Baby, Come Back (7 page)

“Sheri may need you.” Hayes slipped into his wet jacket. “I'll drive.”

Unfortunately, Alice couldn't argue with that. “Okay, then. Let's go.”

T
he drive to the hospital took only a matter of minutes. Hayes navigated the slippery streets with a breathtaking combination of daring and caution. Save for Sheri's occasional whimper, they all remained silent.

Alice glanced at Hayes's profile, reflected in the rearview mirror. Even though she called herself an idiot, Alice couldn't help wondering what he was thinking. His expression told her nothing. His mouth was set in a grim, determined line; a muscle worked in his jaw.

Was he remembering, as she was, a night like this twelve years earlier? Only she'd been the one huddled under the blanket. She'd been the one whimpering with a combination of fear and pain.

She tore her gaze from his reflection, disappointment and hurt barreling over her. She thought not. He seemed as unaffected by this calamity as he'd been by theirs.

When they arrived at the hospital, Jeff was waiting just outside the emergency room's double-glass doors, his expression frantic with worry. When he saw Sheri, he raced to help her from the car, sparing only a fierce scowl for his father.

He cupped her face in his palms. “Sheri...sweetheart, are you all right?”

She threw her arms around him and clung to him, crying. “I'm so scared, Jeff. And I...it hurts.”

“Don't worry, babe. It's going to be all right.” Jeff's voice cracked, and he scooped Sheri into his arms and carried her inside.

Alice watched them, a lump in her throat. They really loved each other, she realized. It wasn't puppy love; it wasn't teen infatuation. They needed each other almost desperately; she saw that in the way they looked at and spoke to each other, in the way they clung to each other.

Did Hayes see it, too? she wondered, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. Hayes had been stoical with her, had tried to reason, to calm her with logic. He hadn't clung or cried or grieved. He hadn't promised to try to make everything all right, hadn't whispered reassurances about their having other babies.

Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked against them. Because there would be no other babies for them; no doubt he had already written her off.

Dr. Bennett arrived moments behind them and whisked Sheri into an examining room, leaving Jeff, Hayes and Alice to wait it out.

Hayes remained stiff and silent, doing no more than sending his son a visual reprimand and a slow-to-respond nurse a thunderous glance. He ignored Alice altogether and stood unmoving in front of the waitingroom window, staring out at the rain.

Alice couldn't stand still. She paced; she wrung her hands; she prayed for Sheri and Jeff and their unborn child. Jeff, too, couldn't remain still, and would slump in one of the vinyl chairs for a few moments, then jump up and nervously circle the room.

If only Hayes had cared that much about their baby, Alice thought, the tears tickling her eyes again. If only his ambivalence didn't still hurt so bad.

She balled her hands into fists. What had she been thinking tonight? Making out with Hayes like a nineteen-year-old who didn't know any better. She knew better. Her heart had the scars to prove it.

Dr. Bennett returned to the waiting room, all smiles. Although she'd determined there was no immediate danger, she prescribed quiet and bed rest for the next few days.

The trip home proved quieter than the trip to the emergency room. Jeff had asked his father, a bit belligerently, if he could accompany Sheri. To Hayes's credit, despite the late hour and Jeff's attitude, he had given his permission. Jeff had left his car at the hospital and the teenagers had sat in the back seat, cuddled together and whispering. She and Hayes had had nothing to say to each other.

Sheri and Jeff said goodnight outside, then Alice helped the exhausted girl to her room. Alice tucked her into bed, adjusting the covers and pillows, fussing, she knew, like a mother hen. She couldn't help herself; she was so relieved that Sheri and her baby were all right.

“There you go,” Alice said, smiling softly. “I want you to get some rest.”

Sheri looked up at her, her eyes full of gratitude. “Thanks for being there for me, Miss A. I don't know what I would have done without you.”

Alice brushed the hair gently away from Sheri's face. “I was happy to help. I'm just glad there's nothing wrong.”

“Me, too.” Sheri hesitated. “I was really scared, Miss A. I thought...you know, that what happened to you...”

