by Hazel Yeats
“But I—”
“No, I’m not done. This is not hard to solve, you know? Just sit down like two grown-ups and talk about this. Tell Jude that she really can count on you, and ask her, in turn, to keep the lines of communication open at all times and to never shut you out. You’ll fall into the same trap a couple of times, fix it, and then, bam—you ride off into the sunset together.”
“I—”
“This is simply your response to past…boo-boos, for lack of a better word. Negative experiences cause behavioral patterns that are meant to protect you, but that end up holding you back and that ultimately prevent you from reaching your potential.” She patted Cara on the knee. “Classic case.”
“Are you done?” Cara scoffed. “Exactly how is it that every single person I know seems to have gotten a degree in psychology overnight? And for the record, I am not pigheaded.” She took a deep breath. She was feeling uncomfortable talking about this. She was becoming tired of the opinions and analyses people kept shoving in her face, but it was also a relief to share her grief with someone who seemed to understand it and who showed some compassion.
“The thing is,” she said, “I did call her. I left a thousand messages on her machine. I texted her. I e-mailed her. I sent her postcards. There was no response.”
“Oh, honey,” Myra said. She cocked her head in that way that conveys pity. “I had no idea. Why don’t you tell me these things? You’re obviously suffering. Let me suffer with you. Let’s find a way for you to get her back.”
“I’m afraid that ship has sailed.” Cara shook her head. “At first, when she tried to get in touch with me, I ignored her. I actually thought I was doing us both a favor. But, as the weeks went by, I realized how bizarrely I had overreacted. You were right, it seemed as though she shut me out, but when I think about it now, I realize that maybe I should have simply given her a little time and space.” She hung her head. “I’m afraid I’ve hurt her deeply. I wanted to show her how devoted I was, but what I really did was to show her that I can’t be trusted. Anyway, once I realized what a horrible mistake I’d made, I tried to get in touch with her, hoping to talk and reconcile. But it was too late. Jude had chosen to ignore me. There’s no way she’ll talk to me. And who can blame her?”
“Jesus,” Myra said. “You know where she lives, right? Why not just go down there and confront her?”
Cara shook her head. “Because it’s obvious that she doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore. And I need to respect that. I don’t want her to think I’m stalking her. It’ll only make things worse, especially given her history with Laurie. If I want to make her shut me out of her life forever, then showing up on her doorstep unannounced is exactly what I should do. ”
Myra shook her head. “What a mess.”
“I have tried to move on,” Cara said, “to learn from it, but everything seems so glum now. It feels like every day I wake up, it’s Monday morning. And it’s always raining.”
Myra leaned in and hugged her, careful not to crush the baby. “Poor thing,” she said.
They were silent, as Ede made her presence known by making a gentle razzing sound, spitting out the pacifier in the process. Myra picked it up and put it back into her daughter’s mouth.
“So, your new…ways,” said Myra, “if that’s the word—the teaching, the way you’re supporting Inge, your new interest in our kids, and that you’re not seeing anybody, is that…you know, for her benefit? Is it a way to get her back? To show her what you’re really made of?”
Cara shook her head. “I haven’t morphed into a completely different person or anything. It’s just that I’ve been feeling that the old ways don’t seem to work for me anymore. So, I’m making some changes. And somehow…” she looked at the child in Myra’s arms, who was sucking on the pacifier which such force that it bobbed up and down in her mouth, “…I sort of fell in love with your daughter.”
Myra smiled at the child in her arms.
“But none of these things have anything to do with Jude.”
“Of course they do,” Myra said. “I always said she had a profound effect on you. She taught you what’s important in life.”
Cara shrugged. She didn’t have the energy to contradict her sister, no matter how wrong she was.
“She’s Jude Donovan, Cara,” Myra said, stroking her daughter’s chubby arm.
“Yes, and I’m Cara Jong. What’s your point?”
“Call me a romantic old fool, but I’ve always had such a good feeling about you two. And I still do, you know. I really think you shouldn’t give up so easily. There simply has to be a way to—”
“Forget it, okay?” Cara said. “There’s no way. Period.”
“So these are the baby monitors.” Myra pointed to two appliances sitting on the coffee table that looked like tiny robots. “You don’t have to run upstairs at the first whimper.” She sighed. “That’s what we did after we first had Jeroen, but now that we’re veterans, we ignore everything but actual deafening screams, smoke alarms going off, or the sound of breaking glass.”
“I get it,” Cara said.
“You don’t have to worry about Jeroen, by the way. He’s staying at Arend’s parents for the night.”
“Does that mean a pay cut for me?”
Myra laughed. “You can help yourself to anything in the fridge.” She raised her finger like a school teacher. “As long as it’s food or non-alcoholic beverages.”
“I’m a grown-up, remember? I have my own fridge, with my own food and my own beverages. Very few of which are non-alcoholic, thank God.”
Myra shook her head. “You will have iced tea, or diet Coke.”
“Are you trying to tell me that once you have kids you can never have a drink again?”
