Becoming the Talbot Sisters

by Rachel Linden

  While an elated Waverly headed off to shower, Andrew sat for a long moment on his side of the bed, unsure what to do after his wife’s pronouncement. Charlie had offered to carry a baby for them? Andrew shook his head in bewilderment. He didn’t even know quite what to say. It seemed like such a drastic measure, to have another woman carry their child, even if she was Waverly’s twin.

  He was surprised Charlie had even suggested it. Frankly, she’d never struck him as the maternal type. She was more of a lone wolf, strong and independent. He would have bet ten pounds sterling on her passing her childbearing years without a backward glance. But this idea of theirs . . . He sighed, feeling immensely weary and a little ambushed.

  He got up and rummaged through the mini bar, coming up with a small bottle of Famous Grouse Blended Scotch Whiskey. He thought longingly of the elegant eighteen-year-old Macallan with its subtle notes of sherry and fruitcake sitting in his study at home, then poured the Famous Grouse into a tumbler and got back into bed. He could hear the water running in the bathroom and Waverly singing a Celine Dion song. Celine was her favorite chanteuse for shower serenading. He cocked his head and listened.

  Waverly warbled in her high soprano about the new day that had arrived.

  Andrew smiled ruefully. The song reflected Waverly’s renewed optimism so perfectly, almost exactly the opposite of how he felt. In truth, though he would never admit this to his wife, Andrew had been relieved when the doctor had said there would be no further tries. There had been so many years of hopes and disappointments in Waverly’s journey toward motherhood. Andrew had already fathered a child, and while he loved his daughter deeply, he had no strong desire to repeat those early childhood years—so many bleary sleepless nights, so much poo, the mess and chaos and sheer exhaustion, the sticky surfaces and tiny fingerprints everywhere. It was a chapter of his life that he had enjoyed while it happened but did not particularly miss.

  He would have given up long ago, decided a baby was not in the cards, and settled down to enjoy the life they had together. It was a good life, a satisfying life, but Waverly could not see that. And so they had tried again and again, each time ending up in a sterile doctor’s office or hospital room with Andrew trying to comfort her as she grieved another loss.

  Andrew was tired of the tries, of the perpetual second chances, of seeing his wife’s optimism repeatedly crushed. He wanted . . . What did he want? To take the Catalina out sailing on sunny Sundays, Waverly’s wicker picnic basket stuffed with tasty tidbits she’d whipped up. To make love to his wife without either of them thinking of ovulation cycles or optimum windows of time. To look across the table at her and see his entire world sitting there, and to have her look back at him the same way.

  Andrew sighed. She had never looked at him that way. Waverly loved him deeply. He knew that. But there was always a hint of sadness in her eyes, a longing for something just over the horizon. He had often wondered if it had to do with the death of her parents so young. Was she trying to regain something . . . family, stability, a sense of her place in the world? He could only guess at the deep recesses of his wife’s heart. He didn’t know for sure, and he suspected that Waverly might not even be aware of it if he asked her. He sighed again. There were no easy answers.

  The shower and the serenade had both ended, and a moment later Andrew heard the muted roar of the hair dryer in the bathroom. Sipping the disappointingly unrefined whiskey, he clicked on the television, searching through the channels with no particular aim in mind except to distract himself from the troubling issue at hand. Perhaps he could catch a bit of tennis or some cricket if the channels were available, which he very much doubted. He found the Food Network and a couple of reality shows, and then a local news channel. He was about to pass by when suddenly Waverly appeared on the screen. She was sitting in a café being interviewed by an aggressive redhead in a shockingly bright pink suit. The clashing red hair and pink suit were eye-catching, but Andrew could not tear his gaze away from his wife.

  “And what brings Cooksville’s very own celebrity chef to the Early Bird Café this morning?” the reporter asked Waverly, edging in next to her breakfast table. Andrew caught a glimpse of Charlie’s knee in the corner of the screen.

