Daria knew what a virgin was. The Virgin Mary had gotten pregnant with baby Jesus without ever having had sex. It had never occurred to her that Ellen or her sister or Polly or any of the other teenage girls on the cul-de-sac could be anything other than a virgin. She lowered her eye to the microscope again to keep the shock from showing on her face.
“What makes the cops so sure it was a teenager, anyhow?” Ellen asked.
“They’re probably pretty certain it’s Cindy Tramp’s baby,” Chloe said, “but they don’t have enough evidence to force her to have an examination. I bet they’re hearing all about her at every cottage they go to. She’s been doing it since she was twelve.”
“Twelve?” Ellen looked astonished.
“Twelve,” Chloe said with certainty. “Just one year older than Daria.” Both of them looked at Daria, and she raised her head from the microscope, feeling color blossom on her cheeks.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Daria said, although she did. She could not imagine having sex one year from then. She looked across the street at Poll-Rory, thinking of Rory inside that cottage. He was the only boy she could imagine kissing, but even with Rory, she couldn’t picture doing anything more than that. She wasn’t certain exactly how it was done, anyway.
“I know who it was!” Ellen said excitedly. “I bet it was that girl, Linda.” She laughed, as though she’d said something wildly amusing. Chloe laughed, too, and Daria laughed along with them, pretending to understand.
The police suddenly walked out Poll-Rory’s front door, with Rory close on their heels. Rory was yelling at them, and Daria leaned closer to the screen, as did Chloe and Ellen, trying to hear.
“…just confused her!” Rory shouted. “What was the point?”
The policemen kept walking toward the street, ignoring him.
“Don’t come back again!” Rory yelled after them, a threat in his voice. The sun shimmered on his blond hair, and after only one rainy week at the beach, he was already tan. His voice was deeper than it had been a year before. Yelling at the policemen, Rory suddenly seemed more like a man than a boy, and Daria was both enticed and humiliated, seeing at once how ridiculous she was for hoping he might still want to hang out with her this summer.
“Rory!” Mrs. Taylor opened the screen door of Poll-Rory and called to her son.
Rory did not turn around. He stared after the policemen as they walked down the street, and even from across the cul-de-sac, Daria thought she could see the daggers in his eyes.
Mrs. Taylor came out of the cottage and into the sandy yard, where she spoke with him softly, putting her arm around his shoulders. Finally he turned and walked with her back into the cottage.
“Rory is looking hot this summer,” Ellen said, fanning herself with her hand.
“He’s only fourteen,” Chloe scoffed. “Though I guess that’s about right for you.”
Daria’s mother came out onto the porch. She had on a dress, unusual attire for Kill Devil Hills. “We’ll go out for pizza tonight,” she said, stroking her hand over Daria’s hair. The touch felt nearly alien. It had been a while since her mother had touched her that way. “For your birthday, Daria,” she added. “And then to the miniature-golf course. Would you like that?”
“Yes,” Daria said, pleased that her mother had not forgotten her birthday after all. Chloe and Ellen looked at Sue Cato as if she’d grown two heads.
“And right now—” Daria’s mother smoothed her hands over the skirt of her dress “—I’m going to the hospital in Elizabeth City to visit the baby.”
“Why?” Chloe asked. “It’s not yours.”
“That’s true, but right now she doesn’t have anyone,” Sue said. “No one to hold her and rock her. So that’s what I’m going to do.”
“Can I go, Mom?” Daria stood up, the dragonfly forgotten. “I found her.”
Her mother tilted her head, as if considering. “Sure,” she said. “I think you should.”
The nurse instructed them to wash their hands with a special soap and put on blue gowns before they could walk into the nursery where the baby was lying in a plastic bassinet. They were not allowed to pick her up, however. They were just allowed to stare. And stare they did. Daria barely recognized the tiny infant lying in front of her. The baby was so small. Had she really been that small when Daria found her on the beach? Her skin was very pale, almost translucent, and her hair was little more than a dusting of fine blond glitter on the top of her head. She was attached to several monitors by long wires taped to her chest.
