Daughters for a Time

by Handford, Jennifer

  “Listen, girls, you’ll be fine. Your mother will be fine.”

  “You’re leaving? Tonight?” Claire spat the words. It was unfathomable.

  “Your mother and I talked about it in the car on the way home. This is too hard, me being here.”

  “Who is it too hard on?” Claire asked curtly.

  “On all of us,” he blurted, pulling at his hair. “It’s hard for me to see her this way, and I’m sure as hell it’s hard on her having me around after all we’ve been through.”

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “I’m staying with a friend for a while,” he said, only looking up at me briefly. “Everything will be fine. Your mother will be fine, and she’ll talk to the doctor tomorrow.”

  We followed him into the bedroom. We all looked at Mom, who had turned onto her side, her hands gathered at her chin. Larry placed the duffel on the bed, unzipped it. He opened his dresser drawers and tossed in a few essentials: socks, shirts, underwear. Then he went to the closet to get a suit for work, one still covered in plastic from the dry cleaner.

  This would mark the second and final time our father had left. The first time followed his affair a few years back. Then he’d come back home. It was then that Mom discovered she was sick.

  “Dad,” I pleaded, my voice coming out in a whisper. “Why do you have to go?”

  He looked at me, then at the duffel, then at Mom. His face fell. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, shaking his head. “I just need to get away for a while. I’ll call you girls tomorrow, okay? I’ll call Mom tomorrow.”

  Lifting the duffel bag, he crossed to the dresser and picked up a framed photo of Mom, another of Claire and me, his silver chain with the charm of St. Christopher, and tucked them into the side of the bag.

  Dad walked past us, suitcase in hand, his shoulders slumped. He placed his hand on my shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze.

  “Can’t you stay?” I said feebly, too softly for anyone to hear.

  “This is just top-notch,” Claire said, standing firmly with her hands on her hips.

  “I’m sorry, Claire,” he said. “What do you want from me?”

  I want you to stay, I want Mom to wake up and be healthy, I want us to be a family, I remember thinking.

  But Claire had her own answer. “It should have been you.”

  He nodded as if he agreed and walked out the door.

  Chapter Ten

  The stifling, stagnant heat ended on the last day of August when a slight breeze pierced the oppressive wall of humidity. Soon we were pulling light sweaters from the closet, opening our windows at night. October dropped the first crimson leaves. At the end of the month, we traipsed Maura around the neighborhood, dressed as a jaguar, collecting candy for Halloween. The adoption was drawing near and I tried to temper my wanting and impatience by keeping busy at work. Tim and I worked on a new menu, considered bringing in more organic ingredients. Together, we met with meat, fish, cheese, and mushroom purveyors, sampled their items, and made choices. If my mind was occupied, the days were tolerable, but if there was a moment of pause, a panic would stir, and I’d think, What is she doing now? Is somebody loving her? Why does it take so long to get the babies into the arms of their parents?

  On the first Friday of November, I drove to Claire’s house. We were headed to Harvest to celebrate her and Ross’s anniversary. I opened the double doors to the grand foyer. Gigantic stalks of gladiolus adorned the circular table in the entryway. Maura ambushed me at the door, leaping into my arms.

  “Aunt Helen,” Maura huffed. She was naked except for her underwear, and had pigtail knots on top of her head. “Guess what? I’m a puma!”

  “Where are your clothes?”

  “I have fur.”

  “Soft,” I said, rubbing her back. “What else is going on?”

  “I found a ladybug on my window and I put it outside to fly away, and Aunt Helen, guess what? It flew back to my window. The same one!” Maura’s eyes grew huge.

  “Awesome, munchkin,” I said, kissing her cheek and setting her down.

  I found Claire in the gourmet kitchen she’d designed straight out of Home & Design: a Viking six-burner range and double oven, a separate brick wood-fired oven in the corner, a Sub-Zero refrigerator, an island covered in butcher’s block, and Italian terra-cotta floor tiles. Her gorgeous kitchen was a thousand times nicer than mine, and I was the one with the diploma from culinary school. Claire was bent over the counter, working on her “things to watch out for” list for her mother-in-law, who would be watching Maura.

