by Tish Cohen
Rachel looked up. “You mean I should…?”
The nurse closed the curtain around Rachel’s bed. “It’ll be our little secret.”
At that moment, Hannah’s eyes opened. She turned her head against her mother’s breast and opened her small mouth, her tongue rooting for nourishment. Quickly, Rachel dropped the nightgown from her shoulder and tucked it behind Hannah’s head.
“That’s right,” said Margaret. “She smells her mother. Now bring yourself closer, close enough for her to taste it.”
Rachel looked up, blinking back tears and laughing. “Like this?” She leaned forward, accidentally knocking Hannah’s cheek with her engorged breast. The infant’s mouth lunged toward it, missing the nipple entirely and latching onto Rachel’s flesh. “Oops.” Rachel pulled her skin away and Hannah squawked in frustration. This time, Rachel lifted her breast and guided her nipple into Hannah’s open mouth. The baby latched on wider, was still for a moment, probably surprised, and then began to suck. A smooth, rhythmical motion with sounds Rachel had never heard before. The wet swish of sucking, then a tiny swallow wrapped in a contented sigh.
“She’s drinking,” Rachel whispered, laughing. Tears streamed down her face now. “She’s drinking from me.”
“Shh!” said Margaret. “Yes, Hannah’s drinking from you.”
Rachel glanced at Margaret, who was watching like a proud grandmother. “Will you get in trouble?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
Rachel grinned and wiped a tear from her cheek. “Thank you.”
Hannah’s eyes were bright in the faint glow from the hallway. She looked up hungrily at Rachel as she continued to feed, her almond-shaped wolf eyes frosted silver, like ice. With her free hand, Rachel touched Hannah’s nose, cheek, forehead.
The child was so beautiful it hurt.
Rachel looked up. “Will she ever know?”
“Know what, love?”
“That she was once mine?”
“She’ll be told.”
“But will she understand?”
Margaret shrugged, smiling. “Most children born with Down’s syndrome have a mild to moderate mental disability. Some have almost none. There’s no telling this early, love. No telling at all.”
CHAPTER 13
“Gimme Gimme Shock Treatment”
—THE RAMONES
Tabitha hadn’t moved in almost eight minutes. Lying on her bed later that afternoon, flipping through the May issue of Seventeen, she had stopped at an article apparently so engrossing that the only body part still capable of movement was her feet, which waved from side to side, in perfect unison, like a pair of windshield wipers.
Exhilarated and terrified at the same time. That’s how Janie felt about spying. Exhilarated because, at any moment, Tabitha might decide to try on her faded mini and dance all sexy in front of the mirror. Terrified because it put Janie right there in Tabitha’s room, though it was nearly impossible for her to be caught from behind her bedroom curtains next door. Tabitha would have to be looking back into Janie’s room with her own pair of binoculars, which she didn’t possess. Or if she did—here was a depressing thought—she didn’t think there was anything worth examining on the other side of the window.
Janie watched as Tabitha set down the magazine and stretched, before climbing off her bed and kicking off her sweatpants. Just then, Rachel pushed open the door and sauntered into Janie’s room. She looked around like she was expecting to be met at the doorway by a waiter with a plate full of canapés. “Hi, hon,” Rachel said.
Janie flung the binoculars down. “Hi.”
Noticing the binoculars, Rachel came closer and peered out the window. “What were you looking at?”
Bird-watching wasn’t going to fly, so to speak. “Me and Tabitha have the same issue.” She held up the Seventeen magazine. “We were looking through it together.”
“Why don’t you just go over there and look at your magazines in person?”
Janie shrugged and flipped through the pages. “Too much work.” She froze as her mother reached for the binoculars, turning them over in her hands.
“They’re heavy,” said Rachel. “I never realized they were so heavy.”
“Yeah,” Janie whispered, willing something to happen to stop the train wreck that would surely come next.
“You got these from Grandma, didn’t you, for your birthday? Which one was it—your eleventh? Or maybe your twelfth?”
Janie said nothing, just prayed Rachel wouldn’t get a glimpse of Tabitha’s attire next door. Or lack of it.
