by Cari Noga
“Oh, my God.”
“We had the transfer on February eighth. I felt good about it. Christopher seemed good, too. Then, when Matt called a week later, he found out about you.”
“About us,” Helen corrected.
“I suppose. So he was furious. Said I’d lied to him. Betrayed his trust.”
“Didn’t you?”
On her end, Deborah shrugged. Whether she did or didn’t, how did that change things now? Instead, she repeated herself. “I couldn’t let our embryos go.” Her voice turned bitter. “But Christopher could.”
“Wh-what do you mean?” Helen’s voice trembled.
“He’s moved out, Helen. Moved into university housing. Some apartment reserved for a visiting professorship the department decided not to fill this year. The Joseph T. Flynn Waterfowl Management Professor, as a matter of fact.” She laughed in spite of herself, the sound a grotesque distortion of humor.
“Oh, my God,” Helen said for the third time. “For good? Are you getting a divorce?”
“I don’t know. He said he needed space. Needed time to think about it. Well, I can give him nine months.” Now her laugh masked tears.
“When are you due?”
“November ninth.”
“So it’s early. Lots of time. Maybe it won’t even—oh, never mind.”
“What? Maybe it won’t even what?” Deborah’s ears pricked up as her eyes dried.
“Nothing. I didn’t mean anything.”
“Maybe I won’t even carry it to term, right? After all, I’ve failed twice already.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you were thinking it.”
Helen sighed loudly. “It doesn’t matter what I think. But I’m worried. This is huge, Deborah.”
“I’m ready for it, Helen. Even by myself.”
“Are you? Do you truly understand what a baby would do to life as you know it? Especially if it takes Christopher out of the picture?”
“It’ll be hard,” Deborah said, switching the phone to her other ear, rocking steadily.
“‘Hard.’ That’s an understatement. Try to imagine what that really means, Deborah. Imagine being in a hospital, in labor, in excruciating pain—alone. Imagine living on half your income, plus the expense of day care. Imagine what four hours of sleep at a stretch—maybe for an entire night—does to your body and your brain and your relationship with the child inflicting that hell. Imagine that, night after night for months at a time.”
“Wow.” Deborah said in a small voice. “What happened to the sister who kept telling me I’d be a great mother?”
“I said great parents. There’s a universe of difference. And you can’t quote what I said a couple years ago when circumstances have changed completely.
“You’re talking about having a baby at the age of forty-three, with an uncertain but potentially fatal disease in your future,” Helen exclaimed. “Now, possibly by yourself.”
In the background, Deborah heard Matt’s voice, then Helen’s terse reply. “I’m fine, Matt. Don’t worry so much.” She spoke into the phone again. “At the very least, call that Columbia doctor. Get tested. Find out where things stand. You owe it to your child now.”
Deborah wanted to end the conversation. “All right. I’ll call.”
“OK.” Suddenly, the energy seemed to drain out of her sister, and Deborah heard a stifled yawn.
“I should let you go. Go back to bed, like Matt said.”
“All right.” Helen hesitated a moment. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Phone in her lap, Deborah stared out the window at the sagging utility line. Helen hadn’t said congratulations.
She was still stewing over it the next day when she was the first to arrive for the surprise staff meeting. What could be so urgent it couldn’t wait for the regularly scheduled weekly meeting? she wondered, choosing a seat by the window.
Under the blue sky, students tossed a Frisbee and walked with jackets unzipped. It was an unseasonably warm March day, the kind of day that made you believe spring might really be around the corner, even in Ithaca. Impulsively, Deborah opened the window. She felt better instantly. She could even hear birds singing.
“Really, Deborah, it’s a little chilly for open windows, isn’t it?” Phillip’s voice instantly frosted the room. Deborah turned to her boss, rebuttal on her lips. Among other things, the cool air would stave off her afternoon drowsiness. She was startled to see Phillip accompanied by the vice president for advancement university-wide.
“Deborah.” He nodded.
Something was definitely up. Reluctantly, Deborah closed the window. It wasn’t worth the argument.
Angela, her assistant, and the rest of the staff filed in, exchanging puzzled glances. Phillip ended their suspense quickly.
“As you all know, we’re scheduled to go public with our capital campaign in less than six months. Unfortunately, I’ve recently learned two of our major donors to date have reduced their support significantly.” He clasped his hands before him on the table, the gesture exposing a precisely stitched monogram on the immaculate cuff beneath his usual pin-striped suit. Deborah felt acutely aware of the fact that under the table she’d kicked off her pumps, which had been pinching her feet in the afternoons.
The room absorbed the words silently for several seconds. Sonja from the annual campaign spoke first.
“How significant?”
“Five million combined.”
“And how far along were we?”
“About forty million. It’s more than a ten percent hit,” the vice president said. “And based on what I’m seeing at other programs, you can expect more donor retrenchment. This economy is brutal.”
Around the table, Deborah saw her colleagues collectively sag. Phillip, however, sat up even straighter. He considered the new law school the capstone to his career, and he would achieve it, damn the economic realities.
