Fire and Rain (17 page)

Carmen turned her head slowly to face the woman on the other side of the desk. Chris was no longer sure if her sluggishness was from the antidepressant she was taking or from the depression itself.

“Any pregnancy you have is going to be extremely high-risk,” the doctor said. “We don’t know what causes you to spontaneously abort, but next time I’ll insist on complete bed rest. That will at least rule out excessive activity as a cause.”

“There won’t be a next time,” Chris said, impulsively.

Carmen jerked her head toward him, and although the suddenness of her response surprised him, he was pleased to see any reaction out of her at all.

“I don’t want you to go through this again,” he said to her.

She didn’t seem to have the strength to argue, although he knew what she wanted to say: She couldn’t imagine her life without a child in it. Children had always been part of their plan. He knew that if Carmen pulled out of this depression, and if she was still motivated and willing to follow her doctor’s orders to the letter, he would agree to try once more.

He never guessed how fervently he would one day regret that decision.

CARMEN FOUND NO CABRIOS
listed in the Springfield, New Jersey, telephone directory, although there were two Blackwells. Women answered at both those numbers, and neither of them had heard of a Steven or Robert Blackwell, so Carmen widened her search. She actually spoke with a Robert Blackwell in Roselle Park, but he was ten years older than Jeff, and he knew of no other man with his name.

She found one single Cabrio—Cabrio, S. G.—listed in New Providence. Her call to the number was answered by a machine. The message, delivered in a soft, feminine voice with a mild, but unmistakable New Jersey accent, was succinct: “Hello, there. Leave a message, please.”

Carmen wouldn’t chance leaving a message, which could be ignored or lost. Besides, what could she say?

She called the number regularly for four days in a row without success. Finally, while loading the dishes in her dishwasher one evening, she tried again. It would be close to eleven o’clock in New Jersey. Maybe by now S. G. would be home.

The voice that answered with its expectant “Hello, there,” sounded exactly as it did on the tape, and Carmen nearly hung up before realizing she had reached a live human being.

She quickly shut the door of the dishwasher and gave the phone her full attention. “Excuse me for disturbing you at this hour,” she said. “My name is Carmen Perez, and I’m calling from television station KTVA in California.” She would leave out the city. She would get as much information as she could while revealing as little as possible. “I’m trying to reach S. G. Cabrio. Is that you?”

“This is Susan, yes.” The woman seemed hesitant, but Carmen detected curiosity in her voice.

“Susan,” she asked, “do you know of an Elizabeth Cabrio?”

There was a sharp intake of breath from the other end of the line, then silence, and Carmen knew she’d hit pay dirt. She grabbed a notepad from a kitchen drawer and sat down at the table. This call should be taped, but she couldn’t take the chance of scaring Susan Cabrio off by telling her she was being recorded.

“Ms. Cabrio?” she prompted.

“Who did you say you are again?”

Carmen repeated her name. “I’m from television station KTVA in Mira Mesa, California.” Ordinarily she would tell someone that KTVA was in San Diego, even though it was physically located in Mira Mesa. She was hoping the latter would be a more forgettable name.

“And why do you want to know if I know Elizabeth?”

Carmen laughed, trying to convey a lightness, an embarrassment. Trying to keep Susan Cabrio at bay until she understood better how her players fit together. “I know this will sound strange, but I’m calling you cold. I’m not exactly sure yet what I’m looking for. I’m following up on a story out here, and her name has come up.”

There was another moment of silence on the other end of the line, and Carmen bit her lip. Susan Cabrio was struggling to determine how to handle this call, and Carmen felt sorry for her. Still, she could use this woman’s curiosity to her advantage.

“What kind of story?” Susan asked finally.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Cabrio, but I don’t know the answer to that myself. And I realize it’s not fair for me to ask you questions when I’m not even sure yet why I’m looking for the answers. What if I call you back when I have a clearer sense of what I need?”

“No, wait!” Susan paused, but only for a second. “Beth is my older sister. Do you know where she is?”

Carmen smiled to herself, and wrote “E. C.’s sister” beneath Susan’s name and number. “No, I don’t,” she said. “I was hoping you might be able to put me in touch with her.”

