The Nearness of You

by Amanda Eyre Ward

  Jayne was asleep (or feigning slumber) in the backseat. A bony cat guarding the walkway hissed, then sprang into the bushes. I watched Jayne for a moment, marveling at the courage it must have taken for her to approach me. I decided to let her enjoy as much sleep as possible before she was forced to confront the sight (and smell) of the place she’d once called home.

  Leaving Jayne, I made my way to the front door. The knob was hot in my hand, but I could not turn it. I put my shoulder to the door and shoved: no luck. The house had been locked tight before it was abandoned. I made my way to the side of the house, where I found a window that had been shattered. I reached inside, unlatched the frame, and pushed the lower half up. Then, with some effort and squashing of an overgrown hedge, I scrambled inside the house.

  The smell of mildew was dizzying. There was standing water in the room where I’d entered; it was the family room, judging from a waterlogged couch and wires snaking from the wall that must have once connected to a television. I was wearing flip-flops, and the water was warm and revolting around my ankles. There were cigarette butts in a bowl on a dingy coffee table, and crushed beer cans floating on the floor. Someone had eaten from Popeyes chicken and left behind the take-out bags, which were now teeming with roaches. I knew I couldn’t blame my nausea on you, not this time. I ran into a small kitchen and stood, retching, above a dirty sink.

  The refrigerator was open; there was no electricity. I was too afraid to open any of the drawers or cabinets. I tried to calm myself by figuring out what we would need to stay in this place. Candles, I thought. Food that doesn’t need cooking, instant coffee, bottled water.

  The carpeting on the final three steps of the staircase was still white—the water hadn’t made it to the second floor. I found one bedroom with a queen bed that had been stripped of sheets and an alcove that must have once belonged to Jayne. We would need a battery-powered lantern and some sort of bedding.

  A bookshelf held toys: wooden blocks, a plastic teaset, a moldering collection of stuffed animals. One elephant was not visibly damaged. I threw open the windows and sank to the floor. It was suffocatingly hot. I touched my stomach, thinking of you.

  On top of the bookcase was a framed photo. I looked at the image: a mother and daughter at a table, a cupcake in front of them. The woman was a brunette with a full, sweet face. It must have been the woman I had seen at the motel, but it was impossible to reconcile the young mother in the picture with the junkie she had become.

  The child, however, was clearly Jayne. In the photo, she gazed up at her mother, reaching out to touch her hair.

  In that ruined, empty house, I began to weep. For one thing, I felt safe for the first time since I had fled Houston: no one was going to find me in this godforsaken place. But I also felt how fragile everything was, how one storm could take everything away, how being a mother was a job for life, not one that got easier, and not one you could abandon.

  “I’m going to try,” I told you. “I’m going to do my best for you, OK?”

  My best wasn’t enough, my love, but I didn’t know that yet.

  —

  I looked up at the wall, at pictures someone had framed: a print from a Babar book, a child’s drawing of a family—it was Jayne’s drawing, I could see: a mother, a father, and a smiling girl in the middle labeled “J.”

  “You left me in the car,” said a voice. I blinked and turned. “You said we had a deal,” said Jayne, standing at the top of the staircase. “You said we had a deal and then you left me.”

  I stood. “I’m having a baby,” I said.

  Jayne pursed her lips. “How long?” she said.

  “Six months.”

  “I’ll help you,” said Jayne resolutely. “I’ll take care of you, and you’ll take care of me, remember?”

  The faith in Jayne’s face! She’d been through hell: evacuation, the Motel Claiborne, watching her mother depart little by little. And yet, she believed in me—a complete stranger. Her hope made me want to prove her right, but I was pragmatic, and her plan was crazy. We were going to live in a decaying house together, until your birth? What would we eat? What would happen when you arrived?

  I looked at the picture of Jayne and her mother. Could I become the person she needed me to be? Jayne stepped still closer. “You have a baby inside you,” said Jayne, smiling. “Can I feel?”

  I nodded. She put her warm cheek to my belly. Instinctively, I smoothed her hair with my fingers. And although none of my practical questions had been answered, everything seemed simple—and possible—in that moment. I ran my fingers through Jayne’s tangled hair, and she leaned into me, and I held her up.

