Summer Snow

by Nicole Baart

  But now Janice was home. I still couldn’t really accept that she had returned to take her own role, and I half blamed her for the presence of my son. I was angry with her—she had upset the balance, insufficiently plugged a hole that my daughter was supposed to fill. But I also knew that I was being ridiculous. I was a silly little fool. And though I knew it, accepted it, I couldn’t help missing the young woman who would have been the smallest sliver of my very soul. She would have been an extension of me, a part of me somehow and yet altogether separate. She would not have made the mistakes that my mother had made. That I had made. She was my freckled, ponytailed redemption. She was a dream.

  “Strawberry tea with a squirt of honey and an almond-cranberry scone. I baked them fresh this morning.” Mrs. Walker set a wicker tray right on top of some scattered envelopes. “Don’t know if they’re any good, but we’ll see. You’re my guinea pig.”

  “Everything you bake is good.” I put the picture down and found a chair that had access to an open plot of table. “I promise not to spill on the invitations.”

  “And I promise to try not to spill on the invitations,” Mrs. Walker countered. “Maggie already made a mess of one of the stacks by tipping a glass of orange juice. She promised she wouldn’t, but …”

  The thought made me smile a little. I could picture Maggie’s eyes flashing as she defended herself to Francesca. No, she wouldn’t defend. She’d just shrug as if to say, Oops. Maybe a sassy half apology would follow. Maybe not.

  “Do you care if I address some envelopes while you’re here?” Her question surprised me because Mrs. Walker was one to tell, not one to ask. I wondered that she bothered to secure my approval at all. It made me feel self-conscious, like she was afraid it would hurt me to watch her mail invitations to her son’s wedding.

  “Of course not,” I replied quickly. “In fact, I’ll help you. Grandma and I took a calligraphy class together when I was in middle school, and I still have a pretty neat hand.”

  Mrs. Walker sighed with relief. “Thank you. I think it’s absurd that Francesca insists on handwritten envelopes. I have a computer program that would do this all in minutes! And it’s not like we have tons of time, either. Have you ever heard of such a short engagement?”

  “When is the wedding?” I asked absently.

  “July 14. Three months to plan, prepare, and pull off the wedding of the century.” Mrs. Walker sipped her tea and pursed her lips abruptly because it was too hot. “I still can’t believe that they’re having the wedding here. Francesca’s from California, you know. I’m the mother of the groom! I’m supposed to be taking it easy, flying out to sunny San Diego instead of worrying if the Glendale Golf and Country Club is going to be swanky enough for the familia Hernandez.” She rubbed her thumb and fingers together as if to show me the extent of their wealth.

  I shrugged evasively because I had always thought of the Walkers as well-to-do. “Do you have an extra calligraphy pen?”

  “Silver ink,” Mrs. Walker said with a dry edge in her voice. She fumbled through the piles of papers to find a sleek pen. “The postal workers are going to love her.”

  It was healing to copy out line after line of distant dwellings in the clean, steady hand that I had learned all those years ago. The first few envelopes would probably be considered substandard, but by the time I had written out a dozen addresses, there was a certain flair to each capital letter, a swivel and sweep of arching lines that became bigger and bolder with each stroke of the pen.

  Mrs. Walker and I talked about everyday things, work and weather and her girls, and when she began to slip references to Janice and Simon into our conversation, I didn’t object. We had been down this road before; in fact the entire Walker clan had met Janice and Simon at Sunday dinner one week. Simon Walker had been a little overwhelmed by the utter adoration of the younger boy who shared his name, but other than his deer-in-the-headlights look by the end of the meal, everything had gone relatively well. I had expected the meeting to be colossally awkward. Instead, the Walkers seemed somehow respectful, maybe even reverential, as if something significant was happening in our home. Something rare and beautiful, something that should not be undermined. The whole thing left me mildly confused.

  But I respected Mrs. Walker’s advice and found her insight helpful. After our less than disastrous Sunday dinner, I was particularly grateful for her grace when it came to my unconventional family. I didn’t mind when, after approaching the topic every way but head-on, Mrs. Walker finally gave in and said, “How are things with Janice and Simon these days?”

