Longing for Normal

by Darcy Pattison

  I shrugged.

  “Well?” she said.

  “The hospital. Mandy and Ted Payne must be having their baby.”

  “How would Alli know that?”

  “BabyPayne.com”

  Marj sighed. Then she shook her head and sighed again. “Mr. Porter has already called the social worker. They are looking for her and I don’t know–” she hesitated.

  “Mr. Porter doesn’t want her to stay there any longer. Alli knows.”

  Marj’s brow furrowed. “And she still did this?”

  How to explain Alli’s obsession with the baby? Her fears about that fall Mandy had taken, how she blamed herself? How she wanted to see her sister?

  I’d been listening to it for weeks and still didn’t quite get it. Didn’t matter, Alli got it.

  Marj held up the phone.

  “No,” I said. “Please. Let’s go to the hospital and make sure she’s there. If she is, then you can call and tell Mr. Porter. But let’s find her first. That way, she won’t be alone when the social worker comes for her.”

  Marj studied me. “You’ve been expecting this.”

  My throat was tight, afraid she might not understand. I could only nod.

  Sunlight flashed through a prism hung in the window, splashing rainbows across Marj’s face. She blinked at the light. “It’s important to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Get dressed, and we’ll go. Hurry.”

  “Thanks,” I said, relief flooding through me.

  Alli wasn’t sorry for what she had done, and I wasn’t sorry for her, either. That her actions today would cause her to change foster homes and change schools–it didn’t matter as much as what she was doing. Every child deserves to have a special welcome into this cruel world. And Alli would welcome the Payne baby as only a big sister can celebrate the arrival of a little sister. Even if the joy only lasted a moment, it was important, this celebration of kinship.

  I gave Marj a fast hug, grabbed my breakfast bowl and practically threw it into the sink before I took the stairs two at a time.

  Because after the celebration, Alli might need the support of an old friend.

  ALLI

  I got to the hospital about 2 a.m. and easily followed the signs to the Labor and Delivery floor. Two other families sprawled all over the waiting room, talking, playing cards. The nurses thought I belonged to one of them. I couldn’t ask about Mandy’s delivery and how it was going. All I could do was check the nursery every thirty minutes or so. Finally, about 4 am, I pushed two of the hard chairs together and lay curled up. I woke to find a red blanket over me. It wasn’t dark there; the hallway lights were still on, though, dimmed. The large wall clock said 6:30 a.m.

  I got up, blanket still wrapped around my shoulders like a cape with just socks on my feet, and walked around the corner to the nursery to study the rows of babies.

  I knocked softly on the glass. Thick. It ran about the length of a school bus. Beyond it clustered bassinets (Bassinet: a basket used as a baby’s cradle. Origin: French. B-a-s-s-i-n-e-t. Another double-s word.) Maybe a dozen bassinets. Babies were wrapped up like little burritos, the blankets wound around them until it was impossible for them to move. Only small faces shone out. Some babies cried while others lay quietly, dark eyes looking around. Most slept, with pacifiers trapped in their mouths by the burrito wrapping.

  I was most interested in the cards taped to each bassinet, the baby’s last names. They weren’t lined up in alphabetical order or anything. Just had to look through all of them. Looking for Payne.

  But she wasn’t there.

  A pregnant woman, her belly big like a giant egg, passed and thinking about Mandy’s belly, I had to ask, “When will your baby come?”

  She wore a nightgown and robe and walked with a wobble, while one hand pushed on her back. “I’m in labor, now. Just walking to speed things up,” she said. “You a big sister? Which one is yours?”

  “She’s not there yet.”

  “Be patient. Babies don’t wait long.”

  And then I heard Ted. He was in the doorway of the nursery, talking to a nurse, a short woman with salt-and-pepper hair worn in a ponytail.

  “We’re in room 226,” Ted said. “I’ve got to run home and get a few things. I’ll be back in an hour. My mother-in-law is asleep, but so is the baby. That’s okay, right?”

  So that’s where the baby was, in the room with Mandy.

  “I can bring her back to the nursery if you want,” the nurse said. “But she’s okay in the room, as long as there’s another adult there.”

  “Great, I’ll be back soon,” Ted said.

