I looked squarely at him. "Yes, you should have. It's okay." Now that his eyes were open, I sketched in his pale, glowing pupils and the tiger's stripe of gold around them.
"I had to make sure," he said. "I just had to make sure." Jake tipped down the edge of my pad so that he could see. "You've gotten so much better," he said. He ran his fingers along the edge of the charcoal, too light to smudge.
"I've just gotten older," I said. "I guess I've seen more." Together we stared at the penciled lines of surprise in his eyes, the beating heat of the sun reflecting off the white page. He took my hand and touched my fingers to a spot on the paper where damp curls met the nape of his neck. There I had drawn, in silhouette, a couple embracing. In the distance, reaching toward the woman, was a man who looked like Nicholas; reaching toward the man was a girl with Ellen's face.
"It worked out the way it should have," Jake said.
He put his hand on my shoulder, and all I felt was comfort. "Yes," I murmured. "It has."
We sat on Eddie Savoy's throw pillows, poring through a soiled manila folder that pieced together the past twenty years of my mother's life. "Piece of cake," Eddie said, picking his teeth with a letter opener. "Once I figured out who she was, she was a cinch to track down."
My mother had left Chicago under the name Lily Rubens. Lily had died three days before; my mother had written the obituary for the Tribune. Tribune. She was twenty-five, and she'd died-according to my mother's words-of a long, painful illness. My mother had copies of her Social Security card, driver's license, even a birth certificate from the Glenwood Town Hall. My mother had not gone to Hollywood. She'd somehow gotten to Wyoming, where she'd worked for Billy DeLite's Wild West Show. She had been a saloon dancer until Billy DeLite himself spotted her cancan and talked her into playing Calamity Jane. According to Billy's fax, she'd taken to riding and target shooting as if she'd been doing it since she was a tadpole. Five years later, in 1977, she disappeared in the middle of the night with the most talented rodeo cowboy in the Wild West show and most of the previous day's earnings. She was twenty-five, and she'd died-according to my mother's words-of a long, painful illness. My mother had copies of her Social Security card, driver's license, even a birth certificate from the Glenwood Town Hall. My mother had not gone to Hollywood. She'd somehow gotten to Wyoming, where she'd worked for Billy DeLite's Wild West Show. She had been a saloon dancer until Billy DeLite himself spotted her cancan and talked her into playing Calamity Jane. According to Billy's fax, she'd taken to riding and target shooting as if she'd been doing it since she was a tadpole. Five years later, in 1977, she disappeared in the middle of the night with the most talented rodeo cowboy in the Wild West show and most of the previous day's earnings.
Eddie's records blanked out here for a while, but they picked up again in Washington, D.C., where my mother worked for a while doing telemarketing surveys for consumer magazines. She saved up enough commission money to buy a horse from a man named Charles Crackers, and because she was living in a Chevy Chase condo at the time, she boarded the horse at his stable and came to ride three times a week.
The pages went on to record my mother's move from Chevy Chase to Rockville, Maryland, and then a switch of jobs, including a brief stint at a Democratic senator's campaign office. When the senator didn't win reelection, she sold her horse and bought a plane ticket to Chicago, which she did not use at the time.
In fact, she hadn't traveled for pleasure at all over the past twenty years, except once. On June 10, 1985, she did did come to Chicago. She stayed at the Sheraton and signed in as Lily Rubens. Eddie watched over my shoulder as I read that part. "What happened on June tenth?" he said. come to Chicago. She stayed at the Sheraton and signed in as Lily Rubens. Eddie watched over my shoulder as I read that part. "What happened on June tenth?" he said.
I turned to Jake. "My high school graduation." I tried to remember every detail: the white gowns and caps all the girls of Pope Pius had worn, the blazing heat of the sun burning the metal rims of our folding chairs, Father Draher's commencement address about serving God in a sinful world. I tried to see the hazy faces of the audience seated on the bleachers of the playing field, but it had been too long ago. The day after graduation, I left home. My mother had come back to see me grow up, and she had almost missed me.
