Intrusion: A Novel

by Mary McCluskey

“White wine it is.”

  Sarah summoned a waiter, ordered a bottle of Chardonnay, and then turned her attention back to Kat. The green eyes sparkled. It was clear to Kat that Sarah enjoyed being in control, here in her own environment. She appeared to be well known to the other expensively dressed patrons who passed the table and nodded their recognition. Sarah acknowledged them coolly, her attention on Kat. Only once did she look up, her smile bright and immediate, to lift her hand in a brief hello. Kat turned to see a successful young actor, once hugely popular in a television series, now making movies, smiling at Sarah as he crossed the room.

  “Oh—is that—?”

  “It is,” Sarah murmured, looking back at Kat. “And isn’t he just delicious?”

  “Yes,” Kat said, surprised that the real-life actor was actually as attractive as the on-screen image. “He’s just as handsome as I imagined. A bit shorter, though.”

  “They’re all shorter,” Sarah said. “He’s nice, too. That’s very disconcerting.”

  “You’re disconcerted by nice?” Kat asked.

  Sarah laughed.

  “So tell me, Caitlin. What is it you need?”

  Kat took a breath.

  “Just some information, really. Just curious.”

  “About?”

  “Your adoption charity. How does it work?”

  Sarah looked at her levelly, her expression unreadable.

  “It’s matchmaking, basically,” she said. “Matching unwanted babies with prospective parents.”

  “Ah. I thought so. Yes.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  Kat, feeling foolish, hesitated. She shouldn’t be here. This was a mistake. Sarah would talk to Scott, and Scott would be angry that she was pursuing something so clearly irrational.

  “It’s probably not possible—” she began.

  “Everything’s possible, Kat.”

  “I just wondered if Scott and I would qualify. If—”

  “You’re thinking of adopting a child?” Sarah asked. Her voice was gentle. She did not seem to think the idea insane.

  “We haven’t really talked about it yet. I’m just—oh, exploring it. As a possibility.”

  Sarah nodded slowly.

  “It’s a serious matter, Kat. You need to be very sure—”

  “I know. I know.”

  “And, honestly, it wouldn’t be easy. I believe grieving parents are generally treated with extreme caution. I would have to check.” Sarah paused, thinking. “Did you choose to have just one child?” she asked. “Out of principle or something?”

  “Principle? Oh no. No,” Kat said. “Not at all. We wanted more. It just never happened. I never got pregnant again. We tried to find out why at one point. I had a preliminary examination; nothing was found. We were both going to have more tests, and Scott was meant to be tested, but—oh, I don’t know. He just didn’t. He was a senior associate then, trying to make partner, and he was so busy and we had Chris. We always encouraged Chris’s friends to stay over, so the house was always full of children, and then—it just went onto the back burner.”

  “And you haven’t discussed this with Scott yet?”

  “Not properly. I thought I’d get some information first.”

  “He’ll have to agree, I’m afraid. You must both want it.”

  “I know.”

  “And what does Maggie say about this?”

  “I haven’t told her yet. I’ve only just—”

  “You haven’t discussed it with anyone?”

  “Only Brooke. My neighbor. Friend. Across the street.”

  Sarah frowned.

  “The home-baking blonde?”

  “Blonde, yes,” Kat said, prickling. “And smart. And kind.”

  “Well, that’s good,” Sarah said. “And is she supportive?”

  “She’s not sure it’s a good idea.”

  “Ah, I see,” Sarah said, pausing as the waiter appeared with the wine. Sarah tasted it, smiled at the waiter. She had a way of looking directly into people’s eyes, Kat noted, for a little too long. She did this with the young wine waiter, not flirting exactly, but—with a way of showing her absolute attention. She took control over ordering the meal. She consulted the menu, ordered for both of them, requested some special bread she liked, and olives, ascertained that the tiny lemon tarts she loved were on the dessert menu, then sat back and regarded Kat.

  “Well, I can see why you want to do it. I should think you’re a wonderful mother. But. It’s a big decision,” she said.

  “Yes,” Kat said. “I know.”

