by Donna Ball
“Say.” She turned away from her work and picked up the sheet. “That’s pretty good. Thanks.”
“And here’s the book back.” He returned the book that she had renewed at the library. “What’re you going to do with that picture, anyhow?”
“Well,” she said, and there was a note of carefully repressed excitement in her voice as she tucked the drawing carefully inside a manila folder, “I was going to give it to Mom, and Aunt Bridget and Aunt Lindsay, for Mother’s Day—”
“Mother’s Day?” he repeated, surprised.
“I was going to say it was from both of us,” she defended. “After all, it was my idea, even if you did draw it.”
“But they’re not your mama.” He frowned. “The other two, I mean. How come you give them a present?”
“They may not be my actual mother,” she explained, “or mothers, as the case may be, but they’re like my mothers. My folks got divorced when I was little,” she added matter-of-factly, “and my mom had to work a lot, so they kind of helped raise me. You don’t have to be related to be a family, you know.”
He didn’t answer; he just stood there, frowning over the concept, so she shrugged. “Anyway, like I said, I was going to frame your drawing for Mother’s Day, because I thought they’d get a kick out of it, you know, but now I have a better idea. A much better idea,” she added determinedly, and turned back to her computer. “Of course it would go a lot faster if I had actual access to the Internet from my home computer, instead of having to drive half an hour each way just to Google one thing. Anyway . . .” She hit Save on the computer and closed the laptop. “I guess I can put this off until I can get back to the library. So, are you ready to finish the fountain?”
He was still frowning, but this expression was different from his usual demeanor of sullen discontent. It seemed more thoughtful, and even sad. He didn’t reply right away, and Lori started to repeat herself. Then he said, “You’re gonna have to finish it by yourself.”
Lori sat back in her chair and threw her hands up in exasperation. “Oh, terrific! That’s just terrific. I knew I couldn’t count on you. Didn’t I call it? ‘You’re just a kid,’ I said, ‘you’ll screw it up.’ Well, thank you very much for proving me right!”
He was quick to defend himself. “I didn’t screw it up! I mixed the cement, I patched the holes, I showed you how to set the rocks, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, but you’re the one who knows what the pattern around the base is supposed to look like, and how am I going to move that heavy statue by myself? Typical, just typical. This family is in real trouble and I’m working my butt off to try to help, and what are you doing? Bailing, that’s what! You ought to be ashamed of yourself.” She turned away in disgust. “I don’t know why I’m even wasting my breath on you.”
The silence that followed was so lengthy that Lori abandoned her annoyance to slide a glance toward him. He just stood there, looking sad, and that was when she noticed for the first time that he held his backpack by one strap in his hand. After a moment he reached into it, pulled out an eight-by-ten canvas, and looked at it for a moment before handing it to her in a single abrupt gesture. “Here,” he said. “This’ll show you what it’s supposed to look like.”
She looked at the painting of the fountain, and then at him, curiously, until his brows drew together sharply and he added, “Even a stupid girl ought to be able to figure it out from that.”
She laid the painting aside. “Gee, thanks a lot. That’ll make me feel ever so much better when I’m dragging rocks in from the field and trying to lift a two-hundred-pound statue by myself.”
“Yeah, well, you’re the one that signed up for it, not me.”
He turned to go and had reached the door before he looked back. “Hey,” he said. He waited until she looked at him, and then he seemed almost as though he didn’t know what to say. His jaw was set but his expression was uncomfortable and it seemed a long time before he said, simply, “Thanks for not telling.”
Lori just looked at him. Finally, she shrugged, and said, “Whatever.”
He glanced at the floor, around the room, seemed to be searching for something else to say. But he settled on, “Okay. Well, see you.”
Again Lori said, “Whatever,” as he left the room.
She opened her laptop and didn’t think about him again for the rest of the morning.
For the longest time, no one spoke. Carrie sat back in her chair, her expression tight. Bridget’s fingers went to her lips, a quick intake of breath flaring her nostrils. Cici’s hand closed tightly over Lindsay’s and she felt the trembling there.
