by Jean Stone
Heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs. The basement door opened; a tall, handsome boy clomped into the kitchen, pushing a tangle of black hair up off his brow. He had on torn jeans and a blue plaid flannel shirt that his arms had outgrown by a couple of inches. He wore a wide grin. “You saved me, Mom. Michael was destroying me.”
When no reaction came from his mother, Caleb’s grin faded. That simple act carved a dimple into his chin, emphasizing the unmistakable genetic link.
“Come here, Caleb,” Bonnie said. “You remember Earl Lyons.”
“Sure,” the boy said, his expression hardening into a heightened state of alert. He looked from Earl back to his mom, who had lowered her gaze. He squared his shoulders, then walked to the table and shook Earl’s hand. “Hi, Mr. Lyons.”
“Caleb,” Earl said.
“And this is Earl’s friend Annie Sutton,” Bonnie said.
Caleb gave Annie a small smile. Then his eyes traveled to the basket.
“Have you seen this baby before?” Bonnie asked. She was not only direct, but had an admirable steadiness in her voice. A strong woman, Annie thought.
Bella gurgled as if on cue.
Caleb raised his shoulders; his dark eyes widened. “I don’t think so. Why?”
“Why?” Bonnie asked. Her voice grew louder. Her hands, which had been resting on the table, now curled up tightly. Her composure seemed to dwindle. “Well, for starters, she looks a little like you, don’t you think?”
He did not turn pale the way his mother had. Instead, he frowned, his lower lip jutting out as if he were legitimately confused. “Well, no. Not really.”
Bonnie reached out and grabbed his hand. “Caleb. She does. She looks exactly like you.”
Like Earl, even Annie had to look away. She didn’t want to witness the boy’s reaction. Doing so seemed intrusive. And mean.
“Mom?” Caleb asked. “Are you saying somebody thinks I’m this baby’s father?”
No one replied.
“Jesus,” Caleb said, then plunked his angular body onto the last empty chair. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Caleb,” Bonnie snapped. “Language.”
“Sorry. But Jesus . . . seriously?”
Bella’s gurgle turned into a soft cry. Which was exactly what Annie had hoped wouldn’t happen. The adults sat in silence, staring at the basket. Annie finally reached over, picked up the baby, and held her.
“You said you think she’s three or four months?” Bonnie asked. “When was she born?”
“August or September. We’re not sure where, though. We don’t think the mother lives on the island.”
“This is nuts,” Caleb said. “I haven’t even had a real girlfriend since Mia Stimson broke up with me after prom last spring. Tell them, Mom. I don’t have a real girlfriend. This baby can’t be mine.”
Bonnie reached over, took his hand again. “Caleb, please. We’ll figure it out. Nothing is certain yet.”
A timer dinged.
“That’s the bread,” Bonnie said, but stayed in her chair as if waiting for permission to get up and tend to it.When permission didn’t come, she stood and went slowly to the oven.
“Son,” Earl said quietly, “we’re just trying to find out who this poor little one belongs to. She was left on Annie’s doorstep during the blizzard. It turns out the girl’s mother came over on the boat a few days before and asked the bus driver if he knew the Thurmans.”
Caleb’s eyes widened. “Maybe it’s Uncle Clark’s.”
“It doesn’t seem that way. You know he rarely leaves the island except to fish. And, besides, Bella’s mom is young. About your age.”
As if knowing they were talking about her mother, Bella stopped crying. Annie turned her sideways, resting her in the crook of her arm so Caleb could see Bella’s tiny face. She fixed her pretty sweater—the one Claire had made—and let Bella hang on to her finger.
“Tell them,” Bonnie said from across the room.
“Tell them what?” Caleb asked.
“You’re the math whiz, Caleb. Figure it out. If that baby was born in August or September, the girl could have gotten pregnant during your Christmas vacation last year. Tell them how you and Michael went to the Cape with your dad. Remember? Your last ‘boys’ only’ adventure before you two went off to college? Tell them, Caleb.”
His eyes shot back to Earl.
“Where’d you go?” Earl asked.