  “Also,” Sarah continued, “a number of checks are made. Financial, employment, things like that. A home visit. And honestly, because of your situation, I don’t think it would be easy.

  “But,” she added quickly, as if reading something in Kat’s face, “it wouldn’t be impossible. Listen, I don’t usually get involved in the actual adoptions, but in this case, I’ll do what I can.”

  “Thank you!”

  Sarah smiled. “This is exciting for you,” she said.

  Kat felt a small surge of hope.

  “Yes. It is. But I’m just exploring it right now. I really just want to get information.”

  “Well, I can certainly give you all that. I’ll have the details delivered to your house this afternoon. The material is very comprehensive.”

  “Do the adopting parents have to be Catholics?” Kat asked.

  “There’s some flexibility. But, Kat, you are Catholic.”

  “Not anymore. I haven’t been to Mass in years.”

  “Well, I think it’s like becoming a godmother. You have to agree to raise the child as Catholic.”

  “Not sure how Scott would feel about that. It’s all—oh, speculation at this point.”

  “Is it?” Sarah asked, eyes narrowing.

  When the food arrived, salad with an assortment of berries and nuts, Sarah concentrated on tasting and enjoying it, just as she had at school. She urged Kat to try this or that, wanting her to like everything. The meal was delicious, Kat found, though the portions were small. Scott would complain if he were here. She looked up to find Sarah smiling at her.

  “So odd to see you here,” Sarah said. “I never imagined—” She shook her head. “Tell me. Your parents? Are they well?”

  Kat, surprised at the question, put down her fork.

  “Mum died four years ago. Of cancer. And my dad—he died nine months later. A heart attack.”

  “No. Dear God, how sad. And so soon after your—”

  “He’d been drinking too much for months,” Kat said. “And not eating at all. He simply stopped taking care of himself when Mum died. He was alone in the house when the chest pains struck. He didn’t call for an ambulance.”

  “If he hadn’t died this way, he would have starved to death,” Maggie had said. “There’s nothing to eat in the house. He must have just stopped buying food. Bottles everywhere. And nothing in the fridge.”

  “I think he pretty much gave up,” Kat said now to Sarah. “He couldn’t function without Mum. Didn’t want to.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sarah said, reaching across the table to squeeze Kat’s hand. “So sorry. They were very kind to me.”

  She paused, biting her lip, thinking back.

  “I remember your mother helping me on with my coat. She lifted all my hair from under my collar and then tucked my scarf around my neck and tied it. It was so—” Sarah hesitated, struggled for the right word. “So gentle, the way she did that.”

  Kat nodded, surprised that Sarah could recall, with such clarity, the kindness of a friend’s mother, the gentle tucking in of a scarf, over twenty years later.

  “It was a couple of weeks after that clinic visit,” Sarah said, her eyes on Kat. “She didn’t know, did she? Your mother? You never told her?”

  “No. I never told anyone.”

  “She must have intuited it, then. Something. It felt like she knew. Her kindness.”

  “It’s possible,” Kat said. “I
think she sensed when someone was feeling fragile. And she was a compulsive scarf arranger and tie straightener. And collars. She never met a collar she didn’t want to smooth out. She was a very cuddly mum.”

  Kat reached for her drink, aware of a sharp pang of grief for the woman whose fussing had so irritated her and Maggie throughout their teenage years—and whom they both deeply missed.

  “You were lucky,” Sarah said.

  “Yes. I know that now.”

  “Lucky to have a family like that. And lucky that you got to leave that soul-destroying school at the end of the day,” Sarah said.

  “I never thought being a day girl was lucky,” Kat said. “I always felt I was missing something. Something exciting and fun in the evening.”

  Sarah laughed.

  “Exciting and fun? The studious girls studied. The shallow ones painted their toenails. You didn’t miss a thing, darling.”

  “It wasn’t a bad school,” Kat said. “At least we got an education.”

  “A what?” Sarah said, leaning back on her chair, frowning. “We got no such thing. English, yes. Latin, yes. Some history. Distorted. But hardly any advanced math, limited physics. Shameful. And all that religion. Dear God. Remember Sister Agnes? The Gargoyle?”

