“But Susannah doesn’t need it now,” Frannie reminded her gently. “Who do you really have resentment for? For Clover or for Michael?”
With Frannie there was no avoiding the truth. Polly’s shoulders slumped. “Michael,” she whispered. “It’s Michael. He plays with her. He talks to her. He never talks to me about Susannah, but apparently he tells Clover stories about a girl he’s named after our daughter. He buys Clover gifts. He laughs with her. He enjoys having her around. Yet he won’t agree to having another baby so I could share those feelings with him.”
“So when he doesn’t talk to you, what do you believe about that?”
Unbearable pain seared through Polly. “He doesn’t care about me.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He doesn’t love me anymore.” Once the words were out, they took on a terrifying reality. She felt as if she couldn’t breathe.
But Frannie shook her head. “You resent him and you’ve closed your heart to him, as much as you believe he’s closed his heart to you. You’ve made this in your imagination, Polly. He’s not here, so we can’t ask him, but I want you to tell me honestly how you’ve guarded your heart from him.”
Polly wanted to deny it. She’d tried to make him talk with her about Susannah, hadn’t she? She’d begged him to come to counseling. She’d done everything in her power to make things better between them. How dared anyone insinuate the fault was hers?
She stared at Frannie, and slowly, unwillingly, the answer came. “Clover. He’s tried to share his enjoyment of her with me, but I...I can’t. I don’t want to. How can he expect me to?”
“Why can’t you, Polly?”
Relentless. Frannie was relentless, and for a moment, Polly hated her. This was too hard. Sobs built in her chest and she forced them down. She wrapped her arms around herself, holding in the pain.
“Because if I do...I...I’ll do what he’s doing. Don’t you see that?” Her voice rose and panic filled her. “I’ll betray my own child. I’11...I’11 forget her. She’ll be gone forever, along with the house and her room, her toys, all the memories...”
Again Frannie shook her head. “Your little one lives in your heart, Polly. She’ll never go away. Think back now, and tell me what your greatest fear was after Susannah died.”
That memory was a place Polly hated to go. She took a shuddering breath. “I thought my heart would literally break. I thought I would die of a broken heart.”
“But you didn’t die,” Frannie told her gently. “Your heart broke, and you went on. You don’t have to be afraid anymore. Sometimes hearts break to allow something new to be born, to force us to grow. And the love, the connectedness with your daughter, is a permanent thing. Nothing will ever alter it, because Susannah lives in your heart.”
Frannie reached over and took Polly’s hand in hers.
“You’re not lost in your sorrow anymore. You’re not stuck there.” Her voice was reassuring. “You’ve come so far, Polly, you know you have. Take a deep breath and check your heart right now for me. Close your eyes and feel how much you have there of the memory of Susannah.”
Polly did, and of course Susannah was there, unlimited and true and forever. And with a sense of wonder, Polly realized something else. Her heart was still sore, but it didn’t feel broken any longer.
“You can allow yourself to love this child, Polly.” Frannie’s voice was soft. “Once hearts are open, their capacity for love is unlimited. As for Michael, we’ve talked before about how people grieve differently, on different time lines. My guess is he’s doing it the only way he can, the only way possible for him. Give him space, Polly. Don’t crowd him. Try to have faith that the universe will heal him just as it’s healed you. Love him with all your heart and soul, but don’t make him responsible for your happiness. Don’t shut him out of what’s happening with you. When the time is right, talk to him the way you have to me. You took a big step in coming here today. You can do the same with Michael.”
Could she?
Frannie gave her hand a squeeze and then released it, and Polly grabbed a handful of tissues and blew her nose.
“I’ll try.”
Frannie smiled, blue eyes alight with pride and compassion. “You’ll succeed. I know you will. With Clover, and with Michael, too. You’re very strong, Polly. It’s a pleasure to know you.”
