Sins of Innocence

by Jean Stone

  “It’s not too late, is it, Mom?”

  She held him more tightly. “No, of course not. We’ll get you back in school, and everything will be fine. You’ll see.” She kissed the top of his head. “Your friends will be glad you’re back. I’m sure they’ve missed you.”

  He raised his head and pulled back from her. “Are you still going to go?”

  For a moment Susan didn’t know what he was talking about.

  “To that reunion. Are you going?”

  She stood up and went back to the sink. “No, honey, I won’t go.”

  “Why not?”

  “It wouldn’t be fair to you. That’s in the past. You’re what matters now.”

  She picked up a sponge and started wiping the already-clean counter.

  “I think you should,” Mark said.

  Susan thought she must have heard him wrong. She turned around and looked at him.

  “Maybe you should, Mom. I was being pretty selfish. Hey, maybe I have a half-brother who’s cool. It wouldn’t be so bad. If I had a brother.”

  “Mark, I don’t believe this.…”

  He shrugged. “Hey, I’ve got a right to change my mind.”

  “Did someone change it for you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe? Like who?”

  “Like Dad.”

  “Your father told you I should go to the reunion? I find that a little hard to believe.”

  He shook his head. “He said you were a ‘moral ingrate’ who didn’t give two shits about me.”

  Moral ingrate? God, Lawrence, the arrogant asshole, called me a moral ingrate? She bit back an answer and let Mark continue.

  “I didn’t know what an ingrate was.” He smiled. “So I looked it up. I didn’t believe him. And I didn’t believe that you don’t give two shits about me.”

  Susan sighed. “So that’s why you think I should go to the reunion?”

  “Yeah. I’ve thought about it a lot over the past few weeks. I think if you want to go, you should. I guess there’s really no reason why I should feel threatened. He might have come into the world first, but this is my house.” His words sounded strong, but then he looked embarrassed. “Isn’t it?”

  Susan laughed and bent to hug him again. “You bet it is,” she said, as the front doorbell rang. “And seeing as how this is your house, you can go let the pizza man in.”

  “Got any money?”

  Susan laughed again. “There’s a twenty in my bag.” She watched him prowl through her cluttered pocketbook, grab a twenty-dollar bill, and race to the front door. We can only hope to guide our futures in the way God wants, Bubby had said. Mark is my future, Susan thought. He is home. And maybe, just maybe, her other son would be a part of that future. Her other son. David’s son. Only ten more days.

  And if he does show up, she mused, and only if he does—maybe then, maybe then, I will begin looking for David.

  But if he doesn’t … maybe I will be able to do as Jess said. I will be able to put the past to rest, and, at last, get on with my life.

  She leaned against the kitchen counter and closed her eyes. Until then, Susan thought, there is hope. Only ten more days.

  CHAPTER 17

  Friday, October 8

  P.J.

  Her mother had finally mastered the Krup’s coffeemaker. P.J. and Bob sat in the sunny breakfast room of her condominium, looking out over Central Park. On weekends Bob stayed over, sleeping on the sofa, far from the watchful eye of the guest-room occupant, Flora Davies. He came by every evening after work, bringing countless files for P.J. to pore over, trying to keep up her spirits by making her feel needed; and he came by every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning—chemo mornings. He claimed he enjoyed taking her for the treatments; he said it made him feel a part of helping her get well. They hadn’t made love since her surgery, nor had P.J. even let him see her … scar. Not yet. Maybe never.

  “It’s going to be a gorgeous day,” he said as he sipped strong coffee from a pottery mug.

  “Indian summer,” P.J. commented, but was distracted. She was always distracted on chemo mornings.

  The aroma of banana-nut bread wafted into the room.

  “Flora!” Bob called to P.J.’s mother. “What on earth are you baking now? It smells great!”

  “Hold your horses!” her mother’s voice called back from the kitchen. “It’s almost done.”

  Bob laughed and turned to P.J. “She’s going to make both of us fat.”

  “Me? Not hardly. Cancer has its own built-in diet, didn’t you know that?”