  “Fine,” I said matter-of-factly. She wanted more than that, but there wasn’t much more to say. Janice and I orbited each other as always, and while Simon and I were getting closer, it was hardly momentous. “I’m teaching Simon how to read,” I offered and immediately chastised myself because I had broken his confidence.

  “That’s sweet,” Mrs. Walker said, obviously happy that my half brother and I were doing something together.

  “It’s a secret,” I clarified. “Please don’t tell Grandma or Janice. Or anyone, for that matter. I know he’s five, but he trusted me with this.”

  Mrs. Walker laughed. “Don’t worry; my lips are sealed. Besides, I’m much more interested in your other secret.”

  My hand stopped dead on the page. “Other secret?” I asked, not looking up.

  “Something’s going on. I’ve known you long enough to know something is eating you up. And for once I don’t think it’s my son.”

  I would have been mortified, but it was Mrs. Walker. “That obvious?” I asked, a little numb that she could see through me so easily. “I don’t know what I should be more upset about: that you know I loved Thomas or that you know I have a secret.”

  She reached across the table to give my arm a friendly pinch. “I love it that you loved Thomas. It’s no secret that we all adore you. But God has something different planned for you, honey. Something better.”

  My skepticism must have been etched across my face when I glanced at Mrs. Walker because she suddenly got serious. “I don’t believe that, Julia DeSmit. I know that.”

  Her declaration made me feel equally guilty and indignant; it both bewildered me and enticed me to wonder at the path she took to know so much about the road that God had laid out for me. I knew so little about it myself. I had gone to church with Grandma faithfully every single week. I had read my Bible almost daily, even when the words swam together on the page and made about as much sense to me as the list of side effects in small print at the bottom of pharmaceutical advertisements. I was doing my part. And nothing had changed. The eternal He did not seem to be doing His part. But then again, maybe I was doing something wrong. Maybe I hadn’t yet figured out the formula.

  Still, Mrs. Walker’s interest touched me. She could almost make me believe that what she said was true: there was something better for me.

  Thankfully, Mrs. Walker couldn’t know the emotions that her words had stirred up, and she made her voice light again to continue her gentle probing. “Anyway, I think you just admitted that there is another secret.”

  I thought of my baby boy and my deal with Grandma that we would keep it between the two of us. I knew Grandma would keep her end of the bargain. “It has to stay a secret,” I said apologetically.

  She had a wonderful way of curving her eyebrow so high it was almost comical in its stature and expression. I had to look away from her to stop myself from laughing. “Big secret?” she asked, knowing the effect she had on me.

  “I’m full of big secrets,” I teased back, but somehow it didn’t sound very funny. It sounded rather real. “But this is a small one,” I added. “Not a big deal at all.”

  “Hmmm,” Mrs. Walker intoned. “I wouldn’t want to pry it out of you.”

  But I wanted it out. I wanted to let Mrs. Walker see a little bit of my disappointment because I couldn’t let Grandma know how I felt. She was so happy.

  Mrs. Walker saw me crack and instantly
reined herself in. “You absolutely do not have to tell me. I was only kidding around.” She turned back to her envelopes.

  I took a deep breath. “I’m having a boy,” I said, staring at her soft, short curls. There were more gray strands than I remembered.

  Mrs. Walker’s head popped up. “A boy?” she exclaimed, obviously thrilled. The look on my face pulled her up short. “That’s not a good thing?”

  “Of course it’s a good thing,” I said in a rush. “I just … I just thought I was having a little girl.” Once I had said it out loud, I realized how incredibly dumb it sounded. I was acting like a selfish child, and it was downright embarrassing. Flustered, I capped and uncapped my pen, fumbling as I exposed the gleaming gray nub and tried to focus on the next address.

  “Julia,” Mrs. Walker broke in softly, “it’s okay.” I opened my mouth to make nothing of it, but she hadn’t paused. “You know, I had a friend who had three baby girls in a row. When she got pregnant a fourth time, she prayed every single day that it would be a boy. She was convinced that God had answered her prayers.”

