by Cari Noga
“Owl and a hummingbird. That’s good.” Christopher smiled, recording the detail.
“But then, she’s got tons of hair, and Nate’s still practically bald. Who knows how it’s all going to work out. Girls are supposed to grow up faster. Maybe Gracie will be pushing him around on the playground in a couple years. Or—”
Michael’s phone interrupted him. “Speaking of,” he said, glancing at the screen. “I’ll see you around. Hi, honey,” he spoke into the receiver, loping down the hall, unaware his proud father small talk had shaken terra firma beneath Christopher Goldman.
Christopher stared out the corridor window. Freshly fallen snow reflected the weak winter sunlight filtering through the barren branches of Sapsucker Woods. It was a view he loved, but faces filled his mind instead. Deborah’s. Gracie’s. Down the hall, voices intruded on Christopher’s thoughts. The bird camp meeting was adjourned. One more face floated into his mind: Robby Palmer’s.
Imagining the Audubon magazines landing in mailboxes nationwide, Christopher felt a rush of urgency. Deborah and Gracie would take more time. This he could do now. He reached for his own phone.
Skimming to his contacts list, Christopher punched up Arthur Felk’s number. He got voice mail. “Dr. Felk, Robby needs something to put his application over the top. Can you write a letter of recommendation for him? I’ll see it’s added to the application package.”
“By the way, don’t plan on us next week. I’m taking Gracie out to Seattle, to meet your aunt Helen,” Deborah said as she snapped the baby into her snowsuit a few weeks later.
Deborah’s new habit of speaking, where she would start a sentence addressing him, then finish it talking to Grace, was the oddest thing. Did all mothers do that? Christopher wondered idly.
“That’s a long trip with a baby.” He remembered ending more than one West Coast flight ready to mutiny against a squalling child and its parents.
“I know. But at least I got a direct flight out of New York. And I don’t have much choice. Helen can’t come out here.”
“She’s not doing well?”
“It’s hard to tell over the phone, but the conversations are getting shorter. Neither she nor Matt say much. That’s another reason I want to go out myself. And I’m hoping Gracie cheers her up. You will, won’t you, sweetie pie?”
There it was again, another split-sentence pivot from him to the baby. And it always was from him to the baby, not the other way around.
Deborah lifted Grace, who looked as ready for dogsledding as she did for the twenty-yard trip from front door to car door, and kissed her before settling her into the car seat. “So we’ll see you the first week of March, then.”
“OK.” Would it really be March? It sounded far away. “Give me a call when you get out there. I’ll miss you both.” The words came out unbidden, as they had on the phone last year.
Startled, they both stared at each other. Deborah seemed ready to say something when Grace yanked on a toy hanging from her car seat handle, triggering “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” Distracted, Deborah simply nodded and tucked the blanket more firmly around the baby. Then they were gone.
Deborah texted him from Seattle, fulfilling the letter, but not the spirit, of his request. It was now Wednesday morning, his usual time with Gracie. With a free morning, Christopher had planned to sleep in and then relax and read before his afternoon classes. Online newspapers, ornithology journals, the latest draft of his own paper he was preparing to submit.
But instead of savoring the unscheduled quiet, he couldn’t concentrate, reading the same article three times before giving up. All right, then, breakfast. He scraped the last of the coffee from the can. Opening the fridge, he pushed aside containers from Campus Cantonese, ketchup, and mustard in search of eggs. Spotting the carton in the back, he reached for the last small, odd-sized jar in front of it.
Holding it up, he recognized Deborah’s small, precise printing on the label. “GDG—Jan. 31” The white liquid inside frothed when he shook it. Leftover milk, he realized. Deborah stocked him with bottles of her pumped breast milk to feed Gracie, who usually sucked down everything provided. This one had been forgotten, evidently.
January 31. A month ago. Could it keep that long?
Her phone rang through to voice mail. Disappointed, he left a short message. It was barely six a.m. in Seattle, but weren’t all babies early risers? He put the milk back in the fridge and started scrambling his eggs.
