Ashwood

by Cynthia Kraack

  Her mother energized the room, walking back and forth then back and forth in front of the chair. She and David were out of rhythm, discordant, dysfunctional. Nurse Kim stood on the other side of the room.

  “She’s my child. If I decide I want you and Phoebe in Romania, then you better pack the bags and be ready at the front door when the driver appears or I’ll report your behavior up our chain of command. I’ll tell them you’re working against my assignment, that you’re threatening government work. You’ll never work again as a high-priced baby nurse if you and my daughter are not ready to leave with me December seventeenth. Do you understand?” Tia stopped in front of the nurse.

  “What about what I want,” David called over the commands of his wife. He stopped rocking. Phoebe wiggled in her wrappings, one tiny hand free and swaying in the nursery’s cooler night temperature.

  “You’ve had her at your side since she arrived. It’s my turn now.” Tia stopped walking. Only Phoebe’s hand moved in the room.

  I wondered if Nurse Kim saw Tia’s passionate command as a mother’s desire, or an unbalanced woman’s fantasy.

  “We’ll have the best hotel suite. People will make sure I have more time away from the energy plant and meetings because my baby is with me. Nurse Kim will insist that I be back at the hotel at a decent time each night to see Phoebe, and nobody will be able to keep me working all hours. It’s a win-win, David. Don’t you see? Don’t you understand?”

  If I could have taken a picture of David at that moment, the lens would close in on his great, large hands cradling Phoebe’s spine and how she rested in total comfort against his chest. He would not let this child be harmed. David moved one hand to guide Phoebe’s fist back under the covers.

  Phoebe’s mother never looked at her, but moved in front of the rocking chair insisting on starting an important discussion apparently not understanding the long-term implications of her actions. She began to pace, three steps to the left of the rocker and turning, five steps back in front to the changing table then turning and walking or really marching back in front of David, their child, Nurse Kim.

  “David, you can’t expect to bury our child here in this God-awful countryside when she’ll have to live her life in the big world. She needs to start experiencing life outside this place.” Tia stopped at the rocker’s side. “She won’t be a baby forever. How long are you going to sit there and rock her?”

  Swaying hips above ballerinalike steps carried Tia across the room. She moved in time to nothing, not to the restarted rhythm of David’s rocking, not the sound of Nurse Kim’s breathing, certainly not the beating of her own heart. I realized that her sway and intensity found energy from white powder in her system. That this was how she worked around the clock in her corner office. This was Tia’s wildness unleashed.

  What could David do as she reached for their daughter? Perhaps he knew this side of Tia, or at least understood the threat to the baby, as he released his finger from Phoebe’s grip and brought her closer to his chest.

  “Give my baby to me,” Tia whispered with the kind of ragged hunger I’d heard in people’s voices during the days of starvation. “You can have the next one, but I want my baby, my daughter, the surrogate’s gift.” She extended her arms, so thin within the bright pink sweater. “Now, while the moonlight fills this gloomy room, I want us to dance until one of us falls asleep.”

  Grabbing at Phoebe as if the baby were a pillow or bundle of papers or package, Tia displayed the strength of a weight lifter who knew no limits.

  David held Phoebe closer, bound in the narrow seat of the nursery rocker. I didn’t care to be part of their mismatched couple struggle, didn’t think of cracked ribs or the disapproving glare of the nurse. I moved as if nothing held me back from stepping between mother and child, husband and wife, nurse and child. Bumping Tia aside with one hip, I held my arms open for the baby and gave one command. “Give me the baby and take care of your wife.”

  His eyes didn’t move from the five-foot-tall woman still pulling at his arms to claim Phoebe. I hip checked her again. She slipped toward her husband. “Take Director Tia to your quarters. You can call Cook for help. Just get her out of here.”

  Phoebe began to cry as she left her father’s warmth. I held her close, turning my body away from Tia, whose hands moved across my back. I swore when she kicked at my burned ankle.

  “David, get her out of here.” And hold me. No, I didn’t say that. The baby wailed.

