Twelve Days

by Teresa Hill

  "Oh." Rachel was suddenly feeling awful.

  "Why would your husband ever be interested in something like that?"

  Miriam headed down the back hallway before Rachel could stop her. She stood in the doorway leading to the family room, Sam just waking up and staring at the both of them as if he weren't quite sure where he was. But Miriam knew exactly where she'd find him this early in the morning, and it wasn't in his wife's bed where he should have been. Miriam gave Rachel another one of those mother looks. That I-knew-it and why-didn't-you-tell-me look, all at once.

  "Dammit," Rachel muttered under her breath. She did not need this. She didn't intend to explain her marriage to anyone, especially not her entire family.

  Rachel grabbed her aunt by the arm and tugged her back into the kitchen. "This is none of your business," she said.

  "Rachel, I'm not trying to be nosy. I'm worried about you. I was worried before I brought these children here, and now I'm worried even more. You and your husband aren't sleeping together?"

  "I don't think it's any of your business where we sleep," she said.

  "If you're going to try to adopt these children someday, it is."

  "We can't adopt them now, can we? They're not free for anyone to adopt."

  "No. Not now."

  "Then until we can, it's none of your business."

  "Rachel," she said, the hurt obvious in her voice. "I care about you very much, and I promised your mother before she died that I would look out for you, as if you were my very own daughter. And obviously, you've needed a mother now for a while, and I haven't been here. Not the way I should have been. I love you. Don't you know that?"

  "I know it," she said wearily, then pulled her aunt close for a quick hug. "I do. I'm sorry. I... I didn't want to talk about it. Not to anybody."

  Not even her husband. Obviously that had been a mistake. Maybe keeping it from Miriam was, as well.

  "Okay. We can talk." She glanced nervously toward the stairs, could hear Sam climbing up—leaving her to deal with Miriam alone, which she actually thought was better. Maybe she could calm Miriam down and convince her not to talk.

  But a moment later, she heard one of the children coming down the stairs. Her household was coming to life. This wasn't the time for this conversation. She needed to tell her aunt about Sam. About him losing his parents at five, not fifteen, and what in the world had likely happened to him in the meantime and what it might still be doing to him today. "But not now. I'll call you, okay?"

  "All right. How are the children?"

  "They're fine. We had pictures made in front of the town tree, and we baked like crazy yesterday."

  "Good. I may be able to use one of the pictures on some new bulletins. Lost kids in their Christmas best. That ought to get people's attention."

  Rachel nodded, thinking that was the last thing they needed.

  "They still haven't said anything that might help us find them?"

  "No," she claimed, not liking the lie at all. But she and Sam had chosen their path. They'd made a promise to Emma. As Rachel saw it, little rights or wrongs didn't matter nearly so much as the promise they'd made to keep these children safe.

  "I told Sam before, and I want to tell you today that we'll find someone who knows them," Miriam said. "People abandoning their children, unfortunately, is not that rare, but their consciences will finally kick in and they'll come back. Remember that, Rachel. I really don't want to see either you or Sam hurt again. I thought long and hard before bringing them here. I worried about what I'd be doing to you."

  "It was the right thing," Rachel reassured her. "The best thing you could have done. We needed them, and they needed us."

  "Good. Just be careful. Remember what I said about liking them a lot—"

  "Too late," Rachel said with a wary smile. It was probably too late right from the start. "I couldn't stop myself from loving them."

  Miriam looked even more worried at that.

  "I couldn't," she said. "But I'm stronger than I used to be. And more determined this time."

  She was going to do her best to save her marriage and to help these children, no matter what. It felt like the most grown-up decision she'd made in years. Maybe in her whole life. And there was nothing Miriam could say to change her mind.

  * * *

  Rachel put breakfast on the table twenty minutes later, and a sleepy but hungry Zach dug in. Even Emma ate more than usual. Grace was after the jam more than anything else. She kept grabbing at the bits of a jam biscuit Rachel was trying to feed her until she got her hands on the whole thing. Quite pleased with herself, she tried to shove all of it in her mouth at once and ended up with jam everywhere, all over her hands and her mouth and her bib, even in her hair.