Eddie Savoy waited until I came to the last page of the report. "She's been here for the last eight years," he said, pointing to the circle on the map of North Carolina. "Farleyville. I couldn't get no address, though, not in her name, and there ain't a phone listing. But this here's the last recorded place of employment. It was five years ago, but something tells me that in a town no bigger than a toilet stall, you ain't gonna have any trouble tracking her down." I looked at the scribbled humps of Eddie's shorthand. He grimaced and then sat down behind his low desk. He held out a piece of ripped paper on which he'd written "Bridal Bits" and a phone number. "It's some boutique, I guess," he said. "They knew her real well."
I thought about my mother, apparently single except for that rodeo cowboy, and wondered what would compel her to move to the hills of North Carolina to work in a bridal salon. I imagined her walking around the tufts of Alencon lace, the thin blue garters and the satin beaded pumps, touching them as if she had a right to wear them. When I looked up, Jake was pumping Eddie Savoy's hand. I dug into my wallet and pulled out his four-hundred-dollar fee, but Eddie shook his head. "It's already been taken care of," he said. Jake led me outside and didn't say a word as we settled into our respective seats in my car. I drove slowly down the rutted road that led to Eddie's, spraying bits of gravel left and right and flustering the chickens that had gathered in front of the fender. I pulled over less than a hundred yards from Eddie's and put my head down on the steering wheel to cry.
Jake pulled me into his arms, awkwardly twisting my body around the center console. "Now what do I do?" I said.
He ran his hands over my ponytail, tugging just a little. "You go to Farleyville, North Carolina," he said.
Finding her had been the easy part. I was terrified of meeting my mother, a woman I'd remade in the image of myself. I didn't know what was worse: stirring up memories that might make me hate her at first sight, or finding out that I was exactly like her, destined to keep running, too unsure of myself to be somebody's mother. That was the risk I was taking. In spite of what I had promised myself or pleaded to Nicholas, if I really had turned out like May O'Toole, I might never feel whole enough to go home.
I looked up at Jake, and the message was clear in my eyes. He smiled gently. "You're on your own now."
I remembered the last time he'd said that to me, silently, in slightly different words. I lifted my chin, resolved. "Not for long," I said.
chapter 24
Nicholas When her voice came over the line, crackling at the edges, the bottom dropped out of Nicholas's world. "Hello, Nicholas," Paige said. "How are you?"
Nicholas had been changing Max, and he had carried him to the phone in the kitchen with his snaps all undone. He placed the baby on the kitchen table, cradling his head on a stack of napkins. At the cadence of his wife's voice, he had suddenly become very still. It was as if the air had stopped circulating, as if the only motion was the quick kick of Max's legs and the insistent pounding of blood behind Nicholas's ears. Nicholas tucked the phone in the crook of his neck and laid the baby facedown on the linoleum. He pulled the cord as far as it could stretch. "Are you calling to apologize to me?"
When she didn't answer at first, his mouth became dry. What if she was in trouble? He had cut off her money. What if she'd had a problem with the car, had had to hitchhike, was running away from some lunatic with a knife? "I'm in Chicago," Paige said. "I'm going to find my mother."
Nicholas ran his hand through his hair and almost laughed. This was a joke. This did not happen to real people. This was something you'd see on the Sunday Movie of the Week or read about in a True Confessions True Confessions magazine. He had always known that Paige was haunted by her mother; she was so guarded when speaking about her that she gave herself away. But why now? magazine. He had always known that Paige was haunted by her mother; she was so guarded when speaking about her that she gave herself away. But why now?
When she didn't say anything, Nicholas stared out the tiny kitchen window and wondered what Paige was wearing. He pictured her hair, loose and framing her face, rich with the colors of autumn. He saw the ragged pink tips of her bitten fingernails and the tiny indentation at the base of her neck. He opened the refrigerator and let the cool gust of air clear her image from his mind. He did not care. He simply would not let himself.
