At the Corner of King Street

by Mary Ellen Taylor

  The front doorbell buzzed, and I shut off the tap and dried my hands. I picked Carrie up and moved her to the bassinet before heading down the stairs.

  I stopped midstep, one hand on the railing. My grip tightened. Janet stared up at me.

  “Addie.” She looked pale and drawn, but her hands were steady and her gaze clear.

  “Janet.”

  “Blindsided” could easily have described the moment. “I didn’t know you were being released.”

  She twisted the hem of her shirt around her index finger. “I found out this morning.”

  “Why didn’t you call?”

  Would I have taken the call? I certainly didn’t have a good track record for that kind of thing. A faint smile touched her gaze. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  Scrambling for words and anything that made sense of this moment, I blurted, “I’m sorry I haven’t been back to see you. I don’t know where the time has gone.”

  “It’s fine. I don’t like those places either.”

  My gaze skimmed her skinny jeans and fresh white blouse. She’d washed her hair and wore a little mascara and rouge. “You look good.”

  “Grace brought me the clothes.”

  “Grace?”

  “She came by almost daily.”

  And so that explained the missing hours. Why hadn’t she told me? “The doctors cleared you?”

  She pulled a crumpled paper bag from her purse. “He gave me my medicines.”

  I resisted the urge to inventory the pills and ask her for a detailed description of her med schedule. If I pushed too hard, she’d balk. “Good. You have to take them.”

  She lifted her chin. “I will. I will this time.” She glanced past me. “Can I come in?”

  “Sure. Yes. I’m sorry.”

  She glanced around the warehouse that was quickly refilling with items Margaret and I had collected. “Where’s the baby?”

  “Carrie’s upstairs sleeping.”

  “Carrie. I remember you said you’d given her a name.”

  I felt as if I danced on eggshells. “Eric named her. I’m sure if you want to change it, you can.”

  “No. No. I like the name. It’s pretty.”

  As I moved up the stairs, her footsteps followed steadily behind me. We moved into the living room toward the bassinet trimmed in white lace. I glanced in to make sure Carrie was still asleep. Janet held back.

  “This place hasn’t changed since we were kids. Even still has the same musty smell.”

  “Grace didn’t change a thing.” Janet was hesitant, afraid, and waiting for me to take the lead. I could feel her need to see the baby. Her need to hold the baby. Her need for my approval. As her needs rolled over me, my grip on Alexandria tightened as if I was suddenly on the verge of losing everything.

  “Come look at her. She’s pretty.”

  Janet moved across the room, her purse clutched in her hands. She peeked into the crib and, for a long moment, stared. “She’s pretty. Real pretty.”

  “She looks like you,” I said. “Your coloring. Your long, lean body.”

  She shook her head. “I was hoping she’d be more like you.”

  “Me?”

  “Strong. Stable. That’s what I want for her.”

  “I don’t know how strong I am, Janet. I’ve been muddling through the last few weeks. It’s not been a pretty picture.”

  She traced her fingertips along the cradle’s smooth wood, as if remembering it belonged to Eric. “When Eric was born, I remember how hard those first few weeks were. If not for Zeb . . .”

  “You’d have run away sooner.” Bitterness shadowed the words.

  “Yeah. And even with Zeb I couldn’t cut it.” A faint smile returned. “The doctors at the hospital said that we needed to be honest. To face our mistakes. I’m trying to do that.”

  Janet had been running from her disasters for so long I couldn’t imagine her standing still. And the simple fact that she could admit there was a problem gave me a little hope.

  “Do you want to hold her?” I asked.

  She flexed her fingers before curling them into fists. “She’s sleeping right now. I really don’t want to wake her.”

  “She might fuss, but that won’t be the end of the world.” Pull out a recorder so that I could play my own words over and over again when Carrie woke up tonight at two A.M.

  Janet pulled away from the cradle. “I don’t want to hear the crying. Not now.”

  “Okay.”