  It was strawberry, and she looked like she'd decorated herself for Christmas. Everyone laughed at her, and she laughed, too, then started sucking the jam off her tiny fingers. Sam stayed to eat with them and to help clean up. He and Emma loaded the dishwasher while Rachel got the things for Grace's bath, and they put her in the sink again.

  Emma went off to help Zach get dressed, and Sam stayed in the kitchen with Rachel. She probably could have bathed the baby herself, but maybe Grace wanted Sam closer, too, because she squirmed for all she was worth and generally gave Rachel a hard time until Sam stepped in and held her slippery, soapy body while Rachel did her best to wash her. All the while Grace gazed up at Sam adoringly and batted her wet lashes at him, temptress that she was. Rachel laughed at her, wondering if some females were just born with that gene.

  "She's flirting with you," Rachel said.

  "She's a baby."

  "Look at her. She's flirting. You haven't been out of circulation so long that you don't recognize flirting, do you?" Rachel said, and then had a terrible thought.

  He was planning to leave her. She forgot that at times, and she thought she knew the reason—that it was simply too painful to stay. But there were other possibilities. Scared, she looked up at him, so tall and so strong. So solid. Her rock. She spoke before she even thought about it.

  "Tell me no one else is flirting with you, Sam."

  She saw his gaze narrow in on hers, saw the questions in his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

  "I—"And then it was gone. All that courage, that reckless impulsiveness, gone. She couldn't ask. She wasn't ready for what he'd say when she did, was hoping the last few days together had changed everything.

  "What?" he asked again.

  "Nothing. I was being silly. That's all."

  "You think I've been seeing someone else?" he asked.

  "I... I don't know what I think." She knew she'd reached out to him, that she'd kissed him and talked him into sleeping in their bed, but he hadn't stayed for long and he hadn't made love to her. And he was planning to leave. "Except that I wish things were different between us."

  "It's not another woman, Rachel," he said softly, taking her chin in one hand and turning her to face him. Looking right into her eyes, he said, "It's never been that."

  "Okay."

  He frowned. "You don't believe me?"

  "I have to." She couldn't let herself believe anything else.

  "I would never do that to you," he said. "I'd never hurt you like that."

  "I didn't really think you would. But..."

  "Things still aren't right," he finished for her.

  "No, things still aren't right," she said, curling her body against his, her forehead against his shoulder.

  Grace sat quietly in the shallow water for a moment, gazing up at them, as if to say, What's wrong? What could possibly be wrong? Sam had one of his big, strong hands at her back, ready to catch her should she topple over, and Rachel touched a fingertip to the baby's delicate, upturned nose, and then her chin, winning a broad smile from her and a cooing sound.

  "It's helped having her here," Sam said, his arm slipping around Rachel's waist. "And maybe it even helped to talk about our baby. I... I've always wanted to tell you how sorry I am for th
at," he said raggedly. "It feels so stupid, to ever think words could matter in something like this, but I've still felt the need to say them. More than anything, I wanted to hear you say you forgive me, but I didn't see how you possibly could, so I just never said the words. I didn't think I could, not without..."

  She looked up and saw tears in his eyes.

  "Shit," he muttered. "Not without this."

  "I don't blame you. I never did. Can you believe me about that?"

  "I'm trying. I'm trying to take it all in. It's hard to let go of things when you've held on to them so tightly for so long."

  "I know. So many times, you seemed so distant. I thought it just didn't matter that much to you—"

  "Oh, Rachel. It mattered."

  "I could feel you pulling away from me then. I thought you were impatient with the fact that I was still consumed by it at times. I thought you were shutting me out because of that."

  "No," he said. "It wasn't that."

