by Nicole Baart
It wasn’t long before I heard movement downstairs. Voices carried up the hollow belly of the stairwell and slid under the door of my makeshift prison. I got up then because I had to and pulled on the light so I could drag the mattress through the maze of junk.
Simon heard me coming down the stairs and threw open the door at the bottom. “Julia!” he called enthusiastically. “We’re going to stay with you for a while!”
I forced a smile at him. “Surprise,” I said weakly.
“This is so awesome!” he whooped and disappeared from sight.
Janice came to help me haul the mattress around the corner and into the room Grandma had prepared for them. She looked as if she wanted to say something to me, but I focused on the mattress, denying her an opportunity to speak. We placed the improvised bed against the wall and together wordlessly covered it with the sheets and blankets that Grandma had laid out.
When we were done, Janice smiled feebly at me and moved toward the door. I blocked it. I had rehearsed what I would say over and over on my way down from the attic—I would not be deceived and I would not live with her if she refused to meet me in some way. She would answer me or they would leave, I had decided. It was intolerable to think of sharing a roof with her if she didn’t have the decency to at least satisfy two small uncertainties that were eating me up inside.
“I have two questions for you, Janice. I need you to answer them.” My voice was reedy and my fists were clenched. I stared her down.
She looked trapped, but there was resignation in her bearing. I believed she would answer me honestly. “Okay” was all she said.
I wasted no time. “What did Grandma say to you?” I demanded frostily.
Janice nodded as if she had expected that question. She thought for a moment, and I was about to insist on the truth when her eyes went expressionless and she answered almost obediently, “Nellie told me that this might be my last chance. My only chance. She told me I was a fool if I passed it up.”
One more last chance. I suddenly felt sick and hot. We were far from second chances, and every step toward some pathetic and patched-up form of reconciliation was an unprecedented gamble, a risk that I was not convinced I was willing to take. But as I watched Janice in the closeted airlessness of the sewing room turned bedroom, I finally understood that she was at least willing to try. The pain in her eyes as I’d stood on the porch and asked her to leave only days ago had been the reflection of what she believed was her final, failed opportunity. She had hoped I would see her and say, I wanted you to stay. I’ve waited for you. Did I? Had I? I didn’t know. I didn’t know if there could be another chance.
“One more question,” she prompted me. There were tears in her voice.
“Why are you here?” I whispered achingly, afraid to hear the answer.
She didn’t even pause. “I had a dream that you forgave me.”
Believe
GRANDMA ONCE TOLD ME that belief is the suspension of disbelief.
I didn’t understand her at first. I smiled and mumbled my agreement, apparently discarding her words of wisdom somewhere that they could grow undisturbed—seeds tossed carelessly on unexpectedly thorny soil. Though I suppose the earth of my soul was always fertile and ready for whatever Grandma chose to sow, even if the gestation period was sometimes a process of many long and seemingly fruitless years. And while her definition of belief was nothing I pondered at the time, that first night, with Janice and Simon inside my house—trying to find a place inside my life—I remembered Grandma’s words as though she had whispered them in the darkness of my room.
Believe. It’s a scary word. Believe in me is even worse. And wasn’t Janice asking me to do exactly that? Believe in me. I won’t let you down this time. She hadn’t said those words, but then again, they didn’t need to be said. And neither did I have to clarify my answer. Janice knew how I felt, though I wasn’t exactly sure I could trust my own feelings anymore. I couldn’t shake a sense of guilt when I thought of her agonized tears and the way she almost asked for my forgiveness.
The truth was, I couldn’t forgive her. I didn’t trust her. I didn’t have faith in her. I didn’t even like her that much. But I also wasn’t ready for the look on her face, the tremble in her voice. Against my will, a small part of me wanted to believe.
