Ellis backed away from Mary’s embrace and held both of Mary’s hands tightly. She stared into the eyes that had captivated her so thoroughly. “Never the last one. Always only the promise of the next one.”
Their final kiss in the house on Wilson Woods Drive tasted of memories and of tears; of love found and of farewell; of pledges understood but unspoken.
∗ ∗ ∗ ∗
Thank God for springtime in Atlanta. Over the next six weeks, Ellis was nearly overwhelmed with obligations to her customers, and that kept her from missing Mary quite as much as she otherwise would have. Days started early and lasted late. Breakfast was usually a piece or two of fruit and some granola bars. If she got lunch at all, it was a sandwich from a sub shop. Dinner? Like she had energy to fix anything, or eat it, after chasing the lawn mower and hauling mulch around all day.
On June sixth, she spent the morning and early afternoon building rock-ringed gardens and filling them with encore azaleas for a new client in Ormewood, not too far from the zoo and the Atlanta Cyclorama. She stopped to grab a late lunch on her way to another job in Kirkwood, just off Moreland Avenue.
In a rare move, Ellis gave herself the extra few minutes to go inside and eat her lunch at a table instead of pulling through the drive-thru and eating in the cab of her truck. She parked in the lot of a joint she used to know well at the corner of Ponce de Leon and Clifton Road.
As she stood in line at the sandwich shop, she caught the scent of a familiar perfume. She usually steered clear of the stores in the Candler Park vicinity, and if her nose was telling her the truth, she should have stuck to that plan.
“Ellis?”
The voice clinched it. Better she had starved to death than run the risk of stumbling over her past.
She pushed her tray a few inches farther along the rails of the serving line before turning around.
“Hi, Becky.” How could two simple words feel like battery acid tumbling on her tongue? She trained her eyes to the left of Becky Blumfeld’s face and tried to look a thousand miles beyond Becky’s shoulder.
“Gosh, it’s been forever since I’ve seen you.” Becky rubbed Ellis’s upper arm with her knuckles. “How have you been?”
Any casual observer would have thought it was a perfectly reasonable, social inquiry. From Ellis’s perspective, better Becky had run a dagger directly into her heart to spare her the agonizing death of making small talk in a public place.
“Good, thanks. How about you?” She willed herself to look at Becky’s face. It was flushed and full, much rounder than Ellis remembered it. She let her gaze drop. “Oh. Oh, wow. I mean. Umm. Good for you.”
Becky’s distended belly protruded unmistakably.
“Good for us,” Becky said, as she pulled the hand of the woman behind her so that she stood by Becky’s side. “Ruthann Lockburger, this is Ellis VanStantvoordt.”
Ellis and Ruthann mumbled greetings to one another. The clerk behind the counter indicated it was Ellis’s turn to order.
“Turkey and swiss on whole wheat. Dress it all the way, extra pickles. Large sweet iced tea. And I’ve changed my mind about dining in. Make that to go.” She turned back to face Becky and Ruthann.
“Why don’t you stay and eat with us, Ellis?” Becky asked. “We could catch up on things.”
“Thanks, but I can’t. I’ve got another lawn to take care of, and I’m already running late.”
“Are you sure?” Ruthann put her hand on Ellis’s shoulder. Ellis wanted to swat it away, but controlled the urge. “It would be nice to get to know you,” Ruthann said.
Ellis hated the deep, masculine tone of Ruthann’s voice. She hated the presumed familiarity Ruthann exuded. She hated the smug possessiveness the woman radiated toward Becky. In fact, Ellis hated every single thing about Ruthann Lockburger and hoped she was very soon diagnosed with a debilitating illness that withered her physically and mentally and in every other way with horrible, painful, indescribable, excruciating agony—but slowly, and for sure without any drugs that eased the suffering.
“No, really, I can’t.” She fumbled in the side pocket of her cargo shorts for her wallet and traded money for a To Go cup and sandwich bag, then started toward the door.
“Ellis, wait.” Becky tugged on the back of Ellis’s T-shirt.
