The Mother of His Child

by Sandra Field

  “Right now…please.”

  Bitterly disappointed, Marnie abandoned her plans for a family meal, a dinner for three eaten at her pine table overlooking the sea. She, Kit and Cal weren’t a family. And home for Kit was where Jennifer had lived, the lovely bungalow on the cove. Hoping her face didn’t show her feelings, she watched Cal drop a kiss on his daughter’s cheek. He said, “I’m really glad you told me all that, Kit.”

  “Yeah…let’s go.”

  Kit couldn’t wait to be gone, Marnie thought with another nasty jab at her heart. Once again, she, Marnie, was the outsider, the one left alone without a real family of her own. Subconsciously, she now realized, she’d been hoping that the events of the afternoon would somehow issue in an invitation to watch Kit play basketball at the tournament this weekend. To go public with the resemblance between the two of them. To play an ordinary role in her daughter’s life.

  Kit clearly didn’t want any such thing.

  Oh, give it up, she berated herself. Self-pity’s a yucky emotion. Get a grip, Marnie. She said with a casualness that almost rang true, “Kit, I hope you’ll come back—you’re welcome here any time.”

  “Thanks,” Kit mumbled.

  Cal had to have heard the withdrawal in Kit’s voice and to have seen the way his daughter was looking anywhere but at Marnie. All of a sudden, he looked utterly exhausted, as though he’d dug a dozen wells in a faraway country under the blazing sun only to discover there was no water. “Let’s go, Kit,” he said.

  Kit hurried up the driveway. But as she climbed in the Cherokee, Cal pivoted and jogged back to the house. Her heart thumping, Marnie held the screen door open.

  Standing outside, in a way that seemed symbolic to Marnie, Cal said choppily, “We’ve got to talk—figure out how we’re going to handle all this. I’ll give you a call later this evening.” He made, of course, no move to touch her. No one, least of all Kit, would have suspected that he’d spent the better part of eight hours in Marnie’s bed the night before, making passionate love to her.

  It didn’t take a genius in human relations to see that he was regretting that particular move. That he’d heard Kit’s avowal that Marnie could never replace Jennifer; that his daughter came first and Marnie a faraway second. Once, what seemed like a very long time ago, Marnie had told Cal he was a good father. Could she now fault him for putting his daughter first? Kit had been part of his life for nearly thirteen years, Marnie for less than a month.

  No contest, she thought, and in a flare of mingled terror and perversity said, “I’m going out tonight.”

  “Then I’ll get hold of you tomorrow.”

  “Mario and I are climbing at Paces Lake tomorrow.”

  “So you’ve got time for Mario and not for me?”

  “You’ve no reason in the world to be jealous of Mario!”

  Cal said in a tight voice, “You’re acting as if we never slept together last night. Or didn’t that mean a damn thing to you?”

  It had meant entirely too much. “Whereas you’re wishing we’d gone to Halifax and seen a movie.”

  “I’ve got a twelve-year-old daughter who doesn’t want you in her life. What the hell am I supposed to do?”

  “I have no idea,” Marnie said with the calm of despair. “Hadn’t you better go? She’ll be wondering what’s up.”

  The words wrenched from him, he said, “You and I—we made love last night.”

  “Did we, Cal? Did we really?” Marnie asked and, as soon as the words were out of her mouth, wished them unsaid.

  A muscle twitched in his jaw; for a few seconds that felt as long as an hour to Marnie, he was silent. Then he rasped, “If you’re not going to be home, then I’ll have to leave a message on your machine, won’t I?” and strode back up the driveway to his vehicle.

  He hadn’t answered her question. Trying to dredge up anger to mask a mixture of fear and pain, Marnie watched his tires churn up the dirt as he accelerated. However, she couldn’t make herself feel angry; she only felt hurt.

  The Cherokee rocketed out of sight. Marnie closed the door, her thoughts carrying her forward with a logic she abhorred and an honesty she couldn’t deny. Cal was the one who’d suggested last weekend that they cool it as far as touching, kisses and sex were concerned. Cal was the one who hadn’t brought any protection on Wednesday night so he wouldn’t be tempted to take her to bed. It was she who’d instigated the lovemaking. Not Cal. She who’d given herself body and soul to a man whose daughter hated her.