  19

  Suzette

  New Orleans smelled rancid, like a bagged lunch left too long in the sun. There was a meaty quality to the air. Even in the morning, the heat felt stagnant, as if a breeze hadn’t blown through the city in months. Once in a while, this overripe fragrance hovered at the edges of swampy Houston evenings, but in New Orleans, the stench seemed front and center. The streets steamed. Suzette’s car bounced as she hit potholes. She remembered the motto: New Orleans, the city that care forgot.

  As Suzette drove, she grew more and more anxious. Her entire existence, she saw now—the gated community, the same order at Starbucks, the precise time she returned home for dinner and her nightly two-point-five glasses of Pinot Noir—it was all designed to keep her from feeling this exact mixture of misery and ambiguity. Or, rather: this certain sense that there were awful things looming combined with a lack of knowledge about when, precisely, they would manifest themselves. How could you arm yourself for a threat without a name?

  Suzette exited the highway. She passed a drive-through daiquiri shop, its neon sign listing flavors like Chocolate Kiss, the B. B. King, and Octane 190. Fortunately, the shop was open only between 4:00 and 11:00 P.M. As she drove by, slowing only briefly, Suzette sighed. She knew that both vodka and rum made her feel calmer (before making her feel sick, and then morose).

  Tulane Avenue looked rough, even in the early morning. Two (or maybe three?) men (or maybe women?) were huddled in a scrum of blankets on the sidewalk in front of a deli (“Best Po-Boys in New Orleans!”). A prostitute (or perhaps just a regular woman having a lounge dressed in a short skirt and bra) leaned against a brick wall, seemingly asleep. Trash blew across the street. Suzette squinted, making out the MOTEL CLAIBORNE sign, a large blue sweep of metal with the name hand-painted on its side in white.

  Suzette turned in to the parking lot, taking in the rows of motel doors, a walkway lining the upper floor. This place was even worse than she’d imagined. Suzette told herself that maybe, possibly—it wasn’t impossible—she’d heard wrong when the man said “Motel Claiborne.” But her stomach, pulsing with a dull ache, acknowledged the truth. Suzette got out of her car and locked it, the back of her neck prickling with the sense that she was being watched. There was a pool at the far end of the parking lot, and what seemed to be a trash dump to the right.

  Suzette took a deep breath. What exactly was her strategy here? Just locate Dorrie, force her into the Lexus, and drive home? Here in Louisiana, the papers Dorrie had signed had no value. Suzette was sickeningly helpless. She strode toward the dented door marked OFFICE and pushed the bell.

  Suzette crossed her arms and waited. Nothing happened, so she pushed the bell again, held it down until she heard someone fumbling with the lock. She put her hands on her hips. A stooped, balding man in pajamas appeared, and Suzette spoke. “My name is Dr. Suzette Kendall,” she said authoritatively.

  “You a cop?” said the man.

  “No, but they’ll be here momentarily if you don’t tell me where I can find Dorothy Muscarello.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said the man, shaking his head. “Office opens at nine, ma’am.”

  “She’s my height, with dark brown hair,” said Suzette. “I know she’s in this…establishment.”

  “Oh,” said the man, nodding. “That one. She’s
gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “She was here till today,” said the man. “She didn’t pay. Now she’s gone.”

  “I’ll need to see her room,” said Suzette, trying to mask her frustration with a commanding tone.

  The man snorted and shook his head. “There’s someone in there,” he said. “And I’m not waking anybody.” He hesitated. “Was it her on the news?” he said.

  Suzette nodded.

  “Dammit,” said the man. “Shoulda listened to Harlan. But I don’t want no trouble, you know?”

  “What?” said Suzette.

  “Nothing, ma’am. Not a thing.”

  “What am I supposed to do now?” said Suzette.

  The man paused. “Go home, lady,” he said, shutting the office door and bolting the lock.

  Suzette was silent, adrenaline making her heart thud fast in her chest. She listed her options in her mind. Driving home was an admission of defeat, and she couldn’t bear to return to Hyland without any news. And if Suzette called the cops, she knew, they would tell her she had no claim to her baby, to the baby her husband had made!