  Ross and Claire had done well for themselves. Claire made a bundle when she sold her investment practice to her partner. And she still received some sort of compensation for “assets under management,” which I didn’t quite understand. Ross worked in the investment business, too. Municipal bonds, mostly.

  Tim and I were different from my sister and brother-in-law in that we never thought about money as a goal. “As long as we’re living our passion,” we used to say, as we traveled from country to country. “As long as we’re doing what we truly love…” Back then, we thought that that was enough: loving each other, traveling with a few bucks stuffed in our backpacks. Now Tim and I carried a double mortgage on our house and a business loan to keep Harvest afloat. So long as the restaurant continued on as it was, booked seven nights a week, we should turn a profit in about three years.

  I left Claire to her disaster list and went out onto the veranda, where Martha, Ross’s mother, was watching Maura swing on the playset.

  “Ever babysat before?” I asked wryly, giving her shoulders a squeeze. Martha was a good sport who had raised three sons. Not much ruffled her feathers. She tolerated Claire’s “instructions” better than most.

  “Here and there,” Martha joked back.

  “You might not know this, but you shouldn’t let Maura play in the road or juggle fire.”

  “I’ll make a note of that,” Martha laughed, glancing around to make sure Claire wasn’t listening.

  “She’s used to me,” I said.

  Martha smiled and said, “She can’t help it. She’s a worrier. Fear is a debilitating thing. You can’t rationalize it.”

  “She could probably thank me for all that fear,” I said, thinking about the time Claire had to fetch me from a 7-Eleven in a rough part of northeast DC after the guy I was with ditched me, leaving me with no way of getting home.

  As we entered Harvest, the warm orange glow of the lighting, the tantalizing fragrance of wood smoke from the kitchen, and the low chatter of the bar crowd enveloped me with a wave of pride, a sense that I had had my hand in something successful. I looked around at the golden frescoed walls, the flicker of candlelight behind the ornate plaster sconces, the Italian tapestries hanging high on the walls. Years ago, I had spent months with an interior designer, discussing and debating paint chips, fabric swatches, lighting options. Rustic, yet elegant was the feel we were going for. Tonight, it seemed spot-on. Our time spent in the South of France, in Northern Italy, had influenced every decision. We needed to be authentic.

  Claire was radiant in her strapless ruby dress, and Ross looked so handsome in his teal merino wool sweater. I was wearing a long, flowing skirt with a peasant blouse and boots, an ensemble that, in my mirror at home, had looked stylish. But compared to this chic crowd, I felt more like an actual gypsy than the unconventional Bohemian I was going after.

  The lobby was packed and the bar was overflowing with happy hour patrons.

  “Helen! How nice to see you,” Sondra said, kissing the air next to my cheeks, leaving a wake of exotic and spicy perfume. Her eyelids were lined expertly, covered in smoky gray shadow, and her eyebrows were plucked into exaggerated arches. Sondra looped her arm through mine as she walked us through the restaurant to the kitchen. Her masses of chestnut hair cascaded loosely down her back, soft and silky. I reached self-consciously at my hair, which tonight seemed thick and dense, like cauliflower florets.

>   “The restaurant looks beautiful,” I said, smoothing my blouse.

  Nestled in the corner of the kitchen—across from the workstations and next to the fireplace—was an alcove with a corner booth. We called it the chef’s table and built it with the thought that some patrons would relish the idea of watching a kitchen in motion while dining. While it was used occasionally for that purpose, the cozy table was used mostly for private luncheons and dinners for DC high rollers. Before we had opened Harvest’s doors and custom-built this corner banquette, Tim and I had sat in this exact spot, with folding chairs, a card table, and a bottle of pinot. The kitchen was under construction. Blueprints lay strewn about on the countertops.

  As we were scooting into the corner booth, Tim exited the walk-in refrigerator with an armful of what looked like lamb chops and rosemary. His face filled with joy at seeing me, which made my heart warm, to think that he still loved me, after everything I had put him through. He kissed me on the mouth and Claire on the cheek, and then poured four glasses of Dom Perignon.