But in the week that followed, Polly didn’t feel strong. She took Frannie’s advice and tried to give Michael loving support without pressuring him in any way. He was sweet and passionate, but preoccupied. She didn’t ask what about, and he didn’t volunteer. He was busy, as always, but now so was she.
One of the first things she did was go to her G.P., Fred Hudson, for a prescription for birth control. Allowing Michael to take full responsibility for her physical safety was childish and unfair... and she understood fully that was what she’d been doing. Another pregnancy wasn’t an option, and although it hurt to give up that dream, she knew it was necessary.
The days were suddenly filled with the immediate problem of getting the house in reasonable order for prospective buyers. There were dozens of chores, large and small, that she’d ignored during the past months. The garage desperately needed cleaning. The upstairs bathroom had to be re-painted, and now that she’d let the cleaning service go, she had the day-to-day housekeeping to do. Not to mention that she and Norah had to begin the formidable task of sorting through Isabelle’s possessions.
And there was Clover to care for. Jerome was now in Rehab, but it would still be several weeks at least before he could go home and take on the care of his daughter.
After the visit to Frannie, the relationship with Clover gradually and subtly improved. There were still times when Polly counted the hours until she could hand Clover back to Jerome, but she also began to see the girl as quirky and tough, instead of just obstinate and sullen.
With the shift in Polly’s attitude, Clover bloomed like a cactus flower. She began to smile at Polly more than she scowled; she even agreed to taste certain foods she’d refused before.
Like Polly, Clover loved to draw, and she also adored rock and roll. Sharing those interests formed a tenuous bond between them.
With Clover’s eager but dubious assistance, Polly tackled some of the chores that needed doing. She cleaned the garage and chose bedding-out plants for the backyard. Clover loved digging in the dirt, and showed good color sense when it came to arranging the flowers. But one disastrous attempt at letting the girl help paint the bathroom was enough. After an hour scrubbing paint out of Clover’s hair and off ninety percent of her body, Polly finished the job while her helper napped.
Friday morning, Clover even agreed to let Polly trim her hair. It took some convincing, and Clover was adamant—no scissors—but finally she perched nervously on a kitchen stool, wrapped in a bath towel, and Polly wielded the electric clippers she generally used to tidy the hair on Michael’s neck.
Polly was a bit nervous herself, but she knew that almost anything she did had to be an improvement; Clover’s hair was appalling, thin and straggly and lank, her overgrown bangs hanging in her eyes. At least they could tidy it up a little, Polly assured herself. She’d just trim the ends.
“Here we go, kid.” Mentally crossing her fingers, she switched on the clippers and gingerly tackled the straggly strands at the back.
“Don’t cut my ear, okay?” Clover’s eyes were screwed shut and her voice was quavery with fear.
“I never would, I promise. Did someone nick your ear before?”
Clover nodded vigorously, and a huge chunk of hair Polly hadn’t planned on cutting fell away. She pursed her lips and felt sweat trickle down her back.
Like it or not, the little trim had just turned into a major haircut.
“Once my mommy’s friend? She cut my ear with scissors. Blood came out all over me and it really, really hurt. I cried and cried.”
No wonder the poor kid was terrified of scissors. Polly concentrated hard, and when she finished, she could hardly believe how successful she’d b
een. She grinned at Clover and crowed, “Look in this mirror, kid. You’re nothing short of gorgeous. I should have taken up hairstyling as a career, judging by you.”
Clover looked, and her blue eyes widened. She tipped her head one way, then the other, and a hesitant smile appeared.
Under the straggle she had a well-shaped skull, and the drastically short cut with the gamin bangs accentuated the offbeat angles of her face, making her eyes look bigger.
“Just wait till your daddy sees you. He’s gonna say, who’s this beautiful girl?”
Clover giggled. “My daddy always says that.” She tilted up her chin in a decidedly feminine gesture, intrigued by her reflection.
“Of course he does.” Only daddies could give their daughters that special sort of confidence, the kind that came with unconditional love. Her own father had done that for her, Polly realized, just as Michael had for Susannah.