I pressed my eyes closed, willing myself to rest, but I knew my impatient efforts only forced sleep farther and farther away. The house was still and silent, and the alarm clock beside my bed read 3:24. I wondered if I was singularly awake and tossing with the knowledge that life could never go back to the way it had been. That I would make choices—we would make choices—in the coming days and weeks that would change us in ways that could not be undone. I thought of Janice staring at the ceiling with one child beside her and the other only a floor above her, and I knew it was my decision that would affect us most of all.
In the darkness and quiet, I sought to unravel the act of believing and attempted to find a way to believe her. It comforted me somehow to begin to understand that belief was far less a jump of faith than I ever realized: Disbelief did not have to be eradicated. I did not have to reach a point of complete and utter faith in Janice to believe that she, in her own way, wanted to try. The suspension of disbelief, Grandma had said. Like a time-out, an interruption. A brief interlude during which decisions can be made, trust can be tested.
Abandoning my disbelief was impossible; shelving it seemed to be a workable option. I could do that. I could suspend my doubt, tuck it away for a little while and see if Janice could be someone new. It helped to know that my skepticism could be used as a security blanket of sorts—a way of tiptoeing into the unknown with the knowledge that one small step could be quickly reversed, that I could go back to where I started. If I didn’t see Janice taking steps toward me, I could retreat into the reassurance of my utter disbelief. I could rest vindicated, knowing I was right.
It was cold in my room, but I was hot underneath the pile of blankets. Shoving them aside, I let the draft from my window snake cool fingers around my bare feet. The chill was somehow clarifying. With shadows from the almost-full moon slipping around the sides of my curtains and dancing on the ceiling above me, it struck me that I could at least try. I could try to believe. A little. Maybe one day at a time.
My effort would make Grandma proud.
Suddenly, like a flash of phantom pain, I wondered if my effort would have made Dad proud. Would he want me to invite Janice back into my life? Or was I betraying him by giving her a chance that she so obviously did not deserve?
We had rarely, if ever, talked about Janice after she left, but there was something raw and broken in my father whenever we were reminded of the woman who used to share our home. The very thought of her used to incense me, as if I were the parent and Dad were my child, as if he needed my protection and I were the only one who could shelter him from her memory. And now he was gone and Janice was here. Something in me sank and folded, bowed to the weight of his loss, but I couldn’t think about Dad now. I thrust the man I loved out of my mind and tried to focus on the woman I thought I hated.
I pictured her on the steps of our porch, staring at me with an emotion that could have been mistaken for grief. But grief over what? Over losing me? Over coming back? Whether or not she regretted what she had done, I let myself grasp what it meant that she had traveled back. Cautiously, I let my heart wrap around the idea that Janice, my mother, had come home. She had come home to me. It was a small admission, but it crushed my chest so I struggled to breathe.
“Don’t let her mess it up this time,” I whispered into the darkness. “Don’t make me believe for nothing.” I didn’t know who I was talking to, but I realized too late that if I was praying, I was doing it all wrong. “Amen,” I said quickly. I covered my face with my hands.
When I stumbled into the kitchen in an exhausted haze the next morning, I wasn’t the only one for whom it looked like sleep had proven to be elusive. Janice had ugly lines under her ey
es so deep and obvious that it looked like she had mistakenly applied eye shadow below instead of above her eyes. Grandma was barely concealing a series of jaw-cracking yawns behind the back of her hand. Only Simon looked as if he had gotten any sleep. In fact, he looked so rested and cheerful it seemed he was glowing from the inside out. His eyes positively sparkled.
“Morning, Julia!” he called louder than necessary.
“Good morning,” I muttered back. I pulled a chair away from the table and sat opposite the bouncing bundle of five-year-old energy.
“Sleep well?” Grandma asked from the stove.
It was an unfair question because she absolutely knew the answer. I had no choice but to answer her with a half-truth. “I slept okay. You?”
“Same,” she said noncommittally. “Cup of coffee?”
