We boarded the Boeing 747, bounced Sam on our laps, and gave her a cookie to chew on during takeoff. When she shrieked from the noise and air pressure of the plane, I pushed her piece of satin blanket top into her little hand, held her tightly against my chest, and promised her that soon we’d be home.
“Do you hurt, baby?” I whispered to her, rubbing the outsides of her ears.
Sam looked up at me, made the briefest eye contact, before looking away, as if to say, Not as much as I used to.
When finally we arrived home, the bubble of emotion exited me: I emitted an embarrassingly loud squeak that turned the heads of passersby. Tears poured down my face. The glorious sign read, The U.S. Customs Service Welcomes You to the United States. When we cleared customs and made our way down to baggage claim, the tears gushed again at the sight of Claire, my sister who was usually so well composed, crying in anticipation of our arrival. With Maura on her hip and Sam on mine, we clustered in a hug that smeared mascara and lipstick, a huddle of happy, happy tears.
“Look at us,” Claire said, wiping her eyes.
“Yeah,” I said. “Finally.”
PART THREE
Chapter Sixteen
Two days later, on Christmas Eve, we gathered at Claire’s. Her house was decorated exquisitely, as if Martha Stewart herself had waved a crafty wand. A ten-foot Fraser fir was wrapped in tiny yellow lights, garlands spiraled around the staircase banister, and piney wreaths welcomed our arrival. Bowls of candy adorned each table. Eggnog was chilled. Stockings were hung, especially a new one, freshly embroidered with the name Samantha.
Davis and Delia were there, and Martha, Ross’s mother, was there, too. Maura was buzzing around with the energy of a kid who had eaten a pound of candy. I sat in front of the tree with Sam. By the way she marveled at the lights, I figured that she’d be happy staring at them for a while. Claire had pulled out packed-away gear from Maura: a bouncing chair, a walker, a Johnny Jump Up. I inserted Sam into the walker and she hung from the harness, mesmerized, reaching for the ornaments.
“What do you think, sweetheart?” I asked, tracing my finger across her cheek. “Do you like the tree?”
I thought of my friend, Amy DePalma, and how she warned me against overstimulating Sam. “These kids need to be eased in to everything!” she told me. “When you get her home, don’t let her have a trunk full of toys or her choice of food to eat. I’m serious, Helen,” she said. “Strip her room to nothing but the crib. It’s what she’s used to. Anything more will freak her out.”
I nodded and agreed, because if anyone knew, Amy did. But how could we avoid the excess of Christmas? I looked at the tree. It seemed to be buoyed by an island of presents, many of which I knew were for Sam, my daughter from rural China who came with one possession—a strip of satin blanket top.
Though we were at Claire and Ross’s, Tim offered to cook. He had picked up a beef tenderloin, which he planned to sear on all sides, warm in the oven, and serve pink and juicy—thick slices of filet mignon. While Sam admired the ornaments and her new cousin, Maura, dancing around her, I went into the kitchen and whipped up a few batches of rosemary biscuits and a piecrust. Tim roasted red peppers for the soup. Claire skinned potatoes.
The night wrapped around me like a warm blanket. The emotion that now bubbled out of me was pure gratitude. To be with Tim, home with Sam, bonded tightly with my sister, nearly filled a hole in me that had existed since Mom died. I thought of Larry, wondered what he was doing at this exact moment. I wondered if he was home alone in his recliner, sipping eggnog, listening to Bing Crosby. He was what was left. The one missing piece. The last inch of the hole to be filled. Maybe by this time next year, we’d have adopted him, too.
Later, we dressed Maura and Sam in matching flannel Christmas pajamas and situated them on the sofa for a photo shoot. Maura took her big-cousin job seriously, holding tightly to her little cousin. Christmas lights twinkled, “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” played, cameras winked and whined, all while Sam looked up curiously, offering the occasional smile when Maura tickled her.
Fifty shots later, I finally had the photo that summed up my emotional state, the photo that would stand iconic for this first Christmas with my new daughter: Sam staring dreamily into Maura’s eyes, astonished and amazed, wondering (not unhappily so) how the heck she had ended up here.
