Karen is outraged and rightly so. She wants the son-of-a-bitch arrested. Although I don’t know why she phoned me to ask these questions. I guess it’s because I’m older and supposed to be wiser. And maybe she figures that I know about domestic crime because I work in a hospital. I told her that, to the best of my knowledge, a third party can’t file charges. I explained that whoever was abused had to be the one to do it.
It was fairly easy to decipher what went on, although she was careful not to break any confidences. Karen has rarely mentioned her brother-in-law and never by name. She calls him “the twit,” which appears to be a fairly accurate characterization. Reading between the lines, I listened as she explained that this son-of-a-bitch took a heavy hand to his wife. Just when it looked as if Karen had convinced the wife to file a report with the police, the twit sobered up and apologized. The wife has apparently forgiven him.
Karen is furious, not only with “the twit,” but with her sister. She’s having a difficult time accepting Victoria’s decision. Again and again she talked about the danger she felt the wife and her child were in and how the son-of-a-bitch couldn’t be trusted. I told her there was nothing more she could do without the wife’s cooperation.
She didn’t like hearing that any more than I liked telling her.
I will say one thing. For months now I’ve heard Karen complain about her sad relationship with her family. Even her word for the year has more to do with her family than with Karen herself—or so it seems to me.
At one breakfast meeting, she spoke of severing her relationship with her mother entirely. Each of us advised her not to do anything so rash, told her she’d regret it later. We all said family’s too important to throw away like that. Karen took our words to heart, and I think she’s glad she did. If ever her sister needed her love and support, it’s now. From what Karen’s said, the wife can’t go to her parents. Karen might well be the only person Victoria can turn to.
It was nearly two and Liz still hadn’t taken a lunch break. The way things were going, thirty minutes away from her office just wasn’t feasible. Her one solution was to run down to the cafeteria and grab a sandwich to eat at her desk.
“You leaving?” Donna DeGooyer, the hospital social worker, looked stricken as she raced into Liz’s office.
“What do you need?”
“Help and lots of it. I’ve got an adoptive couple coming to pick up a baby and an attorney who hasn’t got the paperwork finalized and a young mother who’s having second thoughts. The attorney and the birth mother are on their way to my office right now.”
“I was just going to get a sandwich. Do you want to come with me?”
Donna did a double-take as she looked at her watch. “It’s after two. Already? Go have lunch and I’ll catch you later.” Then she was gone as quickly as she’d arrived.
Taking her wallet with her, Liz headed for the basement where the hospital cafeteria was located. The food was cheap, and for institutional fare, she found it surprisingly good. The lunch crowd had thinned considerably and the room was nearly empty. She reached for a tray, sliding it along the steel rails as she studied the remaining choices.
This late in the afternoon the selections were narrowed down to only a few. As she picked up an egg salad sandwich and a small pastry, Sean Jamison stepped next to her and slid his tray alongside hers.
“Egg salad?” He sounded skeptical. “Hmm. And a danish. High fat, empty calories. I don’t recommend it.”
Ignoring him, Liz placed both items on her tray.
“You’re a stubborn woman, aren’t you?”
She didn’t so much as glance in his direction. “If you haven’t figured that out by now, you’re a slow learner.”
It’d been nearly a month since she’d last seen him. They’d parted on pleasant terms—sort of. He had said he’d wait for her to call him, and that wasn’t going to happen. She liked Sean, enjoyed his company, but she wasn’t interested in a casual affair, which was all he seemed to be seeking.
He helped himself to a sandwich—and a danish, Liz noted. What a hypocrite! She poured a cup of coffee and he did likewise.
“You eating here?” he asked as they moved toward the cashier.
Liz’s original intention was to take lunch back to her office, but now she hesitated. “I was thinking of it.”
“I was, too.”
She paid for her meal, then chose a seat close to the window.
Sean paid for his lunch and positioned himself at the table directly across from hers. Liz glared at him. “Aren’t you being a bit ridiculous?” she asked.
“Is that an invitation to join you?”
She sighed. “Don’t be silly. You can sit here if you want.”
He was out of his chair and at her table within seconds. She could tell by his cocky grin that he was pleased, as though her invitation—such as it was—had been a concession.
“It’s good to see you,” he said as he unwrapped the cellophane from his sandwich. “I’d hoped we’d get together before now. I don’t mind telling you, it’s been a long month. You’re trying my patience, Liz. We both know what we want, so let’s be mature about it.”
Liz reached for the salt and pepper shakers and peeled back the bread to dump liberal doses on the egg salad. “Don’t you ever give up?” she asked, not in the mood for verbal sparring.
“What?”
“You’re wasting your time. I’m not calling you.”
“Ah,” he said with a beleaguered sigh, “so this is all a matter of pride.”
“Come on,” she scoffed, “you know better than that. I came away from our dinner date feeling good—until you wanted to turn me into one of your sexual conquests.”
“Wrong. I happen to think you’re an attractive woman and I believe we could enjoy each other in a mutually satisfying arrangement. What’s so terrible about that?”
She was about to explain once again exactly what she objected to, but he cut her off.
“You’re sexually repressed, aren’t you?” he said. He seemed to be serious.
