Where is the Baby?

by Charlotte Vale-Allen

  She didn’t want a house. That would entail too much maintenance. But a condominium would be good. A place where outdoor chores would be taken care of automatically, but indoors would be entirely her own, just as she wanted it. A wonderful kitchen, a big living room with a fireplace . . .

  Hay’s voice saying, ‘Faith, I’d like you to meet Tally,’ startled her. Heart thumping, she jumped to her feet, not knowing what she was doing, unfocused, dragging her thoughts into the moment as her eyes slid off Hay and landed on a face that belonged to a movie star. Beautiful yet with melancholy eyes Faith recognized from her own miserable encounters with mirrors. The woman offered a smile and an out-held hand.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Faith got out. ‘I was . . . daydreaming . . . Hi!’ She took hold of the woman’s slim hand, looked into her eyes, and felt a seismic jolt. The woman felt it, too: recognition and an instant understanding of each other. It was as if they’d once spent time together – intense, concentrated time so that they knew one another intimately. Tally’s expression turned quizzical and she searched Faith’s eyes, keeping hold of her hand. What was happening here? When had they known each other?

  Tally saw a little girl with an old woman’s eyes, delicate features half-hidden behind an abundance of long gold-brown hair; a child in appearance, with painfully undernourished limbs. Her hand was small and warm and firm, and Tally had the arbitrary notion that this ethereal child would simply drift away if Tally relinquished her grip. Improbably, she felt somehow responsible for keeping the girl tethered to herself. She’d met someone important here, and Tally didn’t want to lose her. She had to know what this meeting signified. For the first time in many years, her heart was stirred fully alive. It was beating importantly, alerting her to a revival of all her senses.

  Hay broke into the moment. ‘I’ve got to get into the kitchen. Take care of each other, you two,’ he said, and hurried off, satisfied by what he’d witnessed. He’d known in his bones that these two women needed to meet. There’d visibly been an instant connectedness he’d anticipated, as if a lengthy separation had been brought to an end. A reunion of people who’d never met but who were deeply familiar to each other – and to him. He’d felt it the moment he’d seen Faith, had sensed the restorative effect she’d have on Tally and, in turn, the maternal consolation Tally could bring to Faith’s plainly orphaned spirit.

  Unsettled, Faith said, ‘We should probably sit down,’ then waited for the woman’s hand to leave hers, feeling briefly chilled when it did.

  ‘You seem so – familiar,’ Tally said. Then she smiled again and said, ‘But that’s impossible.’

  ‘You do, too,’ Faith said. ‘And it is impossible. I’d definitely remember if we’d met before.’

  Tally shrugged off her jacket, draped it over the back of her chair and sat down.

  Faith resumed her seat, unable to take her eyes from the woman. ‘I’m probably being rude. I lack social skills,’ she said.

  ‘That’s not so.’ Tally disagreed with a shake of her head. The girl was a small island, she thought, alone in a vast sea of uncertainty. ‘You’re probably just not used to being away from home.’

  ‘I don’t have a home,’ Faith said quietly, ‘only a place where I’ve had to be until now.’

  With a slight frown, Tally asked, ‘How can that be?’

  ‘Nobody knows who I am.’ Faith couldn’t believe she’d said that aloud, but she wasn’t sorry. It seemed as if she’d been waiting her entire life to talk to this woman. For the briefest fragment of time, she wondered if she was meeting her mother. She wished it were so, but she knew it wasn’t. Tally wasn’t old enough; they bore no resemblance whatsoever to each other. What Tally did offer, though, was a rare acknowledgment, an acceptance that no one else had ever provided. It felt as if a long-sealed door had silently opened and Faith was able to enter a place where she could finally know how it felt to belong – as a child to a parent. That knowledge was here; it resided in Tally and the transfusion of feeling had already begun. Inexplicable but undeniable.

  Tally leaned on her elbows, closing the distance between them. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I never talk this way,’ Faith told her. ‘I don’t tell people about myself. I have no idea why I’m saying these things to you.’

