“No, I’ll handle it.” His voice was softer now. “I’ll tell them the truth—that you’re staying as a guest for a while. But, Bryn, if you’re going to be a mom, you have to start thinking about things like that. Because, no matter what’s going on in your own life, your kids have to come first.”
“I really am sorry. And . . . and, I’ll do better. I promise.” Her voice grew stronger. “I will do better. I’ll be the perfect houseguest, and I’ll be really nice to Micah and Cody. And, if you want . . . I’ll even apologize to Wendy.”
Bob smiled. “Okay, let’s not expect any miracles. I’ll handle Wendy. You just concentrate on learning to think like a . . . Hey, guys! You remember Bryn, don’t you? She’s going to be staying with us for a little while, in the guest room. She’s looking for a new apartment.”
“Hi, guys.” Bryn smiled at them uncertainly. They stared back at her.
“Are you going to live with us like Luke does with Mommy?” Cody, the five-year-old, asked, never taking his eyes from Bryn’s face.
“Oh no, honey. I’m not going to live here. I’m just staying in your guest room until I find a new apartment.”
“Did you bring your computer?”
Bryn smiled, remembering the last time she’d visited Bob and Wendy before their split. She’d brought her laptop, and Cody had been fascinated with what she could do with pictures in Photoshop.
“I did.” She nodded. “Maybe after breakfast, we can play with some pictures.”
“Cool!” Cody grinned at her.
Micah said nothing.
“Micah, you set the table. Cody, why don’t you show Bryn how we make shape-cakes?”
Cody dragged a chair from the dining room into the kitchen, shoving it next to the stove.
“Look!” He grinned over his shoulder at Bryn. “Daddy bought these shapers. And when you put the pancake batter in them, the pancakes get shapes.”
Bryn watched as Bob and Cody poured batter and flipped pancakes. She poured apple juice and carried glasses to the table, passing Micah on the way. The seven-year-old never looked at her, keeping his eyes firmly on the ground.
As they sat down to a platter of pancakes shaped like cars and trucks, Bryn felt her stomach lurch. Damn! When will this morning sickness end?
“Hey, guys,” she said, trying to smile. “Will you excuse me? I have to . . .” Her voice trailed off as she backed away from the table.
“Go on,” Bob said. “It’s okay.”
Bryn ran for the bathroom, slammed the door shut, and heaved.
So much for a nice, homey breakfast with the kids, she thought, leaning against the toilet. They probably think I’m a nut job.
When she returned to the table, Bob was sitting alone, pushing bites of pancake around a puddle of syrup. Cartoons blared from the television in the front room. Breakfast, apparently, was over.
Later, Bryn sat at the table with Cody, manipulating images on her laptop. The five-year-old stared at the screen, grinning as Bryn turned the face blue with green highlights.
“Hey, Micah, look!”
Micah was sitting on the floor, putting together a Lego set with his dad.
“What?” he said, not raising his eyes.
“Bryn made Luke all blue.”
Micah rose to look at the laptop screen. He smiled. “He looks better blue.”
Bryn smiled over the kids’ heads at Bob, who was trying to suppress a grin.
“Now do this one.” Cody handed Bryn another photo.
She took the photo without looking at it and fed it into the portable scanner, then pulled the image into the program.
She stared at the image in silence for a moment, until Cody jabbed her with his elbow. “Make it purple!”
“Um, Bob? You might want to see this picture.”
Bob rose to look at the computer screen, but Micah was there before him, standing between his father and the image.
“You weren’t supposed to bring that!” he yelled at Cody.
Bob reached over Micah’s head to take the laptop from Bryn. He stared at the image for a long minute, then closed the program.
“When was that taken?” he asked, looking from Micah to Cody.
“It was just a joke,” Micah said. “Cody wasn’t supposed to have it.”
Cody’s cheeks reddened under Micah’s gaze.
“Okay, come here.” Bob sat on the floor and pulled both boys down beside him.