“Wait for what? For you to have your baby on one of the tables here so I can applaud your great success?” She gestured wildly toward the seated patrons, spilling some tea from her cup as she did. “Crap.” She set the cup on a flat-topped trash can by the door and shook the sticky liquid from her hand.
“Why are you so angry?” Becky said each word as though it tasted of vinegar and lemon juice.
“Who’s angry?” Ellis retorted. “What do I have to be angry about? You think it bothers me that you’ve got yourself a hot new butch sugar mama and that you’re well on your way to having the perfect little artificially-inseminated suburban family?” She pointed at Becky’s midsection. “Guess again. I forgot about you the day I walked out the door of what was supposedly our house eighteen months ago.”
“Ellis, don’t—”
“Don’t what, Rebecca? Don’t make a scene in public? Don’t tell people your unborn child has a turkey baster for a father? Don’t run the risk of telling your cherished girlfriend that she’s nothing but a rebound second choice? Just what is it you don’t want me to do?”
Ellis and Becky stood toe to toe, glaring at one another.
Ruthann hastened over and pulled Becky away. “Are you all right, sweetheart? Remember what the doctor said about your blood pressure.”
Becky took a final look at Ellis, then let Ruthann lead her to a table where their tray of food awaited. Ellis grabbed her iced tea and fled the shop.
Her hand was shaking so badly that she dropped her keys on the pavement beside her truck. As she bent to retrieve them, she hit her shoulder on the door-mounted rearview mirror and dropped the cup, splashing sugary tea all over her work boots. “Damn you, Becky Blumfeld,” she screamed. Damn you and your swaggering new partner and your precious baby—the baby that was more important than I was.
∗ ∗ ∗ ∗
It was almost dark by the time Ellis finished the second job and drove to her apartment. Sam was waiting for her at the door, dancing with joy and with a bladder that urgently needed relief.
“C’mon, kid. Let’s take a quick trip to your favorite patch of grass.” She grabbed Sam’s leash from the hook on the back of the door and snapped it on. Without the benefit of Mary’s yard to run in, Sam had put on several pounds over the past month-and-a-half. She fairly waddled as she hurried down the stairs ahead of Ellis. From sunup to sunset, jobs kept Ellis away, so Sam was well on her way to being attention-starved, bored, and overweight. Strenuous physical labor kept Ellis from being overweight, but the other two adjectives applied to owner as well as to dog.
When Sam finished, she tugged on her leash, eager as always to hurry back to the apartment to have her puppy chow. As they climbed the steps, Ellis realized she was as hungry as Sam appeared to be. Her confrontation with Becky and Ruthann at the sandwich shop had left her too riled to choke down the sandwich she’d bought. She debated with herself whether or not it was still safe to eat her turkey and swiss sub, or if the early June heat beating into the cab of her truck for the past couple of hours had soured the mayo. And if she didn’t eat that, what else might her meager pantry have as an alternative?
“Hey, neighbor!” Her culinary contemplation was interrupted by the husband of the couple who lived across the outdoor walkway from her unit. Russ came out of his apartment carrying two bags of trash. Sam loped over to him, hoping for some affection and maybe a dog cookie, which Russ often carried in his pocket for Robbie, his Welsh Corgi. Russ set his bags down and obliged with a hearty rubdown of Sam’s head and ears, followed by slipping her a crunchy biscuit.
“Hi, yourself,” Ellis said. “How are you and Janet?”
“Good. Make that fantastic. Better than fant
astic.”
“Why’s that?”
Russ grinned conspiratorially. “We haven’t even told my parents yet, so you’re getting the news hot off the press. We found out today that Janet’s pregnant. We’ve been trying for what feels like forever.”
“That’s great news, Russ.” Ellis did her best to sound sincere. “I couldn’t be happier for you.”
“Thanks.” He patted Sam’s head again. “We talked about looking into adoption, but there’s just something about having your very own kid, you know?”
“Absolutely,” Ellis fibbed.
“It’s not like we don’t know what a mess the world is. The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan and the drought here in the South. The news guys can’t shut up about the financial mess the country is in. Then there’s global warming and all that, but having a baby is like saying to the world ‘Hey, there’s hope. We believe in the future.’”