“Janie? Was it your eleventh or twelfth birthday?”
Rachel looked toward Tabitha’s window. Janie held her breath but, by some miracle, her mother set the spy glasses down on the seat cushion and smiled. “Come on downstairs, sweetie. I could use some help with dinner.”
Janie didn’t budge.
“We’re having guests, remember?”
“They’re your guests, Mom. This dinner has nothing to do with me.”
“Anyone who walks through that front door is our guest. I expect you to treat Olivia no differently than you’d treat anyone else,” Rachel warned. “Or there will be severe consequences.”
Dustin burst into the room. “Mom, can I go over to Cooper’s? He just got this new mini bike and he said his parents will drive us out to Northridge Flats to—”
“Does anybody listen to a word I say?” Rachel said. “We have dinner guests coming!”
Dustin flopped backward onto Janie’s bed. “Aww, crap. I totally forgot.”
“Watch the mouth, mister,” said Rachel. “And go get showered before Olivia and Len arrive.”
Dustin kicked his sneakered feet against the bed frame. “I SO don’t want to meet them. Or shower for them.”
“Ugh, you’re stinking up my bed!” said Janie.
Ignoring his sister, Dustin said, “Believe me, Mom, Inside Out Girl will not be getting dressed up for us. And since when do I have to start meeting your boyfriends?”
“Len’s not a boyfriend, honey. We’re just two families getting together for a nice meal—”
Dustin’s eyes lit up. “If I stay home tonight, can I go to skate camp this summer?”
“Can you people go fight somewhere else?” asked Janie.
Rachel marched Dustin out of the room, saying, “No skate camp. But you can help me clean up the front hall so Olivia doesn’t trip over your skateboards, your backpack, your basketball…” She closed the door behind them.
Finally. Grabbing the binoculars, Janie jumped onto her knees for one more peek, but Tabitha and her bare legs were gone.
CHAPTER 14
Cupcake Therapy
I don’t think we should actually go to Rachel’s house,” said Olivia from the backseat. “Let’s just go home.”
“I’ll be with you the whole time,” Len said.
The sun hung just low enough in the sky to make the drive a perilous endeavor. Len suffered the glare with sunglasses, and glanced in the rearview mirror to see his daughter’s face bobbing up and down from behind the bakery box lid. For the occasion, Olivia had pulled on a pink winter hat she’d worn when she was about seven. It didn’t quite fit around her head and had slid upward, creating a gigantic woolen teat on top of her unbrushed hair. Her ears, pushed down and out by the cap, smoldered red in the early evening sunlight.
The girl looked like an unwashed pixie.
“Don’t touch those cupcakes, Olivia. People don’t like dirty fingers in their food.”
“I’m not touching. I’m smelling.”
“It looks like you’re licking.” Len spun around and held out his hand. “Give those to me.”
Olivia mashed the box close to her body. “No! You said I could hold it all the way until there so I’m holding it. All the way until there.”
Len turned the car onto Rivermoor Boulevard, hoping like hell the glare of the sun didn’t trigger another headache.
“Do her kids call her Mom or Mommy?”
“Not sure.” When Len thought about Rachel, Mommy wasn’t quite what came to mind.
“Am I sleeping over with Janie?” she asked.
“No.”
“Am I sleeping over with Dustin?”
“No! You do not sleep over with boys!”
“Why?”
“Because it’s just not done. Ever.” Len looked into the backseat and reached around to push the box closed again. “You’ve got blue icing on your chin. You are licking those cupcakes.”
The car went silent except for the thumping of Olivia’s head against her seat. Then, “I feel like throwing up.”
“You’re going to have a great time, you’ll see.”
“Okay. I’ll try,” Olivia said, scrunching up her face and looking out the window.
“That’s the spirit.”
“I’m going to throw up!” Olivia unbuckled her seat belt and unrolled the window, hanging her head and shoulders outside as Len dodged traffic to pull off the road. He jumped out to help her away from the car and into the bushes.