Mandy’s chin rose a fraction. “I’ve made mistakes,” she said steadily, “and I’ve paid for them. But I’ve been given a second chance. And the one mistake I refuse to make . . .” Her breath caught, and quavered in her throat, and then, with an effort, became strong again. “The one mistake I refuse to make,” she repeated, “is to waste this chance. I’m going to get to know my son before I die.”
“Oh . . . I’m so sorry,” Bridget whispered. Her fingers fluttered to her lap.
Carrie turned a somber gaze on Mandy. “This changes things,” she told her quietly. “You should have told me.”
“It doesn’t change anything,” the other woman replied. Her knuckles whitened. “He’s still my son. You can’t keep him from me.”
Cici felt Lindsay’s surge of breath and she clamped down on her friend’s hand, hard. Then she said, “Ms. Cormier . . . Mandy . . . please forgive me for asking, but—what is your prognosis?”
“There are new protocols being developed every day,” she insisted, meeting their eyes bravely. “I’ve been in remission before. I can fight this thing.”
It sounded like a speech she had given many times before. But there was something in her voice that was not quite convincing, and she must have seen that reflected in their eyes. In a moment she dropped her own gaze and said softly, “It’s spread to my liver. The doctors say less than a year.”
And this time when she looked at them there was desperation in her gaze. “That’s why I have to have my boy with me now, don’t you see? I don’t have much time. There’s so much I’ve missed . . . and I don’t have much time.”
Lindsay said, “But you’re sick and—I’m sorry, but you’re going to get sicker. How can you take care of a teenage boy? Or are you expecting him to take care of you?”
“Lindsay . . .” Cici cautioned. But Lindsay jerked her hand away and gave a single shake of her head, warning both of her friends with the gesture that she would brook no interference.
“All these years he’s believed his mother was dead,” Lindsay went on, holding the other woman’s gaze steadily. “Now he’s going to learn that you abandoned him on purpose, and no matter what you tell him, don’t you see, for the rest of his life he’ll always think that it was because he wasn’t good enough for you to love.” And despite the cloud of hurt and denial that gathered in the other woman’s eyes, she pushed on. “And now, after fifteen years, you come back to claim him—only so that he can watch you die? How can you do that? How can you?”
Mandy stammered, “That’s not what I . . . that’s not how—”
“I know that’s not what you meant to do,” Lindsay said earnestly, leaning forward in her chair. “I know you didn’t mean for your life to turn out this way and I am sorry, truly I am, but I’m begging you, think about this. Think about what you’re doing to this child you’ve never met. He could be—so much. He deserves so much. This isn’t right. It just isn’t right.”
“What do you know about what’s right?” Mandy burst out angrily. “I walked away from my own baby to keep him safe and now, just when I’ve found him again, I’m dying! Don’t you talk to me about what’s right!”
“This is not going to change that!” Lindsay cried. “Don’t you see—”
Carrie interrupted, with a quiet authority that belied her youth, “Thank you, Lindsay. I think you’ve said enough.”
&nbs
p; She turned to Mandy. “There are some things we have to discuss,” she said gently. “No one means to make this harder on you than it has to be, but, given the state of your health, have you thought about who will take care of Noah if you no longer can? He is still a minor, you know. Perhaps you should consider leaving him in foster care and arranging a visitation schedule . . .”
Mandy pressed her fingertips to her temples, shaking her head slowly. “How dare you?” she said quietly. Then she looked straight at Lindsay. “How dare you set yourself up as judge of what’s best for my child? How dare you judge me?” A breath, a final shake of her head. “No. He’s my boy and you can’t keep him from me.”
“No one is trying to keep him from you,” Carrie assured her. “All we’re trying to do is—”
“He’s my child,” Mandy insisted. “I know my rights.” Two high spots of color stained her cheeks and her dark eyes took on a feverish hue. She rose abruptly, clutching her purse. “I’ve come for my son. You have his bags packed and ready to go today. I’ll be back for him at three o’clock.” She turned to Carrie. “Do I have to bring the sheriff with me?” she demanded.
