"Dunkle, that sleigh ride was so fun," I heard Celia exclaim. "I wish we could do it again.”
He was crouched down now, talking to her, and once again I was puzzled by the fact that Celia spoke directly to him, not via the doll.
Then I felt a light tap on my shoulder.
"Can I talk to you a moment?" Esther asked. “I’d like to finish up our conversation from before.”
I didn’t want to but I sensed she wasn’t going to quit until she had said her piece.
"Sure." I tore my gaze away from Celia, who was talking animatedly to Duncan, making eye contact, her hands waving as she spoke.
"Away from everyone," Esther added, jerking her head toward the barn behind us.
"Will you girls be okay?" I asked Laine and Savannah. They nodded.
Tiffany had joined Cora on the bench, eating the perfect s'more Esther had just finished. Celia was still talking to Duncan.
Esther had gone ahead of me and opened one of the side doors of the barn I had just been in with Duncan a few moments ago, waiting for me to go inside.
She flicked a switch and a watery light from a bare light bulb cut the gloom. I had to blink to adjust my eyes from the bright sunshine outside to the dim light inside.
"I wanted to talk to you without Celia overhearing," Esther was saying, walking over to a square bale of hay and dropping onto it. “This may be a bit awkward, but I was wondering if you noticed how Celia doesn't talk to Duncan through that doll of hers."
I nodded, still feeling the faint pangs of jealousy at that action of hers.
"It seems to me that Celia isn't that close to you," she said.
Her blunt statement was like a body blow. Though I knew it myself, hearing her spell it out so starkly made it more real and painful.
She's my daughter, I wanted to cry out. I carried her for nine months. Gave birth to her. I would have kept her if I could.
"I think it's because we barely know each other," I said, struggling to keep my tone even and unemotional, drawing on older, seasoned skills. "I haven't seen a lot of her as she was growing up."
"I understood that you weren't involved for most of her life. Jerrod said there were…reasons."
My heart jumped at her hesitation. Did she know my past? My dark secret?
But as I stilled my own panicky thoughts, I realized she was probably talking about my role as an aunt.
“I was living far away,” I said, realizing how she could see that as a feeble excuse.
“Which raises the question why my sister named you as Celia’s guardian. And why Jerrod named Duncan."
"I think my brother originally wanted your parents as guardians," I said not sure how to get through this awkward conversation. It had been difficult enough to see Duncan's reaction when the lawyer stated Francine and Jerrod's choices. Listening to Esther’s skepticism only added to my insecurities. "And he probably changed it after your father's accident. As for Francine, who knows?"
"She probably had her own twisted agenda," Esther muttered, looking away.
"What do you mean?"
She pulled her attention back to me and quickly shook her head. "Sorry. Just thinking out loud."
But her comment made me even more curious what she meant. Plus, I sensed she was dancing around the edges of where she really wanted to go.
"You think Duncan should be Celia's guardian," I said, heading her off at the proverbial impasse.
Esther's eyes grew wide and her mouth slipped open in an O of surprise. But she recovered quickly, then gave a decisive nod. "Yes. That's exactly what I think."
Even though I knew where Esther had been headed, and though I had already discussed this with Mrs. Tiemstra it still hurt to be reminded of it again.
I pushed my own changing feelings aside, trying to be dispassionate about the discussion. However, that didn't mean I didn't have my own questions.
"Why do you think your sister named me guardian?" I asked.
Esther shrugged. "I don't know why. I mean, Celia isn't even related by blood to you."
She's my daughter.
You can't think that, I reminded myself. You gave up your rights. You gave those up when-
“But she’s not related by blood to Duncan either,” I pressed.
“No, but he’s family at least.”
I let that slip.
"And given your situation – I mean you live far away and I understand that your employment situation has been, well, erratic."
And how did she know that? Had Jerrod and her been talking?
Regardless, I was getting tired of her pointed comments.
