by Luanne Rice
“Sex is a bad thing,” Chloe said grittily.
“You think?”
Chloe nodded. She wondered whether she looked as pale as she felt. A thin line of sweat had formed above her top lip. Once she and her parents had taken the Block Island ferry in a gale, and the boat had pitched and rolled. Chloe got massively seasick. She felt almost that bad right now.
“You are going to be okay,” Mona said.
“I hope so.”
Mona giggled, pushing her hands against her mouth, as if to stop herself from laughing.
“What is it?” Chloe asked.
“Oh, God, I can’t stop myself,” Mona said, looking around. “We have a soundtrack to the moment. Chirp-chirp, buzz-buzz.”
“The birds and the bees,” Chloe said, laughing in spite of the fact she felt like throwing up.
Birds twittered in the trees: cardinals, jays, finches, sparrows. Swallows swooped out of the barn, snatching bugs from the sky. Honeybees hummed in the apple tree branches and meadow flowers.
“I have a sick mind,” Mona said. “I shouldn’t be making jokes at a time like this.”
“You can’t help yourself,” Chloe said, glad they had laughed.
“Besides, it wasn’t really a joke. It was a witticism. And I have another one,” Mona said. “I’m sitting here, watching you stand by the roadside, and I can’t stop thinking about that cross-stitch picture you have in your front hall.”
Chloe pictured it. Her mother had made it when she’d first married her father and come to live in the orchard. It showed their little white house, the fence, all the apple trees, and the red barn on the crest of the hill. Her mother had stitched words across the top, like a banner.
Mona quoted them now: “‘Let me live in the house by the side of the road and be a friend to man.’ ”
“That’s me,” Chloe said. “A friend to man.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Mona said.
“I did,” Chloe said, feeling sick.
“I just meant, you look so nice, standing there on the side of the road, waiting for Jane. Maybe we can get your mother to edit her cross-stitch. A friend to woman.”
Chloe nodded. She thought of her mother making that sampler. She had been a young woman back then. What must it have been like to move out here to the orchard? Her grandfather had been alive then; her mother had helped her father take care of him, the whole time wishing for a baby. When she had sat in her rocking chair, stitching that tableau, had she been dreaming of her very own child?
The thought made Chloe blink. How was it that pregnancy was the most normal thing in the whole world—for every single person on this earth, there had been a pregnancy; billions and billions of them—yet it had eluded her mother? Envisioning her mother stitching that sampler made Chloe feel very sad.
Just then, Uncle Dylan drove up on his tractor.
“What are you doing, standing in the road?” he called.
“Waiting for someone,” she called back, over the motor’s rumble.
Uncle Dylan cut the engine. “I want to talk to you,” he said.
“Um,” Chloe began nervously. She definitely didn’t want to tip her uncle off that anything was wrong. But until she went with Jane to get another First Thought test, she wasn’t going to be able to listen to one thing he had to say.
“You could talk to me,” Mona said flirtatiously, and Chloe wanted to kiss her.
Uncle Dylan didn’t even smile. He looked as if he had turned into the same old cranky man o’ the orchard he always used to be P.J. —Pre-Jane.
“What’s wrong, Uncle Dylan?” Mona asked. “You look upset.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” he said. “Chloe, take a walk with me. Mona can look after the stand for a few minutes . . .”
Just then, Jane’s car pulled up. Chloe glanced at her uncle, expecting him to melt like a Popsicle. Instead, to her surprise, he looked even stonier. The lines in his face deepened. His eyes looked like thunderclouds.
“What are you doing?” he asked Jane as Chloe opened the car door.
“We won’t be long,” Jane said as Chloe slid in, and Chloe felt grateful to her for protecting her secret.
“Don’t,” he said, hands on the car door.
Jane didn’t say another word. She stared at him, giving him several long, slow blinks. Chloe loved her for that. In cat language, that was a message of love. It was a sign of nonaggression, a signal that the blinking cat meant peace and friendliness to the other. If Uncle Dylan received the signal, he gave no indication. He had a storm in his eyes.
“Jane, stop,” he said.
But Jane just drove away.