“We can,” Myra said. “But you can’t.” She sat down, having failed to manage putting on her shoes while standing on one foot.
“Now listen, Cara, you can’t have boys over.”
Cara nodded. “Understood. What about girls?”
“Uh…will you be good? Play board games? Do charades?”
“How about strip charades?”
“That’s a grey area, but no.”
“How about strip Twister? I hear good things about that.”
“Ugh,” said Myra. “You really should think twice about doing that.”
“I’m beginning to get why this job is paying so well,” Cara said under her breath. “It’s like having a tiny prison sentence.” She saw Myra eye her critically.
“I’m joking! You’re being ridiculously nervous about this. I’ve been babysitting since I was practically a baby myself.”
“And then you went on a fifteen-year sabbatical,” Myra said. She picked up her keys from the coffee table and hollered upstairs, “Arend! We’re late!” They heard him stumble around above their heads. “I swear that man needs more time to get ready for a date than I do. He’s every bit as dainty as his sister. If he doesn’t come down looking and smelling fucking gorgeous, I’m going to be really pissed.”
It took them another half hour to actually leave the house. It was strangely quiet after they left. Cara couldn’t recall being alone in Myra’s house ever before. She went upstairs to check on the twins and to read them the promised story. As she walked past the nursery, she lightly brushed the door with the back of her hand.
The twins began to holler the second she opened the door to their room. Cara put a finger to her lips. “Shush,” she said. “The baby’s asleep.”
“Shush,” the twins said. It didn’t sink in right away, but somewhere in the back of her mind, Cara registered that something about the pattern on the twins’ pajamas was very familiar. As soon as she came closer, she realized what it was. They were Bunny pajamas. She hadn’t known that such a thing existed. Bunny’s image was bouncing all over the place—small Bunny’s, large ones, upside down
ones, Bunny eating a carrot, riding a bicycle, playing in a sandbox. The pajama feet were actually two tiny white rabbits. It was adorable, but, Cara admitted to herself, confusingly painful at the same time. She shook it off—life was much simpler if you didn’t allow yourself to make a drama out of every little thing.
She couldn’t make out if Myra had dressed her niece and nephew in these particular pajamas on purpose, to send some kind of subtle message, or if it was simply a coincidence; but she came to the conclusion that it was probably the latter, because as she walked around the room, she stumbled upon other merchandise—a sippy cup, a bib, two pairs of fuzzy slippers.
Both kids were sitting up in bed, anything but drowsy, excited at the prospect of manipulating their rookie babysitter aunt into letting them stay up past their curfew.
“Bubby,” Sofie said, pointing to the bookshelf above the two cribs that ran the length of the entire wall. She shrugged her small shoulders. “Daddy shoe.”
Cara looked at the collection and selected the infamous Bunny Has a Boo-Boo. She positioned her chair exactly between the two cribs.
“Boo,” Tijmen said. He got up and swung his leg over the side of the crib, where it got stuck. It wouldn’t be long, Cara realized, before he’d figure out how to climb to his freedom.
“Let’s not do that, okay?” She picked him up and put him back. He didn’t start crying, as she suspected he might. He accepted his fate like a man.
Cara opened the book and began to read the story she knew so well.
After a couple of pages, the twins grew restless and started to make silly noises to draw each other’s attention. They were both standing in their cribs by now, their little hands on the railing, until Tijmen let go, landing flat on his padded behind. He began to collect his stuffed animals in his arms and started throwing them on the floor one by one.
“Do you guys know,” Cara said, turning over the book and pointing to Jude’s picture, “who this is?”
Both children stared at the picture, Tijmen with his mouth open.
“Mommy!” Sofie yelled.
“Nooo,” Cara said. “This is not Mommy. It’s Jude.”
“Doooo,” said Tijmen. He blew a big bubble.
“Jude is actually the writer of this book, did you know that?”
Both children stared at her dumbfounded.
“You didn’t, huh? Well, she is. She’s also the writer of all the other Bunny books.”
“Bubby,” Sofie said.
“Right, Bubby. She’s the writer of Bunny Finds a Friend, too.” Cara leaned over to the kids, who seemed to suddenly concentrate on her words. “You know what’s a funny coincidence? After Jude wrote Bunny Finds a Friend, she found a friend of her own. Is that an unusual story or what? They do say that life is stranger than fiction.”
“Yay,” Tijmen said, putting his arms in the air.
Cara followed his example. “Yay,” she said. “That was certainly worth a cheer. Because that friend, you see, was me.”
Sofie nodded.
“You’re probably wondering,” she said, looking at the little girl, “what happened?”
“No,” Sofie said. She shook her head.
“I’ll tell you anyway,” Cara said. “I fucked it up again. Just like I knew I would.”
“Fuck,” Tijmen said.
“Oops, strike that.” Cara stared at him, shocked. “I did not just say that, sweetie. Let’s not use the f-word here. Let’s just say I couldn’t make it work, okay?”
“Duck home,” Tijmen said.
“And now she’s gone.”
