by Lisa Wingate
Is Teddy my half brother?
Did my mother know? Did she keep it from him?
Might you be pregnant, missus … ?
The house … pregnant … I want the truth …
I felt myself floating in space, whirling through a vacuous place where there was nothing solid to grasp. This can’t be happening. All of this can’t be happening at once. A nervous sweat broke over my skin, made my heart race, and stole my breath as traffic backed up under a highway on-ramp.
Teddy’s your brother. He’s your brother.
I hadn’t asked for this responsibility. I hadn’t asked for an aging house, my father, Teddy, and Hanna Beth to care for. I hadn’t asked for a potential pregnancy, years after we thought we were done having our family, when the future of my marriage was uncertain.
I began counting the weeks as the car inched forward. How long since my last period? How long? It was the week of Macey’s regionals. A Saturday. I pulled out my DayMinder, flipped backward through time. Seven weeks ago, almost eight.
Reality struck me like a painful blow to the stomach. I was never three weeks late. I was never a week late. Give or take a day, two, maybe three, my body operated like clockwork.
It could be stress… . I knew better, of course. Our life was always stress-filled, in hyperdrive, all-out, all the time. The last few years of dealing with my mother’s lupus had been nothing but stressful. Yet I’d never once skipped a cycle. I’d never even been significantly late.
Ahead, traffic ground to a halt as a train crawled by. Impulsively, I pulled off to the right, bumped along the shoulder to a Mom-and-Pop pharmacy, hurried in, grabbed a pregnancy test from the shelf, felt silly paying for it. Back in the car, I wrapped the sack around it so the label wouldn’t show though. Traffic was moving again by the time I pulled out. Inching toward Vista Street, I tried to focus on the situation at the house.
When I finally pulled into the driveway, Ifeoma was pacing back and forth on the front walk, impatient to leave for work. There was no other car, no stranger with legal papers.
Ifeoma, normally unflappable, was rattled. She rushed to me as I stepped out. “Please, missus. I was afraid. I signed what he instructed me to. He said I must. He said to me, ‘This is not your problem. You should not bring trouble upon yourself for the people who live in this big house. They do not own this big house. You should not lose your permit to work in order to defend these people. They would not do the same for you.’ He said, ‘You are a guest in this country. If you do not cooperate with the court, the court will send you back to your own country.’ ”
Anger boiled hot inside me. I wanted to get in my car, find the man who’d coerced Ifeoma into cooperating, and ram the papers down his throat. How many times had I defended clients who, because of their immigrant status, because of a lack of knowledge of the U.S. legal system, were forced into making dangerous decisions? Now, when the issue landed on my doorstep, I wasn’t there to handle it. “He can’t have you sent back, Ifeoma. Justice of the Peace Court and Immigration Court are two completely different things. He was just trying to force you to sign for delivery of the eviction notice.” My body, tense and prepared for confrontation a moment ago, went limp and numb. There was nothing to do now but look at the papers, and try to make some sense of them. It was almost five on a Friday afternoon. No doubt, the J.P. Office wouldn’t be answering phones until Monday. “Where are the papers?”
“On the table in the front entrance.” Ifeoma’s expression moved from fear to anger. Tightening her fists at her sides, she glared down the street. “Please accept my apologies for my foolishness, missus. I was in consideration of my son. There is no life for us in Ghana.”
“I understand. It’s not your fault. I’ll take care of it. Are my father and Teddy all right?”
“Teddy and your father are watching a television program. They do not know of the man. I placed the papers inside, and I awaited your arrival.”
“Okay.” I felt the weight of the eviction notice, the pregnancy test, everything. I wanted to be alone, to think. “You can go on to work now. Thanks for waiting.”
She apologized again, then hurried toward her car, already late. I went into the house quietly and took the envelope from the table, then tucked it under my arm with the pharmacy bag and the bank folder into which I’d hastily scooped the contents of my father’s safe-deposit box before rushing out of the bank to confront Hanna Beth.