When he heard her ask about Max, his anger started to boil again. "Apparently you don't give a damn," he said, and he walked back toward Max, planning to slam down the phone. She was babbling about how long she'd been away from Chicago, and suddenly Nicholas was so tired he could not stand. He sank into the nearest chair and thought of how today could possibly have been the worst day of his life. "Let me tell you what I did today, dear," dear," Nicholas said, biting off each word as if it were a bitter morsel. "After getting up with Max three times during the night, I took him to the hospital this morning. I had a quadruple bypass scheduled, which I almost didn't complete because I couldn't stay on my feet." He spit out the rest of his words, barely even hearing them himself. "Someone could have died because of your need for a-what did you call it?-a Nicholas said, biting off each word as if it were a bitter morsel. "After getting up with Max three times during the night, I took him to the hospital this morning. I had a quadruple bypass scheduled, which I almost didn't complete because I couldn't stay on my feet." He spit out the rest of his words, barely even hearing them himself. "Someone could have died because of your need for a-what did you call it?-a vacation." vacation." He held the receiver away from his mouth. "Paige," he said softly, "I don't want to see your face again." And closing his eyes, he put the phone back in its cradle. He held the receiver away from his mouth. "Paige," he said softly, "I don't want to see your face again." And closing his eyes, he put the phone back in its cradle.
When the phone rang again, minutes later, Nicholas picked it up and yelled right into it, "Goddammit, I'm not going to say it again."
He paused long enough to catch his breath, long enough for Alistair Fogerty's control to snap on the other end of the line. The sharp edge of his voice made Nicholas take a step backward. "Six o'clock, Nicholas. In my office." And he hung up.
By the time Nicholas drove back to the hospital, he had a splitting headache. He had forgotten to bring a pacifier, and Max had yelled the entire way. He trudged up the stairs to the fifth floor, the administrative wing, because the elevator from the parking garage was broken. Fogerty was in his office, systematically spitting into the spider plants that edged his window. "Nicholas," he said, "and, of course, Max. How could I forget? Everywhere Dr. Prescott goes, the little Prescott isn't far behind."
Nicholas continued to look at the potted plant that Alistair had been leaning over. "Oh," Fogerty said, dismissing his actions with a wave of his hand. "It's nothing. For unexplained reasons, my office flora react favorably to sadism." He stared at Nicholas with the predatory eyes of a hawk. "What we are here to talk about, however, is not me, Nicholas, but you."
Nicholas had not known what he was going to say until that moment. But before Alistair could open his mouth about the hospital not being a day care facility to meet Nicholas's whims, he sat in a chair and settled Max more comfortably on his lap. He didn't give a damn about what Alistair had to tell him. The son of a bitch didn't have a heart. "I'm glad you wanted to see me, Alistair," he said, "since I'll be taking a leave of absence."
"A what?" what?" Fogerty stood and moved closer to Nicholas. Max giggled and reached out his hand toward the pen in Fogerty's lab coat pocket. Fogerty stood and moved closer to Nicholas. Max giggled and reached out his hand toward the pen in Fogerty's lab coat pocket.
"A week should do it. I can have Joyce reschedule my planned surgeries; I'll double up the next week if I have to. And the emergencies can be handled by the residents. What's-his-name, that little skunky one with the black eyes-Wollachek-he's decent. I won't expect pay, of course. And"-Nicholas smiled-"I'll come back better than ever."
"Without the infant," Fogerty added.
Nicholas bounced Max on his knee. "Without the infant."
Saying it all out loud lifted a tremendous pressure from Nicholas's chest. He had no idea what he'd do in the span of a week, but surely he could find a nanny or a full-time sitter to stay in the house. At the very least, he could figure Max out-which cry meant he was hungry and which meant he was tired; how to keep his undershirts from riding up to his armpits; how to open the portable stroller. Nicholas knew he was grinning like an idiot, and he didn't give a damn. For the first time in three days, he felt on top of the world.