“Wellfleet. My dad knows a guy there.”
Annie bounced Bella gently. She moved forward on her chair, eager to ask a hundred questions. Instinct, however, told her to keep her mouth shut. Let Earl and Caleb discuss this man-to-man. There’d been enough finger-pointing from the women.
“How long were you there?”
“The week between Christmas and New Year’s.”
“Did you meet a girl?”
Caleb’s eyes widened, then dropped to the floor. “I did, yeah, but it wasn’t like that.”
Bonnie clattered the bowls, the utensils, the cooling racks.
“Mom. Please.”
She rattled another rack. “Mom? Please?” she mimicked her son. “Caleb. What in God’s name have you done? What in God’s name did you do?” She yanked off her apron, tossed it on the island, pulled at her hair. “God,” she said, though Annie couldn’t tell if it was a plea for help or just a gut reaction.
Caleb stood up quickly. The chair wobbled beneath him. “This kid isn’t mine,” he said. “Where’s her mother, anyway? Why you don’t find her? Why don’t you ask her?”
Earl sighed. “She’s in the hospital, son. She tried to kill herself.”
“What?” Caleb cried. “Are you fucking kidding me? Am I supposed to be responsible for that, too?”
Bella started to cry again. Annie lifted her to her shoulder, rubbed her back. “Caleb,” she said, because she could no longer hold back. “The girl you met in Wellfleet. Do you know her name?”
“Francine. She was a waitress at the Sunrise Café. I hardly knew her. She served me toast and eggs that were pretty crappy, but there aren’t many places open in winter. We were friendly. Friends, you know? One time we went for a walk. But I swear, we didn’t do anything.”
His mother dropped something that clanked into the sink. “One week,” she seethed. “You ‘hardly knew’ a girl a week and you had sex with her.”
“Were you listening, Mom? I said we didn’t . . .”
Bonnie left the kitchen.
Caleb inhaled a heavy breath, let out a stream of pain. “Jesus,” he said again. Then he went back to the basement door and disappeared down the stairs.
* * *
Annie and Earl—and Bella—went out to the car and sat for a few minutes.
“I’m sure you noticed he didn’t beg for a DNA test,” Earl said.
“Maybe it hasn’t occurred to him yet.” She turned on the ignition. “Is John working this afternoon?”
“I think so.”
“Okay. I’ll drop you off first. Then I’ll bring Bella to the police station.”
“You sure?”
She nodded. “I guess Caleb could be Bella’s father. No matter what he claims. What do you think?”
Earl nodded. “I think one of the few things in life that never changes is that kids can be stupid. And that even the best of them can lie if they’re backed into a corner.” He shook his head. “Do you want to go home to Chappy first and pack Bella’s things?”
A lump the size of one of her soap scoops suddenly felt lodged halfway down Annie’s throat. Her vision grew watery. Her heart felt thick and heavy. “No. If I bring her to the cottage, I’m afraid I won’t want to let her go.” She winced at her choice of words. “I’ll get her things to John later.”
But as she drove to the lot where they’d left Earl’s truck, his cell phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket, looked at the screen, then at her.
“It’s John. Should I answer?”
Annie blinked. Then nodded.
“I’ll put him on
speaker. To make it easier.” He clicked on the phone and set it on the console. “Yeah, John. I’m here with Annie.”
“She’s awake,” came John’s reply.
“What?” Annie sat up straight.
“Bella’s mother is fully awake.”
Tears instantly welled.
“Does this mean she’ll be okay?” Earl asked.
“The doctors aren’t committing. All they said is her vitals are good.”
Annie felt a smile inch across her trembling lips. Bella wasn’t going to lose her mother. Her mother would survive. One crisis had been averted.
Then John said, “I was calling to ask you to go to Annie’s, Dad. To let her know about Bella’s mother. I didn’t know you’d be together.”
An unpleasant queasiness crawled into Annie’s stomach. Why hadn’t he called her himself? Did she disgust him so much after what she had done?
