Heart's Desire

by Laura Pedersen

  Chapter Sixty-five

  WE’RE JUST SITTING DOWN TO DINNER THAT EVENING WHEN THE phone rings. Great, I think. After I’ve completely embarrassed myself, Ray is calling to say that he’s not going to make it again. I leap up from the table and bolt into the kitchen.

  However, it’s only Mrs. Farley looking for Bernard, which is not unusual. If those two aren’t talking about the adoption then they’re yammering away about decorating or gardening.

  “Please tell him it’s urgent,” she says. From the sound of her voice it’s obvious that she’s nervous. All I can think is that Edwin the Turd has changed his mind and the adoption is off again. I call into the dining room, where Bernard is serving the salad and Olivia is explaining to Ottavio how Alexander Graham Bell, the inventor of the telephone, was a Unitarian.

  Bernard takes the phone from me. “Mrs. Farley, how lovely to hear from you!” he says in his most charming manner. “And what perfect timing! I’ve discovered one of your lovely figurines in a lot I purchased at an estate sale this afternoon, the one with the little boy riding the blue dolphin.” Bernard turns and makes a face at me to indicate he’s never seen anything so gauche in his entire life.

  There’s a long pause while Bernard listens. It’s not apparent from his expression whether Mrs. Farley is opining about her new statuette or if she’s relating more bad news.

  “Special circumstances?” I hear Bernard ask with concern. “Yes, I see.”

  Gil comes in and stands next to him, sensing that something is amiss.

  There’s another long pause while Bernard listens. Olivia drifts in, to find the three of us all anxiously gathered around the phone.

  “Of course, that’s fine. Tomorrow at three. Yes, we’ll be at the airport by two o’clock sharp.”

  Did he just say airport?

  After hanging up the phone Bernard crumples into a nearby chair without uttering a word.

  “Is it the baby?” Gil the executive trainer is clearly mentally prepared for spontaneous parenthood.

  Bernard appears to be in shock and doesn’t answer him.

  “Is there something the matter with the child?” Olivia demands to know.

  “Sisters,” Bernard manages to gasp. “One is ten months and the other is two and a half. Both have a slight case of rickets that can easily be cured.”

  Gil, Olivia, and I all hug each other with excitement.

  “But I thought there’s a two-year waiting list for the first baby, and then you have to get on it again for the second one?” I ask.

  “A couple from Columbus was picking them up in Beijing yesterday, when the husband was indicted for white-collar crime back in the States.” Bernard sounds like an automaton.

  Ottavio enters the kitchen and Olivia explains to him in Italian since that’s faster.

  “Due bambine!” he says, clapping his hands together. One thing you can say for those Italians is they love anything that has to do with church or children. They must go absolutely wild at christenings since it’s a double-header.

  However, Bernard does not appear to be at all excited.

  Gil suddenly looks panic-stricken. “Oh my gosh!” he says. “There’s so much to do!”

  “Yes,” agrees Olivia. She jumps into action. “Brandt leaves for school in a few days. He’ll have to relocate to the sunporch until then.”

  Gil is right behind her. “I’ll call my office and take a personal day.”

  Bernard is still sitting at the table, dumbstruck. “You know, I’m not sure this is such a good idea after all.” He reaches for the phone. “I think I should call and—”

  Grabbing the receiver away from him, Gil shouts, “Oh, no you don’t! Those little girls just happen to be our daughters!”

  “Hallie, make some tea and put a nice shot of scotch into Bertie’s,” says Olivia. She takes the notepad we use for shopping lists off the counter and places it in front of Bernard, along with a pen. “Now, take a memo—two car seats, sleepers, blankets, bedding, diapers, formula, diaper-rash cream . . .”

  Bernard simply stares at the blank page.

  “Now, Bernard!” says Olivia, “We have exactly twenty-four hours to construct a nursery for two children. Hop to it!”

  Gil pulls the notepad away from him. “I’ve got it, keep going.”