  “Why don’t you just sleep with her, David? That would be so much fairer than handing her my child. Just give me the baby and go to her room and do it where the security cameras can’t focus on your big soft country-boy body.” No longer dancing or demanding, Tia settled back to something like the presence I first met.

  “Enough, Tia,” David said. “Enough.” He fully raised himself from the chair, brushed her away from Phoebe, from me. I didn’t turn to watch them leave, just waited for the room to be filled with the breathing of only two adults and one little baby. I shifted Phoebe to my shoulder, rubbed her back with featherlike fingers that relished the delicacy of her shoulders, the fragility of her neck, and the thin skin softness of her head. This time I kissed her forehead and guided her to settle in the empty hollow of my shoulder.

  Nurse Kim approached too quickly with a blanket and pacifier, but I kept Phoebe close. “If she’s fed and changed, I’ll walk her until she sleeps then put her to bed. She’s had enough handling for the night.”

  “Your ribs, Matron?”

  “Hurt. Will hurt for many weeks,” I said. “I may as well get used to it.”

  28

  Phoebe needed ten minutes of walking to fall asleep, enough time for me to mull how my life in government bureaucracy now depended on accepting trade-offs and bartering favors. Holding onto what I valued was more difficult than I expected. Bending over Phoebe’s bassinet required mind over body. The entire day had shifted her future to the top of my priorities. In spite of four years of emotion-dulling training designed to change me into a strategic and operational executive, the soft-side of Anne Hartford still existed. With effort I straightened and pushed away discomfort.

  Nurse Kim, my top suspect as a bureau snoop, changed back from hair-brushing soother to aloof judge of our residence. She tidied the nursery while I walked the baby, and ducked into the bathroom before I could start a conversation. In the midst of so much disruption, Nurse Kim added to Ashwood’s stress. She might need to be replaced.

  In my own sleeping room, I used pillows and sheets to discourage moving in bed. Sleep came quickly along with odd winding dreams ending whenever my ribs stretched. I woke up at my usual time not exactly rested, but knowing I had no time for recovery or self-pity. In the cool dim light of my dressing room, I unwrapped my midriff and felt the small bites of so many puncture wounds. Groaning, I gently stretched my torso then twisted in each direction to test flexibility. Dressing took more time and a little creativity since raising my arms above my head proved to be nearly impossible.

  Ten minutes later than most mornings, I walked into the kitchen for coffee with Terrell. “You look about as bad as I feel,” I said, seeing his red-rimmed eyes and slow motions.

  “I’m not sleeping with the boys another night,” he said. “Those six kids mumble and toss more than a bunkhouse full of Marines. Maybe we’re working ’em too hard.”

  “Terrell, no jokes this morning. Laughing, sneezing and coughing are out of bounds for the next week or so.”

  “I’m surprised to see you up and moving this well, but you’re a young thing next to this middle-age man. Want me to look at that leg burn?”

  “Already covered it with more balm. Have you checked on Ladd this morning?”

  “Jack and I shared the hourly checks during the night. That boy’s going to have a headache today. I’ll give him light duty sorting my recipe cards for the next few days. They’re all automated so it won’t matter if the alphabet is too challenging for his head.”

  We s
at side by side in the kitchen’s bay window, watching lights go on in the livestock buildings as laborers arrived for their shifts.

  “Director David asked for a hand with his wife last night. Seems she couldn’t sleep because of something she’s been snorting the last few days.” He slurped at his hot coffee, smacked his lips, slurped again. “You know about this?”

  I related the scene from the night before and Tia’s desire to take Phoebe and Nurse Kim to Romania. I withheld plans to seek Kim’s replacement. “Were you able to help?”

  “Yeah, I mixed up something to cut through the high and talked her into going to bed.” Terrell rose from his stool, a signal that the day’s work needed to begin. “She’s in no shape to be traveling without someone watching everything she puts in her body. I gotta file that in a report today. She needs an escort.”

  “Not Nurse Kim and Phoebe.”

