Daughters for a Time

by Handford, Jennifer

  “I did…I do,” he said, smoothing his silk tie. “I told them I needed to take a half-hour break.”

  “Good.”

  “But you already got her settled?”

  “I did, but go in anyway,” I urged. “She would love to see you.”

  “I don’t want to disrupt the class, if she’s already settled.”

  “They haven’t started yet. Go. See her.”

  Ross nodded hesitantly, looked in the direction of the school.

  “Ross, listen. I know you’re hurting.”

  Tears sprang to his eyes.

  I reached out and touched his arm. “And I don’t know how to say this to you without hurting you more, but Maura needs you in a way that you can’t even understand. You know that I will care for her, love her, cherish her as if she were my own, but you need to stay close to her. You need to scoop her into your arms, kiss her on the mouth, and sleep by her side. I’m telling you, Ross…You cannot let the distance between the two of you grow even one more inch. You’ve got to stay close to her. She’s got to know that her father is still here.”

  “It hurts so fucking bad,” he said, covering his eyes, rubbing them hard.

  “Claire and I needed our dad, Ross, and he wasn’t there. You’ve got to trust me when I tell you that you’ll regret making the same mistake.”

  Ross turned, clenching his jaw while tears poured down his face. When he opened his mouth, cries bellowed out like a baby’s. I wrapped my one arm around him, while Sam buried her face in the cave of our hug.

  “I love her so much,” he said.

  “Everyone knows that but her, Ross, and she’s the one who needs to know.”

  Ross nodded, kept holding on.

  “She’s going to be so excited to see you,” I said. “Go. Go now.”

  Each morning, after Sam and I dropped Maura at school, we’d walk across the parking lot to the church for morning Mass. The half-hour service each morning had become meaningful to me in a way I hadn’t yet figured out. But then again, I wasn’t clear on how most things worked: how the planets aligned, how the sun moved the waves, how birds knew when to fly south in the winter. So why did I need to understand the grace of God to believe in it? I still had my doubts, the doubts that had grown in me like a wildfire when Mom got sick. I still had my fury: What kind of God would take a mother from a daughter who needed her so badly? First Mom, now Claire. Even back when I was a kid, as Mom fought for her life, she’d tried to explain to me that God’s will was a mystery, not always easily understood. And while my doubts were still a part of me, I couldn’t deny that, in some way, on some level, I felt Claire and Mom. Still with me, undeniably so. And if I could still feel them, I reasoned, in at least that way they were not truly gone. What then was the truth about death and dying? Really, just maybe, it wasn’t so hard. Maybe it was all just a matter of faith. Those who had it were in the clear—for dealing, for understanding, for rationalizing. Those who didn’t were the ones who struggled. My resistance was still there, but I was veering in the right direction.

  There were other moments, plenty of them, when, clearly, I didn’t have it. Moments when my perspective was anything but divine, when my thoughts grew dark and murky, and finding meaning in any of the pain seemed a fool’s game. I hurt too much.

  From St. Mary’s, Sam and I headed down to Harvest. We had hired a part-time college student, Abby, to watch Sam for three hours each day. In those hours, Abby would wheel Sam to the park in her stroller, take her out to lunch, scribble pictures with crayons. Other than that, Sam was with me. By now, I had read plenty of resources on adopted children, and one point was clear: it was vital that Sam viewed me as her primary caregiver until a strong bond was established. I knew what it was like to miss, want, and need my mother. I never wanted Sam to feel that way.

  In my mornings without Sam, I would stand behind the stainless steel table, working through the motions that many would find monotonous: the cutting, the measuring, the stirring, the kneading. But I found deep pleasure in the repetition, the assurance that there were a few things in life that I could control. Margot—the other pastry chef—and I were now job-sharing. Allowing me to be a full-time mom to Sam and an attentive aunt to Maura.

