Day Three

by Patricia Spencer

  “Daniel?”

  He looked up, surprised to hear a woman’s voice. He’d been so engrossed in his thoughts, he hadn’t noticed someone was there. An older woman, in the shadows, seated on the bench of his deck table. He focused more closely, leapt the chasm of time and place.

  “Dr. J!”

  She must have been waiting a long time, sitting so still she hadn’t tripped the automatic light.

  “Oh, my Lord!” He leaned over her to give her an embrace.

  “Hello. Hello,” she said, circling his shoulders with one arm, holding him with genuine pleasure.

  “What are you doing in D.C.? How did you find me? Have you been waiting long? Here,” he said, picking through his keys. “Let me open up and get you inside.” He stopped in mid-motion, met her eyes, remembering. “Ah, Dr. J. I heard about Jasha. I’m so sorry. So sorry. He was a good man.”

  Tears pricked her eyes, overflowed.

  He leaned back down and hugged her again, murmuring condolences, understanding her need to cling to him for a few moments of shared remembrance. The last time they had been together, in her bomb-shelter of a home, Jasha had been there. “Please,” he said gently, when she released him. “Come on in. I’m so sorry you’ve been waiting.”

  “The garden,” she said, turning for a satchel he hadn’t noticed on the bench beside her, “so beautiful. It makes my heart tranquil.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” he said, unlocking the door. Swinging it open, he turned back to her. “Here, let me take that for you.”

  “Oh. I am fine.”

  He flicked the light switch inside and the floor lamp next to his armchair warmed the room with soft light.

  And then he realized she wasn’t holding a satchel. She had a baby in her arms.

  He blinked, taken aback, uncomprehending.

  She looked at him, perplexed by his reaction. “Elizabeth Ann,” she explained. “Brenna’s child—Squeak.”

  Squeak? He moved closer and took a better look at the baby. His jaw fell open. He stared, not believing. A wave of heat moved through him. His heart started thumping. He staggered, caught the back of a dining table chair. Squeak.

  Dr. J caught his elbow with one hand. “Sit down,” she said, steadying him. “Sit.”

  He pulled the chair out and dropped into it, shaking. He hid his face in his hand, his head slowly dropping forward. She’s alive. Squeak is alive! The burden of guilt lifted off his shoulders, a weight more crushing than he had realized. He felt elation, and tears tracking down his cheeks at the same time.

  “Brenna,” he said, his voice breaking. “She loved her so much.”

  Dr. J bent over him, grasping his hand.

  He felt Squeak, a small bundle pressed between them.

  “Yes,” Dr. J murmured. “Squeak is here, this beautiful child. Alive. Safe with us. And the other children, too, Daniel. They are rescued. Jasha—my Jasha—went back with his men and found them. Jasha told me: For all the deaths he and Brenna witnessed together, she kept her face steady. But for Squeak? Brenna wept like a mother. So he went into neighborhood once more. Found the babies, found Brenna, too, on the road, injured by land mine. He saved her, my son.”

  She released him, pulled a chair close beside his and rested the baby on her lap. “Look,” she said, pulling back the blanket.

  Snotty-nosed and wet-faced, he looked down on Squeak.

  “Would you like to hold her?”

  He nodded and pulled her tiny weight against his shoulder, cupped the back of her head in his palm and buried his cheek against her soft brown thatch of hair, the marvel of her being alive spreading through him.

  Dr. J patted his hand. “You must never say, Daniel, especially to Brenna’s father, that Elizabeth Ann was abandoned, that there was no trace of her parents.”

  He looked up at her, tipped his head in query.

  “There are papers. Proper adoption papers. Jasha saw to them himself. Mother and father both gave the child to Brenna. Roza was the intermediary. Brenna went to her that day to take custody, yes?”

  His mind raced, tracing back over the nursery footage, to what he had told Marga. That piece of the story was still unwritten. He’d torn up paper and pencil drafts. Nothing would contradict Squeak’s revised history. “Yes,” he said. This was one lie he could—and would—tell. “What about the other children? Do they have papers, too?”

  “Yes. They are with families, Kavsak expatriates in Ancona.”

  He closed his eyes and inhaled Brenna’s daughter’s scent. “She smells a lot better than she did in Kavsak.”

