One Week In December

by Holly Chamberlin

  Becca shook her head. Frankly, Rain’s biological father hadn’t at all figured into her thinking. “What makes you think she’d want to rush off to find her father? Anyway, maybe he can’t be found.”

  “I’ve found him.”

  “You what?” Becca felt flooded with anger. She felt betrayed. No one trusted her to live her own life. No one would let her get past her one big mistake.

  “Well, as a matter of fact,” her mother was saying, “he was never lost. I’ve kept track of him.” And Julie told Becca what she’d told the others earlier.

  Becca fought for control of her emotions. It was hard. Shame warred with fear. Shame over her foolish action all those years ago. Fear that the horrible man who had fathered her daughter might one day come to claim her. Finally, she answered with false bravado.

  “All right,” she said. “So he’s a bum. No big surprise there. I just won’t tell Rain his name. None of us will.”

  “Becca, be reasonable. You sound like a stubborn child, standing in a puddle of orange juice, holding an empty carton, and refusing to admit you’re the one who spilled it.”

  “Orange juice?” Was her mother losing her mind? “What are you talking about?”

  “Think about it,” Julie said. “First you shock Rain with the revelation about her biological parents and then you refuse to tell her the identity of her father. Consider how absurd that would be. Becca, I really don’t think you’ve thought things through completely.”

  “I wish everybody would stop saying that!”

  “And I wish you would let me help you. Tell me what’s going on. Tell me why this is so important to you right now.”

  “I don’t need help, Mom,” Becca said firmly. “I need my daughter.”

  Julie sighed deeply, walked the few feet to the old leather couch, and sunk onto it. She hadn’t wanted to lose her temper or to make Becca angry or, worse, to further alienate her daughter. But she didn’t seem to be making a very good job of this conversation.

  “Becca, please, sit with me for a moment.”

  “I’d prefer to stand.”

  Julie paused. It felt as if her daughter were a million miles away, rather than just across the room. “Please,” she said, “for Rain’s sake, please try to be reasonable.”

  “Reasonable?” Becca glared at her mother. “Excuse me, but is it reasonable to expect a pregnant sixteen-year-old to make such a monumental decision about her future? About the future of her child?”

  “No, it isn’t reasonable. Which is why the adults who loved you stepped in and helped make those decisions for you. You should be grateful, Becca.”

  “Grateful!” Becca cried. “Why? Because you didn’t toss me out onto the street? Because you allowed your embarrassment of a daughter to remain part of the Rowan family? How noble of you, Mom. How generous. Wow.”

  Becca snatched up her laptop and stormed out of the den. Julie slowly got to her feet. Suddenly, she felt old. She didn’t like the feeling. She made her way to her bedroom, the notion of a little nap leading her on. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt a situation might just be out of her hands. She felt almost helpless. Almost. Julie Rowan didn’t give up hope easily. It was one of her best and, according to her husband, one of her most annoying traits.

  By the time she reached the upstairs hall, she’d changed her mind about a nap. Calling to Hank, she headed out for a good, brisk walk.

  19

  Becca strode into the kitchen, head down, unaware that she was muttering, and was pulled up short by the sound of a voice.

  “Hello, Becca,” it said. “Come join us.”

  As if to protect herself against another assault, Becca hugged her laptop to her chest. Naomi and Rain were sitting at the kitchen table, each flipping through a glossy magazine.

  Retreat now—escape, really—would look ridiculous, so Becca came all the way into the kitchen. Keeping the laptop close, she leaned against the sink.

  “Hey, guys,” Rain said, her eyes fixed to a page. “Listen to this. It says in this article that after fifteen or so years of decline, last year teenage birth rates in the U.S. rose three percent. It says that’s about four hundred thousand teen births a year!” She looked up at Becca and made a face. “What’s wrong with those girls? Who would want to have a baby at fifteen or sixteen? It’s insane. I am going to be so careful when I start to have sex.”