Because of Jerome’s acceptance and love, Clover didn’t feel the need to make everyone like her, Polly suddenly realized. Now that Polly understood her own complicated feelings a little better, she was beginning to appreciate Clover’s uniqueness.
The child still irritated her, but she also made her smile.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Valerie tapped on the door of the examining room and opened it a discreet three inches. “Doctor, the radiologist is on line three.”
Michael had been anxiously waiting all morning for the call, and he apologized now to the patient he was with and hurried into his office, where Duncan’s file sat open on his desk.
The results of the CAT scan he’d ordered for the boy lay on top. He’d received them yesterday, and they showed clearly that the tumor was still growing.
Michael had immediately called Sophie, and she’d brought Duncan into the office late yesterday afternoon.
Michael had then done a complete physical on the boy, and this time he’d discovered a minute lump in Duncan’s left testicle that hadn’t been there before. He’d ordered an ultrasound, asking that the radiologist phone him immediately with the results.
He took a deep breath and picked up the phone. So much depended on this call.
“Dr. Forsythe here.” “I have the slides in front of me for the ultrasound you ordered for Duncan Hendricks. They indicate a definite mass in the left testicle. The right testicle is clear.” The radiologist’s voice was professional and impersonal.
Michael thanked her and hung up, his mind in turmoil.
What was going on here? His heart hammered and sweat broke out on his forehead. An astrocytoma never metasticized. It was localized to the head. If the lump in the testicle was malignant, had Duncan developed a different kind of cancer, or had he been misdiagnosed?
Either way, there was no question about what needed to be done. Michael picked up the phone and called St. Joe’s, arranging for a surgeon to perform an incision biopsy immediately. Then he called Sophie and explained what the ultrasound had revealed and what was necessary.
Sophie was obviously agitated, but there were no hysterics. “I’ll take Duncan straight to St. Joe’s,” she promised. “I’ll just call Dad first and tell him what’s happening. I’d like him and Morgan to be there.”
“Of course. I’ll meet you at the hospital within an hour,” Michael assured her.
The day had become a pivotal one in the lives of everyone who knew and loved little Duncan Hendricks.
That same day, Polly began to use Clover as a model for her drawing. She’d been struggling to capture images of Susannah, but the results were consistently stiff and artificial. Polly had torn up all the sketches in disgust. They didn’t do Susannah justice.
Clover loved Polly’s cosmetics, and as the little girl preened in front of the mirror that meaning, experimenting with blush and a pot of lip gloss, Polly found a charcoal and a sheet of paper and sketched rapidly, not giving herself time to be critical.
She needed practice, and Clover was available, preoccupied enough to sit still for a moment. The result was surprising and exciting; Polly had captured in the child the quintessential, self-absorbed look any female has adorning herself.
By lunchtime Polly had two more quick, rough sketches. In one Clover had her fists under her chin, as she stared with a wistful expression out the window at the pelting rain. In the second she was sitting on the floor with her face screwed into an exaggerated scowl of concentration and her tongue between her teeth while she tried to tie her shoelaces.
That afternoon, Polly ignored the jobs that needed doing and instead worked furiously on developing the sketches while Clover slept. She couldn’t tell whether they were good. She knew only that they were very different from any of her other work, much less structured, less precise. And more alive, in some undeniable sense. They had a presence all their own, just as Clover did.
They were raw, full of energy, and when Polly looked at them a satisfaction filled her. She thought of the artist from Saskatchewan and her flower paintings.
Michael was very late getting home. He explained that he’d been at St. Joe’s because of some emergency, then had had to deal with an office overflowing with patients waiting to see him. He was in a strange mood, laughing at Clover one moment and lapsing into reflection the next.
It was almost midnight before Polly finally found the courage to lead him into the studio to show him the drawings. It had taken her all evening to work up to it because she still couldn’t decide if they were good or just plain awful.
