Elinor stepped closer, following the wave as it carried the tiny hatchling back into its embrace. She could barely see the three-inch turtle in the shallow water. She felt an inexpressible connection to this hatchling, this newborn that she had released from the womb of sand. She thought again of the child she’d released to the world, hoping—believing—that she would find the right home. She didn’t want to lose sight of it and followed the hatchling deeper into the warm late-summer waters of the Atlantic. The waves pushed against her, caressing her ankles, then her calves, soaking her pants. She kept her eyes peeled on the tiny turtle swimming madly—seemingly joyously—on its way.
Elinor could go no further. She stood, arms limp at her sides, her gaze locked on the little brown speck in the sea. The moment a sea turtle dove deep and disappeared was emotional for her. Of course, she wanted the turtle to swim off, as nature intended. Yet today, the slender bond she felt with this hatchling tugged hard, drawing her with it to a time and place she had not traveled to in many years.
“Good-bye, sweet baby,” she whispered as tears slid down her cheek.
Elinor heard again the piercing cry of the seagull. Instinctively she looked up, directly into the fiery ball of the sun. She closed her eyes and she was back in the hospital, forty years earlier, staring up at the white glare of a metal hospital lamp.
“One more push,” the doctor had ordered.
Elinor’s legs were up in the brutally cold metal stirrups. Her body was doubled up and sweat dripped down her face.
“I . . . I can’t. . . .” she cried.
A nurse, large and full breasted, quickly stepped behind her and slipped strong arms around her, hoisting her up in support.
“You can do this, Missy. Just one more good one. You’ve done a real good job. We’re almost there. Ready? On the count of three. One, two, three!”
Elinor felt another wave of a contraction building and an overpowering urge to push welling up. On the count she tightened her eyes, grit her teeth, and bore down. It felt like her body was being torn open, but she kept pushing. A guttural sound came from her that she didn’t recognize.
“I’ve got the head. Keep going.” The doctor’s urging spurred her on.
She bore down again, straining and screaming with abandon. She felt her legs shake and dots swim before her eyes when, almost as a surprise, there was a sudden gush of release. She fell back against the nurse, panting yet feeling oddly glorious.
Then she heard a lusty cry. Instinct rallied and she found the energy to lift her head in time to see a pair of nurses bent over a small bloody bundle of flesh at the foot of her bed. Then they hurried to a large metal scale. Elinor craned her neck to see her baby, but her view was blocked by their bodies. She heard her infant cry and reached out. The need to hold her baby came from deep within, from a place she didn’t know existed inside of herself.
“Give me my baby,” she called out.
The nurse holding the baby turned to look at her, confusion etched across her face. In her arms, Elinor saw the tiny pink legs kicking as the baby howled. She saw toes. Real toes of a real baby. Her baby. Instinct roared in her heart. She could make her baby stop crying. The baby wanted her.
She felt as fearless as a lioness. “Bring the baby here.” She gathered her strength and dragged herself up to her elbows. Perched on the side of the narrow bed she reached out her arm. “Please!”
The doctor turned his head toward the nurse and over his shoulder gave a barely perceptible shake of his head, then with a quick jerk, indicated the door. Elinor saw with horror that the nurse was hustling her baby away.
“Wait!” she cried. “No, stop! I want to see my baby. Please!”
“Settle down,” the doctor ordered with little sympathy. “We’re not done here yet.”
Elinor looked wildly around the room, panic stirring. She began to cry out, “I don’t want to keep the baby. I know I can’t. But please, just let me see it!”
It. The word felt wrong on her lips. “What did I have? Is it a boy or a girl?”
She was ignored. The doctor and nurse went about their work complacently, as though her anguish was standard procedure. No one would meet her gaze. No words of comfort were offered.
Elinor felt her uterus contract. Dazed and desperate in defeat, she fell back again on the bed, shaking her head from side to side, crying incessantly, “Please . . . please . . . please. . . .”