  Tim had made a commitment, too, the day Claire died. He decided to let Philippe run and close the kitchen from Sunday through Wednesday. This way, he would be home with the family on four nights out of seven. And Larry was part of the gang now, too. He came over a few times a week. He and Maura were training Chip. Sit, come, stay. Larry would buckle Sam in the stroller and walk with Maura and Chip around the block, throw him a tennis ball in the backyard, and give him baths with the hose. The girls would take turns brushing him, rewarding him with biscuits. Eventually, I would put Sam down for a nap and set Maura in front of the television, and Larry and I would sit and drink coffee. Sometimes he’d talk about Mom; often we’d talk about Claire. I’d watch as his face would soften and a smile would turn up the sides of his mouth. He provided for me the one thing that Claire never could: he allowed me to talk about Mom, and now Claire. I had suspected all along that Larry and I were alike, that we were fellow wallowers in the past. We were good for each other that way.

  Sam was out with Abby one morning when my cell phone rang. On the phone was Mrs. Murphy, Maura’s substitute teacher. Her regular teacher had sprained her ankle and was on leave for the next three weeks.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked. “Is Maura okay?”

  “Everyone is fine,” Mrs. Murphy assured me. “I was just hoping to grab a few minutes with you before pickup today. Would that be okay?”

  The kids were on the playground when Sam and I showed up at school. Sam found the cardboard bricks in the corner of the classroom, while I perched on a little plastic chair with Mrs. Murphy, feeling like a giant.

  “It was such a gorgeous day today,” she began, “I decided to take the kids outside to eat their lunch on the hill while we did our music lesson. ‘Grab your lunch boxes and rhythm sticks,’ I told the kids, and we marched outside. After a while, I noticed that Maura wasn’t eating her lunch or playing her rhythm sticks. When I asked her what was wrong, she just looked down and wouldn’t answer me. You can see why I was concerned.”

  I pointed to the blackboard, where there were fat, colorful arrows—a pictoral flow chart of the day—clearly indicating the schedule. After “Arts and Crafts” was “Lunch.” After “Lunch” was “Music.” My heart was thumping. I wanted to throttle this woman. I thought of poor Maura, how she must have felt so betrayed by the schedule.

  “Maura just lost her mother,” I said, trying to steady my voice. “I figured that someone might have told you that. So for her, now, predictability is very important. In her mind, the day didn’t go according to plan,” I said, pointing at the flow chart. “That is what she expected,” I said, pointing to the arrows. “She needs to know exactly what to expect. As long as you stick to the routine, she’ll be fine. But being spontaneous doesn’t work for her. She’s a kid who doesn’t need more surprises, even small ones like a change in the schedule.” My stomach twisted in a knot.

  “I see,” she said, though her voice was strained.

  “I’m sure she’ll loosen up over time,” I said, wanting to be sure that I didn’t make this into something bigger than it was. “I’m just saying that the reason why she didn’t eat her lunch is because, according to the schedule, lunch comes after arts and crafts, but before music.”

  “Okay,” she said quickly, as though I’d hurt her feelings. “I think I understand.”

  Come on, lady! I wanted to say. She’s a kid. Just tell me that you can stick to the schedule.

  I softened my voice considerably. “Did she meet with Ms. Julia today? Maybe she has some thoughts on this issue.”

  That night, I sat on the edge of the tub, helping Sam and Maura wash and shampoo. Maura used to love baths, but now bubbles bothered her—the fact that she could never completely get them all off before she left
the tub.

  “I talked to Mrs. Murphy today,” I said to Maura. “She said that you didn’t eat your lunch.”

  Maura shrugged.

  “Did something happen at school today that upset you?”

  Maura shook her head.

  “I told her that you probably weren’t used to eating outside,” I said, offering Maura an out. “Plus, you were supposed to have lunch, then music, right? Not at the same time!” I said it in a silly voice with a slap to my forehead. “How can you eat lunch and play music at the same time, right?”

  “We have to make a family tree,” Maura said.

  “Oh, honey,” I said.

  “There’s a spot for a mom, but I don’t have one.”

  “You can still put a picture of Mom in it, honey.”

  “That’s okay,” she said. “I’m going to leave it blank.”

  Sam looked at me, splashed, and chanted, “Mama, Mama!”