Daria was surprised to feel tears fill her eyes as she looked at the baby. This baby was alive because of her. She moved, she breathed, because of her. It seemed unbelievable.
Daria’s mother took her hand, and Daria held on tightly, something she had not done in years. She glanced up at her mother’s face to see tears streaming slowly and silently down her cheeks, and Daria knew that for each of them, this baby was more than a small bundle of flesh and bone. This baby was already changing their lives.
“We’re going to stop at St. Esther’s,” her mother said once they were back in the car and driving across Currituck Sound toward Kill Devil Hills.
“To light a candle,” Daria said with conviction, proud she was able to read her mother’s mind.
“Yes,” her mother said. “But also, we’re going to pay a visit to Father Macy.”
“Why?”
“Because.” Daria’s mother stared at the road and clutched the steering wheel firmly in her hands. “Because if the mother doesn’t come forward, I believe that baby should be ours.” She turned to face Daria. “Don’t you? After all, she’s alive because of you, my sweet Daria.”
It had not occurred to her that they might be able to keep the baby, but instantly, Daria could imagine no other outcome. A little sister! She was going to do something a bit evil when she lit her candle: She was going to pray that the identity of the person who left the baby on the beach was never discovered.
St. Esther’s was nothing like the church Daria’s family attended during the rest of the year in Norfolk, Virginia. The church in Norfolk was dark and cold and musty-smelling, and always made her shiver with a strange mixture of fear and awe. But St. Esther’s stood near the sound in Nag’s Head, a large wooden rectangular building that felt clean and new inside. It was open and airy, with huge windows near the high ceiling and pews made from light-colored wood. There was stained glass in some of the windows, a kaleidoscope of translucent glass cut into abstract shapes that sent beams of bright colored light through the air of the church.
St. Esther’s was empty that afternoon, and Daria thought their footsteps were entirely too loud as she and her mother walked across the hardwood floor to the tiers of candles in the corner. Daria’s mother took a long wooden taper from the holder, slipped it into the flame of one of the candles and used the lit taper to light a candle of her own. She handed the taper to Daria.
It did not seem quite as magical and mysterious to light a candle in here as it would have in their dark, cavelike church in Norfolk, but nevertheless Daria lit a candle in the bottom tier and knelt next to her mother to say a prayer for the baby.
Dear God, let that little baby live and be healthy, she prayed. And let her be ours.
When they had finished praying, Daria and her mother walked out the side door of the church to the small attached building that housed the offices of the priests, as well as some classrooms where children attended day camp. They entered the building and began walking through the wide, cool hallway, its hardwood floor gleaming in the light from the skylights. Father Macy was just walking out of his office as they approached.
“Why Mrs. Cato. Daria,” he said with a smile. “What brings the two of you here?” He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, and his hair was the color of the sea oats on the Kill Devil Hills beach. He was a good match for St. Esther’s, as approachable and cheerful as the church itself.
Daria felt her mother put an arm around her
shoulders. “Go ahead and tell him, honey,” she said.
“I found a baby on the beach,” Daria said.
Father Macy’s brown eyes grew wide. “A baby?” he repeated.
“Yes,” her mother said. “Daria had the courage to pick her up and bring her home to us, even though she was a newborn with the, uh…afterbirth still attached.” She squeezed Daria’s shoulder. “We would like to talk with you about her, if you have a minute.”
“Of course,” Father Macy said. He stepped back into his office. “Come right in.”
They followed him into the small room. A massive desk stood in front of the one large window. It looked out toward the sound, and in the distance, the grand, golden dunes at Nag’s Head. The priest sat casually on the edge of his desk, and Daria and her mother sat in two armchairs on the opposite side of the room. Father Macy’s easygoing demeanor irritated her father, Daria knew. “He’s too informal,” he had said, and she doubted that the Norfolk priests ever sat on the edge of their desks. But Father Macy was very young; it was his third year being a priest and his second year at St. Esther’s. Even Daria thought he was handsome, with those large, brown eyes and long eyelashes. He had an easy laugh that made her feel relaxed around him.