  I’m almost to the front door when I call out, “I have to tell Craig!” After all, if he hadn’t asked his father for help, then Bernard might never have been put back on the adoption list. I dash outside to where he was fixing the filter for the pond, but he’s already left. Rushing back inside I phone his house. “Craig’s out with some friends,” his mother tells me. Ouch. I wasn’t invited “out” anywhere tonight. I can’t help but wonder if he’s with friends in general or one specific friend, as in a date. But I have a date coming up as well and so I can’t exactly complain.

  That evening as we all race through the department store in Timpany, Bernard still acts as if he’s in a trance, incapable of choosing between the circus mobile and the one with the Looney Tunes characters.

  Fortunately Olivia has taken charge, and of course incorporated her own agenda. “Go for the cartoons. I don’t trust circuses to treat the animals properly.”

  Chapter Sixty-six

  BEFORE WE LEAVE FOR THE AIRPORT BERNARD INSPECTS THE house and grounds as if foreign dignitaries from a dozen countries will arrive soon. It’s a soft gray day with heavy clouds working their way across the sky. In the hedges the silvery spiderwebs tremble with dewdrops. The gardens are bursting with flowers of all different heights and sizes. The bright blooms and the green grass have a gemlike intensity that will last for about another week before it all starts to fade. The only failure has been the inexplicable verbena blight. Last week the tall spiky plants with the different-colored flowers developed white spots and then keeled over as if they’d organized a mass suicide.

  Bernard has calmed down slightly since yesterday, or more likely, the enchanting serenity of the lush backyard, which seems to be taking on the very color of hope itself, is having a temporary relaxing effect on him. He even stops to pull a few half-wilted blooms off here and there, and rinse out the birdbath before refilling it.

  Together we stroll over to the pond, which Craig had finally finished the day before, and admire the tranquil preserve with colorful fish gliding through the water as dragonflies pirouette above and whirligig beetles skim the surface. Raindrops hang from the pampas grass around the edges like tears clinging to eyelashes. Bernard had given Craig free rein on the shape of the pond and Olivia had secretly convinced him to make it into a replica of Cuba, in order to protest US government sanctions that prevent the common citizens from raising their standard of living. A lion-head fountain pours a slipstream of water out of its mouth, making a constant ripple to mark the capital, Havana. Near the banks Craig had installed plants that thrive on water—hostas, ferns, Himalayan poppies, candelabra primulas, rhododendrons, irises, bamboo, and dozens of Asian lilies.

  When Olivia came inside early this morning she said that with the mist rising off the pond and the lily pads appearing a bit blurry around the edges, it reminded her of a painting that Monet did of his water garden in Giverny.

  Bernard clutches his chest and says, “It takes my breasts away.” This is the highest compliment he gives to anything.

  A faint rainbow starts to spread across the sky in the east. We both look at it appreciatively and then Bernard turns to me and gives the impression that he’s scrutinizing my acid-washed jeans and T-shirt with JOE’S CAR WASH emblazoned on the front. Nodding back toward the rainbow, he uses the moment as an opportunity for a fashion lesson. “You see, even God accessorizes with colorful little touches here and there for special occasions.”

  I return to the previous subject. “Craig did a terrific job on the pond. I’ll sort of miss having him around.”

  Bernard gives me an I told you so glance and then innocently states, “Of course, I didn’t mean to throw the two of you together. I mer
ely thought that as long as you were so determined to do this . . . this thing . . . that he’s such a nice young fellow. And no matter what happened, you’d never be sorry about it.”

  “You still want me to wait.”

  “Yes, of course. But I’d have you waiting until you were forty, so you can’t listen to me. It’s just that men can be such . . . well, it’s not as important to them, that’s all. Make sure it’s what you want and that you’re not trying to please somebody else.”

  From the kitchen window Gil signals us that we have to leave for the airport now. Once again a look of dread crosses Bernard’s face, and by the time we’re in the car I’m pretty sure he’s developed a nervous tic on the left side of his face.

  Mrs. Farley meets us at the airport with mounds of paperwork that Gil ends up having to take care of since Bernard is too rattled to cope. However, she assures everyone that “preadoption jitters” are perfectly normal. Then she proceeds to terrify us by explaining that the girls are going to be slightly malnourished, small for their ages, and developmentally behind. But she says this is typical for children who have been in these orphanages and that with the proper care they’ll catch up in no time at all. Mrs. Farley passes Gil an index card containing the names and numbers of two pediatricians in Cleveland who specialize in this sort of thing, since Bernard is now pacing in front of the snack bar and muttering to himself at a volume that is arousing the interest of a nearby security guard.

