All We Knew

by Jamie Beck

“I’m going back to the party. I’d like you to come, but if not, I’ll meet you at the hotel in time to help with your shot.”

  Typical Hunter, retreating when they argued. She almost wished he’d stay and fight it out, because then she’d know it mattered. Instead, he chose “space” to collect himself. Space was exactly what they didn’t need, but that was another tired argument.

  At least he’d given her the out, so she wouldn’t have to suffer through more small talk or give vague answers to questions at the party.

  “I’ll meet you at the hotel.” She turned to go, leaving him standing in the middle of the glade, knowing neither of them had won anything in that argument.

  Chapter Three

  Sara padded down the stairs to the kitchen, thankful for her cozy pink slippers and cashmere robe. The abundant walnut-and-limestone flooring in the house made it cool on autumn mornings, especially when fog obscured the sun. Yesterday’s tense drive back from Berkeley had only enhanced the chill in their home.

  Her fitful sleep left her determined to start the week off on a better note. Her mom always believed in looking at a person’s intentions instead of allowing hurt feelings to fester and extend an argument. With that in mind, Sara turned on the electric teakettle, placed a few slices of bacon in the microwave, and proceeded to fix Hunter an egg sandwich. Having already returned from his morning cycling, he should be hungry after his shower.

  The bacon aroma helped boost her mood. Crisp, salty, greasy goodness that went with everything from OJ to chocolate. She’d miss bacon if she got pregnant, having to eliminate nitrates from her diet for months. Maybe she should have some today just in case . . . to hold her over.

  The thought prompted a smile. If she got lucky, in a few weeks she’d have to cut out all the no-no’s her friends had talked about, too. Unlike them, she wouldn’t complain—not even about going nine months without wine. She’d willingly give up food altogether and get nourishment through an IV if she finally got pregnant.

  While sweetening Hunter’s tea, she heard his footfall echoing from the hall. He hesitated in the doorway, looking much too handsome for this early hour. Although CTC was a “business casual” office, Hunter’s well-tailored slacks and bespoke shirts stood out compared with everyone other than Jenna, who also took great care with her appearance. The tension in his lean body and sharp lines of his face softened when he looked at her.

  “Good morning.” His cautious smile signaled that he, too, wished for a truce. “What’s all this?”

  “A peace offering.” She slid the plate along the island toward him.

  He sighed and crossed to her, cupping her face. His large, warm hands made her feel delicate and protected. “I’m sorry, Sara. Barking at you hadn’t been on my agenda when I’d planned the weekend. I’d hoped for us to . . . well, I’d hoped to have more fun than we did.”

  “I know.” Her arms encircled his waist as she fitted herself against him. Although sex was not strictly prohibited at this phase, many people who’d had success with IVF discouraged it while undergoing all the procedures and tests. She and Hunter hadn’t abstained the first time, and it failed, so this round she’d insisted they refrain. The lack of physical intimacy wasn’t helping their relationship. “I’m sorry I’ve been so tense and standoffish.”

  He kissed her in that possessive, commanding way he did most everything. “It’s okay. We’re going through a lot now, and unlike you, I can’t blame my moods on hormone shots.”

  “Let’s not lay blame.” She rested her head against his chest and breathed in his woodsy Azzaro Chrome cologne while he rubbed her back. “We could both be a little more patient.”

  “Okay.” He eased away and eyed the bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich. “This looks great, thanks. I’d eat with you, but I have a meeting at eight thirty, so I’m going to have to eat it while I drive. Do you need help with a shot before I go?”

  “Just the one.”

  “Let’s get it done.”

  Sara retrieved a vial of progesterone oil and a pink needle from the cabinet and prepared the shot while Hunter sipped his tea and ate a bite of the breakfast she’d made. Once she’d finished preparing the shot, she handed it to him and pulled down the top of her pajama pants to reveal the grid drawn in marker on her right butt cheek.