  Kat thought for a moment. Sarah had her own pet names for all the nuns: the Gargoyle, the Vulture, Jabba.

  “Vaguely,” Kat said.

  “Of course you remember her. She had breath like a badger’s bum. Listen—”

  Sarah, leaning forward now, spoke in a hoarse whisper: And therefore, gells, one achieves a state of grace—

  Sarah, always an excellent mimic, had conjured the nun’s voice exactly. Kat shivered.

  “Oh, stop it,” Kat said. “Please. You sound just like her.”

  “And all those insane school rules?” Sarah said, not to be deterred, eyes bright. “Remember all the rules about that ugly uniform?”

  Kat remembered Sarah wearing her school beret slanted over her eyes like she was a French model, the mandatory pleated skirt tugged up inches above her knees.

  “You pretty much disregarded all that.”

  “Of course I did. It was ridiculous.”

  “I remember being baffled by the basic house rules,” Kat admitted. “I never could see the sense in those. All the things that were considered vulgar. Vulgar to open a window wide? Why?”

  “Oh, my aunts would agree with that,” Sarah said. “Class thing.”

  “And no coughing. No eating while walking in public.”

  “No smoking in public, either,” said Sarah.

  “But no eating? Why?”

  “I believe an ice cream at the beach was acceptable.”

  “Remember when they tried to enforce the thing that if you fainted during Mass you would be left on the floor until after the Consecration? When there was a kind of fainting epidemic?”

  “Well, they had to do something. Girls were falling like trees. Power of suggestion. It stopped it. Remember? It actually worked.”

  “You fainted once, though, remember? Almost fainted.”

  “God, don’t remind me. That girl with the nosebleed. Blood gushing all over the place,” Sarah said, shuddering.

  Sarah’s hemophobia was well known to the pupils and nuns at St. Theresa’s. A bloody knee during a hockey game, even on a player for the opposing team, would have Sarah retching into the bushes that lined the pitch.

  On that school day, Kat had tried to catch Sarah when she became dizzy, and so both of them had gone down, landing on their knees. “I fell down with you, remember?” Kat said.

  “Yes! Both of us on our knees like repentant sinners.”

  They laughed at the memory.

  “What a weird place,” Kat said. “Really. But I suppose we survived. With only minimal damage.”

  “You think?”

  Kat found that the wine had begun to hit her hard; her head felt full of clouds. The waiter seemed to be refilling her glass constantly. She resolved to slow down.

  “That’s enough wine for me,” she said to Sarah. “It’s making me woozy.”

  Sarah laughed.

  “Oh, drink up, silly. Why should you worry? You can take a little nap this afternoon. I have a board meeting. Entirely the most boring posse of board members I have ever met in my life. And then a meeting of lawyers.”

  “Scott? Will you be meeting Scott?”

  “I will indeed.”

  “Did you tell him you were meeting me for lunch?” Kat asked.

  Sarah regarded her with amusement.

  “Aha—you haven’t told him, then? Why not?”

  Kat shrugged, the wine making her reckless.

  “I told him I was meeting you,” she said, remembering Scott’s predictable surprise, his teasing threat to rat on her to Maggie. “But I didn’t say why. As I said, we haven’t really discussed adoption yet.”

  “Fret not,” Sarah said. “Your secret is perfectly safe with me.”

  She looked over at Kat, her smile fading.

  “You’re serious about this, Kat, aren’t you? About this adoption?”

  “Yes. I think I am.”

  “Then, we must be sure to make it happen,” Sarah said.

  Sarah followed through as she had promised: a messenger delivered the adoption charity details later in the afternoon, just an hour after Kat had been driven home in the Mercedes by Sarah’s driver. A card was attached to the package, referencing someone named Elizabeth Brady. Sarah had scrawled a note: Liz Brady was the person for Kat to contact; she should call Mrs. Brady if she had questions, but she must let Sarah know as soon as she and Scott decided to go ahead.