“Look, I’m not mad,” he said gently. “I just want to know when the picture was taken . . . and why.”
“Mommy said not to tell you,” Cody said.
Bryn stared at Bob. His face was ashen.
“Well, this time, Cody, just this one time, I’m going to ask you to do something Mommy said not to. I need you to tell me about the picture.”
Cody sat in silence, staring at the floor.
Finally, Micah spoke.
“Last weekend Mommy and Luke had some people over for a party. And Jeremy brought some special cigarettes that made people act funny.”
“Who is Jeremy?” Bob’s voice was soft, but Bryn could hear the effort it took him to keep it that way.
“He’s a friend of Luke’s,” Cody said.
“And he was blowing smoke in Ginger’s face. That’s our dog at Mommy’s,” he said, turning to Bryn.
Bob sat, waiting. He didn’t want to push the boys too hard. Bryn chewed at her fingernail. She wanted to scream.
“So Luke took a picture of him doing it.”
“Did he blow smoke in your face, too?” Bob asked, watching the boys carefully.
“He blew some at Cody,” Micah said, staring at the ground. “Mommy told him not to, but he did anyway.”
“Are you . . . okay?” Bob’s voice shook.
“I’m okay, Daddy. I felt kind of funny, but Mommy made me go to bed and then when I woke up, I was okay.”
“Are you mad at Mommy?” Cody asked. “ ’Cause Mommy said you’d be mad if you knew.”
“Well, Mommy and I need to talk about it. I don’t like it when she asks you to keep secrets from me. But I’m not mad at you . . . at either of you. Okay? You guys didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Dad?” Micah’s voice was small. “Can we throw the picture away?”
Bryn pulled the photo from the scanner and handed it to Bob.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said, carrying the picture to the kitchen. “Don’t worry about it.”
“You want to do a different picture?” Bryn asked, holding her hand out to Cody. “I’ve got some animal shots in here somewhere.”
Cody returned to the couch and soon was engrossed in green zebras and orange chimps. After a few minutes, Micah rose and came to lean in next to his brother.
“Do you have any alligators?” he asked, looking up at Bryn for the first time all day.
“I think so,” she said, searching through the thumbnail sketches on the screen before her. “What color do you want to make it?”
“So, what are you going to do?” Bryn asked, after Bob had tucked the boys into bed.
“I’m going to call a lawyer on Monday, and I’m going to make sure my sons are never in that house again.” His voice was quiet and firm.
“Good!” Bryn said. “That’s good. You need to get them out of there. God! What was she thinking?”
“Wendy doesn’t think,” Bob said. “She just does whatever it is that she wants to do, and the hell with everybody else.”
Bryn watched him quietly for a while. “That’s good, Bob. It’s good that you finally see her for what she is. Now maybe you can do what you need to do to take care of yourself and the boys. And, Bob?”
“Yeah?”
“I will be here every step of the way to help. Okay? You said you’ll be here to help me with this.” She patted her stomach lightly. “And I promise that I’ll be here to help you with that.” She pointed to the image flickering on the laptop, an image of a small boy standing beside a big mutt, surrounded by a haze of s
moke blown by a stoned-looking man, grinning at the camera, a rubber hose twisted tightly around his arm.
“Thanks, Bryn.” Bob smiled faintly. “That’s a deal.”
13
Corrie gripped the armrest of her seat as the plane lifted from the runway. She hated flying. Fingering her rosary, she glanced around at her fellow travelers, smiling at the young mother across the aisle nursing a baby.
It had been a terrible weekend. The trip to Chicago had been scrapped. Mark had barely spoken to her since Friday.
She felt guilty for making him so unhappy, but she’d remained steadfast in her plans for the California trip.
“I’ll be home on Thursday,” she’d said before Mark left for work that morning.
He’d said nothing.
“I’ll call you tonight.”
“Okay.” Mark had straightened his tie and picked up his briefcase, not looking at Corrie, standing in the kitchen in her nightgown.