  “Babe, I hate thinking of how much these bruises must hurt.” Hunter sighed while caressing her black-and-blue hip before cleaning the area with an antiseptic wipe. “Ready?”

  She nodded and looked away, bracing for the prick of the needle that had to go all the way into her muscle. When it reached its target, her breath caught, and she heard Hunter mutter a curse.

  “I’ll be glad when this part is over.” He withdrew the needle and returned it to her.

  “Me too.”

  “I’ll bet.” He grinned, held up the remains of his sandwich, and kissed her cheek. “Thanks for this.”

  “Don’t forget we have a three o’clock appointment for another ultrasound.”

  “I’ll meet you there.” He turned to go, then spun back and pulled her close, staring into her eyes. He swooped in for another kiss. “Love you.”

  “Love you, too.” She stroked his cheek with her thumb. Something she’d probably done thousands of times since they’d met.

  He kissed her palm and winked. “Have a good morning.”

  She watched him go, relieved that she’d extended the olive branch this morning. Now she could focus her thoughts on praying for good news from the doctor—eight or more fifteen-millimeter-size follicles on the ultrasound would be wonderful. They could celebrate if she could convince him not to return to the office after the appointment.

  It’d been a long while since she’d surprised him with anything romantic. In the beginning, she’d planned many impromptu nights. They could use one now, even if it couldn’t lead to sex. Emotional intimacy—reestablishing that connection—was her goal.

  She’d make one of his favorite meals tonight—maybe steak kabobs with onion rings—and light candles. Perhaps she’d write out a list of her ten favorite things about him, as a gift. Adding a quick grocery run to her to-do list, Sara then went to shower and dress for the day.

  Sara was putting away the last of the groceries when her phone rang. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Sara, sorry to bug you, but I’m wondering if you have time to check something out for the foundation,” Colby said.

  “Depends. I need to head up to Portland for a three o’clock appointment.”

  “This shouldn’t take too long. If I had time, I’d do it myself. I received a grant request from the Angel House and am curious to check out one of their locations. They’ve got a home in Happy Valley I thought you might be able to visit.”

  “What’s the Angel House?”

  “They service homeless women and small children, many of whom are either escaping abuse or trying to overcome addiction. From what little I’ve read, they put them up in residential homes to give the kids a normalized environment while the moms look for work and permanent housing. Sounds much gentler than having kids end up in a large, transient shelter.”

  Sara glanced around her several-hundred-square-foot kitchen—outfitted in professional appliances, marble, and custom cabinetry—and beyond, to the nearly four-thousand-square-foot home she shared with Hunter. Just the two of them, rambling around this beautiful house that hugged the cliff above Lake Sandy. A privileged life—thanks to her husband—that she’d come to take for granted. One that also shielded her from seeing the plight of so many. “Of course I’ll go. Text me the address.”

  “Thanks. And good luck with the appointment. How much longer until the retrieval?”

  Sara preferred not to talk about the process, but Colby was the closest thing she had to a sister here. “Assuming things are developing on schedule, it should be any day.”

  “I feel very optimistic.”

  Sara laughed. “You’ve been ‘very optimistic’ for several weeks now, and I think it has more to
do with Alec than with anything related to my fertility.”

  A few months ago, Colby had hired Hunter’s childhood friend Alec as the head chef at her new restaurant. Not long thereafter, they’d become involved. After the difficult life Colby had had with her mentally ill first husband, who’d ultimately committed suicide, her family embraced this newfound love.

  “Alec helps, no doubt.” Her sister-in-law chuckled. “Trust me, though. You and Hunter will have a family. I feel it.”

  “I pray that you’re right.” Prayed every day, actually. “I’d better get moving. I’ll call you later with my impressions of the Angel House.”

  “Great, thanks.”

  Within seconds, Colby sent her a text with its address and phone number. Sara called the director, Gloria Crawford, who invited her to the home for a tour. She grabbed her keys, grateful for an opportunity to be vital and productive.

