“And he’s had a real trauma,” Vince continued. “Ms. Nolan told you about how they found him.”
“In the trailer. After Randi died,” Dan offered. “Alone.”
“Yeah. But imagine this: he’s alone for almost a week, finding what he can in the fridge, putting himself to bed, getting himself dressed in the morning. After a couple of days, he got hysterical. Confused. By the time the police found him, he was weeping in the corner of the trailer and wouldn’t come out. Basically, he’s not adjusting well. At first, he was silent, but now he’s fighting with the other children at the foster home.”
Dan dropped his head into his hands, and Avery looked out into the hall. In the office across from them, the mother and the son from the waiting room were sitting silently while a woman in a blue suit held up a piece of paper and pointed. Avery read her lips, “And item four says blah, blah, blah . . . and then there is this, item five. Very blah, blah, blah.”
“Is he okay now? I mean, from the trauma?” Dan asked.
“No.” Vince scooted his chair closer to his desk. His eyes were circled in white, and Avery could almost see the sunglasses he wore on the weekend. To do what? She looked at the photos on his desk, a boy, a girl, a wife. Swim meets. Picnics. A normal family.
“To be honest, no. He’ll need therapy or counseling. It’s not just Ms. Gold’s death that’s upsetting him. Apparently—apparently the home life degenerated in the last few years. The drugs. The people in and out. He hasn’t had it easy. This department can provide some of the counseling, but if you have the wherewithal, I’d recommend a private psychologist. If you can afford it, he’d also benefit from activities that put him in proximity of other children. Maybe martial arts. It’s social and develops hand-eye coordination. That kind of thing. It’s going to take a lot of time.”
That’s all everything takes, Avery thought, watching the mother across the hall stand up and yank her son with her. Time. Time for her father to die. Time for her mother to recover from grief. Time for Avery to begin to forget her father’s eyes as she left the hospital room. Time for her uterus and vagina and fallopian tubes and ovaries to be tested and scrutinized and observed. Time for her to not get pregnant over and over again. Time for Randi to get hepatitis C and for her son to be totally screwed up.
All Vince and Dan were asking from her now was her time, and she sat back in her chair. Waiting felt like lying in the middle of the street with her arms spread wide, knowing that a truck was coming. Waiting was like a cold hand on her spine, squeezing. Waiting was her egg floating in the red darkness of her body, sperm nowhere near it. Waiting was a cold hospital room, her father somewhere down the hall dying. Avery had waited and waited, and as they went over details about the visit with Daniel, Avery didn’t know if she could wait again.
After a silent ride home, Dan went into their room, changed his clothes, and went out to the back yard. In a few minutes, Avery heard the lawn mower start up and then smelled the heavy green of fresh cut grass. Every since she quit her job, he’d decided they should economize, and instead of Ramon and his crew coming every week to mow and trim and prune, Dan did the work on the weekends.
Avery decided she would go work out at Oakmont, but before she changed into her workout clothes, she wondered if she should call her mother. She didn’t want to, fearing Isabel’s judgment, either against her or Dan. Or maybe it was simply Isabel’s words, the incessant flow of support and sympathy that Avery knew she wouldn’t believe, couldn’t feel, didn’t know how to take in. Or maybe it was that Avery knew Isabel might side with Dan, understanding how things needed to be hidden, just like grief under blankets.
But during the ride home, she wanted her mother against her skin, the way she remembered the comfort of her soft neck, forearms, palms, the softness of her blouse against her cheek, the way her mother would stroke her shoulder, and say, “It’s fine. Oh, sweetie, it’s just fine.” How long had it been since she’d let her mother say those comforting words? Since before her father died? When she was little and was hurt, Avery would unconsciously call out, “Mommy. I want my ma-me,” holding tight her bruised, skinned knee, her fractured arm, hurt feelings when Bonnie Randall or Megan O’Reilly teased her or when Mara threw her Disco Barbie into the street and Mr. Baumgartner ran over it with his Chevy Rambler.
But that was before. Now, when there was good news, the first person she called was Isabel, but with the bad, the dark, the wrong, she kept the words inside, talking to Valerie or maybe Loren, protecting Isabel from fights with Dan, arguments with Brody Chovanes, trouble with refinancing the house. The images of her mother in her room weeping were still too fresh, even fifteen years later, to imagine sending her back to bed with the words she had now: “Drugs. Eight-year relationship. Baby. Boy. Daniel. Ours. No more IUI. No baby now.”
Standing by the window now dressed in her tight, black workout pants, sports bra, and T-shirt, Avery held the phone to her chest. She watched Dan unplug the lawn mower from the power cord and then walk into the garage, returning to the yard with the hedger. He would be out there for the rest of the day, the shrubs whittled to bone, the lawn nude, all the perennials dead-headed to stems. She watched his arms, still as smooth, dark, and strong as they had been the first time she’d rubbed her hands over them, surprised by his muscles. “Do you work out?” she’d asked, and he’d laughed, flexing his biceps.
“I’m a he-man,” he’d said, pulling her close.
