“We’re going to work the pattern,” Jack had told him, which involved a succession of takeoffs and landings—touch-and-goes. Informed of their lesson plans, Todd’s initial fervor began to fade. Like most flight enthusiasts, he wanted to fly solo, sail the ocean without an anchor. To his credit, Todd made the best of it, and by the end of the two-hour instruction, exhausted, glistening with sweat, Todd had made significant improvement with what aviators often called controlled crashing.
———
Presently, Jack waited to meet with Nattie’s third-grade teacher, Mrs. Stacy Fenton, a woman in her midfifties, her brown hair marked a few conspicuous silvery threads. Miss Karen Jones, the school counselor, a woman about Jack’s age, was also scheduled to meet with them.
Leaning against the wall and wearing khakis and a plaid shirt, Jack pulled out his phone and scrolled through his text messages. A young-looking couple emerged from the classroom, and the husband nodded toward Jack. The wife scrunched her face, then smiled as if to say, “Not as bad as it could have been.”
Stacy Fenton waved him in, and Jack sat across from her desk. “A very long day,” she stated apologetically. “Karen will join us momentarily.” She excused herself to make a phone call.
While he waited, Jack recalled Nattie’s first day in grade school—how happy she’d been, so ready to learn. Practically delirious. She thought herself a big girl, climbing the scholastic ladder. At six, she was reading at a fourth-grade level, eager to show off her literary prowess to anyone who’d give her the time.
Alerted by the clicking sound of high heels, Jack looked up to spot the counselor, Karen, looking down at him, sporting an encouraging grin. He’d had a limited amount of contact with her, and although Karen seemed pleasant enough, Nattie always pulled a face when the counselor’s name came up.
Blond with dark-framed glasses, Karen smoothed her gray tailored skirt and took the chair next to him. Wearing a cream-colored blouse and smart heels, she looked fashionably correct, as San might have said.
According to San, Jack hadn’t lived a fashionably correct day in his life, a declaration Nattie softened to, “That’s okay, Uncle Jack, you’re a work in progress.”
The outgoing counselor seemed more animated than he’d remembered, discussing her latest read, a collection of short stories by F. Scott Fitzgerald, the ill-fated author of The Great Gatsby. “Do you read any fiction?” she asked.
“Mysteries, mostly.”
“Well, then,” she said, sounding very much like one of his former elementary teachers, “we’ve got our own little mystery right here, don’t we?”
Before long, Stacy returned, and after more small talk, she met Karen’s eyes, and they seemed to share a knowing smile.
“Before we begin, I’d like to extend my congratulations,” Karen announced. “I think it will make a big difference to our situation.”
Jack was confused.
Nattie’s teacher again exchanged glances with the counselor, who added, “Oh dear. I’m afraid we’ve stepped in it.”
Stacy Fenton frowned. “You are getting married, aren’t you, Mr. Livingston?”
Jack chuckled. The women weren’t remotely amused, and he shouldn’t have been, either. Truly, this had Nattie written all over it.
Karen showed him one of Nattie’s latest drawings, a picture of Jack, Laura Mast, and Nattie—each one dressed in Amish attire. Grinning like a bandit, Jack had his arm around Laura, with Nattie squished in between them, beaming streaks of yellow light, artistically envisioned in the preferred medium of most primary students: rainbow-hued crayons.
Stacy seemed flustered, her face reddening. Karen leaned forward, asserting her authority as the school counselor. “Maybe we shouldn’t be too very surprised,” she said. “This particular drawing points to what we’ve been discussing. . . .”
“Indubitably,” Stacy added midstream and with a straight face.
Indubitably, Jack thought, one of Nattie’s favorite words. For a solid week, she’d answered indubitably to nearly every question, until he’d kindly requested her to cease and desist. “You’re driving your nanny crazy.” Cheerfully, Nattie replaced it with no duh, a much hipper option.
“Nattie’s obsession with, well . . . mothers,” Karen finished sharply.