  Becca felt faint. She thought she was going to have a heart attack before the week was over. Maybe her mother—and David—had been right. Maybe she hadn’t thought this all through.

  “What—what are you reading?” Becca squeaked.

  “Krazee Girl. It’s a new magazine. It’s okay, but I’m not sure I’ll get a subscription. The horoscope page is really lame.”

  “About having sex,” Naomi said, looking up from her home decorating magazine. “That will be some time from now, right?”

  Rain assumed the classic teenage I-am-so-put-upon look. “Mom, we’ve been through this, like, a million times. I’m not stupid. I’m not going to ruin my life because of some boy.”

  Becca flinched. That’s what so many girls and women said and then . . . And then. And then, by their very existence, their children shamed their mothers into admitting their frailty.

  Becca unwittingly caught Naomi’s eye. Her sister-in-law looked as uncomfortable as Becca felt. Uncomfortable and—was it possible?—sympathetic. Becca looked away.

  “Remember a few years ago,” Rain was saying, oblivious to the impact her words were having on the two older women, “when those high school girls in some town in Massachusetts all made a pact to get pregnant at the same time? Talk about bizarre!”

  “More than bizarre,” Naomi said. “It was horribly irresponsible. Who did those girls think was going to take care of the babies? There are too many children in foster homes and too many young families on welfare already. And too often the burden of raising the children of children falls on the grandparents or—”

  Naomi put a hand to her mouth. Becca was pleased to see that her sister-in-law looked mortified. Of course Naomi wasn’t sympathetic to Becca’s plight. That earlier look had been an act. Naomi had been trying to trick her into letting down her guard, into backing away from her plan. And Naomi had also been trying to shame her by emphasizing the carelessness of her long ago misdeed.

  “Yeah, and if you have to drop out of high school,” Rain went on, “good luck getting a job that pays enough for day care or a decent apartment. And how could you possibly stay in school? I can’t imagine going to my parents and saying, ‘Hey, Mom and Dad, could you take care of my baby while I hang out at photography club and go shopping for a prom dress?’ Yeah, right!”

  Naomi had found her voice again. “I’m sure,” she said carefully, “that in the case of those Massachusetts girls, there were a lot of things going on, a lot of problems we just don’t know about.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe they were just stupid.” Rain noisily pushed back her chair, got up, and went to the fridge. “Aunt Becca, do you ever think about having children?” she asked on her way back to the table with a glass of juice.

  Unconsciously, Becca tightened her grip on the laptop still pressed to her chest. “Yeah,” she said, mustering every ounce of studied nonchalance she could, “and then I think about you and your brothers and I change my mind.”

  “Ha-ha. No, seriously.”

  Becca shifted her weight to the other leg. The conversation was nerve-wracking. She was going to have a heart attack and a stroke on top of it. Maybe she’d have an aneurism, too, just for good measure. “Seriously, Rain, now’s not the time for me to bore everyone with my life plan.”

  “But you’d make a great mom—”

  “Rain.” Naomi put her hand on the girl’s arm. “This is a very personal subject. Stop quizzing your aunt. Now, let’s have some hot chocolate. Becca, would you like a cup?”

  No, she thought, but if you’re offering a double shot of bourbon, I’ll take two. She supposed
she should feel some gratitude toward Naomi for having diverted Rain’s questioning. But it was hard to feel anything for the enemy other than anger; it was imperative she not let her defenses down for one moment or all might be lost.

  Becca stood away from the sink. “No, thanks,” she said. “I’ve got some work to do. I’ll be in my room.” My cramped little study of a room, where no doubt someone else will track me down to cruelly harass me in an organized attempt to weaken my resolve.

  Naomi didn’t press the invitation. On slightly wobbly legs, Becca left the Rowan family kitchen.

  20

  Lily flinched. “Did you hear that?”

  It had come not from the floor above but from the attic above that, a series of sounds resembling a small plane taking off from the roof.

  “I’m not deaf,” Nora said, eyes toward the ceiling. “Yet.”