Fogerty's mouth contorted into a black, wiry line. "This will not reflect well upon your record," he said. "I had expected more from you."
I had expected more from you. The words brought back the image of his father, standing over him like an impenetrable basilisk and holding out a prep school physics exam bearing the only grade lower than an A that Nicholas had received in his whole life. The words brought back the image of his father, standing over him like an impenetrable basilisk and holding out a prep school physics exam bearing the only grade lower than an A that Nicholas had received in his whole life.
Nicholas grabbed Max's leg so tightly that the baby started to cry. "I'm not a goddamned machine, Alistair," he yelled. "I can't do it all." He tossed the diaper bag over his shoulder and walked to the threshold of the office. ALISTAIR FOGERTY, it said on the door. DIRECTOR, CARDIOTHORACIC SURGERY. Maybe Nicholas's name would never make it to that door, but that wasn't going to change his mind. You couldn't put the cart before the horse. "I'll see you," he said quietly, "in a week."
Nicholas sat in the park, surrounded by mothers. It was the third day he'd come, and he was triumphant. Not only had he discovered how to open the portable stroller; he'd figured out a way to hook on the diaper bag so that even when he lifted Max out, it wouldn't tip over. Max was too little to go into the sandbox with the other kids, but he seemed to like the sturdy infant swings. Nikki, a pretty blond woman with legs that went on forever, smiled up at him. "And how's our little Max doing today?" she said.
Nicholas didn't understand why Paige wasn't like these three women. They all met in the park at the same time and talked ani matedly about stretch marks and sales on diapers and the latest gastrointestinal viruses running through the day care centers. Two of them were on maternity leave, and one was staying home with the kids until they went to school. Nicholas was fascinated by them. They could see with the backs of their heads, knowing by instinct when their kid had swatted another in the face. They could pick out their own child's cry from a dozen others. They effortlessly juggled bottles and jackets and bibs, and their babies' pacifiers never fell to the dirt. These were skills, Nicholas believed, that he could never learn in a million years.
The first day he'd brought Max, he had been sitting alone on a chipped green bench, watching the women across the way spoon sand over the bare legs of the toddlers. Judy had spoken to him first. "We don't get many dads," she had said. "And never on weekdays."
"I'm on vacation," Nicholas had replied uncomfortably. Max then let forth a burp that shook his entire body, and everyone laughed.
That first day, Judy and Nikki and Fay had set him straight about day care and nanny services. "You can't buy good help these days," Fay had said. "A British nanny-and that's the one you want-they take six months to a year to get. And even so, didn't you see Donahue? Donahue? The ones with the highest references could still drop your kid on the head or abuse her or God knows what." The ones with the highest references could still drop your kid on the head or abuse her or God knows what."
Judy, who was going back to work in a month, had found a day care center when she was six months pregnant. "And even then," she had said, "I was only on a waiting list."
And so Nicholas's week was almost up, and he still didn't know what to do with the baby when Monday came. On the other hand, it had been worth it-these women had taught him more about his own son in the span of three days than he had ever hoped to know. When Nicholas went home from the park, he almost felt as if he was in control.
Nicholas pushed Max higher on the swing, but he was whining. He'd been crabby for the past three days. "I called your baby-sitter," he told Nikki, "but she's got a summer job as a counselor and said she can't sit for me until the end of August, when camp lets out."
"Well, I'll keep asking around for you," Nikki said. "I bet you can find somebody." Her little girl, a thirteen-month-old with wispy strawberry-blond bangs, fell on her face in the sandbox and came up crying. "Oh, Jessica." Nikki sighed. "You've got to figure out this walking thing."
He liked Nikki best. She was funny and smart, and she made being a mother seem as easy as chewing gum. Nicholas pulled Max out of the swing and sat down on the edge of the sandbox, letting Max squish the sand through his toes. Max looked up at Judy and began to scream. She held out her hands. "Let me," she said.
