by Cari Noga
TWENTY-EIGHT
Pickup for Goldman,” Christopher told the kid behind the counter at Campus Cantonese. Rifling through the row of brown paper bags, he yelled back to the kitchen. The Chinese reply obviously displeased him.
“Big order. Ten more minute. Sorry.” He disappeared into the kitchen, yelling in Chinese.
Christopher sighed and dropped onto the bench next to the cash register. He flipped through one of Ithaca’s weekly freebie rags restlessly, then stood again. Two of his grad students had volunteered to pick up the food. He wished he’d let them. Campus Cantonese was one of his and Deborah’s regular haunts. Had been one of their regular haunts. They always sat in the middle booth along the back wall. Had sat.
Out of habit, his eyes drifted there. He blinked once, then twice. There was Deborah, in her usual spot, opposite another woman who looked vaguely familiar. They leaned toward each other, deep in conversation. But it was what was between them that pinned his gaze.
A baby’s car seat.
He was across the restaurant in half a dozen strides, moving on pure adrenaline, pure instinct. “Deborah.”
Both women turned toward him, startled. “Christopher!” Deborah gasped.
He looked from her to the car seat. “Is this—did you—”
A strange look crossed Deborah’s face, and she leaned back against the booth, revealing her swollen belly almost touching the table’s edge. A cocktail of emotions swirled. One part disappointment, one part relief, one part foolishness. “Oh.”
“Christopher, this is Julia Adams. I think you met her at the dean’s picnic last summer.” Actually it was two summers ago now. “You know her husband Michael from bio, too, of course.” Deborah paused, then deliberately nodded at the car seat. “And their son, Nate.”
“Nice to see you again,” Julia said.
“You, too,” he managed, before he was saved by the kid from the counter.
“Goldman? Your order’s ready.”
“Thanks. I’ve got to go,” he said to Deborah, almost stepping on the kid’s heels in his haste to follow. Drumming his fingers, waiting for the credit card to go through, he heard her voice.
“I wouldn’t have the baby and not tell you, Christopher.”
The cocktail swirled again. Was it two parts relief this time? He looked at her. “OK.”
“OK?”
“I mean, good. I’d want to know.”
“You could have fooled me,” Deborah said.
“Actually, you did fool me.” The words were out of his mouth before he knew it. Deborah drew back as if he’d struck her.
“Sign here,” said the kid. “Sorry for the wait.”
“It’s all right.” He felt Deborah watching him as he scribbled his name. The kid punctured it on one of those pointy spears. He turned, bracing for Deborah’s retort.
But none came. They stood looking at each other for a long minute until Christopher spoke.
“I’ve gotta get back. I’m taking this to campus for a student group meeting tonight.”
Deborah looked surprised. “I didn’t know you advised any groups.”
“It’s my first meeting. For students who want to be instructors and advisers in the summer ornithology camp.”
“Bird camp? For middle school kids?”
“Thirteen to sixteen, actually.”
“Really?” Deborah blinked. He read the puzzlement on her face. Was there a hint of pleased surprise, too? But what good would his practice attempt at parenthood do now anyway, with the real thing so obviously imminent, and so many months wasted?
“Yeah. So I’ve got to get back.”
“OK. Well, good night, then,” Deborah said. He felt her eyes continue to follow him, out into the cold night.
In the car he tried to settle his nerves. He was finally comfortable in the fellow’s apartment. He turned toward it when he left his office, rather than toward Cayuga Heights. He remembered to buy coffee before he wanted to make a cup. He caught almost all his waking second guesses before they could slip out, like “I miss you” that day on the phone. They only caught him at night, when he woke up alone and had to recall that it was now normal.
Yet this one encounter had easily seeped through the mental sandbags he’d so carefully placed around the events of the spring. He tried to identify what remained of that emotional cocktail. Relief he hadn’t missed the birth? Fear she wouldn’t want him at the birth? Did he even want to be at the birth? What did he want?