  Waverly smiled graciously, although she had obviously been surprised into an interview. He could see her food still on her plate. “Just enjoying a healthy breakfast to start my day off right,” Waverly said. “It’s always a pleasure to be back in Cooksville.”

  Andrew watched his wife admiringly. Even interrupted mid-breakfast, Waverly was as cool and collected as ever. It was one of the most attractive things about her. When he had first met her, he’d found her to be an irresistible combination of soft-spoken good breeding and hardheaded business savvy. She was remarkably beautiful to boot. He had fallen for her before he’d even known what hit him, shocked by the ease with which she had made a bright, soft place at the core of his stiff, ordered routine of a life.

  On-screen the reporter was continuing her interrogation. “And how is Ernie’s cooking this morning?” she asked, shoving the microphone into Waverly’s face. “Like coming home,” Waverly said, flashing her winning smile for the camera.

  Andrew felt his defenses crumble once again. He had never been good at denying her anything she set her heart on. He stared at the lovely, poised façade she presented in the interview, the professional Waverly Talbot, and remembered holding her time and again as she curled against his chest, shaking with grief, dry-eyed but devastated by yet another loss. Her heart’s desire had proven so elusive. And now she had been given another chance. A crazy, unexpected last chance.

  He took a large gulp of the whiskey, feeling it burn down his throat along with the truth he could not yet bring himself to admit. He would give anything to make Waverly happy, to mend the sorrows of her heart, to fill the hole no amount of his love had ever been able to fill. Charlie’s offer was no exception. He sighed and poured himself another shot of whiskey, downing it in one swift swig, steeling himself to face what he already knew was coming. They were going to give a baby one more try.

  CHAPTER 6

  October

  Greenwich, Connecticut

  Charlie lay on the examination table in a blindingly white room, staring fixedly at the ceiling as the doctor prepared to perform the insemination procedure. The process so far had been surprisingly simple. Charlie stayed with Waverly and Andrew for the couple of weeks needed for the health evaluations, blood tests, and sperm analysis. After many hours of thought and discussion, Waverly and Andrew had opted for a sperm donor. That way the child would carry neither of their genetic material. It seemed fairer that way. They had chosen a donor and made all the arrangements.

  During the few weeks of waiting for all the details to be taken care of, Charlie and Waverly dealt with Aunt Mae’s affairs—arranging for the farmhouse to be cleaned out and sold, paying the funeral and burial expenses. Waverly’s attorney was handling the legal details for the estate. After the funeral expenses were covered and the bills paid, there was very little left to do.

  It seemed surreal to Charlie, lying there as the doctor completed the job with a syringe of washed and concentrated sperm. It was all so clinical, so hygienic and sterile. In normal life a baby was usually the result of an act of love and passion, but here there was no emotion at all. It was tidy, precise, devoid of any direct human element whatsoever. After she remained reclined for a few more minutes, the nurse told her to dress.

  “You can take a pregnancy test in two weeks. If you aren’t pregnant, we can repeat this procedure up to six times,” the nurse explained briskly. “If the pregnancy test is positive, you should seek immediate care with a qualified care practitioner.”

  Charlie slipped on her jeans, pausing for a moment to reorient herself. That was it? She felt no different, completely normal, in fact. She tried not to visualize the biological activity taking place in her body at that very moment. She wasn’t prudish by any stretch of the imagination, but
she found the idea of several hundred million of a stranger’s sperm making a mad dash for her ovaries a little unsettling.

  Waverly insisted they celebrate that night with dinner out at a well-reviewed restaurant where she knew the head chef. “He did a guest segment for the show and made the best pots de crème once,” she explained.

  She was almost giddy, though Charlie felt a little dazed and Andrew seemed a bit subdued. Charlie had noticed that during the entire process of the last few weeks, he had seemed less enthusiastic than Waverly. She hoped he wasn’t having second thoughts. If he was, it was too late now.

