* * *
A miracle, and yet Kitty isn’t one bit surprised. When she opens her eyes, Neil is sitting at the side of her bed. Her first thought is: Terrance will be furious. But no, all that was before. Terrance knows nothing about Neil, about what happened in Vermont.
The appearance of Neil Roberts after so many years sends her spinning. She is delirious with joy. So many questions, her mouth is dry. Dark-haired Neil, his bulky frame is too big for the folding chair. He looks as though he has been sitting there for hours, waiting for her to wake up. She says his name but the sound remains inside her head. Still, he smiles, leans forward. His lips move but the words drift out of reach. She cannot bring her mind to bear on the sense of what he says.
She gives up trying, instead turns her attention to the task of lifting her head off the pillow. His manly hands are wrapped around hers, which are small, wizened. She is old and Neil is still so young. How can this be? It’s unfair. She is tempted to call out for Terrance, but that seems all wrong. The effort of trying to sit up makes her neck hurt. She settles back into the pillow, closes her eyes, realises too late that this was a mistake. Now they will not open. Yet the image of Neil burns fresh. She feels his hands gripping hers. She calls his name, over and over. She has so much to tell him. The whole story, a lifetime, and so many questions.
Where have you been? What kept you? Have you still got the car?
* * *
Of all the many things her mother said to put an end to foolish hopes, the worst concerned the Chevy. Ellen said Neil’s father had given it to him, told him to take it, drive off, get some air. So he’d gone, no one knew where. Kitty left two phone messages with Neil’s mother and wrote to him, a typewritten envelope sent in care of the dealership. Not a word came back. She was sure her mother was lying. Neil never saw her letter.
Still, he wasn’t stupid. He had a knack for getting what he wanted. Surely he would have known how to find her, no matter what. If he’d wanted to find her. As she waited for the child to be born, doubts spun like webs, filling her days with longing and regret. As one week folded into the next without a word from Neil, she began to accept that months, maybe even years must pass before their paths would cross again. In the limbo of Vermont, she learned patience. By the time her own clothes fit again, she had stopped thinking about the distant future, or the past. The baby was a boy. She looked at him once, slipped a paper bearing Neil Roberts’ name between the folds of his blanket, and left it at that. If the woman who got him had any sense, she’d take the hint and know the baby’s name must be Neil. A son will someday go looking for his father, she was sure.
The return trip to Montreal bore none of the sobs and sighs of departure. The snow had started to melt. Frank had a new job working evenings and couldn’t meet her train, so she walked home from the station. Ellen offered cake and did her best to smile. The house had been sold. They were moving to a new neighbourhood, with new neighbours who would not wonder where Kitty had been all winter, and why. The boxes were packed. In September, Kitty started her nurse’s training. Three years later she met Terrance, and put everything else behind.
* * *
When she opens her eyes it is the quiet part of the night. The chair beside her bed is empty but the space occupied by Neil still glows, a halo image, as if he has just this second left. All her aches and pains are gone. Her mind is clear, like the summer air after a rain.
Then it hits her, she has seen Neil before, and not so long ago. A crowd of strangers, a yellow room, some kind of party, but where? When was it? The faces are familiar, the room itself is not. She reaches down, feels for the button on a wire, intending to ring the nursing station and tell them to call Amanda. She was there too. She will know if this is real, or just a dream like all the other dreams of Neil. The picture in her mind’s eye is vivid: a yellow room, a dark-haired man bending down to whisper in Amanda’s ear. How could that be — Neil and her child, Amanda? Suddenly the pieces fall into place and she knows it was not Neil Roberts who whispered into Amanda’s ear, it was the baby, grown into a man.
Then it all comes back to her. She was still living in her own home when the letter arrived, postmarked Vermont. An “‘attorney’” was writing on behalf of his “client,” seeking permission to correspond . . .
Legal letters normally bring bad news. Her hands trembled as she tore it open. At first she did not understand. Then she did, and was momentarily gripped by an old fear that had haunted her for years. Someone would discover the awful secret, and blame her. But it didn’t matter any more. All those who cared were dead. She read the letter over, and cried, read it a dozen times and cried for days until finally there was only one thing left to do. She wrote back: “Yes, tell him he can see me. I live alone.” Months passed. She heard nothing. Disjointed dreams of Neil, Frank and Ellen crowded every night, and then she had a stroke.