“Honey?”
Finally, he’d turned to look at her.
“I love you.” She’d tried to smile at him.
“I’ll talk to you later,” he’d said, turning toward the door.
Then he’d left.
Now, feeling the familiar stomach lurch that came with flight, Corrie wished she’d never committed to this trip, that she hadn’t seen Daniel, that he’d never come back to town.
Sighing, she released her death grip on the armrest and leaned back into her seat. She bought a glass of wine from the flight attendant, opened a magazine, and tried not to think about Mark, about how angry he was with her, how hurt.
Why couldn’t he just trust her? Corrie had never given her husband a reason to worry before. Why did he have to overreact so badly now?
Because I lied to him, she admitted silently. Why didn’t I just tell him when I saw Daniel in the first place?
She’d make it up to him next week. When she got home from Pasadena, she’d plan another weekend getaway. Maybe at the lake house . . . he’d like that. She’d go down on Friday morning and set it up, then pick him up at the office after work and drive him down.
I’ll make curry. He loves that. And cheesecake and wine. Maybe take some massage oil. I’ll get a new chemise.
I’ll make it up to him.
She smiled, thinking of how surprised Mark would be. He’d forgive her then for not telling him about Daniel, for taking this trip.
This trip . . . She wished now that she’d called ahead to arrange for a car. She’d thought about taking a cab from the airport, but that would leave her stranded at the hotel. You had to have a car to get around in L.A. She cringed at the thought of driving on the freeways. She’d only been to Los Angeles once before, and then Mark had done the driving.
Giving up the pretense of reading her magazine, Corrie let her mind wander back to her final year of college, when she was engaged to Daniel. They’d planned so many things, starting with a trip to the Philippines, where Daniel’s uncle worked on a UN medical project. Daniel had filled out all the paperwork for their visas, when his uncle abruptly died of a stroke. With his death, their Philippines plans got scuttled.
Corrie was quietly relieved at the change. She thought she would have followed Daniel anywhere . . . even to the Philippines. But what she really wanted was to settle in Middlebrook, get a job, get married, and start a family. She hoped Daniel would learn to love the idea. But, of course, he hadn’t.
Bryn had asked her once why she didn’t try to find Daniel, why she didn’t follow him to New York, when she’d been willing to follow him to a third-world country. And Corrie couldn’t tell her the reason, the secret she’d held in the weeks after he’d left—that she was pregnant. Pregnant with Daniel’s child. She hadn’t told him before he left. She’d known for a couple weeks, but she’d been waiting for the right time.
And then September 11 happened and Daniel left. And he never looked back, never called or wrote, never even let her know where he’d settled.
Corrie wondered sometimes if he would have stayed had he known about the baby. What would their life have been like if he’d stayed, if she’d had the baby? But she couldn’t bring herself to search for him, tell him he was going to be a father, trap him in a life he didn’t want.
So she’d quietly made arrangements with a clinic in Chicago. Three weeks after Daniel left, the baby was gone. And Corrie spent the next two years mourning the loss of her love, her child, and her innocence. She’d never gotten over the guilt. She went on with her life, married Mark, even tried to get pregnant. But she always knew the reason they couldn’t have a child was because of the abortion. She had killed her first child. God would not give her another one. That was her penance, the price she would pay for her sin.
When she and Mark married, Corrie had converted to Catholicism, confessing her sin to the kind priest who baptized her.
He advised her to tell Mark, told her that God loved her, and explained what she must do to be forgiven. But Corrie knew she would not be forgiven, could never be forgiven. She knew her inability to have children was her just punishment.
She never told Mark.
She came to love the church, though, the sacred rituals, the holy feeling that came with communion. Growing up, her mother had taken them to a Baptist church sporadically, but Corrie never really felt part of it. Instead, she always felt like Patrice was putting on a show, trying to prove to the community that she was a good mother. At home, however, there were no prayers, no talk about faith.
