The Paris Agent(88)
“Theo,” I interrupt him after a while. “What’s going on?”
“The birth certificate came,” he says, suddenly incredulous. “We found her.”
Jocelyn Nina Miller was born in London in 1920, and at that point at least, was the only child of Tobias Andrew Miller and Drusilla Rose Miller, née Sallow. Drusilla and Andrew had married two years before.
“So…these people might be your grandparents?”
Theo chews his thumbnail anxiously.
“I went to the library and looked in the phone books. I can’t find Tobias or Drusilla Miller anywhere.”
“I’m sorry…”
“Wait—it’s just…” He gnaws at his lip then cracks his knuckles. “Your dad told you Jocelyn’s parents had an especially unhappy divorce, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, I can’t find a Drusilla Miller anywhere. But Drusilla is such an unusual name and Sallow is incredibly rare and I did find a Dr. Drusilla Sallow.”
“Dad said Jocelyn’s mother was a doctor!” I gasp. “She must be using her maiden name again?”
“It makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“Where is this Drusilla Sallow?”
“That’s the thing, Charlotte,” Theo says urgently, then he jabs his forefinger against the table. “She’s right here.”
“Here?” I look around blankly.
“In Manchester! Her listed address is only a few miles from here.” I gasp again, and he runs his hands through his hair then says bleakly, “But it’s probably not her. Right? I mean, it could be. But it’s probably not. What are the chances that my grandmother would be living just a few miles away from me?”
“I really don’t know.”
“I just keep thinking if I drive past, I might catch a glimpse of her.”
“What good would that do you? Are you hoping she looks like you?”
“No, I’m more thinking that if this Dr. Drusilla Sallow is much younger than Jocelyn’s mother would be, I can rule her out.” He looks at me pleadingly, then, as if he’s asking for my permission, he asks, “Would it be so bad to just drive past her house?”
“It wouldn’t be bad,” I say carefully. “I’m just not sure it would do you any good.”
He sighs as he nods, but after that, the silence is tender.
I’ve grown to like and admire Theo. I see him as a man who has spent his whole life searching for a family he knew he would likely never find—and he’s used that unresolved desire to do good in other people’s lives. Over the past few weeks he’s told me about that family history group, and all of the joy his members find in digging deep into their own pasts.
I think about that in the context of my grief for my mother. If there was some tenuous link that might make me feel reconnected to her…some tenuous link that might help me understand her, I’d chase it down hard. A burst of pure empathy washes over me.
“Let’s drive over,” I say, reaching for my handbag. “Together. Now.”
Theo looks at me in surprise.
“Why did you change your mind?” he asks.
A vivid image of my mother flashes to mind and I’m not sure I can explain myself without crying, so I just shrug and push myself into a standing position.
“It’s summer holidays and we’re both teachers. What else do we have to do with our spare time?”
The jittery, uneven tone of Theo’s breathing betrays his anxiety as he drives toward the house, but we don’t speak. We turn into Drusilla Sallow’s street and Theo starts tapping his thigh with his fingertips to a manic, frantic rhythm.
Not quite eight minutes after we left Theo’s apartment, we are parked right opposite the cottage.
“When I was younger I used to daydream about inadvertently walking past a blood relative, but it’s always been a kind of fantasy. It feels strange to acknowledge to myself that perhaps it was a real possibility at least for the last few years since I moved here.”
The cottage is quiet and still, the curtains drawn and the front door closed despite the oppressive heat. The expansive garden is lovingly tended, hedges trimmed into careful shapes to frame beds of colorful petunias.
We sit staring at the cottage for a long time. Every now and again I draw a breath, intending to ask Theo what he’s thinking, but when I look at the expression on his face I fall silent again. He is staring at that house, a lifetime of hope and longing in his blue eyes, and I feel like an intruder on the moment even though he invited me to be there.
But every attempt I have made to help my father seems to have gone awry. He’s abandoned his project and he seems to be plodding along as he was before, focusing on work and spoiling Wrigley at every available moment. I don’t think I helped Dad at all in the end, and I’m starting to worry that I’ve just led Theo to disappointment too.
“Josie might—I’m just saying Josie might not even be your mother,” I blurt. Still staring at the cottage, Theo nods.
“I know that.”
It’s so hot in the car that I have sweated through my nylon blouse, and every now and again, a rivulet of moisture runs down my forehead or down the gap between my shoulder blades. The windows are open but that’s not enough, and just when I think I can bear it no more and I’m about to suggest that we leave, a taxicab pulls into the driveway. Theo sucks in a harsh breath.