Baby Girl

by Bette Lee Crosby

  On this night there was. “Read this book,” it said. “You’ll love it.”

  For almost two years I dreaded being alone in that dreary little cabin; now I didn’t mind being by myself at all. I think it’s because I no longer felt alone. If I felt the least bit lonely I could call down and invite Margaret up for a cup of tea or telephone Ophelia and talk for an hour.

  Alone and lonely aren’t the same thing. Margaret and Ophelia were both widows who lived alone but neither of them was lonely. They had friends and neighbors who cared about them. They had me. And now I had them. Plenty of times I’d been with a crowd of people talking and laughing at the clubhouse, and yet I still felt lonely. This was different. Being alone was okay because I wasn’t lonely.

  That evening I fixed myself an omelet for supper and sat at the table with the book propped in front of me. The story was a tale told by a boy who called his grandpa Pappy. As I turned the pages I got to know the boy and his family. Then I began to care about the boy. And then I grew fearful for him. I read straight through until one o’clock in the morning, and the next day I hurried home from work to finish the book. As I turned the last page I gave a sigh and decided to join the library.

  This was the second new me, a person who in some ways resembled the first me. This time, though, I was a bit braver, a bit more determined to take on life and not buckle under the weight of it.

  The Letter

  Before I was in the apartment three months, I had chintz curtains at the kitchen window and three potted plants sitting on the sill. They were plants I’d grown myself, with Ophelia’s help of course.

  She had an almost magical way of growing things. Ophelia could stick a seed in the ground and a few days later she’d have a full-grown plant. One time I told her I could smell the flower garden even before I rounded the corner of Haber Street.

  “That’s your mind racing ahead of your nose,” she said, laughing. “You’re reaching out for the fragrance you expect to find.”

  “No, no,” I insisted. “There’s something about this place, the house, the garden, even the apothecary. If not magic, how can you explain a potpourri that changes scent or a tea that makes people feel better?”

  She gave a saddened smile. “I’ve always believed the magic of Memory House was something Edward and I created when we first moved in here.” She went on to say how they’d had only a little furniture but a whole lot of dreams.

  When she spoke of lying on the grass and looking up at the stars, it reminded me of that Fourth of July summer when Ryan and I did the same thing.

  “I guess sometimes the dream thing works out, and sometimes it doesn’t,” I said wistfully.

  Ophelia knew all about Baby Girl. She’d gone through it with me, and I’d shared every gory detail. Times when I thought my heart would burst open from the anguish, this is where I’d come. No matter how low I was Ophelia lifted me up so that I could see myself moving from one day to the next.

  “You’re still missing that baby, aren’t you?” she said.

  I nodded. “For almost nine months she was part of me and now she’s gone—”

  Ophelia interrupted. “She’s not gone at all. She’s living a fine life with a mama who loves her to pieces.”

  Back in the days of my pregnancy LeAnn and I had both come to the apothecary in search of dandelion tea. It dawned on me that she might still do so.

  “Have you seen LeAnn?” I asked. “Have you seen Morgan?”

  Ophelia gave a barely perceptible nod.

  “Yes and yes,” she said softly. “But Morgan and her mama deserve to have their own happiness. You gave LeAnn the greatest gift she’ll ever have. Now you have to back away and let her enjoy that gift.”

  I knew Ophelia’s words were true, but it was a thing easier said than done.

  “I’m not going to interfere with their life,” I said. “I’d just like a glimpse of Morgan, you know, to see if she has my smile or my eyes. She’s gone, but I still feel there’s this connection…”

  “That’s perfectly normal.” She smiled and took my hand in hers. “You are connected to her. It’s the same as the way God is connected to this earth, and the way I’m connected to every seed I plant. We’re creators and we love our creations, but that doesn’t mean we can hang on to them forever. Every plant that leaves here has a piece of me in it, but I don’t expect the owner to bring it back every few weeks so I can watch it grow bigger.”

  I laughed at the analogy. “You’re right. I know you’re right.”

  Nothing more was mentioned that day, but two weeks later I found an envelope in my mailbox. It was a letter from LeAnn. It said Morgan was doing fine and was going to start kindergarten that fall. The letter indicated that she’d had some digestive issues the first two years, but by the time she was three they’d pretty much disappeared. Along with the letter there was a picture of my Baby Girl.

  She had a wide grin on her face, and I could see an empty spot where her front tooth had fallen out. She had the same blue eyes and crooked smile as I did. I framed that picture and set it on my six-foot long dresser.

  I can’t say if Ophelia suggested LeAnn send that picture or conjured up some magic spell that caused her to do it. What I can say is that I was truly grateful. I treasured that little picture more than anything else I owned.

  As summer turned to fall and the frost of winter settled in, I continued to visit Ophelia. I came almost every weekend. Some Saturdays I’d rap on Margaret’s door and ask if she’d like to join me. She almost always answered yes and generally had a plate of cookies or some sort of cake to bring.

  Once we were there Ophelia would brew a pot of dandelion tea, and the three of us would sit on the back porch talking like we were lifelong friends. It’s funny because I was in my early twenties at the time, and while Ophelia and Margaret were both a good fifty years older than me it didn’t seem to make a difference. When we were knee deep in conversation, it was as if I was the same as them.

