“He must have never known where I was.” Now in retrospect that seemed so awful. He had only been a few blocks away from her, and she had always thought he was in Boston.
“You can tell him yourself now.” Mother Gregoria had given her both an office and a home address, and his phone numbers, though they were more than a dozen years old. But it was a start at least, and she was going to call him as soon as possible, and hopefully, someone at those numbers would know where he was now.
“Thank you, Mother,” Gabbie said softly, and then added cautiously, “I've missed you so much.” So much had happened to her.
“We've prayed for you so often,” and then she smiled proudly. “I read your story in The New Yorker. It was wonderful.” Gabbie told her about the professor then, and the money he had left her, how kind he had been to her, and the Mother Superior closed her eyes as she listened, reveling in the voice she had so loved, and the child she had cherished, grateful that at least one person had been kind to her since she left them. It was still forbidden to speak her name in the convent.
“May I write to you and tell you what happened with my parents?” Gabbie asked hesitantly, and there was a sad pause as she waited.
“No, my child. Neither of us can do that. God bless you, Gabbie.”
“I love you, Mother… I always will…” she said, choking on a sob.
“Take care of yourself,” Mother Gregoria whispered, unable to say more as tears streamed down her cheeks. She looked older than she had a year before. The loss had cost her dearly.
Gabbie had wanted to tell her about Peter, but she hadn't dared. There was so little to say yet. And perhaps he would forget her when she left the hospital, or think better of it, or maybe he only talked to her because she was there and it was easy. She had learned that she couldn't trust any man not to hurt her or leave her.
“God bless you, my child,” Mother Gregoria said again, and they were both crying when they hung up. Gabbie had no idea if she would ever speak to her again. It was nearly unbearable to think she wouldn't hear the Mother Superior's voice for the rest of her life, but she knew that, more than likely, she wouldn't.
She waited for a few minutes to catch her breath, and dialed the office number Mother Gregoria had given her. She didn't want to wait until he got home that night to call him. She knew that the number was old. It was from thirteen or fourteen years before, and he might no longer work there, but when she asked for John Harrison they seemed to know who she was asking about. They put her on hold and he came on the line very quickly.
“Gabriella?” he said in a single breath, sounding extremely surprised. But his voice was so precisely as she remembered it that all she could think of was the vision she still had of him as a child, when, to her, he looked like Prince Charming.
“Daddy?” She felt nine years old again, or much, much younger.
“Where are you?” He sounded worried.
“Here in New York. I just got your number for the first time in all these years. I thought you were in Boston.
“I moved back thirteen years ago,” he said matter-of-factly, and she couldn't even begin to imagine what he was feeling. Probably the same things that she was. It was inconceivable to her that he wouldn't.
“Mommy left me in a convent,” she blurted out, still feeling like a child, and wanting to explain to him where she'd been, while he'd been missing.
“I know,” he said, sounding very quiet. “She told me. She wrote me a letter from San Francisco.”
“When?” Gabriella was confused now. He'd known? Why hadn't he called or come to see her? What could possibly have kept him from calling?
“She wrote to me right after she got there. I never heard from her again. But she wanted to let me know where she'd left you. I believe she remarried,” he said calmly.
“You've known for thirteen years?” Gabriella sounded puzzled, and his response didn't give her the answer she wanted.
“Lives move on, Gabriella. Things change. People change. That was a hard time for me,” he said, as though expecting her to understand that. But it