  Seated in a brick and candlelit alcove, Waverly held aloft her glass and offered a toast. “To the future,” she said, beaming at Andrew and Charlie by turns. They clinked glasses and Charlie took one swallow of her sparkling water, trying not to think of eggs and sperm.

  “What’s a ten-letter word for hopeful?” she whispered to Andrew as Waverly consulted the menu.

  Andrew wrinkled his forehead in thought. “Optimistic,” he guessed after a moment.

  Charlie nodded, impressed. “Your turn.”

  Andrew glanced at Waverly, who was thoroughly quizzing the server about how the daily fish special was prepared. “What’s an eight-letter word for ‘no choice but to accept’?” he asked quietly.

  Charlie thought for a second. “Resigned?” she asked, quirking a brow at him.

  He raised his glass with a rueful smile and toasted her. “Cheers,” he said. “I’ll drink to that.”

  Two weeks later Charlie sat on the toilet in Waverly and Andrew’s immaculate guest bathroom, staring at the little plastic stick in her hand. There were two pink lines in the white window of the test. Charlie checked the directions again, then glanced back at the two lines, confirming. She was pregnant. She stared at the second pink line, vivid against the white oval window. There was no turning back now. She was having a baby. She took a deep breath and paused, waiting for it to feel real.

  It didn’t. Not at all. She felt no different, although her hands were trembling. She felt only a vague sense of relief that she would be able to return home now, back to her apartment and job, back to her normal life.

  Later it would become real, she assumed, but for now it felt far removed from reality, this pregnancy a fact that bore no physical witness in her body except for a dull tenderness in her breasts. She stared at the gleaming subway tiles of the bathroom and swallowed hard, wondering what had possessed her to suggest this. Well, she could not turn back now. She was committed for better or worse. She sincerely hoped it was for better.

  She washed her hands slowly in cold water and smoothed back her cropped hair. She needed to tell Waverly. This news affected her sister even more than it did her. Nine months or so and her work was done, but it would change Waverly’s world for good.

  Charlie studied the test for another long moment, thinking of the mysterious processes already hard at work in her body, a series of events she had set in motion and no longer had any control over. This is the beginning of a whole new life, she thought, not sure if she meant the baby’s or her sister’s or her own. Maybe all three. She opened the door and went in search of Waverly, holding the positive pregnancy test before her like a peace offering or a flag of truce. Whatever it was, she had a feeling that nothing would ever be the same.

  The party was still in full swing when Waverly slipped into her bedroom and closed the door behind her, not bothering to turn on the overhead light. Through the tall windows came the soft yellow reflection of the strings of lights lacing the patio below. She could hear the muted tones of the jazz band beneath the hum of conversation. Really, she should be down there mingling with the crowd of influential guests, shimmering and charming them in her champagne bias-cut gown. It was her book launch, after all. But she was up here instead. She had been struggling to concentrate on the party or care about the book or anything else. All she could think about was the pregnancy test Charlie had handed her before breakfast, those two pink lines clear and bright in the little window. Two pink lines. A baby. Her baby.

  She took a deep breath and crossed to her closet, standing on tiptoe in her nude high heels, reaching into the back corner of the top shelf for the narrow silver box she had hidden there. Pulling it out, she carried it to the bed. She sank down on the tufted velvet bench at the foot of the bed and set the box carefully beside her. It had been her grandmother’s and then her mother’s before her death. Now it was Waverly’s, and it held her most precious possessions, the ones no one knew she’d kept, the ones that had brought her such joy and such heartache.

  She opened the lid, running her fingers over the beautiful, ornately carved brush and mirror set inside. There was a horsehair brush, an ivory comb set in sterling silver, and a mirror whose glass had the speckled patina of age. She moved the comb aside. Beneath it lay six positive pregnancy tests nestled into the soft satin, their pink lines faded but still visible. She pulled them out and spread them across her lap, staring at them. Six pregnancies. Six losses. Six babies she would never get to hold in her arms. She pulled out the corresponding ultrasound photos from beneath the mirror, each image grainy and blurry in black and white. Once a blighted ovum. Three times embryos with no heartbeat detected. And twice little hearts that had stopped just a few weeks after they started beating. Those had been the hardest. To see the miracle of the tiny flutter on the screen, bright and rapid as a point of light, and feel the surge of hope that this time, this time it was going to work. She had gripped Andrew’s hand, elated by the good news. And then a few weeks later to see that the little heart had gone still, the doctor’s sympathetic murmur that there was nothing to be done . . . It felt each time as though her own heart had stopped beating too.