His car had arrived back at the Lab. Trudging upstairs with the food, he wanted to be back at the apartment, wrapped in the trappings of his solitude again, repairing his sandbag bunker. Maybe they could handle the meeting without him.
But no, Peter was already there. He couldn’t leave now. The best he could manage was a few moments in his office to regroup.
In the sanctuary he automatically checked his e-mail. Four new items, which all looked like they should have been caught in Cornell’s spam filter. He paused over one, then clicked. It was another message from Robby Palmer. Like the others, he skipped a salutation and plunged right into what was on his mind.
“I’ve been elected vice president of my Audubon club,” it read. “Do you think that’s enough leadership for the camp. Please let me know.” It was signed Robby Palmer, with a link to what looked like the club’s website.
Christopher clicked on it automatically, then minimized the window just as quickly. Camp was competitive, and admissions policy called for all applicants to be reviewed blindly, as he’d reminded Dr. Felk repeatedly. Technically, even Robby’s e-mail broke the rules. In fact, that night’s meeting was to review the rules for the applications expected to start arriving immediately after the New Year. Christopher had been struggling with how to disclose the matter of the thumb drive, which he had kept locked in a drawer since that day in April.
But as he massaged his temples, Christopher recalled the story Arthur Felk told in the hotel bar, about his brother. The story has a happy ending. Robby needs somebody younger. He remembered Deborah, in the taxi after the crash. Is work really more important than family? Dropping the photo on the table at the restaurant. Not just a girl. Your daughter.
He hit “Reply” and began typing. “That’s great, Robby. It’ll really help your application. Keep track of everything you accomplish as an officer. We’ll start taking applications after Jan. 1.”
Hitting “Send,” Christopher went to claim his lo mein.
Deborah put her leftovers in the refrigerator and went to the baby’s room. It drew her every evening now. She sat in the glider rocker, leaning her head against the green gingham cushion, her arms cradling her belly. She was adamant that the nursery not become a pink straitjacket, even though Julia told her it was hopeless. “Every single outfit Nate got—I mean every single one—had either a vehicle or a ball on it,” she’d told Deborah at dinner. “And eighty percent of them are blue.”
How odd that babies were immediately divided into their separate camps, yin and yang, black and white, when the world they would inhabit was filled with shades of gray. Her baby’s more than most. That was what Christopher couldn’t appreciate, either. To him, it was right or wrong to have a baby. It couldn’t be both. Helen and Matt’s perspective was just as stark. They couldn’t understand why she didn’t cut ties. Move on. Why live in limbo?
She sighed heavily, shifting in the chair. There, that was more comfortable. She still cared for Christopher, that was why. She couldn’t let go of the dream she’d envisioned for them, that they were so close to living. Tonight, though, it was again clear that Christopher didn’t understand that she was compelled to do what she did in February: protect the embryos at all cost. That was what mothers did. Especially when they knew the fathers cherished hopes as fragile as Christopher’s.
She shifted her hips again, wincing. Heartburn? She deliberately orde
red moo goo gai pan because it wasn’t spicy. Did she have any Tums in the house?
Then there was the practical reality of their situation. If she did have Huntington’s, the baby would need someone. Would need her father.
The pain flared again, longer this time, then ebbed just as the baby kicked. The jolt reverberated up, up to her brain, which suddenly lit with comprehension. A contraction. Not heartburn, but a contraction. Labor. Happening now. She had to call Dr. Dunn. She had to call Christopher. She had to—but as she stood, the pain of the next contraction pushed her back into the chair.
Immobilized, Deborah held her belly again and stared at the green glowing numbers on the digital clock. Timing. She was supposed to time the contractions. Or was it how long in between? Or both? She had to ask Dr. Dunn.
“Both. And when they’re a minute or longer and five minutes in between, come on in. Or if your water breaks. OK?”
“How long will that be?” said Deborah.
“First baby, hard to tell. Could be a while.”
“Oh,” said Deborah, feeling forlorn.
“Your friend Julia’s bringing you in, right?”
