Chapter Eight
The first rays of light cut through the blinds into my room and reached into a restless sleep, pulling me toward consciousness. I didn’t want to wake up. I wanted the sun to go away and the silence around me to last forever. Pushing a strand of hair out of my eyes, I imagined Scott’s body nestled close to mine, his unshaven chin teasing my shoulder. I conjured the scent of his aftershave mingling with the scent of grapes and sunshine. Curled on my side, I smiled.
The nightmare of yesterday with Janet and the baby was just that, a nightmare. I wasn’t back at the warehouse in Alexandria. I wasn’t hot, sweaty, and too tired to eat. It was over, and I was back to my life.
The sun brightened and coaxed my itching eyes open. The worn ceiling and the room’s fading white walls were not mine. I sat up and swallowed. Saw the portrait of the dour lady staring at me. The steady tick-tock of a clock echoed. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
Grace’s clock. I wasn’t wrapped in my large queen bed back home, but in a twin, twisted up in faded pink sheets embossed with roses and vines. Alexandria. The city.
The nightmare continued.
Ticking clock. The pink sheets. Silence.
Where was the baby? I rose and tiptoed across the floor to the dresser drawer lined with blankets. Inside, Baby Carrie slept on her back, her eyes shut tight and her small lips moving as if she were mumbling.
I stared at the steady rise and fall of her chest. One. Two. Three. Alive.
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I pinched the bridge of my nose. Carrie had been up half the night crying, and now, as the sun rose, she slept hard. Holding my breath, I backed up a step and tiptoed out of my room. Floorboards creaked at the threshold and I paused. The baby shifted, yawned, but didn’t wake. I hurried toward the kitchen, determined to have coffee before she awoke.
Standing over the old farmhouse sink, I stared out the window at Union Street and, beyond it, the Potomac. The city streets were empty but, on the river, a sailboat skimmed along the early morning waters, enjoying the breeze yet to warm under the summer sun. A couple of joggers passed by on a trail by the river. The city wasn’t really awake and the peace reminded me of the country, where life meandered at a quieter pace. I missed Scott and our life desperately.
“Soon,” I whispered. “I’ll be home soon.”
I opened the coffee jar and nearly wept when I discovered Grace had refilled it last night. Jamming as much coffee as I could in the filter, I closed the lid and filled the carafe with water. Soon, the machine was loaded and gurgling.
From a wooden breadbox hand painted with strawberries and vines, I found a bag of cinnamon raisin bagels. My stomach grumbled. Did I last eat yesterday morning?
As the coffee dripped, I pulled butter and milk from the refrigerator. I dragged the knife over the butter and then covered the bagel in a thick coating. Normally, I’d have skipped the extra fat calories, but today I deserved them.
As I leaned over the sink and ate the bagel, the faint scent of formula wafted over. A glance at my stained shirt and I realized I still wore yesterday’s shirt. Pride should have made me care that I looked one step away from homeless but I kept eating. Chewing, I rolled my head from side to side, working the kinks from the stiff muscles.
Sipping coffee, I moved through the kitchen into the living room. A thick marble mantel inlaid with angels sported a collection of silver frames filled with black-and-white photos and paintings. The first dated back to the nineteen twenties. A woman with a pageboy haircut wearing trousers and a safari-style jacket stood on the plains of Africa. She wore a wide-brimmed hat, sunglasses, and a long dark scarf curled around her neck. Another small painting dated back to the late eighteenth century, perhaps the seventeen nineties. The unsmiling woman stood next to a mantel much like this one, and wore her dark hair coiled in a tight bun. Next to this frame was a plain glass bottle no more than eight or nine inches high.
The bottle’s long neck was corked and sealed with red wax, which dripped blood red down the forest-green glass. Thick and sturdy, the bottle clearly once held wine. I held it up to the light and could see objects inside, but the wavy, hand-blown glass was thick enough to obscure my view. Shaking the bottle, I heard the faint click of metal.
Footsteps creaked behind me and I replaced the bottle on the mantel. Turning, I found Grace standing there with a full mug of coffee. She was dressed in clean clothes, and her hair was brushed and in place.
“Been a long time since I woke to the smell of coffee.”
“The baby didn’t sleep well.”
Grace sipped her coffee. “When did she finally fall asleep?”
“About three A.M., I think.” I savored the coffee’s bitter taste, hoping it would compensate for no sleep.
“What’s the plan for today?”
“I need to check in with Scott, and then I’ll meet with the social worker. She’s supposed to update me on a foster family.”
Grace’s lips flattened into a frown. “It’s important that it’s a good family. You or me might not want to be a mother. Janet might not ever be able, but Carrie deserves a strong mother. She’s gonna need one if she’s cursed.”
Staring into the milky depths of my coffee cup, I pushed back resentment. “I never said I didn’t want to be a mother. I said I never wanted to pass mental illness on to a child.”
“I guess those that really want to be a mother are willing to take the risk. I wasn’t. And you weren’t. I’d call us smart.”
“If I’m so smart, what am I doing here? Why aren’t I back in the country, living my life?”
“It isn’t always about what we want, but what we got to do.”
