Anonymous Sources

by Mary Louise Kelly

  Now, surely the gods weren’t spiteful enough to let a girl get pregnant the very first time, from a quickie with the boy she was sure was the love of her life? Oh, but they were. It was such a cliché. My period wasn’t regular in those days, and there was no morning sickness. I waited more than three months before I sneaked to a pharmacy across town and bought a pregnancy test.

  When I finally took it and saw the definitive proof, I bawled and then began swinging between terror and denial. The practical thing would have been to quietly get an abortion. But I wasn’t thinking practically. I was thinking of how my parents would kill me. And I was secretly hoping—I know this is awful—that I might miscarry and the whole thing would take care of itself. Weeks somehow went by, then months. I wrote to the boy—the father—and fantasized that he would show up at my front door, ask me to marry him, and the story would have a fairy-tale ending. It didn’t happen.

  I was seriously skinny back then, and it was winter and then a chilly spring. I pulled off the leggings-with-a-baggy-sweater look for a long time before anyone noticed how much my waist had thickened. My mother gave me long, questioning looks at breakfast for most of April before she said anything. When she finally confronted me, I was nearly six months along.

  The scene with my parents was even more excruciating than I had imagined. But it was also a relief to let them take over and tell me what to do. By then it was too late for an abortion. Instead a “family emergency” was hastily concocted and sold to my teachers to get me out of the last three weeks of school. And my mother and I packed our things and left for a rented cottage in Maine. The plan was simply to hide me for three months. Then deliver the baby, give it up for adoption, and head back to school for my senior year. The timing actually worked beautifully. I was due on August 16.

  It all sounds terribly old-fashioned. But people in my parents’ social circle just don’t have unwed, pregnant, teenage daughters. Don’t get the wrong idea. My parents weren’t monsters. They were trying to protect their daughter. And I agreed with them. A baby was the last thing I wanted.

  I remember that cottage in Maine as idyllic, strangely enough. It was cozy and I had nothing to do but lounge around reading and watching movies. No one knew us up there, but I still wasn’t supposed to go into town, just in case. So my mother made grocery runs and went for long walks while I lay about feeling sorry for myself. In the evenings she would crack open a bottle of Scotch, pour herself a tumbler, and cook aggressively healthy meals. Kale and cabbage gratin. Spicy, scrambled tofu. Fennel and seaweed slaw. She urged me to eat for two. Why? Some impossible-to-repress grandmotherly instinct, even though she would never hold this grandchild in her arms?

  My dad came up once for a weekend visit. And every couple of weeks my mother would go home for a night or two, to see my father and to keep up appearances. It was on one of these weekends that my water broke. July 12. Exactly five weeks early. At first I ignored it, convinced the trickle of clear liquid between my legs was just one more indignity, proof that my last remaining vestiges of bladder control had gone. When the contractions began, I tried to ignore them too—surely just false labor, my body practicing for the big day. The doctor had told me this would happen. The pain cinched across my lower back, making my knees shake and the sweat bead across my lip and forehead.

  I waited until the clenching came every few minutes, until it was too late, too late to call my mother, too late to do anything but roll back and forth on the kitchen rug, sweating and panting and terrified. It was quick. Not like the war stories you hear. Only an hour or so of the very worst pain. I rocked my spine along that rug and screamed and then—sweet Jesus—there it was. A little girl. She slid onto the floor between my legs. She was covered in blood and wet. I looked at her. She was tiny.

  I lay there trembling. Blood was still pouring down between my legs. I wasn’t sure what to do. Clean her off, warm her up? There were supposed to be nurses helping me. The doctor. My mother. I hadn’t expected to do this alone.

  I picked up the child and put her to my shoulder. Clapped her back. I waited for a cough or a whimper. But she was quiet. I looked at her again, more carefully. Rubbed her little legs. Squeezed her. She was limp. She did not move.

  And then I was frantic. I hooked my finger and swept her mouth, pressing her warm tongue down, trying to clear her airway. Come on. I covered her mouth with mine and breathed, quick little puffs, hoping she would pink up. Hoping she would cry.