“I’m at the hospital, Annie,” he continued. “I wanted Dad to ask if you’d come over here. The girl is awake, but she won’t speak to anyone. Not to the doctors or the nurses, and for sure, not to us. I thought if you brought the baby . . .”
“You think once she sees Bella, she’ll talk?”
“That’s the idea. We have to start somewhere. And, right now, you’re our best option.”
Chapter 25
Annie dropped Earl off at his truck so he could go back to Chappy. “As much as I’d like to be with you,” he said, “let’s face it. I’d have to tell Claire where I am, and she’d want to stick her nose in. I mean that with love, of course.”
“Of course,” Annie said with a smile. “I’ll call or text you if anything important happens, so don’t forget to charge your phone. And leave it on. Okay?”
He opened the car door and started to get out. “Annie? I just want to tell you something in case you don’t already know it. I think what you’re doing—all that you’ve been doing—for the little one has been terrific. No matter what other folks might say, including my own wife, I think that little girl was lucky that she ended up at your door.” His blue eyes grew misty; he nodded and got out. “I’ll keep the phone charged and turned on. That’s a promise.” He waved, then closed the door, and Annie drove away, so filled with love for a dear friend, there was no room left in her for anxiety as she headed toward Oak Bluffs.
On the way, she glanced into the rearview mirror and said to Bella, “Your mother’s name is Francine. Did you know that, sweet girl? And now you’re going to see her again. Which is wonderful, because I know she must love you very much. In spite of all that’s happened, she wanted you safe and taken care of.”
“Francine,” she whispered to herself. If only the guy who’d gotten her pregnant had bothered to ask for her last name.
* * *
Annie had never been in Martha’s Vineyard Hospital, but it was hard to miss. It sat up on a hill, overlooking Vineyard Haven Harbor, and she’d been told had been designed so every patient room had a water view. Prime real estate, she thought. She only hoped that Francine was happy to be there, grateful that she’d been rescued.
She found a parking space in the lot, gathered herself and Bella, and was quickly inside the large foyer. The receptionist gave her directions up to the intensive care unit.
Walking toward the elevators, Annie looked around the wide corridor. It was empty and still, occupied only by large prints of famous people—Dylan, the Stones, a young Barack and Michelle Obama—curiously interspersed with a palette of island landscapes—fishing boats in Menemsha Harbor, pastel Victorian cottages in Oak Bluffs, the picturesque Gay Head Cliffs. Annie saw no white-coated doctors or scurrying nurses, no patients on gurneys or parents with children, thanks in large part, she supposed, to the comfortable incubation of off season.
Whenever possible, Annie avoided hospitals and the memories they evoked. Her dad had been rushed to one via ambulance through the streets of Boston during the night; by the time she’d arrived, he was dead from a massive coronary. All she remembered were the cavernous hallways, the murmurs of doctors and nurses, the blank stare of her mother’s eyes. And she remembered that she was cold. Bone cold, she recalled.
Six months later, she’d gone to the hospital every day for the short time her mother was a patient for acute leukemia. Annie had dressed in a crinkly paper gown, a hat, and a mask for every visit in order to protect her mother from any germs she might bring in. The precautions made little difference: her mother died anyway. Annie was at her bedside: she turned off the overhead lights and sat, alone, holding her mother’s hand, the soft hues of dusk leaking into the big window, the end of a day, the end of a life.
By far the worst time had been the night Brian had been killed. She’d stood outside, nearly catatonic, the big red letters of the emergency room sign glaring at her, the double-wide, automatic doors opening and closing, opening and closing, each time an ambulance arrived and another stretcher was wheeled inside.
But when she reached the elevator now, she reminded herself this was not one of those times; this was a feel-good event, not one that would upset her life. Not if she didn’t let it. It was about other people, and it would not hurt her.
* * *
A small, artificial Christmas tree stood on a counter at the nurses’ station. A string of garland decorated the half wall; greeting cards had been clipped to it in a neat, colorful row. Annie wasn’t sure if such festive decor was still allowed in hospitals on the mainland—in America, she often heard it called now.
