A Stranger's House (39 page)

He said, “That's okay. We'll ride back. We'll be okay.”

“But we can put them in the trunk,” I said. “The bikes.”

His hand still rested on my shoulder. I had my door open an inch or so already. Cold air wrapped around my ankles, my calves. He said, “Tell you what. Tomorrow, when we go back up there, you just pick us up at the apartment. You know where we live. But just let us ride home today.” He smiled.

Martin leaned forward, put his hand on my shoulder, too, right next to Grady's. He said, “You already know where we live.”

I smiled, and reached up and touched both their hands. “Tomorrow.” I paused. “I'll be there.”

“Fine,” Grady said. “Tomorrow is fine.” He brought his hand down and popped open his door. “We'll be looking for you.”

“We will,” Martin said, scooting across the seat. He got out, closed the door, and then stood at my window. I looked up at him, smiling, and he motioned with his hand for me to roll down my window.

I pulled the door to, rolled the window down all the way. Grady was already back behind the dumpster.

Martin leaned toward the window, his hands on his thighs. He had his wool cap down over his ears.

He said, “You'll take good care of your house.”

I said, “I will.”

He smiled.

I waited until they had pedaled out of the parking lot and headed off toward their home, Grady still leading, Martin close behind, and then I pulled onto Route 9, headed back toward town. A minute later Cooley-Dickinson Hospital was on my right, red brick, the roof covered with quickly melting snow, and as I neared it I wasn't certain what to do anymore, whether to look at the building, stare and remember back to when Paige's child had been born there, and, of course, back to when I'd hoped for children of our own; or if I should do as I'd resolved, and force myself
not
to look,
not
to
remember, try and forget that I'd held her baby only days after birth.

But I found myself driving more slowly as I approached the hospital, my foot easing up on the gas without my thinking of it. To the left, across the street, was a small strip mall: video shop, dry cleaners, package store. I saw a phone booth out on the sidewalk between two of the shops, and I turned left across the double yellow lines, pulled into the parking lot. Without thinking, without knowing precisely what I might do, I parked the car and took a quarter from my wallet. I climbed out onto the wet asphalt of the parking lot, went to the pay phone, picked up the cold plastic receiver, and dropped in the quarter. Then I punched in the phone number I'd known by heart for what seemed my whole life.

I heard it ring, and I turned around, leaned against the wall, the hospital across the street from me. Tires of passing cars hissed away water, melted snow.

“Neuroscience and Behavior,” I heard. It was Paige.

“Paige,” I said. I paused, and I could not help but remember holding her baby, feeling the warmth of that small life. Though I would have no children of my own, I understood, finally, that I could not deny the joy I'd felt holding that child. There was nothing wrong with hoping for life, or with taking joy in the life given someone else. And, I saw, there was nothing wrong with taking sorrow in a life lost by someone else.

“Hello?” Paige said, and then I closed my eyes, the sound of passing cars and the cold air filling me up, and I realized why I'd called. It wasn't to talk to Paige, though I would. I would ask her sometime soon how Phillip was, how big he'd gotten in the month or so I'd been gone, how many new teeth were in.

But I'd called to talk with Sandra.

“Paige,” I said again, “is Sandra there? This is Claire.”

Later—I don't know how much later, the day passing in its own time, the sky never changing its slate-gray color—I went to the newspaper, walked past rows and rows of cluttered desks and computer terminals, all those shiny green symbols flashing, all that clicking, all that noise. Faces turned up to me as I passed, some smiling the smile of faint recognition, others only glancing up and back to the green.

I made it to Tom's desk against the far wall, a desk pushed back into a recessed cubicle. He, too, was clicking away. He glanced up at me, then back to his terminal before it seemed he recognized who I was. He stood. He looked at his watch, surprised, as though he had perhaps lost an entire day.

“It's only eleven fifteen,” he said. “I thought you were at the house.”

“I was,” I said. “But I came back. Because I need you to help me.” I took a small step toward his desk, put one hand to the edge. “To go somewhere with me.”

“To the house?” he said.

I took my hand away, and held my pocketbook with both hands. I looked at his desk, littered with work.

“Yes,” I said. I did not know how to tell him, did not know which words I needed to explain to him the shapes on the wall. I wanted to take him there, show him those figures, those outlines. I wanted him out there with me.

“Are you okay?” he said, and started around the edge of his desk.

I could feel eyes on me, eyes of men and women around me who would imagine me insane. Tom was next to me now, his hand at my elbow.

I looked up at him, and I swallowed at the hard truth I knew I was about to speak.

I said, “I'm not. I'm not okay. You know that.”

He put his arms around me. He held me, and I could feel his arms encircling me. I could feel his face next to mine, warm and dry.

He eased up, and pulled away. He looked at me. He had his hand next to my face, and brushed back a tear with his thumb, a tear I hadn't even known was there.

He was still a moment, and I looked at his face, unable to tell what he would do, his mouth straight, his eyes merely looking into mine, and I was terrified at living with a man this long, at loving him, giving up the hope for children of our own with him, trying to make a home with him, and still not knowing him, still being unable to see in his eyes what he would do.

He held me for a moment longer, but let go of me, moved back
to his desk, looked at things there. For an instant I thought I had lost him, that he'd run from a house falling down around me, but then he gathered up his coat and gloves and muffler and hat from the chair beside his desk, and we were gone, headed for a half-finished house in Chesterfield. Headed for home.

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