Chloe turned, to ask her what that was all about, and she saw that Jane now had a similar weather pattern on her face: clouds, lightning, rain. Her eyes glittered as she glanced across the seat at Chloe.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
Chloe started to nod, then shook her head. “No. I feel sick.”
“You’re afraid it’s morning sickness?”
“Yes. It might be bad karma, but . . .”
“What about your period?”
“It’s late,” Chloe said. Forgetting about Uncle Dylan, she now could think only of the mess she was in. “A week late. What if I took that last test too soon?”
“It’s possible,” Jane said softly. But the storm had cleared from her eyes, and she gave Chloe a warm smile.
They drove along, and as they did, Chloe’s anxiety mounted. She touched her stomach. What if there was a baby growing in there? She swallowed, feeling strange. The idea of driving fifteen minutes, back to Twin Rivers Hospital, seemed like too much. She turned to Jane.
“Let’s just get the test in Crofton,” she said. “If you buy it, no one will suspect.”
“Okay,” Jane said, sensing Chloe’s panic. She pulled into the mall, parked near the Food Court entrance. They walked in together. There was a Good Health Pharmacy just past the Orange Blossom Bridal Shop, so Chloe waited outside while Jane went in. She was standing in the main corridor of malldom, watching all the summer shoppers rushing in and out, so they could get to the beach, when she heard her name:
“Chloe?”
She wheeled around. Her mother was walking over, holding a bag from Langtry’s—Chloe’s favorite store.
“Mom!” Chloe exclaimed.
“Honey, why aren’t you at work?”
“Oh,” Chloe said, feeling herself turn hot and red. She bit her lip. She was going to have to lie. There was no way—absolutely no other way—out of this. “Um, I came on an errand, with a friend . . .”
Just then, her mother noticed where they were standing: in front of the pharmacy, but across from Rhode Island Pets, Inc. Her mother’s face fell, as if she had just learned that Chloe had flunked out of school. She turned as pale as Chloe was red.
“Chloe,” she said. “You’re not planning . . . an action, are you?”
“A what?”
“The pet store. I wasn’t born yesterday, Miss Chloe Chadwick. What are you protesting in there?”
“Mom, nothing—I swear!” Chloe glanced at the pet store window. A bright macaw was chained to a perch. Several cute puppies romped in newspaper-lined cages. Chloe’s eyes filled with tears at the sight. What kind of girl was she? So wrapped up in her own problems, she hadn’t even noticed the animals?
“What is it this time? Puppy mills? Parrots being stolen from the Amazon?”
“That’s not a parrot,” Chloe corrected, following her mother’s line of sight to the store window. “That’s a macaw.”
“Chloe—I don’t care if it’s a bald eagle,” her mother said, grabbing her wrist and giving her a beseeching look. The expression in her mother’s eyes was so worried and full of love, Chloe had to look twice. “Honey, your father had to convince Ace Fontaine not to press charges, down at the grocery store. If you do something here at the mall, you could get arrested. I know you love animals—you have the biggest heart of any girl I’ve ever known.
But please, please, Chloe, don’t—”
She was stopped by the sheer weight of Chloe throwing herself against her body in a full-press hug. Chloe could barely talk. Here she was, on a secret slut mission, and her poor mother was worried sick about her animal activism.
“I promise, Mom. I promise,” Chloe said. She was inches away from breaking down and crying, confessing everything. Her mother held her for a moment more. Chloe loved the smell of her hair—it was like lavender, and it smelled like Chloe’s childhood. She loved the slightly padded feeling of her body. She wasn’t all vain muscle, like Rhianna, who basically lived on a StairMaster.
Chloe’s mother power-walked the country roads around the orchard. She danced to old videos on VH–1 when she thought no one was watching. Chloe had once caught her dancing to “Into the Groove” as if she was Madonna herself. Chloe had joined in, and they had whirled around the room together. Her mother liked to move, but she didn’t do it with one eye in the mirror.
“Well, as long as you promise, I believe you,” her mother said, pushing back. “Where’s Mona?”
“At the stand.”
“Then who are you here with?”
Just then, Jane came out of the pharmacy. She held up the white bag, like the Stature of Liberty’s torch, but dropped her arm at the sight of Chloe’s mother. Chloe was about two seconds from throwing up on the mall’s shiny floor.