  When the ambulance arrived, I was sitting on the floor, rocking her. She was so light. So still. I am told they had to pry her from my arms.

  She never even opened her eyes.

  IN THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED, everyone spoke in whispers. They told me in low voices how sorry they were, so very sorry, and how brave I had been.

  The doctor explained that my daughter’s oxygen supply had been obstructed during her premature delivery. There was nothing I could have done. She would have felt no pain. He hoped I had gained some comfort from getting to hold her. He kept me in the hospital for the night and then sent me home with phone numbers for a women’s crisis hotline and a bereaved-parent support group.

  I never used them. Weeks went by and I began to feel better. I wrote in my diary, and that helped. By the time school started back after Labor Day, I had developed a mental trick: every time my thoughts turned to my daughter or to what had happened, I imagined a screen fading to black. It worked. Oh, I did feel sadness. And shame, plenty of it. But it would be accurate to describe my prevailing emotion as relief. It was over, it was for the best.

  Over time I thought of her less and less. I never talked about what had happened. No one at school knew, and my parents were only too happy to avoid the subject. And so for a long time, I just got on with things. I rejoined the lacrosse team, aced my final exams, and headed off to college.

  Not until some years later did I begin to have trouble sleeping. I was living on my own for the first time, trying to get promoted off the Chronicle night shift. The hours were brutal. I was bad at the job. I lived on a stream of coffee and microwaved ramen-noodle bowls. One night I was sent to interview the mother of a kid who had gotten shot up in a Charlestown housing project, and as she sat weeping, and I sat taking notes, something inside me broke. Her grief was so raw. I couldn’t see how a person could recover from such sadness. As I drove back to the newsroom, my hands shook. I sat trembling in the parking garage for a long time.

  After that I began a kind of mental pacing, back and forth between two truths that did not seem able to coexist: I had had a daughter. And I had killed her. Not literally perhaps, but as good as. I had wanted her dead, and she had died. Did it not amount to the same?

  The precise details of that day began to torment me. I should have gone straight to the hospital when my water broke. I should have called the ambulance sooner. I should have tried to breathe for her for longer, for hours, for days, for however long it took. My doctor had been wrong. There was plenty I could have done.

  I started the scratching thing around then, raking the pale skin inside my elbows. It didn’t help exactly, but it was clarifying to feel pain that had nothing to do with my daughter. To have a wound that I could see. At my worst I ripped out handfuls of my own hair. I would reach up and grab a hunk and tear it out from the roots. Then I would press my fingertips, hard, against the tingling patch of bare scalp. The handfuls of red looked so soft and fine, fanned out over my white sheets. Like the hair of a baby.

  33

  WEDNESDAY, JUNE 30

  WHEN I WOKE, I REACHED for Lucien.

  It took a moment to remember he wasn’t there, that I wasn’t likely ever to wake up beside him again. Depressing. But probably just as well. If the warm curve of his body were pressed against mine, we would no doubt find ways to occupy the next hour, and I would wind up missing my flight.

  I kicked off the covers, grabbed my phone, peeked at the messages that had arrived overnight. One of them provided encouraging news: Lowell Carlyle was fi
nally consenting to an interview. I’d been trying to get Thom’s father for the past week; every day I fired off a fresh request, and every day I got back a frostily discouraging response from his secretary. But now, here it was, at the top of my e-mail in-box: a message inquiring whether I would be available today to do the interview. Mr. Carlyle was willing to give me twenty minutes, in person at the White House. The window was between five and six this afternoon. I was about to type back that I was in transit and propose tomorrow instead, when I realized—why not? If I flew to Washington instead of Boston this morning, I could be there by late afternoon. Surely there must be a Washington flight leaving around the same time.

  It didn’t take long to sort out. British Airways did indeed have a Dulles-bound flight leaving from Heathrow that morning. The first reservations agent I reached, on speakerphone as I packed up, informed me that my only option was to buy a new, full-fare business-class ticket. I thanked him and hung up.