  Dr. J straightened, proud as any doting grandmother. “Yes,” she said. “Of course.”

  Squeak stirred, erupted with her trademark meow. He felt a pang, remembering how that one small sound had stopped Mr. Fierce’s head-banging. He moved her off his shoulder and cradled her in his arms, studying her pint-sized features, smiling. Her eyelids fluttered, and bright eyes looked up.

  “Hey, Pumpkin.”

  The baby’s hand pulled free.

  “Oh! Watch your—”

  Nose.

  He tipped his head closer, chuckling. “Grab all you want, sweetheart. I know a good nose doc in Ancona.”

  “I’m sorry for the shock,” Dr. J said. “I did not know Squeak would affect you so deeply.”

  He captured Squeak’s hand, straightened up to look at Dr. J. “There’s kind of a long story behind it.”

  Squeak squirmed in his arms, increasingly unsettled. “You think she’s hungry?”

  “You have bananas?”

  “Bananas, applesauce, sweet potatoes I can boil up—you tell me what she’ll eat, and I’ll fix it.” He handed Squeak back and went to the kitchen. “How about you? Could you use a little something too?” He knew the answer. She was so thin her dress was pulled in with safety pins.

  “Oh, don’t trouble—”

  “I haven’t eaten yet, either. I’ll throw dinner together for us as soon as I get something for the baby.” He plucked a ripe banana out of his fruit bowl, peeled it and broke off a piece. He found a small bowl, slid the drawer out for silverware, and thoroughly mashed the banana with a fork. He handed the bowl and a demi-tasse spoon to Dr. J, and turned to get out some cheese and crackers for her to munch on while dinner cooked.

  She tucked Squeak into the crook of her elbow, expertly scooped the fruit onto the spoon and brought it to the baby’s mouth. He watched with delight, as Squeak’s head bobbled, her little beak wide as a nestling’s.

  “So, Dr. J, I’m kind of out of the loop on things. Where does Brenna fit in all this—I mean, did the family locate her? And how’s she doing, having Squeak back?”

  His guest looked confused. “You don’t know where she is?”

  He shook his head. “Brenna left me.”

  “Oh! Oh. Such a shame, you and Brenna? I had such sense of love between you. True affection, yes?”

  He nodded. “It was just…”

  “Too much,” she finished. “Kavsak breaks people.”

  “So she doesn’t know Squeak and the others are alive?”

  “No. Just today, I arrived. I must find her and personally deliver the baby. Her father—in Vienna I met with him—he has no idea where she is.” She shook her head. “Sad, those two fighting all these years. That a father not know where his own daughter is— No. This needs repair.”

  Her story was too scattered for him to follow it. He placed the plate of cheese and crackers before her. “Why don’t you, while I cook, tell me everything, from the beginning?”

  He filled a large pot with water to boil, and set a skillet on the burner beside it. Pulling out onions, garlic, hamburger and tomatoes for spaghetti sauce, he began cooking. He would make a green salad once he got the sauce and pasta going.

  As he prepared the meal he filled in Dr. J, too, on the pieces she was missing of his and Brenna’s experiences in Kavsak, and after coming home.

  By dessert—a bowl of vanilla bean ice cream topped with fre
sh strawberries that his guest savored like ambrosia—he had pieced together Dr. J’s journey. A nearly-deadly extraction from Kavsak with a Navy SEAL team, a nerve-racking cross-country car ride through Nationalist territory, and a military flight to Vienna for a contest of wills with ‘the white-haired lion in his luxurious cage, poor man’.

  The U.S. State Department, as part of the deal Jasha had made with them, had given Dr. J a modest start-up stipend and introductions to Georgetown University, where she would begin teaching Balkan History come the Fall semester. They were also arranging the rental of a small furnished apartment near campus, but it would be two weeks before she could move in with Squeak. Meanwhile, they would stay at a hotel.

  “Cancel the hotel room,” he told her. “Stay here. I’ve got lots of space, home-cooked meals, a built-in babysitter, me, and even a nursery.”

  “A nursery?”

  He told her about Aya and Joseph Alden.