Sofie held up her hands, palms up, as if she meant to say, ‘what can you do.’
“And the truth is, I want her back more than anything. All I want is a chance to make up for what I did wrong, but I don’t know how to do that. She won’t even talk to me.”
“Bubby,” Tijmen said. “Bubby poo-poo.”
“Let’s focus here, okay?” Cara said. “There has to be a way to find her again, to at least sit down and talk. Don’t you think? She’s not just anybody, you see? She’s smart and funny and lovely. And gorgeous too!” She held Jude’s picture in front of Tijmen’s face again. “See? Isn’t she beautiful?”
Tijmen grabbed hold of the book and threw it on the floor. Cara bent over and picked it up. “So,” she said, “any ideas?”
Tijmen let out a scream. “Bubby poo-poo!” It was obvious that his patience was running out.
“Okay,” Cara said as she opened the book again. “you’re absolutely right. I guess we should get on with it. Thanks for listening, you guys. That really helped. So let’s see what we can do about Bunny’s boo-boo, if not mine.”
Sofie clapped her hands as Cara continued reading.
CHAPTER 12
Cara didn’t know what to think when she was summoned to be at Inge’s place on a Saturday at nine in the morning with an overnight bag. And she really didn’t know what to think when she walked in the door and saw her sisters and Alice standing at the far end of the living room, leaning against the mantle. They were all wearing jeans and hoodies. And boots. Even Alice. They looked like they had just robbed a bank and were arguing about how to divide the loot.
“If this is an intervention,” Cara said, eyeing them suspiciously, “I have no idea what for.” She took off her coat and hung it in the hall closet. “Honestly. I’m an upstanding citizen. I have a respectable job. I keep a sensible diet. I’m celibate, for God’s sake—I’m as close to death as I could possibly be.”
“This is not an intervention,” Myra said, walking up to her. “It’s a surprise.”
“Really?”
“Uh-huh,” said Alice. “We’re going on a little road trip.”
“A road trip? Where?”
“That’s for us to know and for you to find out.”
And then they shrieked like seventeen-year-olds on spring break.
“I don’t get why we’re going on a road trip in a decrepit Volvo when one of us has a brand new Mercedes sitting idly in the driveway.” Cara nudged Alice, who eyed her wearily. They were stuffing their luggage in the trunk of Inge’s car, struggling to get it all in.
“We’re not snooty enough.” Inge rested her entire weight on her suitcase. Cara watched her as she locked eyes with Bart, who was observing them from behind the window of their kitchen. Inge blew him a kiss before she went back to cramming the luggage in the trunk. Cara smiled. It seemed that they were even closer now that the road to surrogacy had recently culminated in the transfer of two embryos—two embryos that Cara imagined floating in some no man’s land between life and death inside Myra’s body. Cara’s admiration for Myra was boundless now that she knew all she had been willing to go through to make Inge and Bart parents. And what she was willing to go through still. There were no guarantees, though. At this point, all they could do was wait.
“And besides,” Inge said, “I’m sure I’d spill tartar sauce on Alice’s velvet seat covers if we took the Mercedes. I’ll feel a lot more comfortable driving my old clunker. My seat covers are used to being soiled and thrown up on.”
“Ugh,” said Alice. “Please, tell me you’re joking. Please, tell me I’m not going to spend more than three hours sitting on some random person’s old puke.”
Inge shrugged. “Would you rather be sitting on fresh puke? Because that can be arranged, you know.”
“More than three hours?” asked Cara. “Where the hell are you taking me? I didn’t bring my passport—maybe we should swing by my place and get it?”
“No need,” Myra said. “The travel time includes rest stops. And it’s no secret. We’re driving all the way south to our beautiful province of Limburg.” She opened the car door and climbed onto the back seat, resting her enormous purse in her lap.
Cara sat down beside her. “Limburg, huh? As much as I love forests and streams
and hills…why?”
“Their traditional pies,” Myra said. “Sweet flan.”
“Really? We’re going all this way to eat pie? A whole weekend?”
“What can I say? I have a craving.”
Cara shook her head. “You don’t even like pie.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Myra closed the car door. “Let’s just go, okay? Before I change my mind.”
Alice sat down on the passenger seat, and Inge took her place behind the wheel.
“So where in Limburg are we going?’ Cara asked. She was suspicious—there was something mysterious about this trip, something they weren’t telling her.
“Maastricht,” Inge said. “And Kerkrade.”
“Why Maastricht and Kerkrade?”
“Because.” Inge looked at the printout of her route.
“Because what?”
“Because our hotel is in Maastricht and our thing is in Kerkrade.”
Cara didn’t know why, but her heart began to pound. “What thing is that? Are you having me committed?”
Inge shook her head. “There’s an abbey there. Very old and very beautiful. We thought we’d take a tour.” She looked up from her paper. “And no, we’re not having you committed. We’re going to have fun. Our hotel is situated near an idyllic, cobblestoned square with a fountain and old-fashioned street lamps and lots of bars and restaurants. Also, there’s an indoor ski center practically around the corner.”