Nicholas nodded, secretly thrilled. He was amazed when people asked to hold the baby. He would have given him to a complete stranger, the way he'd been acting these past few days; that's how big a relief it was to see him in someone else's arms. Nicholas traced his initials in the soft, cool sand and, from the corner of his eye, watched Max perched over Judy's shoulder.
"I fed him cereal for the first time yesterday," Nicholas said. "I did it the way you said, mostly formula, but he kept pushing out his tongue like he couldn't figure out what a spoon was. And no matter what you told me, he did not not sleep through the night." sleep through the night."
Fay smiled. "Wait till he's having more than a teaspoon a day," she said. "Then come back so I can say, 'I told you so.' "
Judy walked toward them, still bouncing Max. "You know, Nich olas, you've really come along. Hell, if you were my husband, I'd kiss your feet. Imagine having someone who could take care of the kids and not ask every three minutes why they're crying." She leaned close to Nicholas and batted her eyelashes, smiling. "You give me a sign, and I'll get a divorce lawyer."
Nicholas smiled, and the women fell quiet, watching their children overturn plastic buckets and build free-form castles. "Tell me if this bothers you," Nikki said hesitantly. "I mean, we haven't really known you very long, and we barely know anything about you, but I have this friend who's divorced, with a kid. and I was wondering if sometime you might ... you know ...
"I'm married." The words came so quickly to Nicholas's lips that they surprised him more than the mothers. Fay, Judy, and Nikki exchanged a look. "My wife ... she isn't around."
Fay smoothed her hand over the edge of the sandbox. "We're sorry to hear that," she said, assuming the worst.
"She's not dead," Nicholas said. "She sort of left."
Judy came to stand behind Fay. "She left?"
Nicholas nodded. "She took off about a week ago. She, well, she wasn't very good at this-not like you all are-and she was a little overwhelmed, I think, and she cracked under the pressure." He looked at their blank faces, wondering why he felt he had to make explanations for Paige when he himself couldn't forgive her. "She never had a mother," he said.
"Everyone has a mother," Fay said. "That's the way it happens." has a mother," Fay said. "That's the way it happens."
"Hers left her when she was five. Last I heard, actually, she was trying to find her. Like that might give her all the answers."
Fay pulled her son toward her and restrapped the hanging front of his overalls. "Answers, jeez. There aren't any answers. You should have seen me when he was three months old," she said lightly. "I had scared away all my friends, and I was almost declared legally dead by my family doctor."
Nikki sucked in her breath and stared at Nicholas, her eyes wide and liquid with pity. "Still," she whispered, "to leave your own child." child."
Nicholas felt the silence crowding in on him. He didn't want their stares; he didn't want their sympathy. He looked at the toddlers, wishing for one of them to start crying, just to break the moment. Even Max was being quiet.
Judy sat down beside Nicholas and balanced Max on her lap. She touched Nicholas's wrist and lifted his hand to the baby's mouth. "I think I've found out what's making him such a monster," she said gently. "There." She pressed Nicholas's finger to the bottom of Max's gums, where a sharp triangle of white bit into his flesh.
Fay and Nikki crowded closer, eager to change the subject. "A tooth!" Fay said, as animated as if Max had been accepted to Harvard; and Nikki added, "He's just over three months, right? That's awfully early. He's in a hurry to grow up; I bet he crawls soon." Nicholas stared at the downy crown of black hair on his son's head. He pressed down with his finger, letting Max bite back with his jaws, with his brand-new tooth. He looked up at the sky, a day without clouds, and then let the women run their fingers over Max's gums.. Paige would have wanted to be here, Paige would have wanted to be here, he thought suddenly, and then he felt anger searing through him like a brush fire. he thought suddenly, and then he felt anger searing through him like a brush fire. Paige Paige should should have wanted to be here. have wanted to be here.
chapter 25
Paige I had never been there, but this was the way I had pictured Ireland from my father's stories. Rich, rolling hills the deep green of emeralds; grass thicker than a plush rug, farms notched into the slopes and bordered by sturdy stone walls. Several times I stopped the car, to drink from streams cleaner and colder than I had ever imagined possible. I could hear my father's brogue in the cascade and the current, and I could not believe the irony: my mother had run away to the North Carolina countryside, a land my father would have loved. had never been there, but this was the way I had pictured Ireland from my father's stories. Rich, rolling hills the deep green of emeralds; grass thicker than a plush rug, farms notched into the slopes and bordered by sturdy stone walls. Several times I stopped the car, to drink from streams cleaner and colder than I had ever imagined possible. I could hear my father's brogue in the cascade and the current, and I could not believe the irony: my mother had run away to the North Carolina countryside, a land my father would have loved.