They waited a few moments. She stood hunched over at the waist, leaning onto her knees, while Len knelt beside her. Close enough to be the supportive parent; far enough to keep his jeans unsullied for Rachel. Olivia burped twice and let out a long groan.
Nothing happened.
“Do you still feel sick?”
She nodded, her face contorted. “Here it comes, it’s coming!” she said, clutching her stomach.
“It’s okay, let it all out.” Len rubbed his daughter’s back.
Still, nothing happened.
“Sometimes it takes a few minutes,” Len said.
A tiny thread of blue drool appeared in the center of Olivia’s lower lip. Slowly, it stretched downward, swaying in the breeze as it dangled below her knees. When the strand finally touched the ground, she wiped her mouth and stood up straight. “Whoa.” She smiled. “All done now.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah.” She scampered back to the car, buckling herself in and settling the cupcake box on her lap. “We better get there before I eat any more.”
CHAPTER 15
That’s How a Kid Knows
The informed parent knows not to take a child’s words or behavior personally. Remember, you are the adult, and react with the cool detachment that comes with maturity and understanding.
—RACHEL BERMAN, Perfect Parent magazine
Dustin, Janie, come down now!” Rachel called from the bottom of the stairs. “They’ll be here any minute. And Janie? No Buzzcocks T-shirts, please.”
She hated being so nervous. The way her fingertips tingled. She’d just walked into the living room, picked up a pillow to begin fluffing it a third time, when the doorbell rang.
“They’re here!” Pulling a tube of lipstick from a drawer in the hall, she swiped it on and batted her lips together before opening the door. Len stood on the mat, wearing what must be his uniform, battered jeans and a white top—this time a creamy turtleneck.
“Hey,” he said, leaning inside to kiss Rachel on the cheek. “We come bearing cupcakes. If any survived the journey, that is.”
Olivia darted out from behind her father’s legs and thrust a crumpled bakery box into Rachel’s hands. She wore a Snoopy T-shirt, turned right way around, a corduroy miniskirt, green tights, and winter hat and boots. Her chin was covered in blue icing.
The child danced from one foot to the other, pausing every few seconds to glance quickly at Rachel, then stare down at the ground. Len chuckled. “I’m afraid we’ve been stressing somewhat,” he said.
“I’m afraid we’ve been barfing somewhat,” said Olivia without a trace of a smile.
Rachel’s instincts kicked in. She stepped onto the porch to do what she did with her own kids at the first mention of illness—touch their foreheads with the back of her hand—but stopped herself short. From a three-foot distance, she assessed the color of Oliva’s cheeks, the glassiness of her eyes. It was how Piper had taken her temperature as a child—from afar, safely out of range of her aura of contagion. Her mother never got the most accurate reading, but then again, she never missed a golf game.
Rachel’s reasons, though, were far different. “You’re not feeling well, Olivia? You don’t look like you have a fever.”
Moving his daughter toward the front door, Len said, “Nothing more than a bit of nerves. And triple-thick blue frosting. She’ll be fine, won’t you, princess?”
Olivia ran behind Len and hid herself from Rachel, relieving Rachel of having to do the same.
“Janie and Dustin are upstairs,” she said. “Maybe you can go up and tell them you’re here.” It’ll give me time to adjust, she didn’t say.
The child shook her head and clutched Len’s legs harder. Len smiled, shrugging. “I think she might be more comfortable around her dad for the first little bit,” said Len, pulling off his daughter’s hat. Olivia snatched it back.
In the kitchen, Rachel parked herself at the island and reached for the bottle of red wine she’d opened up earlier, as Len made himself comfortable on a barstool. As comfortable as he could be, Rachel thought, without surgically extracting his daughter from his right leg.
“Olivia, there are some carrots on the table by the fireplace. Why don’t you go help yourself?” Turning to Len, Rachel added, “Don’t worry, I always quarter them lengthwise.”
“Why?”
“So the kids don’t choke. Doesn’t everyone?”
Len laughed. “Sure, for toddlers. You’ve been chewing up your own carrots for how long now, Olivia?”
She buried her face into Len’s sweater and said nothing. Something slipped out from under her T-shirt and clattered onto the floor.
