From Here To Maternity: A Second ChancePromoted to MomOn Angel's Wings

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  THE NEXT MORNING, I decided to make breakfast. The works. Pancakes, bacon, maple syrup with butter. Sasha helped me pour the batter, and I showed her how to wait for the bubbles to appear on the top half before flipping it to the other side. Three slightly burned first efforts, and she was an expert, the next half dozen golden and perfect.

  “Something sure smells good.”

  Clay stood at the kitchen door, a folded newspaper in one hand. He looked unsure of his welcome, as if he had intruded on something to which he hadn’t been invited.

  “I am learning how to make pancakes,” Sasha said. “I may fix you one?”

  “I’d love one,” Clay said, and I silently thanked him for not mentioning the many lectures I’d given him on artery-clogging breakfasts. Instead, he sat down at the table, unfolded the paper and waited patiently for Sasha to set the plate in front of him. She got one for herself, took the chair next to his, handed him the syrup, then waited for him to pour and pass it back.

  He took a bite, chewed for a moment and said, “Mmm. I can’t remember the last time I had pancakes. These are really good.”

  Sasha all but beamed. She sampled her own, then smiled a smile of agreement.

  I watched the exchange from the corner of my eye, busying myself at the sink.

  “You are having some?” Sasha called out to me.

  “In a bit,” I said.

  The kitchen was silent for a few minutes, except for the sound of knives and forks clinking against plates.

  “I notice a spot near the pool where there is no grass,” Sasha said once she finished the last bite. “It was once garden?”

  I turned from the sink, started to answer, when Clay said, “A long time ago, yes.”

  “It was your garden?” Sasha asked.

  He put down his fork, glanced out the window, took a sip of orange juice. “Yes,” he said.

  “Mama had summer garden. I help her plant things. Potatoes, carrots. I help you.”

  I watched with a lump in my throat as Clay struggled to answer. Finally, he got up, dropped his napkin on the table and said, “Thank you, but I don’t think anything will grow there anymore.”

  She hesitated as if she knew she’d said something wrong. “We try,” she said, hopeful.

  Clay didn’t answer, just stood with a sort of stunned look in his eyes, then walked past me and out the front door. A few seconds later, I heard his car start and back out of the driveway.

  I forced myself then to look at Sasha. But she avoided my gaze, got up from the table and began clearing away the breakfast things. I wanted to explain, throw light on Clay’s behavior, but I couldn’t and we finished tidying the kitchen in an awful, awkward silence.

  She spent the rest of the morning watching Finding Nemo in the living room while I checked voice mail from the office and returned some phone calls.

  Later in the day, we went shopping at Tyson’s Corner. In Bloomingdale’s, I bought her another swimsuit, two sundresses, shorts, sandals and a pair of Nike running shoes. I had looked forward to bringing her here, but I wondered now if I were somehow trying to make up for Clay’s rejection earlier. I wanted to be angry with him. Part of me was. And yet, another part of me understood.

  The reminders of Emma were constant. Each one its own needle of pain. None of it was Sasha’s fault, and yet the reality was that she brought so much of it back, fresh as yesterday. Had Clay been right all along? Was I wrong to bring her into our home? A sudden, unyielding sense of the irreversible overcame me, on its heels a too-real fear that none of us would escape permanent hurt.

  We ate a late lunch at Maggiano’s, Sasha picking at her panini sandwich. I did little justice to my own chopped salad, mostly moved it around on the plate. “Sasha,” I finally said, “about this morning—”

  “It is okay,” she interrupted, meeting my gaze with knowing eyes. “You do not have to explain. Thank you for the clothes. I like them very much. But you do not have to spend so much for me. I understand. Even without them.”

  Something different colored her voice now, and I wasn’t sure how to respond to it. “I thought you would enjoy them,” I said.

  “They are very nice,” she said quickly, looking down at her hands.

  “What is it, Sasha?” I asked after a bit, sure there was something she had not said.

  She remained silent for a few moments, then said, “Last summer, the family I am with…the mama bought me many presents at the end. It is how I know they do not want me. Cathy already tell me you are not able to adopt me. Maybe I hope, anyway.”