  “Well, honey,” I said. “That’s up to you. Whatever makes you feel the most comfortable, but I think it would be nice to put a picture of Mom in the spot.”

  “I’m going to leave it blank,” Maura repeated, looking away, pouring cups of water over her arm, which was covered with stubborn bubbles.

  I used my hand to wash away the bubbles on her shoulders. “Did you meet with Ms. Julia today?” I asked, knowing that Tuesdays and Thursdays were the days she visited the school counselor.

  “Uh-huh,” she said, nodding.

  “What’d you two talk about?”

  “I said that I wanted Mommy to come to school with me,” Maura said.

  “And what did Ms. Julia say?”

  “She said that Mommy does go to school with me because she’s my angel.” Maura looked at me skeptically, gauging my reaction. The old Maura would have bought this, hook, line, and sinker. The new Maura had her doubts about everything.

  “I believe that’s true, Maura,” I said, bobbing my head up and down, putting my weight behind the Catholic school’s unequivocal rules of life and death. Rules where there was no wiggle room, no gray to contemplate, just black-and-white beliefs.

  “I hope so,” Maura said solemnly. She poured another cup of water over her arm. All of a sudden, light flooded her eyes and her mouth turned upward. “Maybe I could put a picture of Mom on the family tree,” she said excitedly, “and draw angel wings around it.”

  “You could do that, honey,” I said, pulling a strand of hair from her face. “You could definitely do that.”

  After bath time, Sam and I walked Maura across the street, just as the sun set in a fiery ball of vermillion on the horizon. Martha scooped her granddaughter into her arms. Eight o’clock at night and her father was still at work.

  “Mawa!” Sam called, reaching for her cousin.

  “I know, pumpkin,” I said. “You love Maura. We’ll see her tomorrow.”

  “Mawa,” Sam repeated, burying her face into my neck.

  As Sam and I crossed the street again, the sunset to our backs, and entered our house that was now firmly a home, a sudden jolt of electricity surged through me. An idea—the idea, a recurring thought, an ember that would not be extinguished—kindled again. But now, the idea was accompanied by a solid assuredness, a rightness, and a plan.

  “What’s with you?” Tim asked when he got home, a smile covering his face.

  “Oh, nothing!” I said. “Well, something,” I admitted. “I’ll tell you after I put Sam down.” In Sam’s room, I sat on the bed and read her a stack of books, tidied her room, and then tucked her in her crib. I leaned down and put my face near hers. “Mommy and Daddy love you, peanut,” I said. “Up to the sky and around the stars and through the clouds. We love you and we will forever and always.”

  “Moon,” Sam said, uttering another beautiful word to which she had heard me claim that my love was big enough to fly.

  “That’s right!” I nodded my head exaggeratedly with a gigantic grin. “We love you to the moon, too.”

  While Tim showered, I sat in the corner chair in our bedroom and watched my knee bounce. When Tim turned off the water and exited in a billow of steam, I popped up and stood in front of him.

  “I’ve been thinking,” I said, hearing the shakiness in my voice.

  “About?” Tim asked, going to his dresser for clothes.

  “Stuff,” I said, following him.

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “I can’t just say it.” I went to the bed, sat down, then stood again. “I need to preface it with some remarks.”

  “Some remarks,” Tim repeated. “Will there be a Power-Point presentation?”

  “Stop. This is hard to say.”

  “Just say it,” Tim said, smiling.

  “Okay,” I began. “Here we are, only five months after Claire’s death, and don’t get me wrong, it’s hell. I still wake up every day and feel sick when I remember that she’s gone. But in relative terms, I have to admit, there are some things that I like about our new situation. I like Ross and Martha living across the street. I like that Sam is like Maura’s little sidekick. I like having my wayward father back in our lives.”

  “It’s okay to be happy,” Tim said. “Claire wouldn’t want it any other way.”

  “Of course,” I agreed. “I just wish that it hadn’t taken her death to set all of this in motion. I wish she were living across the street.”

  “I know, sweetheart.”