“I know. But your baby is fine, so don't think about that anymore.” Alice kissed her forehead, then flipped off the bedside light. “Get some sleep, sweetie. I'll be here if you need anything.”

Sheri didn't respond and Alice thought her already asleep. She tiptoed to the door, stopping when Sheri murmured her name. Alice turned toward the girl, her heart doing a funny little flip at the sight of the teenager under the mountain of blankets. She looked so small and frail. She looked so young. “Yes, Sheri?”

“Jeff's dad...he's the one, isn't he?”

“The one who what?”

“The one who broke you heart.”

Alice's chest tightened, and she struggled for a deep breath. “Yes,” she whispered, “he's the one.”

Sheri yawned and snuggled deeper under the covers. “I thought so. There's something about...the way...you...look at...”

Sheri words trailed off in sleep, and for long moments Alice stood at the bedroom door, gazing at the sleeping girl. Sheri's words ran crazily through her head, mocking her.

He's the one, isn't he? The one who broke your heart.

Why couldn't she remember that? Alice wondered, flexing her fingers. Was she some sort of a masochist? A glutton for punishment? He didn't love her. He never had. He'd hurt her so badly she'd thought she would never be whole again.

Alice shut Sheri's bedroom door. It had been difficult, but she had pieced her life back together. She had gone on. She would not allow Hayes back into her life or heart now; she would not give him the opportunity to hurt her again.

She turned and started toward the living room, stopping in surprise when she saw Hayes standing in the foyer. She started to shake. Tonight had brought back the fear and pain of her own miscarriage, the devastation of Hayes's rejection. And looking at him now was almost more than she could bear.

“You're still here,” she said, working to mask her feelings.

“I wanted...to make sure she was okay.”

“She is.” Alice dragged a trembling hand through her hair, emotion and exhaustion pulling at her. “She's asleep already.”

“She's lucky to have you.”

“Actually, I think she's lucky to have Jeff.”

Hayes searched her expression. “Maybe I'd better go.”

“Yes.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I think that's a good idea. Just go.”

He took a step toward her instead. “Alice?”

She cocked her chin, cursing its wobble. “You're not leaving?”

“Is there...something wrong?”

“Should there be?”

He held his hands up. “If you want to play twenty questions and get nowhere, that's fine with me. I'm out of here.” He started for the door.

“You wish Sheri had lost the baby. It would have solved your problem, wouldn't it?”

He stopped and turned slowly to face her. “That's nonsense.”

“Just like my losing our baby solved your problem.”

He stiffened. “You're tired and overwrought. Get some rest and in the morn”

“Overwrought? I guess so.” She heard the note of hysteria in her voice, felt the tug of exhaustion, and knew he was right. But no matter what she knew to be best, she couldn't leave well enough alone. “That's me, isn't it? Always overwrought.”

He grasped the doorknob and twisted. “Now's not the time to discuss this, Alice. I'll call you tomorrow.”

“It's never the time, is it?” She followed him to the door and, reaching around him, pushed it closed. “Did you mourn the loss of our baby? The other night you said you were sorry, but did you mourn her loss? Did you grieve even for a minute?”

“Alice— ”

She balled her hands into fists on his chest. “Why didn't you comfort me? Would it have cost you so much to be kind?”

He covered her hands, holding them to his heart. Through his still-damp sweater she felt its runaway beat. “I didn't mean to be cruel,” he said, his voice thick. “I tried to be strong for you. You were falling apart.”

“I didn't need your strength, damn you. I needed you to understand.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “I needed comfort. And love. Why couldn't you give me that? Did you despise me so much?”

“God, no! You think I would deliberately withhold something you needed? You think I would withhold— ”

He dropped her hands and spun away from her. Through a haze of tears Alice gazed at his rigid back and shoulders.

“Don't you understand?” he said after a moment, so low she had to strain to hear. “I gave you everything I had. That's why...” He cleared his throat and turned back to her, the expression in his eyes bleak. “But everything I had wasn't enough or right. It never...would have been.”

His words landed between them, plain, irrevocable. Familiar. She and Hayes weren't covering any new ground here, yet the words felt fresh. The wounds they inflicted felt new and bloody.