* * *
The digital clock flashes 4:17. Kitty looks away. She is curled up on the edge of the bed, one arm pinned between the sheet and her ribcage, an awkward position. Before long the breakfast tray will come clanking into the room, steamrolling privacy. The minute changes to 4:18. The time for reverie is running out.
Her eyes light on the steel-grey folding chair beside her bed. No halo now, only an empty chair. So the boy has come and gone? Her heart is numb. Thoughts soar and dip like white birds, falling stars. She would not have known what to say to the boy-man Neil. It is enough to know he found his way.
She looks down at her legs, thin and white, at hands resting like empty gloves on bare knees. Who is this, she wonders? An unfamiliar body, an old suitcase left somewhere, out of mind. She does not feel old now, she’s beyond all that.
She raises her head. As if a weight has been lifted, the body obeys. She is sitting on the edge of the bed. One small push and both feet will touch the floor. In the same instant, she is young and old, a rebellious daughter full of hope, and an old woman, beyond the reach of fear. No time left. Others will carry on. The pain starts at the back of her neck, moves like an eclipse of the moon. Her head throbs, shoulders slump. The light grows unbearably white, then disappears.
WANDA
WANDA SPRINGER worried about her husband Neil. Worry gnawed at her like the symptoms of disease, except that there were no odds, no known treatment. Licenced welder, sportsminded father of three, salt of the earth: to the best of Wanda’s knowledge, in twenty-odd years of marriage, Neil had never looked twice at another woman. Then he went and got involved in something that could wreak similar havoc, maybe worse.
She confided the whole story to her friend Marie.
Marie had been through a few cyclones herself. She said there was nothing to be done but wait and pray. Trouble was, Wanda didn’t know what to pray for. Marie said, pray for patience and luck. Patience, fine, but what would this luck look like? Would the clocks roll back? Did somebody have to die?
They were sitting in a coffee shop across from the Sherbourne Y, eating bran muffins, a ritual after their weekly aerobics class. They’d set a goal of losing twenty pounds before Christmas, the prize (or penalty) being one hundred dollars, payable to the one who got there first or came closest. Wanda had not intended to go on and on. She mentioned simply that Neil had gone up to Montreal with the Rotary Club and come back with some fairly strange news: he had a whole other family up there. He might even be Canadian.
She didn’t come right out with the worst of her fears, that this bump in the road was actually a ninety-degree turn and would reduce the life they’d built up to a heap of dust. But Marie must have suspected something. She said: “Listen honey, let’s call home and say we’re going for a drink. You deserve it.”
Wanda agreed, though her friend’s sympathy made her queasy. She’d almost have preferred the brush-off. When somebody like Marie insists on hearing the whole story, you know it must be serious. They went to a bar two blocks from the Y, where the carpet smelled of beer and a baseball game was showing on a big-screen TV. Marie chose a
booth near the window so the cheering and ad jingles wouldn’t penetrate their conversation. Plates of nachos and fries were delivered to tables circling the game. In deference to their diet, the women ordered white wine spritzers. Marie listened, Wanda talked.
* * *
All the while I was going with Neil, I thought, this is too good to be true. We met at one of those singles bars where you expect the worst. Right from the start Neil was calm and in control, interested, but not one bit pushy. He just came right up and asked me to dance. That was it. A week later, he took me to meet his folks, Esther and Ted. Great people. Warm, funny, open. They didn’t pry or get on your nerves. They looked at you when you were talking. I just loved them! And I’m thinking, you are so lucky.
As if he read my mind, Neil says: “They aren’t my real parents.”
I say: “What?”
“I’m adopted.”
“But they brought you up?”
He says: “I have no other memories.”
So I say: “Then they are your real parents.” And I’m thinking, they are why you are a perfectly loveable human being. As you know, Marie, I didn’t have that kind of upbringing myself. By the time Neil came along, I was looking hard, eyes wide open, ready for a chance to put my past behind me.
