Lullaby and Goodnight

by Staub, Wendy Corsi

  “You mean you’re going to tell Richie, and all the guys at work, that I’m just no longer pregnant?” she asks in disbelief, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  How can he betray her this way?

  “Are you kidding me? I never told anyone that you were pregnant in the first place.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re not. And I can’t do this.”

  “Can’t do what?” she asks, already knowing.

  “I can’t pretend.”

  “But you told Rose—”

  “I know what I told Rose. But it ain’t gonna happen. I changed my mind.”

  “But if we don’t take this baby, it could die! You heard what Rose said. People like this donor, they don’t care about the baby. They don’t care about anything except making sure nobody knows they were ever pregnant.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t care about any of this right now. I just want my life back. I’m not a superman, who’s gonna fly around this city saving babies from garbage cans, and neither are you.”

  “Oh, yes, I am,” she hurtles at him. “I’m doing this whether you are or not.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Fine. Leave. I don’t need you.”

  For a long time, he just stares at her.

  Then, with sudden, chilling composure, he says, “No, you don’t. You’re right. You don’t need me at all.”

  He reaches again for the doorknob.

  She hurriedly straps on the prosthesis again, smoothing her shirt over it in case anybody happens to be lingering in the hallway.

  She looks up to see him watching her.

  To her surprise, he looks sad.

  “Good-bye,” he says, shaking his head.

  “Where are you going? Running away to Richie’s again?”

  “I don’t know where I’m going. All I know is that I’m not coming back. I mean it, Derry. If I walk out the door, I’m gone for good.”

  She glares at him.

  He shrugs.

  And then he walks out the door.

  Seeing Peyton approaching with Gil, Tom Reilly scrambles to his feet, a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a white plastic shopping bag in the other.

  The first thing that goes through his head, Peyton discerns when she’s close enough to see the look on his face, is that she’s been avoiding him because she’s obviously involved with somebody else.

  She’s opening her mouth to spew the first cliché that comes to her tongue—this isn’t what it looks like—when she sees his gaze—and then his jaw—drop.

  She glances down at the blatant bulge of her midsection and then, reluctantly, back up at him. “Tom . . .”

  She falters. What is there to say?

  This isn’t what it looks like is no longer valid.

  It is what it looks like. From his standpoint, it’s even worse.

  “You’re pregnant.” His tone is accusatory; his expression is not. There’s an oddly pensive note in his gaze, as though he’s experiencing some emotion she can’t quite identify.

  She doesn’t know what to make of it. She only knows that it isn’t the anger she might expect—and that along with her own dismay and humiliation, she’s experiencing an unexpected measure of relief. At least her secret is out there at last, after weeks of wondering how to tell him, trying to dodge him at every turn.

  She wipes a trickle of sweat from her temple and wishes the saturated night air would give way to the predicted thunderstorms.

  Anything to curtail the awkward silence.

  Finally, knowing she has to say something, Peyton echoes the obvious: “I’m pregnant.” Then she adds, “This is Gil. He’s an old friend.”

  Always the gentleman, Gil sticks out his hand.

  Preposterously, Tom juggles his flowers and shopping bag to shake it. “Tom Reilly.”

  Aren’t we all just so civilized?

  Peyton wearily wishes she were anywhere else.

  “I didn’t know,” Tom says, first looking at Gil, and then at her. “About . . . this”—he motions at her stomach—“or . . . you. Two. You two.”

  Peyton wishes Gil would speak up and inform Tom that they aren’t a couple, but he says nothing. Why would he? Of course, he’s left it up to her. This, after all, is her scene. He has his own messy relationships to handle.

  How tempting it is to support Tom’s misconception. It would be less complicated, perhaps more merciful, to let him think there’s somebody else.

  But she’s never been one to take the easy way out and she’s not going to start now. Especially not now, on the verge of becoming somebody’s mother.

  A mother sets a good example. A mother doesn’t lie.

  “Gil isn’t the father,” she says bluntly. “He’s just an old friend, like I said. From Kansas.”

  “So you’re visiting New York?” asks Tom, who can’t possibly give a damn who Gil is or where he comes from. He probably wants to get out of here as fast as he can.

  He can’t—won’t—because he’s a nice guy. A great guy. A guy who has too much class to beat a hasty retreat, let alone say whatever is on his mind. Peyton can only imagine.

  “No, I live here. Are you . . . ?” Gil lets the question dangle.

  “Tom and I went on a couple of dates, Gil,” Peyton explains, unwilling to partake in awkward niceties. “He lives in the neighborhood. And he didn’t know, obviously, about the baby.” She turns to Tom and repeats, “Which isn’t Gil’s. He’s married with kids of his own.”

  She can feel Gil stiffen beside her; knows that it’s all he can do not to elaborate on his disrupted marital status. But this isn’t the place. This has nothing to do with him, and he knows it.

  Tom asks Peyton, “So you and the father are . . . ?”

  Together? Apart?

  He doesn’t say whatever it is he means to imply, forcing Peyton to explain further. But she won’t give him the whole story. The whole story is none of his business.

  “The father isn’t in the picture,” she tells him, wishing Gil weren’t standing beside her. This is a conversation she and Tom should have been having in private.

