by Teresa Hill
Rich people's houses, she thought, the knot in her stomach growing a bit tighter. What would anybody with a house like that want with her and Zach and the baby?
Zach leaned closer to the window, his nose pressed flat against it, fogging a little circle of glass. "It's almos' Chris'mas. Ever'body has their tree and stuff up."
"I know, Zach." There were wreaths on doors and on the old-fashioned black lampposts topped with fancy metal curls, the lights perched delicately on top. There were stars made of bright Christmas lights, even Christmas trees in people's yards.
Emma had never seen people go to so much trouble for Christmas. They must have spent hours. And the money... It must take a lot of money to decorate a house like this just for Christmas. She couldn't imagine what the insides of those houses must be like. She and Zach and the baby didn't need anything fancy. Just a place where they could stay together. She couldn't bear it if they were separated. Emma had to make sure that didn't happen.
The social worker pulled the car into a long driveway and at first Emma thought they were going to the house on the right, all castlelike and fairy-talish.
Aunt Miriam—that's what she'd told them to call her—turned off the car and pocketed the keys. She twisted around in her seat and said, "Let me make sure someone's here before we take the baby out in the cold, okay?"
Emma nodded, knowing they were running out of chances.
"Zach," Aunt Miriam said. "You stay in your seat belt and in that backseat. Emma, don't let him near the steering wheel or the gearshift. Cars aren't playthings. I'll be right there on the porch. You yell if you need me."
"Yes, ma'am." Emma put her arm around Zach. She could take care of him and the baby. If someone would just give them a place to stay and something to eat, she could take care of everything else.
Aunt Miriam got out of the car. A blast of cold air came in before she got the door shut again. Emma shivered a bit. This had to work, she thought, closing her eyes and wishing, praying. This might be their last chance.
Zach brushed past her to get to the window on the other side of the car.
"Zach!" she scolded.
"I gotta see! I gotta see the house," he said, then wailed, "Oh, no!"
"What?" Emma leaned over the sleeping baby to look herself. It was like all the other houses, big and expensive, certainly like no place they'd ever lived.
"Chris'mas!" Zach cried.
"What?"
"It isn't comin' here," he cried. "No Chris'mas."
"Oh," Emma said, realizing now what was different about this house.
She should have known they didn't belong in a place like this. From the moment they pulled into the neighborhood, it had all seemed too good to be true.
The nice lady from social services had brought them to the only house on the street with no Christmas lights, no tree, no ribbons, no bows, no fake reindeer statues decked out in lights on the lawn.
Christmas wasn't coming here.
Emma didn't believe it was coming for her and Zach and the baby, either.
* * *
The doorbell rang, disturbing all the silence in Rachel McRae's house, and she honestly thought about ignoring it, as she often did these days.
She was sitting in her great-grandmother's rocking chair deep in the corner of the living room, in what she now realized was near darkness. When had it gotten so dark? Surprised, she looked at the clock on the wall. Five-thirty? She frowned. Where had the day gone?
Sam would be home soon. Maybe. She hadn't even started dinner, hadn't done much of anything. She'd slowly retreated from everyone and everything over the past few weeks. Once again, she found herself at the end of a long day in which she'd done nothing. It all seemed to be too much for her lately. She had the odd feeling that the world was moving too fast all around her and she couldn't quite keep up.
The doorbell rang again, and Rachel decided it would be easier just to open the door and deal with whoever was there this time.
Moving slowly and quietly through the house, she flicked on the overhead light and blinked as her eyes adjusted to the brightness. At the front door she flipped on the porch light and pulled open the door, finding her aunt, a kind-hearted, sixty-something-year-old woman with more energy than most half her age, standing on the porch.
"Aunt Miriam? Hi."
"Hello, dear." Her aunt smiled. "How are you?"
"Fine," Rachel said.
"You threw a lovely party for your father and all of us over the weekend."
"Thank you." It had been her father's sixtieth birthday, which had turned into a family reunion somehow. Her family welcomed any excuse to get together. "Do you want to come inside?"