  Kat studied the glossy brochure carefully. It was professionally produced with full-color photographs. It seemed that the charity coordinated the adoption process and also, if the mother-to-be had no insurance, helped with medical costs. There were nurses available, doctors on call. It was stressed throughout the brochure that all fees were paid by the charity, all medical costs funded by it, too; there was no cost to the adoptive parents. It was clear, Kat concluded, that this was no buy-a-baby scheme. She wondered if the goal was a donation to the charity. Certainly, she and Scott could afford to contribute something. It seemed wrong to accept so much without making any payment. The coordinator—in this case, Elizabeth Brady—would be on call 24–7 to answer questions and allay fears. A medical nurse would also answer questions by phone. It was an impressive setup.

  Kat still had the package open on the coffee table when she heard Scott’s car out front. Heart racing, she gathered the papers together, jogged upstairs, and placed them at the very bottom of her sweater drawer before hurrying to the window to check on Scott.

  Yes, there was his car, parked in the driveway. She wondered why he was home so early when the closing was imminent, and she watched him as he climbed out of the car and began to pull boxed files out of the backseat. Something caught his eye then. He paused, leaving the files on the edge of the car trunk, and walked to the hedge. Kat studied him, puzzled, as he lifted an old basketball that had been hidden inside a dried-out shrub. He stood for a moment, twirling the ball absently in one hand. Then, he looked up at the basketball hoop above the garage door, ignored now, unused.

  Kat, seeing the shadow that crossed his face, imagined the memories going through his mind, saw them herself, heard the same sounds: the thump-thump on summer evenings as father and son played ball in the driveway while she cooked dinner—their voices, loud, exuberant, floating on the summer air.

  She remembered how, finally, tired of calling out that the meal was ready, that it would be cold or spoiled—and annoyed at being ignored, or fobbed off with Two more minutes, two more minutes—she would march out to the yard, try to intercept the ball herself, to call a halt to the game. She had done it once or twice, too. Neither her son, nor her husband, wanting to actually knock her over.

  “Dinner!” she would yell, holding the ball high and victorious. “Now!”

  “Tw
o more minutes! I’ve nearly thrashed him.”

  “Yeah, right. Show me, old man. Give it your best shot.”

  She had a splintered, visual memory of leaping bodies, a spinning ball, the whoosh of the ball through the net, and the sound of laughter on the warm breeze. Why hadn’t she just let them play for as long as it took, for as long as they wanted to stay out in the fading light? They wouldn’t have cared if the chicken was dry, the steak cold. They could have enjoyed that time together. More of that time.

  She wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

  Kat watched as Scott gave the old ball another twirl, then, shoulders drooping, head down, he took it to the trash bin and dropped it inside. He stood for a moment, as if regaining control of himself. Longing to hug him, but not wanting him to know that she was watching, Kat hesitated for too many seconds—and then it was too late. He was back at the car, lifting the files from the trunk, and a moment later, inside the house.

  “Hi there.” His work voice. Tired.

  She hurried downstairs to greet him. He held the boxed files in both arms. His reading glasses were sticking out of his pocket, and his hair stood up on his head, as if he had been pushing his hands through it all day.

  “You’re early,” she said. “What’s up?”

  “I’m going to work from here for a bit. Away from the damn phones. It’s an absolute zoo downtown. I might go back later.”

  “I’ll make you an early dinner. You could use some energy foods. Some protein.”

  “I could certainly use the energy. But hey, don’t worry too much about me. A quick sandwich will do and some coffee,” he said, then turned to her. “So how was lunch with Sarah Harrison?”

  “Posh. Nice, actually. I think she’s changed a bit. She’s not so tough. It was a short lunch.”

  “Yep, she can do short. She shut Woodruff up in midspiel at the meeting this afternoon. That was something to behold.”

  Scott headed into his den, placed the boxed files on his desk. He seemed already distracted.

  “A sandwich, then?” Kat said. “You won’t want a drink if you’re heading back to the office.”

  “No. Coffee for now. Lots of it. Anything at all to eat,” he said vaguely. “Anything will be fine.”

  As Kat made coffee in the kitchen, she heard Scott talking on the phone, his voice irritable. She guessed he was talking to James, because there was an element of I’m the boss in the way he gave instructions. He slammed down the phone with a groan.