Drawn to Troubled Waters

Chapter 20: The Benefactor

“It took me a long time to find you.” He begins pushing around the papers on his desk. Not finding what he’s looking for, he starts yanking on drawers. “Ah, here it is.” He slides out a creased manila folder with very little material between its covers.

I lean forward just a bit as he opens and spreads it out in front of him. Could these be the papers I saw earlier during my late night escape to the library? Was I finally going to get a look at the genealogy that has been taunting me since then? There is a low rumble in my stomach reminding me we never did get to eat Vesta’s picnic lunch. With the butter churn my stomach has become, I’m grateful.

There is a fancy certificate on the top but I can’t make out anything except Certification of Vital Record State of New York. A birth certificate? I lean just a little closer, the churning becoming more of a sloshing, acid burning the back of my throat. My own name stares back at me: Roberta Genevieve Fitzroy. The file is about me! I simmer in mistrust as he continues.

He taps a manicured nail on the paper. “For someone who is such an important piece to my puzzle, there really isn’t much in here for information. Report cards say you were an average student. Good at history but not so much in math. Same thing in college. With your parent’s money you had your pick. I would have thought you’d be a Vassar girl, like your mother. But no,” he glances down though I doubt he needs to. “You chose State University of New York and an Art Degree. The word in your parent’s circle is that you’ve become quite the disappointment to them.”

I give him the most neutral look I can muster. I certainly don’t need some stranger to tell me what my parents think of my life’s path. I can’t quite manage to keep a bit of haughtiness from my response. “So, you know a lot about my life. Doesn’t mean you know anything about me.”

His smile reminds me of the Cheshire Cat, ready to drag me into the story but not all that helpful with the answers. “Oh, but I think I know enough. Don’t you ever wonder why you’re so different from your parents? Why you’re drawn to the simple things instead of the extravagant?”

         I settle back abruptly in the chair, the leather pressing against the dampening back of my shirt. There is no air circulation in the room, only the oppression of heat that settles around my shoulders like a heavy cloak. I wonder if he’d open a window if I ask. But he sits in his shirt, tie, and full business attire as if we are sitting in some metropolitan office with air conditioning.

         “How do you know my parents?”

         He sifts through some of the papers. “I don’t, not really. All I know is what my investigators have reported. Of course, what do you really know about them? Other than they’re your parents.”

         I uncross my ankles and try looping them around the legs of the chair. I try not to squirm at the sweat pooling between my shoulder blades. I want so much for a burst of fresh air to push aside the cloying, lemony smell of furniture polish. He is being as evasive as a New York taxi during rush hour.

         “Look, I’m not exactly sure why I’m here.” I grip at the arms of the chair to keep from standing. I know that once I’m on my feet it will be a lot easier to flee. And the only place I want to flee right now is into Sawyer’s arms. Again I wonder where he is. And the only comforting answer is: with his mother getting his own answers.  I take a breath before continuing.

“I’m not even sure I want to stay. You invite me down here on the false pretense of sketching a bridge. I get no information to go on what so ever. Now you tell me I’m here to save your son. That’s pretty cryptic. Does he need an organ transplant or something? That you could have certainly asked for. Why all the mystery?” I can’t keep my voice from climbing an octave. “What is it you want me to do?”