by Amanda Brown
“Ha!” laughed Arlene, standing to retrieve a Diet Coke from the refrigerator.
She turned an aggrieved face to Becca. “Do you know how long I was in labor with you?”
“I know, Mom,” Becca said, nodding her head impatiently. “Thirteen hours. The most difficult thirteen hours—”
“Of my life,” Arlene finished, smiling with satisfaction. Becca was a good kid. She would never forget how her mother suffered. “How I suffered!” she added, mopping her forehead at the thought of it. “And even though I was at Beth Israel…”
“Where they will always choose the mother over the baby if the choice has to be made,” Becca chimed in with her mother, knowing this story by heart.
Her mother nodded. “Even so—what suffering! And then! It was a year before I was sure you were all right in the head. You just don’t know, with the little ones. Oh, how a mother’s heart grieves!”
She began to describe Becca’s first fever, her first visit to the emergency room—the suffering!—the first food she refused, the color she always looked best in—the whole life epic for which Becca had to thank her struggling, suffering, giving mother, the rock of every family, who ought to be thanked every day, such a heart!
Becca, warmed by the cadence of these old familiar stories, began to smile.
“Mom,” she said, grinning. “You don’t cut me any slack.”
“Why should I?” Arlene returned vigorously, slapping the table in front of her. “Thirteen hours I labor, a year I worry, my heart grieving over every cough, every fever—just to get you on your feet. And you—you wake up one day with a beautiful little girl—such hair! Such golden hair!—healthy as a cow, a little overdressed, I recall—but she has her health! You’re as lucky as Abraham!”
Becca laughed out loud. “Well, when you put it that way,” she said, “it sounds great. But I have a job, don’t forget.”
“Take a few months off. You can live! You can kill yourself with that job later. It will be there.”
The support, if you could call it that, from her mother, combined with Becca’s natural and reviving confidence, had begun to develop in her the appetite for taking control.
“Maybe I could get my analysts on it,” Becca thought out loud. “Cover the current press on four-year-olds, the parent magazines and stuff. Do a little executive summary for this afternoon.”
“What are they there for, if not to help you?” Arlene said, throwing her arms into a shrug. She paused, her eyes resting on Becca with affection.
“Get up to speed if it helps you, honey,” she said, stroking Becca’s hair, “but let me tell you the truth: You have it all inside. Go with your instinct.” She patted Becca on the back as if that were the end of it.
Becca sighed, shaking her head.
“I don’t know, Mom. It’s a big change for me,” she said. She looked up at her mother’s face, and her gaze melted in the adoration that lit her mother’s eyes so tenderly. Becca smiled, her shoulders relaxing as she let out her breath.
“You’ll be a great mom,” her mother said fondly.
Becca blushed and smiled. “How do you know?”
Arlene parked her hands on her hips and laughed. That was an easy one. “Because you’re just like me, Becca.”
Becca returned her mother’s grin, happy to share the compliment.
“Now if you’ll excuse me,” Arlene told her, tapping the back of Becca’s chair as she hurried behind it, “I have to make a few phone calls. Who would believe it? I’m a Bubbe now!”
Hastening to spread her joy, Arlene walked out to the phone, which she kept on a small table by the front window, where she could see what everybody was up to.
“Bubbe,” Becca repeated. She smiled, seeing her mom for the first time as a grandmother. She took a deep breath, comforted by the familiar kitchen. She could do this. Her mother was always straight with her. If this were something to reconsider, she would have heard it from Arlene.
From Bubbe, Becca corrected herself, grinning.
Becca did not have a clue what she would do about making arrangements for Emily while she went off to Hong Kong. She certainly wasn’t leaving her with her “coguardian,” a man she didn’t know. Edward Kirkland to her knowledge still had not been located. Great—a coguardian who as far as she could tell was footloose and irresponsible.
She had asked her mother, who came up with the obvious answer.
“Mom—my first weekend as a mother and I’m already in crisis mode. How am I going to do this?”
“It’s simple—one crisis at a time. This one is easy. Take her with you.”