Deborah didn’t answer when he called again an hour later or an hour after that. His free morning was being chewed up worrying about his family in absentia. He took a shower, keeping the phone on the sink.
It was almost time for him to leave for his afternoon classes when she called at last. “Christopher, what’s going on? You’ve called three times.”
“I found a bottle of Gracie’s milk in the fridge. Dated January thirty-first. I wanted to know what to do with it.”
“January thirty-first? Dump it.” Deborah sounded surprised, but not annoyed. “Is that all?”
“Yeah. Well, no. Not really. You hadn’t called, and I wanted to talk to you.” He paused. “How’s it going out there? How’s Helen?”
“She’s OK. She’s got a couple good hours a day. She stays home, mostly. But we did get out to the girls’ school concert the other night. That was big for her.”
“And how’s Gracie? How did she do on the flight?”
“Better on the flight than I thought. The time change has been awful, though. Her naps are all off. I—”
“Deborah! Are you ready? We’re supposed to be there at nine thirty.” Christopher heard Matt’s voice calling in the background.
“Going along on a doctor’s appointment today?” he asked.
Deborah shouted back to Matt. “Be right there!”
“I’ve got to go,” she said into his ear again.
“Headed to the doctor?” Christopher repeated, not wanting to end the most civil, unloaded conversation they’d had in months.
“Deborah, the Realtor’s here.” Matt’s voice was louder now. “We’ve got these showings stacked pretty tight. We need to get going.”
“OK. I’ll be right there.” Deborah spoke away from the phone again.
“Realtor? Showings? As in, real estate showings?” Could Helen already need alternative housing accommodations? Why else would they move at a time like this?
“Christopher, I’ll explain when we get home.” Deborah’s voice was clipped, abrupt.
“Explain? What is there to explain?” Suddenly, a horrifying thought grasped him. The hair on his arms rose.
“Deborah, is that Realtor there for you?”
Her silence said everything.
“You’re moving to Seattle?”
“I’m not moving yet. I’m considering it. I need support, Christopher.”
“I’m supporting you!”
“Because I practically drafted you. And I need more than babysitting. I need emotional support, too.” Deborah spoke tightly. “And so do Helen and Matt. And the girls. We’re in a position to help each other. That’s what family does, you know.”
Christopher felt sucker punched. He sat down heavily, sinking into the sofa with its worn-out cushions, and swallowed hard. He could barely breathe.
“You’re taking Gracie across the country.”
“It’s not a final decision.” Deborah’s voice softened. “Matt suggested it couldn’t hurt to look at houses while I’m out here. See what’s available. I’m sorry you heard about it like this. We’re leaving day after tomorrow. I’ll call you when we’re back in Ithaca.”
“What time does the flight get in? I’ll come pick you up.”
“I’ve already made arrangements. I’ll call you, I promise. Yes, Matt, I’m coming now. Good-bye, Christopher.”
Sitting concave on the sofa, his knees half
way to his chin, he remained immobile until habit sent him to the kitchen to replace the phone on its charger. The refrigerator reminded him of Gracie’s bottle. He unscrewed the yellow cap and poured the milk out in the sink. Watching it drain away released an inner valve, the one he had screwed over his soul a year ago. He loved them. Both his wife and daughter. He couldn’t nurse his pain and injustice anymore. Their future was at stake, and he needed to be part of that future. He couldn’t let any more time drain away, either.
For the first time in his life, Christopher Goldman missed a scheduled class, as he drove to Ithaca-Tompkins, without luggage, and bought seat 14B on the 1:05 p.m. flight to Philadelphia, with continuing service to Seattle.
As Christopher flew west, his cell phone and other electronic devices dutifully turned off, his voice mail recorded an unnamed caller.