Carrie said coolly, “That won’t be necessary.”
“Three o’clock,” she repeated. “I’ll be back.”
And with that, she left the office, closing the door hard behind her.
Cici said, “This isn’t happening.” She stared at Carrie. “You really can’t be sending a fifteen-year-old boy away from the only stable home he’s ever known to care for a terminally ill woman he’s never even met.”
“She is his mother,” Carrie said, trying to hide her own distress behind the authority in her tone. “The law is very clear—”
“Then the law is wrong. It’s just wrong.”
“This will change him forever,” Lindsay said. Her eyes had a bleak, unfocused look. “It will change the possibility of who he might have been.”
“Maybe,” Carrie agreed gently. “We have no right to judge, here, and we can’t play God. Every child has a right to know his mother.”
Cici said, “This is not how the system is supposed to work. What about what’s best for Noah?”
And Bridget added, “Okay, you’re right, maybe he does have a right to know his mother is alive, and maybe he does deserve to get to know her . . . but to send him away to live with her—under these circumstances—surely he’d be better off in foster care, even if it’s not with us.”
“That will have to be decided by the Department of Family and Children’s Services in Richmond. I’ll file a report with them, of course, and they will follow up . . .”
“And that could take months,” Cici said.
“Months,” repeated Lindsay. She stood. Her friends followed suit.
“Ladies,” Carrie said, coming around the desk. Her face was soft with genuine regret. “I know this doesn’t seem fair, and I am so sorry it happened. But there’s really nothing more we can do. I’ll talk to Mandy again, and maybe we can come up with some kind of support plan . . . but in the meantime, the kindest thing you can do for Noah is to prepare him for the news. We’ll be by to pick him up this afternoon.”
They were barely out the door before Lindsay snatched her phone out of her purse and flipped it open.
“What are you doing?” Cici said.
“Lawyers,” she responded crisply. She scrolled down her address book as she walked. “The whole damn world is run by lawyers. Well, I know a few lawyers and I’m not afraid to put them to work.” She pushed a button and clamped the phone to her ear.
Bridget said uncertainly, “Do you mean . . . take this to court?” She had to quicken her steps to keep up with Lindsay’s angry stride. “Can we do that?”
“Lawyers can do whatever they want.” She took the phone away from her ear, scowling, and redialed.
Cici said carefully, “That would be one way to go, I guess. Once a jury heard all the sordid details of his mother’s background—and there have got to be plenty, no matter what she’s done with her life now—they would never grant her custody of Noah. Of course, Noah would have to hear all the details, too.”
And Bridget added hesitantly, “These things take an awfully long time. She might not survive the trial.”
“Either way,” Cici added, “with no other living relatives, and without any real wrongdoing, I don’t think the court would intervene while the case is pending. Noah would still be living with her.”
Lindsay suddenly threw the telephone, hard, down on the sidewalk. “No service!” she exclaimed furiously. “God damn it!”
The other two stopped, startled, and Lindsay turned away from them. She drew a breath and pushed her hands through her hair. And in a moment she said, wearily, “I’m not going to take it to court, am I? I’m not going to torment this poor woman who only wants a chance to make things right, and I’m not going to humiliate a fifteen-year-old boy in a court of law and turn his last days with his mother into a nightmare, and I’m not going to file a complaint with Social Services in Richmond. I’m going to let him go.”
Bridget reached down and retrieved Lindsay’s phone. Cici slipped her arm around her waist. “Let’s go home,” she said.
20
Coming Home
Ida Mae was on a stepladder, using an extension pole brush to sweep cobwebs from the living room window casings, when they came in. “For heaven’s sake, Ida Mae, get down from there,” Bridget exclaimed, rushing toward her. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking it’s about time somebody swept up these cobwebs is what I’m thinking.” But she did accept the assistance of Bridget’s hand on her elbow as she climbed stiffly down from the stepladder. “Looks like nobody lives here but ghosts. Time to take that chandelier down and wash it, too. You can’t hardly see for the dust.”