A nurse in a lavender tunic and blue scrub pants sat with her back to the counter, engaged in watching a small bank of monitors. Annie did not want to interrupt her, so she stood, waiting. She wanted to set down Bella’s basket, but didn’t dare put it on the hospital floor. Though it looked highly polished, she’d read too much about germs when her mother had been sick.
“You made it.”
She turned and saw John approaching. His uniform and his walk suited both his frame and demeanor: striking, professional, masculine. “I did.”
He glanced at Bella. “The patient is in room three. She still hasn’t talked.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“I’m sure you will. I think she’s scared, though. Maybe you should go in alone first; I don’t want to make her feel like we’re ganging up on her. I’ll take the baby to the waiting room. If you can at least get the girl to tell you her name, that would be a big help.”
Her name is Francine, Annie could have said. But she wanted to wait before giving him the latest details. She wanted to gain Francine’s trust, to let her know that she cared. But first, she needed to convince herself that John would be there when she returned, that he wouldn’t take the baby away without telling her.
He held his hand toward the basket. And Annie realized that no amount of trying to convince herself would matter: she had no choice but to hand Bella over.
She smiled. “Take good care of her while I’m gone,” she said. He took the basket; she took a last glance. Then she went down the hall to room three.
* * *
It was worse than she’d imagined. The lights were harsh and glaring, digital screens hung from the ceilings, wires snaked from them to electrical sockets, IV poles stood in wait. Countless boxes and packets of gloves, assorted gauze pads, and various pieces of equipment—for uses Annie did not want to guess—were lined up in an orderly manner on sterile-looking counters. All four walls were glass; an ominous syringe—Adrenalin, Annie guessed—was taped, about chest-height, to one. Below that was space for a single bed that wasn’t there now.
She hurried from the room back to the nurses’ station. “She’s gone. Room three.The patient’s gone.” She tried not to sound anxious.
After one, two, three seconds, the nurse turned around. “Excuse me?”
In spite of her resolve, Annie had a hard time catching her breath. “The patient. In room three. She’s gone.”
The nurse smiled. She smiled! “She’s downstairs. In radiology. Her doctor orde
red a couple more tests. It might take a while.”
“Oh,” Annie said, wilting like a wildflower after it had been picked. “Okay. I’ll wait. In her room. If that’s all right?” With her words clipped and staccato, she sounded even more ludicrous than she felt.
The nurse nodded, returned to her task, and Annie went back to room three. She could have gone to the waiting room and told John it would take a while, but she didn’t want to have to deal with him right then. Not until she had something to tell. Not until she could be sure she would not overreact again.
Back in the room, she sat in a lone chair, facing the window with the promised view that she hadn’t noticed before. It must have faced west, because, thanks to the shortened daylight of December, the sun was already starting to set, spreading cantaloupe streaks across the cold, purple sky. She sat and waited, trying to think only positive things, like the nice words Earl had said to her, how he thought that what she’d been doing with Bella was terrific, and that Bella was lucky to have landed on Annie’s doorstep. Those happy thoughts helped tone down the resurfaced memories of past hospital visits. Gratitude, she knew, was always guaranteed to make the world a little brighter.
Closing her eyes, she reviewed the long list of the blessings in her life. Within moments, the veil lifted.
* * *
The next thing Annie knew, it was pitch-dark outside: she must have dozed off. When she looked out the window, all she saw were reflections of the digital screens, the boxes of supplies and equipment, and a bed that was being wheeled in. The squeaking wheels must have jarred her awake.
A young man steered the bed into position, locked it into place, and left. Under the sheet, a patient in a blue cotton johnny lay on her back, motionless. Her head was straight; her eyes were open; she stared up at the ceiling.
“Hello,” Annie said. She dragged her chair close to the side of the bed. Though Francine looked familiar, she was much different than Annie remembered: her complexion was pasty; her big, dark eyes, without expression. Her short hair was askew.
A nurse swept in. “I’ll just be a minute,” she said, then proceeded to connect various monitors and tubes to the patient. Electronic beeps and digital graphs sprang to life; Annie looked away. After a couple of minutes, the nurse said, “All set,” and whisked out of the room as quickly as she’d whisked in.