  I stepped toward the window, hoping the pregnant woman would shield me from Ted’s view. And somehow, he didn’t see me, just walked past, got on the elevator and disappeared. This was my chance: I would slip into the room, see Baby and leave. By the time Ted got back, I’d be gone, too.

  ELIOT

  Just as you walk in the hospital, there is a waiting room. That was the worst. I hadn’t been back to the hospital since Griff died, and what I remembered the most was that empty, boring waiting room. The blue and red striped sofa was still there. That was where I sat, not sleeping or eating or speaking or anything while Griff slipped away from us. The red blankets, the smell of burned coffee, the complaints of relatives who just wanted a smoke but had to go outside–it all felt familiar. And awful.

  I was glad we rushed past to the elevators and pushed the button for the Labor and Delivery floor. Getting on, a man got off; I turned and watched him until the elevator doors closed. Then, I tugged at Marj’s arm. “I think that man was Ted Payne. I’ve seen his picture on the baby blog.”

  She whirled around and stared at the closed elevator doors. “We’ll just ask what room the Paynes are in and see if we can talk to Mrs. Payne.”

  But on the Labor and Delivery floor, we both stopped, awed at the sight of all the babies you could see through the nursery windows.

  ALLI

  I pushed open the door of room 226 and tiptoed inside. Mimi lay sprawled out on a recliner chair, snoring, her white hair mussed and mouth slightly open. And Mandy lay pale, under a blue blanket. Her eyes fluttered open.

  Then shut.

  She was still asleep.

  I tiptoed to the bassinet beside her bed.

  And there she was.

  Baby was wide awake, looking around. Soft blond hair–almost invisible! Gently, almost afraid, I held out a finger and wrapped her fingers over it.

  Baby held on and watched me, and I let the wonder and joy of Baby fill me. She knew me, recognized me. My little sister. I knew this was the only time I would see her, so I didn’t move, just watched her tiny face. Leaned close to smell her. Baby oil, baby milk, sweet baby breath—I wanted to kiss her forehead, but dared not.

  When I straightened, I saw the name on the card: Emily Elizabeth Payne.

  It was the name I had suggested so long ago, the day we bought the schoolhouse quilt for the baby.

  “No,” Mandy had said, “Ted likes the name, Marianne.”

  I’m glad they hadn’t named her that! Baby was definitely not a Marianne, not with those blond curls.

  Watching Baby–no, her name was Emily—look around, blink, look around, I didn’t think the sun could shine any brighter or my heart be any fuller. Emily Payne. My sister.

  “What are you doing here?” Mandy demanded.

  She pushed a button and tilted her bed up, wincing as she pushed up to sit. Her cheeks were fatter, and her hair was limp.

  “I wanted to see her. Just once.”

  “You can’t come back. Not ever.”

  “I know, Ted will be mad.”

  Mandy took a deep breath, and her jaw tightened. “You need to understand. Ted didn’t send you away. I did. I had to.”

  I stared, not understanding.

  “Ted was adopted as a baby, but he didn’t find out until he was fifteen years old. It hurt him so deeply, he swore he would never adopt. But you temp
ted him; he liked you.”

  I wanted to plug my ears, to stop listening. But Emily still held my finger.

  “But I knew that if he would just wait,” Mandy’s voice continued, “we would have our own child.”

  It was Mandy who sent me away, not Ted. Mandy who had decided that only her own child could be loved by her husband.

  Ted had answered the phone that once, but I hadn’t given him a chance to say anything. And that conversation I overheard right after the accident, I tried to think what exactly they said. And I heard Mandy’s voice echoing, “You never wanted to adopt. Alli was only supposed to be here until we had our own baby.”

  It was Mandy all along. Or was it?

  “But Ted had my phone calls blocked.”

  “He didn’t know about that. I just called his friend, Derrick, at the office and asked him to do it. Ted kept wondering why you didn’t call and ask about the baby.”

  I started to cry now, remembering the hot air balloon flights, the hours that Ted and I spent in the quiet sky, surrounded by clouds and dreams and hopes.

  Emily whimpered, and I looked down at her tiny fingers and tiny fingernails.