I walked silently up the stairs. Alone in my bedroom, I laid all three on the bed, stood staring at them, trying to decide which to open first.
None of them. None… .
Finally, I picked up the envelope, pulled the delivery slip off the front, sat on the edge of the bed and took out the papers. Leafing through the stack, I tried to make sense of the contents—notice of eviction, foreclosure paperwork, an official-looking document in which an LMK Limited, Inc., claimed to have legal ownership of my father’s house. Who was behind LMK Limited? My father had been transferring money to the company regularly—making investments? He’d always been known to lightly invest in various speculative drilling projects. Had he made some sort of bad investment with LMK Limited? Surely he wouldn’t have offered the house as collateral in some sort of business deal. The contents of the safe-deposit box made no mention of LMK Limited. There was a folder detailing some of his investments and a letter from a local law office—something to do with my father’s interests in Blue Sky Real Estate Trust—but I’d only given it a cursory glance.
What if my father didn’t know LMK Limited existed? What if he’d never arranged for money to be funneled from his checking account into LMK? What if someone else had made those arrangements without his knowledge? Kay-Kay, Kenita Kendal? If she could siphon money from my father’s checking account, what else could she do? Convince him to sign over ownership of the house? Take everything he had?
It was possible. Of course, it was possible. In fact, my father, Hanna Beth, and Teddy were perfect targets. What would have happened if I hadn’t come to town? Trapped in the nursing home, Hanna Beth would have no knowledge of events taking place at the house. My father and Teddy could be evicted, perhaps turned over to Social Services. No one would ever know the difference.
Kenita Kendal could walk away a wealthy woman… .
Over my dead body. No way would I allow this to happen to my family.
Family. The thought was surprisingly concrete, startlingly real. Since my mother’s death, family had included only Kyle’s relatives, myself, and Macey—a tiny group of kin with no biological ties remaining on my side of the genetic tree. Now, I belonged once again to the Parker family, whose history was rooted in this house on Blue Sky Hill.
If Kay-Kay was behind the eviction notice, she was about to find out that the Parkers didn’t give up without a fight. We’d file charges, fight this thing in court all the way to the end, if we had to. The first order of business was to more closely examine the papers from the safe-deposit box—study every scrap, see what clues my father had left for me.
Standing up, I tossed the eviction notice onto the bed. The pharmacy bag slid off, spilled open. Sixty-second result! the package touted. In sixty seconds, I could know for certain, rule out the possibility and concentrate on the immediate threat of the eviction.
I picked up the pregnancy test, read the instructions as I walked to the bathroom. Over ninety-nine percent accuracy in less than sixty seconds. One line, not pregnant. Two lines, pregnant. Easy-to-read results… .
Why wait? the box said. I stared at the words as I closed the bathroom door, performed the test, set it atop the box and stared at the indicator, uncertain of what to hope for.
I’m overreacting. This is silly. I’m overreacting.
What would I do if it was positive? Would I tell Kyle? When? Before confronting him about Susan Sewell? After? What was the proper order?
There was nothing proper about a pregnancy in this situation. Nothing. I couldn’t even wrap my mind around the idea, cou
ldn’t picture myself showing up at the kindergarten door, one of those perimenopausal moms the twenty-somethings looked to for advice. Macey would be in high school, a sophomore by the time this baby entered first grade. What in the world would Macey say if I told her there was a baby on board? For so long, she’d been the only one.
How could I bring a child into our life? Our crazy, mixed-up, disintegrating situation didn’t even allow time for the three of us, and now included responsibility for the care of my father, Hanna Beth, and Teddy… .
I couldn’t possibly be pregnant.
I couldn’t be.
Pregnant.
My head swirled as the results took shape on the test strip. Faint, at first. One line, then two, the second wavy and pale, as if the test kit were toying with the idea.
I wished the second line away, closed my eyes. No. No. No.
I heard Mary and her boys come in downstairs. My hands jerked self-consciously toward the test, my heart raced, and I glanced toward the door like a teenager smoking in the bathroom.