  I already knew the outcome of the story from the tone of her voice, but I listened anyway because I wanted to know what the friend did with her disappointment.

  “When the baby was born, it was a girl,” Mrs. Walker finished, confirming what I had suspected. She stopped, didn’t say anything more.

  I looked up. “And …,” I prompted.

  “And it was very, very hard on her.”

  I was mystified. Where was the moral to this story? “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I asked, struggling not to sound indignant.

  “No. I’m just trying to let you know that it’s all right to feel whatever you feel. Do I think that you’ll get over this? Yes. Do I think that you’ll fall crazy in love with this baby the moment he’s put in your arms and it won’t matter that he is a he? Yes. But for now, don’t beat yourself up for feeling sad.”

  It was the last thing I expected to hear. But somehow I felt the tension between my shoulders ease at Mrs. Walker’s reassurances. “Thank you,” I said.

  “Don’t thank me,” Mrs. Walker demurred. “Any mother would tell you the exact same thing. We all go through moments when our children are not who we hoped they would be.”

  It was a slow and lazy morning once I had unburdened myself. Mrs. Walker’s scones were indeed incredibly good, and I had a second, effectively ruining my lunch, before I headed home. Tea alone with Mrs. Walker had been a much-needed reprieve, and I nearly crushed her in an unreserved embrace as I got ready to go.

  “Hey, what did I do to deserve that?” She laughed.

  “You listened,” I told her earnestly. “Sometimes I don’t feel like I have anyone to talk to. Lately Grandma and I have had a hard time connecting …” It was true that Janice and Simon got in the way of my time with Grandma, but there was more to it than that, and Mrs. Walker guessed as much.

  She frowned. “Nellie loves you so much.”

  “I know.” I smiled slowly. “We’re working on it.”

  “Good. Glad to hear it.”

  We stepped onto the porch together, and I turned my face to the sun, reveling in the warmth of its rays. It was decidedly spring and the ensuing softness of the world seemed to gentle everything else in turn. My problems seemed lesser. My worries not as urgent. I was so glad I had come.

  “Thanks so much,” I said, smiling at Mrs. Walker and starting down the steps. “It’s been a great morning.”

  I thought she would respond in kind, thank me for coming or wish me a good day, but when she said my name, it was tight and unexpectedly urgent. “Julia?”

  Somewhat taken aback, I turned.

  Mrs. Walker was watching me with an uncertain line deepening a shadow across the length of her forehead. I was surprised to see her troubled and took a step back toward her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” she assured me, but the cheer in her voice seemed forced. “It’s just … remember that friend I was telling you about? The one with four daughters?”

  I nodded, perplexed.

  “Here.” Mrs. Walker held out a postcard-size piece of paper.

  I took it without hesitation but did not look at it, focusing instead on her distressed gaze. I waited for her to explain.

  “She’s a counselor. I thought about giving you her number so many times, but it felt out of place. Well, it still feels out of place, but I guess I was ready to do it today.” Her words tumbled over one another, restless and eager to be out of her mouth.

  “Counselor?” I asked, not understanding.

  “She’s an adoption counselor. I don’t know if you ever thought about giving the baby up for adoption—and I’m not suggesting that you do—but she’d love to talk to you. It’s free. You don’t have to commit to anything. …” Mrs. Walker wrung her hands.

  I tried to swallow around the dryness in my throat. “Adoption?” I managed after a moment. “You mean abandon my baby?”

  Mrs. Walker’s eyes got wide. “No, of course not. Not abandon. Give the baby up for adoption.”

  I knew exactly what I had said, but I smiled thinly and tipped the postcard at her. “I’ll take a look at it.”

  “Don’t be mad. This is why I never gave it to you before. I didn’t want you to misunderstand my intentions.” Mrs. Walker reached for me and grasped my shoulders with her lovely hands. Her perfectly manicured nails dug into the fabric of my shirt. “I’m not suggesting anything. I just want you to know all your options.” A bottomless compassion radiated through her fingers, and though I knew she meant well, I felt she was badly misguided.

