“Thank you, Claire!” I said, flying into her arms. “Thank you so much.”
Claire started down the winding streets that led out of the neighborhood, and pulled onto a road that ran parallel to the Potomac River. “I ordered a bouquet from Flowers Galore,” she said. “It’s right down the road. There’s a coffee shop next door. We can grab the flowers, get a coffee, and then be on our way.”
We got the flowers and coffee and then headed back to the car. I rested my coffee on the roof while I wrestled the gigantic bouquet of flowers into the backseat. Claire was prone to overkill. The odiferous bunch stood taller than Maura’s booster seat. If it were up to me, I would have opted for a subtle bunch of wildflowers.
The overly sweet scent of lilacs perfumed the air.
“What are Ross and Maura up to?” I asked.
“Ross took her to see the new Chipmunks movie. Promised she could have her own bucket of popcorn, plus gummy worms.” She smiled.
“Tim fixed me breakfast this morning,” I said. “For Un-Mother’s Day.”
“Any headway on the adoption?”
“Since the last time you asked, two days ago?”
Claire shot me one of her raised-eyebrow glares. “No need for sarcasm.”
A half an hour later, Claire slowed nearly to a stop as we eased our way through the wrought iron gate that was the entrance to Oak Creek cemetery. Mother’s Day was a busy day for visitors. My sister and I shared a sigh before we looked at each other, said, “Ready,” and opened our doors. Claire carried the bouquet, and I carried the potted daffodils from her trunk, along with a hand shovel, gardening gloves, and a bottle of water.
We climbed the hill that led to Mom’s gravesite. It was a good site, on the crest of a perfectly manicured hill that offered sweeping views—if such things mattered once you were dead and buried. Claire stood with her hands on her hips, taking in the view, and then bent down to pick a few weeds.
“How do you want these?” I held up the tray of daffodils.
“I’d say split them equally on either side of the headstone, don’t you think?”
Claire was fond of ending sentences with “don’t you think?” even though it was clear that she had already made up her mind.
I plopped down on my knees. Claire pulled a dishrag from her purse, poured some water on it, and rubbed at the top of Mom’s headstone, pulling away cobwebs, dirt, and grime that had accumulated since the last time we’d visited. When was that? I wondered. Did we really not come at Christmas?
“When were we here last?” I asked.
Claire looked up from the headstone, made a visor with her hand, and said, “I came at Christmas, but I don’t think you did.”
“You don’t think?” I said.
“Okay, I know you didn’t.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that you were coming?”
“I did tell you,” Claire said. At once, I remembered when Claire had called and how I’d been huddled in bed following another disappointing month.
“So I just came alone.” Claire went back to rubbing the headstone, scraping at a patch of moss.
“Real nice, Claire.” I threw the words like daggers, but they might as well have been made of rubber the way they bounced right off of her.
“Whatever,” Claire said. “We’re here together now. So start digging.”
“Remember how Mom was at Christmas?” I asked, a warm memory sliding through me like a sip of hot cocoa.
“You mean all of the presents?” Claire smiled, her face opening, bringing to mind Maura’s innocence—allowing me for a split second to see my sister as a child, before the stress of adulthood claimed her much too soon.
“She went nuts,” I said.
“You couldn’t get anywhere near the tree. And she was just as excited as we were. She’d swear that we’d have to wait until Christmas, then as it got closer, she’d start with, ‘Okay, just one!’ By Christmas Eve, we’d have at least a dozen presents already opened.”
“Do you remember Christmas Eve dinner?”
“Yeah, of course. We’d always go to that little French bistro.”
“That was after Mom died,” I corrected. “That’s where you and I went. I’m talking about when we were younger, still a family. It was Chinese food every year! I hated it, remember?”
“Oh, yeah.” Claire nodded, remembering. “So Dad would run into McDonald’s and get you a cheeseburger beforehand.”
“And a box of cookies that Mom let me eat during midnight Mass, remember?”
“She would have never let you eat cookies in Mass,” Claire said. “You must have put them in your pocket like a little sneak.”
I stared out over the treetops, dug my hands deep in my sweater pockets, and felt Mom’s hand wrapped around mine. “We were a pretty normal family back then, huh?”