“Hello,” Jane said, approaching.
“Hi,” Chloe’s mother said, smiling in a confused way.
“Mom, this is Jane. Who bakes the pies? Jane, this is my mom.”
“Sharon Chadwick,” her mother said, shaking hands. “I’ve heard so much about you. And your pies are delicious.”
“Thank you,” Jane said. Her eyes looked wide, startled. She stood very still, holding the bag. Chloe noticed how different she looked from her mother—any local mother, actually: She wore a black tank top that said “Om” in silver on the front. On the back, it said “Shanti Yoga, Perry Street.” Her dark hair looked cute and young. It slanted across her right eye. Her army pants were worn low, revealing the waistband of her Calvin Klein underwear, and a tiny tattoo of the letter “C” on her hip. Oddly, they were the same clothes she had worn to Newport. And so were her shoes: black, clunky, slightly dangerous looking.
Chloe’s mother, meanwhile, wore a long sundress from her favorite catalogue—sweepy and cool, bright yellow with sunflowers splashed all over it, and a straw hat. She wore comfy sandals. Her earrings dangled with beads and symbols of the sun. Her fingernails were rimmed, ever so slightly, with dirt from the garden. She had a warm and hopeful New-Age-y vibe that reassured everyone who encountered her.
“Chloe just came on an errand with me,” Jane said, although Chloe’s mother hadn’t asked.
“That’s my girl,” her mother said, squeezing her shoulders. “Always helpful.”
Chloe tried to smile or speak, but she couldn’t. She felt herself shrinking. Lying to her mother felt awful. It always did, but never more than now. Because today, the stakes were so high: This lie had to do with other lies. With sneaking out, with having sex under the stars, with maybe being pregnant.
Chloe swallowed hard. She looked at Jane. In that moment, seeing the two women side by side, Chloe didn’t like Jane very much. She had just lied to her mother. Although Chloe knew she had done it to help, it still felt bad.
“Okay, I have to get back to the orchard,” Chloe said.
“Want to ride with me?” her mother asked. “I just stopped by to buy us some flip-flops, and I’m heading home.”
Chloe shook her head. The word “flip-flops” was like a knife to the heart. Such a sweet summery word, in the midst of such lies and betrayal. She felt very ashamed. Glancing at Jane, she saw her open her mouth—perhaps to lie again. Chloe spoke quickly, to prevent that from happening.
“Jane can drive me,” she said. “We have the pies . . .”
“Of course,” Chloe’s mother said, smiling. “Well, it was nice meeting you. My husband and I would like to have you and Dylan over for dinner sometime soon.”
“Thank you,” Jane said. But she barely smiled—as if she wasn’t at all interested.
Chloe’s skin contracted. Watching her mother walk away, she felt like running after her. Jane represented the world of grown-ups, independence, the big city. Chloe’s mother represented the world of childhood, safety, the countryside. Chloe’s throat caught. Jane looked at her, eyes full of concern.
“Should we find a bathroom?” she asked.
Chloe nodded—but she couldn’t make it. She threw up on her own feet and Jane’s, right in the middle of the mall.
Jane hustled her out to the car. Chloe was embarrassed, crying. Jane knew she had hated lying to her adoptive mother; it was an awful moment. She wished she could call it back, smooth it over. But how? Chloe was in a crisis—one that Jane remembered all too well. Sharon Chadwick would be involved soon enough. . . . It had been so hard for Jane to face her. The two women had stared deeply into each other’s eyes, and Jane was sure Sharon was about to make the connection and see the truth.
How could she not? Those eyes were the same as Chloe’s. And Jane’s love for the girl they both considered their daughter was written all over her face.
She drove slowly out of the parking lot. Chloe didn’t want to stop at a gas station or restaurant. She wanted to return to the exact spot they had gone before—the shady road, where she had peed on the stick in the woods. So Jane headed east, in that direction, in turmoil. They passed the driveway to Cherry Vale. They passed a sign that said PROVIDENCE—10 MILES.