  “You have to understand. I can’t let you interfere with our baby. With Emily.”

  Mandy had hopes and dreams, too. But her dreams were all so small, the dreams of a person with a small heart.

  Oh! I had had a dad and didn’t even know it. Never had a mom. My real mom died when I was born, and Mandy had never really loved me; her with a heart so small she couldn’t let in another child. Even at the Porters, there was no mom. Eliot was right to help me search for my real dad.

  Through my tears, I said, “It’s okay. I won’t bother you ever again.”

  Then the door opened again. I expected the nurse. Quickly, before anyone could stop me, I bent and kissed Emily’s forehead. “I love you, sister,” I said.

  Then I straightened up.

  The room was full, everyone staring at me: Mr. and Miss Porter, both frowning; Miss Brodie-Rock, talking to Ted; Mrs. Winston, looking solemn, and Eliot, looking sad. Mimi sat up suddenly, disoriented, and looked around wildly, calling, “What’s going on?”

  Then, everyone started talking at once, yelling and making a huge fuss.

  “Shhhh!” I said it as loud as I could. As I did, my finger pulled away from Emily’s tiny hand.

  Startled, everyone looked at me and the bassinet.

  And Emily let out a huge wail. Then took a breath and wailed again. “Waaaa, Waaaa!”

  And I sank to the floor beside her bassinet and cried, too.

  

  When the nurse arrived a few minutes later and chased everyone out, it was Ted who pulled me up. Wrapped his arm around my shoulder and walked with me, silent, toward the waiting room. But Miss Brodie-Rock and the Porters were waiting for us.

  The fluorescent lights turned Mr. Porter’s face a muddy gray. He started to talk, “Why did you think you could get away–”

  Ignoring the Porters, I shook free of Ted and walked to the chairs where I had slept. I sat and started tying on my shoes.

  Ted followed me and motioned for the others to stay away.

  “What did you think of Emily?”

  Bent over still, I nodded up at him. “Beautiful.”

  “So are you, Alli.”

  I turned away, angry now, jerked my backpack open and started brushing my hair.

  Ted bent his head and held his hands together. “You’re right, I shouldn’t say that. There’s no excuse for how we’ve hurt you. But Mandy was jealous, afraid. She wanted Emily to be the most important person in our lives. I shouldn’t have agreed to let you go.”

  It was too late: events couldn’t be unmade, I thought. I’d been set adrift among the clouds and would have to find my own bearings, steer my own way clear. But I saw now that there was a way through. Though Ted hadn’t been able to finish what he’d started, to be my real dad, at least I saw something of what a father could be. Ted had given me hope. And for that gift alone, I was willing to forgive him.

  Shouldering my backpack, I stood. Though I spoke to Ted, I turned to look at Miss Brodie-Rock. “I understand. But what’s done is done. Go on. Emily needs you to be there. Just be there for her, for the rest of her life. If you can do that, it’s okay. Just be there.”

  I saw Eliot standing beside Mrs. Winston, her hand on his shoulder. He nodded, he understood. And I nodded back.

  Then, I walked over to Miss Brodie-Rock, put my hand into hers and looked up. “I’m ready.”

  And I looked behind just once, just long enough to see Ted walking down the hall toward his daughter, Emily.

  ELIOT

  Sunday was all sadness and wishes.

  I wished I had been able to tell Alli goodbye. Instead, Miss Brodie-Rock had grabbed hold of her arm and held on tight, steering her onto the elevator. Alli didn’t resist; there was no need. She had what she had wanted so much, to see Baby and to touch Baby and to make sure Baby was perfect, to see that Mandy’s fall hadn’t hurt Baby.

  I wished that sadness about Alli didn’t weigh so heavily on me as I measured flour, kneaded dough, played cards with Toby, and wished that Alli was here to eat a warm slice of sourdough bread, to watch me wrap the second loaf to take to the Thanksgiving dinner.

  I watched Marj knead and braid a variation of our sourdough recipe. She was making extra loaves, in case there weren’t enough at the auction. She didn’t say I was in her way, but she didn’t really do much to encourage me sitting there, either, except look up and smile. Twice she started to say something, but always stopped with a slight shake of her head.