“Whoops.” Len leaned down to pick it up, then handed it back to her. “She brought along some of her favorite music to show Janie and Dustin.” He winked at Rachel. “Something to bond over, you know.”
Rachel smiled at Olivia. “That’s a great idea. What band is it?”
The child stuffed the CD back into her shirt and hid her face.
“Well, I’m going to have a little wine,” Rachel said, turning to Len. “Unless you’d rather have champagne?”
“I don’t drink champagne.”
“No,” she said with a sly smile. “People who pee off balconies generally don’t.”
“I’ll have you know we only relieve ourselves from the very finest establishments.”
She nodded and took a huge gulp of wine before slicing two tomatoes with an enormous knife. “How very swish.”
“We like to think so,” said Len.
Olivia, inching out from behind her father, stuck a finger in her mouth and mumbled, “Does your corn-on-the-cob have handles? Because I hate it when there’s no handles and I get burned-up fingers.”
Rachel bent down to her level. “You’ll be happy to know we do have handles. And you can have first pick.” She stood up again, turned to her chopping block and resumed slicing the tomatoes.
“I don’t like the wooden handles. They fall out when I’m eating. So that’s why I only like the plastic handles.”
“Olivia,” warned Len.
“You’re in luck,” said Rachel, scooping tomato cubes into a ceramic bowl full of lettuce. “We only have plastic handles. And with no broken metal thingies.”
“Are they yellow? Do they look like little plastic corn-on-the-cobs?”
“I think they might.”
“I think you’re the most beautiful lady in the whole world.”
Rachel smiled at Len and picked up a cucumber. “That’s so sweet. You’re pretty beautiful yourself.”
“You look like Mommy.”
She froze.
Len laughed and rubbed his daughter’s back. His cheeks were flushed with pink. “Well, they do both have brown hair and are both very beautiful, but that’s about it. Why don’t we go see what’s on television—”
“No. They both have noses and ears and chins and arms and stoma
chs and—”
“Olivia,” said Len.
The child ignored her dad and moved closer to Rachel. Too close. She blinked up at her. “You look just like her picture. Exactly.” Olivia patted her Snoopy-covered chest with her fingertips, scrunching up her face like she was in pain.
“That’s enough, now. We’re embarrassing Rachel.”
Rachel’s heart thumped. Unsure how to respond, she went with her first instinct—cowardice—and shrugged. “Oh, people are always telling me I look like someone or other.”
Olivia continued to stare at her as she chopped the cucumber into cubes. Eventually, she said, to Rachel’s relief, “Emmie at school has a Ferrari.”
“A kid at school has a Ferrari? That has to be wrong,” said Rachel.
“Her dad has a Ferrari,” said Olivia. “It’s yellow and has a little horse on the front.”
Len turned to stare at what was left of the fire in the next room. He grabbed the newspaper from the kitchen counter. “Your fire is dying. May I?”
Rachel nodded, and he crossed the room and settled himself in front of the fireplace.
“Do you want some cucumber?” Rachel asked Olivia. She scooped up a small handful of cucumber chunks and dumped them on the island in front of the girl.
“I love cucumber. Emmie gets a lot of good stuff, like a cell phone and swear movies that Dad won’t let me see. Emmie’s going to come to my birthday party. She got adopted when she was a baby. That’s because her actual real mother didn’t want her too much.”
Rachel froze, her knife in midair. Her fingertips, her ears, her chest throbbed with a rush of blood. Settle down, she told herself. She’s a ten-year-old girl who doesn’t know the first thing about real life. As calmly as she could, Rachel said, “That’s not necessarily what happened. All mothers love their children. But some mothers give up their babies so the baby can have a better life.”
“Emmie does have a better life. Now she has a Ferrari,” said Olivia, slipping a cucumber cube into her mouth and chewing. “Anyway, that’s how a kid knows.”
Rachel waited. When Olivia didn’t elaborate, she asked, “Knows what?”
“That’s how a kid knows if her mother loves her. If her mom isn’t there, she doesn’t love her.”