by Darlene Ryan
There was a soft knock at my door. Anne. It had to be. She did everything quietly.
“Come in,” I said.
Anne pushed the door halfway open. She was wearing a white cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up and dark blue pants that hugged her legs, but seemed to magically expand when they got to her middle. She looked to me like she’d swallowed half a basketball. I figured that was how you were supposed to look when you were almost six months pregnant.
“Hi,” she said. “I thought maybe you’d like to see a picture of your sister.”
“My … ? Oh, you mean the baby.” I swung my legs around and sat upright on the bed.
She handed me a piece of paper. It looked like a printed picture of TV static. “There she is,” Anne said, leaning over the end of the bed to point at a tiny dark blob near the bottom of the picture. “And there’s her head, and see those? Those are her legs and her arms.”
I stared at the fuzzy image and suddenly I could make out the shape of a baby, with a tiny fist curled against a cheek. It was like staring at one of those drawings that seemed to be just squiggly lines and then all at once became someone’s face.
“Hey, I see her,” I said.
Her.
I looked up at Anne. She had one arm wrapped around her middle. “You know the baby is a girl?”
Anne smiled. “Yes, that’s how it looks. We’re going to call her Leah.”
I looked at the picture again. I’d never thought of the baby as anything but it. I held out the piece of paper.
Anne shook her head. “No. That’s for you to keep.”
“Uh … no … that’s okay.” I stumbled over the words. “There must be other people you want to show it to.”
“This is a copy,” Anne said.
“I don’t really have anywhere to put it,” I said.
Anne tucked a curl of hair behind her ear and licked her lips a couple of times. “You know, Isabelle, I worry that you’re unhappy, that you feel uncomfortable because of me. Because I’m here.”
I looked down at my quilt and traced the outline of one of the squares with my finger.
“I know all the changes must feel strange, but if you just give it some time it’ll start to feel like your home, your family.” She leaned down and set the picture on the bed. “I’ll let you get back to studying,” she said.
I kept staring at the picture after she left. Now all I could see was a baby. Leah. My sister. I couldn’t see just grainy little blobs anymore.
Finally I got up and put the picture, face down, in the bottom drawer of my dresser.
20
I stood in the entrance to the Seniors Center, stomping my feet and shaking off snow like a big old dog.
I’d aced my Communications project. Now I was working on a video about World War Two for my world history class. Rafe said it was just an excuse to keep hanging around with Mrs. Mac and the others, although I noticed he always managed to be there to pick me up on the days they were cooking. Anyway, it was easy for him. He was a good-enough hockey player that he didn’t have to worry about marks, even though his were pretty good. I did have to think about things like that. The only sport I played with any degree of ability was mini-golf, and no one handed out scholarships for that.
“There you are,” Mrs. Mac said, coming out of the exercise room. She didn’t cover much ground in a step, but she moved so fast she’d leave you behind if you weren’t paying attention.
She reached up and brushed off the front of my jacket. “Is it still snowing?” she asked.
“Pretty much stopped,” I said, holding my hat out at arm’s length to shake it. “It was just a flurry.”
Mrs. Mac made room for my jacket on the coat rack and laid my mitts over the heating grate in the floor, while I foraged for my sneakers in the bottom of my backpack. She stood with her hands folded in front of her, waiting until I’d tied both shoes before she spoke.
“My dear, I should tell you first that I couldn’t truthfully say that Edgar cheats because I haven’t seen him do it. And I wouldn’t want to accuse him of something I haven’t any proof of, you understand.”
Not in the slightest.
She continued, “It’s just that he seems to win a good many more hands than anyone else. So I don’t have a good feeling about leaving the two of them alone for very long—just in case.”
“Leave the two of who?”
“Try to pay attention, dear,” she said, propelling me down the hall. “Edgar. Mr. Jamer. You know, Sarah Patterson’s friend.” She rolled her eyes at the word “friend”. “And your brother.”