If I hadn't known better, I would have assumed the hills were virgin territory. Paved roads were the only sign that anyone else had been here, and in the three hours I'd been driving across the state, I hadn't passed a single car. I had rolled down all the windows so that the air could rush into my lungs. It was crisper than the air in Chicago, lighter than the air in Cambridge. I felt as if I were drinking in the endless open space, and I could see how, out here, someone could easily get lost.
Since leaving Chicago, I had been thinking only of my mother. I ran through every solid memory I'd ever had and froze each of them in my mind like an image from a slide projector, hoping to see something I hadn't noticed before. I couldn't come up with an image of her face. It drifted in and out of shadows.
My father had said I looked like her, but it had been twenty years since he'd seen her and eight since he'd seen me, so he might have been mistaken. I knew from her clothes that she was taller and thinner. I knew from Eddie Savoy how she'd spent the past two decades. But I still didn't think I'd be able to spot her in a crowd.
The more I drove, the more I remembered about my mother. I remembered how she tried to get ahead of herself, making all my lunches for the week on Sunday night and stowing them in the freezer, so that my bologna and my turkey and my Friday tuna fish were never fully thawed by the time I ate them. I remembered that when I was four and got the mumps on only the right side of my face, my mother had fed me half-full cups of Jell-o and kept me in bed half the day, telling me that after all, I was half healthy. I remembered the dreary day in March when we were both worn down by the sleet and the cold, and she had baked a devil's food cake and made glittery party hats, and together we celebrated Nobody's birthday. I remembered the time she was in a car accident, how I had come downstairs at midnight to a room full of policemen and found her lying on the couch, one eye swollen shut and a gash over her lip, her arms reaching out to hold me.
Then I remembered the March before she left, Ash Wednesday. In kindergarten, we had a half day of school, but the Tribune Tribune was still open. My mother could have hired the baby-sitter to take care of me until she came home, or told me to wait next door at the Manzettis'. But instead she'd come up with the idea that we would go out to lunch and then make afternoon Mass. She had announced this over the dinner table and told my father that I was smart enough to take the bus all by myself. My father stared at her, not believing what he had heard, and then finally he grabbed my mother's hand and pressed it to the table, hard, as if he could make her see the truth through the pain. "No, May," he'd said, "she's too young." was still open. My mother could have hired the baby-sitter to take care of me until she came home, or told me to wait next door at the Manzettis'. But instead she'd come up with the idea that we would go out to lunch and then make afternoon Mass. She had announced this over the dinner table and told my father that I was smart enough to take the bus all by myself. My father stared at her, not believing what he had heard, and then finally he grabbed my mother's hand and pressed it to the table, hard, as if he could make her see the truth through the pain. "No, May," he'd said, "she's too young."