“Dr. Goldman, this is Dr. Felk’s assistant at the museum, returning your call from a few days ago. I’m sorry to tell you Dr. Felk isn’t able to write the letter you requested. He fell last week and broke his hip. I relayed your message, and he asked that you call him at New York-Presbyterian.
“I’m sorry to leave bad news in a voice mail, but I don’t want to risk waiting to reach you directly. Please call him as soon as you can.”
THIRTY-THREE
Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking. On behalf of the crew, I’d like to be the first to welcome you to Seattle, where the local time is 3:40 p.m.” Christopher reset his watch as they taxied down the runway.
“Portable electronic devices may now be turned on. We know you have a choice in air travel, and we thank you for choosing United. Flight attendants, cross-check for arrival.”
His phone showed one new message, but it wasn’t from Deborah’s number, and she was the only person he wanted to talk to now. He’d listen later. Now he needed to find a taxi.
Matt and Helen’s garage was closed, and the entire street looked deserted. Most of the neighbors were probably still at work. Compared to Ithaca, the weather felt balmy, and he shrugged off his winter jacket.
The doorbell echoed inside. No answer. Matt had said the showings were stacked tightly. Could they still be out looking? He rang again. Would they have taken Gracie with them on the house-hunting expedition?
He cupped his hands around his eyes, trying to see into the sidelights surrounding the front door. A baby’s bouncy seat sat on the dark wood floor, next to the staircase. His stomach tightened, and he reached for the doorbell again. A moving shadow caught his eye. Christopher looked up. The door opened. There stood his sister-in-law, shock on her face.
“Christopher.”
“Hello, Helen.” His hand was still on the doorbell.
“Don’t. She’s sleeping.”
“OK.” His hand fell to his side. Helen looked shrunken compared to the last time he’d seen her. Despite the warm day, she was shrouded in a turtleneck and a University of Washington sweatshirt, a red afghan pulled over her shoulders.
“Can I come in?”
She hesitated only a fraction of a second. “Of course.” She backed away from the door, allowing him to step through.
In the silence of the house, they faced each other, mutually wary, then spoke simultaneously.
“What are you doing here, Christopher?”
“Deborah’s still out looking at houses?”
“Looking at houses?” Helen looked cautious.
“We spoke this morning, Helen. She told me.”
“Told you what?”
“That she was going to look at houses. That it was Matt’s idea. That it ‘couldn’t hurt.’ ” His stomach clenched again. “It does, Helen. It hurts.”
“Good. It’s past your turn to know what that feels like.” She crossed her arms.
“What are you talking about?”
“For the last year you’ve made your ideals more important than Deborah. Than your family. ‘She tricked you, she deceived you.’ She had to ask you to meet your own daughter, for God’s sake. Do you know how much that hurt her?”
“My marriage is none of your business, Helen.” But he was taken aback at how much she knew.
“‘My’ marriage. Still thinking singular.” She snorted, which triggered a coughing fit. She sat on the staircase. “If there’s any marriage left, Christopher, it’s in shreds. Deborah had a job interview here, did you know that?”
Her words were blows. “An interview?”
“At the University of Washington. For their annual fund. She’s eminently qualified. They’d be crazy not to make her an offer. And she’d be crazy not to take it, if you ask me.”
Silence fell in the hall again, until a cry broke it. Gracie, upstairs.
“She’s up from her nap,” Helen said, standing again.
He dodged in front of her easily. “I’ll get her.”
“Deborah left me to babysit.”
“I’m her father, Helen.” He was halfway up the staircase. “I’ll take care of her.” At the top he looked back, raining the words down on her, forcing her to believe him. Swearing it to himself. “I’ll take care of her.”
Still in the upstairs bedroom a half-hour later, Christopher heard the front door close, and then voices. Helen’s excited one. Matt’s deeper one. Last, Deborah’s. Gracie looked drowsy again. He laid her gently in the crib—another piece of the baby kit Helen had all ready and waiting—and then stepped out, quietly closing the door.