“My brother?” I said, stopping in my tracks. “You mean Jason?”
“Yes, dear.” She made a hurry-up gesture with her hand.
My feet suddenly seemed to be stuck to the tile floor. “What’s Jason doing here?”
“He said he was waiting for you.” She laid her hand on my arm. “Is something wrong?”
I didn’t know what to say. Of course there was something wrong. Jason wouldn’t be looking for me if everything were okay. I ran down the possibilities in my head. Obviously he hadn’t been arrested. He wasn’t wrecked because Mrs. Mac would have mentioned that. And no one in their right mind would send Jason to tell me bad news, like something had happened to Dad.
Rule #41: If it’s dirty, wash it. If it’s hungry, feed it. If it’s broke, it’s Jason. So he wanted something. Why else did Jason ever look for me? I heard myself sigh. “Where is he?” I said.
“They’re in the lounge,” Mrs. Mac said.
I followed her the rest of the way down the hall. In the doorway she reached over and gave my arm a little pat. “When I was six I hit my younger brother, Elliot, in the middle of the forehead with a hammer,” she said in the same tone of voice she would have used if she’d been offering me a cookie.
“You what?” I turned to look at her.
She gave me a sweet smile. Who’d believe she was capable of braining someone with a hammer? “He was such a tattle-tale. Always running to Mother,” she explained. “And I did warn him.” She patted my arm again. “I understand about brothers.”
“I bet your brother was nothing like Jason,” I said. “He’s the older one, but I always end up taking care of him.”
“Do you know what Robert Frost wrote about home?” Mrs. Mac asked.
“You mean ‘Death of a Hired Man’? We did it last year in English.” The conversation was going off on one of those old-people detours.
“My mother said much the same about family.‘When they need taking care of, you have to do it.’”
Easy for her to say. I’d have bet Mrs. Mac’s mother never had a family as messed up as mine.
Jason and Mr. Jamer were across the room at a corner table. “Okay son, deal,” the old man said. I couldn’t help noticing his toupee. Mrs. Mac was right. It did look like a cat’s bum.
Jason started dealing cards face up on the table. Mr. Jamer named each one, correctly, just before it was turned over. They were halfway through the deck before Jason noticed me. “Busted,” he said, pointing over his shoulder at Mrs. Mac and me. Jason set the cards on the table and stood up. “Thanks,” he said, winking at Mr. Jamer, who looked a little sheepish.
“Come on, Edgar,” Mrs. Mac said, grabbing him by the elbow and helping him get to his feet. “See you Friday,” she whispered as she passed me.
“What do you want?” I asked Jason.
“I don’t get ‘Hello,’ I don’t get ‘How are you?’” he said.
“Hello. How are you? What do you want?”
“Gee, loosen up, Iz,” he said, pulling on his jacket. “I just need to borrow some money.”
“You don’t look so broke,” I said. “That’s a new leather jacket.”
“Which I bought from one of the guys I’ve been playing with. Please, Iz. I need some money.”
I shook my head.
The charming smile and little boy tilt of the head disappeared. “What do you think I’m going to d
o, Izzy? Use it to get stoned?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You might as well. It’s what you’re thinking.” He shook his head and let out a long breath through his teeth. “I lost my wallet. So I lost all my money and my ATM card. I can’t even write a check because all my ID was in my wallet.”
I bit down on my back teeth so hard I should have cracked one. My wallet was in the right pocket of my jeans. I gave him all the cash I had. “I’m sorry,” I said through my clenched teeth.
Jason shook off the apology. “Forget it.” He grabbed his backpack and slung it over one shoulder. “Thanks, Iz,” he said, and he was gone.
He hadn’t even asked me how I was, or how things were going with Anne and Dad. Did he know yet that the baby had a name? Did he know it was a girl?
I was shivering. I wanted to believe in Jason. But I couldn’t seem to get all the way there.