"If you're trying to get to the point where you ask me if I'm willing to give up my rights to Celia…" I paused there, the words choking me even as I spoke them "…then you may as well know that from the beginning I also thought Duncan should be her guardian. In fact, when he told me he couldn't or wouldn’t do take on the responsibility, I was upset. Your mother and I discussed this when we planned out Celia's birthday party."
Again, Esther did her impression of a dead fish, and again, she pulled herself together. "You talked with my mother already? You agree with me?"
"I know my situation better than you seem to, and while I know that while your parents can't take care of Celia, with Duncan she'll have some semblance of a family. Whereas with me…" I let my sentence fade away as I felt my throat thicken.
This was ridiculous. I had to stop this feeling sorry for myself. I knew my reality.
It was just that every minute I had spent this past week with Celia had become more precious. Every moment drew out maternal feelings I couldn't indulge in yet couldn’t ignore.
Neither could I ignore the differences between what Duncan could give her and what I could. That cozy house with its cheery fireplace, the space and freedom this yard could offer her, horses that she loved. Grandparents, an aunt. Family. Community.
I couldn’t even come close with my cramped apartment and lonely life.
"I'm surprised your mother didn't say anything to you,” I continued. “I had exactly this conversation with her in the café. As we were planning this birthday party."
Esther bit her lip. "My mother and I don't talk a lot, and we haven't had much opportunity since I came back." Then she leaned back against the wooden wall behind her, stroking her chin with her fingers, as if plotting. "But if what you say is true, the only obstacle is Duncan. We need to find a way for him to take over his guardianship of Celia."
It was dizzying how quickly she accepted what I had said.
She stood, smiling at me, a co-conspirator in her plans. "So if you agree, then we need to come up with a way to get Duncan more involved."
I simply shrugged, not trusting myself to speak, angry at the unexpected emotions crowding up my throat.
"I know he's busy," Esther continued, not noticing my silence as she stared at the ground, thinking. Planning. "He's got a lot going on, but we'll just have to make him see how important this is." She looked up at me then. "You need to find opportunities to bring him and Celia together. If you could let him know that you think it's best if Celia be with him and if I work on him from my end, explain to him that we're all behind him. And you may as well know, though I haven't told my parents yet, I'm taking some time off school. Coming to help take care of Celia until Jerrod and Francine's estate is all settled and, hopefully, Dad gets a bit better."
Her declaration should have assured me that Celia would be in good hands. Instead, it only underlined how little I could do for my daughter.
"Well, that would help," I said. “And that’s quite a sacrifice. To put your schooling on hold.”
Esther shrugged. "Not so much. I need to take some time off and figure out where I'm going. It’s been…been a bad year. Too many other things going on."
She sounded sad, and again, I had to remind myself of what she'd lost as well.
"You've had your own sorrows too," I said. "I'm sure this has been especially difficult for you."
/> "What do you mean, especially difficult?" she asked, her voice taking on a surprisingly sharp tone. “What do you know? What has Jerrod told you?”
Her defensiveness puzzled me. "Your sister. You just lost a sister," I said.
Her expression grew confused and then she nodded, looking suddenly relieved as if she had been talking about something else. "It's been a crazy few weeks." Esther dragged her hands over her face she looked down, her eyes closed. She stayed that way a moment, then looked over at me. "So, you're okay with this?" she asked. "Helping us to sway Duncan to do what he should?"
I'm not okay with this, I wanted to say. I want to be able to take care of my own daughter.
But reality was not my ally, so I simply nodded. "I want what's best for Celia," I said quietly. Obediently. The good girl trying to make up for the mistakes she'd made.
"Did you have a good time today?" I asked as I toweled Celia off.
She had smelled like wood smoke and horse and outdoors. When we got back to the house I suggested she have a bath. She had protested at first but I told her that Jane also wanted a bath. This netted me a skeptical look, but I spoke with authority gleaned from desperation, so she gave in.