Swallowing the acidic, pulsating lump in my throat, I turned back, met myself in the mirror—tired hazel eyes and sallow skin from so many nights of not sleeping. Worry lines around the corners, still faint, but in a few years I’d either have to resign myself to aging or to having those treated. In Southern California, plastic surgery is always on the leading edge, a socially acceptable topic of conversation.
I’ll get a face-lift between diaper changes …
The idea pushed a painful, sardonic laugh past the lump in my throat.
Stop, just stop.
Bracing my hands on the counter, I turned my gaze downward, past the ornate gold mirror frame, past the black and white octagon tile backsplash, past the clamshell-shaped sink, to the right, to the right, to the right, until the test came into view. I stood staring at it, feeling the room, the house, the world spinning around me, whirling, whirling, until I couldn’t keep my balance. An oozing blackness closed in, tightened around the corners of my vision. I tried to blink it away, dimly felt myself reeling backward, floating like the leaf in the Japanese garden, twirling, falling. I heard myself crash against the cabinets, felt the slight stab of pain as my head hit the counter, and then, mercifully, everything was quiet. I let the breath go out of my lungs, and sank into silence.
I awoke amid softness, lying on something tilted, so that my body leaned in one direction. Blinking my eyes open, I took in the blurry image of the dragonfly light, the bulb pushing a painful brightness through the bits of colored glass. Outside the window, the sun had descended behind the pecan trees. Teddy was sitting on the edge of the bed, his weight pressing down the mattress on one side.
“Hieee, A-becca,” he whispered, then called toward the door. “She wakin’ up!”
I heard Mary enter the room. Bending over the bed, she looked into my eyes, first one, then the other. “Do you feel all right? I called Dr. Barnhill. He said we should probably bring you to the emergency room so they could check you out. You could have a concussion. You hit the floor pretty hard.”
The floor, I thought. The floor … I hit the floor? What floor? Blinking again, I tried to get my bearings.
“Bonked your head,” Teddy offered. “Me and Brandon gone get my hun-erd fit-ty-two cars, and boom!” Wheeling his hands outward, he imitated the sound traveling through the house.
“We heard it in the bathroom and went and got Mama,” Brandon added from the doorway. Brandon, who often translated Brady’s sentences, had developed a habit of translating for Teddy, as well.
“Boys,” Mary scolded. “Downstairs. Now.” She turned back to me apologetically. “We should probably go get you checked out.” I felt a stab of pain as she parted the hair on my left temple. “No.” I moved to sit up. Head reeling, I sank back against the pillows. “Just … just let me wait … a minute.” Laying a hand over my eyes, I tried to think, tried to put together the chain of events that had left me on the bathroom floor. Did I get sick to my stomach again? I was sick in the morning… .
“Ifeoma called from work and told me what happened this afternoon. ” Mary’s voice seemed far away. I wished she would be quiet so I could concentrate. “I know you must be upset … about the house, I mean. It has to be a mistake. Mr. Parker wouldn’t sell this house. He loves it. He’s always talking about growing up here, and showing Brady and Brandon little secret places where he liked to play. He’d never sell this house. It’s a mistake, isn’t it?”
The house … the house… .
I felt Teddy shift beside me, turn toward Mary. “This Daddy Ed house, Mary. Daddy Ed house.”
Mary’s look of apprehension brought everything back in a rush. The computer, the secret drawer in the gray metal desk, the safe-deposit box, the visit to Hanna Beth’s room, the truth about Teddy, the truth about my mother, the house. “The papers …” I’d left the eviction papers on the bed.
“I put them on the desk.” Mary pointed.
The papers … the pregnancy test. The pregnancy test was still on the bathroom counter. I sat up, turned toward the door, tried to swing my legs around, but Teddy was in the way.
“I cleaned up in the bathroom.” Mary averted her gaze, embarrassed, then laid a hand on Teddy’s shoulder. “I think she’s all right now, Teddy. I’ll stay with her another minute or two if you’ll go down and watch the boys for me.”
Teddy pressed his lips together in a rare frown, the bottom one pursing out. “You ohh-kay, A-becca?”