  “So you’re on your own?”

  She nods, struggling to keep things as straightforward as possible.

  Yet she’s aching inside, aching for Tom to grab her and tell her it doesn’t matter. That he still wants to be a part of her life.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.

  “Because . . .”

  Because I knew you’d take off as soon as I did. And I wasn’t ready to let go.

  “I’m sorry,” is all she can muster. “I should have.”

  As if spurred by the tension gripping her body, the baby abruptly shifts position within, sending a ripple of sensation across her navel.

  That’s right, she tells the tiny being who so depends on her, I should have told him about you all along. I should have let him know that nothing else matters to me.

  Nothing but you.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Where are you going?”

  Startled, Anne Marie looks over her shoulder to see Jarrett. He’s standing above her, poised halfway down the back stairs, clad in the silk boxer shorts and T-shirt he wears in lieu of pajamas on warm nights

  She removes her hand from the doorknob that leads to the garage and wishes she weren’t wearing potentially incriminating black from head to toe.

  “I’m running to Shoprite for milk. We need it for the boys’ cereal in the morning.”

  Not that he’d ever know that. Not unless he’s broken with his long-standing tradition of letting her handle the care and feeding of the children.

  “Now? It’s late.” He yawns loudly.

  What is he doing out of bed, anyway? He turned in a good hour ago and was asleep when she peeked into the master bedroom earlier.

  “It won’t take me long, Jarrett. We need milk. What am I supposed to do?”

  “Why don’t you wait until morning?”

  “And drag the boys out with
me? No, thanks,” she says, knowing he’ll be unwilling to offer to take a later commuter train.

  No, but he is willing to offer something far more unexpected.

  “I’ll go get the milk.”

  Her jaw drops. “You will?”

  He nods.

  For a moment, they just stare at each other, Anne Marie in disbelief, and Jarrett with a knowing look that tells her he suspects she’s up to something.

  What is there to do but toss her keys aside and thank him?

  Together, they retreat to the master bedroom where only his side of the California king has been disturbed.

  As he dons street clothes, she takes hers off, putting on a summer nightie and stretching with an exaggerated yawn.

  “Tired?” he asks.

  “Exhausted.” It’s the truth. These last few days, these last few weeks, have been positively draining.

  “Get some sleep. The boys will be up early in the morning. See you.”

  With that, he’s gone.

  Peering through a crack in the blinds, she waits until his car has left the driveway, and then the block.

  Then she scurries downstairs to the kitchen, to pour a nearly full gallon of milk down the drain, wash out the sink, and bury the container in the garbage.

  “Rita? Are you asleep?”

  “Me? Sleep?” Rita says into the phone with a laugh. “I’m just sitting here watching TV. J.D. snores louder than a jackhammer. Who can get any sleep around here?”

  “I figured you might be up.” Peyton sounds troubled. “I wasn’t going to call, but . . .”

  “What’s up, sugar pie? Please don’t tell me you’re having labor pains, because I’ll have to tell you it’s just gas again.”

  Peyton laughs. “No early labor pains this time. I swear I won’t do that to you again.”

  “Oh, you will. And don’t worry, I’m used to it. So what’s going on?”

  “It’s just . . . I ran into Tom a little while ago, on the street. I had to tell him.”

  “About the baby.”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he—” Rita interrupts herself to say, “Wait a minute. You just ‘ran into’ him?”

  “Sort of. He was actually waiting on the steps of my building when I got there.”

  Rita mulls that over. “That seems a little presumptuous, don’t you think?”

  “No, it was okay. Gil was with me. He’s been asking me to go over and see his new place, so I finally went tonight.”

  “He’s another one.”

  “Gil? Another what?”

  “He’s way too attached to you for a married man.”

  “He’s separated.”

  “But not divorced.”

  “Tom is,” Peyton says.

  “Good for him.” Realizing that sounds harsh, Rita checks herself, adding, “Trust me, you don’t need men with baggage at a time like this. I’m saying that as your friend, not as a health practitioner.”

  “Well, I’m calling you as a friend, and not as a health practitioner, so I’m glad we’ve got that straight. But, Rita, I can’t help being there for Gil. He just needs somebody to talk to right now. He’s going through hell.”

  “A lot of people go through hell.”

  Peyton doesn’t say anything to that. Rita knows she’s thinking of Allison, clinging to the hope she’s carried so valiantly since Mother’s Day.

  Rita should probably state the obvious here: that chances for Allison coming back to them are slim at this point. Wanda said as much earlier, when they met for lunch. She was full of information on missing-persons’ cases, a wealth of discouraging statistics and percentages.

  According to Wanda, with her flair for bleak irony, Allison is as likely to turn up alive and well as Wanda’s married suburban boyfriend is to get a divorce, move to Manhattan, and marry her.

  “Meaning,” Wanda told Rita decisively, “it ain’t gonna happen in this lifetime.”

  But then, Peyton probably knows that in her heart as well as anyone does. What harm is there in letting her cling outwardly, at least, to her optimism?

  “Don’t worry, Rita,” she says finally. “I’m not letting any guy get too close.”