But well after midnight, the door to my room opened, and in the slice of light that fell across my bed I saw the shadow of my mother. She came in and sat in the dark and pressed into my hand twenty cents, bus fare. She held out a route map and a flashlight and made me repeat after her: Michigan and Van Buren Street, the downtown local. One, two, three, four stops, and Mommy will be there. Michigan and Van Buren Street, the downtown local. One, two, three, four stops, and Mommy will be there. I said it over and over until it was as familiar as my bedtime prayers. My mother left the room and let me go to sleep. At four in the morning, I awoke to find her face inches away from mine, her breath hot against my lips. "Say it," she commanded, and my mouth formed the words that my brain could not hear, stuffed as it was with sleep. I said it over and over until it was as familiar as my bedtime prayers. My mother left the room and let me go to sleep. At four in the morning, I awoke to find her face inches away from mine, her breath hot against my lips. "Say it," she commanded, and my mouth formed the words that my brain could not hear, stuffed as it was with sleep. Michigan and Van Buren Street, Michigan and Van Buren Street, I murmured. I murmured. The downtown local. The downtown local. I opened my eyes wide, surprised by how well I had learned. "That's my girl," my mother said, cupping my cheeks in her hands. She pressed a finger to my lips. "And don't tell your daddy," she whispered. I opened my eyes wide, surprised by how well I had learned. "That's my girl," my mother said, cupping my cheeks in her hands. She pressed a finger to my lips. "And don't tell your daddy," she whispered.
Even I knew the value of a secret. Through breakfast, I avoided my father's gaze. When my mother dropped me off at the school gates, her eyes flashed, feverish. For a moment she looked so different that I thought of Sister Alberta's lectures on the devil. "What's it all for," my mother said to me, "without the risk?" And I had pressed my face against hers to kiss her goodbye the way I always did, but this time I whispered against her cheek: One, two, three, four stops. And you'll be there. One, two, three, four stops. And you'll be there.
I had swung my feet back and forth under my chair that morning, and I colored in the pictures of Jesus outside the lines because I was so excited. When Sister let us out at the bell, blessing us in a stream of rushed words, I turned to the left, the direction I never went. I walked until I came to the corner of Michigan and Van Buren and saw the pharmacy my mother had said would be there. I stood underneath the Metro sign, and when the big bus sighed into place beside the curb, I asked the driver, "Downtown local?"
He nodded and took my twenty cents, and I sat in the front seat as my mother had said, not looking beside me because there could be bums and bad men and even the devil himself. I could feel hot breath on my neck, and I squeezed my eyes shut, listening to the roll of the wheels and the lurch of the brakes and counting the stops. When the door opened for the fourth time, I bolted from my seat, peeking into the one beside mine just that once, to see only blue vinyl and the lacy grate of the air conditioner. I stepped off the bus and waited for the knot of people to clear, shielding my eyes from the sun. My mother knelt, her arms open, her smile red and laughing and wide. "Paige-boy," she said, folding me into her purple raincoat. "I knew you'd come."
I had asked a man with spare tufts of gray hair, who'd been sitting on a milk can at the side of the road, if he'd heard of Farleyville. "Yuh," he said, pointing in front of me. "You almost there now."
"Well," I said, "maybe you've heard of a salon called Bridal Bits?"
The man scratched his chest through his worn chambray shirt. He laughed, and he had no teeth. "A sa-lon," sa-lon," he said, mocking my words. "I don't know 'bout that." he said, mocking my words. "I don't know 'bout that."
The corners of my mouth turned down. "Could you just tell me where it is?"
The man grinned at me. "If it be the same place I'm thinking of, and I'm bettin' it ain't, then you want to take the first right at the 'baccy field and keep goin' till you see a bait shop. It's three miles past that, on the left." He shook his head as I stepped back into the car. "You said Farleyville," he said, "di'n't you?", I followed his directions, messing up only once, and that was because I couldn't tell a tobacco from a corn field. The bait shop was nothing but a shack with a crude fish painted on a wooden sign in front of it, and I wondered why people would come all the way out here to buy wedding gowns. Surely Raleigh would be a better place. I wondered if my mother's shop was secondhand or wholesale, how it could even stay in business.
The only building three miles down on the left was a neat pink cement-block square, without a sign to herald it. I stepped out of the car and pulled at the front door, but it was locked. The big show window was partially lit by the setting sun, which had come up behind me as I drove, to wash over the tops of the tobacco plants like hot lava. I peered inside, looking for a seed-pearl headpiece or a fairy-tale princess's gown. I couldn't see beyond the showcase itself, and it took me a minute to realize that set proudly behind the glass was a finely stitched saddle with gleaming stirrups, a furry halter, a spread wool blanket with the woven silhouette of a stallion. I squinted and then I moved back to the door, to the handwritten sign I hadn't noticed the first time. BRIDLES & BITS, it said. CLOSED.