Well, we got married, had three kids, and I’ll tell you, there is nobody more surprised than Wanda Bell Springer that we were able to be the kind of parents Ted and Esther were. They were role models for me, Marie. People you could always look up to. Sure, all the religion business kind of put me off at first, because I didn’t have it as a kid, and when you come to it as an adult, it can seem a little strong. Witnessing, preaching, the whole show. But I said to myself, if this is what it takes to turn my life around, fine. Faith isn’t always a bolt of lightning, you know. It grows on you. Took a few years, but I have faith now. It’s me, my true self. I believe deeply the Lord watches over his flock and prayer is a powerful instrument. Everything happens for a reason.
When the kids were small, we spent all our time trying to get enough sleep and keep the bills paid. We were looking forward to a day when we’d have time for ourselves. Neil used to talk about the trips we’d take, once they went out on their own. From the get-go, we agreed on what we wanted out of life, and even more, on what we did not — trouble. This was something we talked about, Marie. So you can see it was on my mind.
Last year, Esther died. Neil decides to look into what he calls his “birth mother.” I’ll tell you, every bone in my body said: do not do this. It will serve no purpose. Honour thy father and thy real mother, the one who gave you mothering. Leave it at that.
He swore it wouldn’t change a thing. “I would just like to know.” That’s what he said.
So, he hired an agency and they came back a few weeks later with some woman’s name up in Montreal. Kitty. I didn’t ask for details. I thought, if he needs to talk, he will. I did not have a good feeling, even then. Sorry to say, but I almost wished we’d lost Ted and not Esther. Neil would never have dared open that can of worms if Esther’d been alive. He loved that woman and she deserved every drop of the love and respect he had to give.
Months went by. I heard no more about it. Then one day, he tells me his Rotary Club is going up to Montreal for a convention. Practically a sign from the Lord. His mother is calling him! He wants me to go along. I say: “Nope, you are on your own.”
Over and over, the same thought kept running through my mind: let sleeping dogs lie. Don’t push yourself on her. If you ask me, that woman had her reasons for what she did. Back in those days, girls didn’t have the information they do now. Or the choices.
Well, damn her reasons, Marie! I don’t care about her. But I do care about my husband. I don’t want him to get hurt. I tell him to his face: to go up there and confront her is to let yourself in for a powerful hurt. As a woman, I know. Which is why I did my level best to hold him back, even if it looked bad on me, and it did. Real bad. I was one mean-mouthed bitch for weeks before he went. For his own sake, because goddamn it, I love him.
Anyway, he finds her, all right. When Neil wants something, he knows how to get it. Turns out she’d had a stroke. She’s confined to a wheelchair, barely sensible. You can’t rush up on an old woman, he says. So he doesn’t even introduce himself, just puts in an appearance and leaves. That’s all he said. I didn’t pry.
A couple of weeks later, a letter arrives with snapshots of a woman. Amanda. Her husband Tom and two kids. They live in New York City. Then it all comes out, how he’d met the family at some kind of party up in Montreal. Only then does he mention a sister. She told him all about how Kitty’s folks were English, came over to Montreal before the Second World War. There’s a brother too, named Hart. Amanda wants to reunite the family. So she invites us all to New York. Not a flicker of shock, as if it’s all perfectly normal! Your mother has a child out of wedlock and fifty-six years later he turns up at the door?
I haven’t been to New York City since my stepfather took me there in 1965 and that was not a good time. But I was not going to miss this. So we went. Last summer. They put us up in a hotel a few blocks from their fancy apartment, which is right off Central Park. Amanda got tickets for a Broadway play and of course the kids loved it. Her husband’s a lawyer and as tall as Neil. I have to say, most of the conversation went on between Neil and Amanda. I played the wallflower, though she did her best to cover it up. We’d be walking along the street and she’d take me by the arm. We don’t do that kind of thing back where I’m from. We don’t kiss hello and goodbye, which is a shame. We probably should show our feelings more. Still, every time she talked to me it was like she had to remind herself I was there. I kept looking at the husband to see if he noticed anything but he was wrapped up in the kids. They loved the attention. Over the whole twoday trip, I doubt Neil and me made eye contact more than twice. I kept my cool, though. Hard to believe, but I did. When we got in the car to come home I was glad I hadn’t been the least bit frosty.