  When they moved to the family room for decaffeinated coffee, which Dr. J insisted on preparing for him Kavsak style, he sat down with Squeak on his lap. He petted her serenely, admiring her delicate beauty as she fell asleep, punctuating the air with her snorty little baby breaths.

  Now that she was here, Dr. J confessed, remembering how vast the United States was and given her modest resources, she was having some misgivings about finding Brenna. The Envoy might have been correct, she allowed. Finding her might not be so easy.

  The greatest spectacle on earth began at daybreak. Lately, Brenna had begun attending. Sitting front-row-center on the cottage stoop, sipping orange juice from an old Mason jar, she lifted her gaze to the horizon and watched transfixed as the sun rose from the sea, washing the sky, tinting the clouds with pinks and yellows, unrolling its golden light across the garden beds.

  Daily shows. No admission fee. Come as you are.

  Magnificence, and how many people looked up?

  The door creaked open behind her. Margaret came out in pink bedroom slippers and matching bathrobe, and sat down beside her to watch. “These are the best seats,” she said.

  Brenna turned, regarded the old woman’s clear blue eyes, the wispy tendrils of hair forming a silver halo around her tired countenance. She must be missing home, her husband, her routine. She’d just dropped everything and come for her. Holed herself up in this cottage to work her kindly magic.

  “Why?” Brenna asked.

  “Unobstructed view.”

  “No. Why did you come for me? Why do you stay?”

  Margaret slid her hand across Brenna’s back and gave her a rub. “Because you’re a good woman and I want to help you.”

  More magnificence. Brenna stared at the glass in her hands. Who knew there was so much? The crack of gunfire, the boom of artillery had been in her face so long she had forgotten there were counterbalances.

  Inside the cottage, Margaret’s cell phone rang.

  She patted Brenna and went in.

  “Hello, dear,” she overheard. Daniel.

  A moment later, Margaret came outside again, excusing herself as she stepped past Brenna and patted down the cliff path in her Angel Treads. “All right. Now. Tell me again.”

  Margaret’s voice drifted out of range.

  A few steps later, she stopped in her tracks, her head rising as she pressed the phone tightly against her ear. She spun around, her mouth open in disbelief, and stared at Brenna. Margaret recovered rapidly, hastily walked further away, her hand on her forehead.

  What? Brenna thought. Is he all right? Tell me he’s all right. Tell me. But Margaret was never going to do that. It was tacitly understood: personal news about Daniel was off-limits.

  She jumped up, stalked the other way, down the two dirt tracks that cut through the stand of pines to the main road. Her long legs ate up the distance, accelerating. She hit the blacktop. Turned left. Didn’t matter what direction. Neither one led back to Daniel. When he called, it would never be for her. She’d seen to that. Severed the tie herself. She got in the car with James and left him behind with her bombshell.

  She wanted to scream. To howl. To tip her head back so the pain could rise straight up from her gut and erupt into the atmosphere. I saved Daniel.

  Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. Her shoes pounded the pavement, following the center line, gaining speed, going faster and faster. She couldn’t escape the devil on her tail. Maric. Dragoslav. Mr. Fierce. Four small babies huddled on the floor. The gleaming gun—all chasing her.

  A car came up behind her. She didn’t care. The knotted lump of flesh on her thigh was throbbing, burning, feeling like it was tearing itself open again. Run me down, she prayed. Run me down.

  But it didn’t. It slowed. Kept a steady pace behind her.

  She ran harder, her ankles skimming past each other, the balls of her feet absorbing impact after impact. The road became a watery blur. She couldn’t breathe. Maric. Son of a bitch, still on her heels, closing in. No! I won’t go back there with you. Keep away. Leave me be.

  She pushed beyond endurance. Tangled. Stumbled. The road came up, chewed hard and spat her out.

  The car stopped, flashing with alarm. Two pink Angel Treads appeared beside her. The hem of the matching bathrobe folded onto the ground as mercy stooped, hand held out. Mercy, all along.

  “You can’t outrun it,” Margaret said.

  She turned on her side, drew her bruised knees to her chest and hid her face in her stinging hands.

  “You can do this, Brenna. There is a life waiting for you. A dear, sweet life, ready for your embrace. Come. You’re hurt. Let us fix you up.”