When we said good night, I pulled Claire aside. “These last few years…” I stumbled to put into words an apology for my half-decade depression.
“Forget about it,” Claire said, waving away my concern.
“I’m happy now,” I said. “I’m really happy now.”
“Same,” Claire said. “And I’m wild about my new niece. She is the cutest thing in history.”
“What about Larry?” I asked.
“What about him?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Just thinking.”
“You keep thinking,” she smiled. “I’m going to bed.”
The next morning, Delia helped me bathe Sam. Once she was dry and powdered and creamed, we wrestled her into a pair of ruffled-bottom tights and a ruby taffeta Christmas dress. We clutched our sides laughing at the sight of her, her little head, with tufts of black hair sprung in every direction, bobbling above the too-puffy dress. The more we laughed, the more Sam laughed, our little sidekick, solidly in cahoots.
On our way to church, I thought back to the last time I’d been at St. Mary’s. It must have been a Christmas or two ago, when Claire had dragged me along with one of her “Christmas and Easter is the least you can do” guilt trips. I had sat in the pew next to Claire and watched the families stroll in. Pregnant mothers in their bulging maternity dresses, holding babies on their hips, others by the hands. Hordes of families with strings of children: three, five, seven, ten. I remember a ladder of girls sitting in front of me in their red-and-green smocked hand-me-down dresses. The littlest was probably three, the oldest in her teens. One of the middle girls looked back at me, shrugged her shoulders as if to ask, Where’s yours? I swirled my finger at her, indicating that she should turn around. I didn’t need a slice from the fertile-Myrtle pie mocking me, too. Today, though, I was one of them. I was finally a member of the one group I had always wanted to join. My empty arms were now full.
Once in the pew, I slid down onto my knees, closed my eyes, and thanked God. Having Sam in my arms after years of disappointment seemed like a true miracle. The idea of adopting once had felt heavy and false, and now it felt light and right, like the mystery of thick sugar and viscous corn syrup combining to create a delicate crown of spun sugar.
After Mass, I kissed Sam good-bye and left her in the care of Tim and his parents. I was on my way to meet Claire at the cemetery to visit Mom’s grave.
“Are you sure you don’t want us to come along?” Tim asked.
“Definitely,” I said. “I won’t be gone long. When I get home, we can have lunch, okay?”
Kisses and hugs, and then I was behind the wheel. It took me only a moment to notice that I couldn’t help checking the rearview mirror for split-second glances at Sam’s car seat. The maternal instincts that I once feared were trapped in my defective ovaries were thrumming, as alert as a school crossing guard.
Half an hour later, I pulled through the wrought iron entrance to Oak Creek Cemetery. I parked and started up the hill that led to Mom’s gravesite. As I crested the hill, I saw Claire, on her knees in front of Mom’s headstone. I watched as she doubled over, wiped her eyes, and shook her head as in disbelief.
I eased my way up, and careful not to startle her, I said in a soft voice, “Hi, Claire.”
“Oh!” she said, standing up, wiping her eyes. “You got here fast.”
“Are you okay?” I asked, searching her face.
“Definitely!”
“Why are you crying?”
“Oh, tears of joy,” she said. “You know, sometimes you’re just overwhelmed with gratitude.”
“Claire, seriously,” I said. “You�
�re upset. What’s going on?”
Claire wiped her face again. “Seriously, Helen, it’s Christmas! What on earth would I have to be upset about?”
“Is everything okay with Ross? Maura?”
“Of course,” she said. “That was part of this little tear-fest,” she said. “Maura wore this black velour dress to Mass this morning with these little high-heeled shoes, and I’m telling you, Helen, it nearly killed me. She looked so grown up. I just kept thinking, ‘Here we go…’”
“So you’re okay?” I asked. “You’re sure?”
“Definitely,” she said. “Now let’s spend some time with Mom.”
Two weeks later, Davis and Delia were packing their suitcase, preparing to go back to North Carolina. I stood in the doorway with Sam on my hip. “Thank you so much for being here,” I said. “For helping me with Sam, for stocking the fridge, for all the cleaning and handiwork you’ve done around the house. It’s been a wonderful homecoming.”