"Not just yet. I just wanted to make sure you were home. I brought you something," Miriam said, turning and heading for her car.
"Oh, okay. Do you need help?" She crossed her arms in front of her, shivering a bit in the cold.
"No, we can get ourselves inside, Rachel."
Ourselves?
Rachel frowned. She wondered who Miriam could have brought to visit. It couldn't be family, because they'd all been here over the weekend, all forty-six of them for brunch on Sunday. She'd spent Monday putting the house back together after everyone left. It wouldn't get messed up again until the family came for Christmas. Rachel and her husband, Sam, weren't messy at all, and it was just the two of them, probably it always would be.
Neat, clean, and quiet, that was Rachel's life. Her sister Gail, who had four children, the oldest of whom was twelve, actually said she envied Rachel at one point over the weekend when the chaos level hit its peak.
Envied?
Rachel had nearly broken down. She'd hidden in the laundry room, wiping away her tears. Sam had caught her coming out. As he always did lately when he saw that she'd been crying, he stiffened. His whole body went on alert, sending out all those signals that said, "Don't start, Rachel. Not now."
Not ever, she supposed. They weren't going to talk about it. It didn't matter if they did. Nothing would change. So many bad things had happened, and there were no children in this house. Probably, there never would be. How in the world was she supposed to accept that? How was she supposed to go on?
Rachel crossed her arms in front of her, shivering a bit from the cold, and walked to the edge of the porch. That's when she saw the little face inside the car pressed against the window. A nose smashed flat against the glass. A mouth. A child-size hand.
For a second, Rachel thought it was Will, that Miriam had brought Will back to them, when Rachel had given up on that ever happening. But the door opened, and a boy much smaller than Will hopped out. He was four or five, Rachel guessed. She had lots of nephews and cousins. She knew about little boys.
Will was eleven, so tall and lanky, with arms and legs too big for the rest of him. He'd been too skinny and wary at first, but then he'd crawled inside of Rachel and taken root there, growing and changing and blossoming, right there in Rachel's lonely heart. She'd forgotten how much she'd always wanted a baby, and remembered that she simply wanted children.
And then Miriam had taken him away. Rachel and Sam knew they'd likely never see him again.
This wasn't Will. Looking up again, Rachel saw a second child climb out of the car, a girl in a thin sweater, an ill-fitting dress that was too short and showed her thin legs and bony knees. She must be freezing, Rachel thought.
The girl took the little boy's hand, and they stood staring at Rachel and the house. She couldn't help but wonder if they were scared. They had to be cold, and she'd bet they hadn't had enough to eat lately, maybe not for a long, long time. It hurt to think about that, hurt in places Rachel hadn't hurt for a long, long time, places in her heart she thought had died. It would be better if all those sad, lonely corners of her heart just shriveled up and died. Miriam knew that. She had to understand. So Rachel couldn't understand why her aunt was doing this to her.
Then, in the worst betrayal of all, her aunt leaned into the car and came out with a bab
y in her arms.
"Oh." Rachel closed her eyes. A baby.
Miriam walked right up to Rachel and put the child into her arms, giving Rachel no choice but to take it.
The other two children gazed up at Rachel waiting for her reaction, their own expressions hard to read. Sadness, uncertainty, fear? Little children shouldn't ever be afraid.
So although Rachel wanted to shove the baby back into her aunt's arms and run inside, locking the door behind her, she didn't. Not at first. She didn't want the children to think she was rejecting them. She wasn't. She was rejecting pain and her own memories and the most dangerous thing of all. Hope.
For years, Rachel had had a dream. An utterly illusive fantasy that one day she'd open her front door and someone would put a baby in her arms. It was her own personal version of the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes. They could put her on national television if they wanted, broadcast live from her front porch, if she ever won the baby sweepstakes.
A little shiver ran down Rachel's spine. She'd had the baby dream just a few days ago. It had snowed in her dream, she remembered, and it was snowing today. She'd missed that, too; there was a soft, pristine white blanket of snow covering the ground, and it was cold. Just like in her dream.
