Tunnel of Love

by Hilma Wolitzer

  Linda was too stunned and moved to speak. Cynthia patted her shoulder and said that she and Lupe would keep the baby until Linda was well, and that they would take her in, too, when she was discharged from the hospital. “Let’s just call it workman’s compensation,” she added, and then stopped Linda’s flow of feeble protests—“Oh, but I couldn’t … I hardly worked …It’s too much”—with that little wave of her hand, which seemed just as capable of stopping a speeding train.

  “The only problem,” Cynthia said, “is that stepdaughter of yours. She pretended to go to a friend’s house last night—I dropped her off myself. But when I went back early this morning, there was only an old woman there, too terrified to even undo the chain on her door. She claimed she’d never heard of Robin or her friend.”

  “But did you find her?” Linda asked, worriedly. “Is she okay?”

  “Oh, she’s fine,” Cynthia said. “She’s down in the gift shop now. I sent her there to get you some magazines. But it took Hester over an hour to track those people—the Thompsons?—down, and then it turned out Robin hadn’t been at their house for weeks. I finally found her at your place, fast asleep with all her clothes on and the stereo going full blast. She’s impossible, Linda. You really have to put your foot down.” But that was something she couldn’t do at the moment, either literally or figuratively.

  That afternoon, Jewelle Thompson called Linda to express her sympathy about the accident, and to offer to take Robin in for a while, if she had no place else to go. The invitation was gracious. “I’m sure she won’t be any bother,” Mrs. Thompson said, “and they’ll all be in school again in a couple of weeks, anyway. Thank heavens for this year-round schedule, right?” It still seemed like an awful imposition to Linda, but what choice did she have? Vicki was in Akron taking care of her mother, Rosalia had been laid off at the factory and she’d moved in with her married son, and Robin swore she’d hitchhike back to Newark before she’d stay with Cynthia. She didn’t seem all that happy about going to the Thompsons’, either—the girls had obviously had some sort of tiff—but she, too, had no real choice in the matter.

  Ten days later, Linda was brought by private ambulance to Cynthia’s house and settled into a rented hospital bed in the guest suite on the main level. Mitchell, the houseman, had filled the place with flowers from the gardens, and Lupe carried in a welcoming tray of tea and cake. Linda knew how lucky she was to be in such beautiful and comfortable surroundings, with people to care for her and the baby but she was heavyhearted about her scattered little family. Phoebe was just out of reach, upstairs, in the dressing room off Cynthia’s bedroom, and Robin was at the Thompsons’, miles away.

  Linda’s own physical limitations only added to her feelings of frustration and loss. She couldn’t use crutches because of her broken arm, and had to hobble around leaning on a clumsy walker instead. She needed assistance with just about everything—dressing, bathing, getting to the bathroom. Someone else even had to cut up her food.

  There was an intercom she could keep near her to summon Lupe or her sister, Maria, who came to help out now several hours a day. Sometimes Linda picked up random sounds over the speaker from other parts of the house: Phoebe babbling or crying in her crib, Lupe and Maria chatting in Spanish as they worked together in the kitchen, or Cynthia talking on the telephone. She always seemed to be arguing with somebody about something—taping schedules, budgets, idiot writers, money-grubbing agents, no-talent actors. “I don’t care how we kill that slut off,” Linda heard her say one evening, “as long as we do it before she’s up for renegotiation.” Linda knew she was referring to a character on one of her shows, but it still gave her the chills.

  The baby had been weaned to a formula while Linda was in the hospital; it couldn’t be helped. First, there was all the pain medication she took that could be passed on through her breast milk. And then, after the medication was stopped, it was unreasonable to expect anyone to bring Phoebe to the hospital several times a day to be nursed. The few times she was brought in, she fussed and fretted in Linda’s good arm, which soon ached from holding her, and she firmly rejected the breast. Her pursy little mouth and squinched-up eyes reminded Linda of Robin refusing to try something new and exotic in a Chinese restaurant.