For the effect his words had on her, he might as well have swung his bags of trash into her diaphragm. How many times had she and Becky argued about this? However many times it had been, it always ended with Becky reminding Ellis of how, at their commitment ceremony, she’d promised always to believe in the future. According to Becky, children are the future, and Ellis was nothing but a lower-than-a-snake’s-belly liar. Now, on what was proving to be one of the most emotionally punishing days of her life, a near-stranger was grinding her face in her biggest character flaw: her disinclination to participate in parenthood.
Ellis felt the sting of tears behind her eyelids. She shifted Sam’s leash to her left hand and offered her right one to Russ. “Congratulations, buddy. Give my best to Janet. I hope the next nine months go smoothly for you both.”
“Only eight. She’s already one month along.”
“Like I said, I hope it goes well.” Ellis yanked Sam into her apartment and closed the door behind them.
“I can’t freakin’ believe this. Is the whole world having babies?” As she unclipped Sam’s leash and flipped the wall switch to turn on the table lamps on either side of the sofa, the phone rang.
She grabbed a tissue and blew her nose. “I don’t care who it is.” She unlaced her work boots. “With my luck, it’ll be some long-lost friend or relative telling me they want me to be the godmother for their darling infant.”
After the fourth ring, the answering machine clicked on. “Hi, Ellis. It’s Natalie. Natalie Kimbrough. Mom said I could call you. She said not to use your cell phone number because you might be out working and not to interrupt. And she said you’d be home by now, but I guess you’re not. I know tomorrow is your birthday, so Happy Birthday. I hope you get to do something fun. I’ve only seen you one time since me and Mom moved up to Clarkesville. I’m really lonesome for you. And for Sam. Do you think you could bring Sam up and stay with us for the weekend? Mom said she’d make you a birthday cake. Did you know we’re in our own house now and not staying with my gramma any more? My dad has to work all weekend, so I’ll be home with Mom. Call us, okay? Tell Sammy I still love her. Bye. Oh, wait…” Ellis heard Mary saying something in the background. “And Ellis, Mom and I think you’re really weird.” Mother and daughter giggled briefly. They shouted “Happy Birthday” in unison, and the call disconnected.
Ellis kicked off her boots and collapsed on the sofa. Sam nudged her, repeatedly, reminding her that it was past time for an evening meal.
“Have you forgotten that canine children are supposed to be perfectly behaved? You’re as big a bother as the human kind.” Ellis labored to her feet, went to the kitchen, and tossed a handful of food into Sam’s bowl beside the refrigerator.
She knew better than to look at what was hanging on her refrigerator door, but she did so anyway. Shortly after moving to Clarkesville with her mother, Natalie had printed out various pictures she’d taken with the camera Ellis gave her for Christmas. Sam and Swiffer. Mary and Sam. Ellis and Mary. Ellis and Mary with Sam and Swiffer. A shot with Mary, Ellis, Natalie, Sam, and Swiffer taken with the camera’s timer delay feature. But the one that got to her was one that Mary had taken of her and Natalie. Ellis was sitting on the sofa in Mary’s old living room. Natalie stood behind the sofa with her arms looped around Ellis’s neck. She was leaning down so that her face was right next to Ellis’s. Natalie had drawn a big red heart around the two of them. Across the bottom she had printed “Me and My Other Mother.”
Maybe if it weren’t the eve of her thirty-eighth birthday, or maybe if Natalie hadn’t ended her phone message with the secret code phrase she and her mother had for “I love you,” Ellis could have allowed the photos to have a momentary effect on her feelings and then scurried to squelch those feelings, as she usually did. But the aggregate of seeing Becky, hearing Russ and Janet’s news, knowing she’d spend her birthday alone, and having Natalie tell her she missed her and loved her was too much. She needed someone to love her unconditionally, and Sam couldn’t fill the bill. She needed that sustaining love, and she needed it now.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d thought about her own mother. What would be the point? She’d been dead for more than half of Ellis’s life. Maybe if, as an adult, she’d gotten to know her mother as a person, she’d have a better handle on what prompted this seemingly universal fascination—obsession?—with people wanting and having children.