The pain twisted through her, tightening and taunting. She curved her arms around herself. “Don't call me, Hayes. Don't come to see me. It's over.” She met his eyes. “It has been for a long time.”

* * *

Getting through the next three days was hell. No matter how hard she tried, Alice hadn't been able to banish thoughts of Hayes from her mind. Alice shook her head as she climbed her porch steps. The minutes in his arms had been heaven; the ones after had been agony. Both continued to play in her head, stealing her sleep, her concentration, her peace of mind.

Every time she closed her eyes she saw him as he'd been the moment before he'd kissed her, then the moment she'd said goodbye.

With a frustrated shake of her head, she dug her keys out of her purse, unlocked the front door and stepped inside. “Sheri. I'm home.”

Silence returned her greeting. Sheri had gone back to school today, although Alice had given her a stern lecture about taking it easy and resting as often as necessary if she became fatigued. The teenager hadn't experienced even a twinge of discomfort since the other night, and Dr. Bennett had given Sheri the okay to resume her regular activities—with moderation.

Alice slipped out of her sweater, tossed it across the back of a chair and headed for the kitchen. Sheri had been home from school; she'd stacked the day's mail in the middle of the table.

On top of the stack rested a hand-addressed plain white envelope. Alice gazed at it, knowing who'd sent it, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her mother had not taken her silence as a no.

Alice reached for the envelope, her hand beginning to shake. A part of her wanted to throw it out unopened. Pretend it didn't exist. She couldn't do that. She wasn't certain why, but she had to see the words her mother had written. Taking a deep breath, she picked up the envelope, tore it open and read its contents as quickly as possible.

Her mother had called repeatedly, hanging up when Alice answered the phone. She had come by the house, had stood on Alice's front porch, but had turned away without knocking.

With a sound of pain, Alice sank onto one of the kitchen chairs. She brought a shaking hand to her mouth. She thought of all the hang-up calls she'd gotten over the past few weeks, thought of the sensation she'd experienced when she'd received them— the sense that someone was hanging on the other end, listening, waiting.

Chill bumps raced up her arms. Had all the calls been from her mother? If not, which ones had been?

Alice rubbed her arms against the chill. Had Marge Dougherty recognized her daughter's voice? And if her mother had spoken, would she have recognized hers?

Oh, yes, Alice thought. Even after all the years that had passed, she would have recognized that hard, gravelly voice. It had been directed at her in anger too many times ever to forget.

Alice looked around her sunny kitchen, taking in the red-and-white tile counters and pine floor, the plant-lined window ledges, seeing them all as if for the first time. When had her mother stood on her front porch? Had she been home at the time? Had her mother caught a glimpse of her daughter through the window? Alice rubbed her arms again, shuddering. Her privacy had been violated, her space.

She felt as if she had been violated.

Alice lowered her eyes to the letter once more. Her mother was begging for another chance.
Begging.
She said she wanted desperately to make up for lost time.

Is that what they had lost? Alice wondered, tears rushing to her eyes. Time? The loss felt a lot more personal than that. A lot more...essential.

The letter blurred before her eyes. Had her mother changed? Had the years mellowed her? Is that why Marge Dougherty had come to her daughter's door and then turned away without knocking? The mother she'd known had been neither sensitive nor hesitant. She'd been bullish and sometimes brutal; she'd never held her feelings or opinions in check.

Alice swore and crumpled the letter. It didn't matter. She didn't want her mother back in her life; she wouldn't allow her back in. She'd buried the past, with its pain, fear and uncertainties, a long time ago.

Then why did she feel like a bad daughter, like a selfish and uncaring person?

Because a daughter was supposed to love her mother no matter what.

The tears flooded her eyes once more, this time trickling over. She swiped at her cheeks, angry with herself. Didn't that go both ways? Didn't a mother have a responsibility to be a good parent? To love and cherish and nurture?

Yes. For so many years she had longed for a sign of affection from her mother, for a scrap of love. But no more. Now she saw her mother for what she was. Now she knew that her mother had never been deserving of the love Alice had given her.