  “You would think, with Claire dying, that I would feel less grounded than ever,” I said. “I mean, how can you count on anything when something like that can happen, right?”

  “You’ve had more than your share of heartache.”

  “Mom and Claire—cut down in the prime of their lives,” I said. “How could any of us—me, especially—not think that this could all end tomorrow? But I don’t feel that way anymore. I see now, having been hit over the head twice with the same pan, how precious life is.”

  “I get that.”

  “It’s like I finally get it. Sickness and accidents steal lives all the time, but that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t live. Look at Mom and Claire—motherhood wasn’t about an entire lifetime for them, but I know they wouldn’t have traded it for anything.”

  I took his hands and looked him straight in the eyes. “I have a plan. There are two parts.” My heart hammered and skipped.

  “A plan with two parts?” Tim raised his eyebrows. “What’s Part One?”

  “Part One is…” I looked at Tim and then covered my face with my hands as if I were a child. I hadn’t felt this charged up since the first time I held Sam’s referral photo. I opened my hands and said, “I want to use Claire’s frozen eggs and have another baby.”

  “You do?” A smile played over Tim’s face.

  “I do. I want to add to this family. I want Sam to have a sister. I don’t want to deny her that. I love how she and Maura have been together, and I pray that Maura will always be right here, but we can’t guarantee that. Someday Ross might remarry. He might move away. He and his new wife might have more children. Sam needs a sibling. She needs a sister.”

  I sat down on the bed, laid my head back onto the crisp pillow, closed my eyes, imagining a Christmas portrait of three-year-old Sam holding a newborn with Claire’s eyes.

  “You do know that these babies,” Tim said, “they come in girls and boys.”

  “It’ll be a girl.”

  “What will Ross say?”

  “I’ll—we’ll need to talk to him. I would never do it without his blessing.”

  “Do I dare ask what Part Two of this plan is?”

  “Part Two is that, after we have the baby…” I looked at him and a tear slid free from my eye. “I want to have a full hysterectomy to reduce my chances of getting the cancer.”

  Tim sat down and wrapped his arms around me. He kissed the top of my head and sighed. “That’s the best plan I’ve ever heard. Because, Helen, I couldn’t stand losing you.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I said, kissing
his stubbled cheek.

  “Damn straight you’re not.” He kissed me back. “You’re not leaving me with a houseful of girls to raise alone.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  A month later, Tim and I sat in Dr. Patel’s familiar office at the fertility clinic.

  “Prior to your sister’s hysterectomy, fifteen good eggs were aspirated and frozen from her good ovary,” the doctor said. “Enough eggs to try in vitro fertilization twice, if need be.”

  Tim squeezed my hand as I nodded.

  “The process of freezing eggs,” Dr. Patel went on, “isn’t as dependably successful as freezing embryos, but it does work.”

  “It’s worth a try,” I said.

  Claire’s eggs had been tested and treated, and now awaited Tim’s contribution, which, too, would be tested and scrubbed. Once fertilization occurred, we would wait three days, as the single cells split, and split again. Then four embryos would be injected via a very thin tube into my uterus. Once again, a Darwinian fight would ensue, and only the winner—or possibly, winners—would survive. After ten days, we would find out if any had implanted.

  “The success rate for women your age, Helen, is about twenty-five percent, so that’s something that we need to be realistic about.”

  “We understand that there are no guarantees,” I said. But, I thought, the chance of finding Sam was more than one in 1.3 billion people in China, and here we were with her.

  “And miscarriage,” Dr. Patel went on.

  “We also understand that there is a chance of miscarriage.”

  “On the flip side,” Dr. Patel said, “there is also a chance that more than one embryo will be viable.”

  “We understand that, too,” we said, laughing nervously at the thought of twins or triplets in addition to Sam.

  We thanked the doctor, told him that we’d make an appointment, but that there was one last thing we needed to do.

  A few weeks later, Tim and I sat down with Ross, proposed to him the idea of using Claire’s eggs. He cried when he said that he thought it would be a great gift to Claire. He wished us luck and hugged us both.