She sensed Susan Cabrio’s hesitancy once again. “There’s nothing I’d like better than to speak with her myself,” Susan said finally, “but I haven’t seen her since I was fourteen. I think you should at least tell me if she’s in some kind of trouble.”

“No, I’m certain it’s nothing like that, but as you can tell, Susan, right now I’m grasping at straws. I promise you, though, if I do manage to learn her whereabouts, I’ll let you know.”

“Don’t get off!” Susan said quickly, although Carmen had no intention of hanging up yet.

“Would you like to tell me about Elizabeth?” she coaxed.

Despite Susan’s reluctance to get off the phone, she seemed even more reluctant to speak.

“I don’t think I should,” she said. “It was a family matter. A private matter. I—”

“But the more I know about her, the more likely it is that I can find her.”

Susan seemed to hold her breath for a moment before letting it out in a long sigh. Carmen imagined her sitting down, settling in, finally ready to talk.

“Well,” Susan said, “Beth left home when she was fifteen.”

Carmen did some quick arithmetic in her head and was surprised to realize that Susan Cabrio was close to fifty. She sounded much younger.

“Really?” Carmen said. “And you haven’t seen her since then?”

“No. She didn’t leave on her own, exactly. My parents kicked her out because… how much of this do you want to hear?”

“I’d like to hear anything you’re willing to tell me.”

“Well, Beth was pregnant.”

Carmen closed her eyes.
Yes
.

“That was punishable by death back then, especially in my family. None of us ever heard from her again. She simply fell off the face of the earth. I cried myself to sleep at night for about a year before I began to accept that she was never coming back.”

“Maybe she got married?” Carmen suggested. “Maybe she ran off with the baby’s father?”

“I don’t think so. She refused to tell my parents who it was, and she really never talked about having a boyfriend, at least not anyone in particular.”

“Does the name Steven Blackwell mean anything to you?”

“Who’s that? You’re not saying that’s the father, are you?” Susan’s voice rose with excitement. “Do you know something about…”

“No, no.” Carmen interrupted her. “That name’s cropped up, and I wondered if he might be connected in some way.”

Susan was quiet for a moment. “You’ve got names cropping up all over the place, don’t you?” she asked.

Carmen cringed, but let out a small laugh. “It must seem that way, I guess.” She liked Susan Cabrio. She wished she could tell her the little she knew, but it would be a mistake. And what could she say?
I think I know where your nephew is, but it looks like he’s involved in criminal activity, which I’m trying to uncover?

“Well,” Susan said, “I’ve never heard of a Steven Blackwell. I guess it’s possible that Beth mentioned the name of the baby’s father to me at some time and I’ve forgotten it.” She paused for a long time. “I tried to find Beth myself a few years ago,” she said finally. “Sometimes I get so angry with her. She cut me out of her life.”

“Can you tell me about the search you mounted for her? What did you learn?”

That long sigh again. “Not much. I did find out that, after she was kicked out of our house, she moved into the home of a woman who lived in Newark. I spoke with her. Beth cooked and kept house for her in exchange for room and board. Once the baby was born, though, the woman told Beth to find another place to live. She couldn’t handle having a baby in the house. She wasn’t certain where Beth went, but she thought it might have been some sort of home for wayward girls. Something along that line. I gave up then, because I figured it would be almost impossible to get into the records of a place like that, and I really didn’t know where to begin.”

“You must wonder what happened to the baby.”

“Oh, I do,” she said. “I never got married, never had any kids of my own, and every once in a while I think of that little one and… I just hope Beth was able to take care of her.”

Carmen dropped her pencil on the table. “The baby was a girl?”

“Oh.” Susan laughed. “Only in my imagination. I don’t know what it was, and the woman Beth worked for didn’t remember.”

“Do you think I might be able to speak with the woman?”

“I’m afraid not. She died a few years ago. She was pretty old even when Beth was with her.”

Carmen looked down at her scribbled notes. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“I can’t think of anything.” Susan laughed. “This has been a pretty weird phone call.”

“I know,” Carmen said. “And I appreciate how open you’ve been.”

“It’s been good talking about Beth.” There was another moment of hesitation before Susan spoke again. “She would be fifty-one now, and I bet she’s still beautiful. Oh, please, please let me know if you find her.”