That was the purpose of the meeting in a nutshell. He recalled six months prior, when Nattie wanted to talk about her adoptive mother, Darla, for the first time, followed later by questions about her birth mother: “Do you think she’s looking for me, Uncle Jack?” At the time, he’d thought, Isn’t she too young for this?
Karen Jones reviewed her notes. “Natalie’s work at school hasn’t suffered. If anything, she’s become overly focused on her tests, as if they’re a reflection of her personal worth.” She handed over Natalie’s latest report card—top marks in every subject. “But her social interactions haven’t improved much at all in the past few months,” Karen continued. “Aggressive is perhaps too strong a word, but at times Nattie can be overly controlling. And . . . she’ll cry for seemingly no reason.”
Jack grimaced. A year ago, Nattie’s second-grade teacher had informed him that the other students competed for Nattie’s attention. “They look to her for approval,” she’d said. “Nattie’s confidence is infectious.”
And now tears? He recalled her one-time encounter with a bully as a case in point. While other kids might have cowered in the corner, Nattie had faced the problem head on. Do or die. Had her confidence disappeared with her current obsession over a mother?
“She seems happy, most of the time,” Jack offered somewhat feebly.
“Most troubled kids do,” Karen replied. “But they act out in small ways, giving us little clues.” Karen fixed him with a curious gaze. “How is Nattie at home?”
Jack described his daughter’s numerous questions about Darla, as well as Nattie’s birth mother. “Nattie also makes many lists. Is this normal?” He mentioned Nattie’s fascination with favorite films but stressed again Laura’s important role. “Her nanny provides wonderful support for Nattie.”
By the quizzical way the women looked at each other, they obviously disagreed.
“Mr. Livingston”—Karen leaned forward, continuing in a tone that reminded him of an attorney’s summation—“it’s my professional opinion, after everything we’ve uncovered, that your nanny, this Laura Mast, only aggravates your daughter’s desire for a mother. It must be terribly frustrating, if not a little frightening.”
Frightening?
Karen continued. “We find ourselves concerned about what will happen to Nattie when this Amishwoman seeks employment elsewhere.”
Jack sighed. “I can’t imagine she will.”
Karen looked skeptical.
He mentioned his sister’s role in Nattie’s life, and they acknowledged that San provided essential maternal support for her young niece. Jack asked for further suggestions, but when Karen suggested counseling again, he cringed. He didn’t trust counselors, with their half-baked theories and arrogant Ivy League demeanor. Fact was, he didn’t trust anyone with his daughter.
Jack noticed the time.
Stacy must have caught him looking at his watch and promptly inserted Nattie’s picture into a folder and gave it to him. They rose and escorted him to the door, where Stacy Fenton shook his hand, then headed down the hallway.
Karen Jones lingered behind to offer her business card. “If you’re interested in private counseling for Nattie, I’m available during the summer. I can also give you a referral, if you wish.”
Jack stared at the card, remembering she’d given him the same one a few months before. “Won’t Nattie outgrow this?” he asked.
Karen paused before launching off into her assessment of the special risks attendant to raising an adopted child. “Adoptees often start their lives feeling cast off by their first mothers. They feel rejected in the womb. In Natalie’s case, she grew close to Darla and Danny, only to lose them, too. So in a way, she’s lost everything.
Obviously, at this stage of her development, she’s afraid of losing more, and it’s affecting every part of her life.” She paused to breathe. “Nattie’s desperate for permanence.”
Karen gestured to the folder under Jack’s arm, the one containing Nattie’s drawing, and gave him a heartening smile. “I’ve worked with many troubled kids,” she said. “And I’m convinced that children will find a way to tell you what they need . . . if we can find a way to listen.”
Jack considered this. He’d been listening to everything, everyone, and racking his brain for solutions.
Karen retrieved the card from him. “Here, let me jot down my home phone number, just in case.” She wrote it above the school number and handed it back. “I hope this helps. Call me, Jack, whenever, whatever, just to talk, or if you need help making any decisions regarding Natalie.”