  I wished time didn’t run so fast. But the days went by in a blink until there we were, on Tuesday morning, loading up and leaving for school, heading to the Thanksgiving dinner, the end of the Bread Project.

  And I wished Alli was going with us.

  THE BREAD PROJECT

  ELIOT

  Tuesday morning, the morning of the PTA Thanksgiving dinner, the sky had shrugged on a gray sweatshirt: it would rain later, and if it got cold enough, maybe sleet. Marj didn’t make me go to school. Instead, we went together about 10 a.m. to help the Johnsons decorate.

  Sharp metallic echoes filled the auditorium: parents setting up tables and chairs. Marj went to help Mrs. Lopez, Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. Patel carry in the cookbooks and set them up to sell. I helped Mr. Johnson roll out long sheets of green plastic to cover the tables, then tape them in place. Others came behind us, decorating with autumn leaves, pumpkins and such stuff. Someone had brought scented candles. Toby and I lit them, and soon, a spicy-sweet smell filled the air. Along each side wall, we helped set up other tables as serving lines for the food, which was in huge aluminum pans, just waiting to be uncovered when it was time to eat. Other tables were for the silent auction of breads–if we had too many loaves to auction in a reasonable time. The cafeteria slowly transformed from the cold concrete block room into a dining room full of light and laughter, blocking out the gray weather.

  Everyone was chattering about holiday plans. Mr. Johnson was telling about leaving tomorrow for Chicago to see his mother. Mr. Patel explained that relatives from India were arriving that evening. Even Mr. Benton, who had stopped in to check our progress, was flying to Florida for a couple days on the beach. In the midst of this holiday bustle and cheer, I felt frozen. Because on the stage, we set up ten tables for the bread.

  Finally, the room was ready.

  Mrs. Lopez turned on the microphone and asked all the volunteers to gather in front of the stage for last minute instructions. The Herats were there, Mrs. Herat standing close to her husband so he could translate for her. She was obviously shy, but from the middle of her burkha, her dark eyes were bright and eager. The blond heads of Mr. and Mrs. Zane bounced through the crowd, their voices rising above others, as usual. A group of Hispanics in bright colored shirts was chattering in Spanish, while a couple of Egyptians fathers in casual khakis and school t-shirts stood back with cr
ossed arms and just watched. I sat on the edge of the stage, kicking my legs, wondering if Heaven would be like this, with people from so many different nations. Wondering: where was Alli today, what family was she living with, and was it a good family for her? Wondering if Marj–who stood in the middle of the crowd–was pleased with the Bread Project she had set into motion so many weeks ago.

  Finally Mrs. Lopez called for attention and explained the process for the next hour. “When people come in, send them to the stage first with their bread. We have a card to fill out, asking who made the bread and what kind of bread it is. Then, they can find a place to sit.”

  In a brilliant orange sari, Mrs. Patel leaned into the microphone to add, “Make sure the kids go with the parents and help fill it out. We have several families who don’t read much English.”

  Then it was all ready.

  It was time.

  Ten empty tables waited to be filled with bread. Or not. And the overflow tables for silent auction if there were more loaves than we expected. If a bread went there, it would have a lined page for people to write their names and bids. People could come back as often as they wanted to up their bids. At the end of the night, the highest bidder on the page would take home that bread.

  The procession of bread began. Clusters of families crowded onto the stage to register their breads, coming and going, filling up the auditorium. And the breads: Pan dolce, ciabatti, ekmek, naan, pretzels, poori, pita – my head swam with the names. The humble wheat grain was utterly transformed by human creativity into such a variety of forms. English muffins, raisin bread, cinnamon rolls, Kaiser rolls, potato rolls. Loaves of rye breads, whole wheat breads, just plain white loaves. Focaccia. Dutch Crunch. Everything from A to Z: Anadama to Zucchini-Carob Bread.

  Filling the auction tables at the front. And—what a surprise— even filling the silent auction tables around the room.

  Somehow, in the swirl of it all, I found myself staring at Marj, her freckled face flushed as she stood at the side of the stage, holding one finger in her ear and her cell phone to her other ear. She was talking, nodding. Smiling.