  Suzette walked slowly across the parking lot. This was a crack den, or a whorehouse, a shit show of a motel. If Dorrie could end up here, anything was possible. The desire to fix things and the impossibility of doing so twisted inside Suzette, making the pain in her gut worse. She paused by the pool entrance, gazing at the broken chairs and dirty water. Was it possible that the man had been lying? Could Dorrie still be here, behind one of the banged-up motel doors?

  Someone had spray-painted LET GO AND LET GOD on the wall. Suzette stared at the words for a time. She’d seen the Alcoholics Anonymous slogan on bumper stickers before, but never writ so large. She shook her head. Let go and let God sounded fine and good, but when push came to shove, Suzette believed in action.

  “Dorrie!” yelled Suzette, as loud as she was able. “Come out, goddamn you! Dorrie! Dorrie!”

  A man wearing boxer shorts appeared on the upper-level walkway, his hand shading his eyes from daylight. “Keep it down!” he said.

  “Where are you, Dorrie?” screamed Suzette. She ran to her car, unlocked it, and leaned on her horn. “Come out, goddamn you!” she cried, pushing the horn again and again. “Fuck you, Dorrie!” she yelled. “Fuck you, Dorrie!” It felt good to scream. It felt good to be out of control.

  A woman in a dirty T-shirt opened a ground-floor door, squinting. “What’s going on?” she said. She was little more than skin and bones, an addict toward the end of her run.

  A sense of her own futility filled Suzette with fire. She leaned on her horn again. The man came down the stairs and approached her, pulling on pants. He looked jittery, strung out. “Hey,” he said. “Come on now. You got to shut up now, lady. Calm down.”

  “Calm down?” said Suzette. She laughed, and the man’s expression changed, growing angry. Suzette continued to laugh, emitting a barking sound, the sound of trapped sobs. Since the day she was taken from her mother’s house, she had not cried, and she wasn’t going to start now. In the distance, she heard a police siren. “Fuck you!” she said. “Fuck you!”

  Suzette leaned into the car, blared the horn. When she reemerged, she saw that the man was aiming a handgun at her. “Do you have a gun?” he yelled.

  Suzette raised her arms in front of her, as if fending off an animal. “Do I have a gun?” she said.

  The man fired. The sound was like a cannon. Even after he had turned and run, Suzette could hear the shot in her ears. Her leg bloomed with blood, and somehow she was sitting on the ground.

  “Where’s my daughter?” said the junkie in the T-shirt. She looked absolutely desperate. “Has anybody seen my daughter?” she said.

  “I can’t help you,” said Suzette. She covered her face with her hands. She repeated, “I can’t help you.”

  20

  Dorrie

  I suppose you’ll learn this someday, or maybe you already know, but there are times when doing the right thing—the only thing, the only good thing—is impossible. It is not possible, and yet it must be done. Am I making any sense?

  Jayne knew I was too big. But she had fed me so much—canned soup and milk and fresh apples from the Piggly Wiggly within walking distance. We used the money in her envelope, and then she begged for change. Somehow, she fed us both. I wondered if she stole, but I didn’t ask. What would I do with this information?

  It seems impossible that such a young girl was so capable, I know. But as Jayne told me of what she’d already survived, I came to understand that she was much older than her years. She’d been waiting for a way to start over, and she was going to make her new family work. When we realized we could not stay in her ruined house, she found a neighbor’s house that had not been as damaged. Jayne found a way to turn the electricity back on. Again, I didn’t ask. It was not an easy time.

  When the pains came, she stayed beside me, three books about childbirth from the library open beside her. She’d studied the books for months, and had the phone number of a hospital on hand, in case things went wrong. (We’d discussed at length when we should call a hospital. I told her that I’d rather you be safe and taken from me than put at risk.)

  It was hellish. I was twenty-one, technically a virgin. For twenty-eight hours, it went on, the pain like a drill. Jayne took notes about the moments you were born, and I will enclose them here:

  • 3:26 p.m. Perineum bulging, placed my hand on introitus and perineum. D breathing well, told D to push gently to avoid tear.

  • 3:35 p.m. Z head emerged, I kept pressure on Z head and chin.

  • 3:38 p.m. Felt for cord behind ear, not found, THIS IS GOOD!!!

  • 3:41 p.m. Amniotic fluid is clear, no need for suction.

