She thought of her garden soaking up the rain, of the bulbs sighing as they resettled in the damp soil, the eucalyptus, the oaks and madrones and alders and acacia, the fruit trees and the ornamentals, the olive tree, the line of liquid ambars all quivering with pleasure as the water reached their roots. Rain gave Glory the jitters; she would run and toss her mane and whinny to the wind and the poor little donkey would stand still and let the water soak through its woolly coat. A benediction, that was what the rain was. A sign that God had put his anger away, that he had turned his head toward them again at long last. She imagined Father Joe standing by the statue of St. Francis, his arms outstretched, palms up. Rain meant there would be a spring Hannah could hope for and count on and plan for.
She thought of planting vegetables and a huge bed of pansies, Johnny-jump-ups and nasturtiums. She rounded a curve fast, braked hard; and the Volvo’s rear tires slipped and squealed. The ringing in her ears was the singing in her cells, the song of atoms and electrons vibrating toward critical.
Oh, God, what have I done?
She began to cry.
She would not plant a garden this year.
Near the summit she drove through squalls. The windshield wipers swooshed back and forth, clicked like a metronome, ticked like that noisy old clock in Jeanne’s office. She swerved to miss a tree that had fallen across the road. Rain. Tears. Slow down. She blinked and rubbed the steam off the inside of the window. Put on the defroster.
Shut up, Angel. For five fucking minutes, shut up.
She must stop. She could not see the road enough to drive. She must either pull off to the side of the road and wait out the storm—it would be hours and what about Angel? She was hours beyond her last feeding. Maybe by now Betts had called Dan and he was home. The police might be with him asking questions.
I could go to jail.
She had only done what she had to, what she was born and designed to do—care for babies, make them healthy and happy. It was what she did best, the only thing she knew how to do really well. Hannah sobbed and beside her, Angel screamed.
A shadow loomed in the road ahead. The second before Hannah slammed her foot on the brake, she thought of the poster of the little girl and the angel in the common room at Resurrection House. She heard the tires shriek and felt the car swing out. The Volvo spun, throwing Hannah’s head hard against the door. The last thing she remembered was the screams: Angel’s, the tires, and her own.
Liz got caught in the rain and broke all records running back up Casabella Road. She burst into the kitchen, her shorts and T-shirt cold and clinging to her.
“Hannah,” she called to the big house, “you home yet? Can I fix you some lunch?” They were going to talk things through if Liz had to tie Hannah down to make it happen. Their friendship would change and it would grow again. I will plant myself in this house and I won’t leave until it’s restored.
She stripped off her wet things and stuck them in the dryer. Padding across the kitchen in bra and panties she told Cherokee, “Looks like it’s thee and me, sweet pea.”
She went to her room and changed into Levi’s and a bulky sweater the blue-green of the water where she and Gerard went scuba diving. In socks and sandals she scuffed back to the kitchen and made herself a tuna fish sandwich and a cup of tea. The phone rang once but when she picked it up the line was dead. While she ate she stood in front of the refrigerator looking at the clutter Hannah kept in place with magnets shaped like animals, vegetables and fruits. She took down the schedule for Eddie’s football practice, balled it up and tossed it toward the sink. She read an article about the infertility clinic Dan was running with the help of a local psychologist. There was a note to Ingrid dated the week before: Clean your room, under the bed too. The number of the car rental agency was behind a yellow plastic pineapple.
She stared at the number for so long without moving, her foot went to sleep. She remembered the receptionist’s voice, nasal and sweet, You might be more comfortable in a midsize, ma’am. A syrupy foursquare voice, Hannah would say. Centuries of female rage behind an armor of sugar. If she knew Liz were renting a car to go for an abortion would she refuse her business?
Liz walked around the kitchen until the pins and needles in her foot went away. At Hannah’s desk she stopped a minute to look at the framed photos. There was one of Jeanne with pigtails to the middle of her back and her mouth full of shiny braces. Liz remembered her as a bossy and opinionated little girl; but now she must add to the description hurt and scared and trying not to show it. Like heavy weather Jeanne’s sadness descended on Liz and she accepted it as if it were part of her own.