  “What is she doing up there? She’s like a rodent, always rooting around in piles of rags. Or, I don’t know, a stray dog digging through an overturned garbage can.”

  James came into the kitchen then, trailing Michael and Malcolm. Lily hoped he hadn’t heard her unpleasant comments about his wife. Lily liked Olivia, mostly. She just didn’t understand her.

  “I’m going to take the boys to the Christmas fair in Cornwall,” James said.

  “How nice,” Nora replied. “If Mrs. March is selling any of her jams, will you pick us up a jar?”

  “Sure.”

  “And can we get hot chocolate after?” the boys chorused.

  James smiled at his charges. “I don’t see why not. A little more sugar won’t make that much of a difference. I hope.”

  Nora was glad the three would be spending time together. It would certainly do James good to be needed for a while, and to be with children who had no cause to be unhappy. “Be good for your uncle James,” she said to their retreating backs.

  They promised they would.

  There was another rumble from the attic.

  Lily sighed. “Poor James. He seems so down, doesn’t he? So sad. Not like his usual self.”

  “Yes. And I don’t think it has anything to do with Becca’s—threat.”

  “Well, living with Olivia is probably pretty difficult,” Lily said. “And maybe there’s some trouble with the business. The economy is a mess. It must be hard to shoulder all that responsibility.”

  Nora doubted the payroll business was at the heart of what was troubling James, but she didn’t feel inclined to continue the discussion. Already, she felt it was verging on gossip, which always happened when there was a paucity of real information and a glut of speculation.

  Gossip and rumor, assumption and speculation. As long as people engaged with each other in romantic relationships, there would always be talk. No relationship, Nora reflected now, was entirely private. Even her own marriage had no doubt been a subject of curiosity. . . .

  Ever since her granddaughter had told her about Cliff’s betrayal a month earlier, Nora had been considering sharing with Lily her own tale of romantic woe. There were several reasons for wanting—for needing?—to break the silence after many long years. Nora wasn’t perfectly sure all of them were valid.

  Lily broke the silence that had settled on the kitchen. “Oh, Grandma,” she said, “I really miss Cliff. I’m—well, I’m thinking of calling him. Or at least I’m thinking of taking one of his calls. I mean, the poor guy seems to miss me so much. Why else would he be calling every hour? And his voice mails sound so—so sad.”

  Nora didn’t much believe in mind reading or signs and omens, but her granddaughter’s words, coming right upon her own particular thoughts, decided her.

  “Come to my room and sit with me a while,” she said. “I want to make some progress on that sweater for my friend Cassie.”

  As the women left the kitchen, Lily asked, “The woman you knew back in Massachusetts? Doesn’t she live in some sort of nursing home now?”

  “It’s one sort of nursing home, yes,” Nora said with a frown. “And she could use some attention as those children of hers—” Nora stopped. There was no good to be gained by speaking badly of others. Besides, Nora knew that she was luckier than most women her age; not every grandmother could have a granddaughter who considered her a best friend, or a daughter-in-law who happily shared her home.

  Nora opened the door to her room. It was Lily’s favorite room in the house. She couldn’t imagine her grandmother not occupying it forever.

  The walls were painted a warm, creamy white. The floor was made of wide pine boards; some years ago Nora had had them painted a deep, dark brown. On the windows (one faced out back, the other, the side yard) hung filmy white curtains that let in enough daylight to make the room cheery even on a gray and dismal day. The bed’s stained pine frame had once been Steve’s, though, of course, the mattress and box spring had been replaced several times over the years. The comforter was a creamy white; on top of it sat several pillows, a few of them chosen by Julie. Lily had to admit that her mother was a bit pillow crazy.

  The room was the distillation of almost ninety years of a life and yet to Lily it felt uncluttered and clean, not fussy or crammed. She wondered what a stranger might think of it, and suddenly remembered that on Cliff’s last visit to the Rowans’ Kently home, when shown Nora’s room, he’d merely shrugged. “So?” he’d said. “It’s an old lady’s room.” Only now did Lily realize the disdain with which he’d spoken. The complete lack of interest in someone his girlfriend dearly loved. Had she been so stupidly besotted that she’d failed to defend her beloved grandmother?

