourished? Meals can be such ordeals, especially in a hotel. People are so involved with their food. It's absolutely the most important thing for most of them. Have you noticed?"
"I will be skipping my meals," I began, taking a cue from her complaint. "But not because I want to skip them."
"What?" She started to widen her smile, but saw the intensity in my eyes and stopped. "Is something wrong? Oh, please, don't tell me something's wrong," she pleaded, dropping her fork and pressing her palms to her bosom.
"I have to tell you," I insisted. "You're my mother, and there just isn't anyone else."
"Are you sick? Do you have some obnoxious stomach cramps? Your time of month?" she said, nodding hopefully, and continued pecking at her food with her fork, scrutinizing each piece before stabbing it quickly to bring it to her mouth. "Nothing bores me more and disgusts me so much. During my period, I don't budge from this bed. Men don't know how lucky they are not to have to go through it. If Randolph gets impatient with me then, I just remind him of that, and he shuts right up."
"It's not my period. I wish it were only that," I replied. She stopped chewing and stared.
"Did you tell your father? Has he sent for the doctor?"
"I'm not sick, Mother. Not in that sense, anyway. I just came from a meeting with Grandmother Cutler."
"Oh," she said, as if one sentence explained everything.
"She wants me to wear a nameplate on my uniform with the name Eugenia on the plate," I said. I skipped the part about Philip, not only because I didn't want to confuse her, but I couldn't stand talking about it myself.
"Oh, dear." She looked down at her food and then dropped the fork again and pushed the tray away. "I can't eat when there is so much controversy. The doctor says it would damage my digestion, and I would have bad stomachaches."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ruin your dinner."
"Well, you did," she said with surprising sharpness. "Please, don't talk about these things anymore."
"But . . . Grandmother Cutler has told me to remain in my room until I wear the nameplate, and she has forbidden me to eat. The kitchen staff certainly won't serve me if she tells them not to."
"Forbidden you to eat?" She shook her head and looked away.
"Can't you speak to her for me?" I pleaded.
"You should have gone to your father," she said, still not looking at me.
"I can't. He won't do anything to help me anyway," I moaned. "I gave him a letter to mail to . . . to the man who had pretended to be my daddy, and he promised he would, but instead, he gave the letter to Grandmother Cutler."
She nodded, slowly, and turned back to me, now a different sort of smile on her face. It was more like a smirk of disgust.
"It doesn't surprise me," she said. "He makes promises easily and then forgets he made them. But why did you want to mail a letter to Ormand Longchamp after you learned what he had done?"
"Because . . . because I want him to tell me why he did it. I still don't understand, and I never had a real chance to speak with him before the police scooted me off and brought me back here. But Grandmother Cutler won't let me have any contact with him," I said and held up the envelope.
"Why did you give it to Randolph?" Mother asked, her eyes suddenly small and suspicious.
"I didn't know where to send it, and he promised he would find out and do it for me."
"He shouldn't have made such a promise." She was thoughtful for a moment, her eyes taking on a glazed, far-off look.