He studied them, looking at them so long that her stomach churned with nervousness, but when he turned to her, the glow of admiration and respect in his eyes told her what the verdict was before he said a word.
“These are marvelous, Pol. They’re the finest you’ve ever done. You’ve captured not just Clover here but the essence of every little girl.” He reached out and pulled her into his arms. “Congratulations, sweetheart.”
His pride in her was evident in his voice, in the way he kissed her. Polly’s love for him welled inside her. She adored this generous man.
“I kept trying to draw Susannah,” she admitted, “but I couldn’t do it anymore.” She added slowly, "I think I’ve figured out why, too. You know when you love somebody, how you assume you know what they look like?”
Michael thought it over and nodded.
“Well, you’re not really seeing them. You’re seeing a picture of them that you hold in your heart,” Polly explained. “With Clover, I’m free to draw exactly what’s there.”
Michael narrowed his eyes and stared at her. He didn’t reply, and Polly wondered if it was because she’d mentioned Susannah. He was suddenly distracted again, far away, and although it hurt her, she repeated Frannie’s words like a mantra.
Give him space. Love him with all your heart... change the subject. “Have you thought about where we’ll move to when the house sells, Michael?”
“It’s up to you, sweetheart.” With a visible effort, he shook off whatever it was that had absorbed him, as Polly turned out the light in the studio. “Do you want to move into your mother’s house, Pol?”
The absolute utter horror she felt was mirrored on her face, and it made him laugh. "Okay, I won’t suggest that one again.”
She collapsed against him, pretending to faint with relief, and he slid an arm around her. They made their way up the stairs and into their bedroom, shoulder to shoulder.
"I’ve talked to the real estate agent. We can buy a home in New Westminster that would be comparable to this but much less expensive,” Michael said. “Real estate is lower there. The area is beautiful, with lots of heritage homes. And the drive isn’t bad, I could be at my office in twenty-five minutes. Would you like that?” He loosened his tie, unbuttoned his shirt.
She was stripping off her shirt and jeans. “I don’t know. I’ve been too busy to think about it much.”
"We could take a drive out there Sunday, maybe pack a picnic and find a park Clover would like."
Polly lifted a fresh nightshirt fro
m her drawer. “I’d love that, but I can’t. Norah and I agreed to start going through Mom’s house Sunday.” She pulled the shirt on over her head and then flashed him an appreciative glance.
He’d taken off his trousers. All he had on were white briefs, and his tall body was dark and powerful, familiar and alluring.
“Why not come and help, Doc? Sorting through all that valuable stuff is gonna be loads of fun. We can probably have a yard sale, or even five or six.”
He gave her a pleading look. “How about if I take care of Clover, instead? I’ll bring you and Norah lunch, then I’ll take all of you out to dinner when you’re done.”
Polly put her arms around him. “Coward.”
He held her close and grinned down at her. “Damned straight. I admit I’d rather do anything than sort through Isabelle’s house. What can I do to make it up to you?”
“Oh, I can think of a few things.” She moved against him, blatantly sexual, and his hands caught the hem of her nightshirt and tugged it up and off. He stripped off his briefs.
“Let’s lock this door.” His voice was husky. He tumbled her down onto the bed and straddled her, holding her between his thighs. “Now, exactly what penalty did you have in mind, Mrs. Forsythe?”
She giggled and reached down a hand, cupping him, teasing. He was already hard, and he moved against her and made a guttural sound.
“I can tell this is going to be painful.” He took her head between his palms and held it, caressing her face with his eyes and his thumbs, as if he couldn’t get enough of looking.
“My beautiful, talented woman.” He lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her slowly and deeply, as if they had all the time in the world. He went on and on kissing her, until she squirmed beneath him, every inch of her wanting more contact.
“I love you, Polly. I love you so much.”
The whispered words went straight to her heart, and she pulled him down until his body nested lightly on hers, warm skin to skin.
He knew her so well. He touched mercilessly until she writhed, begging him to fill her.
Pickin Clover Page 19