  About two weeks before Christmas Ophelia showed us a new treasure she’d found at the Sisters of Mercy thrift shop. It was a little pink rubber ball.

  “Why, that’s nothing but an old Spaldeen,” Margaret said. “Those things used to be a dime a dozen.”

  “This one has memories attached to it,” Ophelia replied.

  Margaret laughed. “You’ve been had. That’s a plain old Spaldeen.”

  “It may look the same as others,” Ophelia countered, “but I can feel the memories in this one.”

  I leaned in closer and asked, “What memories?”

  Ophelia had a faraway look in her eyes when she spoke; it was as if she was seeing what she was describing.

  “It belonged to a troubled little boy,” she said. “I think he was an orphan and the only things he had were a dog and this ball.”

  Margaret lifted the ball from Ophelia’s hand and examined it carefully. “Most every boy had a Spaldeen at some time or another. You figured out the dog part because the ball’s got teeth marks on it.” She hesitated then added, “But I don’t see anything to indicate he was an orphan.”

  “It’s not something you see,” Ophelia said. “It’s just something I sense.”

  As she told how the boy would thunk the ball against the wall while he was worrying over what to do, Margaret just sat there looking skeptical.

  Me, I believed anything was possible with Ophelia. She was a woman with talents beyond what the mind could imagine.

  Two weeks later the three of us were sitting in the exact same spot when Margaret reached into her big satchel handbag, pulled out a music box and set it on the table. She looked over at Ophelia with a double-dare grin and asked what memories could be found in that.

  “I didn’t say I could find memories in everything,” Ophelia replied. “Just in certain treasures.”

  “Harrumph,” Margaret grunted. “I had a feeling you were just pulling my leg.”

  “I was doing no such thing!” Ophelia replied indignantly. “Certa
in memories get left behind by their owner, and they need someone to care for them so they don’t fade away.”

  Not looking the least bit convinced, Margaret snatched up the music box and as she did so the box began to tinkle the tune of Always. She pulled her hand back as if it had been scalded and gasped.

  “Impossible,” she declared. “Edna’s music box hasn’t worked since the day she died.”

  “Maybe moving it around caused something to loosen up,” I said.

  Margaret jumped right over that suggestion and looked to Ophelia. “Did you do something?”

  Ophelia shook her head ever so slowly. “No, but I’m real sorry about your sister.”

  Margaret just sat there with her mouth hanging open. Then she told us the story of the little sister who died when she was ten years old.

  The Flat Tire

  I met Nick Lombardi the following summer. It wasn’t planned. You can’t plan stuff like that because when you do it never works out.

  It happened on a Friday afternoon. I’d just finished my meeting with Ridgefield Trust and was on my way to meet Nicole at the Bronze Bull in Wyattsville. As I started toward my car I noticed it listing to the right.

  Don’t tell me…

  I circled around to the back of the car and, sure enough, the back tire was folded over like a deflated balloon.

  I know how to change a tire. I’ve known how to change a tire since before I left Spruce Street. But today I was wearing my light blue silk dress. It was not something I wanted to soil, and besides I was in somewhat of a hurry. I whipped out my cell phone and called Triple A.

  “I’ve got a flat tire,” I reported. “Can you send someone to change it?” I gave the gal on the phone my location, and she told me they’d have someone there in a half-hour or less.

  “Please try to make it faster,” I said and mentioned an appointment, leaving out that it was meeting a girlfriend for drinks.

  “I’ll do what I can,” she promised. She told me that since I was on a downtown street I needed to stay with the car and flag the mechanic down when I spotted his truck.

  I did as she asked, and in less than five minutes the tow truck came rumbling down Central Boulevard. I stepped into the street and waved him over.

  The truck pulled to one side, and the driver climbed down from the cab of his truck. You’d have to be blind not to notice he was tall and good-looking. He wore mirrored sunglasses, so I couldn’t see his eyes until he was standing next to me. Using his index finger he slid the glasses down his nose and looked over the top.

  “Got a problem?” he said. He had a nice voice, deep but with a mellow sound.

  For a few seconds I just stood there looking at his eyes. They were gorgeous, dark brown with the kind of lashes most women would kill for.

  “Um, I’ve got a flat tire,” I finally said.

  He gave this funny little half-smile. “So, are you asking me to change it?”

  “Of course,” I answered. To me it seemed pretty obvious that if I called and asked for help I would expect him to change the tire, not just evaluate it.

  “It’s not that I don’t know how to change a tire,” I explained. “I do. But I’m meeting a friend, and I don’t want to get dirty.”

  “No problem,” he said. “Have you got a spare?”

  I nodded and popped the trunk. He unfastened the spare, set it on the curb, then took the tire iron and began loosening the wheel bolts.

  “So, where are you meeting this friend?” he asked.

  “Wyattsville.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  That’s when I realized he was flirting with me.

  There are times when it feels good to have a man notice you. It can be something as insignificant as a stranger on the street who turns to take a second look, but you somehow feel a bit more special for having commanded that moment. Trust me, any woman who says she doesn’t appreciate that kind of attention is a flat out liar.