  She’d been a fool.

  Living dangerously sometimes meant the dangers caught up with you. Cal, she was convinced, now believed he should have stayed fifty miles away from her bed. Away from her.

  Her living room looked unbearably empty, and the view of rocks and ocean only increased her sense of isolation, a deep loneliness of the spirit that brought agonizingly to life those first few months after the adoption.

  She’d made love with Terry and then lost Kit. And now she’d made love with Cal and lost him, too—because of Kit.

  They should have eaten at Pierrot’s after all.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  MARNIE chewed away at a peanut butter and cheese spread sandwich for supper, a sticky mixture that suited her mood. Because she’d told Cal she was going out, she went for a long walk on the beach, then drove to the nearest takeout for a double ice-cream cone, bubble gum delight on the bottom and moon mist on top. Neither flavor brought her any comfort. Back at the house, her answering machine indicated no one had phoned her. She said a very rude word and went to bed.

  The next day, Marnie left for the cliffs at Paces Lake right after work. She and Mario tackled the climb known as the Pyramid, an undertaking that claimed every bit of her attention and energy. She acquitted herself admirably. When she got home, the green light was flashing by her telephone.

  She was tired and horribly depressed and badly in need of a hot bath. She pushed the button and heard Cal’s voice surge into the room. “I loathe answering machines,” he snarled, “but you didn’t leave me any choice, did you? Marnie, it must be as clear to you as it is to me that Wednesday night shouldn’t have happened. I thought I could keep you and Kit separate, but I can’t. You and I are adults, but Kit’s not yet thirteen—she’s my responsibility. I have to put her first. Surely you can see that? I knew I was right when I said we should cool it. But I let my body overrule my brain…dammit to hell, you don’t know how much I hate this. We’ll pick you up tomorrow afternoon around three. And, for God’s sake, don’t play any more games with me. I’m not up for it.”

  The connection was cut with an abruptness that suggested he’d slammed the receiver down.

  Marnie did likewise. Anger was safer than tears; and safety was going to be her motto from now on. No more risks. No more opening her arms and her body to a man who could repudiate her forty-eight hours later. On an answering machine, of all things. How dare he tell her that a lovemaking that had shaken her to the soul had been nothing but a mistake?

  Of course, if she’d stayed home, she could have talked to him herself.

  With a toss of her red curls, Marnie went to have a bath. As she soaked in a froth of raspberry bubbles, she admitted to herself that she was embracing anger with the same fervor with which she’d embraced Cal because she was dreading the weekend. To go back to Conway Mills was bad enough. To face Terry, Marylou and Dave in the company of Kit was even worse. But worst of all would be spending two days with Cal.

  The only bright spot was that they wouldn’t even for a minute find themselves alone.

  Two whole days. It would be awful. Absolutely awful.

  The water gurgled down the drain. Marnie went to bed, where she dreamed that she and Cal were discovered in a flagrantly compromising position by the Faulkner Beach Ladies’ Aid. Whereupon Cal turned into a judge in a red robe and a curled wig, who handed her down a life sentence of solitary confinement. When she woke up with a start, it took her a moment or two to orient herself, to discover that s
he was safe in her own bed. Not on the way to prison.

  The compromising position, she realized with burning cheeks, was one she and Cal hadn’t actually tried.

  Not that she cared. She was never going to bed with Cal Huntingdon again.

  At eight-thirty on Saturday evening, Cal drove into the small town of Conway Mills. Kit was asleep in the back seat; she had, according to Cal, played three brilliant games at the tournament and was largely responsible for her team’s winning the trophy for their league. She’d told none of this to Marnie; to Marnie’s infinite discouragement, Kit had retreated into adolescent taciturnity again, just as though she’d never visited the little house by the sea and played with Midnight on the beach.

  Cal, since his message on Marnie’s machine the night before, had obviously decided on a strategy to deal with her. Throughout the whole drive, he’d been polite, distant and discreet. As if they were two strangers meeting for the first time and in no way drawn to each other, or as if she meant nothing to him at all, Marnie thought. She was almost glad because it nourished her anger and kept at bay a pain that would overwhelm her if she allowed it entry.