  And this was the guy she was considering calling? Lily shook away the memory. Anyway, maybe she was misremembering. Maybe her current feelings of hurt were distorting the truth of the past.

  “So,” she said, when she had settled against the largest pillow on her grandmother’s bed, and Nora had settled into her second favorite chair in the house and picked up her most recent knitting project. “What do you think about my calling Cliff?”

  Nora paused before speaking. “Why don’t you let me think about that for a little while. Right now I want to tell you something I’ve never told anyone. Not a soul. Not until now.”

  Lily shot off the bed. “Oh, my gosh, Grandma, what it is? You’re not sick, are you?”

  “No, no, it’s nothing like that.”

  “Whew.” Lily dropped back down on the bed. “You scared me for a minute!”

  The young, Nora thought, with some amusement, could be so dramatic. Or maybe it was just a Rowan trait.

  “First,” she said, “I want you to know I’m telling you this in the hopes that it will help you. You’ve been through a painful time and I want you to understand that you’re not alone. All right?”

  Lily nodded. Nora thought she still looked a little frightened.

  After all this time, the words were surprisingly easy to say. “Your grandfather,” she began, “had an affair. We were in our thirties. It had gone on for several months before I learned about it.”

  Lily gasped but could say nothing.

  Nora went on. “I found a few letters in his sock drawer. They were from—her. I don’t know why he left them in such an obvious place. I did all of our laundry and clothing maintenance. I don’t know, maybe he wanted me to find the evidence of his betrayal. Anyway, at first I considered not saying or doing anything about it. I was so scared. That is, after I got over the shock. I thought that maybe I could just pretend that I had never seen the letters.”

  “But you couldn’t pretend?” Lily guessed, her voice almost a whisper.

  “No. I couldn’t. When I confronted him—and that was the most awful moment of my life; I don’t know where I found the courage, knowing what I might hear, that he might want to leave me and our son—when I confronted him, he didn’t deny anything. He admitted right away to the relationship. And that, in a strange way, was a relief.”

  Lily put her hands to her face. “A relief? I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” she said. “Who w
as she, Grandma? Did you know her?”

  “No,” Nora answered, “I didn’t know her. She was a woman Thomas knew through work. He said that she was single and lived a few towns away. Thomas swore no one knew of the relationship. Except, now, for me. I never did learn if the woman had told her friends about Thomas. Maybe there were people out there sniggering about me, the poor, stupid wife.” Nora paused, as if once again considering that unpleasant possibility. “But I guess it didn’t really matter in the end.”

  “So . . . so what happened then?” Lily asked.

  “Well,” Nora went on, “Thomas told me that he’d ended the affair a few weeks earlier. But, obviously, he’d kept some of the woman’s letters, so I had to wonder if he was still attached to her. I made him promise never to see or to talk to her again. And I asked him to throw out anything she’d ever given him, including those letters.”

  “And he promised he would?”

  “Yes. And I chose to believe that he kept those promises to me.”

  Nora looked closely at Lily. She wondered if her granddaughter thought her stupid for that decision.

  “And you had no idea before you found the letters?” Lily asked then. “All that time and you didn’t know that your own husband was having an affair?”

  Nora smiled ruefully. “You’ve never heard the expression ‘the wife is always the last to know’? Well, there’s a reason for that. Sometimes the husband is awfully good at deception, that’s true. But many, many times the wife doesn’t know about the affair because she doesn’t want to know. She needs the evidence to be put right in her face before she’ll believe what she might have suspected. At least, that’s how it was in my case. I was quite happy to be ignorant. Until I was forced not to be.”

  “I don’t know why you stayed with him, Grandma.” The words seemed to burst out of Lily’s mouth. “I would have walked right out the door the minute he admitted that he cheated.”