“It was a good childhood,” Claire said, willing to concede only so much. “But we don’t know what Mom was going through that whole time. She put on a happy face for us, but she couldn’t have been too happy inside.”
I dug into the dirt. It was soft and crumbly, like a cupcake falling apart, completely unlike the red clay that I had to deal with in my yard. Did the cemetery put a soft layer of soil around the gravesites to make it easy for weary family members? I wondered whether that was mentioned in the brochures: Soft Soil! Easy to Plant!
When we were finished, there were two neat clusters of daffodils on either side of the stone tablet, and the gigantic bouquet propped against Mom’s now clean headstone. Claire and I stood back and took stock.
“We love you,” I said for the two of us.
“Happy Mother’s Day,” Claire added.
“And Happy Mother’s Day to you, Claire,” I said, giving her a hug.
“And Happy Un-Mother’s Day to you, too, little sister,” Claire said. “I’ve got something for you.” Out of her purse, she pulled a neatly stacked bundle of letters, tied with a ribbon.
“What are those?” I asked, even though I kind of knew already.
“These were the letters you wrote to me while you were at school and traveling afterward.”
“You saved them.” A chill ran down my arms.
“They’re beautiful, Helen. They meant the world to me. Every day I would check the mail to see if another had come. I lived your adventure alongside of you. Your happiness and zest for life popped off the pages.”
“Geez, Claire,” I said, almost embarrassed by her sentimentality.
“I thought maybe you’d like to read them. To reconnect with that part of yourself. Or just for the heck of it!” she said, lightening her tone.
“Thanks, Claire. Thanks a lot.” I hugged her tightly, breathing in her expensive rosemary shampoo.
A few minutes later, we turned and began walking down the hill. I glanced back once, only to see that the impressive bouquet had already slid onto its side. I slung my arm around Claire and pointed to the car, hoping that she wouldn’t look back to see that even the sturdiest bunch of flowers could be overcome by its own weight.
Inside the warmth of the car, I pulled out the stack of letters. The first one was written inside a card I bought from a peddler on the street. It was a typically Parisian scene: couples strolling along the tree-lined bank of the Seine, Notre Dame in the background, one of the impressive bridges straddling the river. I started to read it to myself.
“Read it out loud,” Claire said.
Dear Claire,
I’m now settled in at the culinary school’s chateau—you’ve never seen a “dorm” quite like this! I cook all day, and at night, a small group of us students who have become friends sit around on the patio of the manor house, looking out over the hillside covered in lavender, sipping the most delicious Beaujolais. You wouldn’t believe this group—everyone is from somewhere different. The accents, the translations, the hand gestures we all use to communicate what we’re saying. It’s so much fun! We’re tentatively planning a trip through Greece and Turkey after graduation.
>
Believe it or not, there’s this one guy—who is SO good looking, so totally not my usual type (dark, brooding, dangerous). This guy has sandy blond hair and a square jaw and the greenest eyes—very “boy next door.” Guess where he’s from, Claire? Fairfax! I traveled all the way to France to meet a guy from Fairfax, probably ten miles from where we grew up.
Anyway, we’ll see what happens. He laughs a lot. I like that best. I mean, I laugh a lot when I’m with him. It’s like we’re two kids, the way we think everything is SO funny. You’d roll your eyes at us, guaranteed, telling us to “grow up.”
So, Claire. Here’s the thing: I sit with this group of great friends, and I laugh all night with this new guy, Tim, and I love what I’m learning all day long, and while I’m as happy as can be, I can’t help feeling sad for you.
I can hear you already, reading this, saying in your most indignant voice, “Don’t feel sad for me!” But I do because I just wonder: When was your time for fun? Mom died and you stepped right into her shoes caring for me in so many ways I never deserved. I know that I wasn’t good to you and I also know that you never gave up on me. I owe you my life, Claire. You’re the best sister/surrogate mom in the world and I truly hope that now that I’m older and not such a wretched brat all of the time, we can finally be more friends than anything.
I love you, Helen.
I refolded the letter and wiped the tears from my face. Looked at Claire to see how she was doing. Saw a single tear easing down her cheek. I exhaled noisily, blew my nose, and packed away the letters.