  He asked now, “How do I get to Dave and Marylou’s?”

  “Keep going straight. Not many choices in Conway Mills,” Marnie said, trying very hard to relax her hands in her lap. In the twilight, the houses clustered around the few stores looked secretive and unwelcoming. As they turned the corner by the two churches, she added, “That driveway goes up to my mother’s house…you can see it through the trees.”

  As Cal slowed, she caught sight of the tall-paned windows arrayed like empty eyes below the black expanse of the roof. She shivered, wishing she was anywhere else but here.

  “Dave’s house is around the next corner. It’s painted pink and green—Marylou’s always liked bright colors.”

  Cal said nothing. If she was tense, she thought with reluctant empathy, so was he. Not about her, of course. Oh, no, he’d turned her off like the kitchen tap. Cal, she was almost sure, was worried sick about the imminent meeting between Kit and Terry, the man whose genes Kit bore. The only other man with whom Marnie had made love.

  Cal turned into the driveway, which led through a double row of maples to an old farmhouse surrounded by budding lilacs and the rosy sunsets of quince bushes in full bloom. As though he’d been waiting for them to arrive, a man came around the corner of the house, a tall man with a thatch of light brown hair and deep brown eyes. Marnie’s catch of breath wasn’t lost on Cal. He demanded flatly, “Is that Terry?”

  She nodded, quite unable to find her voice. Quickly, she unlatched her seat belt and got out of the Cherokee. If Terry’s grin was a shade less ebullient than usual, she was in no shape to notice. He picked her up and lifted her above his head, then deposited her on the ground, hugged her and kissed her warmly on both cheeks. “Hiya, Mar,” he said.

  “Hi, yourself.” She gave him a credible smile. “You look great.”

  “You get more gorgeous all the time. Old age agrees with you.” Then he looked past her. “You must be Cal. I’m Terry Dyson.”

  The two men shook hands, Cal’s slate blue eyes cool and watchful. Marnie babbled, “Kit slept the whole way, she played in a basketball tournament yesterday and today and she probably…oh, here she is.”

  Kit was standing by the Cherokee, the setting sun falling on her crop of bright curls and on the brown eyes that were so like Terry’s. For once, Marnie saw that Terry was at a loss for words. He took a couple of steps toward Kit and said stiffly, “I’m Terry…you must be Kit.” The girl nodded, and for a few seconds that felt like hours to Marnie, the two of them simply stared at each other. Marnie was about to say something—anything—to break the silence when Terry added in a stilted voice, “How are you?”

  “Okay.”

  The rigidity of her stance made a liar out of her; Terry said with something approaching a smile, “That’s got to be the stupidest question I’ve ever asked. If you’re feeling anything like me, you don’t have a clue how to behave or what to say. This isn’t exactly your average everyday occurrence, is it? Maybe sometime tomorrow you and I could go for a walk and get to know each other a bit…if you feel like it.”

  “That’d be neat,” Kit said.

  “Great. Let’s go in and you can meet my mum and dad. We might as well get all the introductions over and done with and then perhaps we can start acting like normal human beings.”

  The two of them started up the front steps side by side. Marnie stole a look at Cal. He was staring after them, his face inscrutable, his fists clenched at his sides. She forgot that she was angry with him and that she’d vowed to play it safe, and said softly, “Cal, you’ll always be Kit’s dad no matter how much time she spends with Terry.”

  He looked at her, his gaze turbulent as a summer storm. “He sure kissed you as if you’re more than good friends.”

  “He didn’t and we aren’t.”

  “Who’d you go out with on Thursday night, Marnie?”

  “I had a heavy date with a bubble gum ice-cream cone,” she seethed, “and we can’t start a fight now, not when you’re about to meet Kit’s grandparents. Anyway, there’s nothing to fight about—you said it all very comprehensively on my answering machine.”

  “And whose fault was it I had to use that goddamned machine?”

  “Am I supposed to sit home night after night waiting for you to call?” she retorted with complete unfairness.

  “You chickened out, didn’t you?” he rasped. “You went out for a stupid ice-cream cone so you wouldn’t have to talk to me on the phone. I never thought you were a coward, Marnie.”