21
It smelled wonderful when I came through the door after school—onions, garlic, tomatoes. I stood in the hall for a minute and breathed it in, then headed for the kitchen.
Anne was at the stove, stirring something in the big spaghetti pot. Spencer was sprawled on the floor in a patch of sunshine under the kitchen window. He lifted his head, but decided I wasn’t worth the effort of getting up.
Anne smiled when she noticed me in the doorway. “Hi.”
“Hi,” I said. “How come you’re not at work?”
“We’re not taping this week.”
“Where’s Dad?”
“He went to look at some old doors.” She reached for the salt shaker on the counter, shook a little into her hand and dropped it in the pot. “Oak, I think,” she said.
I grabbed a green apple from the bowl on the table. “What are you making?” I asked.
“Chicken soup. It’s my grandmother’s recipe.” Anne gestured over her shoulder at a small fabric-covered book lying open next to the sink. I could see spidery writing in black ink on the yellowed pages.
“You’re making soup from scratch? Why?”
Anne shrugged. “I don’t know. Mostly because I like to.” She picked up a knife and started chopping a potato into small chunks.
I took another bite of my apple. “You know, they have chicken soup at the deli,” I said after I’d chewed and swallowed. “It’s pretty good.”
“I’m sure it is,” Anne said.
I didn’t get it. What was the point of making soup—it was way too much work—when you could just walk to the deli and be back in half an hour with a container of homemade soup?
Anne dropped a handful of potato into the pot and gave it another stir.
I opened the fridge, pulled out a bottle of juice and started for the living room. “My mother always said that’s what delis were for,” I said. “Bagels and chicken soup.” Cooking is for people who haven’t mastered take-out.
“But I’m not your mother.”
I froze in the doorway. Had I heard the words? Or just imagined them? I looked back at Anne. She gave me a quick glance, with just a hint of a smile. Then she reached for the knife and another potato and started chopping again.
22
I don’t know what it was that woke me. Suddenly I was sitting upright in bed as if someone had pushed me from behind, not really awake, wrapped in tangled sheets like a caterpillar in a cocoon.
I listened. And heard something. What? It was a partly stifled moan, low and full of pain. My body froze for a moment; then I was moving, spastic, mostly falling onto the floor with my legs trapped in the twisted covers.
Anne was on her knees in the hall, outside the bathroom door. One hand was braced against the wall, one hand clutched her big belly. The back of her nightgown was soaked and bloody, the wet fabric plastered to the back of her legs. I knew almost nothing about having a baby, but I knew it was too soon to have this one.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, squatting on the floor beside her.
Her face was blotched and sweaty. “I think … the baby’s coming,” she gasped.
“Where’s Dad?”
“Out … for the show.”
No. No. No. I couldn’t scream out loud. I squeezed my hands into tight fists. “Out where?”
“Springfield, I think. To look at … barn board.”
Springfield, which was two-and-a-half hours upriver— three if you went on the back roads, which was what Dad had probably done because he was looking for wood from an old barn to make some stupid reproduction cupboard to nail up on a kitchen wall for a “rustic” look instead of being home with Anne and the baby and this whole new family that was supposed to be so hotshot freakin’ important that he threw away his old family, and I knew he would do this. I knew it.
All at once Anne’s face twisted with pain. She grabbed my arm to steady herself. I dropped down on one knee to keep both of us from going over and put my free arm around her shoulders. Her skin was hot and slick with sweat.
I felt as though an icy hand had pushed through my chest and grabbed my insides, sort of like the creature from those old Alien movies, only in reverse. Anne slumped against me, breathing hard. If there was a rule for this, I didn’t know what it was. The only thing I knew was I had to get help.
“I’ll be right back. I swear,” I said to Anne. “Just … just sit.” I helped her onto the floor and then ran down the hall to Dad and Anne’s room. The cordless phone was on the nightstand by Anne’s side of the bed. I punched in 911. It rang twice.
“9-1-1. What is the nature of your emergency?” asked the voice on the other end.