  With the sense that time had ballooned around them, enclosing them in an elastic moment, Tally knew that this was a meeting that could never be duplicated, no matter how many times they might meet again. Like a chapter from a science fiction novel, they were meeting in a space out of time where who they were could be safely revealed – but only to each other. A cosmic gift? Karma? It was impossible to know, but it was ordained somehow. And they both felt it.

  ‘Should I tell you something that I never tell anyone?’ Tally asked, swimming in the warmth of the girl’s deep eyes.

  ‘Yes. Please.’

  ‘I’ve spent the last fifteen years in prison. I was released just a few months ago.’

  ‘God! Why?’ Rather than alarming her, Faith felt utterly sympathetic. She knew that whatever the reason for Tally’s being in prison, it was wrong.

  ‘It’s too long a story, but I’ll tell you about it later, if you like.’

  ‘Yes. I’d like that.’

  Tally reached out and took hold again of Faith’s hand. ‘I know it’s not possible, but it feels as if I know you.’

  ‘I feel the same way. It’s so strange. But good . . . as if I’ve been waiting all this time to meet you.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Tally agreed.

  ‘I’ve spent the past thirteen years with the Lazarus family,’ Faith said softly, in the throes of a confessional need she’d never before experienced. Her voice diminishing to a husky whisper, she confided, ‘I’m a famous stolen child.’

  A gloss of tears suddenly appeared in Tally’s eyes. ‘The Stolen Child? That book? It’s about you?’ Tally remembered sharing the book with her cell mate Bertie. It was the only time they’d ever discussed one of the books they’d shared. Tally had been overwhelmed with dislike of the doctors who’d written it, feeling that they’d capitalized on the child’s misfortune. And Bertie had agreed quite volubly. ‘Poor little tyke. They oughta be ashamed!’ she’d said with disgust.

  Faith said now, ‘It’s about who they thought I was. But I’ve never been that person. All I ever wanted was to find my family – to go home. I could never stop thinking that somewhere out there’ – a sweep of her hand indicated the world beyond the barn – ‘I had a mother and father who didn’t know where I was. I wanted to find them. I’ve always wanted to find them; I probably always will.’

  ‘How is it possible we’re telling each other our secrets?’ Tally wondered aloud. ‘We met two minutes ago but I feel as if I’ve always known you. Do you think it’s because I read the book?’

  ‘Maybe. But I’ve never read about you.’

  They stared at each other for a long moment, then spontaneously began to laugh.

  ‘Hay was right,’ Tally said, glancing over to see that people were filing into the barn.

  Following her eyes, Faith said, ‘We’ll talk later, after dinner, won’t we?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Tally promised.

  ‘I feel as if you came tonight just to visit me . . . as if you’re family. For a minute, I wanted you to be my mother, to have found me finally.’

  ‘I had a daughter who died,’ Tally said softly. ‘She was five months old. Her name was Anna.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Faith felt the loss like a blow to the midriff that curled her forward over the sudden pain. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  They sat silent for a time, their hands still joined. Then: ‘The food smells wonderful,’ Tally said, letting go – a signal. ‘All of a sudden I’m very hungry.’

  ‘Me, too,’ Faith said, understanding. She looked over to see people settling at the nearby tables; the room all at once abustle, voices falling over each other, rising in volume. ‘How did Hay know we had to meet?’ she had to ask.

  Folding h
er arms on the table in front her, Tally thought about that, realizing something she’d known about Hay from the outset without actually considering it. ‘I think perhaps we’ve all been prisoners in one way or another. And he recognized that. Maybe not consciously. Sometimes we follow our intuition without knowing why. He’s told me very little about his life; it’s not anything he’s said. But it’s something about him that I’ve felt. And now I think he recognized that same thing about you and me . . . I think he intuitively felt it was important for the two of us to meet.’

  Faith thought that made sense, and automatically she looked over at the serving window where Hay was setting a huge tray down on the steam table. The usual blue kerchief was tied over his hair, a clean white apron wrapped around his middle. His eyes lifted as if he felt the weight of her gaze and she waggled her fingers at him. He smiled at her then stepped out of view, back into the kitchen.