  Rita adapts her efficient, no-nonsense, doctor-patient demeanor. “Listen, if you could find a nice, sincere guy who would be daddy material, I’d be the first one to say go for it.”

  “I’m not looking for daddy material,” Peyton tells her. “And if I thought Tom might be it . . . well, I didn’t think that so it doesn’t matter.”

  “What did he say when you told him?”

  “I didn’t tell him, exactly. He saw my stomach before I could. He was just sitting there on the stoop, waiting for me, with flowers, and it was like he just . . . crumpled.”

  Rita shakes her head. “I’ll bet.”

  “I feel so guilty. . . .”

  “That’s understandable, but remember that you haven’t done anything wrong. You went on a few dates with the guy, and you chose not to tell him something very personal.”

  “Something huge,” Peyton amends.

  “Yes, huge, but personal. Nobody can blame you for that.”

  “You’re right. I know you’re right. But I get the feeling he doesn’t see it that way. The way he looked at me when he saw me with Gil . . . well, I have to admit that I was scared for a minute there.”

  Rita clenches the phone more tightly. “Don’t make me worry about you, sugar pie.”

  “Maybe scared isn’t the right word . . .”

  “You’re not thinking he’s actually dangerous, are you?”

  Silence.

  Then an unconvincing “Of course not.”

  Rita asks the logical question. “Do you think there’s any way he could have been the one who broke in last month?”

  “I don’t think so. I mean, I know deep down that it wasn’t him.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I’m positive,” she says, and Rita wonders whom she’s trying to convince. “What’s scaring me is that he seems more attached to me than he should be, and I . . . I was kind of starting to feel the same way about him. Seeing him again reminded me.”

  “Well, I think you’d better keep your distance from him, sugar pie. It’s just a gut feeling, but I don’t like him.”

  “You would if you met him. He’s not a bad guy. In fact, he’s a great guy.”

  “Sure, go and defend him now, after you get me all worked up.”

  Peyton laughs. “Sorry. It’s just—You know how you get a feeling about somebody, even somebody you’ve just met? Like they’re just a good person who wouldn’t be capable of hurting you? That’s Tom. I’m a good judge of character. I trust him.”

  “Don’t lose your backbone, is all I’m saying.”

  “I won’t. I promise.” Peyton sighs. “Oh God, look at the time. I’m so sorry I called you so late. I guess I just had to talk it out with someone.”

  “That’s what I’m here for. You want me to come over there?”

  “No, I’ll be fine. Is J.D. still snoring?”

  “Are we still breathing?”

  Peyton chuckles. “Go back to bed.”

  “Not without earplugs,” Rita says on a rueful laugh before hanging up.

  Stealing gingerly across the nursery in the soft glow of the night-light, a heaping basket of still-warm, freshly folded laundry in her arms, Mary Nueves is careful not to step on one of the many creaky floorboards in this old two-family house. She knows precisely which spots of the threadbare rug to avoid, having learned the hard way these last few weeks that her newborn daughter is a light sleeper.

  Pacing the floor with a crying baby night after night is a small price to pay for the blessing of parenthood, she reminds herself.

  It’s a shame that isn’t the only price she must pay.

  If only she were capable of setting aside that crushing burden as easily as she rests the laundry basket on the floor beside the dresser.

  But the debt she thought she�
�d paid in full a month ago is carried with her still, like a weight that grows heavier with every day that passes.

  She should go to confession. That would help. But sometimes, she thinks her sin is so great that she can’t reveal it even to Father Roberto, the trusted parish priest who smilingly blessed her growing stomach every week when she took communion.

  Other times, she tells herself that it wasn’t a sin at all.

  Gazing at the cherished, sleeping infant in the secondhand cradle Javier so lovingly refinished, Mary tells herself that she only did what any human being with a conscience would do.

  How could she leave this child’s fate in the hands of the thirteen-year-old rape victim who never wanted her in the first place?

  Surely Rose could have found somebody else to take her, to save her.

  But you’re the one she chose, Mary reminds herself, echoing the words Javier spoke earlier, when she voiced her belated contrition. And you wanted a child so much.

  Only now, when both the fierce longing and the heady elation have subsided, is she able to question her actions.

  “Dawn is ours,” Javier reminded her just an hour ago, as he has with increasing frequency as his wife’s remorse grows with every passing day. “We have the birth certificate to prove it. It’s legal. You heard what Rose said. Nobody can possibly question it. And why would they, anyway? The whole neighborhood, the whole world, saw you pregnant.”

  Yes. The whole neighborhood, the whole world, saw the lie she lived for almost nine months. The lie she agreed to only after that first Cradle to Cradle adoption fell through, when the birth mother—or rather, the donor—unexpectedly changed her mind.

  Not about giving up the baby. Merely, as Rose put it so delicately on that awful day, about Mary and Javier’s suitability.

  They had been through so many miscarriages by then, so many false starts and lost opportunities.

  She couldn’t bear to give up on the dream now that Cradle to Cradle had rescued them. It all fell into place so easily, from the moment Mary impulsively answered the letter that came in the mail. Junk mail—that was her first impression. Thank goodness she got past it. Thank goodness she called, and met Rose.