When the doctor was done, he left without a word. What could he say? Congratulations? The room was cold and empty. Elinor had never felt so alone. Not that she’d expected anyone to be in the waiting room for the happy news—not her parents, not her boyfriend. Not her sisters nor a friend. No one had come to visit her in the six months she’d been at the Home.
She put her hand over her belly, still full and flaccid. But inside, she knew her baby was gone. And with it, a part of her was gone forever. This loneliness was deeper and more devastating than she had been warned about in all the classes she had taken at the Home for Unwed Mothers. This was a dark, bottomless well, and she was sliding into it.
Elinor lay limp and stared up at the metal lamp, silent as tears rolled down her cheeks. The nurse with the full breasts was cleaning her up but Elinor knew nothing would ever wash away the pain.
The nurse came to stand beside her. She wiped her forehead with a cool cloth. “Now, now, it’s all right,” the woman crooned in a gentle voice. “You’ll be fine. You’ll see. It’s all for the best.”
Elinor just closed her eyes and shook her head. There were no words.
The nurse withdrew her hand. “I’m not supposed to say anything,” she said in a low voice close to her ear. “But if it were me lying there, I’d want to know this much. Your baby is fine, too. A healthy seven pounds, two ounces.”
Elinor opened her eyes and turned to look at the woman’s face. Her eyes were large and dark and full of sympathy. This woman had children; she could tell. She was a mother. She’d nursed her babies, watched them grow. She’d recognized the desperation in Elinor’s eyes.
Elinor didn’t have to ask.
The nurse took a breath, then said, “You had a girl.”
The cry of a seagull sounded again. Elinor blinked and once again saw the broad expanse of the ocean as it met the horizon in a line of infinity. She exhaled. The memory had been so real, she had water in her eyes.
“Elinor?”
She turned to see Maeve at her side. Then looked behind her. The beach was empty.
“Everyone is gone.” Her voice was dull.
Maeve nodded. She searched her face then asked, “Are you nervous? About today?”
Elinor didn’t reply. Feelings from her memory lingered, making her heart heavy. She merely nodded her head and looked again out at the sea. There had been a few times she’d stared out at the dark ocean water, feeling its pull, and considered following the turtle to its depths. To shed her earthly burdens, her myriad sadness and grief, and simply float cross the invisible barrier into another world. It would be easy. Stones in the pocket, like Virginia Woolf. One step too far, and she’d be released, too.
The hand on her arm tugged harder.
“Elinor, what’s the matter?”
“I’m not so much nervous, as afraid. Maybe it’s too late.”
“It’s never too late. You’ve been trying to find her all these years. You had to wait until she was ready. And now, it’s finally happening.” Maeve’s voice was encouraging. “She wants to see you. Tell you what. I’ll stay with you, if you like. You won’t have to be alone.”
Maeve felt an easing of tension at her friend’s words. You won’t have to be alone. She looked into Maeve’s brown eyes and her smile was watery. “Thanks. I’d like that.”
“Okay, then. What time is she expected?”
Elinor took a deep breath, bringing herself to the present fully. “She’s driving from Atlanta. She said she’d arrive around four, give or take traffic.”
“Are you making dinner?”
Elinor shook her head. “We decided we’d go to a restaurant, so there’d be no additional stress. I made reservations at the Long Island Cafe.”
“Perfect spot.”
“You’ll join us?”
Maeve shook her head. “I’ll be there for the meet and greet. But I think the two of you have a lot to say to each other without anyone else around.” She paused then asked, “Is she bringing anyone?”
“She said this was a journey she wanted to take alone.” She released a short laugh. “Rather like that hatchling.”
“I was watching you. You were thinking of her, weren’t you?”
“Seeing that turtle go off alone, it all came back. The hospital. The delivery. Maeve . . .” Elinor’s voice hitched. “Watching my baby being carried off . . . It was the hardest thing I ever had to do. I never really got over it.”
Maeve’s face went still, her eyes laden with sympathy. Then in a swift move she turned toward the beach and, in a change of tone, declared, “I’m turning into a prune. Let’s go home.”