“We’ll stay if you need us, dear,” Delia said, reaching for Sam, the new granddaughter she couldn’t get enough of.
“I’d love it,” I said. “But we’ll be fine. We need to get into a routine.”
That night, Tim cooked pork chops the way we had learned to do in the French countryside, dredged in flour, slow-cooked in milk, and served over a pile of creamy potatoes. The meal was delicious and we all ate slowly, savoring every morsel of food. We passed Sam around and savored her, too.
The next day, Sam and I waved good-bye to Davis and Delia, and then an hour later to Tim, who was eager to get back to the restaurant.
With Sam in my arms, we walked through the eerily quiet house.
“Now what?” I said.
Sam glanced at me, testing her eye contact, as if to say, If I weren’t here, what would you do?
“That’s the thing, peanut,” I said, gently touching my finger to her nose. “Before you came along, I spent a lot of time sulking. I spent a lot of time in bed, watching soap operas and wanting what I couldn’t have. And when I ventured out, I often times landed in front of my father’s house. Maybe we’ll do that later,” I said. “Would you like to meet your other grandfather?” I tickled her tummy.
Sam smiled, showing her dimple. I took that as a yes.
“Before all that nonsense,” I told her, “I was a chef. A pastry chef, mostly. Dad and I own a restaurant, what do you think of that?”
Sam glanced at me again, pursed her lips.
“Okay, okay,” I said. “We need a routine.” I looked at the clock—ten o’clock in the morning. Sam was due to eat. I strapped her in the high chair and mixed a bottle of formula. Then I tossed a handful of cooked rice into the fry pan and cracked an egg on top, heated it for just a minute, and set it in the refrigerator to cool. I opened a jar of squash and sat down next to Sam. She took a few bites of the squash, ate the rice and egg in its entirety, and drank most of her bottle. Then I held her and burped her, flipped up flashcards and called out their names, clapped when she smiled. Then I changed her diaper and dressed her in a fresh zipper-suit. When I looked at the clock, it was only eleven. This was going to be a long day.
“Don’t worry,” I told her. “When you’re a little older, we’ll do lots of fun things. We’ll bake sugar cookies and have tea parties. You’ll be the only toddler in town who knows how to make snickerdoodles from scratch.
“And maybe, too,” I said, testing the words out loud, “maybe we’ll start the paperwork to get you a sister. Wouldn’t that be nice? A mei mei?”
Sam looked at me as if she recognized the word sister and kicked her happy legs.
“But you’d better be nice to her,” I said. “Being a big sister is a big responsibility. Your Aunt Claire was a little too bossy, if you ask me.”
I sat Sam on her blanket and started a Baby Einstein DVD, drank a cup of coffee, and read a few e-mails on my phone. Amy DePalma had written, sent a few photos of her girls and a link to an adoption website for me to check out. I was just hitting “send” on my reply to her when the doorbell rang, followed by the turn of the key and Claire’s singsong, “Yoo-hoo!”
“Hi!” I said, and hugged her. “I’m so happy to see you! I’m going out of my mind today with everyone gone. It’s so quiet and time is, like, crawling! Don’t get me wrong,” I rambled. “This is what I wanted, but seriously, Claire, I can see how moms lose their freaking minds being at home all day with a baby.” I covered my mouth with my hand in case Sam had heard. “I’ve only had her for a couple of weeks and I already think that I need more kids. I was kind of hoping for enough noise to fill the house,” I said. “Is that weird?”
“Of course not,” she said. “It sounds like you.”
“How so?” I asked, walking into the kitchen to get us a drink.
“You like activity, excitement,” Claire said. “You’re at your happiest when you’re busy, under fire, traveling around, cooking for a crowd, working against the clock.”
“What about you?”
“We’re different,” she said. “I kind of love being home with just Maura. You have to remember, I’ve been waiting twenty-five years to be in this position—being still. I went from taking care of Mom, to taking care of you, to working myself to the bone through college and grad school, then up the ranks at Goldman Sachs. I just want to sit back and enjoy my daughter and husband. But that’s just me.”