  “Can I get you coffee?”

  She turned from the baby, her expression relaxing. “That would be great.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Yeah.”

  I set up a cup of coffee to brew before digging a loaf of bread from the red breadbox and pulling peanut butter and jelly from the cabinet.

  Janet sat at the kitchen table, smoothing her hand over the surface. “I remember feeling really happy at this table when I was a kid. Grace can’t cook worth a damn, but it was nice sitting here. She was steady. Calm. I liked that.”

  I held up the jar of peanut butter. “As you can see, I’m making the house specialty.”

  Janet’s eyes glistened and for a moment a distant memory connected us. “She liked grape jelly, but I always wanted strawberry.”

  I pointed to the opened strawberry jam jar. “That was my first act of defiance when I moved in weeks ago. And I bought good coffee. She doesn’t drink good coffee.”

  Janet shook her head. “How does she live?”

  “I don’t know.” The coffeemaker gurgled and spit out the last drops into the mug. “Still take it black?”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  I set the mug in front of her and just like that we fell into old roles: her being vulnerable and me taking care of her. We were re-creating a scenario that had played over and over a thousand times before.

  She cupped her long hands around the warm mug, absorbing the heat before she raised it to her lips and sipped. “You still make great coffee.”

  “My peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are pretty good, too.” I set one in front of her.

  She stared at the sandwich and tore off the crust. She lifted the crust to her lips and then hesitated. “It’s all backward. I should have been taking care of you. When Mom was sick, I should have been the one to run the house.”

  “Neither one of us should have been the one to run the house. We were just kids.”

  She nibbled the crust first, just as she did as a child. I asked her once why she did that. Saving the best for last. An odd comment from someone who always rushed toward the fun as fast as she could. “She hated being sick. She hated not being able to be a mom.”

  “I know.” As an adult I should have understood this and found a way to forgive all the past mistakes. But the child in me still huddled in the shadows and clung to anger and a deep sense of betrayal.

  “You’re still mad at her.”

  “Yes.”

  “I used to be. Not anymore.” Her hands trembled as she set the crust aside and chose a piece that was oozing peanut butter and jelly. She ate in silence as I filled a mug full of coffee for myself and sipped, content to let her eat. When only crumbs remained, she sipped more coffee. “You’re mad at me, too.”

  A sigh shuddered through me. “I’m trying not to be angry, Janet. I am trying.”

  “But you are. You might keep it all together for me and the baby, but you’re angry, and have every right to be.”

  “Janet, you’ve made some very serious mistakes. You’ve walked away from one son, nearly killed me in a car accident, and now you left your daughter with me.”

  “I’m sick.”

  “I understand that. And as long as you take your medicines and try, I can roll with the punches. But when you toss away the meds and pick up a bottle o
f vodka, I get angry.”

  She met my gaze and held it. “I didn’t drink at all while I was pregnant with Carrie.”

  “What about pot?”

  Her brow wrinkled. “Some, but none of the hard drugs.”

  “You didn’t take your meds either, did you?”

  “No. I stopped about a year ago. I felt so good. And I thought I finally tackled it.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose, struggling to hold on to patience. “You can’t tackle this. You can’t will yourself out of this. It’s forever.”

  Her blue gaze cooled to ice. “I didn’t ask for this, Addie.”

  “No one asked for it, Janet. I sure didn’t ask for it. And yet here we are.” Carrie began to fuss and automatically I pushed away from the counter and went to her. She called. I went. That was our pattern.

  I lifted her up, unable to hide a smile as she opened her eyes and looked at me. A sloppy grin curled the edges of her round, full mouth. Might be just a reflex and not a real smile but to me it said she knew she was safe. Knew a bottle was coming soon. Knew Addie would fix it all. I glanced into the kitchen. Janet stared at her mug, tracing the rim with a finger.

  I moved into the kitchen. “Do you want to hold her while I make a bottle?”

  She flexed long fingers. “It’s been so long since I held a baby.”