I blinked incredulously and nodded. Though my doctor had okayed a cup of coffee a day, I hadn’t had one in months. The very thought made my mouth water. Grandma must have realized how badly I needed it. I forgave her for her absentminded question.
“I slept great,” Simon informed us out of the blue. “I slept like a baby!”
We all ignored him.
Grandma passed me a full mug of coffee, and I huddled over it as if the fragrant steam was therapy. I snuck a peek at Janice, who was leaning against the sink, and found that she too was lost in the depths of a cup of her own. The resolutions of my restless night were clinging stubbornly to me, and my stomach did a little spin as I took in the angles of her profile, the way her ponytail exposed the sagging line of her chin. She was so different from how I remembered her. She felt like a stranger. I imagined for a moment that she looked up at me and smiled. I imagined what it would feel like if she had never left.
“That bed was so comfortable, Mrs. DeSmit,” Simon said into the silence. It was obvious he was trying to draw us out and more obvious that we were not in the mood.
“I’m glad you liked it,” Grandma replied distractedly.
“It wasn’t little at all. There was plenty of room for me and Mom.” Simon caught my eye from across the table. “You could fit in there too, Julia!”
I smiled dryly. “No thanks. I have my own bed.”
“Sweetheart, tone it down a bit, okay?” Janice shook her head slightly at her son.
“I’m just happy.”
“I know. Just cool it a little. We’re still waking up.”
“He’s fine, Janice,” Grandma cut in. “Ready for some oatmeal?” she asked, directing the inquiry at Simon.
He wrinkled his nose, but butter and brown sugar went far to restoring his faith in Grandma’s cooking. Simon gobbled his breakfast while Grandma, Janice, and I picked at our food and drove it around our bowls like spoiled little girls who wished for four-minute eggs and Belgian waffles instead of hot cereal. Surprisingly, it wasn’t that the room was filled with an inordinate amount of tension. In some slight way we had already moved past the shock of finding ourselves together. But now we had to make it work. Simply existing side by side was baffling our every attempt at normalcy. We didn’t know which way was up.
And though my lack of appetite was no different from anybody else’s, Grandma singled me out. “Julia, you have to eat something.”
“I did. I am.” I lifted a spoonful as evidence and dropped it back to the bowl when she moved to clear the table.
“Your body needs the nutrition,” Grandma warned.
“Please eat something,” Janice added.
My head shot up at her unsolicited advice. “I’m not hungry,” I defended, appalled that they thought they could gang up on me.
Lowering her voice, Janice entreated me, “Don’t skip breakfast because of me. If this whole thing is going to make you lose your appetite …”
“I’m fine,” I huffed.
“Why does Julia have to eat her breakfast but you don’t, Mom?”
I wanted to give Simon a high five for sticking up for me. But just as quickly as I was filled with warmth toward him, I realized that someone would have to explain to him that I was pregnant. I tried to replay past conversations in my mind. What did he know? What did he understand? Had Janice told him everything?
The uneasy silence betrayed Simon’s ignorance. Before Grandma or Janice could try to enlighten him, I decided, for once, to take control. “Well, Simon, I should eat breakfast because there is a baby in my tummy, and she needs food to grow healthy and strong.”
Grandma and Janice gawked at me.
Simon looked unimpressed. “Oh, I know that,” he said off-handedly.
“How do you know that?” Janice demanded.
“I know what that pennant word means.”
“Pennant?”
“Pregnant,” I said. “Did you hear us use that word the other night, Simon?”
“How in the world do you know that word?” Janice asked.
Simon rolled his eyes. “Duh, Mom. I’m not a little kid.”
“Apparently.” Raising her eyebrows at me, she smiled.
The lines of Janice’s face became the memories of past happiness, and for a moment it flashed through my mind that if she looked like this forever, with love like burnished gold lighting up her cheeks, I could believe. I grinned back. “You are a very smart young man,” I told Simon, trying to sound serious.
And then Grandma started to giggle.
