My dad leans forward, his focus locked on Paloma with a piercing intensity that makes me feel as if we’re facing a firing squad, vulnerable and on the brink of losing my heart.
“What’s your birth mother’s name?”
Paloma perks up, finally realizing that my father may know something of value to her.
“The hospital paperwork said Margarita.”
He closes his eyes for a long, heavy blink before reopening them. The caramel brown shades of his irises catch the last rays of the setting sun, and I wonder, how is it possible that I've never noticed the similarity to Paloma's before...
Chapter 30 – Paloma
I want to throw up.
Ok, Ididjust throw up, all over Jackson Roe’s home, renowned producer behind Emmy-nominated and winning daytime and nighttime television shows, and the stepfather of the man I’ve been in love with since I was a teenager.
His elegant stone terrace is now coated with my vomit, a strangely poetic conclusion to the day as the sun dips below the horizon and the sky ominously darkens.
“You know my mother?” I gasp, between dry heaves and chokes on my own spit.
Dallas pulls my hair from my shoulders to keep it out of my vomit covered lips while his mom rushes inside to grab a mop for the mess that I've spewed all over the ground.
His father sits motionless in his chair; his stillness is so profound that I wonder if he’s even breathing or if he’s just in much shock as I am. He’s stoic, contemplating something as he looks out at the dark, blue sea.
“I believe that I did.”
“But, in the second letter I sent Dallas, I asked if he knew anyone named Margarita. He responded that he had asked his parents, but they didn’t know anyone by that name either.”
I’m grasping at anything now. There’s just simply no way that his parents could know Margarita if Dallas had asked them like he'd said he did.
He sighs and sits forward, the first movement from him since he’s greeted me a few minutes ago.
“I believe your mother's name isn't Margarita. It's Brandy.”
“Brandy?” I take a deep breath, trying out the name and feeling unsure how it sounds. “I saw the hospital paperwork; it said Margarita on it. I’ve always imagined her name as Margarita.”
Dallas gently takes the wet cloth that his mother hands him and, with a mix of tenderness and concern, begins to wipe my lips and face clean. His hands then move to my neck and shoulders, giving them a soothing, gentle massage.
“How did you know Brandy?” I ask, though I have an overwhelming feeling I already know this answer now.
Jackson smiles cautiously. “She was a woman that I loved very deeply at one time. She was a newer actress on one of the series I directed about twenty-seven years ago. I was older than her by many years, so I kept my distance but somehow, she saw through my hardened exterior and we spent a brief, but wonderful six months together while she filmed.”
I draw in a sharp breath.
He rubs his temples firmly. “When we finished the series, I offered her one of the leading roles on an upcoming project I had planned with the same network. She would have been perfect for it. It was a fantasy series that unfortunately was short lived due to budget cuts but at the time the teasers were well received, and we thought we’d have success. Three weeks before we began shooting for the series, she disappeared. She wouldn’t answer my phone calls or emails. I tried to contact her agent but eventhey told me she had stopped responding to them, bailing on all of her commitments. I never heard from her again. Now, I think I understand why.”
“Why would she disappear like that? I don’t understand?” I gasp, trying to make sense of things and reconcile in my mind my biggest fear. That her pregnancy with me was the reason she'd disappeared from Hollywood. That my unexpected existence had caused her to throw away her dreams.
Jackson shakes his head, taking my hand in his gently, “I can’t say, Paloma. But if your mother is Brandy, she's a beautiful, hard-working woman just like yourself. It’s possible that the pregnancy had taken her by surprise. Given that she'd put my address on the hospital paperwork, I reckon she wanted us to meet someday, somehow. What that means for her, I am not sure...”
I shake my head, struggling to grasp the reality of the situation. The fairy tale dreams I’d had as a child, where I was reunited with my birth mother and she confessed all her regrets about making a plan for adoption, now seem distant and naive. This reality was appearing far more painful: she had willingly given me up despite knowing who the father was, vanished from Hollywood, and never told my biological father about my existence.
“She didn’t want to keep me...”
Jackson rubs his jaw thoughtfully, “We shouldn't speculate how she felt at that time. Now that you have her name, if you want, you should look her up and get some answers.”
I felt lost, unsure of what I wanted anymore or how to process the flood of thoughts and revelations crashing over me. It’d been a long time since I’d thought about Margarita – or Brandy – and contacting her. I’d put to rest thoughts of trying to seek her out over a decade ago.
Overwhelmed, I turn to face Dallas, who’s remained silentthrough our entire exchange. He’s cradling me in his arms, his presence a steady anchor amid the chaos of what’s just been revealed.
