Part 8 (1/2)

I dropped to Nova's couch, flinging my head back and looking up at the textured ceiling, arms flopped dejectedly at my sides. ”It does suck, doesn't it?” I concurred.

”I'd kill Ryan if he didn't call me at least twice a week from the fis.h.i.+ng boat.” Nova looked at me, her hands on Jenny's feet, her glance at me slightly hesitant. ”If you don't mind my asking, what exactly drew you to Shane in the first place?”

”His looks,” I confessed a bit guiltily as I closed my eyes, imagining Shane's handsome, angled face. I told Nova about the day he b.u.mped into me in line at the Starbucks near my then-office. We had chatted about the odd cold snap, our respective occupations, then ended up sharing a table in the crowded cafe. I couldn't believe he was flirting with me; he looked like he belonged on the cover of GQ. On my better days I felt cheerleader-cute at best, but his attention made me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world. Two months later, I sublet my studio apartment and moved into his Pacific Heights town house. I'd never had a man like Shane interested in me; he was not only gorgeous but a well-established professional. He had a retirement plan. He was a homeowner. Everything in his life was efficient and organized in a manner mine never had been. ”I guess in a way, being with him calms me,” I said. ”He's very predictable.”

”What did he think of your career switch?” Nova asked as she gently pulled a swing-cut purple top over Jenny's dark head. ”That couldn't have been very predictable.”

I snorted, setting my heels on the edge of the coffee table. ”He thought I was nuts. He still thinks it's just a phase.”

Nova tilted her blond head at me and sat down in the rocking chair on the other side of the room, glancing at the baby monitor on the coffee table. Layla was sleeping in her room. ”Is it?” she inquired. I appreciated how she didn't seem to pa.s.s judgment on me for the apparently rash decisions I'd made regarding Shane and my career. I pa.s.sed enough judgment on myself for the both of us.

”I don't know. Sometimes I miss the whole therapy process. Other times I can't believe I wasted six years of my life going to school when I could have just as easily been happy working at the bakery.”

”I wouldn't exactly call getting a master's degree a waste,” Nova countered. ”I wish I'd finished college. How am I ever going to convince my kids they should?” Nova had been working toward a degree in early-childhood education when she realized she was making more money waiting tables than she ever would in a public school system. Then she met Ryan, got married, and decided that at least while they were young, her children would be her career.

”I don't know,” I answered honestly. I looked at Jenny, whose head was lolling back against the couch. She was almost asleep. I considered telling Nova more of what I'd been feeling, the reservations I had about putting Jenny's baby up for placement, but couldn't quite find the words. Instead, I told her more about Shane. ”Shane doesn't want any kids, so I guess I won't have to worry about getting them to go to college.”

Nova's expression was matter-of-fact. ”If you decide to stay with Shane.”

I didn't look at her, fiddling instead with a loose string on my cotton sweater. ”You think I shouldn't stay with him?”

A sharp cry arose from the monitor, and Nova jumped up, tucking her sandy hair behind one ear as she spoke. ”I didn't say that.” She stepped over a jumbled pile of colorful wooden blocks. ”But shouldn't it be you and not your boyfriend who decides if you want to be a mother?”

”Well,” I began, and she held up her hand to stop me.

”Just food for thought,” she said as she headed down the hallway to get Layla.

As if my thoughts didn't already have enough to eat, I said to myself as I stood up in order to get Jenny ready to go. I wanted to be there when our mother got home. I had something I wanted to ask her.

When Mom walked through the front door, Jenny and I had finished dinner and were sitting in the living room listening to NPR's cla.s.sical hour on the radio. Jenny gazed at our mother, adoration s.h.i.+ning in her face like polished gold. ”Ahhh,” she gurgled from her spot next to me on the couch as a smile blossomed with drooling lips. A small part of me resented how much my sister seemed to still adore our mother when it was I who was with her all of the time.

Mom sat down next to Jenny and ruffled her younger daughter's dark curls. ”Hi, sweetie. Your sister taking good care of you?”

You'd better say yes, I thought to myself, looking at my sister with warning in my eyes.

”Ahhh,” Jenny responded happily.

Mom smiled. ”Good.” She unfastened the clip that held her hair in a bun, letting it fall loose around her face. I noticed her roots, gray and thick across her scalp, announcing her age. She slid a slender arm behind Jenny's shoulders and hugged her. Such open display of affection had been unusual for her since Jenny had been home; I wondered if her defenses might be melting. I decided to take the chance.

”Mom?” I ventured hesitantly, sliding one foot under the opposite thigh and adjusting the rest of my body to face her.