In the parking lot, Jack opened the glove compartment, checking for his camera, which he’d used to chronicle Nattie’s past year, knowing he’d want it at the park, where he was heading. Before starting the ignition, he removed Nattie’s crayon drawing from the folder and studied it.
“Children will find a way to tell you what they need.”
Sighing, he started the car, backed out of the parking spot, and exited to the street.
His cell phone rang, as if on cue.
“Where are you, Jack?” It was San.
“Heading to the park.”
“I’ll meet you,” she said, her tone subdued.
“What’s up?”
“I’ll tell you when I get there,” San said and hung up.
No more drama, Jack thought. Please.
Chapter 8
Light crept through the blinds in her bedroom and she pushed away the sheet. Something’s wrong. Getting up, Kelly yanked on her robe and staggered across the hall to the small nursery, peering into Emily’s crib.
She froze, panicked, then rushed down the steps to the kitchen and into the living room. Heart throbbing, she dashed back to the nursery and saw that Emily’s diaper bag was missing, as was her crib blanket. Hysterical now, Kelly could scarcely think.
Turning to the white wicker bureau, she began to pull out one drawer after another—all empty—her hands shaking wildly.
And then it came to her.
Bobby. No! Please, God, no!
Kelly flew back downstairs to the front door and saw that it was clearly unlocked, even though she’d locked it before going to bed.
Grabbing her cell phone from the kitchen counter, she called out to God for help, then dialed 9-1-1 with shaking fingers, sobbing out her fears when the dispatcher answered.
Moments later Kelly was outside, standing on the edge of the curb, looking up and down the street as if she could somehow snatch back her missing infant.
He must have taken her, she knew then with certainty, the horror of it washing over her.
The distant wail of a siren began to grow in the distance as she punched in the phone number for her estranged husband and waited. One ring . . . two rings . . . and then his dreaded words, “She fetched a pretty penny, Kel.”
———
Kelly jerked awake, drenched with sweat and still fully dressed after her outing to Chet and Eloise’s house. Looking down, she found Emily’s infant booties clutched in her hand. I should have known better than to take them out. Kelly breathed in their aroma, then gently placed the booties back in her bureau drawer.
Still trying to shake off the last vestiges of the nightmare, Kelly wasn’t remotely hungry, though suppertime had long since passed. She turned on her radio and straightened up the bed, fluffing the comforter back into position and humming along with Michelle Tumes’s “Healing Waters.”
In the kitchen, she straightened the dining area and placed her laptop on the sofa nearby, relieved to have another four hours until her night shift began.
Hearing light scratching at the door, Kelly turned to find Felix meowing, posturing for an evening meal. “Is Mommy gone again?”
Felix meowed to the affirmative.
“C’mon, little munchkin,” Kelly cooed, picking up the calico kitty. “Let’s get you fixed up.”
While Felix lapped up the water and Meow Mix, Kelly vacuumed the floor. She tried to keep the place spic and span, especially since Agnes was giving her a drastically reduced deal on rent. Since the landlady made few demands and seemed to appreciate having her around, Kelly didn’t mind the stark studio apartment. Overall, it was a fair arrangement. Pay little; get little.
At the kitchen counter, she shuffled through papers and came across a photo of adorable Sydney Moore. Slumping into the chair, Kelly stared at the picture and remembered the hope she’d felt when Ernie first sent it.
Kelly shuddered and tore the picture into pieces. Old news. Felix nudged her leg and she stroked his neck. But I’m still in the game, she told herself, thinking of Ernie’s new lead and taking Felix in her arms, cuddling him close, wondering where Agnes had gone. Probably playing bingo in the church basement again.
She considered driving to the coffee shop just down the street and ordering something inexpensive, if only to be around others. Maybe a doughnut?
Too sugary, she thought.
Then recalling Eloise’s concern about her not eating, Kelly set the cat down gently and marched to the fridge. She peered inside and spotted a carton of strawberry yogurt, normally her favorite, and felt her stomach roil. Instead, she reached for the half loaf of bread and popped a slice into her old toaster, the one she’d picked up at a garage sale for less than the cost of a cup of coffee at Starbucks.