  “It’s not hard. I got the hang of it pretty quickly.”

  She rubbed her hands on her jeans. “I should wash my hands. The cab.”

  “Sure. Wash your hands in the sink. That’s a good idea.”

  With Carrie on my shoulder, I moved to the fridge and pulled out a bottle. With one hand I unscrewed the top and put the bottle in the microwave. I pressed twenty-three seconds to accommodate the extra milk a growing Carrie now required. The doctor said no baby food until she was about three months. Three months. I thought Carrie and I would have parted ways by then, but seeing Janet now, and faced with the thought of giving Carrie away, I knew, knew, giving her up would be the hardest thing I’d ever do in my life.

  Janet dried her hands with a paper towel and moved to the chair and sat, just as Eric did when he held the baby. I cradled Carrie in Janet’s arms. “She likes it when you hold her head up a little. She likes to be able to see what’s going on.”

  Janet’s posture was as stiff and rigid as mine was the first time I held the baby. “Eric was a bigger baby.”

  I fought the urge to nudge the crook of Janet’s arm up a few inches. “She was six pounds six ounces when she was born. How much did Eric weigh when he was born?”

  She tugged the edge of Carrie’s onesie so it rested flat on her chest. “I don’t remember the numbers. I should remember the numbers.”

  “It’s okay. I kinda remember he was close to nine pounds. Zeb will know.”

  Her gaze rose. “How is Zeb?”

  “He seems to be doing real well. He lent me Eric’s crib and a stroller. And he’s done well for himself in his business. Eric is doing great. Zeb’s done a good job with him.”

  “Zeb is as steady as a rock.” Faint hints of resentment hummed under the words. “He really tried to keep us together.”

  I went to the microwave and removed the bottle. The top screwed back on, I shook it and did a quick test on my wrist. “Would you like to feed her?”

  “I would.”

  I draped a towel over Janet’s shoulder and handed her the bottle. A part of me hoped she’d struggle and Carrie would squawk at the unfamiliar arms. But the baby stared up at Janet as she gently coaxed the nipple against her lips, and Carrie easily latched, as if this were the thousandth feeding, not the first.

  Invisible fingers squeezed my heart, and I imagined myself standing outside in the cold, looking through a large picture window at a party. I was the uninvited guest, longing to be inside where it was warm, laughter bubbled, and glasses clinked.

  On the outside. Unconnected.

  I ducked my head and turned toward the counter, where I reached for the peanut butter and dolloped out a large spoonful onto the bread. My appetite was gone, but I needed something to keep my hands busy. For a long time, I smoothed peanut butter onto the bread before I dug out jelly and layered it thickly on top. I smashed the top piece of bread into the bottom and cut the sandwich as Carrie’s soft, suckling noises swirled around me.

  She cried so miserably the first time I held her. Balled her fists, declaring that she knew she was in the wrong arms.

  “She feels right in my arms,” Janet said.

  Sadness squeezed the remaining air from my lungs. Carrie didn’t feel natural in my arms the first or second day. It took us time to settle into a routine. But we found our groove, and now, to just surrender her clogged my throat with unshed tears. “She’s a lot of work, Janet. I keep her on a regular schedule. That’s important for babies.”

  “I know.” Janet’s raised gaze held hints of fire. “She’s not my first.”

  “No.” It would be easy to remind her of her failures with Eric. The lost days and the lost years. But I treaded on thin ice. With no legal claim to Carrie, I knew if Janet wanted to take her, there’d be little I could do to stop her. “Have you seen Eric? He’s been asking about you.”

  A frown wrinkled her brow as she lowered her gaze back to Carrie. “I haven’t seen him yet. I’m not sure who to call.”

  “I have Zeb’s number.”

  “Zeb. It didn’t end well with us. He was so angry.”

  “He’s mellowed, and he’s been a help with Carrie.”

  “His ex-wife shows up and she’s knocked up by another man. The old Zeb would have been furious.” Resentment simmered under the words.