Beginnings, endings. Providence, the place where Chloe was conceived; Cherry Vale, the place where Jane’s mother was going to live till she died. She felt the station wagon was a missile hurtling through time. She pictured Dylan—the intensity in his eyes as he’d approached the car, tried to stop Chloe from going with Jane. For a second, seeing Sharon Chadwick with Chloe in the mall, Jane had thought Dylan had sent her after them.
As they drove along, silence echoed in the car, both Jane and Chloe lost in thought. The moment had an aura of dishonesty. Perhaps it was the lie told to Sharon Chadwick that painted it in such stark relief: Jane had seen Chloe’s recoil when Jane had said they were on an errand for her. So, now Chloe knew how easy it was for her to tell a lie.
And not just tell one—live one.
“Oh, Chloe,” Jane said out loud.
Chloe glanced across the seat—Jane could feel her gaze. This was a very different ride from the last one. Then, Jane had had the feeling Chloe considered her a saving angel. Right now, she felt that they were both drowning in falsehood.
Jane pulled over to the side of the road, her heart beating in her throat. Dylan knew the truth; it was only a matter of time before he told. She looked into the rearview mirror, saw her own light blue eyes. She gulped, then looked over at Chloe—at the same light blue eyes.
“Why are we stopping?” Chloe asked.
Jane struggled to breathe. “Look at me,” she said.
“What?” Chloe asked, confused.
“Can’t you see?” Jane asked, her voice thin.
“See what?”
“Who I am.”
“You’re Jane . . . you bake our pies.” She tried to laugh, but she knew too much—she knew there was nothing funny now. “You’re the pie lady.”
Jane closed her eyes, digging her fingernails into her palms. She wanted to stop, yet she couldn’t. It had to come out.
“I’m something else, too,” Jane said softly. The summer air was hot and close. The car windows were open, and in some neighborhood behind the trees, an ice-cream truck was cruising through; the bell tinkled insistently.
Chloe stared, holding the white bag. Her gaze was sharp, intense; a vertical line crinkled between her dark, finely shaped eyebrows. Jane could almost feel her laser stare as parts of the jigsaw puzzle shifted together, making a clear picture out of jumbled images.
“You�
��re . . .” Chloe began, fingers flying to her lips.
“I’m your mother,” Jane said.
“My . . .”
“I’m your mother,” Jane said again, as if it were too important not to say twice.
Chloe stared, as if Jane were speaking a foreign language. Her eyes widened. She took in the color and shape of Jane’s eyes, the outline of her mouth, the sharpness of her cheekbones.
“I’ve dreamed of you,” Chloe whispered.
“Oh, Chloe . . . I’ve dreamed of you,” Jane said, her voice catching.
“Why?” Chloe asked. “Why did you leave me?”
“I was young,” Jane tried to explain. “I wasn’t much older than you are.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Chloe said, touching her own belly. “I would never, never leave my baby. Why did you leave me?” she asked in a moan.
Jane closed her eyes. “I did it for you. I thought it was best. But I’ve never, ever, for one minute, stopped thinking I made the biggest mistake in the world . . .”
“My parents love me,” Chloe said.
“I know.”
“You put me in the attic,” Chloe said. “I was something you didn’t even want. You hid me away . . .”
Chloe began to cry. She dropped the white bag. She brought her knees up to her face, buried her head in her arms, and shook with silent sobs. During the last fifteen years, Jane had rehearsed this moment so many times. She had sometimes imagined it in a golden haze of wisdom and forgiveness. Other times she had seen them talking earnestly, amazed by their similarities, working out a way to share moments in their lives. Nothing had prepared her for the guttural, animal sounds coming from her daughter’s mouth. Nor for the reaction—as if they were still connected by the umbilical cord—of pain deep in her own body.
“Chloe?” she asked, weeping.
But Chloe was past hearing. The day had been too traumatic. The lie, the truth, the fear—embodied by the white paper bag holding a pregnancy test—of history repeating itself. She just sat on the seat, curled in an upright fetal position, sobbing her heart out.
One thing Jane knew was that the Chadwicks loved Chloe. Chloe had called them her parents—and they had been, for her entire life. Jane knew where Chloe belonged right now. Turning the car around, she drove back the way they had come. Past Cherry Vale, past the mall.