Elinor scoffed and joined her on the trek back. “Just my luck I’ll be bitten by a shark before I meet my daughter.” As they walked side by side out of the sea, Elinor added, “Thanks.”
“What for?”
“For being my friend. For keeping my secrets. For understanding.”
Maeve slipped an arm around her friend’s shoulders, comrades in arms. “I’ve been thinking . . .”
“Yeah?”
“About the hatchling this morning. The one you were fixated on. I get why. Your little girl was your hatchling, and you had to watch her swim off on her own. But here’s the thing to remember. When a hatchling matures at twenty-nine years, she swims back to the beach she came from.” She stopped and faced Elinor. “So think . . .”
Elinor shuddered and released a long sigh. “My hatchling is returning home.”
“Right.” Maeve spread her arms wide. “The cycle of life continues.”
Chapter Two
Daughter
A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.
Kristina Hurst repeated this quote from Lao Tzu for the hundredth time that morning. It was her mantra to calm her nerves and to battle the urge to call her birth mother and cancel the trip.
This was what she wanted, right? She was the one to go to the adoption registrar and search. No one went for her. The response had come back in twenty-four hours. Her birth mother had long been registered, searching for her for many years. A small smile lifted her frown. She was searching . . . Didn’t she always know that in her heart?
The first phone call was nerve shattering, nonetheless. Kristina’s stomach still clenched just remembering hearing the phone ring, knowing it was her. Then the sound of her voice . . . her mother’s voice. She’d been as nervous as her. Yet there was a gentleness in the tone, a determination to make Kristina feel at ease.
“Hello?”
“This is Elinor Earnhardt. Is . . . Is this Kristina Hurst?”
“Yes.”
There was a long pause. “Oh, my dear girl. You can’t know how wonderful it is to hear your voice.”
Kristina heard her voice catch. The emotion flooding out washed away some of her own fears.
“Me, too.”
“First, let me say thank you for going to the registrar. I’ve been searching for you for most of your life.”
Kristina cringed. “I . . . I’m sorry. My mother, my adopted mother, didn’t want me to. She . . . got terribly upset.” The terms “birth mother” and “adopted mother” were awkward and felt odd on her tongue.
“Don’t apologize! I didn’t tell you that to make you feel bad. Just to let you know how incredibly happy I am to be talking to you now.”
Kristina took a deep breath. She was not accustomed to a mother not blaming her, accusing her of making a mistake. She wasn’t sure how to react. Elinor didn’t let the silence linger, which Kristina was grateful for. She wasn’t good at conversations. Her tongue got tied up with her nerves, leaving her mute.
They hadn’t talked long. Just enough to share basic information and agree to meet at the beach across from Elinor’s beach house on Isle of Palms, South Carolina, in August. It had been weeks away when they set it up, but now it was here, and Kristina wasn’t sure she had the courage to go through with it. Did she really want to meet another mother? She was just feeling free for the first time in her life.
Kristina took a deep breath and repeated the mantra. One step. She only needed to be brave enough for this first step. Whatever happened after that, well, they’d wait and see.
Brave. What a complicated word. Like the word “courage,” it brought up images of warriors on the battlefield, fierce, racing toward an enemy. She smirked. Hardly an image of herself. Her nickname had been Mouse. Sometimes, being brave meant simply having the courage to face one’s own fears. To her mind, that’s what made a hero. Action. In the novels she loved, the hero was boxed into a corner and forced to make a decision. Once made, she was compelled to act. This defined who she was—coward or courageous. Villain or hero.
She looked down at her suitcase lying open on her bed. She did a last-minute check: pajamas, toiletries, a day’s clothing, a beach book because she was going to the beach, a small photo album. With tightened lips of resolve, she tucked her shoulder-length blond hair behind her ears and, in a swift movement, closed the suitcase, ran the zipper, and set the bag on the floor.
Immediately her cat drew near to sniff it. Kristina smiled as her heart pumped with love for her roommate. Minnie was her first pet and her closest confidante. Kristina didn’t have many friends. She’d been a sickly child and grew up to be a shy adult, one accustomed to staying home. Few people knew how much courage it took for her just to leave her apartment each morning to go to her job at the library. Or to make this first step to meet her birth mother.