Her mind churned. She thought of everything. She thought of nothing specific. She put the picture down, picked up the phone on the desk and called Belize.
Eventually Signa answered. “Dis is Palmetto Guest House. Signa Cassasola speakin’.”
“Signa, it’s me. Liz.”
“Miz Lizbet. How you bin keeping?”
“I’m fine actually. Good. How’re you all doing without me?”
“I tol’ Mister Gerard, I won’ cook no more on dat old Aga stove.”
“Bad, huh. What’s it doing?”
“What it not doing. Las’ night oven go way hot, tonight too cold so tomorrow I be makin’ my special pork stew for dinner.”
Liz imagined Signa watching herself in the mirror as she spoke, preening like one of the peacocks living wild on the grounds of the old governor’s mansion. “Is Gerard around?”
“Oh, yes, yes. I fetch him come to the telephone.” Liz heard Signa’s long musical call and a moment later Gerard’s voice floated down through the lines of air and wire and in through her ears and down into the warm pit of her stomach.
“How are you, my Liz? Nothing’s wrong? When are you coming back?”
“I’m worried about Hannah. I may need to stay a little longer.”
“As long as you must, chérie.”
“Signa says the Aga’s gone wacko. What about the trouble with the ruins?”
“It goes on. Greed.”
“I guess I didn’t leave at a good time.”
Silence and the sound of Gerard’s breath from thousands of miles away.
“I’m glad I came, but it’s been hard.”
“But you are talking? You and your friends? About what happened?”
“It’s been . . . more difficult than I expected.” Silence. “I’ve decided something.” And more silence. The sense of his waiting was so strong he seemed to be in the room with her. “I want us to get married.”
He laughed.
“I’m not promising I’ll be good at it, but I want to try.”
“You make me happy, Liz.”
“Let’s do it soon, okay? But no big deal. Just us.”
“And the operation?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
“Ah.” A single syllable into which she read sorrow and regret and relief and love all at once. “Come home soon, my Liz.”
She stared at the photographs on the desk. Jeanne. Dan. Liz and Hannah and Jeanne together. Hannah with Eddie and Ingrid in the big padded rocker, another of the two little ones riding Glory. And half a dozen of herself—timid child, wild teenager, off to Europe with matched luggage—all her incarnations except the one that mattered most. The woman she was now. She thought of Jeanne, her rigid spine bending at last. Her school, her students, and James. She thought of Signa at the airport waving her parasol and looking saucy for the customs officers. And she imagined Gerard in his broad-brimmed hat and his walking shorts and his muscular legs the color of toasted almonds. She saw him holding out his arms. Knowing her and wanting her, the real Liz.
Hannah parked the Volvo at the side of the house and got out. She hobbled around to the passenger door, opened it and looked down at Angel who was asleep at last and unhurt thanks to the restraints on Eddie’s old car seat. Hannah barely felt her own injuries though there was a rough scrape on her left temple where it had banged against th
e car door; and every step sent a spasm of deep pain there and through her back and left shoulder. She gathered the baby into her arms and dashed through the rain for the kitchen door. She slipped her key into the lock, turned it, and realized the door was open.
She had forgotten Liz. Suddenly she felt weak in the face of what was to come, like a prisoner being carted through the crowds to the guillotine.
Liz turned from the kitchen sink and saw her. Across the kitchen the phone rang.
“Don’t answer.” It would be Betts of course.
“Whose baby . . . is that Angel? Why’s she with you?”
A third ring.
In Hannah’s arms Angel began to fuss, and her heart-shaped face pinched toward the center like a cushion.
“No matter what, don’t pick up.”
On the fourth ring the answering machine clicked on.
It was Jeanne. Liz answered. “I think you better get over here.”
She hung up.
“I told you not to.”
“She needs to be here.”
Angel wailed.
“She looks sick,” Liz said.
Hannah handed Angel, belting out her misery again full volume, to Liz.