“So that means that our work is cut out for us,” Phillip resumed. “Starting immediately. We’ll be stepping up donor and alumni club visits, so most of you can plan for more travel over the next several months.”
Travel. It was the thing Deborah disliked most about her job. She remembered considering it exciting, a long time ago. But even before the crash, it had become tedious. She didn’t expect any renewed appeal now that she was pregnant.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Angela glance her way. She’d confided in her assistant after the positive pregnancy test. She needed someone she trusted to create cover for the flurry of doctor appointments she now had on her schedule, until she figured out how to break the news to Phillip. She already knew he wouldn’t be happy about a maternity leave, especially since it would fall so soon after the campaign’s launch.
Now she had another reason to dread going to work. Home was no sanctuary anymore, either, with Christopher’s absence a constant reproach to her decision. Pregnancy was turning out to be a twilight zone. She stifled a yawn and shifted in her seat, fumbling under the table to force her feet back into the pumps.
“You and Dad will both be there tonight, right?” Amanda was putting on her jacket, waiting for Brett to finish ironing her costume for the final performance of Grease.
“Both of us. I promise. Fourth row seats, stage right,” Brett assured her. She and Richard had already attended opening night together. She’d watched two more performances solo. But apparently it was also tradition for parents to attend the closing night show.
That was fine with Brett. She loved watching Amanda onstage. The role of Rizzo had uncovered a whole new dimension to her daughter, who had expected only to make the chorus. Simultaneously, Brett felt profoundly content, thrilled, and relieved as she listened to others applaud. After this experience, Amanda would not be one to hide her true self, to resign herself to meeting oth
ers’ expectations.
She was already talking about studying drama in college, to the dismay of Richard, who was pushing a business degree starting at Lackawanna, Scranton’s community college. So far, he was low-key about it, but Brett knew how easy it was to bend your life to the expectations of others, going along to get along. After seeing her daughter fling herself into rehearsals, however, she had new faith that Amanda’s future would be of her own creation.
Chauffeuring Amanda to and from rehearsals also gave Brett plenty of time to mull her conversation with Elizabeth. It haunted her how Elizabeth peeled back her soul and gazed inside. Combined with the energy left over from her brief affair with Jackie, Brett had felt, in the days after her return from Charlotte, as if she occupied a rare window of opportunity to act.
She almost did after that one Sunday in church. Stop stalling, she’d told herself that morning, standing in this very same kitchen. But someone had kept Richard after the service. And the next day it was something else. Day by day, the power of her familiar, comfortable routines sedated her, closing the window. Like ironing Amanda’s costume. Richard’s shirts, too, were again crisp and ready for his Sunday sermons. At the backyard feeder, the sparrows were fed and happy.
And six weeks had passed with the web of lies still intact. She still slept in the bedroom with Richard, eight inches of mattress between their backs. Still, still, still. She had visited the job site on the business card Elizabeth had given her, but nothing seemed right.
“Almost done? I see Abby’s car.” Amanda was looking out the kitchen window.
“Done. Here you go.”
“Thanks.” Amanda took the hanger. “Remember, there’s the cast party afterward. At Mrs. Hamilton’s house. You said I could stay all night, right?”
“I did. You can stay all night. I’ll inform your father.” Brett handed Amanda her costume hanger and kissed her cheek. “Have fun. I love you.”
“Love you, too. See you later.” And Amanda was gone, in a swirl of starchy ruffles, flying ponytail and spring air. It was the first warm day of the year, the kind when spring seemed to truly lurk right around the corner, even in Scranton. The kind of day to open up the windows again, Brett thought, leaning over the sink to lift the sash.
Her hands carried her through the motions of making dinner and puttering about the house. Several times she paused in front of Amanda’s empty bedroom. In another year and a half, she wouldn’t have to ask Brett’s permission to stay out all night. Despair filled her at the idea of sharing a home only with Richard. It simply wouldn’t be tolerable. The truth, on the other hand, would set her on a treacherous, unknown course. Not unlike what a pilot had faced a few months ago, his plane falling out of the sky, Brett reflected.
In the costume that night, Amanda was gorgeous as the cast took their curtain call, smiling, clutching one another’s hands, and crying as they clung to the feverish high of the night. Hugging Amanda, handing her flowers backstage, watching her among her friends and Mrs. Hamilton the director—who pulled her and Richard aside, telling them that Amanda had “talent, true talent that deserves to be nurtured, please call me next week”—Brett froze the images of the evening, the last one in the life she had known for almost two decades.
She and Richard walked out into the still-warm night. She rolled down the window to keep the freshness on her face. As he started the engine, she at last told the truth.
SEVENTEEN
I don’t see Paula,” Robby said, pressing his face to the window as Sam pulled into the parking lot of the Central United Christian Church.
“We’re here a little early. Maybe she’s not here yet,” Sam said. “Let’s go find out what the plan is.”
A half-dozen other cars were already clustered in a far corner, most with trunks open. Sam recognized Ed, the man who had introduced himself at the meeting in February, and another man looking at a map. “It’s a straight shot west on I-96,” Ed was saying as they approached. “We can try to caravan if you want, but there’s really no need.”
“Where’s Paula?” Robby interrupted.