  The rest of us stare at the jetway, which has finally begun disgorging tired-looking passengers. I’d thought the babies would be sent off first, but we end up waiting until all the regular travelers have disembarked, and then there’s ten long minutes where nothing happens. Eventually we turn to Mrs. Farley, wondering aloud if there’s a chance they could have missed the flight.

  Meantime, the airport security guard has approached Bernard as a possible terrorist suspect. Olivia is called upon to explain why he’s behaving so erratically, and that it’s not his intention to plant a bomb. Though Olivia can’t help herself when a metaphor is within range, and proceeds to tell the guard how the writer Nora Ephron once equated having a baby to a bomb going off in a marriage. Between Olivia’s free-associations, Bernard’s muttering, Gil’s hand-wringing, and my jumping up and down on my toes to see above the crowd, the guard begins backing away. It’s apparent from his expression that he’s decided we’re not armed and dangerous, just slightly crazy.

  When we’re about to give up hope, and even Mrs. Farley is biting her lower lip while checking the notes on her clipboard and shifting her weight from one Bass Weejun to the other, two nuns in light brown habits carrying baby-shaped bundles in yellow blankets seem to magically appear in front of the gate.

  As the children finally come within reach, Bernard suddenly snaps to. While Olivia, Gil, and I are still exclaiming and cooing over the sleeping little girls, he begins barking orders about bibs and bottles. However, the nuns calmly assure him that the babies have been fed and are ready to go home.

  When we get in the car, I notice the little tags around their ankles that say “Ling” and “Ming.” “Oh my gosh, we forgot about the names.”

  “Those names are kind of cute,” says Gil. “We could keep them.”

  “Heavens, no!” Bernard bristles at the very idea. “They sound like pandas at the zoo.”

  “Just tell me you’re not still considering Hermione and Ethel,” pleads Olivia.

  “Close,” replies Bernard. “I’ve chosen Gigi and Rose. Hermione Gingold starred in Gigi, and Ethel Merman played the part of Mama Rose in Gypsy.”

  “Gigi and Rose,” repeats Gil, testing out the names.

  “Or else Cosette and Fantine,” says Bernard, “From Les Misérables.”

  “Gigi and Rose are perfect!” exclaims Gil.

  Chapter Sixty-seven

  THE GIRLS ARE ADORABLE, WITH THEIR MOON-SHAPED FACES, cheeks the color of pink impatiens, and dark almond-shaped eyes. The older one, Rose, has thick black hair and red, red lips that make her look like a porcelain doll. She babbles away and we don’t know if it’s Chinese or baby talk, or more likely, Chinese baby talk. Little Gigi looks like a tiny version of her older sister, but with chubbier cheeks and short spiky hair that Gil claims makes her look like a punk rocker. He sings Pat Benatar’s “We Belong” while rocking her in his arms.

  The first night goes smoothly enough. We feed them baby food and bottles and they’re sweet and all gurgles and smiles. Gigi is the happiest infant I’ve ever seen and has a sweet little laugh that could probably summon the sparrows right out of the trees. Bernard’s most pressing concern turns out to be what music he should play in order to foster their development—Mozart or a Chinese opera called The Lute Song.

  The next day I have to drive to Cleveland and attempt to dig up a new roommate, since one of ours fell through and we can’t afford the apartment without a fourth person. When I arrive home at a quarter past five, Bernard is quick to tell me that having children is the easiest thing in the world. In fact, he is actually criticizing the way Olivia picks up Gigi and Gil’s handling of bottle-warming, and generally putting on airs suggesting that after twenty-four full hours on the job he’s the new nationally recognized authority on the subject of parenting.

  However, after dinner baby Gigi starts crying and will not stop. Not even Olivia’s gentle rocking and soothing voice can calm her down. And Bernard’s rendition of Ethel Merman singing “The Lullaby of Broadway” seems to only make matters worse. Rocky is the first to defect. He heads outside, grinding his teeth and covering his ears with his hands. Though whether he’s fleeing because of Gigi’s wailing or Bernard’s high notes is difficult to determine.