  Closing my eyes, I tried to calm the mistrust that rose up in response to her concern. Mrs. Walker was looking out for me. It was an act of friendship, of love even. “I’ll think about it,” I said, hoping to sound more receptive than I felt.

  “That’s all I ask,” she conceded. Pulling me into a quick hug, she kissed my cheek. “You’re going to be just fine, Julia DeSmit. Just fine.”

  I nodded once before walking away.

  In the grove, I pressed my back against a budding tree and examined the glossy card. There was a picture of a handsome young man and a cute, curly-haired woman cradling a baby whose face was hidden by a fluffy, white blanket. They were huddled over the infant, and it didn’t matter that no one could see the child. The faces of the happy couple said it all. All His Children, the card read. We will find a loving home for your baby.

  “She—he—already has one,” I said. I tore the card once and then again and again until I couldn’t tear it anymore. When I held up my hand, the many pieces scattered in the wind, odds and ends destined for squirrels’ nests and tree hollows and forgotten burrows. Nothing more.

  Blue Moon

  I WANTED SO MUCH when I was young. I was an endless abyss of want, of need, of desperate dreams for myself that defied logic. The promise of what was to come hung like rings around the moon on clear autumn nights; the future was unmistakable. It was always there, glistening in the dark and suggesting that life was little more than climbing a ladder into the sky, where I could reach up with one hand and secure everything that I had ever hoped for in my grasping fingers.

  Oh, I dreamed.

  And they are not easy to give up, these dreams.

  When I learned that I was having a baby, those lavish promises fell like moonbeams that flickered with ephemeral light and quickly died against the backdrop of my much-changed life. I was a modern woman; we were decades past the days when girls were sent to distant relatives to have babies in secret and return as if nothing had ever happened. Nor did I have to stand in front of my church to admit before the entire congregation that I had committed the sin of fornication. But none of that changed the fact that I would be a single mom before the age of twenty. I was a college dropout. My patient, enduring grandmother wouldn’t live forever. I couldn’t support a child on my wages at a dumpy little grocery store, and no decent man in his right mind would be inte
rested in such damaged goods. Janice was living proof. And, frighteningly, unlike Janice, I didn’t have a saintly ex-mother-in-law to fall home to. The stark reality was sobering.

  Better things, Mrs. Walker had said. Better than what? Better than those ornamental wishes that shimmered from my childhood moon? I doubted it. Not for me.

  I had effectively relinquished those romantic ideas long ago— with Dad, with Thomas and then Parker, with my schooling and that measureless hope that I could be more—yanked them from the night with one angry sweep of an arm, no longer believing in such nonsense. Or so I thought.

  But while I tried to be sensible, realistic, even prosaic, I found that hope rose like sweet cream to the surface. I still dreamed. And after the word—adoption—had been spoken aloud by someone I respected and loved, I dreamed haunting dreams of clean slates and fresh starts. In my sleep, in that hazy moment between oblivion and waking, my mind would form the most unfathomable of thoughts: Maybe I can pretend that nothing ever happened. Maybe I can let him go, be free.

  Then a nearly frantic horror would overtake me. No. No. He was mine. I was his. Our lives were interwoven in a way that excluded anything less than his life mingled with mine. I could not erase him from my future. I could not give him away as if he were no more important than a trinket to be passed from hand to hand. Nor did I want to bequeath him a legacy of leaving. A legacy like Janice’s.

  But I was being theatrical. “Adoption is a beautiful, necessary thing,” I would whisper to myself. The ultimate sacrifice of love. Maybe my problem was that I did not love him enough.

  Or that I loved myself too much.

  When the long nights drifted into day, I watched Janice and Simon and wondered if I would wax slowly into the same harried woman my mother had become: unkempt hair, defeated eyes, low-hung head like a puppy waiting to be whipped, though trying to hide the truth behind glossy lipstick and secondhand suits. It made me want to weep with the possibility. With the lack of possibility. And yet, watching Janice hold her son in a gaze so fierce and loyal and loving, I knew that she would not change her situation for all the vast and breathtaking world. She wouldn’t change a thing.