“Jesus, Hannah. What’s wrong with her?”
“She’s hungry. There’s formula out in the car and there should be a glass bottle in my vet supplies in the laundry room. Boil the nipple first. Anything else you need’s in the car.”
She opened the cabinet over her desk. No aspirin. She limped toward the hall.
“You’re hurt. What happened?”
Hannah waved her hand dismissively.
The phone rang again.
They looked at it.
Hannah shook her head.
This time it was Dan, laughing. “Can you believe this, Hannah? We’ve had almost an inch in the last hour. Turn on the Weather Channel. The guy says there’s eight storms lined up across the Pacific.”
Hannah lifted the receiver. “I’m here.” Her voice sounded flat, like a computer generated message to remind her of a doctor’s appointment. She made an effort to sound interested. “There’s a big washout on Casabella, just before the bridge.”
“We’re going to have flooding everywhere.”
Hannah nodded.
“I thought you’d be excited.”
“I am.”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t need me up there?”
“I said I’m fine, Dan.”
“In that case, I’m going to stay in town until it lets up, okay?”
“Sure.”
“Typical California, huh? The weather’s either perfect or a disaster.”
“Uh-huh.”
Angel’s wails kicked up a level. Hannah waved Liz to the far side of the room.
“That sounds like a baby.”
Hannah watched Liz pat and rock and murmur to Angel. Nothing made any difference to a hungry baby.
“Hannah?”
“It’s Angel.”
A moment of quiet and then, “Shit.”
“I thought Betts would have called you.”
“I’m still at the hospital.” A long moment of silence. “What have you done?”
She laughed. “Oh, God, Dan, I’ve been really stupid.”
“Do you want me to call her? Or do you want to tell me yourself?”
“I’ll give you the number. Tell her Angel’s safe.”
“Why wouldn’t she be?”
Hannah turned as Jeanne came through the kitchen door, her hair plastered to her head despite the umbrella she carried. As she rested the open umbrella on the floor on its spokes she looked from Hannah to Liz and Angel and back to Hannah and raised an eyebrow.
“Hannah,” Dan said, “why wouldn’t Angel be safe?”
Hannah sat down. “I lost it, Dan. I thought I could take her somewhere and get a job and . . . have a . . . life.”
“You have a life.”
“See, her mother—Shannon—she’s so young. She can’t . . .”
“Don’t go anywhere. Stay put. I’m coming home.”
“No, you don’t have to. I’m okay. Now. Liz and Jeanne are here and when the rain lets up they’ll take me back to San Jose.”
“Oh, Hannah.” The parched syllables blew through her head like the dust of old bones. “When’s this going to stop?”
“It’s not a disaster. Don’t make it sound like a disaster. I made a mistake but—”
“I’m coming home.”
“Please, don’t, Dan. I’m . . . too embarrassed to see you. I’m ashamed. Just call Betts for me. Please?” She started to hand the phone to Jeanne. “I love you, I love you so much and I’ve been such a . . . flake. Don’t give up on me. You won’t will you? Promise.”
“No. Never.”
She gave the phone to Jeanne who became instantly efficient.
“She’s all right, Dan. And so’s the baby.”
Hannah imagined her husband’s voice broken with concern and love and frustration. Breakdown. Kidnapping. Worryworryworry.
“We’ll do our best,” Jeanne said. She pressed the disconnect.
Hannah asked, “Is he coming?”
“Not unless someone calls him.”
“Thank goodness, I couldn’t stand it.” The look on his face, the brokenheartedness.
Angel’s screams rose up the scale, louder and shriekier. God, Hannah would be grateful for silence. She took the baby from Liz who looked relieved. “Go get the formula. It’s in cans in a grocery bag in the backseat.” Amazing how, in the midst of breakdown, kidnapping, worryworryworry she could still assume the role of mother. She should be handcuffed in a squad car; or on the bed, zombied by Valium. Instead she was ordering her friends about for Angel’s sake. Mothering. It was her gift. “Jeanne, I need the car seat too.”