That night, while Tim was in the exercise room, I slipped into the bathroom with two pregnancy tests. I read the directions carefully, though by now I was a pro. I locked the door, spread out the contents, and peed into a cup. I dropped the urine into the test area and then waited. A few minutes later, I had the results. One lonely pink line. One very definite negative sign. I held up the tests at different angles, looked at them in different lights, squinted. Maybe it was too early to tell. I waited another five minutes but nothing changed. The negative sign hadn’t miraculously turned positive; one line hadn’t turned to two. I threw the tests away, buried them in the garbage. Five minutes later, I dug them out, just in case the results had changed. They hadn’t. This time I wrapped the remnants in a brown paper bag, crumpled it, and shoved it to the bottom of the garbage under tissues and dental floss so I wouldn’t be tempted to look again.
I waited for the tears to come, but interestingly, they didn’t. An eerie stoicism had taken their place. Could it be that I was all cried out, that my water supply had dried up? Or maybe, could it be that the adoption idea was starting to settle in me? Was it finally sinking in that my infertility might be related to whatever had eventually led to Mom’s ovarian cancer, that my body just wasn’t capable of doing what I wanted it to do? Was it time to admit that I was the end of my line, the last bead to drop from a withered strand of DNA?
In the bedroom, I walked to the dresser, put my hand on the stack of adoption papers, and took a deep breath.
Chapter Four
June rolled in, then July. My period continued to earn perfect attendance, showing up every twenty-eight days. We may not do much, my slacker eggs seemed to be saying, but we’re still here.
In a quiet moment, I finally acquiesced and opened the adoption packet, read it through. Then I went onto the adoption agency website, read, and scrolled through the photos. The site described the children: orphaned, abandoned, vulnerable, waiting for a home. There was one photo in particular—a string of glossy-haired toddlers lined up against a cinderblock wall, holding hands and offering pick-me grins. They were so adorable and perfect. I just stared into their eyes, thinking neither she nor she nor she had ever felt the safety of a mother’s arms, had ever nuzzled into a father’s neck, had ever fallen asleep bookended by two people who would move heaven and earth for her.
It hit me hard. At once, I wanted to be someone to one of these girls.
The tears came, tears made of the same sadness that I had cried for the baby I couldn’t have. I cried—no, I blubbered—freely, as one does in the company of only herself. I read, scrolled, and traced the cursor over the photos. I cried, blew my nose, scrolled some more. Before I knew it, an hour had passed. During that span of time, my pile of Kleenex had grown into a mountain, and the strangest thing had happened. My heart was pounding and my hands were shaking and I had cried a year’s worth of tears. It was undeniable: I had been touched, my heart warmed by an entire society of abandoned baby girls from China. I could do this, I thought. Maybe I could do this. Before Tim got home from the restaurant, I had already drafted our essay for the application.
But my openness to adoption was tempered only a week later, when I felt a twinge in my ovary that suggested that my disappointing eggs were trying to twist and claw their way back into my good graces. Don’t forget about us, they seemed to be calling. We’ve let you down before…but give us another chance. Maybe we’ll make something of ourselves this time. And since a mother never loses faith in her children, I once again allowed my burning desire to have a baby kindle hopes in my heart and mind. I called the doctor, asked him about a new medication I had read about that seemed highly effective at stimulating ovulation.
“Helen,” he said, his weariness with me audible over the phone. “I’ll prescribe it to you, but don’t get your hopes up.”
“My hopes are not up,” I said. “In fact, we’re looking into adoption. But there’s no harm in trying a few more times.”
As I hung up, I placed my hand over my left ovary, gave it a pat, and told it that this was its last chance. Hail Mary time.
A few weeks later, my cell phone rang and it was Tim, saying that he’d be home early for once—by seven o’clock. Tim was never home that early, so I took it as a sign. Today happened to be Day Sixteen of my cycle, and according to my temperature rise and ovulation kit, tonight would be a good night to try. With Tim coming home early, we could put some real effort into it, rather than the usual routine of Tim getting home at midnight, me waking up from a deep sleep, and trying to get things going. This would be our last try, I negotiated with myself. If it didn’t work this month, I’d give in to the adoption.