“What?” Simon asked. His eyes were eager little moons as he waited for the joke to be explained.
I heard a sputtering from beside me and turned to see Janice clap both of her hands over her mouth. She laughed so hard I could see tears gather in the corners of her eyes.
“What?”
Simon’s voice was so filled with anticipation I couldn’t stop myself. When I started to giggle, Simon joined in excitedly and within minutes his belly laugh was utterly sincere and intoxicating. It was a beautiful sound, the four of us laughing. Something within me seized the moment hungrily, folding it deep inside so I could remember it always, no matter where we went from here. If Simon and Janice stole out of our lives and it was indeed another ten years until we met again, I would always have this one secreted crease in the fabric of my memory.
“Oh, that’s funny,” Simon said after we had calmed down a bit. He stuck out his tongue to be silly and got the desired effect—I laughed again.
“You’re funny,” I corrected him.
“Mom says I’m silly. Maybe I can teach your baby how to be silly too.”
I sighed, my stomach pleasantly sore from laughter, and pushed back from the table to help Grandma with the dishes. “That’s a great idea.”
“I can teach you how to make funny faces, if you’d like.”
“He’s a master,” Janice informed us, reaching over to tickle the soft spot above his collarbone.
“I would love a few lessons,” I said. “But not today. I have to run into town.”
Grandma gave me a sidelong look as I stood beside her at the sink. “What do you have to do today? I thought you had the day off.”
“I do,” I admitted hesitantly, wondering what she had planned for me. “But it’s payday, and I was going to go pick up my check and then spend a little time at the library.”
By the way Grandma stared so intently at the soapsuds I could tell she was about to spring something on me. I wanted to stop her, but I didn’t know how. “Why don’t you take Simon along?” she asked innocently, loud enough for Janice and Simon to hear.
I tried to give her a meaningful look, but she was avoiding my gaze. Besides, it was too late.
“Really?” Simon yelped. “I’d like to go with you, Julia! I like going to the library.”
Glancing back at them, I saw Janice lay her hand on Simon’s shoulder. She shook her head at him gently and mouthed something, probably admonishing him to wait for a proper invitation from me. His face crumpled enough to convince me that there was no way I could leave him behind now that he had his heart set on it.
Though I had wanted to be alone, it struck me su
ddenly that Simon was an easy companion to walk with on the road to Janice. I had a lifetime of reasons to distrust her. But there was nothing in sweet, uncomplicated Simon that I needed to fear. When I saw the way she looked at him and ran her fingers over his body as if somehow sealing him against every hurt, I found it significantly easier to want to try. Simon was a fantastic place to start practicing belief.
“He can come,” I told Janice. “You can come,” I assured Simon. “The library is pretty small, but they have a lot of neat picture books.”
“I don’t need picture books,” Simon said. “I can read.”
“No, you can’t,” Janice shushed him.
“I can read my Clifford books!”
She smiled indulgently at him and then winked at us. I took it to mean he had his Clifford books memorized.
“Maybe I can help you with your reading if you help me with my funny faces,” I offered, hoping Simon wouldn’t see Janice’s patronizing look.
“Okay,” he agreed lightly. “I’ll go get my sweater on.” Simon practically skipped out of the room.
Janice watched him go and then came to stand at the sink. She held out her hands, and as though it were the most natural thing in the world, Grandma squeezed out a washcloth and gave it to her. I had forgotten that table washing had been Janice’s role all those years ago. Evidently Grandma had not.
I froze for a moment, and in my mind the house was full again. Grandpa pushed his chair away from the table and balanced on the back two legs, chewing on his unlit pipe. Dad spun a towel into a tight cord of fabric and whipped it at my legs as I giggled and danced out of the way. Grandma laughed, plunging her hands in and out of the sink. We were happy. Janice was the shadow in the sunlit room, halfheartedly wiping the table, ignoring us with a distant look in her eyes.