  Cynthia was right—the breast pump eased Linda’s discomfort, if not her sadness, and her milk dried up pretty quickly after that. The baby thrived on the formula, though; she looked positively enormous now, and so much more mature. In less than two weeks, she had cut another tooth, learned to sit up without support, and added some wonderful new jungle cries to her vocabulary. She seemed shy with Linda, who felt strangely shy herself, the way she did when they were first introduced in the delivery room. She wished Phoebe’s crib could be kept downstairs, next to her own bed, so they could get reacquainted faster, but that was impractical. Lupe, who attended Phoebe when she woke at night, slept upstairs, and all the other baby equipment was up there, too. It was hard to ask for favors under the circumstances, and when Linda meekly suggested that Phoebe be kept near her during the day, in her playpen or stroller, Cynthia reminded her that the more she rested, the sooner she’d heal. “Doctor’s orders!” she sang out in cheerful reproach.

  Nathan had been against Linda’s going to Cynthia’s, but he couldn’t come up with any real reasons for his objection, or any practical alternatives. He lived in a small one-bedroom apartment, and neither of them could afford to pay someone to stay with Linda and the baby while he was at work. The day before she was released from the hospital to Cynthia’s, he asked, “Why is she doing all this for you? You hardly even know her.”

  The question had occurred to Linda, too, of course, but she didn’t feel inclined to study it. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “She’s just a very good person, I guess.”

  “Yeah,” Nathan said, “a regular little Mother Teresa.”

  “Nathan, she does lots of good things,” Linda said. “I mean, she’s on all these Hollywood committees that raise money to fight drugs and cancer and AIDS.”

  “This is different, Linda.”

  “Not just that,” Linda went on. “She’s sort of adopted these two Guatemalan orphans through Save the Children—a little brother and sister? She supports them and they write her letters every month. Cynthia has their picture on her desk at home. They’re really adorable.”

  “Big deal,” Nathan said.

  “You sound just like Robin,” Linda scolded, but she didn’t have the strength to continue arguing with him. And when Nathan left abruptly later, on Cynthia’s arrival, and she said, “You can’t really be serious about him,” Linda didn’t exactly rally to his defense. Now, propped on the leather recliner in the guest suite at Cynthia’s, she watched television or tried to read rather than deal with the little personal wars swirling around her. She watched both of the soap operas Cynthia produced—Destiny’s Children and Love in the Afternoon (the one Robin was so crazy about)—surprised by how readily she became involved in their elaborate and unlikely plot lines. Would Lady Finley succumb to her evil brother-in-law’s seduction? Would his plan to pour fatal toxins into the cattle feed at Rancho Rayo succeed? Linda lived mostly for her brief visits with Phoebe, though, and for her intermittent phone contact with Robin, whose voice coming through the wires seemed to be leached of its usual volume and bravado.

  It had been three and a half months since the riots and two weeks since the accident. Robin had never been able to memorize historical dates or details for school, but those two events were clearly fixed in her head. One marked the beginning of the end of her friendship with Lucy, and the other the end of her life as she knew it.

  Being forced to stay at Lucy’s house when they weren’t talking to each other really sucked. For a minute or two, Robin had considered refusing to go there, but winding up in a children’s shelter or some creepy foster home would be even worse; she had watched enough television in her life to know that much. The only way to save face was to show that she didn’t want to be
at Lucy’s any more than Lucy wanted her there. This was mostly accomplished with a permanently pained expression, exaggerated sighs, and frequent complaints to Carmel, who tried her best to be neutral, or at least fair. Sharing a bedroom with Lucy and Carmel didn’t help matters, especially since it was so small that their twin beds and Robin’s folding cot had to be jammed together. It was a good thing Carmel was in the middle, so they both had somebody to talk to.