“I’m all right, Teddy.”
He blinked hard, his eyes growing moist.
“I’m all right, Teddy,” I said, a bit more emphatically. “I just … slipped on the tile. It’s a good thing you were there to pick me up.”
Normally, the comment would have won a honk-laugh, or at least one of his broad grins, but his lips trembled downward instead. “Don’t go way like Mama, A-becca. Don’t go way like Mama.”
My heart constricted, fell into his worried gaze. Finding me crumpled on the floor must have been like finding Hanna Beth the day of her stroke. “I’m not going away, Teddy.” I reached out and hugged him to me and was filled with a rush of love that was deep, instinctive, warm like his body against mine. Teddy, my brother, who knew how to nurture fragile things, to believe in the potential of tiny seeds. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“You a good girl, A-becca,” Teddy sniffled.
“I love you, Teddy,” I said, and I felt the words down deep.
The embrace ended as spontaneously as it began, and Teddy left to go entertain the boys.
Mary picked up a damp washcloth from the nightstand and folded it absently, listening as Teddy disappeared down the hall. “I’m sorry he got so scared. He cares about you a lot.”
“I know he does.”
Mary turned her attention back to the washcloth, unfolded it, then folded it again, as if she had something on her mind but was debating whether to say it. “You’re lucky … to have a family, I mean. I know it seems like a lot to handle right now, but you’re lucky.”
I realized I didn’t know much about Mary, except that she and her husband had recently split. Watching her, I’d tried to imagine being in her shoes, left alone with two young children, ongoing expenses, medical bills, day-care charges, and a nurse’s aide job that probably didn’t pay nearly enough to cover everything. Another reality struck me as she shook out the washcloth and twisted it around her finger. My father, Hanna Beth, and Teddy weren’t the only ones dependent on this house. Mary’s future, at least for now, was wrapped up here, too. It was becoming increasingly clear that she and the boys didn’t have anywhere else to go.
“Don’t worry about the eviction papers,” I said. “There’s no way anyone’s getting this house. You’ll still have a job here for however long you want it.”
The nervous movement of her hands stopped. “Don’t feel like you have to … I know you think we’re desperate.” Cheeks reddening, she fluttered a glance my way.
“That has noth
ing to do with it. You’re wonderful with my father. Teddy adores the boys and you know Hanna Beth loves you. We’ll make it work, all right?”
Her lips parted in a long, slow sigh. “It feels good to be someplace like this—around a family, I mean. It’s been just Joshua and me since I got pregnant with Brandon. I keep thinking Joshua will come back, and things’ll be easier. He loves us … it just … it was harder than he thought it would be, leaving community, getting a place to live, trying to pay for everything. You don’t learn how to do any of those things in community.”
“In community?” I repeated, sensing that we might be entering a long discussion for which I didn’t have time. Even so, I sat waiting for Mary’s answer.
“In community, everyone lives and works together—like a family, kind of. We have separate houses, but they’re all part of the community. The believers raise pecans and organic crops, operate a gristmill and produce whole-grain flour, do handmade crafts and things like that. It’s all for sale in the store. People come off the highway to buy things, and then the store supports the community.”
“Like a commune?” I felt as if we’d entered an episode of 48 Hours, an exposé on strange, alternative ways of living.
Mary drew back at the word. “They don’t call it that. Members are free to come and go. Joshua and I left”—snapping her lips closed, she swallowed hard, thought carefully about her next words—“before Brandon came.”
“Do people ever go back?”
“I can’t go back.” A flush painted Mary’s cheeks, and she tilted her face away. “It wouldn’t be a good place for me, or the boys.”
“Did your husband go back?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t think so. The apartment rent came due, and then he was just … gone. He left the van with the keys in it and a note that said he was sorry he’d messed up our lives.” Her gaze lifted, met mine, and I felt the weight of yet another crushing set of expectations, another complicated mishmash of needs.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered, shuddering at this glimpse into Mary’s background. It was a wonder she seemed so well adjusted.
