At the Corner of King Street (28 page)

“I would.”

I draped a towel over Janet's shoulder and handed her the bottle. A part of me hoped she'd struggle and Carrie would squawk at the unfamiliar arms. But the baby stared up at Janet as she gently coaxed the nipple against her lips, and Carrie easily latched, as if this were the thousandth feeding, not the first.

Invisible fingers squeezed my heart, and I imagined myself standing outside in the cold, looking through a large picture window at a party. I was the uninvited guest, longing to be inside where it was warm, laughter bubbled, and glasses clinked.

On the outside. Unconnected.

I ducked my head and turned toward the counter, where I reached for the peanut butter and dolloped out a large spoonful onto the bread. My appetite was gone, but I needed something to keep my hands busy. For a long time, I smoothed peanut butter onto the bread before I dug out jelly and layered it thickly on top. I smashed the top piece of bread into the bottom and cut the sandwich as Carrie's soft, suckling noises swirled around me.

She cried so miserably the first time I held her. Balled her fists, declaring that she knew she was in the wrong arms.

“She feels right in my arms,” Janet said.

Sadness squeezed the remaining air from my lungs. Carrie didn't feel natural in my arms the first or second day. It took us time to settle into a routine. But we found our groove, and now, to just surrender her
clogged my throat with unshed tears. “She's a lot of work, Janet. I keep her on a regular schedule. That's important for babies.”

“I know.” Janet's raised gaze held hints of fire. “She's not my first.”

“No.” It would be easy to remind her of her failures with Eric. The lost days and the lost years. But I treaded on thin ice. With no legal claim to Carrie, I knew if Janet wanted to take her, there'd be little I could do to stop her. “Have you seen Eric? He's been asking about you.”

A frown wrinkled her brow as she lowered her gaze back to Carrie. “I haven't seen him yet. I'm not sure who to call.”

“I have Zeb's number.”

“Zeb. It didn't end well with us. He was so angry.”

“He's mellowed, and he's been a help with Carrie.”

“His ex-wife shows up and she's knocked up by another man. The old Zeb would have been furious.” Resentment simmered under the words.

“I'm sure he's frustrated, angry, and hurt. We all are.”

She leaned forward and kissed the baby's head, closing her eyes, savoring the smell. “Zeb built that crib. It took him weeks.”

“It's stunning.”

She opened her eyes, but her gaze remained on Carrie. “I remember the day he unveiled it for me. I cried.”

“He's a good father.”

“Yes. He has always been a good father.” She let the words trail, hinting there was more to the Zeb story. Janet was fairly steady now, but I hadn't forgotten her talent for manipulating and driving wedges between people.

“Do you want me to call him?”

She rolled her head from side to side. “I don't think I can deal with him right now. I always see my failures reflected in his eyes.”

“He wants what's best for you.”

“He wants what's best for Eric. Not me. Not Carrie.” She smoothed her hand over the baby's forehead, touching her like she were a fragile egg. And she was fragile. Just a few weeks old.

My throat tightened with emotion, forcing me to clear it before I spoke again. “Where are you staying?”

“I have a friend in town.”

“You can stay here.” I wasn't sure if I wanted her to accept or not. “There's a spare bed.”

“No. I don't want to stay here.” She glanced around the room, her gaze drifting over the eclectic collection. Like everything else in the room, this place was her second chance. “It makes me uncomfortable.”

“All Carrie's baby things are here.”

“I'm not ready to take her. I have to figure a few things out.”

Relief washed over me. “That's sensible. You need to think about yourself, Janet. Get healthy.”

Again the anger flickered. “She's my child, Addie. Not yours.”

For a heartbeat, I couldn't speak. “I know.”

“Once I get my act together, I want to be her mother.”

Words clanged in my head and begged to be shouted.
I've done all the work! I love her! I want her!
But I corralled them all.

Janet shook her head. “You've got that look.”

I blinked. “What look?”

“Injured. Pure. The martyr. Addie the Saint.”

That's what Scott had called me whenever we disagreed. My Little Martyr.