“I will,” Carmen promised, and she meant it absolutely. “You’ll be the first to know.”

“GLAD YOU’RE HERE.” TINA
, one of the nurses at the Children’s Home, smiled as Chris approached the unit desk. “ Dusty’s been a royal pain in the butt all week.”

“Yeah?” Chris grinned as though she’d complimented him. They all complained about Dustin—he could be a demanding child from the confines of his soundless, sightless world—but Chris enjoyed their tales of his four-year-old son’s stubborn opposition. He liked that Dustin was a fighter, that he didn’t submit easily to the cross he’d been given to bear.

Chris sat on the edge of the desk. “What’s he been up to?”

Tina closed the chart on which she was working and stood to put it in the circular rack. “He yanked out his feeding tube yesterday.”

Chris’s eyes widened. “You mean he used his hands?”

“Oh, no.” Tina looked chagrined at having misled him. “You know he’ll never be able to do that, don’t you Chris?”

He nodded.

“No. He rolled around on the bean bag chair until it came out.”

“Oh. What else?”

“The crying.” Tina sounded almost apologetic as she leaned back against the counter. She drew her brown hair up into a pony tail, fastening it with a rubber band she’d had around her wrist. “You know how bad it gets sometimes. Tuesday and Wednesday we thought he’d never stop.”

More than anything Chris hated the crying. No one knew the reason for it, and Dustin had no means to communicate the source of his discomfort. On the few occasions it happened during one of his visits, Chris would desperately try to still the heartrending sobs. He’d change his son’s diaper, adjust his feeding tube, walk him down the halls in the wheelchair, rock him, sing to him, and Dustin would continue to cry. Chris would often end up in tears himself from the frustration and pain of seeing his son in such unrelenting anguish. Dustin wasn’t the only child here who could cry for twenty-four hours straight. Chris had nothing but respect for Tina and the other high-energy women—and a few men—who had chosen to work with these kids. The rewards were few.

He found Dustin in his room curled up on his bed. He was facing the window, the one with the view of Mission Valley that he could never appreciate. Sunlight poured into the room, bouncing off the yellow walls and lighting up the colorful balloons on the ruffled curtains. This wasn’t a sterile place. Chris had wanted someplace homey, someplace warm and as unlike an institution as it could be. Dustin would never know the difference, but he would.

“Hey, Dusty,” Chris said, resting his hand on Dustin’s back. The little boy jumped, startled, and Chris leaned close. “It’s Daddy.” He let his lips linger on the warm, almost febrile skin of Dustin’s temple and noticed how clean his skin and his hair smelled. The care here was excellent.

Dustin grunted and tried to roll over, and Chris carefully picked him up, pulling him into his arms. Dustin rocked his head, so vigorously that Chris had to cup his hand around the boy’s forehead to prevent it from smashing into his jaw.

Chris sat down in the armless rocker, which he had bought for Carmen during her first pregnancy, and let his son thrash and struggle to get comfortable, all the while crooning to him in words Dustin couldn’t hear, but which Chris knew he picked up on at some level. The vibrations, they’d told him. He feels the vibrations in your chest, your throat. In the air.

“How’s my boy?” Chris asked, rocking.

He never allowed himself to think beyond the moment, to wonder how he would be able to hold Dustin this way when the boy got older.
If
he got older. His heart wasn’t good, and Chris wouldn’t allow the tests to determine the extent of the damage, tests that could only add to Dustin’s suffering and do nothing to improve the quality of his life. Sometimes he wished his son looked worse than he did. It was hard to convince himself of the severity of Dustin’s condition when, except for his eyes, he was beautiful. He was of average build for his age; his useless limbs were well-formed. His hair was thick and very dark, his features perfect. Would Chris still be able to pick him up, sing to him, rock him, when Dustin was ten? Fifteen?

“He’ll never be able to know the difference between you and anyone else,” one of the staff had told him long ago, in an effort to be kind, to let him know that his regular visits were not really necessary. But Dustin
did
know. By the time he was two, even the staff had to admit that his spirits seemed to lift when Chris arrived. Only recently did one of them tell Chris that Dustin sometimes cried when he left.