  In person I had more success. The Terminal 5 ticketing desk was staffed by an implausibly helpful manager. He nodded enthusiastically when I explained that I had business at the White House and really, really needed to switch flights. For fifteen minutes he tapped away at his keyboard, making reproachful, little tutting noises when it refused to let him do what he wanted. Finally he looked up triumphantly.

  “Done. Sorted.” Then he looked sheepish. “I couldn’t find a way to get around the change fee, I’m afraid. So that’s a hundred pounds. I’ll just put it on your credit card, shall I? I do apologize. But if I may—here’s a pass for our Galleries Club lounge, so at least you can get some tea after you clear security. Will that be all right?”

  I grinned at him. He appeared to be laboring under the impression that I was someone hugely important, a cabinet secretary or something, rushing back to restructure the economy or overhaul health care.

  I decided to push my luck. “That’ll be fine. Thank you. Now, could you direct me to the lost and found? I left an item on the flight over, and I’m hoping someone might have kept it for me.”

  HALF AN HOUR LATER I was sitting in the British Airways lounge, sipping champagne and skimming the Guardian. A tan Burberry coat was folded over the seat next to me, a man’s size forty-two long. It smelled brand-new. Life was looking up.

  I wrote an e-mail to Hyde:

  Headed to Washington sted Boston. Got the Lowell Carlyle interview. Can have it for you for tomorrow. Will touch base when I land. Maybe see you in DC?

  Yours in chasing wild geese,

  Alex

  P.S. There’s a Burberry here with your name on it.

  P.P.S. Sorry about everything this week.

  I wondered which of these Hyde would be more excited about, the interview or the raincoat. Either way I would be back in his good graces.

  Next I wrote to Elias:

  Coming to Washington today. Lowell Carlyle intvu at WH. How annoyed will Nora be? (She asks gleefully). Also: any chance I could crash at yours? Would love to avoid having to submit yet another hotel bill for reimbursement.

  I had a mysterious interview yesterday on the Nadeem Siddiqui angle. Will tell you about it. And there’s this package delivery I need to check out. Don’t suppose you’ve heard back from your guys at CIA, or was it State Dept? Hyde has lost interest, but I still think there’s something there. Talk soon.

  Love,

  Ginger

  All around me in the sleek lounge, people were typing away on laptops. I noticed more than a few were joining me in a midmorning tipple. Maybe it was the champagne, but I was feeling mischievous. I tapped out one last message:

  Why yes, I do keep crossing and uncrossing my legs in a rather clingy pencil skirt in the first-class lounge . . .

  I scrolled through my address book, found the number, and hit SEND.

  Ninety seconds later my phone rang.

  “I thought that might get your attention.”

  “You saucy minx,” growled Lucien. “Do you know what a message like that does to a man?”

  “Sorry? I couldn’t quite hear you. Just that this lace bustier I’m wearing keeps rubbing and making such a loud rustling noise . . .”

  I could actually hear him groan. “That’s it. I am so coming to bite you—”

  “Promises, promises,” I said airily. “Actually, I just called to say good-bye.”

  “Right,” he sighed. “So you’re headed back to Boston?”

  “Washington, actually. Change of plans. Thom’s dad finally agreed to talk to me. So I’m headed to the White House tonight.”

  “Ah. May I offer a word of advice? If any men claiming to be international cricket stars approach you on the plane today, it’s a ruse. Just say no. Tell them you’re taken. Tell them Crispin Withington will personally take his bat and wallop them if they come within three feet of you.”

  I smiled.

  “You know, don’t take this the wrong way or anything,” he continued, “but I think I’m going to miss you.”

  “Well, not to worry. Petronella will be back soon to keep you warm at night.” I tried and failed to keep the cattiness out of my voice. Petronella. The sheer, bitchy cheek of that girl.

  “Hang on—was that a note of jealousy I just detected?”