  Sara pulled into the driveway of an older, Dijon mustard–colored split-level home. It reminded her of the Brady Bunch house she’d seen on those reruns years ago. Nothing on its exterior called attention to its purpose. An outsider wouldn’t think it anything more than an ordinary suburban family home. It probably had three bedrooms, maybe four if one was very tiny. She locked her car and strode up the driveway, curious to learn more.

  Gloria greeted her at the door. The woman could’ve been her own mother—gentle eyes, silver hair, and a matronly build. She welcomed Sara with a warm smile.

  “Thank you so much for coming by so soon after receiving our grant proposal. We’re in such need of help these days.” Gloria led Sara inside.

  The home’s hardwood floors extended from the tight entry into the modest kitchen and dining room. Serviceable wall-to-wall carpet covered the living room and stairs Sara assumed led to the bedrooms.

  She overheard conversation coming from the upper hallway and noticed a plump woman sitting at the small desk in the living room, studying a computer screen.

  Gloria must’ve sensed her curiosity. “That’s Joan. Our residents use the computer to find jobs. Then we also prep them for the interview process. Because our facility is so small and there are so many women in need, we have a nine-month maximum residency term. Fortunately, many are able to leave before that.”

  “I see.” When Sara had been a teen, her parents had made the family undertake service projects every summer. Working with the indigent had made her appreciate everything her family did have so that she hardly ever noticed what they lacked.

  Since college, she and Hunter had never had time—or rather never made time—to give back in that same way. Hunter wrote checks. Lots of checks. While those were helpful, too, they didn’t feed the soul.

  She glanced at Joan again, who was struggling to survive each day. With winter coming, she must have been getting desperate. A place like this would offer much-needed comfort, despite the uncomfortable-looking, utilitarian furnishings. There was, however, a toy box and plastic kitchen set in the corner for kids.

  The small dining room held two tables of six, and the eat-in kitchen seated another four. Although homier than a shelter, it lacked the items that make a place home. There were no photographs. No knickknacks. Nothing of sentimental value anywhere on the walls or tables. And probably not much laughter. Who could laugh much with such tremendous pressure bearing down?

  “Let’s sit in the kitchen. May I offer you coffee?” Gloria asked as Sara followed her.

  “No, thank you.” Sara’s attention snagged at the sight of a young mother and toddler on the swing set in the backyard.

  The little boy, outfitted in a too-small, ratty orange coat, must’ve been about two. His skin looked as rich and warm as a cup of latte, although his mother was fair enough to be of Nordic descent. She was frail—so thin and short she looked like a preteen from behind.

  “Pam and Tyrell.” Gloria beckoned for Sara to move away from the sliding glass doors.

  “Do you strictly enforce the residency time limits with women with small children?” Sara rubbed her arms, chilled by the thought.

  “We’ve been lucky that, in almost all cases, our residents find work or alternative placement within the stated period. I’m not sure what we’d do if a child as young as Ty were at risk for being back on the street. Let’s hope we don’t need to find out. A bigger question is how can women like Pam, for example, who doesn’t have a family support system, get affordable, safe childcare once she finds work.”

  Sara blinked, her thoughts racing to how she and Hunter could be doing more to help others. How shamefully easy it was to get caught up in one’s own life and turn a deaf ear to the struggles of strangers in the community.

  “Well, let’s see how the Maverick Foundation might be able to help.” Sara took a small pad from her hobo bag, making herself a note to talk to Colby about looking into giving financial support to day-care centers for the working poor or setting up some kind of fund to underwrite those costs on an individual basis. “Tell me a little more about your needs.”

  “We use the bulk of donations to keep the lights and heat on, and pay for groceries and such. The local churches help out with clothing and shoe drives a few times each year. Occasionally, women from the neighborhood will drop off toys their kids have outgrown. But this year we’d like to offer a little more support for the young kids like Ty.”

  “How so?” Sara resisted the urge to stand and glance out the window at the beautiful little boy.