“Jesus,” Jeanne muttered and headed out the door after Liz.
It took ten squalling minutes to get organized, but once Angel had the bottle in her mouth, the silence in the kitchen was profound. Hannah sat in the rocking chair, her feet propped up on the windowsill and looked out at the falling rain. Billowing and cloudy sometimes or lashing the window, other times plumb straight and almost solid like a sheet of aluminum. This was what she had dreamed of. Rain and rocking Angel in her own kitchen.
May as well enjoy. You’re going to pay for it.
Hannah felt a hand on her forehead and the touch of a damp cloth.
“You might need stitches,” Jeanne said as she dabbed at the wound. “Where’s the Bactine or whatever?”
It took a moment to focus. “In the linen closet. Top shelf. Will you bring me some aspirin too?”
She looked up at Jeanne and smiled.
Thank you, she thought, for not asking questions. Thank you for waiting until I can explain. Dan would have talked, but her friends knew when to be quiet. Their silence comforted her.
Liz brought her a glass of orange juice to take the aspirin. Jeanne sprayed Bactine on her forehead and blotted away the drops that rolled down her cheek like tears. Through all of it, Angel sucked contentedly.
After a while Hannah began to explain. “I wanted to take her away and live in a new town, be a new person. A mother again. I thought she wasn’t safe without me. That I was her only chance.” Angel’s dark eyes closed in ecstasy. Cherokee wandered over and sniffed the tiny feet, looked up at Hannah, and then went off into another part of the house.
“I had an accident on Mt. Madonna. There’s a housekeeping motel in the Carmel Valley. I was headed there.”
“Why didn’t you go down 101?”
“Are you sure you don’t want Dan?” Liz said. “There could be internal—”
“I’m going to be stiff. That’s the worst of it.”
“If you’d gone 101 you probably would have made it.”
“But I thought maybe Betts had called the police and they’d be lookin
g for the Volvo.” Hannah felt herself droop. “I don’t know. I’m not cut out to be a crook.”
“You need to get some help,” Liz said. “When Angel’s taken care of. Just talk to someone.”
Hannah shook her head. “I need to talk to you two.”
“Maybe so, absolutely. But you need to see a therapist too. This isn’t going to go away, all these feelings you have.”
“Liz’s right,” Jeanne said. “There are times when . . . well, it’s not a sign of weakness to ask for help.”
Hannah snarled, “Traitor.”
She lifted Angel to her shoulder and patted her back. The baby burped and her little body relaxed. Hannah put her in the car seat with a blanket tucked around her. Her dark lashes fluttered like flags of farewell. Hannah watched her sleep and might have stood a long time staring and memorizing Angel’s features if Liz had not touched her arm.
“Sit, Hannah. She’s sleeping now.”
Hannah did as she was told. She looked around her at all the familiar objects in her kitchen and should have been comforted by them. She had made it home in one piece, somewhat battered but more or less whole. So why wasn’t she comforted by familiarity? Because she felt lost, separated from herself. She wasn’t Hannah anymore. Hannah had vanished in one extraordinary and incredibly insane afternoon. “When I was coming back, after the accident, it took forever the traffic was so slow. And I just kept asking myself why I’d done it, how I could have been so stupid.”
“You aren’t stupid,” Liz said. “You weren’t thinking clearly.”
“What made me think I could start all over again? She wore me out, the sound of her. In the car, crying.”
The phone rang.
“I wanted to belt her.”
The voice on the answering machine was Betts. “We’ve been frantic down here. But we didn’t call the police, Hannah. I knew you’d come back. Dan says you’re bringing her back and if she’s okay—I’m sure she is, I know you didn’t mean her any harm—I’m willing to just let this thing go. But you understand, I can’t have you here after this. I can’t trust . . . Hannah, I know you’re there and I want you to listen to me. You need to get help. That’s what I told your husband. There’s no shame in it, Hannah.” They listened to Betts’s breath on the answering machine. “I’ll expect to see you when this rain lets up. Okay? I know you’re listening to this. Just get Angel back here.”
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