“To Hong Kong?”
“Why not?”
Why not? Good question. Becca’s ability to analyze options kicked in. She had none—except to take Emily with her.
But first, she’d have to see Emily and give her the news that would rock her world.
From her phone in the cab on her way back to midtown, Becca started her analysts on a high-priority research project. She intended to be an expert on child-raising by close of business.
The nanny brought Emily home from her playdate. Becca noticed Emily had replaced the tutu with a Tartine et Chocolate delicate smocked dress. This child of hers was a clotheshorse at four. What would she be like at thirteen?
This child of hers. The concept produced less fear every time she thought it—and more anticipation.
The children’s grief psychologist her analysts had consulted had written a sample script for Becca to follow and prepared her with possible opportunities that might present themselves as an opening.
Becca had read the script and dismissed it. Emily was too bright to be fed serious information using canned dialogue. The right time would present itself.
Becca, on automatic pilot, had stopped by her own apartment to grab the suitcase tagged “Asia, Autumn.” She looked around at the sleek furniture, sisal carpet, white on white décor, and realized the place was childproof because no child had ever been there! How quick her perspective had changed.
Once in the Fifth Avenue building, Emily’s home, she headed toward the kitchen where Emily sat with her sour-faced nanny.
“Where’s the prima ballerina?”
“Aunt Becca!” Cookie crumbs decorated Emily’s clothes and her milk moustache made it difficult to imagine her as a dancer. “Are you here to visit Mommy? Because she and Daddy are in…”
“Alaska, I know, sweetheart. But I’m here to visit you.”
“Wow!” Emily clapped her hands together, standing, whirling around and managing to grab Becca’s hand at the same time, pulling her into the playroom. The room was decorated with red carpet and white walls—these made from a washable material designed for crayon scribbles. For that purpose a humongus box of Crayolas stood atop a white metal table, where a puzzle game lay half finished—a puzzle Arthur had started with Emily, Becca was sure, and it looked to her like a life stopped midsentence.
Becca and Emily built a structure out of a futuristic Legos kit Becca had never seen. An hour or more went by.
“I’m hungry.” Emily had fallen into a pouty mood as though she knew what was coming.
“Let’s go eat, then.”
“We call Thai.”
“Is that what you want to do?”
“I want to be able to say exactly what I want all the time and then it magically appears!”
“That’s asking for a lot of magic.”
“My mommy says my life will be filled with magic.” They both were now sitting on the floor so Emily’s face was just a little lower than Becca’s. Which is how Becca managed to catch the shift in the child’s expression. Emily wasn’t thinking about magic.
“When is Mommy coming home?”
Becca didn’t answer at once. Instead she drew the child to her.
Becca looked down into blue eyes, dyed nearly navy by sadness, which shifted to study her face.
“Momma’s gone for a long time?”
How did she know? How could s
he not? There had been comings and goings and phone calls. Who knows what Emily overheard.
Becca nodded. That was all.
“And Daddy too, I bet. He’d want to be with Mommy.” When Becca nodded, Emily shuffled on unsteady feet out of the playroom.
Becca stayed stupidly on the playroom floor. Maybe she should bring Emily a little brandy in the glass of water like her mother used to do for her. No—go to her. Becca could hear her mother’s voice egging her on, guiding her.
Emily was face down on the bed. Her little arms were by her sides and she sobbed, taking in gasps of air. She wasn’t shrieking, as Becca would have done in her place, nor was she banging her fists or stomping on the floor in a tantrum. These sobs were from a broken heart. Becca’s own heart shattered in that moment and she reached out for Emily, pulling her to her and rocking her, humming a tune from she didn’t know where, perhaps her own childhood. Eventually the sobs turned into quiet weeping. Becca placed one hand on Emily’s head. With the other arm she held her close. Emily would never know a greater pain than this. And here she was, responsible for helping her heal. The thought strengthened her, knowing Emily would help her get over her own hurt.
“Mommy’s left you and me to take care of each other.”