  “No, not the wicked nurse of the Midwest.”

  “Excuse me if I don’t laugh.” I refilled my mug and grabbed fruit. “If you don’t see me at breakfast, I’ll find something in the office kitchen.”

  “Your meds are on the edge of the counter. I want to see you take them before you leave.” I obeyed. “What’s this Jensen up to? Did he really want you dead?”

  “David thinks the guy has it in for Tia. I did a little research last night and think he’s growing his estate by scaring people off land he wants. You know that’s what he does—land acquisition for federal bigwigs.” Did he want to kill me or have sex with me? I edited all that. “Maybe he knew we could make his life difficult and wanted us quieted.” The next breath hurt. “Nobody told me death might be part of my job description.”

  He stretched his strong body in a back arch. Straightening, he tipped his head in my direction. “Take care, lady. Take care. Now go off to your office. There’s enough security around that building to keep everyone safe.”

  Lights turned on as I walked the quiet residence where workers and directors still slept at five-forty. Bureau employees, except for emergency contacts, kept regular office hours, which made this next hour prime time for estate paperwork. I opened my blinds, then sat down to begin the daily review of numbers and issues.

  Before I could concentrate on Ashwood, I pulled open my center desk drawer to take out a slim box I placed there weeks earlier. I removed framed pictures of my family and Richard and set them in visible places on my desktop and indulged myself by sketching a design for a photo collection of Ashwood’s workers to fill one office wall. After a near-death experience and holding Phoebe in my arms, I called Ashwood home.

  “Anne.” Sandra’s voice in my ear brought me back to the day at hand. Her use of my name brought unexpected warmth.

  “Good morning, Sandra. Early for you to be working.”

  “You’re right about that, and its pisser cold out here, but I knew you’d be at your desk. Now, is there someone who can open Ashwood’s front gates before my driver and I are blinded by the security lights?”

  Checking my monitor, our hired security force did indeed have lights on a transport and two individuals in uniforms blocking entrance.

  “My God, Sandra. You should have called in advance. Let me see who can unlock the gate. Hold on a minute.”

  Lao volunteered to clear the transport and ride with it to the main doors. Moving stiffly through the office building walkway toward the front foyer, I processed a mental inventory of conditions inside Ashwood’s residence—what was polished, kitchen orderliness, workers uniforms for the day—and avoided the question of why Sandra arrived unannounced at this hour of the morning in the cold of December.

  I could hear Phoebe crying good morning to her nurse, David clearing his throat, a laborer chatting with Terrell in the kitchen, Magda complaining about the cold. The faint smell of brewing coffee changed Ashwood from a residence to a home. I pulled open the inner foyer doors, gasped at the discomfort of my ribs, then cleared security to release the outer set. Evergreen wreaths rubbed against the wood grain of the tall doors, red and green ribbons adding a touch of warm elegance to the stark black surface.

  “Matron Anne, you look fantastic. Finally a chic haircut.” Sandra’s wool cape carried in cold air, and her small oval glasses fogged as we moved quickly into the house.

  “Director Tia’s stylist is one of the best.” Small talk, not one of my strengths.

  Medium height, stocky with short gray hair, Sandra could be anyone’s middle-age mother. That assumption proved to be a strategic error for many matron trainees seeking shelter from the program’s harsh intensity. This woman stood her grounds with intellectual estate residents, government bureaucrats, and her own faculty. I never understood why she so generously supported me as a mentor, childbirth coach, and friend.

  “Let me give you a hug.”

  I moved into her arms, not caring why she stood in Ashwood’s hall while I rested against her for even a few seconds.

  “Careful of the ribs. I know your strength,” I said while wondering if she offered support or reprimand in the length of her hold. Always duty first with Sandra. This visit had to signal serious trouble within the Bureau.

  “How long are you able to stay?” I phrased the question politely while we stood in this public area of the residence. “As long as needed” would say one thing, “just for breakfast and a chat” an entirely different message. Handing me one light bag then unfastening her cloak, Sandra side-stepped my question.