  Faith ate quickly, savoring the end-cut piece of roast beef Hay had kept aside for her. Everything was delicious: the moist beef subtly seasoned, the carrots sweet, the potatoes buttery, the gravy smooth and rich. Her appetite was enormous, and she was relieved to see that Tally, too, was eating quickly, hungrily.

  Their eyes met, and again, they grinned at each other.

  They’d dived instantly into intimacy as if leaping from the top of a tall waterfall, dropping into a plunging torrent that had deposited them upright in a soothing, frothy pool at its base. They had, in meeting, been magically freed of all prior constraints. Even in silence, they were communicating. Both of them felt happier than they had in a long, long time with the sense that long-missing parts of themselves had been magically restored.

  Now and then finding his sight-line clear, Hay glanced over to the table, elated to see Tally and Faith, both of them easy in their demeanor, interacting like long-time, close friends, their conversation intercut with sudden laughter.

  With the food service complete, when he brought his plate of food to the table and sat down with them to eat, all three of them laughed spontaneously. It was exactly as he’d hoped it would be – ordained, somehow. Something damaged on Asian soil, something more lost on familiar ground, was being returned to him in a way he could never have imagined. Mentally he thanked his higher power for this unexpected but hugely welcome gift. Once again he was part of something that had all the constituents of a family and he felt a rush of love for these women. His gratitude was beyond measure. They each no longer had to feel alone. The little girl pretending to be an alcoholic could stop pretending. The woman pretending not to care about her life could end the pretense. And the man pretending to relish his isolation could dine at a table with people for whom he was amassing a wealth of feeling.

  SEVENTEEN

  Faith could barely concentrate on the evening’s speaker. Her thoughts tumbled distractingly. She wanted to talk more with Tally and Hay. She wanted to know about the roads they’d traveled to arrive at this point in time as the people they were now. She herself had been profoundly affected by Margery Briggs’s decision to put her in the care of the Lazarus family. Had the woman been better equipped for her job, had she been less of an elitist and more sensitive to the children who came under her jurisdiction, she’d have chosen to place Faith with Brian and his family, or with Captain Garvey and his. Connie would have been ideal but her lack of a husband eliminated her from consideration, which was a rule so stupid that Faith couldn’t think about it without becoming infuriated.

  Margery Briggs had made a decision that could never have been construed as being in the best interest of the child. But she’d had the authority to make that decision, and her choice had shaped Faith into the person who’d used a risky and devious ploy in order to save herself. Twice in her life she’d relied on her native ingenuity to escape from dangerous situations: once to save the baby and now to save herself. Literally. The Lazarus clan had brought her to the brink of suicide, so contaminated was she with self-loathing by the images they had kept forcing her to revisit, never allowing her to clear her mind. But she’d escaped and life all at once felt livable again. She could continue on toward a future of helping children, caring for them, saving them, if possible. She would use her experience to intervene when needed, to effect change, to offer sanctuary, however briefly. Somebody had to speak up for the babies, and she could do that.

  She couldn’t help sensing there was truth to Tally’s suggestion that all three of them had been imprisoned in some fashion. Although she hadn’t previously thought of it in those terms, she could see now that her years in the Lazarus home had been an esoteric form of imprisonment. The only possible reward to be garnered from the experience would be financial, once Stefan made good on his promised settlement. And she didn’t doubt he’d keep his word. He was many things, but not a liar. In only a couple of days he’d become once more recognizable as the young man who’d sat on the floor and played games with her at their first meeting, the young man who’d been sitting at her bedside each time she’d awakened from another surgery. That young man had had great empathy, and it seemed to have restarted again, as if he’d lived in some arcane cryogenic state during the intervening years.

  All she wanted now was to get to know Tally and Hay and learn how their experiences had shaped them. To her mind, it was like random child’s play. The transient placement here and there of dolls in the control of heedless children had defined three people’s lives: their memories, their behavior, their very existence. And tonight she was relieved to learn that hers wasn’t an isolated case; that other people had done whatever needed to be done in order to survive. Intellectually of course she’d always known that, but she’d still felt alone, locked inside herself – trapped in that fancy spider’s web of a house.