  “I propose a toast!” Tim said, holding up his glass. “To my favorite sister-in-law and brother-in-law. My only ones, but my favorite, nonetheless. Here, here.”

  “Ten years,” said Ross, holding up his champagne flute. The crystal flutes joined for a satisfying clink.

  “Ten years,” Claire repeated, with what sounded like false enthusiasm.

  “Go call,” Ross told her, swigging at his glass. He looked exasperated. “You’ll feel better.”

  “Just let me check in,” Claire said sheepishly. She already had her phone on her lap dialing Martha. “So many things could go wrong.”

  “Like what?” Ross said. “She’s with my mother in our house. In actuality, very little could go wrong.”

  Claire opened her mouth to respond but must have decided against arguing. We’d all heard Claire’s litany of what could go wrong before: Maura could fall off the back of the sofa, she could slip off the barstool, she could choke on a pretzel, she could drown, she could feel insecure, left, vulnerable, scared. She could feel like Claire and I had felt so many times after our mother had died.

  “I’m going to get some air,” Ross said, and walked toward the back of the kitchen, where a door led to the alley.

  I looked at Tim and he gave me a sympathetic smile. I bit into a piece of crusty focaccia, letting the coarse salt and rosemary melt on my tongue.

  Claire clicked her cell phone closed, took a long sip of champagne, and finally relaxed.

  “She’s fine,” she announced. “Fast asleep.”

  I could imagine Maura sucking on the pacifier that she was still allowed to use at night, pausing occasionally to pull it out and examine it, as an old man would do with a pipe.

  “You think you worry now…” Tim said to Claire, with his lighthearted chuckle. “Just wait ‘til she’s a teenager.” He smiled. Poor Tim. Just trying to make conversation, just trying to sympathize.

  “Don’t even mention it,” Claire said, tensing her shoulders. “Besides, I know all about raising teenagers.” Claire looked at me with raised eyebrows.

  “Here it comes,” I said, laughing. “Let’s hear how incorrigible I was, how, if not for you, I would have ended up in the gutter.”

  “Well,” Claire said.

  “We all did crazy things when we were teenagers,” Tim began. “My buddies and I used to swipe the dustiest bottle from my dad’s liquor cabinet—usually Schnapps, if I recall—put it in a Coke bottle, and drive around cruising for chicks.”

  “How’d that work for you, honey?” I asked, leaning into Tim and kissing his cheek.

  “They were lined up,” he joked. “They knew I was super cool with my dad’s Oldsmobile and my bottle of Schnapps.”

  “We all did reckless things,” Claire agreed.

  “I doubt you ever did,” I joked. “If you did, it would have been during the three-minute bell between honors math and honors science.”

  “You’re right.” Claire smiled. “I was kind of busy keeping you out of trouble, going to school, and taking care of the house.”

  “I know, I know,” I said. “I owe you my life, Claire. Anything you ever want, you’ve got it. My kidneys? Liver?”

  “You never know,” she said. “You might need to save my life someday.”

  “I’m all yours.”

  Claire had finished high school before I had even started. Even so, her reputation was still there, like the perky spirit banners that lined the hallways. Go Team! Claire was in Advanced Placement everything, the president of the student council, a peppy cheerleader. And while I did pretty well in the grades department, I couldn’t touch Claire in the attitude department. The teachers, en masse, were effusive about Claire: Future leader! Strong prospects! The sky’s the limit! Rather than compete, it was easier to be the sister in the black Van Halen concert shirt who stood across the street from the high school smoking cigarettes before the morning bell, the kid who forged her sister’s signature to get out of class, the freshman who hitched rides from seniors. On a number of occasions, Claire was called into the principal’s office to discuss my behavior. I’d sit in the hallway, outside of the office, in a hard plastic chair, and listen to Claire lobby on my behalf. “She can do the work,” Claire argued. “We just need to get her to focus. She’ll do better. I promise this won’t happen again. She needs to stay in school. Detention or expulsion will only make her spiral further downward. Our mother died, you remember that, right? Give her a break. She’s still grieving. This is just her way.”

