Living in Maine.
With a family.
With a history my mother had never known.
I looked at Rebecca.
“Can I tell my mother?”
“Yes. The appropriate people have confirmed that Lillian is willing for Gloria to know.”
I nodded.
“Does Lillian want to contact her?”
“She does.”
I looked down at my hands.
“Then I need to go home.”
My mother was in the garden when I arrived.
She wore a straw hat and gardening gloves.
She was trimming the roses beside the porch.
When she saw me, she frowned.
“Naomi, aren't you supposed to be at work?”
“I finished early.”
“Everything all right?”
“Yes.”
She studied my face.
“Are you sure?”
I stepped closer.
“Mom, I have news about Lillian.”
The pruning shears stopped moving.
My mother looked at me.
“What news?”
I took her hand.
“She's alive.”
For several seconds, Gloria did not react.
Then she whispered, “What?”
“Lillian is alive.”
Her eyes widened.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Maine.”
My mother looked toward the house.
Then back at me.
“She lived?”
“Yes, Mom.”
Her face crumpled.
I helped her sit on the porch bench.
She covered her mouth.
For a long time, she could not speak.
Then she whispered, “I thought I'd never know.”
I sat beside her.
“She wants to talk to you.”
My mother looked at me.
“She remembers me?”
I nodded.
“She remembers you.”
Gloria closed her eyes.
And after forty-one years of uncertainty, she finally allowed herself to grieve the friendship she thought she had lost forever.
The telephone call took place the following Sunday.
We arranged it through Margaret.
My mother sat at the kitchen table wearing her favorite blue cardigan.
She had spent the morning worrying about what to say.
“What if she blames me?” she asked.
“For what?”
“For not finding her.”
“Mom, she knows what happened.”
“You don't know that.”
I looked at her.
“Then ask her.”
At two o'clock, the telephone rang.
My mother stared at it.
I answered.
A woman's voice said, “Hello?”
“Is this Lillian?”
“Yes.”
“This is Naomi Ellison.”
There was a pause.
Then the woman laughed softly.
“Little Naomi?”
I felt my throat tighten.
“Yes.”
“Oh, honey.”
I smiled.
“My mother is here.”
“May I speak to her?”
“Of course.”
I handed Gloria the telephone.
My mother held it carefully.
“Lillian?”
The response was immediate.
“Gloria.”
My mother began to cry.
“Where have you been?”
Lillian's voice trembled.
“Living, sweetheart. Just living.”
Gloria covered her eyes.
“I thought something terrible happened.”
“I know.”
“I looked for you.”
“I know.”
“I went to your house.”
“My sister told me.”
“I kept your coat.”
There was a silence.
Then Lillian laughed through her tears.
“The red one?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Gloria.”
My mother smiled.
“I still have it.”
They spoke for nearly two hours.
They remembered coworkers.
Old supervisors.
Children.
Church services.
Long shifts.
The little diner where they ate breakfast after working all night.
They talked about the investigation.
Lillian explained that officials had helped her relocate after she received threats connected to her testimony.
She had not been able to contact everyone immediately.
Later, she feared that reaching out would create problems for the people she had left behind.
She acknowledged that the silence had lasted far longer than she intended.
My mother listened.
Then she said, “I thought you were angry with me.”
“Why would I be angry?”
“Because I didn't stand up when they questioned you.”
Lillian was quiet.
Then she said, “Gloria, you stood beside me every night we counted those hours.”
“But I didn't testify.”
“You had children to feed.”
“So did you.”
“I know.”
My mother wiped her eyes.
Lillian continued.
“We made different choices because we were frightened. That doesn't mean one of us loved the other less.”
My mother closed her eyes.
“I missed you.”
“I missed you too.”
When the call ended, my mother sat quietly.
I waited.
Then she looked at me.
“She's coming to visit.”
I smiled.
“When?”
“Next month.”
“That's wonderful.”
My mother looked toward the window.
“She said she wants to see the courthouse.”
I hesitated.
“Are you sure that's a good idea?”
Gloria smiled.
“She wants to see where you work.”
I looked at her.
“After everything?”
“Especially after everything.”
The investigation into Victor Hale continued.
Investigators determined that he had obtained information about Samuel Bell's archival research through a former county employee.
Hale believed the records could damage the reputations of people he had worked with.
He had contacted Samuel and later Hannah in an attempt to discourage further disclosure.
The available evidence did not establish that Hale had caused Samuel's death.
Medical records and the circumstances of Samuel's final illness did not support that allegation.
Nor did investigators establish that Hale had acted on Sheriff Reddick's instructions.
But his messages to Hannah raised legitimate concerns.