  “Hardly,” I sniffed. “Just I know how much you must be looking forward to a happy reunion with the little trollop.”

  Lucien sucked in his breath. I heard him smother a laugh. “Right. No jealousy at all there, then. To tell you the truth, Alex—and I admit this is ungentlemanly—she’s rather boring. I mean, she’s stunning to look at. But . . . she’s not exactly a laugh riot. So. The thing is—”

  I was barely listening. I was too busy relishing the thought of Petronella as a boring old trout.

  “The thing is,” Lucien persevered, “speaking of changing travel plans, I did have a thought. How about, once you file this interview or whatever you need to do, how about you take a break and we meet for a weekend somewhere? Maybe Bermuda. Then we’d be meeting in the middle, nearly. My treat. Just some sand and some sun and good wine and fun. And you in a bikini, obviously.”

  I jerked back to attention. “You and me? Go away together?” I was startled. It had honestly never occurred to me that I might ever see him again after this week.

  Lucien Sly was a great fling. He was fantastic in bed. And he had made me laugh like . . . well, like I hadn’t laughed in years. But he was too young for me. He couldn’t be more than twenty-three or twenty-four. And he had a title, for God’s sake—Lord Lucien Sly. Not to mention that he was obviously a cad and incapable of an exclusive relationship.

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” I said slowly. “I mean, I just—I’m older than you and what we want is—is—well, I don’t know if you’re mature enough for me.” I paused momentously. It was the truth and I meant it and I was about to press the point when I realized how incredibly snooty I must sound.

  “I see,” he said huffily. “It’s true that I can only dream of ascending to the dizzying heights of your wisdom and maturity—”

  “I just meant you don’t seem to want a serious girlfriend—”

  “Your banana-busters crusade, for example—”

  “And I’d really rather not be two-timed—”

  “Your penchant for Michael Bublé sing-alongs in dodgy bars in Slough—”

  At this I nearly choked on my champagne and am afraid I let out a loud snort. A few of the better-behaved guests glanced over with arched eyebrows.

  “Stop it. Enough,” I gasped.

  “No, no, I’m warming to the subject now. Let’s not forget your fondness for afternoon-tea trysts with preposterously named prats like—wait for it—Crispin Withington—”

  “But there is an actual person really named that!” I protested.

  “Yes, but not that you’ve ever met!”

  By now I was doubled over with giggles. Lucien was too, great waves of laughter bellowing down the phone line.

  By the time they called m
y flight, he had made me promise to meet him in Bermuda in two weeks’ time. I couldn’t stop smiling as I stood in the queue waiting to board. I had to fight the urge to wink at the flight attendant as she scanned my boarding pass.

  Today was shaping up to be a very good day.

  MY GOOD LUCK DID NOT, alas, extend to an upgrade out of economy class.

  But I was relieved to note as I brushed down the aisle that I’d been given a window seat. And when I arrived at 38A, I was amused to find my seatmate for the flight looked as if she could be my sister.

  Tiny lines around her eyes suggested she might be a few years older than me. Probably in her early or midthirties. She was a few pounds heavier too. But she had the same milky skin and freckles, and copper-colored hair, cut shorter than mine. She stood up to let me in and smiled as she registered my appearance.

  “This must be the redhead ghetto, then.” She sounded Irish.

  “Yeah. They must think it’s safest to herd all us Celts together.” I hoisted my carry-on bag into the overhead bin and squeezed past her to the window seat.

  “You’re American, then? Heading home?” she asked conversationally.

  “Eventually. I live in Boston now. But I’ve got a meeting in Washington.”

  She nodded. Looked me up and down. “Brilliant shoes,” she said, inclining her head down toward my Manolos.

  “Thanks. They’re killing me, actually. I can’t wait to take them off and slip on those free little plane socks I’m hoping they’re about to hand out.” I glanced around to check if flight attendants were making the rounds yet. “But I’ve got to dash straight to this meeting when we land, and I’m not sure if I’ll have time to change, and half the time the checked luggage doesn’t make it. . . .”