As soon as we pull away, Neil says: “Isn’t she something?”
I do not comment. Just lean my head back and pretend to sleep. Three pairs of ears in the back seat, I’m not about to spill my guts out. But I can tell you, Marie, I wanted to puke. Neil Springer, blind and in love with his sister. I mean that in the worst possible way.
* * *
Their glasses were empty. The waiter came over. Marie said she had to be going, but Wanda insisted on ordering another round, hold the soda. She wanted an opinion. Marie said she didn’t know Neil that well, but he was highly respected in Rotary circles and a real Christian. She doubted very much if meeting his birth mother or halfsister was going to affect his responsibilities as a father and husband.
“Then why the secrets?” Wanda snapped. “Why didn’t he mention the sister as soon as he got back from Montreal?”
Marie said maybe he was just being careful. If she rejected him, he wouldn’t have wanted to have to talk about it.
“Not even with his own wife?” Eyes on fire, Wanda launched into a full account of Neil’s smitten state, his puppy-dog plans to get the two families together again as soon and as often as possible. Skiing in the Canadian mountains, that was the latest. On her third glass of wine, she confessed that, since his trip to Montreal, things hadn’t been great in the warmth department. When they did try, it was at Wanda’s instigation and reeked of a chore, like hand-pumping water at the cottage. From that point on, Marie realised she just had to let Wanda talk.
* * *
Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night, in a sweat, and I know he’s dreaming about her. I say fine, get it over with, go after her. Screw your brains out. Do it right in front of my nose. Clear the air. I’m sorry, really, Marie, so sorry. Why’d I ever let you talk me into telling you all this with liquor on the table? This is liquor talking. And stress. A whole lot of stress. More than I’ve got the time or energy for. Ask the waiter to bring me a coffee. Then I’m going home and you can forget that last
bit, because I don’t mean it. I love my husband. I’m strong enough to ride it out. I pray for distance, that’s right, distance from the whole thing. Just step back, whoa. My husband is getting to know his sister. She’s a married woman with two kids and if I may say so, a very attractive husband who seems completely blind to what’s going on. Well, he’s a New York lawyer. Do I need to say more? Okay, I’ll be honest, that’s part of the problem. The way Tom looks at Neil. Like he’s laughing at the whole thing, at Neil and me. The way Neil worships Amanda. A couple of small town hicks craning their necks along the streets of Montreal and New York, and Christ Almighty, next summer we’re all going to Cape Cod!
. . .
What’s she look like? Well Marie, a question like that does not put me at ease. Because it means you consider her a woman! And she is his SISTER! It is against the law in America to go after your sister.
. . .
Okay, sorry. My children are fourteen, seventeen, nineteen, boy, girl, boy, and when they met her for the first time, they couldn’t stop looking. She’s small, with blond hair and, well, I’d say she isn’t even aware of her looks. Apparently she was sickly as a kid but she’s fine now. Beautiful. My husband is in love. You know what’s worse? She looks at him like he’s a miracle. There you go. The biggest disaster of my life, and I thought I’d had a few. Okay, now say something that’ll make me feel better.
* * *
Wanda didn’t turn up for their aerobics class the following week. Marie intended to give her a call but kept putting it off. Then she missed a few weeks herself, over a sprained wrist. When she got back to class, Wanda was nowhere to be seen.
A few days before Christmas Marie ran into Neil. He was heading up a fundraising campaign at the mall for the Vermont families who lost somebody in 9/11. The group had come out with a full line of T-shirts, mugs and bumper stickers bearing the slogan Live Free in America or Else, proceeds to go to the grieving families. She made a point of going over to the stand. She bought a set of stars and stripes place-mats so he wouldn’t think she was interfering. When she mentioned Wanda, Neil’s usually sunny face clouded over.
Mankind & Other Stories of Women Page 11