The dream, too, always started with the doorbell ringing. Sometimes Rachel opened the door and saw no one. Then she looked down and found a basket at her feet, an oval-shaped basket filled with something that might have been mistaken for laundry. But the linens would wiggle, and she'd pull them aside and find the baby waiting for her. In a basket at her front door, like a present.
Sometimes—the last time she had the dream in fact—she opened the door and found a person standing there. She didn't know who, didn't see anything except the baby in that person's arms. She held out her arms and found them filled with a warm, soft, sweet-smelling baby. Right there, on an otherwise absolutely ordinary day.
Just like today.
"Miriam?" Rachel protested as her aunt herded the children inside, as if she still lived here.
"Inside, Rachel. These children are cold and tired. They're probably hungry by now, too."
"I hungry," the little boy piped up.
"See," Miriam said, as if that excused everything.
"You didn't stop by for me to feed them," Rachel pointed out.
"No, but I know you would never turn away a hungry child. Your mother raised you better than that."
"And surely your mother raised you better than this," Rachel said, about to be seduced by the warm weight of the baby in her arms.
They all traipsed down the front hall and to the right, to the big kitchen. Miriam walked right to the refrigerator and opened it.
"Oh, Rachel. You've been baking already." Miriam turned to the boy and the girl. "You have never had anything as delicious as pumpkin bread made with my mother's recipe. She used to live in this house. I did, too. I used to sit in this kitchen, right where you are, Emma, and watch her bake. We'd have a fire, and the whole house would smell so good, and then when it was finally done, we'd put real whipped cream over it. The bread would be hot enough to melt the cream, and it would run down the sides, like ice cream. It's delicious."
"Bread?" the boy said, obviously not impressed.
"More like cake," Miriam explained. She'd already gotten the bread out of the refrigerator and was headed to the cabinet for plates. "You do like cake, don't you, Zach?"
"Uh-huh." He nodded vigorously.
Oh, God, Rachel thought. He was hungry. And he was so thin. He didn't have a warm coat, either. He just had a thin jacket, like the girl. Emma and Zach, she thought. Hungry and cold. In her house.
"You can't do this, Miriam," Rachel complained.
"In a minute, dear." She put slices of bread in the microwave to warm, and found the whipped cream. And then when the bread was ready, put a generous dollop on each slice. She got out the milk, asked Rachel for glasses, and when Rachel provided them, she poured milk for the children and settled them on stools at the breakfast bar. "We'll just be in the other room, all right?"
Zach obviously had no problem with that. He was digging into the pumpkin bread, the whipped cream drizzling down the sides, just as Miriam promised. Emma looked more cautious, more aware of what was going on.
"We'll be right back," Miriam assured her.
Rachel followed her to the living room. She shoved the baby at Miriam and was so mad she was shaking. "What do you think you're doing?"
"I know you and Sam are still smarting over losing Will. I know you're still worried about him, Rachel, and I'm sorry, dear. I am so sorry."
"Sorry? We loved him, Miriam. I can't sleep at night for wondering what's happening to him now. What his so-called mother's doing to him."
"She hasn't missed a beat so far. I checked this morning with Will's teacher, with his mother's counselor, her employer. So far, she's doing great."
"So far? What does that mean?" Rachel was relieved, but still so angry, so worried. "It means nothing, Miriam. Nothing except that the pressure hasn't gotten to her yet, or she hasn't let some awful man move in with them yet. Or that she's still worried enough that someday she might actually lose Will for good that she hasn't let herself mess up yet, but she will. You know she will, and she'll hurt him. I'm so scared that she's going to hurt him."
"I'm sorry. Rachel, if it were up to me, Will would be with you and Sam. You know that. But so far, no one's appointed me God of Baxter County. Judge Forrester's that, and he thinks Will's mother deserves another chance."
"I hate this," Rachel said. "I hate it, and I can't do it again. You know that. Sam told you that."