“My … ” I hesitated. What did I call Anne? “My… stepmother. She’s pregnant. I think she’s in labor. There’s blood. But it’s way too soon. The baby’s not supposed to be born for almost three more months.”
“I’m sending an ambulance,” the woman said. “Stay on the line. What is your address?”
I gave it to her. “It’s the big green house at the top of the street.”
“They’re on their way.”
I swallowed down the sour taste in the back of my throat. “Thank you,” I said. There was an old elastic band on the nightstand. It had probably been around yesterday’s morning paper. I jammed the phone between my cheek and shoulder and pulled my hair into a ponytail.
“It’ll be all right,” the woman said. “Now, don’t hang up.”
“I’m not hanging up.” I pulled the quilt off the bed and dragged it down the hall, clutching the phone with my other hand. Anne was sitting with her back to the wall, eyes closed and her legs splayed out in front of her.
“What’s your name?” the voice on the other end of the phone asked. “I’m Beth.”
“Isabelle.” I spread the quilt over Anne and tucked the ends in behind her. “The ambulance is coming,” I whispered.
“How old are you, Isabelle?” Beth asked.
“Sixteen.”
“Does blood bother you?”
“Um, not really.”
“Okay, Isabelle. Don’t hang up. Is there something you can cover your stepmother with? It’s important to keep her warm.”
“I already did.”
“Good. Has her water broken?”
I remembered the wet nightgown stuck to the back of Anne’s legs. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Is she having contractions?”
Before I could answer, Anne grabbed my hand and bit down on her bottom lip so hard tiny spots of blood popped up on it.
“Isabelle? Isabelle, are you still there?”
“I’m here. She just had a contraction.”
“The ambulance will be there in just a few more minutes. How far apart are the contractions?”
I wiped the sweat off Anne’s face with my sleeve. “I don’t know,” I said, my voice cracking.
“That’s all right,” Beth said. “Just tell me as soon as the next one starts.”
I felt as though I was edging along a high thin ledge with only Beth’s voice to tell me where to set my feet. As long as I listened
to her voice I could keep putting one foot in front of the other.
I held on to the phone with one hand and Anne with the other. I concentrated on what Beth was saying until at last the ambulance lights were flashing in the driveway and the paramedics were at the door. I ran down to let them in.
“Up there,” I said, pointing up the stairs. “They’re here,” I said to Beth. My voice cracked again. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Isabelle,” she said before hanging up. “Good luck.”
The paramedics—one a man, one a woman—were already bending over Anne. A blood pressure cuff was around one of her arms. Their radios crackled with what sounded like static to me but seemed to make sense to them.
I was useless.
I slipped into my room long enough to pull on jeans and a sweater and grab a pair of shoes and my purse. Then I ran back to Anne and Dad’s room and got Anne’s wallet out of her purse in case they needed ID or something at the hospital. I didn’t let myself think about Dad not being here. I didn’t have time to be mad.
The paramedics eased Anne onto a stretcher. I trailed down the steps behind them.
“Isabelle.” At the foot of the stairs Anne reached out a hand and I caught it.
“Here.”
She grabbed on so tightly I could feel my finger joints snapping. Another contraction. I swallowed hard, pushing down something—I didn’t know what.
The guy—his nametag said Dave Florentino—leaned around me. “C’mon, Anne,” he coaxed. “Breathe. Breathe.”
Anne was almost turned inside out with the pain, pale and sweat-sticky, her bottom lip chewed half raw. And he was telling her to breathe? Like that would fix anything.
I turned my head so I was right in his face. “Do something for her,” I said.
He didn’t even look at me. “We are,” he said.
My free hand clenched into a fist again. I hoped they were. I just couldn’t tell.
I climbed into the back of the ambulance behind the stretcher. I wanted Dad, Rafe, even Jason. I wanted someone who’d know what to do. I felt the same overwhelming, longing ache inside for my own mother that I’d felt in the first months after she’d died.