"I did. Riding in the sled was so fun. I love the horses. I wish I could ride them myself. And the s’mores were good and it was nice to be with Oma.” Her words spilled out in an enthusiastic rush, her eyes bright as she looked up at me.
I felt a melting deep in my soul, a wavering of my own convictions. This was the first time we had made eye contact and she had addressed me directly since the funeral. Her eyes holding mine was a gentle incursion into the place I had shut off ever since I handed her over to the social worker that dark dreary day.
"I want to go to Dunkle's again,” she said, then, as if she knew what she was doing, she looked down. Away from me. “Jane wants to go to Dunkle’s again.”
So did I.
I quashed that thought, recognizing it for the foolish thing it was.
But for a moment, a brief snatch of time, my daughter had acknowledged me. Had been animated and excited and talking to me. Making eye contact with me.
I tried not to latch on to it. Instead, I picked up the hairbrush and handed it to Celia, so she could brush her hair herself. I'd found out the hard way the first time I bathed her that she didn't like me touching her hair.
"What was Jane's favorite part of the day," I said, even though the words choked me. I wanted her to keep talking, and if it had to go through this inanimate creature, then so be it.
"She didn't like it when Tiffany teased me and told me that having a doll is dumb. That made Jane sad."
"And that made you sad too?" I asked, trying to draw her own ideas out.
All I got from her was curt nod as she dragged the brush through the tangled mat of her hair. I was itching to grab the brush and help, so instead I expended my energy on cleaning up the toys she had in the bathtub.
“And I didn’t like it when Aunty Esther wanted to make me a s’more,” she said with a deep frown.
This surprised me. I thought there would be a stronger connection between Celia and her aunt.
“Aunty Esther really likes you,” I said carefully.
Celia’s frown deepened, clearly unwilling to talk about her aunt.
Curious.
I drained the tub, wiped down the taps and counter with the towel. I gathered Celia's clothes and tossed everything into the laundry basket tucked in a closet behind a door, taking a moment to appreciate the order I had marshaled out of the sticky chaos that had been the bathroom. I felt like I was slowly putting my own stamp on this beautiful home.
Celia was struggling to get her nightgown on, and once again I stayed back, letting her figure it out herself. She got it on backward, her hair snagging on the buttons, crying out when her hair got tugged. Once again she pulled, still crying.
I couldn't stand it anymore.
"I think Jane would want me to help you," I said, keeping my voice quiet and unobtrusive.
To my surprise, Celia nodded.
I gently loosened her hair from the buttons then got the nightgown turned around. Then I took Jane and put her matching nightgown on as well.
"Should I brush Jane's hair?" I asked and when Celia nodded her assent I felt like I had caught a glimpse of a shift in our relationship. I sat down and under Celia's guidance, carefully brushed Jane's hair. I managed to French braid one side of Jane's hair, then blended it into a regular braid, pulling it all to one side and tying it off with a brightly colored ribbon.
"That looks pretty." Celia took the doll, examining the hairstyle from a few different angles. Then she stood on the little stool in front of the sink and frowned at her own still-scraggly hair in the mirror. "Can you make mine look the same?"
Don't rejoice. Don't draw attention.
"Yes. I can," I said pleased with my restraint.
And as she clutched her doll, I carefully worked my way through the damp snarls of her hair. This is what mothers do, I thought slowing my movements, savoring the moment.
Fifteen minutes later, I was finished, and Celia was grinning as she turned her head this way and that, looking from her reflection to Jane. "We look exactly the same," she said, a slow smile spreading over her face. Then she turned to me, her smile growing. "Thanks, Aunty Miriam."
I returned her smile, my own heart pounding with a mixture of affection at the fact that she had addressed me personally, yet my joy was edged with a ragged feeling of dissatisfaction.
I don’t want to be Aunt Miriam. I want to be Mom.