"I know. Believe me, if there was anything else I could do, I would. But I don't have anyplace else to take these kids."
"Oh, come on, Miriam. Don't try that with me."
"I don't. They're siblings, we think. All three of them. A nearly teenage girl—no one wants teenage girls from troubled homes. A preschooler and a baby. The baby's about a year old. She's crawling, and she's into everything. Before long, she'll be walking. Zach is an absolute joy, but he's a boy and he's five. He's a barrel of energy. He needs so much time and affection and reassurance."
"Well he's not going to get it from me," Rachel said.
"I don't have a home that can take all three of them. I'd be pushed, as is, to find three different foster homes to take one each," Miriam said. "It's the middle of December, Rachel. Everyone's swamped in December. With the Christmas festival starting, and people who've made plans to get away for the holiday, people who are sick. You know that awful flu's going around. We were stretched to the limits before, and now we have all this to contend with."
"I can't help you."
"I'll have to split them up. Can you imagine what that's going to do to them? We've been looking for a place for them since late last night. They slept on the couch and in the chair in my office while I phoned everybody I know trying to find a place for them. They're tired, and all they have left is each other. The only time I've seen them really panic is when I admitted that I might not be able to place them in the same home."
"Miriam, I can't do this," Rachel said more firmly.
As if Rachel hadn't said a word, Miriam went right on. "We found them at a motel on the edge of town. The Drifter. Who knows how long they'd been there. Three days or so, we think. Their mother abandoned them."
"Abandoned?" Rachel asked, her sense of outrage rising above her sense of self-protection.
"Yes. The kids wouldn't say anything, but finally we found the man who checked them in. He remembers a woman he assumed was their mother, but he hasn't seen her since she paid for the room three days before."
"How could anyone leave a five-year-old and a baby in a motel room for three days with a little girl?"
"Emma," Miriam said. "She's eleven. Almost twelve. The boy's Zach, and the baby's name is Grace."
Rachel's face began to crumble. "How could you bring me a baby?"
"You and Sam are still on t
he list of approved foster homes, from when you took Will. I know you said you didn't want to do this anymore, but I'm desperate, Rachel. You know how strained the whole system gets this time of year. People just fall apart over the holidays. If you could just help me out until after Christmas..."
"No," Rachel said.
"I can't bear to separate them. If it weren't for that, I would never ask this of you. But I don't think I can look Zach and Emma in the eye and tell them they have to say good-bye to each other. I don't think I could tear them away from each other, and that's what I'd have to do. I'd have to physically tear them from each other's arms."
"Don't do that," Rachel said. "Don't put that on me."
"It's been hard for you. I understand. Life has been unfair to you and Sam. But you can't give up. You can't shut yourself up in this house and hide any longer either. It isn't healthy."
"Don't tell me what I can and can't do, Miriam."
"Now you listen to me. I didn't want to do it this way, but if that's what it takes, I will," Miriam said. "If you don't take these children, I will call your father and all three of your sisters and your brother, and I will tell them that I'm worried about you. That I think you might be seriously depressed and that you've been sitting here in this house all alone every day for the past few weeks. I will make sure they don't give you a minute's peace trying to save you from yourself."
"You wouldn't."
"Try me," Miriam dared.
Rachel paused, considering the seriousness of the threat. Her family, hell-bent on saving anyone, was something to behold. They could make her life utterly miserable. Even worse were the other things Miriam had said.
"You don't really think I'm depressed, do you?"
"Not yet," Miriam said. "But I think it wouldn't take much. Sit here worrying and feeling sorry for yourself for a few more weeks, and you will be."
Rachel stood there, scared and feeling trapped.
"It's Christmas," Miriam said. "Give them a decent Christmas. Give me some time to find someone to take them all or to find their mother."
"I can't."
"It won't be like it was with Will. Don't let it be. Don't even think that someday these children might be free for you and Sam to adopt. Just take them into your home, take care of them for a few weeks."