“I miss you, Mom.”
Had she ever spoken those words before? Not that she could recall. “I miss you,” she repeated. “Thanks for giving me my original birthday.” Suddenly it was imperative that she find a thread, however frayed, back to her mother. She went to the closet in her bedroom and yanked a Foster’s Ale box down from the shelf. Using her pocketknife, she slit the four strips of tape holding the cardboard lid shut.
First thing out of the box: her report cards, first through twelfth grades, held together with rubber bands. Next out of the box: her high school year book from Windsor Forest High, Savannah, class of ’87. Then a collection of birthday cards, followed by playbills from school productions she’d assisted with behind the scenes, usually as a set builder. Under that was an embroidered dresser scarf that had adorned one of the furniture pieces in her bedroom the entire time she lived in her parents’ house. Her mother had done the stitch work on it. She ran her fingertips over the knots on the back side of the cloth. Her imagination played tricks on her. It felt like someone was holding her hand.
On the bottom of the box was a photo album, still encased in its plastic protective sleeve. Ellis lifted it from the box and wiped off the layer of dust. In the oval space on the front was a picture of Ellis, very young and pale, in her Windsor Forest cap and gown. There was a smile on her face, but the look in her eyes didn’t match it. Fear? Sorrow? Old beyond her years? A glimpse into the very near future?
Above the photo a side-opening slot permitted insertion of a title or caption. Ellis recognized the handwriting on the piece of cardstock. Her mother had carefully printed, “All Grown Up. Gretchen Alina VanStantvoordt.” She pulled the card from the slot. As she had done with the dresser scarf, Ellis let her fingers lightly touch the surface. Almost like a movie being shown against the far wall, she “saw” an image of her mother sitting in the muted light of the living room of the house in Savannah. She was carefully seated on the edge of the chair, her left arm resting on the drop-leaf desk as she wrote a letter to send to Nicolas or Anika. Talking often sent her mother into fits of coughing, so she avoided the telephone and stayed in touch with her twins by letter. But the card in Ellis’s hand wasn’t written for one of her siblings. It was for her.
“She touched this.” The words were whispered, almost like a prayer. “She made this album for me.”
Her mother had given her the album when they got home from the graduation exercises that late May afternoon in 1987. She had taken seriously ill that evening and gotten worse by the hour. Ellis’s last summer in Savannah was spent at her bedside, watching her die, paper-thin breath by paper-thin breath.
Then there was the funeral,
and only a few weeks after that, Ellis left for college. The album, never opened, was packed away with the other scraps of her childhood—a childhood Ellis had always believed was better not reflected on.
Now, some twenty years later, Ellis needed to go home. She opened the cover.
The first picture was of an unidentifiable bundle lying in her mother’s arms. Her mother looked drawn and weary. The notation beneath it read, “First picture. September 6, 1969.”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” Ellis said. “I know I gave you a rough time getting into the world.” It had taken three months for her mother to be well enough to get a first photo with her infant. Despite her obvious infirmity, there was no mistaking the complete adoration on Helen VanStantvoordt’s face as she cradled her wee one. Ellis blotted up the tear that splashed onto the page.
Next came several pictures of the twins on either side of Ellis. Of course the notes beneath referred to her as Gretchen. No dates or ages were given. Ellis guessed herself to be less than two. She turned the page. Anika held Ellis on her lap, hunched forward so that her face was right next to Ellis’s. Ellis read the caption three times. The words didn’t make any sense. “Baby Gretchen with her Other Mother, 1971.”
Other mother?
The realization hit. Her mother was too ill to care for her when she was first born, or for that matter, for much of her first few years. Someone had to do it. It certainly wouldn’t have been her father. It must have been Anika.
She looked through the rest of the album.
Page by page, she studied the pictures and the words her mother had chosen to describe them. Nothing out of the ordinary. Ellis on her third birthday; the three VanStantvoordt children in front of the Christmas tree in 1973; the children on the beach at Tybee Island off the Savannah coast; Ellis with the twins in their caps and gowns on their graduation day in 1974; Ellis waving good-bye from the front steps to Nicolas as he left for Princeton that fall.
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