  The words were like a knife to the center of my chest. I stared at this young girl, my fork suspended in midair, my own selfishness sickeningly clear to me. From the moment Cathy called me, I’d had nothing in mind except my own needs. I could not imagine what it must feel like to be Sasha. “Oh, Sasha,” I said. “You are a wonderful little girl. Clay and I…what’s wrong between us has nothing to do with you.” I stopped, struggled for words. “There’s something broken inside both of us, and I’m not sure we can ever fix it. I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”

  She studied me with a kind of sad acceptance in her eyes. “Do not worry,” she said, and I no longer felt like the adult between us.

  A waitress appeared, her smile like a sudden flare of light in the dark, causing me to look away. “Can I get you anything else?”

  I asked Sasha if she would like dessert. She shook her head.

  “Just the check,” I told the waitress. Once I finished paying, we gathered our things and left, most of our food still on the table.

  CHAPTER SIX

  SASHA WENT TO BED early that night.

  Exhausted, I determined to wait up for Clay, but fell asleep in the leather chair where I read at nights in our bedroom.

  I came awake with a start, the hardcover novel on my lap sliding to the floor with a thump. I ran a hand through my hair, disoriented at first.

  I glanced at the bed, still made, saw that Clay hadn’t come home. I heard something then, strained to listen. Realized it was Sasha, crying.

  My bare feet pounded the hardwood floor to her room. She wasn’t there. In the hallway, I followed the sound and stopped just short of the room at the end.

  Emma’s room.

  I froze, my feet suddenly unwilling to move.

  The light was on. I stood in the doorway, one hand to my mouth. Sasha sat at the end of the bed. Clay stood by the window, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his jaw tight.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, even as I realized the ridiculousness of the question when obviously everything that could possibly be wrong was wrong.

  “I don’t mean to hurt anything,” Sasha said. “I see pictures of little girl in your room. You are so sad. I know she must die.”

  I looked at Clay, wincing at the stricken look in his eyes. We’d left Emma’s room exactly as it was. Her toys stacked neatly on shelves by the window. Books on the nightstand by her bed. A stuffed rabbit propped on her pillows. I came in here when I needed to feel something of her, to see visual evidence that she had actually been here, that I hadn’t imagined her. But Clay had not been in Emma’s room once since her death. His face was etched now with every ounce of the grief I knew he carried inside him. And I saw what it cost him to be here.

  “When I got home, I heard her crying,” he said, his voice far-off. “She shouldn’t have come in here.” With this, he got up and left the room.

  I glanced at Sasha who was still quietly weeping, her small shoulders hunched forward.

  “Clay—” I called out. But he didn’t stop, and I knew he wouldn’t. Or couldn’t.

  I sat next to Sasha on the side of the bed, put my arm around her shoulder. She tucked her face against me, and something near my heart gave.

  Her tears made tiny tracks on my khaki pants, and it was like this that I told her about Emma. Sweet Emma. Our only child. How we had lost her in a skiing accident where she had fallen backward on a patch of ice and hit her head. How our wo
rld went from bright sunshine to the darkest night either of us could imagine. How Clay and I were no longer the people we used to be. I told her all of this, and when I finished, I sat quiet.

  “I am sorry,” Sasha said, her eyes brimming with fresh tears. “For her. For you. I should not come in here tonight. I ruin everything.”

  “No,” I said, smoothing my palm across the back of her hair. “No, sweetie. You’ve ruined nothing.” I thought of Clay then, of how he had closed this room off as if it never existed, the same way he had closed himself off to me. And I added quietly then, “You opened a door tonight, Sasha. Maybe to more than you can know.”

  WHEN I GOT UP the next morning, I heard the hum of Clay’s electric razor coming from his bathroom. I slipped on a robe and walked to Sasha’s room, only to find the bed empty.

  Downstairs, I called her name, but she didn’t answer. Heart pounding now, I walked quickly into the kitchen, spotted an empty juice glass in the sink. The French doors that led to the pool were slightly ajar. I stepped outside. She sat on her knees in the middle of the overrun patch of weeds that had once been Clay’s garden. She pulled furiously, tossing each handful onto the growing pile at the edge of the rectangle, purpose in every motion.