This seemed to intrigue Emily as a concept because she stopped crying, sat up, legs dangling. “Where did they go? Where did Mommy and Daddy go?”
Becca told her the truth. Brushing and braiding the child’s golden hair, Becca told her that her parents had flown into the sky and had flown away together forever. Emily would live with Becca and her daddy’s friend, Edward, and together they would always remember her mom and dad.
The child had clung to her, crying and afraid. They spent hours upon hours remembering all the wonderful things about her mother, which Emily wrote on special paper with the fanciest letters she could make. The paper that so impressed Emily was nothing but graph paper, and the child’s fancy was delighted by nothing more than a pack of four highlighting pens that Becca gave her to decorate the pages. Together they made a special memory book for her mom and dad that flew away, and Becca, in one sitting, learned as much as she could tastefully manage about how to go about her new life as a parent.
It was a book they could add to forever, Becca thought, wondering all of a sudden what she should do with the rooms full of Amy’s things. But necessity and instinct together told her to leave things as they lay, and Emily seemed a little bit sunnier after Becca told her about the adventure they were going on in the morning. She packed the fanciest dresses she could find, and was excited about the exotic dress-ups Becca described they would find.
CHAPTER 6
Ask Alice
Alice Carter, with the highest degree of tact, had stopped by the Carlyle to inquire if Edward were home. She had not been able to reach him on his mobile phone, and though she had left messages, she was never sure if he checked them. Edward was a simple soul, and he had never really warmed to the idea of carrying a phone.
She found him feeding his crew, the three dogs he kept in his private apartment at the Carlyle. It was one of the reasons he liked to stay there: They not only tolerated dogs, but actually had an excellent dog-care program, in which, by the simple expedient of a phone call or e-mail by nine o’clock each morning, the dogs would be fed, walked, bathed, brushed, and read aloud to from a vast library of dog-oriented literature. For additional charges a whole range of spa services were available to the canines, from manicures to salt scrubs, but Edward kept his dogs for companionship, and was as likely as not to handle all of their care by himself. The dog nannies were useful when he traveled, though, he reflected, having ordered their morning care from George’s phone last night.
At a time that was much too late, well after the Armani spectacle, George Whelan, who had sweated and strained with Edward on the crew team at Harvard, and his wife Bonnie, invited everyone who was still standing to their house on Sutton Place. Edward wanted to be out of his tuxedo and alone somewhere, but nobody, including Bunny, seemed to want the party to end. George rolled the bar outside to the wraparound terrace, where the group made a ridiculously clumsy attempt at candlelit croquet. In the early morning hours, the straggling crowd of ten or twelve guests hurried in a great laughing clump to the kitchen for omelets. They fell asleep here and there, on couches, beds and chairs, slumped against pillows, curled like kittens, yawning and full of the joy of rising with nothing in particular to do.
Bunny had found a suitable bedroom, of course, and rose early to get the newspaper. She had a way of looking after her interests.
Edward greeted Alice warmly, offered her a drink, and walked with her to the balcony, closing the door gently against the wet nose of his old, white-faced golden retriever, who would otherwise give him no peace. With a bedridden tuft of his hair raised in the back like a rooster, Edward blinked his eyes against the sunlight. He yawned, stretching out his arms like a child. He had not an ounce of pretense, Alice thought, dreading what she had to say.
With the balance of sympathy and consideration that was characteristic of her, Alice told Edward about Arthur and about Emily. She was familiar with Thirstan Heston, who was a member of the Union Club, and in fact was, by coincidence, rather friendly with Barbara Kenton, who was the private secretary of Thirstan’s wife. She had gotten the whole story from Thirstan and now told Edward that Arthur must have thought highly of him as to honor him with the gift of his child.
It was a long time before Edward spoke. He rubbed his head, squinted at the sun, and suggested they go inside. He took one of the dogs down, in the small, interior elevator that led to a secured extension of his apartment downstairs, and returned after ten or fifteen minutes to sit with Alice. His eyes were rimmed with red.