Kristina bent to pick up her suitcase before she slipped into another bout of self-doubt. “Okay, Minnie,” she said to the calico. “Time for action.”
Minnie followed her into the living room at a leisurely pace. It was a small, tidy room on the eighth floor of a nondescript apartment building in Atlanta. One of several similar buildings grouped in a cluster around a smallish park. Void of any architectural charm, she’d rented it seven years ago because of the wall of bookcases the previous tenant had installed. That and its proximity to public transportation and the view of a park rather than a highway. A librarian, Kristina’s life revolved around books. In childhood, books had been her only friends.
She felt herself lucky to have one friend now, seeing Ann leaning against the kitchen counter reading the newspaper. Ann was a fellow librarian at the DeKalb Public Library. She was short like Kristina, but unlike her own painfully thin frame, Ann had a full figure to match her big heart.
“Ready to go?” Ann asked, straightening.
“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. Thanks so much for taking care of Minnie for me. I’ve never left her before,” she added, turning to glance again at her beloved cat.
“That’s because you never go anywhere,” Ann said with a grin. “Don’t you worry one bit about Minnie. We’re fast friends already, aren’t we, precious?” Ann bent to put her hand out to the cat. Minnie immediately sat where she was and haughtily turned her head away. Ann chuckled and, rising, said, “We’ll be fine. Don’t give us a thought. You have enough on your mind.” She shook her head with wonder. “Meeting your birth mother. That’s big. Huge. So,” she asked, stepping closer. “What are you feeling? I’d be a nervous wreck.”
“I am,” Kristina admitted. “But it’s what I wanted, so . . .”
“Why did you wait so long to look for her? You weren’t curious?”
“Of course, I was. But . . .” Kristina shrugged. The memory of her mother raging, forbidding her to search for her birth mother, flashed in her mind.
“Your mother,” Ann finished for her.
Kristina paused then nodded. Ann k
new the story.
It was only a year ago that she’d received word that her mother had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and only had a few months to live. Deborah wanted to see her. It felt like her own death sentence when Kristina had agreed to pay a visit. She still felt as though lice were crawling up her spine when she recalled once again walking into the small brick house in Gwinnett that she’d been raised in. Her wheelchair ramp still led to the front door.
When her mother had opened the door, Kristina had hardly recognized her. Deborah Hurst peered from a dark vestibule, gazing at Kristina through sunken eyes. She’d grown so thin and her hair, once dyed a vibrant red, was all white and so wispy her scalp was visible.
“Well, here you are. My sweet little adopted daughter.” Deborah turned and said over her shoulder, “I didn’t think you’d come.”
When she opened the door wide to let her in, Kristina brought her hand to her nose. The scent of stale food, must, and mildew made her gag. She followed her mother into a house crammed full of tilting boxes, piled up junk, and broken furniture. There was no discernible distinction between the living room and bedroom. Blankets were strewn over both couches and bed. The entire place was a mishmash of rubbish.
Kristina brought her fingers to her eyes, feeling the onslaught to all her senses. She hadn’t had contact with her mother since she’d escaped her clutches at eighteen. Not because she didn’t try, but because her mother had been so furious, so outraged, that Kristina had dared to leave the house, she’d broken all contact with her. Kristina had known her mother was an obsessive compulsive. It appeared once she didn’t have Kristina to fixate on, she’d transferred her sick, singular focus on hoarding.
Kristina had spent weeks emptying out garbage, getting servicemen in to fix the broken appliances, and scrubbing dirt, grime, and mildew from almost every surface. Her mother had never been a good housekeeper. Kristina had been her live-in maid most of her life. From the looks of the house, it didn’t appear anyone had cleaned since she’d left. Everything was a mess—except for the hall closet. Opening it, Kristina found it just as pristine as it had always been. All the shelves were chock-full of neatly stacked and labeled medicines.
Reunion Beach Page 17