  Bob reached across the table and took her hand. “Peej, I’m sorry, I was just trying to lighten the mood.”

  She tried to smile. “No problem. I like being able to pig out once in a while. But to be honest, the taste of my mother’s cooking isn’t too good when I’ve barfed it after chemo.”

  Bob pulled his hand away and made a playful disgusting face. “Touché,” he said.

  P.J. laughed. “See? You have helped to lighten my mood.”

  “Great,” he said with sarcasm. “I’m so happy. I’m sure you will be, too, when I tell your mother what you’ve said about her cooking.”

  P.J. groaned.

  “You two are getting along fairly well, aren’t you?”

  She looked back out the window from her perch on the twenty-third floor, down onto the treetops, onto the winding paths and little people, walking, rushing, past.

  “I’m surviving. She’s surviving.”

  “I had kind of hoped this might give you a chance to patch up your differences.”

  P.J. shrugged. “Then we’re as patched as best can be, I guess.”

  “Have you told her yet?”

  “Told her what?” P.J. asked, still staring out the window, away from Bob’s eyes, knowing perfectly well what he meant.

  “About the reunion.”

  “No.”

  “Does that mean you’ve decided not to go?”

  “It doesn’t mean anything. It only means I haven’t told her.”

  “Are you planning to?”

  “What? Am I planning to tell her, or am I planning to go?”

  “Either. Both.”

  She touched a fingertip to the glass and examined her perfect manicure. How easy it is, she thought, to keep your nails beautiful when you’ve nothing to do but lounge around and wait to be sick in between treatments that were supposed to be making you well.

  “Please, Bob. Don’t pressure me,” she said.

  “Jesus Christ, Peej,” he said, raising his voice. “It’s a week from tomorrow! When the hell are you going to decide?”

  “What’s a week from tomorrow?”

  Their heads both turned toward the doorway. Flora Davies stood, platter of fresh banana bread in hand. “What’s a week from tomorrow?” she repeated.

  Bob looked at P.J. and took another sip from his mug. He was, clearly, waiting for her to speak.

  “Nothing, Mother,” she replied. “Nothing that concerns you.”

  “As long as I’m here, it concerns me,” her mother said. She set the platter on the table and smoothed her hands on her apron. “If you think you’re going to be well enough to go somewhere, I’ll need to know so I can get your things ready.”

  “Mother, please …”

  Flora sat in a chair between P.J. and Bob. “I think it’s a wonderful idea for you to get out. Is it going to be somewhere special?”

  P.J. stared at Bob. She couldn’t believe he had caused this. She couldn’t believe he’d had such a big mouth. Him. Bob. The guy who didn’t even want her to go in the first place. Maybe, she thought, it’s his way of convincing me not to go. He thinks if my mother finds out, there will be a big scene, and between the two of them, they can talk me out of it.

  “Nowhere, Mother. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Bob took a slice of warm bread from the platter and carefully picked off a small piece. Flora stared at P.J. P.J. stared at her coffee mug.

  “
Well, excuse me for caring,” her mother grunted.

  Flora helped herself to a slice of bread and slowly buttered it. She placed a napkin in her lap and calmly cut the bread in two. She set down her knife and put her hands in her lap.

  “Mother,” P.J. said, “don’t pout.”

  “I’m not pouting.”

  “Yes, you are. You always pouted. Maybe Daddy put up with it, but I don’t have to.”

  Flora tightened the muscles around her jawline and picked up a slice of the buttered bread. She put it to her mouth, took off a bite, and began chewing, her yes fixed on what she was doing. She set down the slice, plucked the napkin from her lap, and dabbed the corners of her lips.

  P.J. pushed her mug away. “Dammit, Mother!” she screamed. “If you must know, Bob was asking if I was going to a certain reunion next Saturday. A reunion. To meet my son.” She slapped her hand on the table. “Did you hear me, Mother? To meet my son! Remember him?”

  Flora pushed back her chair and stood up. She laid the napkin on the table, picked up her coffee mug, and retreated into the kitchen without a word.

