Page 66 of Since She's Been Gone

It’s the same thing I did when Eddie asked me if I had ever wanted to have kids with Jay. I told him, “We had just gotten married,” insinuating we weren’t ready yet, without telling him what really happened.

I get up from the bench and return to the plaque.

This property is maintained by the generous donation of the Cadell family.

How can one of the main players responsible for the opioid epidemic in this country be funding a city landmark that was once used as a halfway house for drug addicts?

And why do the Cadells keep popping up whenever I learn something new about Mom?

My phone starts ringing—it’s Jay.

I debate whether to answer because he warned me against doing what I’m doing. But I don’t think he’d be calling me unless it was important.

“Hello?” I say, picking up.

“Hi,” he says. “In case you were tempted to try to track down your mother, I just found out that my colleague who testified against William Jr. and Quentin Cadell had to move his wife and kids out of state because of dangerous threats against them.”

This is why I can’t give up. I won’t be out of danger until I find out if Mom is still alive, and Eddie and Sarah may not be either.

“It turns out my mom was hospitalized for a month at Bell Hospital during her freshman year at NYU. She also lived in a halfway house—” I spill.

“Wait, did you say Bell Hospital?” Jay interrupts.

“Yes,” I say.

“That was one of the first hospitals in New York State to create an opioid detox program. They were considered pioneers in the field,” he says.

My stomach sinks. What I hadn’t wanted to believe—that Mom might’ve been an addict—is growing harder and harder to run away from.

“I also found out that the halfway house she lived in is now a parkette maintained by the ‘generous’ donation of the Cadell family,” I say.

“That’s not uncommon. When the Cadells first started being scrutinized by the Feds, they funded halfway houses to shift the blame away from the fact that they were lying and hiding how addictive their drugs were. They tried to control the narrative, to position themselves as supporting the fight against addiction, to make themselves appear innocent. How did you find all of this out, anyway?”

I don’t respond because I don’t want to lie. But three ambulances roar down the street, giving it away.

“You’re in NYC, aren’t you,” he says.

“Yes.”

“I called because I was worried you might end up doing something like that,” he says. “I know how much losing your mom impacted you, how much it ended up impacting us. But I don’t think you realize how dangerous these people are, Beans. You don’t owe her your life.”

He doesn’t realize that I won’t get my life back until I find out if she’s alive.

After I left the parkette, I Googled Alexander Valentine. He’s a long-time art gallery owner in Chelsea—the Valentine Gallery on 21stStreet. I have no idea whether he still works there, is retired, or is even alive. I also have no idea if he’ll remember Mom.

The gallery is filled with human-sized neon orange, pink, green, and blue butterflies. Butterflies everywhere, hanging from the ceiling, in the windows, pasted to the walls.

There are no people inside except an older, elegant man with silver hair, dressed in a gray cardigan with tortoise-framed glasses, seated behind a wooden rolltop desk, reading a book in the back of the gallery.

He puts it down and looks up at me. “Good afternoon,” he says.

“Are you Alexander Valentine?” I ask.

“Last time I checked,” he says, smiling.

“I’m Beatrice Bennett,” I say. “My mother was Irene Mayer.”

He smiles, moving his glasses to the tip of his nose, looking at me over the rims. “You looked familiar,” he says.

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