  Mr. and Mrs. Thompson didn’t seem to notice that the girls were having problems. Robin supposed it was because they had so many problems of their own. The silent scene she’d witnessed through their kitchen window the night of the accident was still being played out, one way or another, every day. Mr. Thompson moped around the house most of the time. He’d been unable to find a job, and the insurance company was giving him a hard time about collecting on the fire at the photo shop. It had something to do with combustible chemicals and an act of God or something. Mrs. Thompson was working as a home attendant for a paralyzed old lady in Brentwood; that was why she wore that white uniform. According to Carmel, who fed Robin most of her information, Cynthia was giving the family money for Robin’s keep, which made her feel worse than ever. Now she was a charity case, just like Linda, except that Linda was living in luxury, probably eating jumbo shrimp and fried chicken for breakfast every day, while Robin was a prisoner of Lucy’s unspoken anger in this crowded little house. She remembered idly wondering where everyone slept here, and how they tolerated being so close all the time. Now, to her regret, she was finding out firsthand. Mrs. Pickett—Ga—and Aunt Ez, who didn’t speak to anyone, it seemed (Robin wondered if she could), slept together in the living room on a convertible sofa. Garvey spent his nights in the alcove off the living room, on a BarcaLounger, with the head and foot lowered as far as they would go. Mr. and Mrs. Thompson shared the other bedroom. There was just one bathroom in the house, and there was often a long wait to get into it. Standing in the hallway, jumping from foot to foot because she had to go so badly, Robin thought of how she used to hammer on the bathroom door at home while Linda sang in the shower, and how Linda did the same thing when Robin was in there, toking, or just daydreaming on the toilet or in the tub. That setup seemed like heaven compared to this, and Cynthia’s house, with those king-size bathrooms, didn’t bear thinking about. The worst thing of all, though, was not seeing Phoebe every day, and the feeling Robin had that they were drifting further and further apart, that Phoebe would gradually forget her without daily contact between them.

  Robin had caught a bad cold a couple of days after the accident, and Cynthia took one look at her and said she couldn’t see the baby until she was better. “I’m better,” Robin announced on the phone the following day, but then she had a major coughing jag, and Cynthia said, “Why don’t we wait until that cough is completely gone.”

  By then, Linda was out of the hospital, and Nathan picked Robin up one afternoon and drove her to Cynthia’s house. “This place gives me the creeps,” she confided to Nathan as they pulled into the driveway, and he said, “Welcome to the club.” Robin stepped cautiously from the car, but at least the dogs were nowhere in sight, and their barking sounded distant. Linda had promised they’d be locked in their outdoor kennel or in the laundry room whenever Robin visited.

  She and Nathan went in to see Linda first, with Cynthia trailing after them, even though Robin was itching to get to Phoebe. Linda was on this big leather chair with her leg in its plaster cast raised. “Oh, honey,” she said, when she saw Robin, and she looked as if she was going to start bawling. She held out her good arm until Robin walked over and submitted to an awkward hug. “Where’s Feeb?” Robin asked as soon as she could free herself.

  “Upstairs,” Linda said, and Robin headed for the staircase.

  Cynthia blocked her way. “Just a moment, young lady,” she said. “You’d better wash your hands first.”

  “Why?” Robin demanded. “She’s my sister—we have the same germs.”

  “That’s true, I’ve seen them,” Nathan said.

  “Never mind,” Cynthia told Robin, completely ignoring Nathan. “There’s a bathroom right in there.” She pointed to a door, and Linda, that kiss-up, said, “It can’t hurt, can it?”

  Robin went into the bathroom and shut the door. Her hands were perfectly clean, so she just let the water run for a couple of seconds, splashed a little of it on the fresh cake of soap in the soap dish, smeared the wet soap on a towel, and came out again, eager to get upstairs. But Lupe walked into Linda’s room just then, carrying Phoebe. “Hey!” Robin said in greeting, and the baby crowed something back at her and held out her arms.

  “Look, she remembers you!” Linda cried.

  “Why shouldn’t she?” Robin snapped. “I look the same.” The baby seemed different, though, heavier for one thing, and older, more like an actual person. She was wearing a beautiful new outfit. “Where’s the stroller?” Robin asked. “I want to take her outside.”

  “Oh, stay here, please,” Linda said. “I’d like us all to be together today.”

  You would, Robin thought, but she hung around for a while. Then, when Cynthia went into the bathroom, and Nathan and Linda started making cow eyes at each other, Robin slipped away with the baby into the kitchen. Even there they couldn’t have any real privacy. Lupe and another woman who looked a lot like her were always nearby, watching, and getting all worked up in Spanish when Robin roughhoused with Phoebe, who obviously loved it. Robin did get to give her a bottle, though, and for that little while it felt as if they were alone. Phoebe alternately patted the bottle and Robin’s dangling hair, and they gazed steadily into one another’s eyes, until Phoebe’s fluttered and closed, and there was nothing but a lace of bubbles left in the bottle.

  “Sleepytime, nenita,” Lupe announced, taking the droopy baby and going toward the stairs. Robin began to follow her, but Cynthia came by then and said, “Linda wants to see you now, Robin.”