  “Then you don’t know me very well.”

  “I know you all too well,” he grated, his eyes raking her from head to foot in her pretty flared dress. Then he took the front steps two at a time and held the screen door open for her.

  She found herself staring at his hand on the door, a hand that had explored her body with an intimacy she’d adored. “I should never have canceled Pierrot’s,” she whispered. “Everything’s gone wrong since then. The trouble is, I was silly enough to believe you when you said you liked living dangerously.”

  “There’s danger and there’s total irresponsibility,” Cal snarled.

  He couldn’t have said anything more calculated to hurt. Deep down, Marnie was beginning to believe she had been irresponsible to make love with Kit’s father; she must have been because look at the results. With the truth of despair, she said, “I’d hoped I could have both of you…was that so wrong of me? But instead, I don’t have either one. At least you have Kit.”

  Then she walked past him to join the others in the kitchen.

  Saturday night and Sunday were never very clear in Marnie’s memory. Dave and Marylou made everyone feel more than welcome, Dave’s kindness being of the gruff variety, Marylou’s full of chatter and delicious meals. Because both of them seemed to take it for granted that Kit would be as delighted to meet them as they were to meet her, Kit unbent almost instantly, following them around like a puppy anxious for attention. Dave and Cal took the boat early Sunday morning and went fishing on the river. Kit and Terry went for their walk, and on their return played basketball for a couple of hours, passing and feinting around the net that was attached to the side of the barn.

  Marnie had hidden herself on the old wooden swing on the oak tree, where as a young girl she’d always taken her troubles and worries. Through the screen of pink-and-white buds decorating Dave’s small orchard, she watched Kit and Terry play together, hearing their shouts of laughter with a bittersweet pleasure. Terry had always had the ability to charm the birds from the trees. Why should she be surprised that Kit wasn’t immune?

  Kit was certainly immune to her.

  Cal hadn’t invited her to go fishing. He was avoiding her like some particularly noxious weed: something deadly poisonous that made you froth at the mouth and fall down in fits and messily die.

  The bolts creaked as Marnie swu
ng back and forth. Despite the way Kit was ignoring her, she shouldn’t be feeling so unhappy. Kit had listened carefully last night to Dave’s laconic opinions and Marylou’s much wordier ones about Charlotte Carstairs, none of which could be construed as positive. And even in this short time, Kit was forming bonds with Terry, Dave and Marylou: with her roots.

  But Marnie was unhappy. The reason, of course, was Cal. It was taking every ounce of her pride, courage and just plain cussedness to get through this weekend, through the frustration and pain of being so close to him and yet so infinitely far away.

  Restlessly, she got up from the swing and went into the house. Marylou, despite her talkativeness, also knew when to be quiet; after one look at the shadows under Marnie’s eyes, she passed her the rolling pin and put her to work. By the time Marnie had put together two rhubarb pies and made a big batch of tea biscuits, she was feeling slightly less frayed around the edges. Nothing like the aroma of pastry browning in the oven to soothe heartache, she thought, and smiled almost naturally at Terry and Kit as they tumbled through the back door, both of them sweating profusely.

  She poured glasses of cold apple juice and doled out hot biscuits smothered in homemade jam, not noticing that Cal and Dave were approaching the house. Waving a biscuit in the air, Kit burbled, “Terry’s a real good player. He showed me a way to dribble that’s pure dynamite! You wait till I try it out on our coach—oh, hi, Dad, did you catch anything?”

  Cal glanced from Kit to Terry. “Two small salmon that we put back.”

  His big body had a stillness that Marnie recognized: the stillness that hid emotion. Terry wiped jam from his chin and said with unusual seriousness, “You’ve got one neat kid here, Cal. You’re a lucky guy.”

  Kit looked from one to the other of them, her own smile fading. “Dad, will you come outside after, so I can show you what Terry taught me?”

  Tensely, Marnie waited for Cal’s reply to what was by no means a simple question. But Cal rose to the occasion in a way that made her proud of him, she who had no claim on him whatsoever. He said easily, “Sure, I’d like that, Kit,” and ruffled her hair. “Did you leave me any of those biscuits, you and Terry, or have you scoffed the lot?”