I decided to reward Tim for coming home early—and butter him up for a good effort tonight with a batch of cream puffs, his favorite. I went into the kitchen and began pulling out ingredients. Once the pastry batter was out of the saucepan and cooling in a bowl, I preheated the oven and baking sheet. Then I prepared the custard and set it aside. Next, I piped onto the baking sheet twenty-four circular mounds. Once they were in the oven, I melted chocolate in a double boiler.
While the puffs were baking, I ran upstairs to freshen up. I washed my face and brushed my teeth, dabbed some foundation under my eyes and around my mouth, swiped some mascara over my lashes, and smeared a layer of pink gloss onto my lips. I pulled on some clean yoga pants and a tank top, throwing my oversized T-shirt and jeans into the laundry basket.
Back in the kitchen, I removed the puffs from the oven, and while they cooled, I opened a bottle of Cabernet Franc, Tim’s favorite, and let it breathe. Then I piped the custard filling into the center of the cream puffs, closed them up, and dipped the tops in chocolate. I popped one into my mouth and smiled, thinking about how excited Tim would be when he saw a plate of these. I poured a glass of wine, took a long sip, and closed my eyes as the notes of cherry warmed their way down my throat. My last glass, I reasoned. Just in case.
At six thirty, I went into the family room, fluffed the pillows, folded the afghan, and started a Coltrane CD that Tim liked. At seven o’clock, I heard Tim pull up. I went to the window and saw that Tim’s car was there, but so was another car behind him—a minivan. I watched as Tim waited while a man, woman, and baby got out of their car. Tim offered to carry a bag. As they got closer, I saw that it was Danny Meyer, Tim’s friend from school, and his wife, Ellen. And, of course, their gurgling adopted baby from China.
I s
queezed my eyes tightly and gritted my teeth until my face shook. Damn you, Tim! Bringing home the faithful to proselytize.
I plastered on a fake smile, met them at the door. “Hello,” I said. “This is a surprise! Good to see you guys.” I had met Danny and Ellen a couple of times years ago.
“I happened to be talking to Danny today,” Tim said. “And we thought that it would be a good idea for you to talk to them about Sasha, their new daughter.”
“Great,” I said, fuming inside, thinking that if I had Tim alone right now, I’d throttle him and then make him watch me flush his cream puffs down the toilet.
Ellen looked at me with a nervous face. “Sorry for just popping in like this.”
“Oh, please,” I said, waving away her concern. “Come on in. I just opened a bottle of wine and made a batch of cream puffs. Please, help yourself.”
“Another benefit to adoption,” Ellen said. “You can drink through the entire process.”
Adoption buffs were always saying stuff like that: You can drink the whole time! No morning sickness! No need for those awful maternity clothes! Never mind that I fantasized about paneled denim, imagining my protruding belly, my supportive hand on my hip as I backed my way onto the sofa.
I laughed, smiled, and when Danny and Ellen hovered over Sasha, I sent Tim a look that told him that he was in serious trouble. He shrugged at me like I wasn’t too scary.
We settled in the family room and spread out a blanket for Sasha. I stared at her while Ellen rambled on about the logistics, the paperwork, and the travel. How waiting for the INS approval was the hardest part. How Danny’s fingerprints got confused with a petty thief’s doing time in Georgia. How once there was an error in the file, it was like moving mountains to fix it.
At some point, I stopped listening and began to wonder, tried to conjure up an image of a little Chinese baby, rattling around in a crib with others just like her. What would it be like to hold a baby who had never been held by a mother or father who adored her? I thought of Maura, how she had been welcomed into this world in a warm hospital, nestled at her mother’s breast, swaddled tightly in soft blankets. How wildly her start differed from the scenario that Tim was proposing: adopting a baby born…where? On the dirt floor of a hut in rural China, her parents disgusted when they saw that she was a girl? An old saying described Chinese females as “grass born to be stepped on.” It wasn’t as if I hadn’t read The Good Earth, and the entire collection of Amy Tan books. I knew how girls were treated there. I knew that it was only the lucky ones who were abandoned in open marketplaces or on the road leading up to the orphanage.
Daughters for a Time Page 4