“So tell me more about this baby you found, Daria,” he said.
“I was on the beach very early this morning to watch the sunrise and to beach-comb,” Daria said. “And I kicked over a horseshoe-crab shell, and underneath was the baby.” She didn’t want to tell him about the blood.
“And obviously, it had been born quite recently?” He looked at Daria’s mother for confirmation, and she nodded.
“Someone had simply given birth to her right there or very nearby, and left her to die,” Daria’s mother said.
“My, my.” Father Macy looked gravely concerned. “Is the baby…alive?”
“Yes, by the grace of God, she is,” she said. “She’s at the hospital in Elizabeth City. We just visited her and she’s doing well, and in a few days she should be able to go home. But she has no home, and that’s why I’m here.” Daria’s mother looked uncomfortable for the first time since they’d entered the priest’s office. She looked into her lap and played with the clasp of her purse, and Daria wished she would just get to the point.
“My husband and I would like to adopt her,” she said finally. “That is, if no one claims her. And I was wondering if you could help with that. If you could intercede on our behalf.”
Father Macy looked thoughtful. “Do you realize what a miracle this is?” he asked. “That Daria found this baby in time to save her? That the baby was found by someone who belongs to a family as devout, as holy and blessed as the Cato family?”
For the second time that afternoon, Daria felt close to tears.
“Yes,” her mother said softly. “Yes, we’re very aware that the Lord selected us.”
“I’ll be in touch with the hospital,” Father Macy said, standing up. “And I’ll be in touch with the state adoption agency. I’ll do whatever I can to plead your case. I can think of no better home for that little one.”
One week later, the baby arrived at the Sea Shanty, and became the instant celebrity of the neighborhood. Everyone from the cul-de-sac stopped by to stare at the little blond-haired infant and to shake their heads over her rude beginning in life. Daria’s mother named the infant Michelle, calling her Shelly for short. The irony of that name had seemed lost on everyone except Daria, who had delighted in how fitting a name it was. People often commented, though, on the other irony: that this tiny, blond, brown-eyed child was now part of the dark-haired, Greek Cato clan.
All that summer, Daria’s mother would sit on the porch, rocking the tiny baby in her arms and telling all who approached that Shelly was her gift from the sea.
“Daria?”
Daria started at the sound of Chloe’s voice. She sat up on the bed, freeing herself from the memories.
“Shelly’s back,” Chloe called from downstairs. “Come have some cake.”
“Coming!” Daria called, relieved that Shelly had returned safe and sound. She ran her fingers through her hair and headed downstairs to hug the young woman who was both her joy and her heartache, her blessing and her burden.
2
THE PLANE CAME TO A STANDSTILL AT THE GATE, AND RORY unfastened his seat belt and stood up to reach into the overhead bin. He pulled out the backpack and handed it to his son, who was still buckled into his seat and looked disinclined to leave the plane. Zack stared out the window, tapping out an imagined drumbeat on his knee. He was fifteen years old and annoyed at the prospect of spending the entire summer with his father on the East Coast. It had been a painful flight, at least for Rory, who had vainly tried every ploy he could think of to get his son to talk to him.
“Come on,” Rory said. “Let’s go find our rental car and get on the road.”
With a loud sigh, Zack unbuckled his seat belt and followed Rory down the aisle.
“Welcome to Norfolk, Mr. Taylor,” the flight attendant said as Rory passed her to leave the plane. She’d chatted with him off and on during the flight from Los Angeles, telling him how True Life Stories was her favorite show on TV. He doubted that was true, but as host and producer of the popular show, he was accustomed to the adulation. Women tended to know him from television, men from his days on the football field. Either way, he attracted attention, and even that seemed to irritate Zack. “We can never go anywhere without people staring at us,” he’d said when the third or fourth passenger on the plane had approached Rory for an autograph.
“Welcome to Nor-fuck,” Zack said now, under his breath, and Rory pretended not to hear him.