  • 3:43 p.m. Pressed down on head to encourage top shoulder to deliver.

  • 3:44 p.m. I can see top armpit crease! Lifted up on Z’s head to deliver bottom shoulder.

  • 3:45 p.m. Z is here!!! Dried Baby Z, wrapped her in dry blankets. Discarded wet towels.

  • 3:47 p.m. Oxygen ready, but Z’s trunk is turning pink and her hands and feet, too.

  • 4:04 p.m. Clamped cord 3 inches from abdomen and again 2 inches past that. Cut between clamps. Placed Z on D’s chest with head lower than feet.

  • 4:05 p.m. Gave traction on cord to assist in placental expulsion.

  • 4:08 p.m. D says she is having contractions.

  I don’t know how Jayne remained calm, gripping my hand, forcing me to concentrate on my breathing, guiding your body into the world after your head finally, finally emerged.

  You were so beautiful! I will never forget the first time I saw your face—eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a protesting yowl—or the fierce way you latched on. From the first seconds, I knew you would survive. With the tools she’d bought and carefully sterilized, Jayne clamped and cut the cord that bound us.

  “My baby,” I said, holding you. You had my hair, thick and unruly. You had your father’s fine nose. I was crying and laughing, overcome. “We did it,” I said to Jayne.

  “You did it,” she said. We watched you suckle, still slick as a seal. We thought it was done.

  But then the pains began again.

  21

  Suzette

  On the baby’s due date, after Suzette’s leg had recovered and she had returned to work, she woke in the middle of the night. She knew their baby was in the world, knew it with complete certainty. And in the dark of the warm bedroom, she moved close to her husband. How could they go on, not knowing where the baby was, if the baby was all right, how the baby looked and smelled? It was not possible.

  But what could she do?

  Suzette closed her eyes and prayed, as she had once done while waiting for Camillo’s heart to beat again. She whispered, May you find the place where you belong. Also, selfishly, Please find your way to me.

  She was desperate. She was out of ideas. She was giving up. She was crying.

  Maybe this was letting go and le
tting God.

  22

  Dorrie

  For 603 days, you were mine. Do you remember?

  23

  Suzette

  Deep in the winter evening, the bell rang. Hyland was cooking in the kitchen; the house was filled with the smell of browning butter. “Coming!” Suzette called, walking to the front door. Meg and her husband were due for dinner.

  Suzette brought her eye to the peephole. Her breath caught when she saw Dorrie’s mother, Patsy, in the lamplight. Patsy’s face was mottled, as if she had been crying.

  “Hyland!” Suzette cried, her voice high-pitched and shrill. “Hyland!” she screamed, fumbling with the lock. Hyland’s footsteps coming quickly. Patsy, her cheeks wet, her expression morose. “Patsy?” said Suzette. “Are you all right, Patsy?”

  “She told me, she said please don’t look for her. You have to promise,” Patsy said, her words tumbling over one another like stones in a waterfall.

  “I don’t understand,” said Suzette, and then her gaze fell. A girl, not yet two, stood next to Patsy, gripping her leg. Her eyes were wide. Suzette could see a patchy rash on her cheeks and, yes, on her hands as well.

  “Oh my God,” said Suzette. “Is that…are you…?” She knelt and gathered the girl in her arms without thinking. The girl was hot, too hot.

  “Dorothy tried, but she couldn’t do it,” said Patsy. “She’s real sick, there’s something wrong. Dorothy tried, I’m telling you. But she…”

  In Suzette’s arms, the child made a jerky movement, then eased into Suzette’s embrace. “Rheumatic fever,” said Suzette, her body filling with fury. “How long has she been sick? We need to take her to the hospital right away, Patsy!”

  “She’ll sign whatever papers you need. But she needs to go on and live her life. You can’t bother her ever again. You have to promise.”

  “What’s happening?” said Hyland, appearing in the doorway. Suzette looked up, shook her head, too overcome to speak. She held on to the girl, who made the terrible jerking movement again. Rheumatic fever, which occurred when a strep infection went untreated, was almost unheard of in the United States. But Suzette’s colleague Alberto had begun working in Africa with children whose hearts had been compromised by the disease; Suzette recognized the symptoms.