I tiptoed over more eggshells. “I love Carrie, Janet. I want what's best for her. For you. None of us has to make a decision tonight.”

“No. No decisions tonight.” But there was a resoluteness that suggested she would do whatever she wanted to do.

Carrie sucked the last drops of milk and instead of nodding off to
sleep, fussed and squirmed. Janet set the bottle down and began to jostle the baby. “It's okay, Mama's here.”

“She doesn't like to be jostled,” I said without thinking. “Do you want me to take her?”

“No.” Janet stopped jostling Carrie, but the baby kept crying. “I know how to hold a baby.”

“Put her on your shoulder and pat her on her back.”

Janet shifted the baby awkwardly up to her shoulder, her ringed fingers snagging the soft cotton of the baby's onesie. Carrie's head flopped, and it took all my restraint not to take the baby. My sister righted her quickly, patted her daughter on the back, and a part of me hoped the baby would hate her touch. This wasn't the way we did it. Carrie liked a softer, gentler pat. But Carrie adapted quickly and released a healthy burp.

Janet laughed. “That's what was upsetting her.”

Feeling a little betrayed and lost, I saw connections unravel I had begrudgingly, and then lovingly, woven.

The baby tried to raise her head, and it flopped again before Janet caught it with a ringed finger. “She's active.”

“Yes.”

“I wonder if I was like this as a baby?”

“I've wondered that myself.”

She held the baby back from her body and studied her pink, round face. “She looks like me.”

“Yes.” Minutes ago she wished the child were more like me, now she took pride in the sameness she shared with her daughter.

A heavy silence settled around Janet. “Do you think she's
like
me?”

Cursed, you mean? “I don't know. I asked the doctor at her checkup but he didn't know. He said it will be a long time before we know.”

“How old was I when I started showing signs?”

“When you were little you cried a lot. You were afraid of shadows. Afraid of the dark. But Mom thought it was kid stuff. Quirks.”

She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “When did you
know
?”

“When you were eleven. Remember when you took your shoes off in the winter and ran around the snowman I built? Your feet were blue by the time I convinced you to go into the house. You kept laughing. Calling me silly. An old woman.” Even our mother worried over her daughter's blue toes.

Janet tipped her head back, coaxing the memory from the shadows. “I thought it was so much fun. I thought I was the snow maiden.”

“Yeah, I remember. It got worse in high school. The boys. The parties. You never ran out of energy. And then one day when you were in the eleventh grade you didn't get up in the morning. You stayed in your room for two weeks.”

“The first crash into depression.”

“Yeah.”

She cradled Carrie in the crook of her arm. “I don't want her to run circles around snowmen.”

“Neither do I. But she might.”

Janet stared at the baby, carefully placing her palm under the baby's hand. “Such a tiny little hand. So vulnerable.”

A knock on the downstairs door made Janet wince. She couldn't bear any more stimuli and I didn't want to leave her alone with the baby, but I rose and walked to the threshold. A glance down the stairs, and I spotted Zeb and Eric.

Eric was grinning, holding a colorful red box. As always, Zeb's expression remained guarded against the unexpected. Smart man.

“Zeb.” My tone added sharp edges to his name.

His hand went to Eric's shoulder, stopping the boy's advance up the stairs. “What is it?”

“I have a visitor.”

Darkness hardened the line of his jaw. “Scott.”

“No.” The baby began to cry. I didn't know how to say this without Eric hearing. There was no softening the blow. “My sister.”

The words didn't quite connect with Eric immediately, but they slammed hard into Zeb. His fingers tightened on Eric's shoulders, and he slowly knelt in front of the boy. “Did you hear that Eric? Addie's sister is here. Your mom is here.”

The boy's eyes widened, and he jumped up and down. “Mom is here?”

“Yes.”

“How's she doing?” the boy asked. “Can I see her?”

Zeb looked up to me, his expression asking:
What kind of disaster are we walking into?

Carrie's deep-throated cry wafted into the rafters. “The baby is fussy, Eric.”

He rolled his eyes. “She's always fussy. Can I see Mom?”