  “Hello, little ones,” she said softly, studying each of the photos. It still hurt to see them. She had carried each little life for such a brief time, had just begun to hope and dream about the person developing within her, and then every time there had come the crushing weight of disappointment. After the first one she had tried to convince herself to remain detached, to wait and see if this time it really worked, but she could never quite manage it. There was too much hope, too much longing in her heart.

  She gathered the pregnancy tests in her hand, cradling them gently, a blighted bouquet of promises unfulfilled. They were all that was left, the only proof that she had created and carried life, that she had really been, for such a brief and bittersweet time, a mother.

  And now . . . she thought of the pregnancy test that Charlie had shown her with its two pink lines, another promise, a tantalizing, daring sign of possibility. Again. She was afraid to trust, afraid to hope once more. But this time it was different. Maybe Charlie could do what she could not. Maybe Waverly really was destined to be a mother, just not to a child she carried in her body.

  She considered the thought. Did it matter to her that she would not carry this child? She shook her head. No, it didn’t. She would have been delighted to complete a pregnancy, to cradle a child within her body for all those months and bring him or her into the world. But at the end of the day, the method by which a child arrived in her arms was far less important than the baby itself. She was supposed to be a mother. She knew it. There was a child she was supposed to raise. She felt it, the rightness of it, in the marrow of her bones. And now, just possibly, the time had come. She put her hand to her abdomen, experiencing again the first soft flutter of excitement, effervescent as champagne bubbles floating up in her stomach.

  “Waverly?” It was Andrew’s voice, calling up the stairs. Waverly jumped at the interruption. She had to get back to the party. “They’re expecting a speech from you, my dear,” Andrew reminded her.

  “Coming,” she called back. “One moment.”

  She pressed her fingers to each ultrasound photo. “I won’t forget you,” she promised, replacing them in their resting spot. “You are still my babies.”

  Late that night, after the guests had stumbled to their cabs and
limos, after the staff had swept the patio of fallen leaves and gathered the last discarded cocktail glasses, after the patio lights had gone dark, Waverly slipped into bed next to a slumbering Andrew. He roused slightly at the movement but didn’t wake as she tucked herself under the goose down duvet, fanned her curls out over the satin pillowcase, and closed her eyes. The party had been a success, but she was exhausted, both from the evening and from the emotional roller coaster of Charlie’s positive pregnancy test. She felt herself slipping into sleep, but just before she drifted off, in the moment between wakefulness and slumber, an image flashed before her eyes, quick and vivid as a snapshot.

  She was standing on a train platform in one of the cavernous, historic railway stations in Paris. She thought it might be the Gare de l’Est. It seemed familiar from her time living in Paris. Before her idled a train ready to depart. A young girl of about five years old, with curly dark hair and solemn brown eyes, perched on the steps of the train, holding on to the metal handrail with one hand. She wore a dark blue polyester puffy coat and scuffed pink sneakers. Somewhere a bell sounded, signaling a departure. The girl turned and looked straight at Waverly. She had a dark red birthmark on her right cheek in the shape of a strawberry. She did not smile.

  “I’m waiting for you,” she called in heavily accented English. “Come and find me.” And then the train pulled slowly from the platform, carrying the girl away.

  Waverly woke with a start. She blinked in the darkness of her bedroom, puzzled by the dream. Where had she seen the girl before? She seemed so familiar. Waverly shook her head, unable to attach any meaning to the scene, and allowed herself to drift off to sleep.

  CHAPTER 7