  “I’m sure he’s frustrated, angry, and hurt. We all are.”

  She leaned forward and kissed the baby’s head, closing her eyes, savoring the smell. “Zeb built that crib. It took him weeks.”

  “It’s stunning.”

  She opened her eyes, but her gaze remained on Carrie. “I remember the day he unveiled it for me. I cried.”

  “He’s a good father.”

  “Yes. He has always been a good father.” She let the words trail, hinting there was more to the Zeb story. Janet was fairly steady now, but I hadn’t forgotten her talent for manipulating and driving wedges between people.

  “Do you want me to call him?”

  She rolled her head from side to side. “I don’t think I can deal with him right now. I always see my failures reflected in his eyes.”

  “He wants what’s best for you.”

  “He wants what’s best for Eric. Not me. Not Carrie.” She smoothed her hand over the baby’s forehead, touching her like she were a fragile egg. And she was fragile. Just a few weeks old.

  My throat tightened with emotion, forcing me to clear it before I spoke again. “Where are you staying?”

  “I have a friend in town.”

  “You can stay here.” I wasn’t sure if I wanted her to accept or not. “There’s a spare bed.”

  “No. I don’t want to stay here.” She glanced around the room, her gaze drifting over the eclectic collection. Like everything else in the room, this place was her second chance. “It makes me uncomfortable.”

  “All Carrie’s baby things are here.”

  “I’m not ready to take her. I have to figure a few things out.”

  Relief washed over me. “That’s sensible. You need to think about yourself, Janet. Get healthy.”

  Again the anger flickered. “She’s my child, Addie. Not yours.”

  For a heartbeat, I couldn’t speak. “I know.”

  “Once I get my act together, I want to be her mother.”

  Words clanged in my head and begged to be shouted. I’ve done all the work! I love her! I want her! But I corralled them all.

  Janet shook her head. “You’ve got that look.”

&n
bsp; I blinked. “What look?”

  “Injured. Pure. The martyr. Addie the Saint.”

  That’s what Scott had called me whenever we disagreed. My Little Martyr.

  I tiptoed over more eggshells. “I love Carrie, Janet. I want what’s best for her. For you. None of us has to make a decision tonight.”

  “No. No decisions tonight.” But there was a resoluteness that suggested she would do whatever she wanted to do.

  Carrie sucked the last drops of milk and instead of nodding off to sleep, fussed and squirmed. Janet set the bottle down and began to jostle the baby. “It’s okay, Mama’s here.”

  “She doesn’t like to be jostled,” I said without thinking. “Do you want me to take her?”

  “No.” Janet stopped jostling Carrie, but the baby kept crying. “I know how to hold a baby.”

  “Put her on your shoulder and pat her on her back.”

  Janet shifted the baby awkwardly up to her shoulder, her ringed fingers snagging the soft cotton of the baby’s onesie. Carrie’s head flopped, and it took all my restraint not to take the baby. My sister righted her quickly, patted her daughter on the back, and a part of me hoped the baby would hate her touch. This wasn’t the way we did it. Carrie liked a softer, gentler pat. But Carrie adapted quickly and released a healthy burp.

  Janet laughed. “That’s what was upsetting her.”

  Feeling a little betrayed and lost, I saw connections unravel I had begrudgingly, and then lovingly, woven.

  The baby tried to raise her head, and it flopped again before Janet caught it with a ringed finger. “She’s active.”

  “Yes.”

  “I wonder if I was like this as a baby?”

  “I’ve wondered that myself.”

  She held the baby back from her body and studied her pink, round face. “She looks like me.”

  “Yes.” Minutes ago she wished the child were more like me, now she took pride in the sameness she shared with her daughter.

  A heavy silence settled around Janet. “Do you think she’s like me?”

  Cursed, you mean? “I don’t know. I asked the doctor at her checkup but he didn’t know. He said it will be a long time before we know.”