“That’s good,” I said, considering her point.
“Remember,” she said. “I’m six years older than you—an old lady compared to your youthful thirty-six.”
“Yeah, you’re ancient.”
“Anyway, I’m kind of glad that you’re bored right now because I might need some additional help from you. With Maura.” Claire strained her mouth into an odd smile.
I poured lemonade for us and then led Claire back into the family room. “What are you talking about?” I sat down on the floor next to Sam, hoisting her up higher on her pillow. “Is there a problem at her preschool?”
“Oh, Helen, this is going to be hard on you.”
“On me? What’s going to be hard on me?”
“Brace yourself, Helen,” Claire said.
“Wait! Could you keep an eye on Sam?” I heard the nervousness in my voice. “I’ve just got to run to the bathroom real quick.” I ran upstairs and into my bedroom and then into my bathroom, closed the door, and sat on the toilet seat. My heart thumped as a wave of nausea coursed through my stomach. When I squeezed my eyes shut, a kaleidoscope of colors blurred and resolved into a scattering of dots. No, no, no. I opened my eyes, stared at the white wall, and shook my head back and forth as tears rose in my throat.
“Helen.” Claire knocked on the door. “Come out, okay?”
I shook my head no.
“Helen, come on.”
I stood, opened the door. Sam was on Claire’s hip, playing with my sister’s earring.
The three of us sat on the bed. Claire reached for my hands.
“What you’re about to say”—I was breathless—”it’s not good, right?”
“No, it’s not good.”
We looked at each other, breathed.
“Just say it.”
“I’ve got the cancer, Helen. I’ve got Mom’s cancer. Ovarian.”
“They’re wrong,” I insisted. “There’s got to be a mistake. There’s no way that you could. You’re checked all of the time!”
“I go in every year,” Claire said. “But you know there’s no real way for them to screen for it.”
“Did you get a second opinion? Those stupid doctors are wrong all of the time! Maybe they got your chart mixed up.”
Claire hugged me and I hugged her and our bodies shook in jolting sobs. I was shocked but not shocked; part of me had been expecting this bomb to drop every day of my life. And it felt exactly as I had imagined it would, as if I were drowning. When I was maybe ten years old, I jumped into a swimming pool with a T-shirt over my suit. As I drifted downward, my air bubbles floating to the top,
I pulled the T-shirt over my head. As I did, the heavy fabric sucked against my face and I was unable to pull my uplifted arms through the armholes. For a few seconds, I was straight-jacketed. That was when I learned that I was in control of only so much, that I’d be fighting forces bigger than myself for my entire life.
“I’m going to fight it,” Claire said. “God knows I’ll fight it harder than anyone and I will win. I’ll be damned if I’m going to leave Maura alone in this world.”
“When did you find out?”
“I just found out. It was that pain in my side. I thought it was a muscle pull, but it was actually a symptom. The blood they drew the other day was tested and the count was all off. They called me back and did an ultrasound and found a lump.”
“But they can’t know exactly what it is until they operate,” I argued, even though I knew that ovarian cancer was one of the sneakiest thieves in town, robbing you blind before you even noticed it was there. Symptoms could just as easily be from indigestion or a pulled muscle as from the cancer.
“Next week. They’ll do a laparotomy and see if the mass is just on the ovary or if it’s spread elsewhere.”
“Okay,” I said, standing up, lifting Sam into my arms, and beginning to pace across the room. “We’ll just need to get you the absolute best doctors. We’ll go to Johns Hopkins. That’s the benefit of living in the nation’s capitol. We have great doctors. We just need the best, and you’ll be okay, right, Claire?”
“My doctors here are good,” Claire said. “At this point, it’s standard procedure. Maybe down the road…”
“What’s Ross say?”
“Ross is in denial, and he seems irritated with me that I didn’t recognize the symptoms in light of Mom. Like I should have known what ovarian cancer feels like. But the thing is, there weren’t symptoms, just a twist in my side that came and went. It ached like a pulled muscle. Now that I know, I guess I’ve been a little bloated, but who hasn’t had that every now and then?”
Daughters for a Time Page 15