  “We’ll know how long I’m needed after we’ve had a bit of a chat. Regardless of what goes on today, I’m hoping to spend a night and have some kind of visit. Will that work with your schedule?”

  “You fly from Washington, D.C., to the Midwest and wonder if I have time to spend with you? Sandra, I’ll find the time.”

  From somewhere Lana appeared to collect Sandra’s cloak and bag. For the first time since I arrived, the girl wore her hair smoothed back in a low twist giving her a more mature look. Though inquisitive, her eyes showed caution. Of course the workers must wonder if I might leave Ashwood without ceremony, like Barbara. What did I expect when I sent the file about last night’s encounter with Jensen? The queasiness starting to form in my stomach had nothing to do with pain or medication.

  I kept my matron spine straight and placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Lana, this is Senior Executive Director Sandra Goetz. She flew here from Washington, D.C., where I completed my training.” Lana bowed her head and stepped back. “Lana is the young woman I told you about who was feeding this entire estate on her own when I arrived. Now, she directs the house workers and backs up our infant nurse. She’s university identified and quite an overall competent individual.”

  Lana brought her head up. “Where should I put these things and will you want breakfast, Matron Anne?”

  I was fascinated by the calm in her voice, knew she must be aware of Sandra’s assessing eyes. “The gold room. Turn up the heat. And breakfast in my office. Bring a carafe of coffee with cream. Thank you, Lana.”

  We watched her leave. “We need another experienced worker her age to help direct house activities with a baby in the residence and a second on the way. But, academics have been so neglected we aren’t competitive. Hiring Teacher Jason should put our workers back on track in testing.”

  Sandra headed toward the office walkway. I caught up. “Would you like a tour?”

  “Annie, I’ve seen dozens of estates like Ashwood. The only thing that makes this place different is you.” She hooked a hand through my arm. “Woman, all hell’s going to break loose in the next ninety minutes based on that rather exhaustive file you sent last night. We have your career to protect. Let’s get to your office and start working.”

  Maybe the painkillers, a poor night’s sleep, or a decade of living on the edge of poverty made those words from Sandra incredibly threatening. She rushed along the walkway. I knew the dizziness I felt had no connection to last night’s vertigo. The soul-deep grip of fear came back from the time of great adversity. />
  She seemed to know the DOE building, waved her Bureau security card in front of the visitor scanner. I followed, body and mind limping toward a possible change in my destiny. David stood in the office kitchen area, tinkering with tea bags and hot water. He didn’t acknowledge our presence.

  “Good morning, Director David.” Push your voice, I thought. Sound confident. “Let me introduce Senior Executive Director Sandra Goetz from the Bureau of Human Capital Management’s Training Division.”

  When he turned, yesterday’s right cheek wounds battled for attention with taut deep purple skin covering his left cheek. I ignored Sandra’s evaluating eyes. “Are you okay? That’s not from the transport explosion?” I knew the bruise came after Tia’s crazy behavior in the nursery. This day could be a low point for both of us.

  “Welcome to Ashwood, Director Goetz,” David said with a respectful tip of his head. “We appreciate all the leadership Matron Anne brings to the estate.” He touched his cheek as if testing for pain. “I have a wife with sharp elbows who was rather restless in her sleep. We had a midnight collision. If you’ll excuse me, I have an early conference. Perhaps we’ll talk later, Director Sandra?” He picked up his cup and left.

  Sandra knew where to find my office. She led the way to the conference table, moving aside my earlier sketches of the picture galleries. From pockets she brought out her data pad, a few printed sheets of paper, and a pen. I closed the door and sat with her.

  “So tell me what happened yesterday, from the start.”

  “What do you want to know beyond what we talked about and what I included in my file last night?”

  “For starters, what does Anne want to have happen? What’s your personal goal after six and a half weeks at Ashwood? What’s the real story about Director David’s bruise and how the sight of it generated such energy in you? Why is Jensen so successful in crawling under your skin?”