“Right.”
“All right. You can do this, Deborah. I’ll see you soon.”
After the doctor hung up, Deborah didn’t hesitate. She dialed Christopher.
TWENTY-NINE
Thanksgiving morning, Brett woke to the first dusting of snow. One more thing to do on the Alliance’s busiest day of the year: shovel the walk.
Since no one expected her to fill a pew, she watched the Macy’s parade on TV for the first time in twenty years. Midmorning, as she made a Western omelette, the pangs of loneliness hit. Dropping the knife next to the piles of diced ham, green peppers, onions, and cheese, she dialed.
Amanda would be expected to fill a pew, she realized, as the voice mail greeting began. “Hi, Amanda. It’s Mom. I just wanted to wish you a happy Thanksgiving,” she said to the silence. “It snowed here today. I heard it might there this weekend. I hope you’re feeding the birds, sweetie. I’m so thankful you’re my daughter. I know it’s been a hard year, and I hope that you can still count me as a blessing, too,” she finished hastily, before hanging up to wipe away her tears.
She missed Amanda terribly. They had talked a few times, when Amanda chose to answer the phone Brett had given her. Many other messages were not returned. Brett went back to Scranton twice: in August, before school started, and again in October, for school conferences. Both times Amanda kept herself busy almost the entire visit. Brett accepted the passive-aggressive punishment resolutely, vowing to give Amanda the time and space she needed. In lieu of a real relationship, she found herself monitoring the weather, imagining Amanda trading shorts and tanks for jeans and sweaters and now, her winter coat.
Otherwise, she felt exactly as Elizabeth said she must. Committed. Fulfilled. Energized. And free. Richard had sent her divorce papers, which she had signed and sent back in the next day’s mail, officially casting off the pastor’s wife yoke. But after almost five months of Amanda’s aloofness, she was starting to wonder if she had miscalculated the trade-off.
Thanksgiving dinner service began at four. She left the apartment at noon and walked to Immaculate Conception, where the posse of cooks was just putting the turkeys in the oven. As excited as another mother for a bat mitzvah or a sweet sixteen, Brett circled the dining room, fluttering here to straighten a tablecloth, there to make room for another serving dish, back to the kitchen to make sure the salad was tossed with the right dressing.
A line snaked around the building when the doors opened. Brett and the greeter and server volunteers played the role of host to the hilt: taking coats, writing nametags, ushering guests to the buffet lines, and helping find available seats at the crowded tables. Turkey was carved. Potatoes scooped. Pumpkin pie sliced. Coffee flowed. The afternoon flew. The last guests were soon gathering their coats and saying their own thanks.
“Good job, Brett,” said Pastor Sue as she collected her coat.
Brett’s exuberance exited with the crowds. She sent the volunteers home and washed the last dishes herself, stewing that Amanda had not called back. You’re the mother. You have to keep the door open, she reminded herself, dialing again.
“Hello?”
“Amanda.” Hearing her daughter’s voice for the first time in weeks made Brett’s voice crack. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Mom? Is that you?”
“It’s me. I wanted to wish you a happy Thanksgiving,” Brett said, clutching the phone, wishing for the words that would allow this one phone call to fill the void of the lost months.
“Oh. Well, um, thanks.” Her voice was flat again.
Brett pushed on. “Did you get the message I left earlier?”
“Earlier today?”
“Yes. I called about ten.”
“We were at church.”
She wasn’t answering the question, Brett thought. “Well, it doesn’t matter now,” she said aloud. “How have you been, sweetheart?”
“Fine. I’m fine.” Amanda sounded automatic. “Busy.”
“Busy with what?”
“I’ve got rehearsals all weekend.”
“Rehearsals? During the holiday weekend?”
“Not for a school play. It’s a Scranton Cultural Center production.”
“You’re kidding. You’re cast in an SCC play?”
“Yeah.” Amanda sounded like she was smiling now. “White Christmas. Mrs. Hamilton talked them into letting me audition. I’m in the chorus, and I’ve got a few lines.”