  P.J. bent her head and ran her fingers through her thinning hair. “Christ, now look what you’ve made me do.”

  “I didn’t make you do anything,” Bob said. “But maybe it’s just as well. The two of you do nothing but pussyfoot around each other. Maybe it’s time to get a few things out in the open. Or maybe you never had any intention of patching things up.”

  P.J. stood up. “I’m going to the hospital.”

  “Wait a second,” Bob said, stuffing his mouth with the rest of his banana bread and washing it down with a gulp of coffee.

  “No,” P.J. said. “I’m going alone today.”

  “Peej …”

  She stormed out of the room.

  She sat on the cold vinyl chair in the procedure room, watching the slow drip, drip from the IV bag, studying the liquid as it seeped into the clear plastic tubing, threaded its way through the IVAC machine, and snaked out into the back of her hand.

  “Almost done,” the IV nurse said with a wooden smile.

  “For today,” P.J. mused soberly. But another week of treatments was over, and for that, P.J. was grateful. She was not, however, looking, forward to going home. Her mother, she knew, would still be there, stiff and tense. They would not speak of the reunion; they would not speak of P.J.’s son. That much, P.J. could count on. It would be, as it had been twenty-five years ago, best left forgotten. The way her mother had forgotten her own child, the one she’d given away.

  Didn’t her mother ever think about that child? Had P.J. really ever thought of her own? Certainly she had in the last few weeks. It was as though she’d finally allowed her mind to wander, to speculate on what he looked like, to wonder about the direction his life had taken.

  But still, P.J. could not make up her mind about going. She only knew she’d have to decide soon.

  “All set,” the nurse said. She unhooked the bag from the stand and slowly pulled the needle from P.J.’s hand. The pain was bearable: P.J. was getting used to it.

  “Next time we’ll go after a different vein,” the nurse commented.

  “Can’t wait.” P.J. smiled. “See you Monday,” she added as she quickly slipped on her shirt, tucked it into her jeans, grabbed her Armani blazer, and left the room.

  Out in the corridor, P.J. leaned against the wall. Another week over, she thought. Another week past. She adjusted the barrette that held back her hair and slowly walked down the hallway of the eighth floor. When she reached the elevators, she pushed the button and idly read the hospital directory. One line leaped out at her. MATERNITY. 6th Floor. She stared at the directory until the elevator doors opened. Then she stepped in and pushed the button for the ground floor. The doors closed and the elevator began its descent. Quickly she reached up and pushed 6.

  She didn’t know what she’d expected. P.J.’s legs moved slowly beneath her as she walked down the long corridor, and her heart had an eerie stillness that made her feel almost light-headed.

  Behind her she heard the rumble of a cart, then the muted cry of a baby. She stopped and turned. A nurse was guiding a glass box set atop a rolling table toward P.J.

  “Excuse us!” the nurse proclaimed, stopping in her path. “We’re on our way to the nursery!”

  Inside the glass box lay a tiny infant, bundled in a small blue blanket. His eyes were closed, his red face scrunched with discomfort, his cap of dark silk hair askew. P.J. caught her breath.

  “Newborn?” she asked.

  “Twenty minutes ago,” the nurse answered.

  The little face wrinkled again. The baby cried.

  “Where …” P.J. hesitated. “Where is his mother?”

  “Still in the birthing room. Getting cleaned up.”

  Every nerve in her body went numb. She looked at the shriveled person, his arms and legs tucked inside his blanket, his face contorted with fear. Then an overwhelming grief poured through her, and she touched the side of the glass.

  “It’s not right,” she heard herself whisper. “You shouldn’t have taken him from her. Not so soon.”

  The nurse scowled. “Excuse us. He really must have his bath now.”

  P.J. stepped aside and leaned against the wall. It isn’t right, she repeated to herself. They shouldn’t have taken him from his mother.

  She watched as the nurse steered the cart away and disappeared into a doorway. P.J. followed in that direction. Beside the door was a glass wall: Behind it were seven bassinets, each holding a bundled infant. They were all blanketed in blue.