  I flirted back. “No boyfriend. It’s a gal I used to work with.”

  He took off his sunglasses and smiled, then slid the jack under the car and pumped it up. The easy way he moved made the work seem effortless. He said his name was Nick Lombardi and he’d come here from Baltimore. I gave him my name and said I worked for the Burnsville Tribune.

  We chatted the whole time he was working. When he finished he lifted the flat tire into the trunk, then just stood there smiling at me as he wiped his hands with the rag he’d pulled from his back pocket.

  It was an awkward moment, the kind where you feel you’re supposed to say or do something but you’re unsure of what. I started to wonder if maybe this wasn’t a free service after all.

  “Do I owe you something?” I asked.

  He laughed. “Nope, not a thing.” Then he gave me the sexiest smile imaginable, climbed back into his truck and drove off.

  I stood there for a moment watching the tow truck disappear down the street; then I got into my car and headed for Wyattsville.

  Halfway there my cell phone rang. I answered the call, and it was that same gal from Triple A.

  “Our driver says he can’t find your car,” she said. “Are you sure of the location you gave me?”

  “Huh? I think you’re calling the wrong customer. Your mechanic has already been there and changed my tire. I’m back on the road.”

  “Hold on,” she said.

  Twenty seconds later she was back. “It wasn’t our guy. He just got there.”

  “Well, then who…?”

  “Beats me,” she said. “So should I cancel the work order?”

  “Yes, cancel it,” I replied and laughed.

  Of course once I told Nicole the story she about peed her pants laughing.

  “So you flagged some guy down, got him to change your tire and didn’t pay him?”

  “That’s pretty much it,” I said with a grin. “I offered, but he said no.”

  We’d both had two glasses of wine when I thought I saw him come in. He stopped just inside the door, looked the room over and then headed back toward our table.

  Nicole had her back to the door, but I was face to face with him when he stopped, looked down and said, “Hi.”

  She did a head jerk turn and glanced up. “Well, hello yourself.”

  “Nicole, this is Nick,” I said. “Nick is the guy who changed my tire.”

  She laughed and stuck out her hand to shake the one he offered. “So you’re the guy who was not with Triple A.”

  “Yep, that’s me.”

  He gave a smile that caused me to blush.

  “I’m so embarrassed,” I said. “I really did think you were the mechanic from Triple A. I had just called and then—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he replied in an offhanded way that made him even more likable.

  “Let me at least buy you a drink,” I offered.

  “You’ve got a deal.” He dropped down in the seat beside me.

  Before the evening was over, Nick and I had dinner plans for the next night.

  ~ ~ ~

  It was easy to fall in love with Nick Lombardi. There was nothing to not like about him. He was good looking, thoughtful and easy to be with. He knew all the right things to say and do. On our first date he took me to Le Brittney, a restaurant with candles on the table and waiters who appeared and disappeared with the flick of a finger.

  As we sat there sipping our wine, he leaned toward me with the hint of a smile. His mouth was tilted slightly on one side and his eyes full of mischievous suggestions.

  “You know this is going to turn into something,” he said, giving his voice an almost whispery quality and keeping his eyes fixed on mine.

  I could guess at what he meant, but I wanted to stay in the moment and keep the conversation going.

  “So, what is it that you imagine will turn into something?” I asked playfully.

  “I think you already know,” he said, and his smile deepened. He stretched his arm across the table, traced his index finger along the br
idge of my nose and then touched it to my lips. “It’s us. We’re going to be something special.”

  I’m certain I blushed because I felt the warmth in my cheeks. I think right then I knew I was destined to fall in love with Nick Lombardi.

  Nick was in his early forties, but he didn’t look it. He was muscular, well built and had the sexiest smile I’d ever seen. From the far side of a room he could look at me and smile as if he was seeing me naked, stripped down to my innermost thoughts. I knew the age difference was there, but I didn’t think of what it meant long term. I took each day as it came and enjoyed it for what it was.

  The Miracle

  The following November I took Margaret out to lunch on a Saturday, and as we were lingering over coffee I asked if she would have any objections to Nick moving in with me.

  “As long as he doesn’t smoke, I’ve no objection,” she said, but I noted a bit of hesitation hanging on to her words.

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “I’m not your mama,” she said, “but if I was I’d say you ought to think about marrying before you have him move in.”

  “We are thinking about it,” I told her. “But not just yet.” I explained how difficult the divorce from Ryan had been and how it had stretched out for more than a year.

  “This time I want to be absolutely certain before I step into something I can’t get out of.”

  Margaret nervously rearranged her napkin in her lap and then looked up.

  “I just don’t want to see you get hurt,” she said. “If you honestly believe he can make you happy, then I’ll be happy for you.”

  I leaned across the table and gave her hand an affectionate squeeze. “I have no doubt he’ll make me happy.”

  We sat there and talked for almost two hours. I told her how thoughtful Nick was, how he’d hold the car door open for me, bring me flowers and take me to dinner at the loveliest restaurants. I didn’t mention the one negative, because in my mind it wasn’t all that much of a problem.