  “Sadly, we’re seeing more displaced single moms and kids. Many of these women have struggled with addiction, which contributes to the difficulty in keeping any kind of stable work. If we could hire extra staff to help with the kids so we could make sure these women attended support groups and got some job training, it might make a difference.”

  “So the funds would pay for babysitting? Can’t some of the women who are staying here pitch in when they aren’t on an interview or at a meeting?”

  “Some of these kids born to addicts, like Ty, can be difficult or struggle with developmental delays and attachment issues. Generally, kids like him aren’t easy for others to handle. Plus, the residents here have their own worries and concerns. Giving them additional responsibility isn’t best.”

  Just then, the door slid open, and Ty toddled inside with his mother on his heels. The cold breeze had tinged his cherubic cheeks with a rosy hue. Steely-gray eyes, round as Oreos, were deeply set above a perfect button nose and pouty mouth. A living, breathing Gerber Baby.

  He stopped cold when Sara smiled and waved. “Hello there. I’m Sara. What’s your name?”

  He stared at her, unmoved. Pam hiked him up on her hip without introducing herself or smiling, then opened the refrigerator to get some milk. “He don’t talk much.”

  Sara chuckled. “Well, little one, that makes you like most men I know. Not big talkers, are you?”

  He stared at her, eyes not blinking.

  Pam wasn’t nearly as interested in Sara as Sara was in Pam and Ty. In fact, Pam barely acknowledged her and didn’t even say anything to Gloria. “Come on, Ty. Nap time.”

  Sara didn’t follow them, even as something about Ty dredged up every mothering instinct she had. Once they were out of sight, she asked, “Is his lack of talking one of the developmental delays you mentioned? Can you get him help while he’s here?”

  “We have a contract with local social services organizations, and we call them in to evaluate whether certain kids are entitled to any state-provided disability programs.”

  “I see.” Sara knew nothing about developmental disabilities or difficult children, and yet she couldn’t stand the idea of Ty, or other children in need, going without the kind of support and intervention that could change their lives. “I’m sure the Maverick Foundation will be happy to assist you with funds earmarked for helping these children. In the meantime, I can volunteer some of my personal time to babysit or offer career counseling. Whatever you need.”

  That had come out of nowhere, but for the first time in a lo
ng time, Sara felt a sudden sense of purpose. A pop of the passion she’d been missing in her life.

  “That’s a kind offer, but we have a strict vetting process in order to protect the residents.”

  Sara wrote down her name, birth date, address, and phone number. “This should be enough to get a background check started. I can sign whatever waivers or other documents you might require.”

  “I’ll be in touch, thank you.” Gloria stood. “Why don’t I show you the bedrooms and talk a bit more about our mission, and then you can get on with your day.”

  “Sure.” Sara followed Gloria back to the small bedrooms, each of which had multiple beds and a crib. She barely heard Gloria’s spiel because her mind kept jumping from thought to thought.

  She tried to imagine having no friends or family to turn to in a crisis—frankly, imagining being in true crisis seemed impossible after spending almost fourteen years with Hunter.

  How did it feel to have so few possessions that one could carry them in a bag? Would she feel safe sharing a room (and those precious few possessions) with strangers?

  Distracted, she peered through the crack in the door to the bedroom where Pam and Ty were staying. Ty stood at the crib railing while his mom lay on her bed, legs dangling over the edge. Ty noticed Sara, his luminous eyes intently staring at her, almost the way Hunter’s did, yet more warily. She smiled, waving a few fingers at him again.

  He promptly plunked onto his little bottom and turned his head, suddenly shy or afraid. Her heart squeezed at the prospect of that little one being sent back to the streets.

  “Gloria, what’s the recidivism rate with the addicts? Do these women end up back here often or at other shelters? Does social services ever take the kids from them and put them into foster care?”

  “We’ve never had anyone come back, although that doesn’t mean they haven’t fallen down and ended up elsewhere or on the streets. We’ve only called DHS if we’ve suspected child abuse or neglect. So far, that’s been rare. Most of these women are trying to do better.”