Cry No More Read online

  She’d already had the fight of her life, she thought. And it had lasted for ten long years. “Your attorney didn’t know. The birth certificates were forged. The woman who forged them is the one who kept the records. I don’t expect you to take my word for it; I brought copies of everything.” She leaned down and picked up the briefcase, opened it, and handed a sheaf of papers across to them. Lee took the papers and rapidly thumbed through them. A rough sound of denial rumbled in his throat.

  Her hands trembling, Milla drew out two more documents. “These are the papers where David and I both relinquish our parental rights to Justin—Zack—to you.”

  Rhonda and Lee both froze, staring at the papers in her hand as if they couldn’t believe what she’d just said. Milla tamped down on the agony rising in her throat, fought for control. Just a little while longer. . . .

  “There are no conditions. To take him from you would be devastating to him, and we l-love him too much to do that. What you tell him about us, if you tell him, is totally up to you. You’ve raised him, you love him, you know him better than anyone else on earth. Does . . . does he know he’s adopted?”

  Mutely Rhonda nodded. Lee said, “But he’s never asked any questions.”

  He was happy, healthy, well adjusted, and secure in his parents’ love for him. He felt no need for anything else, Milla thought. One day he might ask, but only out of curiosity.

  She took a thick manila envelope from the briefcase and also handed it over. “This is personal information about David and me, our medical histories, blood types, anything you might need if there’s some medical emergency with Zack. There are phone numbers, addresses, and if either of us moves or changes numbers we’ll send the information to you. Our parents’ addresses are also included. There are some pictures, if . . . if he’s ever interested, and you decide to tell him. Newspaper clippings about what happened. I don’t want him to ever think we didn’t want him.” She dragged in oxygen. “His father has a genius IQ, and is one of the best men I’ve ever met. He’s blond and blue-eyed; Zack favors him. We’re both healthy, no genetic problems that we know about.”

  Dear God, how much longer could she hold out? Rhonda had both fists pressed to her mouth, and tears ran down her cheeks as she stared at Milla. Lee was audibly gulping as he fought for composure. Diaz, beside her, was a still, dark presence. She hadn’t looked at him, hadn’t glanced once at him.

  Raggedly she continued, “I hope, one day, he’ll want to know about us, meet us. But if he doesn’t, don’t feel you have to look over your shoulder. We’ll never contact you except for updates on necessary information, if needed. You’re his parents. If you decide never to tell him about us, we’ll accept that.” That was it. She couldn’t go on any longer. She surged to her feet and held out her hand. “Thank you for loving him.”

  Lee took it, his chin trembling, and wordlessly folded his other hand over hers. Diaz stood, too, bending down to close the briefcase and lift it.

  Rhonda jumped up. She was sobbing so hard she could barely speak. “Wait—you were looking . . . Would you like some of his pictures? To take with you?”

  27

  Somehow Milla said good-bye to them, shook hands, made it out to the Jeep clutching one of the photographs; others were in the briefcase that Diaz carried. She sat frozen as he drove her away from her son’s life, her gaze fixed straight ahead, her face as still as a statue’s. She’d done it. Somehow, she had managed to hold together. She had given her son away, and she felt as if there were a great gaping wound inside her from which her life’s blood was pumping. Pain was already gnawing away at her control, as great a beast as it had been when Justin was first taken from her; the quality of the pain was different, more poignant—and more bitter, because she’d been forced to this point as the years had crept inexorably past—but the beast itself was the same.

  There was no hope left. She couldn’t turn back the years and have Justin back as a baby, couldn’t fill her walls with pictures of him as he grew. He was someone else’s child now, and she had to live the rest of her life without him.

  In a remote, almost casual tone, Diaz said, “Nothing much impresses me, but that was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  She felt rage building inside her, like steam forming in a kettle as water heated. Helpless to stop it, she felt it build and build and build, rising up, choking her; her vision blurred with red haze and she heard an animal sound coming from her throat. Then the rage burst free, and despite the seat belt holding her in, she launched herself across the console at him, screaming and punching him, slapping any part of him she could reach. “Shut up! You bastard, you tried to keep me from finding him! I could kill you, I hate you—”

  He jerked the steering wheel to the right, pulling them out of traffic and to the side of the street while he fended her off with his right arm. His features were blurred by her fury and tears, but she could see enough to tell that his expression hadn’t changed, that he was still so damned untouched—

  He put the gear in park, then just sat while she pounded on him. The sounds coming from her had deteriorated into wordless screaming, the raw, wounded sound of unbearable pain that started from deep inside and tore its way out of her throat. She wanted to destroy something, she wanted someone else, anyone else to feel just a portion of what she was feeling. She felt as if she would burst from the force of it, as if her heart would give out under the immense pressure.

  Then she collapsed forward on herself, sobbing so hard she couldn’t draw a breath. She hadn’t known she could cry like this, not even in the early, desperate days. She’d had a goal then, a cause. Now she had nothing. Her voice broke and she choked, began coughing convulsively. Diaz seized her shoulders and hauled her upright, propped her against the door. Distantly she heard him say “Drink this,” and he put a bottle of water to her lips. She managed to swallow a sip, though she was vaguely surprised at how difficult swallowing was with her throat so raw and swollen.

  The storm passed as abruptly as it had come on, and she slumped in exhaustion, her eyes closing. She heard Diaz on the phone, talking quietly, but she was too numb to listen. She wanted to go to ground somewhere and die, because there was no way she could live with this pain.

  She didn’t die. Instead she sank into a stupor, so emotionally drained that she was unaware of anything except being on the move again, Diaz driving in silence. She thought they stopped once, maybe twice, but she wasn’t certain. She slept, starting awake occasionally to stare out the windshield in total blankness, not knowing where they were now or where they were going, not caring, not even fully comprehending.

  Darkness fell, and the headlights of oncoming traffic hypnotized her to sleep again. She roused when he stopped the Jeep and got out, watching dully as a man got out of the car parked beside them and handed something to Diaz, then gave a tiny salute and got back into his car and left.

  Diaz came around to the passenger side and opened the door. “Come on.”

  Milla got out, moving slowly, like a very old woman. They were parked at what looked like the tiny back porch of a small clapboard house. A cold wind whipped at her legs, went through her clothes. The ground beneath her feet was fine and gritty, and there was a strange roaring sound in her ears.

  She had no idea where they were. She said, “I have a six o’clock flight,” and was surprised at how raspy her voice was.

  “You didn’t make it,” Diaz said briefly, taking her arm and leading her up the three steps to the door. He opened the storm door and held it open with his body while he unlocked the wooden one, pushing it wide and reaching in to feel for a light switch. He found it, and bright light from an overhead fixture made her blink. He ushered her inside and she found herself standing in a smallish kitchen. Permeating everything was a peculiar smell that was somehow familiar, a not unclean smell, just . . . peculiar.

  Diaz went back outside and she stood there, too tired and beaten and apathetic to care where he was going. She heard doors slam; then he