He still said that, all these years later. A he-man. Was that what Randi had thought? Did she love his arms and shoulders and chest and thighs and penis like Avery did? Did she love his soft, kind eyes and curly black hair? Did she love his voice in the bedroom night, telling stories about work and friends and the future, their future, the future where he would always be the same, strong and true, coming home from work every night? And yet, both she and Randi had been betrayed. He’d left Randi standing in the doorway of their shared apartment, pregnant. He’d left her to her drugs and her hidden responsibility. And Dan hadn’t told Avery about Randi, a woman he’d known for eight years. A woman he’d had to force himself to run away from. Randi had been that magnetic, that important. He’d loved her that much.
He was somebody Avery didn’t know at all.
Avery looked at the phone, dialed Isabel’s number, and then hung up before it even rang.
“Mom,” she whispered, holding the phone to her chest and imagining Isabel’s voice. “Mommy.”
Brody Chovanes stood up, snapped his red suspenders, and then put on his suit jacket. “I made reservations at Andrés. I’m in the mood for their halibut. You know me.”
Avery laughed, even though she really didn’t want to, the sound and air barely making it over her bottom lip. Who cares what you’re in the mood for, she thought, but she walked behind him, his expensive silk suit flish, flishing, and followed him to the elevator.
Behind him, she felt her body morph into her old body, the one from two years ago, the body that hadn’t gone through test after test. This body hadn’t lain spread-eagle on examination tables, fingers and speculums and tiny cameras inside it. This body hadn’t been injected over and over again, its butt bruised and sore. No, this was a smooth, quick, sexy body, trim under her expensive St. Johns suit, tight in Calvin Klein nylons, perfectly finished with Ferragamo pumps. Awash in Boucheron perfume, Avery breathed in her old self, the one she’d given up and for what? Months of nothing, that was what. Watching Brody’s similarly tight, quick body, she felt like a creature released back into the wild, desperate to search out what it remembered but scared that any minute, the net would scoop it up and carry it away.
As they walked, she waved to her former colleagues—Teresa Licardo, Donna Goodman, Tanner Swenson—but kept moving, not wanting to talk with anyone but Brody until she knew if she had the job she needed. Why jinx it?
“So,” Brody said, pushing the L button and leaning against the elevator paneling. “What’s this all about?”
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br /> She adjusted her purse and bit her cheek. “Well,” Avery said as they moved through floors. “Things didn’t work out exactly as planned.”
“No?” He looked at her, his eyes wide, expecting more.
“No,” she said carefully. “It’s been harder for us than we thought. I’m still so young—“ Pausing, she looked up, making sure he saw her tight, firm face, her full cheekbones, her slim, viable work body. “That we don’t have to make a decision about what to do next for a while. So, I thought—we thought—why not start working again.”
The elevator doors opened, and they walked into the airy lobby, their shoes clacking on the shined marble floor. The doors opened to hot July air, but Andrés was next door, and soon they were inside the restaurant waiting to be seated. The hostess flicked Brody an appreciative look, and Brody leaned toward her, his hands on the reservation desk, and joked with her about his favorite table by the window.
Avery breathed in and wondered if she would be able to deal with Brody now that she’d had time away from him. It seemed impossible that his wife Alix hadn’t divorced him yet. He always asked the most personal questions—weight, marriage, embarrassing moments, job screw-ups—flirted with every woman under fifty, his eyes working an entire body in a flashy figure-eight loop. But Avery had to admit that he and his wife looked good together, Brody with his short, dark looks, Alix tall, thin, brunette, their trio of children between them. He was a jerk, but Alix knew that. Brody was who he was everywhere, at home, at work, in a restaurant waiting to be seated. That was more than Avery could say for Dan.
After they finished their meals and Brody chatted with their server who brought them lattes, he sat back and looked at Avery. “You’re looking good. That suburban thing agrees with you.”
“Well, how could it not, Brody? While I was working, I used to dream of days that I’ve been having. You know, working out, gardening, shopping at ten in the morning. But if I’m not going to be a mom right now, then I want to be doing something else.”
Brody sipped his latte, leaving a swipe of milk foam on his upper lip. Avery didn’t say anything, hoping the server would come back, soon, so she could see him looking like a ten-year-old.
“What does Dan think?”
Avery nodded, trying to find the right words, ones that wouldn’t be a lie. “He wants me to be happy.”
“And you’re not happy right now?”
Picking up a spoon, she tapped it against her water glass. “I’m happy. I just think if I stay at home now that there isn’t a reason, I will be less so.”
“How does he feel about not having a kid right away?”
Avery hit the glass again, the sound loud enough that a couple next to them looked over as if Avery was going to give a toast. Here’s to long lost children, she would say. Here’s to my husband who kept secrets.
“He’s fine.”
Brody wiped his mouth. Avery held her breath, but when he pulled the napkin away, the milk still swam over his lip. “Okay, so here’s the deal. Lanny took over most of your job, but he didn’t take the out-of-state accounts. We piece-mealed them through the San Francisco and Sacramento offices. We kept thinking to find someone to take the whole job over, but then there was the down-turn. We never got around to it. So what would be available is exactly that. And you know that involves travel. The reason you quit before. In fact, I was running the details by personnel and home office this morning, and if you start now, you’ll need to be on the road next week. St. Louis. We have a whole new network being set up for Dirland Accounting. Integrated System. The whole nine-yards. I know how you love that city.”
