They both nodded in unison. Jim Sheridan looked at them both again and smiled. “Man, the family resemblance is uncanny. It’s like I’m looking at different versions of the same person.”
“Thank you,” said Polly, though she didn’t know why, especially since, in his scenario, she was the old version.
He clapped his hands together again. “OK, let’s go get your mommy,” he said to Violet and gave her shoulder one more squeeze before darting out of the room.
Violet looked at Polly. “Mommy?” she said.
Polly laughed. Under the table, she reached for Violet’s hand, resting on her lap, and gave it a squeeze. She waited for Violet to let go, but she didn’t. So Polly didn’t, either. And so it was that Norah shuffled in, the chains on her wrists and feet making a jangling noise not unlike Barney’s collar. Startled by the noise, they let go of each other in an instant, as if they’d been caught doing something wrong. She wondered if Norah had even realized that her mother and her daughter had been holding hands. And if she did, if she cared. There was that litany running through Polly’s brain lately: the one that said Norah should be grateful to her for coming to stay with Violet. Just grateful, and nothing else. But it was never that simple with Norah.
She took the seat across from them, and Polly was struck by two things: One, that Norah’s bottom lip was trembling, which meant she was holding back tears upon either the sight of her daughter or the emotion of being reunited with her mother in this way, or some combo thereof. And two, that she looked awful. A far cry from the glamorous photos shown in all the news articles. In those photos, taken at various society events and fundraisers through the years, Norah had looked beautiful, radiant, expensive. But now she looked wan, drawn, and cheap. Her roots were showing. Her eyes had bags under them big enough for an overseas flight. Her complexion verged on a yellow-green color.
“Are you sick?” she heard herself ask, the first one to speak. Because once a mother, always a mother, she guessed.
Norah forced a smile. “Hello, Mother.” She looked over at Violet, “Hi, Vi.”
Beside her, she felt Violet relax at the sound of her mother’s voice. Had her voice ever done that for Norah? She hoped so.
“And yes,” Norah added, turning back to Polly. “I am sick.” She looked over at Violet. “Sick of being in here.” She gave a little laugh, intended to put her daughter at ease. She was probably thinking, If I can still joke around, then I must be OK, no matter how things appear.
“Are you coming home soon?” Violet asked, sounding much younger than Polly had ever heard her sound.
“We’re working on that,” Norah said.
“No you’re not.” Violet’s response was wounded and automatic.
Across the table, Norah inhaled sharply. “Violet, yes, we are. Mr. Sheridan and I are doing everything we can to get me out of here.”
Violet had a response at the ready. “I’ve read the articles just like everyone else. I know you’re not telling them where your client list is. I know that if you did, they’d let you out. So, no, you’re not doing everything you can. Because you could turn that list over.” She crossed her arms and glared at Norah, daring her to disagree. The thing was, the child was right. Except she didn’t totally understand. Not like an adult would. Not like Polly did. To Violet it was cut and dried. Turn over the client list and come home.
But Polly understood that to Norah it was more complex than that. Turn over the client list and make some very dangerous enemies, expose some people who would go to great lengths to avoid exposure. Mostly because a charge of this kind would open them up to further investigation. And if there was one thing Polly had learned, it was that men who were involved in a nefarious activity usually didn’t limit it to just the one thing. There would be repercussions for that kind of exposure. To give up the client list was to potentially put Violet in harm’s way. She and Norah looked at each other, and Polly understood: by staying in jail she wasn’t protecting just herself; she was protecting those she loved.
She spoke up. “Your mother has her reasons. She’s getting good counsel from wise folks about all of this. And this wasn’t what we came here for anyway.”
Violet, cool as a cucumber, turned to look at her. “This is exactly why I came here,” she said. “To tell her to tell me where the list is. Is it on a drive? Or is it a printout? Is it, like, in a spiral notebook, old-school style? What?” Violet rose from her chair and leaned across the table. She lowered her voice to a whisper, and Polly wondered if the microphones in the room could pick up sound at that level. “Tell me and I’ll go find it. I’ll be the one to turn it in, and then those men can’t blame you.”
Polly watched as Norah flinched like she’d been slapped. She began to cry. “No, honey, it’s not about who gets blamed. It’s about doing the right thing. For everyone involved. It’s not just me, honey. There are other people—”
“What about me?” Violet’s raised voice made them both jump. She pounded her fists on the table, and Polly couldn’t help but think of when she had been a baby in a high chair doing the same thing. “I thought I was the only other person who mattered to you. That’s what you used to say. Remember? You said you’d never let anything come between us. You said you’d take care of me. But you didn’t!”
“I know I did, baby. I know I did. I was wrong, OK? I was wrong to tell you that. I made promises to you that were impossible to keep.” Norah looked over at Polly, desperation and something else that Polly couldn’t read on her face. “That’s what mothers do.” And then she knew what it was she saw on her daughter’s face: absolution. Somehow, in that jail cell, Norah had found it in her heart to forgive her. In the face of her failings as a mother, Norah had found the room to forgive her own mother. “The best I can hope for is that someday you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me. For letting you down. For not being honest with you. For making mistakes.”
Polly spoke up. “It’s unavoidable.”
Norah looked at her, her face impassive. But then she nodded, one quick dip of her chin.
Violet glanced over at the two of them, taking in what was happening. “You should thank Polly,” she said. “I’m not sure what I’d have done without her.”
Norah ducked her head, chastised. “I am thankful to her,” she said to the table.
“She’s a good grandmother,” Violet said, and in her voice was a challenge, a bit of the defiance Polly wanted to see in the girl. That was the one thing she hadn’t seen to remind her of Norah or herself. But Violet’s life had been different from both of theirs. She’d been cared for, even coddled, by a doting mother, never lacking for anything. It had created a passive complacency that said less about her personality and more about her situation. Without the coddling, Polly could see that Violet would find the pluck she needed to survive. She looked at her granddaughter and, once again, was reminded of herself. Usually she didn’t like what she saw when she saw herself. But when she saw herself through Violet, she felt proud and pleased. She felt hopeful for all of them.
Jim Sheridan stuck his head in the door, startling all three of them. He made a pained expression. “We should probably be wrapping things up. Saying any final words.”