I caught myself, my heart stuttering in my chest.
You had your chance I reminded myself. You did what was best for her.
But I didn't have a choice.
I stilled the voice, remembering what the social worker I had been working with to arrange Celia’s adoption had told me. That my choices had brought me to where I was and to do what was best for my baby.
Part of me had always wanted to protest that I didn’t know all the dark secrets of my boyfriend’s, Gregg’s life.
But at the same time I knew that I had made my own choice to stay with Gregg even after I caught a glimpse of part of his double life. The drugs. The parties.
I pushed those memories far down. No need to resurrect that part of my past. I had promised myself that God had forgiven me.
However, that didn’t stop me from stroking my daughter’s hair, letting my hand linger on the sweet softness of her cheek. Allowing myself these few moments of connection.
"You're welcome little girl," I said.
"Can you read me a story?" she asked, and then, as if realizing what she had done, dropped her head, clutching her doll close. "Can you read Jane a story?"
"I'll read you both a story," I said, recognizing the small progress we had made tonight. "Let me know what Jane wants and I'll read it to both of you."
We went to her room, and to my surprise, she pulled out one of the books I had illustrated off her extensive bookshelf. She dropped it on the bed, and as I glanced at the dustcover, the sight of the dancing princesses I had painstakingly worked over all those years ago created a surprising longing in me.
"Shall I read this one first?" I asked, holding it up. The corners were dog-eared and the ripped dust jacket had streaks of what looked like chocolate on it.
It looked well loved.
"No, this one comes first." She handed me another book.
The princess on the cover of this book stood on a hill, her head thrown back, arms out, her crown almost falling off her head as the wind teased her dress and hair.
As I looked at the picture my mind sifted back to a happier time in my life. A time when I thought I was on the cusp of a new career and opportunities.
And then Gregg happened and my life spun around and down.
"It's about a princess who doesn't want to be a princess anymore," Celia told me, hunkering down beside me, clutching Jane. "And she runs way and finds 'ventures, and helps
save a bunny and a toad and other things." She stopped, her eyes fixed on the book as I opened it.
It felt like coming home, I thought, as I cleared my throat and began reading. So easily I pictured myself sketching out the princess, crouched down by her father's throne. Pouting. The joy I had felt as the picture came to life. The layering of the colors bringing dimension and color to the sketch.
As I read, I touched the pictures, as if connecting to that joy again. And suddenly, my fingers itched to draw and paint again.
"I like that story," Celia said, as I closed the book at the end.
I wanted to ask her if she liked the pictures, the artist in me needing the affirmation, but she took it from me and plunked the second one on my lap. Then, to my surprise, as I read she moved closer. A few minutes later, Celia leaned against me. Her warmth, the curve of her body fitting into mine, created a gentle ache.
But with it came a tenderness and an urge to protect this child from all harm. To keep her close.
I swallowed and kept reading, allowing myself to recreate that magical time in my life when all was well. When the future beckoned as brightly as it did to the princesses I drew.
Four books, one lullaby, and a recitation of "Now I Lay Me" later, Celia lay tucked in the sheets of her beautiful bed, the pink princess duvet pulled up around her chin. She gave me a sleepy smile, rolled over onto her side, and as I watched her eyes drift closed, her lashes settled into a delicate fan on her rosy cheeks.
I lowered myself to the carpet beside the bed to do my nightly surveillance.
I pulled the gauze netting of the canopy around the front of her bed, waiting as her breaths grew heavy and even. Then, when I thought she was fast asleep, I gave in to an impulse and gently stroked my hand over her warm, soft cheek.
Was that a smile?
"Mommy," I heard her whisper.
My heart jumped, and I struggled not to pull her into my arms. Instead, I satisfied myself with laying my hand on her shoulder so if she woke during this in-between time, she would know I was there.
"Please watch over her, Lord," I whispered. "Heal her broken heart. Take care of her lonely soul."
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