  Ross came back inside. Tim poured more wine, which we all happily accepted.

  Claire smiled and then ate a piece of Tim’s bruschetta. “Oh God,” she gushed. “This is to die for. I am going to dream about this taste.”

  “Not much to it,” Tim said. “Just grilled shrimp, avocado, garlic, chili flakes.”

  “Just sautéed in the skillet?”

  “I’d be happy to show you.”

  “What I dream about,” Ross said, “are those potato things that Helen used to make.”

  “Blini,” I said. Blini were one of my specialties back when I worked the dinner shift: potatoes, flour, crème fraiche, eggs. Pure, silky warm, melt-in-your-mouth comfort food.

  “I’ll make them for you next time you’re at our house,” I said.

  “Why not make them now?” Tim asked.

  “Are you serious?” I asked, looking at the kitchen like I was looking into the mouth of a monster. It had been so long since I’d been behind the line during the dinner shift, elbowing my way among the sous chefs, different entirely from my baking station across the way or helping out at lunch. My palms grew sweaty just at the thought.

  “Go ahead, Helen. Make your brother-in-law a blini.”

  “Okay,” I said, standing up and smoothing my billowy blouse again. It would be nice to pull an apron tightly around this puffy shirt. As soon as I got home, I planned to toss it into the give-away box.

  After I scrubbed my hands and fastened my apron, I slipped behind the stainless steel, thankful that it was a Monday night and only Philippe was on the line. First, I prepared the eggplant and set it to roast. Then I peeled and boiled a couple of Yukon Gold potatoes, the perfect potato for absorbing cream, and pressed them through a sieve. I whisked in the flour and crème fraiche, added an egg, and whisked again until the batter was smooth. Seasoned with salt and pepper, spooned onto the griddle. Once the pancakes were slightly golden, I removed them from the griddle and topped each one with roasted sweet peppers and eggplant caviar.

  For the next half an hour, we drank a bottle of wine, ate blini, and reminisced. It was the happiest I had felt in so long. It was definitely the most connected I had felt in a long time, chatting easily with my sister and brother-in-law, leaning in to Tim naturally, knowing that soon enough we’d be on our way to China.

  Later, Philippe brought our second course, an heirloom tomato tart with nicoise olive tapenade, mixed field greens, and basil vinaigrette. An
d then sweet potato agnolotti with sage cream, brown butter, and prosciutto. Followed by our main course, butter-poached Maine lobster with leeks, pommes, and red beet essence. We ate until we were slouched back in our seats with bulging bellies.

  While we rested and let our food settle, Tim slipped out of the booth and into his office. A few minutes later, he returned, holding a stack of papers. His eyes were aglow; a smile had invaded his face, his mouth pulling toward his ears. In all of the years I had known him, I had never seen this look on his face, something akin to jubilation and joy and wonder.

  “What’s with you?” I asked.

  “It’s here,” he said.

  “What?”

  “The referral from the adoption agency,” he said. “It was just e-mailed a few minutes ago.”

  My heart went into a free fall, ending somewhere in the bottom of my stomach. In Tim’s hand was a photo of my daughter.

  “Xu, Long Ling, female, was born on the fourth of December, two thousand and eleven,” Tim read, “and was sent to our institute by Xuan Cheng Police Station on the sixth of December, two thousand and eleven.”

  “She was only two days old when they got her,” Claire said.

  “And how old is she now?” I asked, trying to do the math.

  “About eleven months,” Claire said. “She’ll be just about a year when you get her.” Claire covered her mouth; she was crying.

  “We named her Xu, Long Ling,” Tim read. “Xu represented her birthplace. Long meant that she was born in the year of the dragon. Ling meant clever and spiritual. We gave her the name with many of our good wishes for her.”

  “What else?” I asked.

  “She eats steamed egg or congee with pork and biscuits and fruit. She sleeps fairly deeply and does not cry often.”

  “Oh, good. No crying,” I said.

  Claire looked at me skeptically. “Yeah right.”

  “Xu, Long Ling is fairly outgoing and active. She is a very lovely little girl.”

  “Pictures, pictures,” I said, rubbing my hands together in anticipation.