They checked in at the car-rental counter, and there was a subdued flurry of excitement between the two female clerks as they recognized their customer.
“You reserved a Toyota FJ Cruiser,” one of the clerks said as she checked his reservation.
“You did?” Zack sounded incredulous.
“Sure,” Rory said. He’d specifically requested a Cruiser. It would give them room for their considerable luggage, plus, he knew a Cruiser would please Zack. If Zack was pleased, though, the boy was determined not to show it.
The Cruiser was cobalt blue and looked new. Rory spread his map over the steering wheel and studied the route they would take to the Outer Banks. “It’s an easy drive,” he told his son, who said nothing in reply.
It was only an hour and a half from Norfolk to Kill Devil Hills, and Zack was no easier to talk with in the car than he had been on the plane. Rory gave up after a while, deciding to simply enjoy the scenery on this much-changed road, with its antique stores and vegetable stands. Zack pressed the scan button on the car radio, hunting for a station that was not too “pitiful.”
Rory had his hopes pinned on this summer. He’d been divorced from Glorianne, Zack’s mother, for nearly two years, and he and Glorianne had joint custody of Zack. Technically, at least. Rory was supposed to have Zack for weekends, holidays and summers. But several months ago, Glorianne had married the movie producer with whom she’d been having an affair during her marriage to Rory, and she now had a house in Beverly Hills, along with every other material possession she could desire. Rory found himself unable to compete with the glitzy, seductive new life-style Zack was enjoying in Glorianne’s home. Zack was at that age where possessions and grandeur mattered. He was slipping away from his father, and Rory hoped that this summer would bring him back. Rory knew that behind his son’s offensive, defensive adolescent facade, Zack was still hurting from the divorce and angry with both his parents for letting it happen. Intellectually, Rory understood all that. He just didn’t know what to do about it.
“So,” Zack asked dryly as he poked at the scan button, “are we there yet?”
“Another twenty minutes, I’d guess,” Rory said. “This road we’re on used to be narrow and sleepy, with just a few vegetable stands along it.”
“It still looks narrow and sleepy to me,” Zack said.
He was a true Southern California kid. Anything tamer than the San Diego Freeway was going to look sleepy to him.
Rory didn’t bother to argue. He knew Zack hated hearing about the way “things used to be,” and he supposed he hadn’t cared for that sort of conversation, either, when he was Zack’s age.
“I miss L.A. already,” Zack said, gazing out the car window.
“Well, we haven’t reached the Outer Banks yet.”
“I still don’t get why we had to come here,” Zack said.
Rory thought he’d explained his reasons for spending the summer in Kill Devil Hills to his son, but either Zack hadn’t heard them or they hadn’t been persuasive enough for him to remember.
“Well, you know I spent my summers here when I was a kid,” he said.
“Right. And it’s got some kind of nostalgic pull on you or something.”
“That’s true.” Rory tried not to sound defensive. “It was a very special place for me. I still own my family’s old cottage there, and I haven’t seen it since I was seventeen.”
“You mean the cottage has just been standing there, empty all this time? Won’t it be rotted out by now?”
“I sure hope not,” Rory said. “I’ve had a real estate agency looking after it. They’ve rented it to people visiting the beach, and supposedly they’ve taken care of the upkeep, as well. I guess we’ll see about that soon.” That was something he was worried about.
“You could have come back for, like, a week or even just a couple of days to check on the cottage,” Zack said. “Instead we have to stay here the whole stupid summer.”
“I have a good reason for wanting to stay the summer,” Rory said, glancing at his son. This part of his plan he had not told him. “There’s an old incident I want to research here for True Life Stories. Want to hear what it is?”
Zack shrugged.
“When I was fourteen, a baby was found on the beach close to my cottage. She was a newborn. The little girl across the street found her early in the morning and brought her back to her cottage. The police got involved, of course, but they were never able to figure out who had left the baby there. A few months ago, I received a letter from the baby, who’s grown up now, of course.”
Summer's Child Page 3