When the toast popped out, she buttered it and took a bite. It wasn’t very tasty, but she forced it down with half a glass of milk. I’m trying, she thought, remembering the concern in Melody’s eyes, too.
Mel and Kel forever. Kelly hadn’t forgotten their slogan. They’d even had it embroidered on matching T-shirts, personalized with a photo of the two of them, cheek to cheek and not a care in the world.
From the cupboard, Kelly removed the worn photo album of her high school and college years, as well as her early years with Emily. In the meantime, Felix had made himself right at home, lounging on the sofa, just staring back at her.
Kelly smiled. “At least someone’s happy.”
The cat’s eyes drooped, now half-mast. Of course I’m happy. Why do you ask?
Kelly perused the scrapbook pages again. Several photos graced the album—Kelly with Melody, nine-year-olds dressed as characters from The Wizard of Oz, raring to go trick-or-treating. Kelly had been the good witch; Melody had chosen Dorothy. There was also a shot with their prom dates: Kelly with Bobby Maines and Melody with her own husband-to-be, Trey Cunningham. And a final one: the college graduation photo, complete with bright blue caps and gowns. The picture included their parents in front of the girls’ dorm, only weeks away from Kelly’s and Melody’s weddings.
Even now, she was tempted to text Melody.
“Same number, Kel?” Melody had asked.
It’s been six years, Kelly thought. Six lousy years since she’d pushed Melody away. To her friend’s credit, Melody hadn’t much cared for Bobby, even before he took Emily.
Robert “Bobby” Maines had been heartbreakingly charming back in the day. Kelly’s mom spotted him first, at church, impressed with such a “polite young man.” Determined that her daughter marry and have the same happily-ever-after she’d known with her own husband before his untimely death, she’d practically pushed Kelly into his arms.
Dear Bobby. Tall and truly good-looking, his dark eyes could penetrate your heart. Bobby Maines was a back-slapping natural salesman, played varsity football, and was senior class president. The day he turned eighteen, Bobby landed an entry-level job at their local car dealership. Although head over her heels in love, Kelly was determined to finish college. And Bobby promised to wait for her.
While waiting, he made loads of money, startlingly so. Far more than she could’ve made just out of college. Looking back, there
were times when Kelly was puzzled by his ultra-nice approach—his too-smiley demeanor, his upbeat spin on everything, and the surprising flow of money. It worried her at first, then outright annoyed her. Something was dreadfully amiss.
But Kelly was in love and blind. So she married Bobby, despite the warning bells. Their wedded bliss lasted nearly a year before his true colors became apparent, particularly his secret addictions and his paranoid jealousy. Their marriage began to spiral downward.
On top of everything, Bobby wouldn’t consider the possibility of having children, wanting Kelly all to himself and claiming kids were just a money drain. When she’d unintentionally gotten pregnant, he became irate and insisted she abort. Kelly refused, signaling the beginning of the end. Eventually Bobby’s drug and alcohol usage caused him to lose his job, and he became abusive. By the time little Emily was born, Kelly and Bobby had been separated for six months.
Then, one day after a bitter argument, Bobby did the unthinkable.
Days later, the police found him in New York City, sprawled on a hotel bed, dead from an overdose. Baby Emily was nowhere to be found. Scant but sufficient evidence pointed to the unbelievable truth: Bobby had sold their infant daughter to a baby broker for the very drugs that had taken his life. And with his death, the trail to Emily’s whereabouts died, as well.
If only I realized what he was capable of, Kelly thought, now aware of a strange tingling in her arms and legs. Familiar with the first clutches of despair, she brushed away tears, mentally tying a rope to her faith and holding on.
Kelly entered the bathroom and showered, hoping to pull herself together before leaving for work. Dressed and ready to head out, she made it as far as the car before the tears fell again. She tossed her cell phone onto the passenger seat and yanked the door shut, gripping the steering wheel, breathing deeply. Crossing her arms, she shivered in the glow of a brilliant pink dusk. It felt like a sign, one more nudge that God hadn’t forgotten her.
Child of Mine Page 6