”Hmmm?” She didn't look at me.

”Do you ever regret having us?”

”What?”

I leaned forward over Jenny, anxious for an honest response. ”I just wonder if you ever wish you hadn't become a mother. If you ever thought about what you might have done with your life if we hadn't been born.”

”For heaven's sake, what brought that question on?” She turned her face to me briefly, then looked back to her lap. She appeared oddly unnerved.

”Talking with Shane. He doesn't want kids.”

”I thought you didn't, either.”

”Yeah, well, maybe I'm not so sure anymore.”

Mom sighed, pulled her arm away from my sister, and rested her hands in her lap. ”The gra.s.s is always greener, honey. I know it's a cliche, but it's the truth.”

”That's a nice way to avoid answering my question.” I should have known better than to try to talk to her about this.

”I'm not avoiding it. That is my answer. When you have kids, you wonder what it would be like to not have them. I'm sure that when you don't have them, you wonder what having them would be like. Regret isn't even an issue.”

”Even with all that happened with Jenny? You never regretted having her?” My sister turned her dark head to me and poured her eyes into mine as I said this, quietly awaiting our mother's answer.

Mom was silent, the only sound in the room the faint cla.s.sical rhythm still playing from the stereo. She breathed deeply for a moment before responding. The muscles of her face were tight, but a small twitch danced nervously beneath her right eye, suggesting the effort her restraint took. She snapped and unsnapped the clip she held with the tips of her fingers several times. I held my breath, waiting until she finally looked at me, her green eyes filled with tears.

”It's hard to explain when you haven't been a mother yourself,” she whispered.

”Could you try, please? I want to understand.” And I did want to. I thought if she could explain her feelings about having a daughter like Jenny, I might better understand what was happening with us now.

Mom stared at the mantel above the fireplace. ”I don't regret having Jenny,” she began. ”The only thing I regret ... ” She trailed off and blinked away tears, then shook her dark head.

Jenny sat quietly between us, looking off at some unknown point toward the kitchen entryway. I reached out a tentative hand over my sister's lap, the tips of my fingers barely brus.h.i.+ng our mother's own in rea.s.surance. I was desperate to hear what she might have to say. ”What, Mom?”

Her thin bottom lip trembled, and she lifted her chin to steady it. She turned to me, her face full of a pain I didn't recognize, then finally spoke. ”I regret not protecting her,” she said quickly, as though she couldn't get the words out fast enough. Stunned, I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

She stood up immediately, pinching the bridge of her nose. ”I've got a terrible headache. I'm going to bed.”

”But,” I began, reaching out to stop her from leaving. I had to know what she meant.

”I don't want to talk about it,” she said, jerking her body away from my reach. Talk about what? What hadn't she protected Jenny from? The rape at Wellman? Dad's angry fists? Or was my mother admitting she knew about what else he had done?

”Good night,” she said resolutely, stepping purposefully past both her daughters. She strode down the hall to her room, slamming the door behind her, leaving me with more unanswered questions than I knew how to carry.

”Do you want to know the s.e.x?” the technician inquired as she slowly rolled her instrument over my sister's bare belly. Jenny lay stiffly on her back, hands clawed together nervously, unsure of what was happening to her. I had explained that we were going to see pictures of the baby in her tummy, to make sure it was healthy and happy, but as the technician helped me lay her down on the table in the darkened room, panic danced in Jenny's eyes.

I looked over to Dr. Fisher, who had what Nova said was the unusual policy of attending her high-risk patients' ultrasounds. ”What do you think?” I asked my sister, my hand gently stroking her dark hair back from her face. I looked into her eyes. ”Should we find out if you're having a girl or a boy?”

Jenny's gaze searched mine, and the word baby whispered through me. I smiled, a little surprised. Maybe she understood more than I thought. ”I think we'd like to know.” I knew I wanted to.

The technician maneuvered the wand over Jenny's belly again. ”I can't give you a hundred-percent guarantee, but if you've bought any blue clothes you might want to return them. This baby is as girlie as she can be.”

”See right there?” Dr. Fisher was pointing at the screen. ”The golden arches, we call them. l.a.b.i.a.” She turned to the technician. ”I can take it from here, Janet. Thank you.”

After the technician left, Dr. Fisher helped me set Jenny upright and get her back into her wheelchair. My sister was groaning a bit, not unhappily so but simply emitting the low, constant sound I had begun to understand as her way of releasing stress.

”So,” I said, ”a girl. Is everything all right? Did she look normal?” The image on the screen had been only a blur of gray-and-black static to me, though seeing the fluttering heart sent tears to my eyes in the same manner hearing its beat had.