“Why don’t you get one of the kids to help you with that?”
Ida Mae sniffed derisively. “Oh, they always got plenty better to do.”
“I hope they’re not fooling around out at the barn,” Cici said. “I told them to stay away from there.”
“Little Miss Fancy-Pants ain’t come out of her room all day, and the boy took off right after you did.”
“That was over three hours ago.”
“You haven’t seen him since?”
Lindsay looked sharply at Ida Mae. “What do you mean, ‘took off’? Where did he go?”
“He ain’t in the habit of telling me what his plans are, now is he? There’s soup on the stove for lunch, if you want it.” She started folding up the stepladder.
Cici went to the bottom of the stairs. “Lori!” A muffled reply came from behind a closed door, and she called, “Will you come down here please?”
While they waited for Lori to appear, the three women shared a worried look. “He’s probably just roaming around the woods somewhere,” Bridget said. “You know how he likes to go off by himself.”
“I should check the folly,” Lindsay said.
“Maybe he’s in the studio,” suggested Cici.
“No he’s not,” Ida Mae said, passing them with the clattering ladder. “He took off down the driveway with his backpack.”
Lindsay’s hand went to her throat.
Lori came down the stairs two at a time. “What’s up?”
“Do you know where Noah is?”
She seemed surprised. “I haven’t seen him since early this morning, Mom. Why? What’s he done now?”
“Did he say anything to you?” Lindsay demanded urgently. “Anything that might give you an idea . . .”
Ida Mae paused on her way to the pantry with the ladder and looked back curiously. “You don’t think that young’un has run off, do you?”
Sudden comprehension dawned on Lori’s face. “Oh no,” she said softly. “That’s what he meant.” She looked at her mother, her expression anxious and apologetic. “I wasn’t really paying attention. I would have tried to stop him if I’d known, honestly I would . . . but this morning, when he came to
talk to me, I think he was trying to tell me good-bye.”
There was nothing but the sound of someone’s sharply indrawn breath, and for a moment no one moved. Then Cici said briskly, “Okay, first, let’s search the property, just to be sure. Lori, check all the outbuildings, and Lindsay, you check the folly. He wasn’t on the highway. We just came that way. I’ll start calling the neighbors. After all, he couldn’t have gone far. He doesn’t have any money.”
Lori said in distress, “Mom . . . he does.”
They all stared at her.
“He’s been saving these antique bottles and stuff that he found on the property,” Lori explained. “The other day I gave him a ride into town and he sold them to that fellow at the junk shop. I don’t know how much he got for them, but it was at least fifty dollars.”
Lindsay looked at Cici. “You can get a bus ticket to Charlottesville for that,” she said.
Bridget took up her car keys. “I’ll go,” she said.
Lindsay turned for the door as she did. “I’ll check with Reverend Holland.”
Cici said, “Lori—”
“I’ve just got to get my shoes.” She raced up the stairs.
Noah was not at the folly. He was not in the studio or the workshop or the cellar or the old winery under the barn. He was not in the sunroom with the baby chicks or wading in the stream with the dog or sitting in the sun on the rock in the woods behind the house where he sometimes liked to sit and sketch. The motorcycle was still in its shed, gas tank empty. But the extra ration of apples that had been left in Bambi’s pen was not a good sign.
The neighbors had not seen him, and neither had the Hollands. He had not, to the recollection of the ticket attendant at the bus station, been on the bus that had departed at eleven a.m., nor had he purchased a ticket for the one that was to leave at eleven p.m. Of course, if he had hitched a ride to Charlottesville, he might already be on a train.
They met back at the house, exhausted, distraught, and virtually out of ideas. They stood in the foyer, uncertain whether to continue the search by foot or by telephone, or to get back into their cars.