From the top of the stairs he faced down the trio, Matt with his arm around Helen, who gripped Deborah’s arm. She turned to her sister and with one hand, gently freed herself. “Christopher and I need to talk, Helen. May we use the kitchen, please?”
Helen started to answer, but tears began to fall. Matt nodded at Deborah. “We’ll be upstairs, then.” He led Helen up the stairs, steering her past Christopher silently.
When their door closed, he descended, each footfall taking him through the past year, rewinding it before Grace’s birth, before the hike and warning from Dr. Felk, before his move, before Deborah’s pregnancy test, to the crash. The “Miracle on the Hudson,” the media had called it. If the pilot could salvage that situation, convert disaster to miracle, there must be hope for them, too. He stood next to Deborah.
“She’s asleep. I gave her a bottle when she woke up, and she’s just drifted off again.”
Deborah nodded. “Let’s get something to eat. I’m hungry.”
She led the way to the kitchen and removed leftover Chinese containers in the refrigerator.
“Mariah’s the lo mein lover here. There’s plenty left.”
Christopher looked into the white box. He hadn’t eaten since his eggs at home in Ithaca, but he wasn’t hungry. He folded the cardboard flaps again and pushed it away.
“Helen said you had an interview out here.”
She met his eyes as she chewed, then nodded.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
She answered with another question. “Why should I have thought you’d want to know?”
He grimaced as his words at the Ivory Tower echoed.
“Well?”
“I was wrong.” The words tumbled out. He saw Deborah’s lips quiver. He groped for more words, better words, words that would unravel the cocoon Helen was spinning here, with the bouncy seat and the crib and who knew what other baby trappings. “I was too angry to say so. Too proud. Scared. Dumb. I’m sorry. Don’t take a job here. Please. Please say it’s not too late for us.” He spoke Dr. Felk’s words from the woods with anguish.
Her lips quivered once more, and she asked again. “Why should I?”
“Because I still love you. And Gracie. This morning, when you didn’t bring her, I realized how much.” He fumbled for his wallet, pulling out the faded ultrasound photo. “I’ve kept this here since the day you gave it to me.”
“But you were
right. I could have passed on the Huntington’s gene.” Deborah’s voice trembled. “I risked her life. If she got like Helen it—it would have been my fault.”
She still felt guilty, too. He shook his head fiercely. “No. It wouldn’t be your fault. It would be life.”
“It would. I got lucky, but I was selfish. I can’t stand that I was.” She gripped her elbows and shivered.
“You were brave, too. Going through the pregnancy alone.” Christopher stepped close to her and rubbed her arms, understanding that the cold she felt was emanating from within.
“And there’s something else.” Momentarily, she looked down and then straight into his eyes. “I did something else unforgivable. I risked denying her a father by deceiving you.” She was crying. “I’m sorry, Christopher.”
Waves of relief, cleansing, baptismal waves, swelled from his gut as he held her against him. They were both crying now.
“It’s not unforgivable. You’re not unforgivable. I have. It’s done. It’s over. And we’re going to take care of her. No matter what happens. She’s our daughter. Even if she had Huntington’s. Or gets—I don’t know—food allergies. Or she’s nearsighted.” He tapped his glasses. “Or has autism. Who knows. Whatever. We’ll handle it together. Two parents. One family. Right?”
He stepped back, looking into her teary eyes, waiting for her concurrence.
“One family,” Deborah repeated, and they kissed in the strange kitchen, awed at the abundant beauty of second chances.
THIRTY-FOUR
July 2010
Through the car window, Robby watched the hive of activity on the sidewalk as his dad pulled up to the curb in front of Mews Hall. Parents and kids shouted to each other as they unloaded cars. Sweaty people in red Cornell shirts threaded their way through the throngs of kids there to move in for bird camp. Robby recognized one.
“Hey! There’s Professor Goldman!” In an instant, Robby was out of his seat and out the door, sprinting toward a sandy-haired man wearing glasses and one of the red shirts. “Professor Goldman!”