  The kitchen door opened, and Clay came out. He wore a white T-shirt and the Calvin Klein pajama bottoms I gave him for Christmas last year.

  He stood beside me, both of us quiet. This used to be our favorite time of day, early, but light outside. We would sit out here, drinking coffee, talking about our day, what to have for dinner that night.

  I felt his gaze on me, glanced up to see the same awareness in his eyes. For the first time in longer than I could remember, neither of us looked away.

  “Maybe it’s not too late to try some tomatoes,” he said, his voice threaded with a subtle uncertainty, as if afraid I might criticize the suggestion. Again, I felt a pang of shame for the pattern of expectation I had set in our relationship.

  “I love the yellow ones you used to plant,” I said, my voice soft.

  “Hargraves may still have a few.”

  “Mmm. That would be nice.”

  No words then. Just the two of us staring at each other, maybe seeing each other as we hadn’t allowed ourselves to for so long.

  He touched my elbow, then walked across the yard where he dropped onto his knees next to Sasha. She looked up at him and smiled. I watched as they pulled and tossed, pulled and tossed, working together until the pile of weeds grew higher and higher, and the rich, dark earth beneath began to show signs of resembling what it once was.

  WE WENT TO the eleven o’clock church service, Clay in a suit, me in an ivory dress, Sasha wearing the pink sundress we bought the day before.

  We had let this ritual lapse since losing Emma, those times we had been here, present in body, but not heart.

  Emma had loved going to church, made her profession of faith when she was six years old. She sang in the children’s choir, and on the Sundays when they took part in the service, Clay and I would sit in our pew, hands joined, beaming with parental pride.

  Today, we sat with Sasha between us. I felt the gazes of the people around us, curiosity blended with sympathy. I closed my eyes against the intrusion, forced my focus to the beauty of the music filling the sanctuary.

  When the service ended, we made our way down the aisle to the door where Pastor Norman thanked us for coming. He greeted Sasha with a warm welcome, told her how glad he was to have her visiting. A good man, he had been there for Clay and me in some of our blackest hours, but I found it hard to meet his concerned gaze now.

  Outside, the Thompsons stopped us with a friendly greeting. They were both close to seventy with a dozen or more grandchildren who rotated shifts at their farm off I-66. Emma had spent a couple of weekends there with one of the younger girls who had been a classmate, coming home with heartfelt pleadings for kittens, puppies and ponies.

  “It’s so good to see you here, Rachel,” Mrs. Thompson said as Clay and Mr. Thompson started a thread of conversation. Her hand touched my arm, her warm gaze shifting to Sasha. “And who is this young beauty?”

  “This is Sasha Ivanovicha,” I said, my palm resting lightly on her back. “Sasha, this is Mrs. Thompson.”

  “Hello,” Sasha said shyness in her voice.

  “Oh,” Mrs. Thompson said, as if she had just made a connection. “You must be with the Angel’s Wings program I read about in the paper last week.”

  Sasha nodded once, but before she could answer, Mrs. Thompson looked at me and said, “What a wonderful thing you’re doing, Rachel. It must be incredibly hard for you, though.”

  Sasha looked down at her white sandals. The older woman’s insensitivity struck me mute, even though I knew hurting me or this child was the last thing she would ever intend to do. I put my arm around Sasha’s shoulders. She looked up at me, as if she, too, were waiting for the answer. I glanced back at Mrs. Thompson, injecting sunshine in the words when I said, “We’d better be going. It was really nice to see you.”

  Mrs. Thompson answered in a fluster. “Well, of course. I didn’t mean to keep you. Take care, dear.”

  Sasha and I headed for the car then, sat inside until Clay came out. We drove away from the parking lot in silence. I could feel the young girl’s disappointment as acutely as I felt Mrs. Thompson’s minutes before. She wondered why I didn’t answer. I wondered myself.