Laughing probably wasn’t the most tactful response to his assessment, but Liz couldn’t help herself. “You know what I’ve decided?” she asked, and then didn’t give him a chance to answer. “I like you. I’m not sure why, because when it comes to male-female relationships, you’re about as shallow as a man can get.”
“Insults now?”
“No, the truth, and apparently there aren’t enough people in this world brave enough to give it to you.”
“Should I be grateful you’re so willing to enlighten me?” He looked more entertained than insulted.
“Yes, but I doubt you will be. Frankly, I don’t know who you’ve been dating for the last ten years, but the Hugh Hefner image lost its appeal a long time ago.”
“Hugh Hefner?” he repeated as though that amused him. “Are you kidding?”
“I’m disappointed in you, Sean.” This, too, was the truth. Her sincerity must have reached him because his grin slowly faded. “You see me as nothing more than a challenge,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.
He pushed his unfinished sandwich aside. “Hey, it’s something we share because that’s exactly how you see me. The only thing you’re interested in is a ring on your finger. I went the marriage route once, remember, and all that got me was a whole lot of pain.”
“I’m not asking you to marry me. I’m simply stating that I won’t fall into bed with you without a committed relationship on both our parts.”
“Sex isn’t a four-letter word,” he sputtered.
“But it is,” she countered. “L-O-V-E.”
“Been there, done that, not interested in doing it again.”
Liz stared at him. She recalled that the only personal thing he’d told her was that he’d been married at one time. She hadn’t realized the significance of that earlier.
“Was the marriage that bad?” she asked.
His face hardened. “Leave my ex out of this.”
“All right.” Apparently he’d carried the burden of his failed marriage for the last ten years. Everything he said proved he’d never moved beyond the regrets and the pain.
“I don’t need any more lectures from you or anyone else.” He stood and emptied his tray, pastry, coffee and all, in the wastebasket on his way out of the room.
Liz knew it was unlikely she’d see him or hear from him again, unless it was work-related and unavoidable. Actually, that was for the best all around. They had nothing substantial in common, she decided, and a sadness settled over her.
She knew she had to relinquish the hopes she’d centered on Sean Jamison. Her natural tendency was to hang on, to keep hoping, but if she’d learned anything in the last six years, it was the danger that posed to her sanity and her heart. Sometimes you had to let people go—let your feelings for them go—in order to protect yourself.
She was back in her office when Donna returned, and from the relieved look on her face, Liz assumed that the adoption crisis had been resolved. Donna paused halfway inside the room. “You okay?”
“Of course I’m okay.” Liz was surprised her friend could read her this readily.
“I just saw Dr. Jamison, and he’s on another of his rampages. You two didn’t happen to cross paths, did you?”
Liz nodded. “You could say so,” she muttered. “We don’t see eye to eye on certain subjects.”
Donna sank down on the chair and crossed her legs. “I don’t get it. As a physician he’s brilliant and wonderful, and as a man he’s a major jerk. The way he treats women is deplorable.”
“I agree.” And she did.
“The entry of a child into any situation changes the whole situation.”
—Iris Murdoch
Chapter 20
JULIA MURCHISON
The Wool Station had been quiet all morning. Not an encouraging sign, Julia mused as she sat in her rocking chair and knitted a swatch to display the latest double-knit cotton yarn. She wanted this to sell, needed it to sell, seeing that she’d ordered it in fifteen different colors. The steel needles made a soft clicking that disrupted the silence. Her stomach had been queasy all morning, but she’d done her best to ignore it. Nor did she allow her mind to dwell on the battery of tests she’d recently undergone. The final results weren’t in yet, and Julia wasn’t sure she wanted to know. She’d had all the reality she could handle at the moment. If the baby did have Down’s Syndrome or spina bifida or whatever, she’d deal with it when necessary and not before.
Some days the denial tactic helped, and she could pretend everything was okay. On other days, that was impossible. Her stomach rebelled. The morning sickness wasn’t as bad as it had been when she first discovered she was pregnant. But it was bad enough.
A Mercedes pulled into the parking space in front of the store and Julia recognized Irene Waldmann. Great. Mrs. Waldmann wasn’t Julia’s favorite customer and she took every opportunity to remind Julia of her one small mathematical error. In fact, the older woman was often difficult, changing her mind frequently and making unreasonable demands—like expecting Julia to keep a particular wool in stock when it had been discontinued by the manufacturer. The root of the problem, in Julia’s opinion, was that Mrs. Waldmann didn’t really know what she wanted herself. Clearly wealthy, if her clothes and vehicle were any indication, she drifted from one project to another.
“Hello.” Julia greeted her with a smile.
Mrs Waldmann ignored the greeting and headed for the rack where Julia kept the pattern books.
“Is there anything I can help you find?” she asked.
“Not just yet.”
Finishing her row, Julia stood—and the room started to spin. She gripped the chair in an effort to steady herself. A moment later, her head cleared and then almost immediately her stomach heaved. The sensation was unmistakable.
“You’ll have to excuse me for a moment,” Julia said, rushing to the back of the store. She made it to the small rest room just in time. The little breakfast she’d managed to eat was soon gone.