  Special Envoy Brendan Rease stood at the door of his Vienna suite, gloves in hand, coat draped over his shoulders, his bodyguard waiting in the corridor. He was going for a walk. Down on the streets. Jelena Subasic seemed to think he was missing something.

  “Ambassador?” Martindale appeared at the doorway of his adjoining office.

  He dropped his hand from the door handle. “Yes, Mr. Martindale.”

  “You have a call. Special Agent Starke. They have a break in the case, Sir.”

  The Envoy lifted a brow. “Forward the call to my desk, if you please.” He strode across the parquet floor to his desk and picked up the receiver. “This is Ambassador Rease.”

  “Special Agent Tait Starke, sir. We’ve identified the woman your daughter left Logan Airport with. Since your daughter doesn’t own a cell phone, I…uh…on a hunch, I had the call logs pulled from the bank of public telephones across the concourse from the pub.”

  “And?”

  “There was a call to one Margaret Ellsworth. Home address in Portland, Maine. Partials from the security cameras matched up to her driver’s license photo.”

  “Margaret Ellsworth? As in—?”

  “Yes, sir. Daniel Ellsworth’s mother.”

  Sonofabitch.

  “She’s, um…” The agent rustled some papers at her end. “PhD in Clinical Psychology, married to—”

  “Yes, yes.” He knew all that from Daniel’s dossier.

  “We have a team on its way up from Boston to check her home and her workplace. We should know more in a couple of hours.”

  “Keep me advised,” he said abruptly, and hung up.

  Sonofabitch knew all along.

  Driving north to Portland, Margaret felt as tattered as a wind-whipped flag.

  Four days ago, triggered by heaven-knew-what, Brenna blew out, disgorging her story about the nursery and what Maric had forced on her so rapidly, in so much detail, and with such ragged emotion that Margaret feared she would spin out of control.

  Somehow, she’d held onto her, managed to navigate her through it safely. Today, the first day she felt Brenna was sufficiently stable to be left alone for a couple of hours, Margaret was reaching for her own lifeline.

  Alden.

  He was standing in the surgical unit hallway in his blue scrubs and cap, writing orders in a patient’s chart. His head came up when he heard her footfalls. He took one glance at her and his s
mile faded. Handing the chart back to the unit secretary, he escorted Margaret by the elbow to his office, and closed the door.

  “Tell me,” he murmured, sliding his arms around her and pulling her against his body.

  She circled his waist and laid her head on his shoulder, overcome by the tears she needed to shed. “Oh, Alden,” she whispered. “I’m in the middle of a place I’m ill-advised to be.”

  Alden rested his chin on the top of her head and let her cry.

  Her whole body ached. She hadn’t maintained boundaries or given herself the distance she needed to keep herself grounded. Daniel had called. Squeak was safe and in his home. But she couldn’t tell Brenna. And she couldn’t tell Daniel that Brenna was secure. The two relationships had to be kept separate.

  By the time this was over, and the truth revealed, both of them were going to feel she betrayed them.

  “Oh, God.” She sniffled, wetting Alden’s sleeve.

  He lifted her chin so he could look her in the eye. “That bad, my darling?”

  “Worse,” she said, and buried her face again, clinging to him.

  “You want to tell me?”

  Yes, but she couldn’t. Breach of confidentiality. Even if she could, it would put Alden in a tough spot with Daniel, too. When this was all over, Daniel, bitten by his own mother, would need a parent he could still trust. His Dad.

  “It’s awful, sweetheart, what I’ve been hearing.” She did care, it turned out, about what Brenna had done to save her son’s life. Listening to her grotesque story, hearing how Maric’s crucible had shattered her, she had desperately wanted to reassure her Squeak and the other children were safe.

  Margaret had persisted, though. Brenna was disassembled. She needed help getting through her memories. It was the decision, after all, that had stripped her of her sense of integrity. Her choice made her believe she was a monstrous woman.

  Squeak, delivered into her arms before she found peace, would not undo the original abandonment. Until Brenna finished processing what Maric had forced on her, she could not be a mother. Motherhood was a position of trust, she thought ruefully. Having abandoned a child once, how could Brenna believe she would never do so again?