I sank to the ground in front of the threshold and drew up my knees. I rested my head against them. All this time, all these miles, and I'd come for nothing. My thoughts came in waves: my mother wasn't working here; she was supposed to be at a completely different kind of store; I was going to have Eddie Savoy's head. Pink clouds stretched across the sky like fingers, and at that moment the final streak of sun left in the day lit the inside of the tack shop. I had a clear view of the mural on the ceiling. It matched like a twin the ceiling I remembered, the one I'd painted with my mother and had lain beneath for hours, hoping that those fast-flying horses might champion us far away.
chapter 26
Nicholas A strid Prescott was sure she was seeing a ghost. Her hand was still frozen on the brass door handle where she'd pulled it open, silently cursing because Imelda had disappeared in search of the silver polish and so Astrid had been disturbed from her study. And consequently she'd come face-to-face with the same ghost that had haunted her for weeks, after making it perfectly clear that the past was not to be forgiven. Astrid shook her head slightly. Unless she was imagining it, standing on the threshold were Nicholas and a black-haired baby, both of them frowning, both of them looking like they might break down and cry. strid Prescott was sure she was seeing a ghost. Her hand was still frozen on the brass door handle where she'd pulled it open, silently cursing because Imelda had disappeared in search of the silver polish and so Astrid had been disturbed from her study. And consequently she'd come face-to-face with the same ghost that had haunted her for weeks, after making it perfectly clear that the past was not to be forgiven. Astrid shook her head slightly. Unless she was imagining it, standing on the threshold were Nicholas and a black-haired baby, both of them frowning, both of them looking like they might break down and cry.
"Come in," Astrid said smoothly, as if she'd seen Nicholas more than once during the past eight years. She reached toward the baby, but Nicholas shrugged the diaper bag off his shoulder and gave it to her instead.
Nicholas took three resounding steps into the marble hall. "You should know," he said, "I wouldn't be here if I wasn't at the end of my rope."
Nicholas had been awake most of the night, trying to come up with an alternate plan. He'd been on unpaid leave for a full week, and in spite of his best efforts, he hadn't found quality day care for his son. The British nanny service had laughed when he said he needed a woman within six days. He had almost hired a Swiss au pair-going so far as to leave her with the baby while he went grocery shopping-but he'd returned home to find Max wailing in his playpen while the girl entertained some biker boyfriend in the living room. The reputable child care centers had waiting lists until 1995; he didn't trust the teenage daughters of his neighbors who were looking for summer employment. Nicholas knew that if he was going to return to Mass General as scheduled, the only option open to him was to swallow his pride and go back to his parents for help.
He knew his mother wouldn't turn him away. He'd seen her face when he'd first told her of Max. He'd lay odds she kept the photo of Max-the one he had left behind-right in her wallet. Nicholas pushed past his mother into the parlor, the same room he'd pulled Paige from indignantly eight years before. He found his eyes roaming over the damask upholstery, the burnished wood tables. He waited for his mother's questions, and then the accusations. What had his parents been able to see that he'd been so blind to?
He put Max down on the rug and watched him roll over and over until he landed beneath the sofa, reaching for a thin carved leg. Astrid hovered uneasily at the door for a moment and then put on her widest diplomat's smile. She had charmed Idi Amin into granting her free press access to Uganda; surely this couldn't be any more difficult. She sat down on a Louis XIV love seat, which afforded her the best view of Max. "It's so good to see you, Nicholas," she said. "You'll be staying for lunch?"
Nicholas did not take his eyes off his son. Astrid watched her son, too large for the chair he sat upon, and realized he did not look right in this room at all. She wondered when that had happened. Nicholas shifted his gaze to his mother, a challenge. "Are you busy?" he asked.