“I’ve never been able to fix this family. At best, I’m a Band-Aid that slows the hemorrhaging but never really stops the bleeding.”
“Maybe you buy enough time until the real fix arrives.”
As much as I wanted to believe a new family could save Carrie, I feared the baby would be traveling a hard path most of her life, and whoever walked the path with her would suffer right along beside her.
I reached for the bottle, needing a distraction. “Grace, what is this?”
She turned and studied the jar. “Just a little curiosity I found in your grandmother’s belongings.”
Morning light bounced off the impenetrable glass as restrained energy seemed to vibrate through the bottle. “What is it?”
Grace let a sigh trickle over her lips. “A witch bottle.”
“A witch bottle? Like to cast evil spells?” It didn’t feel full of magic, but rather fear.
“No, to protect against a witch’s spell.”
Just when I thought my family couldn’t get any weirder. “We have witches in the family.”
“No witches. We feared witches and curses.”
My fingers tightened around the bottle as the energy seemed to grow stronger. “We all talk about curses in the Shire family, but the bottom line is we have bad genetics.”
“It started somewhere.”
I gently shook the glass, hoping to disrupt the odd sensations. “What’s inside?”
“Metal pins or nails, likely some hair, and maybe a bit of blood.” Bent fingers grasped her warm mug, clearly welcoming the heat into the swollen joints. “It’s to ward off evil energy. Keep away what we fear most.” She studied the jar. “Can’t say it worked so well.”
“Why pins?”
“Not really sure. I suppose whoever made it knew the answer.”
“How old is it?”
“Close to three hundred years old.”
Hearing its age, I wrapped a second hand around it. “Seventeen hundreds.”
“As I’ve been told, it dates back to when the city was first founded. Around 1750.”
“Shouldn’t this be in a museum?”
“It belongs to our family, not a museum.”
I moved toward the direct sunlight and held up the bottle. “You said there’s hair and blood inside?”
A smile tweaked the very edges of her mouth. “I like to think it’s blood. Some of those protection bottles used urine instead of blood.”
“Two days ago the mention of urine would have grossed me out, but considering I smell like spit-up and baby pee I can’t criticize.” I rattled the bottle again, suddenly annoyed. “If it’s a protection bottle, it’s not working well.”
“You would be right.”
I replaced the bottle on the mantel next to a black-and-white picture of a woman dressed in a long dark dress. For a moment my fingers hummed and I flexed them several times before they relaxed. “We’ve been in Alexandria for a long time.”
“Since the 1740s. Our first man in town was a doctor who came from Scotland with his new wife, Sarah, to set up a practice. I believe the portrait in your room is of Sarah Goodwin.”
“Not a happy-looking woman.”
“No.”
A glance at the clock and I realized it was quarter after seven. “I don’t know how long the kid is going to sleep. Might be minutes or hours or seconds, but I need a shower and to make a few calls.”
“You got that bag of T-shirts I picked up. Not fancy. Just plain black, but they’ll do the trick.”
“Thanks.” I plucked at the fabric of my shirt. “Maybe in some cultures baby throw-up is considered chic.”
“No.”
“Right.” I plucked at the sleeve of my very ripe T-shirt.
“Get into the shower. I’ll make a couple of bottles of formula and put them in the refrigerator.”
“You know how to do that?”
“If I don’t have a baby screaming, I can read instructions as well as the next person.”
“Tick-tock. She’ll awaken soon.” I swallowed the last of the coffee. “And thanks.”
“Addie?”
“Yes.”
Ice blue eyes bore into me. “It’s going to be all right.”
Unexpectedly, her words soothed. “Why do you say that?”
“It has to be, doesn’t it?”
The grandfather clock ticked steady and even in the hallway. “I don’t know what we did to offend the cosmos, but somewhere along the way, we really stepped in it, and now we’re getting paid back.”
* * *
The shower washed away enough fatigue so that my eyes didn’t itch and the ache in my muscles faded a fraction. The T-shirt Grace bought me was an off shade of black and a glance at the red-stickered price tag told me she found it on the clearance rack. It was a size too big, but it was clean and would be serviceable enough for my meeting with the social worker. I’d toss it in the trash before I returned to the country.
I ran a comb through my hair and was just brushing my teeth when the baby stirred. She barked out a cry, a testing of the waters, and for a moment was silent. I stopped brushing and stood, silently praying for fifteen more minutes. Fifteen minutes. No, I’ll take ten. Five.
But the kid’s cries returned, growing loud and insistent very quickly. I finished brushing my teeth and went into my bedroom where Carrie kicked and screamed, her fists balled and her face turning as red as a tomato.
“Hold your horses,” I said. I fumbled in the grocery bag for a fresh diaper and wipes and a changing towel. I spread them out on my bed. Last night, she woke me sometime after midnight and I stumbled around in the dark as I searched for the bag with the diapers, stubbing my toe. Not today. Today, I would be more organized and figure this out just as I’d learned the vineyard business step by step. If I could manage three hundred acres of land and fifteen workers, I sure as hell could keep a kid clean and fed for a few days.
I picked up Carrie, cradling her head in one palm and her bottom in the other. “God, I feel sorry for you, kid,” I whispered.