  “Maybe she has colic,” suggests Gil. “My dad used to have to drive me around in the car for an hour every night in order to put me to sleep.”

  Gigi continues her howling. Bernard tears through all the baby books. “Look it up on the Internet!” he pleads with me. But all my search reveals is that “Crybaby” is a rap song featuring Snoop Dogg.

  After a solid hour of Gigi’s nonstop wailing, Bernard is one baby step away from The Nervous Hospital, and announces that he’s going to call a pediatrician. And if the doctor can’t be reached, they’re checking in at the Emergency Room, both of them. That’s when I get a truly brilliant idea.

  “My mom!” I practically shout, though more to be heard over Gigi than out of sheer excitement. “What an idiot! Why didn’t I think of this sooner? She could have written a dozen books on babies, only she’s been too busy having them! I’ll call her right now and ask her to come over.”

  Relief spreads across Bernard’s face and he quickly wraps a blanket around the sobbing child. “We deliver. It’s only half past seven. Do you think she’s at home?”

  “Are you kidding?” I ask. “You don’t go anywhere when you’re pregnant and raising six kids on a budget.”

  Gil stays behind to put Rose to bed while Bernard and I bring Gigi to my old house. By the time we arrive, the baby is bright red all over from wailing and I’m surprised she has any energy left at all. Sometimes she’ll stop for a few seconds to catch her breath and you think it’s going to quiet down but then she gets going again, louder than ever.

  We don’t even have a chance to knock before the door flies open, as if Mom is St. Peter working the gates and our names are next on the list. She doesn’t have to ask why we’re there, either.

  My mother smiles down at little Gigi and takes the suffering child into her arms. We follow her inside the house. Fortunately, Bernard is too distracted by the baby to be frightened by the decoupage situation. Simply put, between rainy-day projects and Mom’s final few weeks of every pregnancy, the house has been hit hard.

  Mom sits on the couch, positions Gigi facedown in her lap, and gently rolls her back and forth. “Gas,” she diagnoses with quiet authority. Soon some loud sounds emerge from the baby’s snuggly and she stops crying. “It has to come out one of two places,” Mom instructs us. �
��Either the basement or the attic.”

  When Mom lifts Gigi up again, the infant’s complexion has reverted to its normal pink-cheeked ivory. The baby glances over at us with eyelids drooping and promptly falls asleep.

  Darlene screeches through the room carrying a handheld video game, with her twin brother, Davy, in hot pursuit, only he’s slightly hampered by having his foot in a cast and trying to run on crutches.

  Mom shushes them and warns, “Give him back his game right now, Darlene, or you’re both heading off to bed this second.” Darlene relents and they scamper out of the room. Or rather, Darlene scampers off and Davy hobbles after her while attempting to trip her with his crutches. They’ve only been out of sight for a second when it’s obvious from Davy’s penetrating scream that Darlene has snatched the game right back.

  “What happened to his foot?” asks Bernard, his voice filled with concern.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” my mother says offhandedly. “They’ll never tell you the truth when it involves the other children. Probably wrestling.” It isn’t that my mother doesn’t worry about us, but with a total of eight kids, there’s always one in a cast, one getting flu, one with flu, and one just getting over flu. Teeth are knocked out or pulled out almost daily. It’s hard to believe that Mom was actually overprotective when Eric and I were toddlers. But a dozen broken bones and forty trips to the emergency room have turned her into something of a fatalist with regard to health and safety.

  Dad enters the room, carefully stepping over a large ant farm and a Lego robot, and then around a blanket fort, which ends up tripping him because a chair leg is sticking out.

  “Teddy!” my mom calls toward the back of the house. “Clean up this fort right now or you’re not playing baseball tomorrow!”

  “So how’s fatherhood?” Dad claps Bernard on the back in comradely fashion. Granted, it’s taken Dad a year to warm up to the Stocktons, but the fact that I miraculously ended up going to college after living in their house for nine months has had the effect of casting them in an extremely favorable light.