“Hi, Robby, Sam. Glad you could come.” Ed greeted him. Sam analyzed his voice for any trace of false heartiness but detected none.
“Where’s Paula?” Robby asked a third time.
“She’ll be here. She’s paid up and signed up,” Ed said, looking at his list. “We’re still waiting on three others, too. We’ve got some doughnuts here, coffee, juice.” He gestured to a tailgate buffet. “Help yourself.”
The three others arrived, and the doughnuts were down to crumbs when Paula finally showed up. She drove an ancient, rattletrap Toyota. Duct tape covered the taillight and held up a side-view mirror. Exhaust billowed out the back. In the dark parking lot, Sam hadn’t noticed its condition the night when he’d picked up her and Robby. He wondered if Robby had driven with her in that.
“Paula, you’re not driving that thing a hundred miles,” Ed said with finality. “There’s lots of room in other cars. Pick a ride and let’s get going.”
“We have room.” Robby stepped up to Paula’s elbow.
She smiled nervously. “Oh, thanks, Robby. But I don’t want to trouble your dad. I think I’ll ride with Ed.”
“No trouble at all. Plenty of room,” Sam offered.
“Well, but I’ve missed a couple meetings, and Ed and I, we need to talk about some club stuff, don’t we, Ed? It’ll just be easier if I ride with him. Thanks anyway.” Paula tossed her overnight bag into the trunk of Ed’s car and climbed into the front seat.
“All right, then. Everybody got a ride? Anybody need a map? Let’s hit the road. Next stop, Lansing Radisson.” Ed slid into the driver’s seat, the car shifting with his weight, and slammed the door.
Ignitions sputtered to life, but Robby remained standing, watching Ed’s vanishing vehicle.
“Let’s go, Robby.” Sam put his hands on his son’s shoulders, feeling like a cop on a TV show, physically propelling the perp into the squad car. Remembering his own junior-high crushes, though, Sam reflected that Robby was more like the victim.
In the car, Robby put on his headphones and stared out the window, not speaking for almost half an hour. Highway hypnosis was lulling Sam into his own stupor when Robby finally spoke.
“Paula doesn’t like me anymore.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Hmmm?” Sam stalled, glancing over. Robby had taken off his headphones.
“Paula doesn’t like me. Not anymore.” He turned away from the window and looked at Sam. “How come?”
Shit. Sam scrambled for a good answer. An adequate answer. Any answer. Autism evidently didn’t affect puberty. Linda had said that Robby needed more than the two of them could give him. Paula’s age put her out of bounds as a girlfriend. But they did have birds in common. Maybe he could help Robby understand some of the rules of relationships, romantic or platonic. Linda was right, Sam admitted. Protection could no longer be his first priority for Robby. If autism was the elephant in their lives, he deserved to know how to handle the beast.
“Robby, I think Paula does like you, actually. But I think she’s scared, too.”
Robby frowned. “How come?”
“Do you remember the night we gave her a ride home after the meeting? Back in February, when they first told you about this Lansing trip?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What happened that night?”
“We gave her a ride home. She lives on Springside Street. In a white house. With a big porch. The light was broken. Her dog was barking.”
“Right. That’s her house exactly. But what happened in the car that night, Robby? What happened when we drove Paula home?”
Robby thought silently for a moment. “She told me about Donald Baxter. That he would be at this meeting.”
“Right. And what else?”
Robby lapsed into a longer silence
. Finally he shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“You don’t remember?” He could remember the details of a barely visible house he’d visited one time, but not the all-systems meltdown. Sam still found it stunning how his son could recall the minute, but not the monumental.
“Uh-uh.” Robby shook his head.
“OK.” Sam took a deep breath. “You got upset in the car that night. You were all excited about this trip and maybe meeting Donald Baxter and learning more about the geese and the plane crash. And I didn’t say right away that you could go.”
“Why not?”
“Well, your mom and I needed to talk about it first. And I tried to explain that. But you couldn’t see past wanting to go on this trip. And so you got mad. And you got like you do when you’re mad. You yelled. You cried. You rocked. You banged your head on the front seat,” Sam felt transported back to that night as well.
“You and Paula were both sitting in the backseat, and she didn’t know what to do when you got like that. When you get fixated on something like that, Robby, no one can reach you. No one can pull you back from the edge. It happens to people with autism.” Sam glanced over at Robby, who was fidgeting with the headphones in his lap.
“But she didn’t understand that. That’s why she got scared. In about two minutes she saw you go from a regular boy, someone she liked, to this frightening, out-of-control kid, over something simple like me telling you, ‘we’ll see.’ That’s not how a normal person—” Sam hesitated, then edited himself. “That’s not a normal reaction. And that was scary. Paula knew something was wrong. Really wrong. But she didn’t know what.”
They rode in silence for several minutes. “Do you remember now?” Sam asked.
“Yeah.” Robby hung his headphones around his neck. “Autism makes me get like that?”
“Yes.”
“But that’s not my fault.”
“No. Autism is something that affects your brain. Makes it work differently. You can’t change it, or fix it. You just have to deal with it.”