  "And I thought you never really wanted children. Not the way I did. Especially when we started talking about foster parenting... You seemed..." Cold, she'd thought. Unfeeling. And now she knew. He felt too much. "We have to talk about it, Sam. You were one of those children, weren't you?"

  He nodded.

  "And it was bad?"

  "Sometimes."

  "I just didn't understand." Maybe she hadn't paid attention the way she should have. Maybe she'd simply focused so sharply on herself and her own feelings, she'd missed so many of his. "I guess we still have some things to work through."

  He nodded grimly, and she wondered, Would he stay to do that? Or had he had enough? She would promise him anything for another chance. She couldn't imagine her life without Sam.

  But he was talking to Miriam about single-parent foster homes and adoptive homes. The only reason she could imagine him doing that was because he was wondering if she could still keep the children herself if he left.

  She slid her arm around him and held on tight, thinking what an odd triangle they made. Sam holding on to her, her holding on to him, and both of them holding on to the baby.

  A real baby this time, not the memories of the baby they'd lost. They'd both been warned in those early, crazy days after the accident that most couples didn't survive the loss of a child. It was simply too stressful. Rachel vaguely remembered warnings about feelings of guilt—however misplaced they might be—and grief that tore couples apart. She hadn't wanted to deal with it, and neither had Sam, and it seemed they'd nearly lost themselves by refusing to talk to each other.

  Rachel was scared, so scared of what the coming days would bring. She could end up with everything. Or nothing.

  At other times in her life, the changes had come so quickly, so unexpectedly, she hadn't had time to think. But this... She could see it all staring her in the face, and she didn't think she'd ever had so much at stake.

  Her and Sam.

  Her and the children.

  For so long she'd just wanted children, and now when she might finally have them, she might be losing Sam. She felt so foolish now for taking her marriage for granted, for thinking he would always be there.

  Rachel held on to him more tightly, soaking up that heat and the solid feel of his chest, his heart beating beneath her right ear. She was afraid to let go, afraid of what would happen once she did.

  "Will you tell me about what happened after your parents died?" she asked, because it was still between them, and they had to deal with it. He tensed immediately, would have pulled away if she hadn't been holding him so tightly. "Please, Sam."

  "I never wanted you to know. I never wanted anyone to know."

  "Why?"

  "Because I didn't want your pity, Rachel. I still don't."

  "I think I need to know. To understand you. It's part of who you are."

  "Not anymore."

  "Sam, it is. If losing the baby taught us anything, surely it's taught us that we can't run from the past or our feelings. We can't afford to keep hiding things from each other. Look at what it's already cost us," she said. "I'm not going to judge you. I just want to understand. I want to help you. Will you let me help?"

  "I don't think anything helps with this," he said.

  "Please, Sam." She waited. He didn't say anything, and he was tenser than she'd ever seen him. His entire body was as unyielding as a stone, as straight and tall as a statue. "Sam—"

  And then Zach burst into the room with the speed of a small tornado, chattering the whole way. He saw them standing there all together and came up to Sam and wrapped his arms around Sam's legs and grinned up at Rachel.

  "Hi," he said.

  Rachel took a breath and said, "Hi, Zach."

  He really was an absolute joy, and he adored Sam.

  Rachel stepped away from Sam and Zach beamed up at him. Sam ruffled the boy's hair and asked, "What are we going to do today?"

  "Build a snowman," he said.

  Sam nodded. "Let's get to it."

  And Rachel let them both go, comforting herself with the fact that she still had three days until Christmas. Even if he left, he wasn't planning to go until after Christmas.

  Her whole life had been turned upside-down in the last nine days. She figured anything could happen in the next three.

  * * *

  Miriam came by after lunch. Grace was napping. Emma was in her room, and Zach and Sam had gone to town on a mysterious mission that Rachel suspected had to do with Christmas presents.

  Rachel made tea, and she and Miriam sat in the family room in front of the fire, sipping slowly. Finally Rachel asked, "What does it do to a child to be passed around from home to home, never staying anywhere for long?"