In the years since her marriage, Corrie had found a home in their local parish. She went to Mass every Sunday, sitting with Sarah when Mark was traveling. She often went to early morning Mass before work, especially when she felt troubled about something. She belonged to the women’s group at Holy Spirit and helped with bake sales and food drives. She even went to confession on occasion, although she felt out of place in the confessional, as though the abortion had ruined her chances for redemption.
She stared out the window of the plane, wishing she could atone for that sin. Finally, she crossed herself, closed her eyes, and began softly, “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.”
Corrie nudged the rental car into traffic, chewing her lip till it hurt. She’d never seen so many cars, all vying for space on the six lanes of freeway. The cell phone in her purse rang shrilly, but she couldn’t dig it out in time. She checked the caller ID—Sarah. She hoped her sister-in-law wasn’t in early labor. More likely, she was calling to fret again about Corrie’s trip.
“It’s not a good idea,” she’d insisted the night before. “Mark is really mad.”
“I know.” Corrie had sighed. “But I’ve already made the reservations. Besides, it’s only a few days.”
Sarah hadn’t pushed it, but Corrie knew she was upset.
At last, her exit appeared and she pulled off the freeway with a sigh of relief.
After settling into the hotel, she checked the phone book for the community center’s address, then got online for driving directions. She took a shower and put on a business suit, scrutinizing herself in the mirror. Too formal. She changed into a skirt and blouse with sandals. Better.
She applied her lipstick, smudged it, washed her face, and tried again.
Finally, she deemed herself presentable, picked up her notebook, recorder, and camera, and walked to the door. She paused with her hand on the doorknob. What was she doing here? She should turn right back around and head for home, back to Mark and Sarah and Bryn. Back to the December issue and a Santa Claus feature.
She shook her head, straightened her shoulders, and steeled herself for another driving adventure.
The North Pasadena Community Center was a small building of faded yellow stucco with iron bars on the windows. The playground was a blur of running children. At the other end of the building, a group of teenagers played basketball. Corrie pulled her camera from its case and shot a few photos before walking to the door, welcoming the blast of cool air inside after the heat
of the California sun.
“I’d like to see Daniel Chapman,” she said to the young woman at the reception desk.
“You and everyone else,” the woman said, not looking up from the magazine in her lap.
“Excuse me,” Corrie said more firmly. “Is Mr. Chapman in?”
The woman raised her head and met Corrie’s eyes, then smiled at Corrie’s stare. Beneath a shock of bright pink, blunt-cut hair, the receptionist’s eyes were a startling hue of brilliant aquamarine, completely at odds with her Asian coloring and features. Her nose, eyebrows, and cheek all bore metal studs. Around her neck she wore a black leather, studded dog collar.
“So, is Mr. Chapman in?” Corrie asked, trying not to stare.
“Yeah, he’s in. Jaden!” The woman yelled down the hallway. A young man’s head poked out from a doorway.
“Where’s Dan?”
“Upstairs, I think.”
“Well, go get him. Tell him . . .” She turned back to Corrie. “What’s your name?”
“Corrie Philips.”
The young woman smiled, then yelled down the hall again. “Tell him Corrie Philips is here to see him.”
The young man strode down the hall and disappeared, leaving Corrie alone with the pink-haired, aquamarine-eyed Asian woman.
“I’m Capri,” the woman said. “And I know who you are.”
Corrie’s eyes widened, but she said nothing.
“Daniel’s great love, from, where is it? Some university in Indiana, right? You came to do the story. He said you would.”
“Coriander Bliss!”
Corrie turned to see Daniel pounding down the hall toward her. He wore gym shorts and a ragged T-shirt. His red hair was plastered to his head with sweat, but he was grinning widely. She couldn’t help but smile back.
“I knew you’d come!”
Daniel pulled her into a fierce hug, then spun her through the lobby. “I knew I could count on you!”
Corrie struggled as her feet lifted from the ground. This was definitely not the professional greeting she had planned.
The Weight of Small Things Page 8