If Edward had cried, Alice realized, he had not wanted her to see it. His healthy, broad shoulders were slumped and tired. He walked slowly and evenly to the couch that faced her upholstered chair and leaned into the pillows. Without speaking, he lowered his head into his hands. His breath came with difficulty.
Alice cried, unable to bear for a moment Edward’s suffering. She didn’t notice him rising from his seat. She started with surprise when Edward rested a kind hand on her shoulder, and with the other hand produced a handkerchief from his pocket. He always carried a handkerchief. He was such a dear, kind young man. Alice cried harder.
Edward, his eyes traced with veins of red, leaned his face close to her.
“I’ve inherited lots of things, Alice,” he said gently. “But this is a first.”
“Oh, Edward!” she exclaimed, leaping from her chair to wrap him in a big, unabashed hug, like a mother might hold him, Edward thought. His own mother, a reserved and tasteful woman, was not prone to displays of affection.
He pressed his face into her shoulder, and breathed deeply. Then he stepped back, and for a long time, an unforgettable time, he talked to Alice about his old friend Arthur Stearns.
When Edward called the apartment, he was shocked to hear Amy Kolasky’s voice lingering on the voice mail, relating the “busy message,” as someone was on the other line. It was too eerie and he decided not to leave a message. Nearly an hour passed before Edward tried again to get through. The phone continued to ring busy. Alice had told him that the lawyer mentioned a coguardian but Edward was barely listening, and when he heard the line was busy he assumed the lawyer was at work there. He had no idea that Becca, her computer sitting idle but still on-line, was tying up the phone connection.
In a stroke, Edward had been handed responsibility for a helpless little girl, and by the same stroke had been cut off from the one person he would most naturally turn to for honest advice. Today he had lost his best friend, and before he had even a moment to fathom what life would be like without having Arthur—who understood him in the unconscious manner of someone he had always known, his roommate from St. George’s all the way through Harvard—he had become a father.
He had no warmth in his heart for his own father, s
o fully dominant with the thriving industrial success of his conglomerate as to occupy every field in which Edward might have taken a professional interest. What was the point of learning the shipping business, the chemical business, the cement business, the palm-tickling of corrupt public works ministers that led to sweetheart construction contracts? What was the use of an M.B.A. when his father declared he would run Kirkland Enterprises for twenty more years? Edward saw his choices as working for his father or competing against him, and neither held much appeal. So he had trifled with his studies, finding at last that the field of history provided him with the right combination of escapism, impracticality, and masculine credibility. Ironically, his father had a massive heart attack soon after Edward graduated and the stockholders voted to sell Kirkland Enterprises in pieces. Kirkland Enterprises was no more—but plenty more money had flowed into his mother’s coffers.
He saw his father as someone to be avoided. Now he wore the badge. Edward felt utterly alone, a desperate sensation altogether different from the irresponsible solitude he had known and enjoyed. Nobody had ever depended on him before.
He reached the lawyer at his home in the evening, at a phone number that Alice had diligently obtained, and was advised by Thirstan to “keep his powder dry.” By that, the lawyer explained, he meant that Emily would be better off sleeping on the changes that had already disturbed her over the course of the day, before Edward’s presence delivered a new shock. The lawyer was tired, and had fallen into speaking in the same manner in which he wrote. In this way he advised Edward to cease and desist from visiting, until the morning, when things always looked better.
But in the morning, nothing seemed a scarce bit clearer to Edward, except that he felt in dual measure rejected and negligent to have spent this first night away from his daughter. But he was, to his credit, a man to whom neither self-criticism nor self-pity attached for long, and by the time he arrived at the Stearns’ apartment, his heart was beating with anticipation. He longed to hold Emily Stearns, to squeeze her tightly in his arms and promise her that nothing would ever hurt her. He longed to be a father that she would turn to, that she would trust. Though he was apprehensive, and mourned his friend deeply, Edward felt stirring in his heart the first sensation that he might be of use to someone. He hurried his step as he resolved in his heart to handle this situation well.