  "You mean like in foster care? Kids there want the same thing all kids want. Adults they can trust to care for them. Security. Love. They're always trying to find it. Forming attachments, hoping, worrying. Break those bonds too many times, and it makes it that much harder for them to form those kinds of bonds again."

  "Into adulthood?"

  "Yes. Think about it. If you'd seen every bit of security you'd ever had yanked away from you time and time again, what would you want most of all?"

  "All those things," she said. Hadn't she loved Sam enough? How could he not see how much she'd loved him?

  "And what would you do, if you'd grown up that way and you wanted to protect yourself from ever being hurt again?"

  "I'd put up a wall between me and everyone else. And I'd try to never let anyone that close to me. I'd pull inside myself and try not to get hurt again." That was it. Rachel knew. She'd thought so many times he just didn't care when he'd been desperately trying to protect himself.

  Oh, Sam.

  "Want to tell me what's going on?" Miriam asked.

  "Sam's parents didn't die right before he came here. They died about ten years before, and I guess he got passed from house to house after that. Relatives. Foster homes. I'm not sure exactly."

  She looked up to find an expression on her aunt's face that she'd seldom seen. The one she'd worn the day she came to tell them Will had to go back to his mother. In her job, Miriam knew too much, saw too much. There must have been more days than her aunt cared to remember when she'd been the one taking a child from one home to another, one more time. When she'd taken children out of horrendous situations and likely been unable to forget them, unable to sleep at night for wondering what was going to become of them. Miriam knew what Sam's life had been like. She knew kids who'd been Sam.

  "What do I do?" Rachel asked, afraid of what her answer might be.

  "He never told you?"

  "No. He told Emma."

  "Oh, Rachel. All these years..."

  "I know." She'd been married to him, and she hadn't truly known him. She couldn't help but believe she'd failed him completely, and she wanted to make it up to him, if she could. "What do I do?"

  "Get him to talk about it. If not to you, to someone. I have the name of a great psychologist in the next county."

 
; "I can't see Sam ever talking to a stranger about this."

  "He has to talk to someone. If he's kept it a secret from you all these years, I doubt he's ever talked to anyone about it, and you know what holding things inside of you that way can do to a person."

  "Yes." They were so good at that, her and Sam. "I don't know how I can get him to talk about it. And I was wondering if you could find out about what happened to Sam? It would be in the social services records, wouldn't it?"

  "Rachel, those are private."

  "I know. But he's my husband."

  "And those records are private," her aunt said firmly.

  "Okay. I'm sorry. I just thought..." She was married to the man. She thought she had a right to know.

  "I think you and I should start with what's going on now. Like why he's sleeping on the sofa?"

  "I guess things just got too hard for us—all the bad stuff—until we were drowning in it. It was all I could do just to try to keep going. I didn't even see what it was doing to him. I don't even know if he wants to be here anymore."

  "But he is still here," Miriam pointed out.

  "I'm afraid he won't be for long. I don't know how to get him to stay."

  "You start by telling him how you feel."

  "We've been doing better. But there's so much. How can you be married to a man for twelve years and have left so much unsaid?"

  "Say it now. If he's still here, he's still interested in hearing it."

  "I want to tell him. I want to make him happy." And then she got to the scariest part of all. "I'm afraid he's never been happy with me."

  "You haven't had a lot of time to be happy, but you've stuck together just the same. That says a lot, Rachel."

  Rachel hoped it did. She hoped there was something left the two of them could build upon.

  Something like love.

  Chapter 12

  "Emma said we get to stay here after Christmas," Zach said.

  Sam paused with his hands deep inside a box of dusty odds and ends at an estate sale in the next county. He was always on the lookout for period things that could be used in his restoration business, and this sale looked like a good one. There were several old doors and light fixtures, mantelpieces, maybe some furniture. Zach found it all fascinating, and he'd proven to be good company.