  P.J. studied each tiny face. Four were crying. Three were sleeping.

  She looked at the cards attached to each bassinet.

  MacMillan. 7 lb 10 oz

  Firoucci. 6 lb 4 oz

  Zombik. 8 lb 7 oz

  Each card gave the name, the weights, the facts. What it didn’t say was who the babies’ parents were, what kind of home they would have, how happy a life theirs would be.

  And their mothers, P.J. thought. Where are their mothers? They looked so frightened. They are so alone.

  She scanned the cards again. Was there one who weighed seven pounds eight ounces, as her son had? No. Was there just one who looked like him? She didn’t know.

  When are they going to give them back to their mothers?

  Seven babies. Seven boys.

  Not one of them was hers.

  She pressed a hand against her chest where once her breast had been, and from somewhere deep inside, the pain that she had pushed down deeper, deeper, over the years, began to slowly rise and grip her with a swelling ache of reality. There would be no more babies for her. Her baby was gone—twenty-five years ago. He had been her only one, and he was gone. He was no longer hers; he never really had been. Babies came only to other girls—girls who cared about houses, husbands, station wagons, dogs. Not to girls like her. Not to girls whom no one really loved.

  She sucked in a breath and felt wetness on her cheeks. It was then that P.J. realized she had not stood in front of a nursery since she and Susan had, so many years ago. She had, she knew now, made excuses when friends had given birth, had never once stepped into a maternity ward—not since 1968. She had, she knew now, avoided this pain.

  But what right did she have to now claim her son? And what did she expect to gain? Did she think he could typify another of her achievements—a grown son, no different from the Clios that adorned the shelf in her office? She would probably lose Bob. She would most likely lose all contact with her mother. And she would risk losing the one thing in the world that she was really good at—her career. She was forty-five years old. She was sick. It was too late for her to start over in another agency, for another climb to the top.

  “Isn’t he beautiful?” said a voice next to her.

  P.J. turned to look at a young woman in a crisp white bathrobe, her dark curls neatly combed, her face glowing.

  “Baby Zombik. Isn’t he beautiful?” she repeated, pointing
to a bassinet. “He’s mine.”

  P.J. turned back to the row of babies. “Yes,” she said. “He’s beautiful.” And he is yours, she wanted to add. Not mine. Mine is … gone.

  The next morning P.J. sat on the sofa, her long, legginged legs curled beneath her. She shuffled through papers Bob had brought from the office, trying to concentrate. She knew now the only choice left for her was in her work. She knew she had to forget this nonsense of babies born and babies gone and get back to doing the one thing she was good at, cancer or not.

  Bob had not come over last night. “A late meeting,” he’d said when he’d called. But after the morning’s argument P.J. could hardly blame him.

  She turned back a page and reviewed the notes for a new cosmetics campaign. Throwing herself into the work wasn’t going to be easy. Most days it was hard for P.J. to believe she’d ever be going back to work, and that the partnership, which Hansen and Hobart had decided to “put on hold,” would ever be hers. She almost laughed now when she thought of the cleverly worded memo they had included with an array of white roses:

  Look forward to signing you up as a full partner upon your return. Get well soon.

  Clearly they’d kept their options open. No sense committing themselves, financially or otherwise, to someone who might not live to see the end of the year.

  But Bob kept encouraging her, telling her over and over how important she was to the agency, and that she’d be back to work before she knew it. Today it seemed almost possible, for, surprisingly, she felt good. Not great, but good. And to feel good the day after chemo was something she’d come not to expect.

  The whir of the vacuum came from the other room. P.J. groaned silently, wishing, once again, that her mother would leave. The apartment, once cozily contemporary, now had a feeling of fifties order and decor. The first week her mother had been there, she’d dismissed P.J.’s housekeeper, and since then, the place reeked of lemon furniture polish and ammonia. It seemed the only time her mother stopped cleaning was to make casseroles for dinner and, of course, to complain: