Tia’s clear subtext was unlike you. “I want to see her,” he said.
“I’m not sure if I care what you want anymore,” she said. She chewed her lip too hard for him to believe her.
“Is my name on the birth certificate?” he asked.
She didn’t say anything.
“Is it?” he asked again.
“ ‘Take care of this for me, Tia.’ That’s all you offered me. Now you need me? I have nothing to give.”
“Why did you let me come, then?”
“I’m not sure.” She stared at him with that searching look he’d hated when they were together, a look that meant What about us? Do you love me enough? Want me enough? Will you care for me?
He didn’t look away. Wasn’t he supposed to find this out? “Do you love her?” Juliette had asked. “Does she love you?”
Had he ever loved her? She’d popped into his life, twenty-four years old and from a different world, exotic to him, sexy, and thrilled to work on his research study. He’d never expected to sleep with her. When he did, his only excuse was desire. She drove him crazy. When Tia fell in love with him, he tried to convince himself that he was in love with her, not just crazy in lust. It made him feel less disgusted about his choices.
“How do I find my daughter?” Nathan asked. “Please. How can I see the parents?”
“Go see her,” Juliette had said.
“How?” he’d asked.
“You figured out how to conceive her without me. Now figure out how to see her.” Juliette had insisted that he meet his daughter but refused to give her the information to complete the mission.
Nathan couldn’t imagine where to start. Was he supposed to find their number, call them out of the blue, walk in, and demand to meet his daughter?
“Ask your wife,” Tia said.
Nathan couldn’t read her true intent. She looked heartbroken. He walked over to the couch, sat beside her, and took her hand. “Please. Let’s not play any more games.”
She shook her hand from his. “I think you should leave.” She turned her head, but he heard the tears clogging her words.
“Tia, I’m sorry.” Nathan moved closer. “I’m so sorry for everything.”
CHAPTER 26
Caroline
Caroline closed the lid of her briefcase, pushing down to make it latch. She had about ten journals to read when she got home, plus a file bulging with memos, and, most important, she needed to go over notes for a presentation she’d be making, “The Effects of Chemotherapy in Combination with Focal Therapy on Intraocular Retinoblastoma to Avoid Enucleation and Radiotherapy.” Just reading the title exhausted her. She could easily sink into her desk chair and close her eyes, but she’d promised Savannah she’d be home on time, and she was going to do it.
Her phone rang just as she’d finished arranging neat piles of papers for the next day. Jonah’s name appeared on caller ID, an unwelcome sight. After a moment of hesitation, she reached for the phone. She’d never answered his email. She didn’t even remember giving him her phone number, but she supposed that finding her at the hospital wasn’t difficult.
“Jonah.” Caroline greeted him with his name.
“Surprised?” Jonah paused. Caroline heard him swallow.
“I am.”
“I’d really like to see you.”
“Are you drinking?” Caroline asked.
“A little. Just enough.”
“Just enough for what?”
“Just enough to call you and tell you how much I’m thinking about you.”
He slurred his words. Caroline wanted him off the phone. Now. “Jonah? It’s never going to happen.”
“I sense that you’re unhappy. Like me. Maybe we can help each other.”
“Jonah, go see your wife.”
• • •
Caroline arrived home in a positive frame of mind, her exhaustion lifted, determined that she and Peter could work things out. Stress gave him those crazy ideas, like her leaving her job. Maybe they’d take a family vacation.
The house smelled of lemon polish and whatever treats Nanny Rose and Savannah had spent the afternoon baking. Oatmeal cookies?
The quiet house gave no clue to her daughter’s whereabouts. She peeked into the playroom, the kitchen—already cleaned, and she was correct about the oatmeal cookies—Savannah’s room. All were empty. Crunching a cookie she’d picked up from a flowered plate on the counter, Caroline wandered into the backyard.
“Mommy!” Savannah ran over from the sandbox. “You found the cookies! We made them.”
Caroline pulled away from Savannah’s dirt-streaked hands, kissing her sweaty hair, which was falling out of a loosening ponytail. “They’re delicious. Good job.”
“What are we having for supper?” Savannah asked.
“Cookies and milk?”
“Really?” Savannah’s eyes gleamed at the idea.
Caroline tweaked the girl’s nose. “No. I’m going inside to change. Rose,” she asked, “did Peter call?”
Nanny Rose looked up with those annoying knowing eyes she’d been using lately, sniffing out the problems between Caroline and Peter. “He’ll be home soon,” she said. Maybe she’d somehow sensed Jonah’s presence.
Caroline glared at her. Stop smirking. Nothing happened. But something happened, right? Hadn’t she almost considered meeting Jonah? How much guilt should one carry from almost meeting someone? She imagined Peter talking to another woman. Emailing. Sharing pieces of himself. Getting that far and then stopping.
Would she laud him for stopping or damn him for taking even the smallest step?
She’d damn him.
“Savannah, why don’t we make something silly for supper?” Caroline said.
“Yes, Mommy!” Savannah hugged her tight. Caroline took her daughter’s small face in her hands, turned it up, and planted fairy kisses all over her face. Savannah loved those soft, teeny pecks.
An hour later, Caroline deeply regretted her decision to make a fun supper. Cooking was never fun. Perhaps she just wasn’t a particularly fun person, period.
As she rolled yet another little meatball, Caroline remembered her mother taking turns teaching Caroline and her sisters how to prepare dinners. Until Caroline took herself out of the lineup, she’d been forced to participate in an agonizing cooking lesson once a week.
“Can we make a smiley meatball face? Like Daddy does?” Savannah’s hands were slick with fat from the raw meat, just as hers were. Caroline tamped down her desire to scrub the girl’s skin, throw the whole mess in the garbage, and eat a simple salad. That’s all she wanted tonight: greens with perhaps some grapes on top, pecans sprinkled in, and apples slices circling the lettuce.
Caroline laid down the last meatball she could bear rolling and rushed to the sink. She squirted lemon soap on her hands and then placed them under hot—too hot—water. “Come here, Savannah. Let’s wash your hands.”
“Not yet, Mommy. I want to make meatball snakes.”
“No. It’s time to put everything in the oven. Daddy will be home soon. We need to bake the meatballs before we put them on the spaghetti casserole.”
“No. I want to put snakes on the casserole.” Savannah stuck out her lower lip in her stubborn pout. “The spaghetti will be the worms, and the meatballs will be the snakes. Except the round ones, they’ll be the maggots.”
“Sweetie, why would we want maggots on our food?”
Savannah shrank back. “You said we could do a silly supper, Mommy.”
“I didn’t say disgusting, though. Maggots are nasty things.”
“But they’re funny. They were in a book.”
“No they’re not. They’re gross,” Caroline said. “And we’re not making them. Put down the meat, come here, and let me wash your hands. Now.”
“No. I’m making maggots. You promised.”
Caroline slammed a pot on the side of the sink. “Jesus, Savannah. I didn’t promise you could make maggots.”
“You pro
mised to be fun!”
“Get over here. Now.”
“No.”
“I said now!”
Savannah lifted the greasy plate covered with meatballs and held it protectively to her chest as though Caroline were about to take it from her.
“That’s disgusting, Savannah. Put it down.”
“No. It’s not disgusting.” Savannah clutched it closer to her chest, backing up on the chair she stood on until it tipped over. Savannah fell, still holding the bowl, the meatballs scattered over the wooden floor. “I want the silly supper,” she sobbed.
“What the heck?” Peter walked in, put down his briefcase, and hurried over to where Savannah lay. “Honey, what happened?”
“Mommy didn’t want me to make meatball maggots.”
Peter looked like he was trying not to laugh. Caroline wanted to kill him.
“Come here, Cookie.” He gathered Savannah into his arms, mindless of his suit, his white shirt, and his silk tie, and kissed her grimy cheeks. “How about we clean you up, and then I’ll order pizza?”
• • •
Peter walked into the study, smiling, and looking content. “She’s asleep. It took three books, but she’s finally down for the night.”
“I’m a terrible mother,” Caroline said.
“What are you talking about?” Peter sat beside her on the couch, removing a journal from her hands. “Baby, every mother fights with her kids now and then. I’m surprised the Department of Social Services never came to our house when I was a kid. You should have heard poor Dad trying to referee when my mom went bonkers.”
“No. This is different. It’s not about losing my temper; I’m not a good mother.” Caroline emphasized every word. “As in always, not as in tonight.”
Peter put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed. “What are you talking about? You’re a great mother.”
“Listen to me. This is who I am. This is the woman you asked to stay home and be with your daughter full-time.” Caroline drew away. “Look at me. I can’t stand getting dirty. I get so bored playing with her that I could bash a Bitty doll against the wall. I don’t want to bake cookies. I don’t want to have playdates, and I can’t stand reading Adoption Is for Always one more time.”
“Caro, if you spent some time with other mothers, you’d know that’s all normal. You should hear my sisters.”
Caroline tried to suck back the words already sliding down her tongue, ready to jump off and strangle her and Peter, but she couldn’t. She didn’t. “Peter, I feel as though I’m losing my mind when I’m with her. She bores me. Do you hear what I’m saying? Being a mother drives me crazy. There’s no way around it. I am failing her. She deserves better.”
“All you need is to calm down. This is a tough age, right? ‘Play with me, play with me.’ She just needs more friends. We’ll get her into a kids’ program this summer Now, let me get you a glass of wine.”
“You’re not listening.” Caroline pressed her fingers to her temples. She rocked back and forth and then covered her mouth with her hands. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Do what? What are you talking about?”
The last brick holding back her wall of denial tumbled to the ground. Caroline threw her head against the back of the couch, closed her eyes, and then spoke. “I had coffee with the wife of Savannah’s father.”
“Savannah’s father? His wife? What are you talking about? Tia didn’t know who the father was.” Peter seemed to inflate in front of her. “Who is this woman? Why were you talking to her? What the hell is this about?”
“She called me.” Caroline gripped her elbows and took a deep breath. “Apparently Tia lied. She had an affair with this woman’s husband. They live right over in Wellesley.”
Peter stood. He paced around the study, taking deep breaths. “You’re talking to some crazy lady who claims her husband is Savannah’s father? What’s it about? Do you hear yourself? You sound nuts.”
“I’m not nuts, and she’s not crazy—”
“Some woman calls you and says her husband had an affair with Tia and the child is his, and you don’t wonder if she’s just the slightest bit off? You don’t tell me? What’s going on?”
Caroline thought of telling him about juliette&gwynne, where and how they met, and then realized Juliette would sound even crazier if she told him that particular story. Maybe he was right. Perhaps Juliette was crazy. Aching fatigue washed over her.
“Forget it,” she said.
“Forget it? You’re kidding, right?” Peter raked his fingers through his hair. “We can’t forget this.”
• • •
Caroline couldn’t imagine how she’d agreed to Peter’s insistence that she meet with Tia. She needed to do more research, more reading. She clutched the steering wheel, snapped on NPR, and then snapped it off when the voices bored into her brain. No, Peter wasn’t the wait-and-read type.
He'd rushed right into protection mode: “What does this mean? What do they want? Where is Tia in this?” Then, being Peter, he needed action.
“First things first,” Peter had said. “You spoke to the wife of the supposed biological father. What does that tell us, besides the fact that they have problems in their marriage? They haven’t a bit of legal standing.”
So here Caroline was, on a reconnaissance mission, something for which she was spectacularly unsuited, but Peter was convinced that if he went, it would scare Tia, and God knows what she’d do if they frightened her. Tia might not have legal rights, but she could make their lives unbearably messy.
Traffic barely moved on Centre Street in Jamaica Plain as she looked for the landmark restaurants and stores Tia had mentioned when giving Caroline directions: Fire & Opal Gifts. Purple Cactus. Boing.
Peter suggested simply showing up at Tia’s door, but Caroline didn’t have those rights. Appearing at someone’s door uninvited was the height of rudeness. Caroline’s mother had drummed good manners into all her children, and unsolicited guests topped her bad behavior list.