Brett was more delighted that their conversation was still going than at the news. “That is just wonderful, Amanda.”
“Dad doesn’t think so.”
Brett frowned into the phone. “What do you mean?”
“He keeps preaching Lackawanna College.”
“He does?” Anxiety surged through Brett.
“‘Business is security, Amanda,’” she intoned, imitating Richard. “‘You don’t have to give up theater, but you have to be realistic, too.’” She sighed.
Silently, Brett cursed Richard. “Amanda. Listen to me. This is important. You have to listen to yourself first. Your father can have an opinion. I can have an opinion. But you make the decision about your future.
“After the experience of the musical last spring, after everything Mrs. Hamilton told you about your talent, and now being cast in this community production, can you imagine going to Lackawanna? Entering a business program now?” Brett waited.
“No. No way,” Amanda finally said.
“I understand. I get that. I sat in the audience and watched you. You can’t deny what your soul wants.” Brett paused. “Well, I guess you can. But it’s not worth it. Believe me, sweetie. It is just not worth it.”
There was a long pause.
“Amanda? Are you still there?”
“The show opens December fifth,” Amanda said. “If I got you a ticket, could you come?”
Robby hunched his shoulders inside his sweatshirt as he sat in the chilly backyard, parked in the one lounge chair he’d insisted stay outside for winter, aiming the Sears binoculars at the sky. His yard list was on his lap. He was at ninety-six now. He wanted to get over one hundred by the end of the year. Not impossible, but unlikely. At the Audubon meeting last week, everyone compared their December totals. Most people got two or three. Paula had the most of anyone, with six.
Paula. His stomach felt funny when he thought about her. They had won the election and were officially officers. But every time she was around now, Robby couldn’t think about blog posts and a member database and all the stuff they’d promised. He just thought about her boyfriend sitting next to her in the library, his arm wrapped around her. And then the funny feeling in his stomach started.
“Hey, Robby.” It was his dad’s v
oice, next to him all of a sudden. “Finding any to add?”
Robby shook his head, keeping his eyes on the sky. A single dark shape arced across his field of vision.
“There, what about that one?” his dad asked.
Robby shook his head. “Just another sparrow.”
“Hmmm.” His dad dropped something onto his lap. “Maybe it’s time to take a break.”
Robby lowered the binoculars. The paper in his lap was an ad, its red and green capital letters screaming at him: SALE SALE SALE! Hurry in for holiday savings! Best deals of the year!
Grunting, he handed it back to his dad. “Hate shopping.”
“Turn it over,” his dad said.
Rolling his eyes, Robby turned the paper over. Cameras, binoculars, accessories! Bushnell, Nikon, Canon, Olympus! Best brand selection, best prices!
“Binoculars?” Robby looked up at his dad.
“I think you’re ready for an upgrade,” his dad said. “It’ll be an early Christmas present.”
“Really?” Robby fingered the pebbled surface of the Sears binoculars. Up north, he’d tried Ruth’s. On hikes at Kensington Metropark and the Nichols Arboretum in the fall, he’d borrowed some from other club members. Theirs were all so much lighter and sharper.
“Really.” His dad nodded. “Come on.”
The mall parking lot was packed. So were the hallways inside, echoing with recorded Christmas carols. Robby pulled his hood up, yanked his sweatshirt strings, and kept his eyes pinned on his dad’s green quilted coat.
The binocular store, which looked mostly like a camera store, was much quieter. “Help you?” asked a man wearing a denim shirt.
“We’re interested in binoculars,” his dad said.
“Over here.” The man led them to a case in a back corner. “They’re not my specialty, though. I’ll get someone who can help you. Alex?” He drifted toward an open doorway.
Robby leaned his elbows on the case. Inside, binoculars were displayed on two shelves, arranged left to right in order of size. They all looked better than the Sears pair at home. He grinned, feeling happy. This would be a great present. And he’d have them for the club’s annual Christmas bird count, coming up in a few weeks.