  “You and I haven’t even had a chance to talk yet,” Linda said, as if that was something they’d done a lot of in the past. She asked an endless string of questions about Lucy and Carmel and how Robin was getting along at their house.

  “Fine. Good. Okay,” Robin answered at regular intervals. She wanted to go upstairs and see Phoebe again, to watch her sleep, the way she used to at home. Linda had her boyfriend and her bosom buddy there; what did she need Robin for? “I’m just going to check on Feeble,” she said.

  “That’s not such a good idea,” Cynthia told her. “She’s become a very light sleeper, and you might disturb her.”

  “I won’t,” Robin said. “I’ll just look at her for a minute.”

  “I don’t think so,” Cynthia said.

  Robin turned to Nathan for support, and he looked at Linda as if to say, “Okay, now the ball’s in your court.” Linda’s eyes were sympathetic, but she only sighed and said, “Cynthia’s right, Robin. Just let her sleep now. You’ll come back to see her again real soon.”

  Nathan glanced at his watch. “We have to get going, anyway, Robin,” he said. “I’ve got a couple of early-evening classes.”

  “Can I get a drink of water first?” she asked.

  “Sure,” Nathan said, and Cynthia added, “There’s spring water in the fridge and some Coke and 7-Up in the pantry. Ask Lupe or Maria if you can’t find what you want.”

  Robin left the room, but instead of making a right turn in the direction of the kitchen, where she could see the two Mexican women busy doing something at the counter, she hurried to the stairs. She took them two and three at a time, and reached the top in only a matter of seconds. She was out of breath and excited; this was going to be a cinch. She was tiptoeing toward Cynthia’s bedroom—Linda had mentioned that Phoebe slept in the room right off it—when a door down the hall opened and a woman stepped out. Robin gasped, and the woman said, softly, “Hi. Sorry if I scared you. You’re Robin, aren’t you? I’m Hester Foley, Cynthia’s secretary.” She shook Robin’s hand, which was all swea
ty by then, and went into the big white bathroom and closed the door.

  The double doors to Cynthia’s room were wide open this time, and Robin darted between them, pulling them almost all the way shut behind her. She went right to the dressing room and skidded to a halt at the threshold, staring inside in shock and bewilderment. It was completely changed! The walls that were a pale yellow the day of the brunch had Mother Goose paper on them now, and so did the ceiling. Little Bo-peep chased her lost sheep around and around the room. The mirrored dressing table, that poufy chair, and the big wall unit were gone. In their place were a crib, a chest of drawers topped by a changing table, a rocking chair, and open shelves filled with stuffed animals. The fancy white furniture all matched, and the crib was crowned by a ruffled canopy the same peachy color as Cynthia’s bedroom. The world probably looked pretty rosy to Phoebe when she lay there, awake. Long ago, when Robin still had those stupid fantasies about living with her mother, this was the kind of room she’d imagined she would have. But how had Cynthia managed to decorate it so quickly? And why did she bother, if Phoebe was only going to be here for a few weeks? Linda had said that Cynthia was renting some basic baby stuff, that it was easier and cheaper than moving Phoebe’s own things from the apartment. But everything here looked brand-new and expensive. And could you rent wallpaper?

  Robin crept up to the crib. The baby lay sprawled on her back with her hands curled and her chest pumping away. She seemed like a tiny captive behind the bars. Robin’s own breath sounded harsh and raw in the stillness, and she tried to quiet it, but Phoebe wasn’t a light sleeper, the way Cynthia said. She didn’t stir at all while Robin leaned over the railing and watched her, or when she gently touched one closed fist and whispered, “See you, punk.”

  Robin opened the double doors a few inches and looked both ways down the hall. There was no one in sight, and all the other doors were closed now. That woman, Hester, must have gone back wherever she’d come from. Robin went down the stairs as swiftly and silently as she had climbed them. She ran into the kitchen, past the two women still at work at the counter, turned on the faucet in the sink, and poured herself a tall glass of water. She was gulping it down when Cynthia came into the kitchen and said, “That’s quite a thirst you had, Robin.” Robin refused to take the bait. She wiped water from her lips and dripping chin and tried to stare Cynthia down. But Cynthia only smiled and said, “You’d better hurry up now—Nathan’s waiting for you.”