“Sure. But you need to come up the stairs slow and soft.”

“Not like a herd of elephants? That's what Dad says when I run up the stairs. Elephants have big feet.”

“I know. But your feet aren't that big.”

“That's what I said.”

“Come up quietly, and you can see Carrie and your mom.” I glanced over his head to Zeb. “Give me a second or two head start?”

“Understood.”

I hurried back to the room where Janet was jostling Carrie, who grew increasingly fussy. “Janet. We have visitors.”

She looked up at me, the flicker of panic clear and sharp. The baby's cries were unraveling her loosely woven composure. “Who?”

“Eric. And Zeb.”

Her eyes closed and for a moment she shook her head, hinting this was too much. “That's great.”

I moved forward, my hands outstretched. “Let me take the baby.”

Janet's grip tightened.

“Eric is going to require all your attention.” I moved closer. “He's a spitfire.”

Just as I spoke, little elephant feet clamored up the stairs, and Janet allowed me to take the baby into my arms. I held her close, so grateful to have her back in my arms that tears burned my throat. She wasn't my child. I had no legal rights, but I couldn't give her to Janet and simply hope that my sister kept her life together.

I rocked Carrie slowly from side to side, and her cries softened as Eric ran into the room. “Mom!”

The baby startled and turned toward the sound of her older brother's voice, accepting loud yells as part of her odd little family.

Janet rose and turned to face her son. Weeks after giving birth, her frame was thin and her blond hair full and bright. Just like all the pictures Zeb saved for Eric.

Janet extended her hands, and he ran toward her and burrowed his face into her belly, hugging her so tight his little fingers whitened. She raised her arms and very slowly tightened her grip. For a long time Eric stood there, holding her, trying to make up for years of no hugs or kisses.

Both Janet's children forgave her. Eric and Carrie didn't care about curses, long absences, highs and lows, or bad choices. They loved Janet. Her spirit or aura ensured that no matter how much trouble she made, she'd always win them back.

I wanted Eric to be happy. I wanted him to love his mother, but it hurt a little to see him so enamored with Janet. When my sister arrived, I became invisible to Carrie and Eric and everyone else. More threads of connection thinned.

Drawing in a breath, I held Carrie a little closer. When I looked up, I found Zeb staring at me. His features hardened, reflecting a brittleness akin to ice. Eric and Carrie may have forgiven their mother, but Zeb had not.

A smile fluttered at the edges of my lips. It was a pitiful attempt to say,
I know. I know
. She's lobbed another grenade into our lives.

He looked away, unwilling to accept an alliance, any connection or kinship with a Shire. His son was all he needed.

Eric kissed his mother. “Mom, I missed you so much! I got all the birthday cards you sent me! I keep them in my room.”

Janet looked at him, her fingers smoothing his short-cropped hair. “Cards?”

“The birthday cards!” he said laughing. “The last one had a race car on it.”

Confusion darkened her gaze. “Baby, you said a race car?”

“A red one. You sent him a card with a red race car on it. Don't you remember?” Zeb asked, as he shifted his stance. “Hello, Janet.”

She didn't quite raise her eyes to meet her ex-husband's. “Zeb. You look good. Eric looks great.”

Zeb nodded, but said nothing.

“I've grown a lot since you last saw me.” Eric stood a little straighter to exaggerate his height.

“But you still have the same nose and the same eyes,” she said.

Eric touched his nose. “How do you know I have the same nose?”

“Because it's like mine. When you were a baby, I could look at you and know you were mine because of your nose.”

“People say I look like Dad.”

“You do. Every other part of you is him.” She touched his nose with the tip of her finger. “But not your nose. That is me.”

He giggled and touched his nose again with chubby fingers. “I like my nose.”

“Good.”

Eric looked toward me. “Addie, you don't have our nose.”

“No, honey, I don't. Mine is shorter.”

The boy inspected his sister's face. “What kind of nose does Carrie have?”

I glanced at the baby, whose eyes were wide, alert, absorbing it all. “I don't know. It's all hers. Very pretty.”