  At last the meeting came to an end and people were either streaming over to talk to the speaker or putting the tables and chairs back in place, carrying full ashtrays to a table near the kitchen before filing out of the barn. Hay got up, saying, ‘Why don’t the two of you grab seats and I’ll get us some coffee.’

  Faith sat quietly for a moment, then told Tally she was going to get an ashtray. ‘I really need a cigarette,’ she said apologetically. ‘I’ll be right back.’

  After making her way through the slow-moving crowd and emptying one of the ashtrays, she got back to the table as Hay returned carrying a tray with mugs of coffee and a plate of cookies. Taking note of Faith’s cigarette, he put the tray on the table, saying, ‘I’ve been wanting a cigarette, too. Will you be all right with both of us smoking?’ he asked Tally as he sat down, prepared to pull his tobacco and papers from his pocket.

  ‘Smoke, you two,’ she told them. ‘I really don’t mind.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Tally asked Faith, surrendering to her curiosity. ‘What will you do when you leave here?’

  ‘I’ll be going back to school and looking for a place of my own in my free time.’

  ‘Aren’t you a bit young for your own place?’ Tally asked.

  ‘As far as anyone knows, I’m almost eighteen. That makes me “legal.” I’d like to be closer to school. Right now I’m spending a lot of time driving back and forth every day. I’m a sophomore at Yale, in pre-med,’ she elaborated.

  Hay was impressed. ‘I thought you were maybe a junior in high school.’

  ‘Everybody thinks that.’ Faith shrugged, giving him a smile. ‘I’m used to it. But I’ve always wanted to be a doctor, a pediatrician specifically.’ Turning to Tally, she asked, ‘I know it’s kind of pushy of me, but will you tell me about prison, about what happened?’

  Bemused, Hay took a drag on his cigarette, waiting to hear what Tally would say. Obviously, the two of them had engaged in some intense conversation before he’d been free to join them earlier with his dinner plate.

  ‘I was young and impatient once, too,’ Tally said generously, offering Faith a smile, then including Hay. ‘Here’s the abridged version,’ she began.

  ‘In the spring of ’sixty-five I was working on my BA thesis
at the San Francisco Art Institute, and trying to decide if I really wanted to start graduate school in the fall. I was pre-enrolled but very uncertain. My immediate plan was to head home to Nevada and take the summer at the ranch to decide on a direction because nothing appealed to me. I considered myself an emancipated woman, modern and forward-thinking. I wanted to do something, have some kind of career, but I didn’t want to throw away the tuition money if my interest turned out to be in some area that wasn’t covered at the Institute.’ She took a slow breath, and said, ‘And then I met Clayton and everything changed.’

  Just as he had all those years ago in reality, he stepped now into her recall: clear-eyed and smiling, with a country boy’s sturdy build and unaffected manner; a perfectly beautiful young man with direct blue eyes and a well-shaped mouth, asking to borrow the salt from her table in the cafe.

  She was alone. He was alone. He asked if he could share her table. She said yes. Lunch evolved into a lengthy laugh-punctuated conversation that continued on to become a rambling walk through the city with a pause for a takeout dinner of hamburgers and fries eaten on a park bench, and ended just before midnight when he escorted her back to her apartment and kissed her cheek before heading off to his boarding-house.

  He was an orphan who’d been raised by his only relative, his mother’s laconic unmarried Uncle Bradford who’d owned a dude ranch in central Wyoming. Deeply sensitive, aware of nuance, immensely talented and kind-hearted, Clayton was – with the inheritance from Bradford’s estate – completing his degree in the photography program at the Institute that had been started by Ansel Adams.

  Despite the rural upbringing that had begun for him at the age of six following his parents’ death in an automobile accident, Clayton preferred shooting urban scenes, often subtly hand-tinting black-and-white images with faint colors to lend them surprising softness and warmth.