Their conversation had been brief. Caroline asked to see her, Tia asked why, and Caroline said she’d rather talk in person. How could she explain that she wanted to check out Tia and see if she knew about Juliette?
“See if something is up, Caro,” Peter had ordered. “Who knows, maybe Tia and this asshole are seeing each other. Maybe they have some fucked-up idea of coming after Savannah.” Peter had smacked one hand into the other as though it were the asshole’s head. “Over my dead body they’ll get near my family.”
Caroline offered to go to Tia’s apartment, making it easy for her, but the suggestion was answered with silence. Finally, Tia had said, “Let’s meet at City Feed. It’s just down the street. We can get coffee there.”
Caroline pulled into a one-hour parking space. She didn’t imagine they’d talk longer than that.
City Feed and Supply, part granola-looking sandwich shop, part upscale market, appeared new, all shiny glass windows and polished floors, and yet the store also seemed to declare “Of course we’re here. What else could be on this corner?”
A few wood tables were to her right, where Tia waited, staring, both hands wrapped around a classic thick white diner mug. Caroline placed her handbag on the empty chair, smiled, and put out her hand.
“Thanks for coming.”
“No problem.” Tia’s hand was cold. She looked almost the same. Of course, she wasn’t pregnant, but even pregnant, Tia had seemed delicate, so different from Savannah. However, look at those eyes: her daughter’s eyes stared back at Caroline. Savannah’s full, pink lips that kissed her good night were Tia’s lips.
“Do you mind if I get coffee?” Caroline asked. “Can I get you anything?”
Tia shook her head and then pointed with her sharp chin toward the counter, showing Caroline where to go.
The prospect of lying already had her off base. Peter’s concocted cover story, about needing information regarding Savannah’s family health history, sounded thin and ob
vious.
Her one mission was to judge Tia, and Caroline felt awful about it. If Caroline and Peter even considered Juliette’s idea that Savannah should know her father, Caroline felt bound to let Tia know, but Peter would explode if she did more than take Tia’s measure.
Caroline tried not to let the coffee slosh over when she placed it on the table. She’d poured in too much milk in hopes of calming her stomach.
She sat.
She took a sip.
“How is she?” Tia asked.
Now Caroline saw the trembling hands, the bitten nails, and felt a surge of protectiveness toward Tia, over a decade younger than she was.
“She’s good,” Caroline said.
Tia gave a dry smile. “Can you give me a bit more?”
“Sorry.” Caroline wrapped her own shaky, cold hands around the warm mug. “It’s just . . . seeing you. It’s disturbing. Not that you’re disturbing me—it’s just unsettling.”
Tia circled her fingers in a figure-eight pattern, making slight marks on the table. “Does she look like me?”
“Yes. Somewhat. You must know that from the pictures, though,” Caroline said.
“I guess.”
Tia’s starving eyes belied her diffident words. She looked so greedy for news of Savannah that Caroline felt even more ashamed of hiding her real reason for coming.
“What does she like to do?”
“She loves her dolls. Despite all our attempts to get her interested in blocks and trucks, dolls and stuffed animals are her favorites.” Caroline brought the coffee to her lips, buying time, and then sipped. “Savannah loves to sing. And bake. She’s a very smart little girl. She’s reading. She’ll be in kindergarten next year, you know.”
“Does she like nursery school?” Tia asked.
Caroline realized how stingy she’d been in her once-a-year letters. Along with the photographs, she’d stick in a note; oh God, she’d used the heavy monogrammed note cards her mother placed in her Christmas stocking each year, scribbling a few miserly words. “Savannah loves planting flowers!” “Savannah’s favorite author is Rosemary Wells.”
“She hasn’t gone to preschool.” Guilt rushed through Caroline as she realized how wrong she’d been about not sending Savannah to preschool. Keeping her with Nanny Rose had been easy. Convincing Peter and herself that the playdates that Nanny arranged were enough had been her out.
The Comfort of Lies: A Novel Page 22