She nodded, already breathing in the stale air of the St. Louis Hilton, the room that smelled like bologna and perspiration and sadness. The hotel where Avery and Brody, after three rounds of cosmopolitans and a successful deal with Alliance Insurance, smoked cigars that made her sick for days afterward. So what. It was just a hotel, just a dull city. But she’d be gone. Away from the house and whatever was going to happen. Away from Dan and his guilt and the boy who was going to live in her baby’s nursery.
“I’ll take it.”
Brody looked up at her, surprised. “Don’t you want to talk with Dan about it first?”
“I don’t have to talk to him about it, Brody. For God’s sake. I’ll take it. I’ll start Monday, in St. Louis. Okay?”
“I’ll FAX you the info and travel plans. And before you go today, hightail it to personnel. I have all the papers ready.”
“So you don’t want me to talk with Dan after all?” She put her napkin on the table and stood up.
“I’ve known you for years, Avery,” Brody said, turning toward the server and winking as they walked out of the restaurant. “When you want something, you get it.”
After talking to Phyllis in Personnel at PeopleWorks, Avery went to Andronico’s and bought a pork loin, bacon, red-skinned baby potatoes, green beans, and salad makings. If she turned up the air conditioning, it would be cool enough to roast in the oven. As she roamed the aisles, she realized if they cooked or ate outside, it was likely Valerie or Luis would look over the fence, swing open the gate, sit down just as Avery was going to tell Dan about the job. Tell him how she wouldn’t be home day and night, while he worked out the kinks of this broken child. She’d been the one to take the shots, endure the hormone highs and lows, watch the screen as the laparoscope snaked her insides. She was the one alone in Dr. Browne’s office when he came in with the pieces of paper that said she’d failed, again and again, every month. She’d put in her time for a child. If Dan wanted this, she wouldn’t stop him. But she wasn’t about to go to the school district and sign the kid up for classes, go to meetings to discuss what was wrong with his brain, take him to psychiatrist visits, aikido classes, art therapy sessions. Not her.
She pulled her Land Rover into the garage and closed it immediately, not wanting to attract Valerie’s attention. Usually around this time every day, Avery would head over to Val’s because Tomás was down for his afternoon nap. They’d drink tea and chat about Avery’s tests or watch Rosie or Oprah. They would flip through the J. Jill, Coldwater Creek, and Boston Proper catalogues. Sometimes, they would go online and look for baby furniture or read about infertility treatments or procedures—Chinese hamster ovaries, Lupron, follicle stimulating hormone levels, egg harvesting—usually ending with the “when” talks. “When you have the baby,” and “When your baby is Tomás’ age,” or “When we both have two.” She had told Valerie the whole story about Dan and Randi and Daniel, but now she felt as if she’d sailed away from the house next-door and was floating alone on the island of childless women.
When Dan came home, the pork was almost done, and she’d set the dining room table instead of the one in the kitchen, something she usually only did when they were celebrating. Avery had pulled out her wedding silver and china, the table sparkling with all the underused things. Dan put down his briefcase and looked at her, an eyebrow raised, and hung up his suit jacket in the hall closet.
“What’s going on?” he asked, walking slowly into the kitchen. Avery smiled and opened the oven, a waft of bacon and meat juice pouring out into the room.
“I thought we’d have a nice dinner tonight.” She poked the roast with the thermometer, making sure it at least went to 150 degrees, still scared by Isabel’s mid-west stories of trichinosis. Most every roast Isabel ever made was cooked to the quick, the meat stringy and tough. But safe.
“Oh.” Dan opened the fridge and took out a Corona. “So, what did you do today?”
Avery didn’t say anything, sliding the rack back and then closing the oven. She put down the hot pads and brushed her hair away from her warm face. “I want to talk about some things at dinner.”
Dan nodded. He probably thought she meant things about the visit next week with Daniel. What they would do on Tuesday in Turlock, assuming, of course, that the DNA test didn’t show that Randi had lied. How they would talk with him, his foster
parents, Midori Nolan. Then, they would move on to figure out his room, his new bed, the clothes they would fill the dresser with, the dresser they hadn’t even purchased. She had no idea what size a ten-year-old boy wore, what styles were in, what colors were trendy. As she sliced some tomatoes for the salad, she shook her head and then bit her lip. Stop. Stop.
“I’m going to change,” Dan said, waiting for a second behind her as she sliced. The knife cut into the tomatoes smoothly, one, two, one, two, juice sluicing up along the sharp edge. She felt his questions rise up behind her, but then he was gone, heavy footsteps in the hallway.
“So, I went and had lunch with Brody today.” Dan looked up from his salad, his eyes wide. Before he could ask a question, Avery went on. “We talked about the company. Evidently, Lanny never took over all my responsibilities. More pork?” She held out the platter, her fingers in a loose jangly grip on the porcelain, slices of meat sliding toward Dan.
“No. No thanks.” He put down his fork. “So you went in to have lunch?”
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