  WHEN WE GOT HOME, I fixed a salad for lunch. None of us appeared to be in the mood for eating.

  Once we were done, most of it still on our plates, Clay surprised me by saying, “Maybe I’ll take Sasha over to Hargraves with me. I called, and they have a few plants left.”

  “Oh,” I said, unable to hide my shock. “Okay.”

  “Do you want to go?” he asked, his expression neutral.

  “No,” I said. “You two go ahead. I have a few things to do around here.”

  I stood at the living-room window, watching as Clay backed the Tahoe out of the driveway, Sasha’s blond head barely visible above the passenger seat window. Déjà vu echoed through me, other Sunday afternoons when Clay had taken Emma out for ice cream, and I’d stayed behind with paperwork as a pretense. The truth was I knew how much Emma loved time alone with her Daddy, and it seemed right to let them have it. I wondered what Clay was thinking now, driving down the same roads he’d driven with Emma, Sasha next to him.

  I thought about Mrs. Thompson’s remark earlier. Tears welled in my eyes. And it seemed to me that I’d put this little girl in an impossible position, a constant state of comparison with a child for whom we still grieved, would always grieve.

  I WAS UPSTAIRS folding laundry when I heard the Tahoe in the driveway, then Clay and Sasha as they walked through the foyer and out the back of the house.

  I forced myself to finish the basket, putting everything away before going outside. Both Clay and Sasha knelt along a freshly dug row, several black plastic trays of plants next to them. I listened as he showed her how to remove one from its cup without damaging the roots, then gently break the bottom of the plant apart before setting it down in the ground and covering it with dirt. Sasha watched intently, then repeated the process with the one in her hand.

  Clay glanced over his shoulder and sat back as if I’d startled him. “Hey,” he said. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “Sorry,” I said, folding my arms across my chest. “Found some, huh?”

  “Yeah. Some of the leaves are a little yellow, but they should make it.”

  Sasha looked up at me and smiled. “You will help, Rachel?”

  “You two look as if you have it under control,” I said.

  “Under control?” she repeated.

  “Don’t need help,” I clarified.

  “Actually, we could use some help,” Clay said, working another plant free of the plastic. He looked up at me. “That is, if you don’t mind getting your hands dirty, Doc.”

  I stared at him for a moment, too surprised to respond. He was teasin
g, and I realized it had been so long that I barely recognized it as anything familiar between us. I actually felt myself flush. I glanced away, then back again. “I guess it couldn’t hurt my manicure,” I said, holding up one hand with its clipped-short nails.

  He passed a tray to me. I took it from him and moved around to the row parallel to them. I dropped down on my knees, the moist soil making instant circles on my jeans.

  We worked, the three of us, in silence, taking turns with the trowel and spade, passing the watering jug up and down the row. The late-afternoon sun hovered warm on our shoulders. Sweat beads broke across my upper lip. It was good work, hands in the soil, planting something that might eventually thrive beneath a generous touch. I looked up here and there, saw a glimmer of the same conclusion on Clay’s face.

  At one point, our eyes met, and we were simply in the moment, no past, no future, just the here and now. And it was a good moment. Really, really good.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  WHEN WE FINISHED the three rows, we stood back and admired our efforts. The plants were spaced evenly apart, a small stake giving each one the support it needed to grow straight and tall.

  “How long before they will have tomatoes?” Sasha asked.

  “Maybe the end of August,” Clay said.

  Sasha was quiet for a moment, and then said, “Maybe you will send me picture of them?”

  Clay and I looked at each other, then glanced away, instantly sobered. The realization that she would not be here to see the results of our efforts was like a pin to a helium balloon, deflating us all.

  Clay’s cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket, then turned and walked toward the house, his voice low and serious.

  Sasha and I began picking up our tools, stacking the empty containers. We’d just finished cleaning up when Clay rejoined us. He looked at me, dropping the phone in the pocket of his T-shirt. “Mark Evans was in a car wreck last night,” he said. “He’s okay, but he’ll be in the hospital a couple of days. He had a meeting with a client in Manhattan tomorrow morning. I’ve been asked to stand in for him.”