Mrs. Waldmann’s eyes were wide when Julia reappeared. Until recently she’d kept the news of her pregnancy from her customers. But instances such as this needed explaining.
“You’ll have to forgive me,” she said, faltering slightly. “I’m—I’m pregnant.”
Mrs. Waldmann stared back at her in open curiosity. “Pregnant? At your age?”
“It looks that way.” How comforting to be reminded that she was past her prime. Her instinct had been to explain that this pregnancy wasn’t intentional, that she and her husband were as surprised as everyone else. But she held her ground, refusing to defend herself or her situation. It was private—no one’s business but theirs.
“Well,” the other woman said, spinning the pattern rack. “That settles that.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I was just wondering what I should knit next.” She twirled the rack until she found the infant section and reached for a pattern.
Julia was confused. “I’m sorry, did I miss something?”
“Apparently so,” the older woman said dryly. “I’ve decided to knit a baby blanket for this new child of yours.”
“For me?”
“Do you have a hearing problem?”
“N-no, I mean, b-but why…” Julia knew she was stuttering; she couldn’t help it.
“I imagine this is a case of the cobbler’s children without any shoes. I take it this pregnancy is unexpected?”
“Well, yes but—”
“Have you knit anything for your baby?”
“No, not yet, but—” She had every intention of doing so. The problem was finding the time between her family and her commitment to The Wool Station’s customers.
“Just as I thought,” Mrs. Waldmann said, with—could it be?—a hint of humor. “You can use a blanket, can’t you?”
“You’d do that for me?” Julia asked, taken aback by the generosity of the offer. Especially from a customer she’d often considered a burden.
“Boy or girl?” Mrs. Waldmann asked gruffly.
“We chose not to know,” Julia answered.
Mrs. Waldmann nodded approvingly. “Good for you. There are too few surprises left in this life.”
At the moment, Julia would happily live with fewer. The last four months hadn’t been easy. Adam and Zoe’s attitudes toward her pregnancy hadn’t improved. The only people who seemed happy about it were her husband and her mother. All right, her sister and Georgia, too. Georgia seemed to think the baby was destined to be “special.”
“What do you think of this?” Mrs. Waldmann handed her a complicated pattern.
“This is an heirloom piece,” Julia commented, wondering if the other woman realized the work involved in such a blanket.
“My thought exactly.”
“But—”
“Shall I do it in ecru or would you prefer a soft yellow?”
“Ah…”
“Don’t suggest that sickening lime color. I never could stand that.”
“The yellow sounds very nice.” Julia couldn’t quite hide her astonishment. Mrs. Waldmann—of all people—knitting her a baby blanket!
“Good, that’s what I would have chosen myself. There’s something so…warm about yellow, don’t you think? So uplifting.”
“Yes,” Julia agreed. Turning over the pattern, she read the amount of yarn required, then counted out the skeins, selecting the lemony yellow fingering weight.
Mrs. Waldmann concentrated on the pattern, her brow furrowed. Never having seen anything the other woman had completed, Julia worried that his project might be beyond her capabilities, but she dared not suggest it.
“You don’t need to do this,” she felt obliged to tell Mrs. Waldmann a second time.
“Didn’t anyone ever warn you not to look a gift horse in the mouth?” Mrs. Waldmann asked her briskly.
“Yes, but really this is too much.”
“Don’t you tell me what is a
nd isn’t too much. I want to do this and I will.”
“It’s so nice of you.”
“Oh, hardly. I know I’m not the easiest woman in the world to deal with. But you’ve always been patient with me and I appreciate it.”
“I appreciate the business,” Julia told her in turn, and it was true, especially on days like this. She needed to take in two hundred dollars a day just to meet her rent and utilities. The morning was half-gone and this was her first sale. Some days were like that.
Mrs. Waldmann wrote the check, tore it out and gave it to Julia. She hesitated as though she was about to say something, then evidently changed her mind. Julia handed her the bag.
“Thank you again,” she said.
Mrs. Waldmann nodded. “I’ll see you in a few weeks.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
At dinner that evening, Julia mentioned Mrs. Waldmann and what she’d done. It was a way of bringing the baby into the conversation in a casual manner; she thought this kind of comment might help the children adjust.
“Why would she do something like that?” Adam asked, sounding more annoyed than pleased.
“Some people like babies,” Zoe answered, in a tone that suggested she wasn’t one of them.
“What did you say her name was again?” Peter asked, frowning as he propped his elbows on the table, dangling his fork above his dinner plate.
“Irene Waldmann.”
“Waldmann, Waldmann,” he repeated thoughtfully. “The name rings a bell.”
Julia noticed that as soon as she mentioned the baby both Adam and Zoe had grown sullen and unpleasant. She’d hoped that in time they’d be more accepting, more generous of heart.
She glanced at her family. She hated to bring discord to the table, but she couldn’t ignore their attitude.
“I understand that this isn’t easy,” she said to her children. No further explanation was needed; both Adam and Zoe knew she was talking about the baby.
“How could you do this?” Zoe demanded, once again. “Nothing will ever be the same.”
Thursdays At Eight Page 14