She cried louder.
It took me an hour to get her changed, fed, and cleaned up enough to put her in fresh clothes. I grabbed one of the outfits from the white plastic bag without really inspecting it. It was a baby blue jogging suit trimmed with gray and bunched at the baby’s ankles and wrists. I laid Carrie on my bed and as she kicked and cried, I unsnapped the outfit’s midsection and yanked off the clearance tab. “Hey, don’t blame me. I didn’t pick a boy outfit for you. That would be your Aunt Grace. Take it up with her.”
She squirmed and fussed as I struggled to get her into the outfit. I started counting the minutes, seconds, moments, until I could return home to the country.
With her finally dressed, I tugged a pair of socks onto her feet. I didn’t have a diaper bag so I stuffed an unopened can of formula, a bottle, and a couple of diapers into my purse. My hope was that we would arrive at Social Services and, though it was only Wednesday, the nice social worker lady would have a great home lined up for Carrie.
After snapping her in the car seat, we headed down the stairs, her cries echoing along the stairwell and through the warehouse. I clicked her seat into the attachment and closed the car door. Sliding behind the wheel, I turned the ignition and glanced in the rearview mirror, which offered a great view of the back of her seat. “Please, fall asleep. Aren’t you tired?”
Her cries rose up from the backseat, madder and deeper.
“I know this is tough, kid. I know. But Social Services knows what they’re doing. They’ll know what to do. You want people who know what they’re doing. Lord knows you don’t want me in charge of your life.”
The words rang clear with my desperation and fear. Carrie cried louder. I shoved the car into drive, turned right onto Union Street, and headed south toward Duke Street. Up and around the block I headed back down Prince Street, which was lined with cobblestone. The route was a little longer, but I hoped the jostling would soothe the kid. I drove slowly up the street, the car rocking and bumping on the uneven road. Carrie’s cries vibrated with the car, but the extra motion slowed her wails. By the time I drove up King and turned right on Washington Street, her breathing was slow and deep. The car was silent by the time I turned up Mt. Vernon Avenue toward the Social Services office.
The tree-lined street looked friendly enough and the brick façade gave me a little hope. It looked inviting. Nice.
I circled the block twice before I found street parking. The instant I stopped the car and shut off the engine, Baby Carrie woke up and cried. “Of course.”
Digging coins from the bottom of my purse, I got out of the car to feed the meter. I was struck by the quiet and how a little distance from the baby could lower my blood pressure. As I fished for quarters, I glanced in the backseat. Carrie was red-faced, mouth open in a full scream, and her fists were clenched.
My hands trembled a little as I found four quarters, which bought me about an hour’s time. Confident that we would be finished sooner, I opened the back door and the remaining cool air rushed out as I wrangled with the release buckle on the baby seat. The heat of the day was rising and my blood pressure was bumping against the upper limits. I ignored the sweat trickling down my back.
“How did I get here?” I mumbled as the button finally gave way and the seat came loose. With a crying baby in the car seat and my purse slung over my shoulder, I glanced both ways and crossed the street to the department’s main entrance. “I’m a good person. People like me. I am nice.”
As I stood in front of the double doors, the bagel and three cups of coffee weighed heavily on my stomach. Grabbing the door, I yanked it open and stepped into the cool lobby, which magnified Carrie’s cries. Several people in the waiting area glanced at me. More disapproval.
I hurried to reception, separated from the lobby by a thick glass partition. I leaned toward the microphone and in a voice loud enough to drown out Carrie I said, “I’m here for Ms. Willis. Addie Morgan. She’s expecting me.”
The woman nodded. “I’ll page her. Have a seat
.”
Instead of sitting, I began to pace, swinging the car seat a little, hoping Carrie would fall asleep. She fussed. Wailed. Fussed. And though she wasn’t quiet, the full screamfest eased.
Ms. Willis entered the lobby from a side door and smiled. Her gaze reflected hope until she met my eyes. “You doing all right?”
“Long night. Babies don’t sleep.”
“That’s true.” Smiling, she reached out for the handle of the car seat, which I gratefully gave her. Free of the child’s weight, some of the tension in my shoulders eased as I followed Ms. Willis through a door and along the carpeted hallway lined with cubicles. Overhead fluorescent lights buzzed, mingling with the hum of conversations. Ms. Willis ducked into a tiny cubicle.
She took a seat and set the car seat on her desk while I sat in a hard gray chair. The walls of the cubicle were decorated with hundreds and hundreds of children’s faces. Some of the kids were smiling, but many were not. I focused on the smiling kids.
“These are the kids you’ve placed?” I asked.
“Yes. I’ve been at this almost twenty years.”
“Wow. So you really know what you’re doing?”
She smiled at the baby and jostled the child’s foot. Carrie, for whatever reason, was not happy and her cries grew louder, rising above the padded but short walls of the cubicle. I reached for a pre-packaged bottle in my purse, rose, and took Carrie from her seat. Cradling her awkwardly in my arms, I stuck the bottle in her mouth. Silence.
What did I do to deserve this?
Ms. Willis visibly relaxed. “You seem to know what you’re doing.”
At the Corner of King Street Page 10
