In Every Way (13 page)

“If it is, it's hidden,” Philip says. He points through an open window at the long green yard where Christopherson has stopped to adjust the mower blades. The land stretches downward for hundreds of feet until it reaches the water. “Blackbeard used to tie his boat up here. Onto the porch.”

“With a long rope,” Maria says.

“The water used to come up right here,” Philip says. Maria can tell he's told the story many times. She likes the feeling of being cast into one of his usual spells. “They dredged the sound in fifty-three. Had the opposite effect of receding shorelines. Like I said. These stories, there are a ton of them.”

In the morning light, he moves slowly throughout the house. He is all rough elegance and indifference. His blue oxford is frayed along the collar. He does not wear socks. Maria cannot help but think of how different he is from Jack. She wonders at Jack's genetic heritage, marked forever in little Bonacieux's cells, and how it will react as the child ages alongside a man so different from her father. Maria is pleased with the prospect.

“Here are the bones I dug up from the backyard,” he says, pointing at a mound of debris on the mantel. “Here is the laundry room.”
He is open to her. He almost does not even notice her. There is an immediate familiarity. Maria is pleased with the certainty that he already likes her.

The kitchen door opens and footsteps sound lightly. Maria turns to the hallway and sees Nina shuffling awkwardly through the darkness. Bundled against autumns' first chill in tweed and yellow tights, she is carrying a car seat at her side, limping along with its weight. When she enters the light of the room, she raises a finger to her lips for silence.

“She drives Bonny around to get her to sleep,” Philip whispers.

“Shhhh,” Nina says.

“And when she wakes up, it's . . . interesting,” Philip says.

“What do you mean?” Maria says.

“There's a lot of screaming.”

But without Philip or Nina's knowledge, Bonacieux has already awoken and is now staring at Maria in silence.

“Maria, this is Nina,” Philip says.

Distracted, Maria takes her hand. It is smaller than Maria's and cold. Maria is ashamed of the note written on her hand in ballpoint pen. It reads: 403
FEDERAL STREET
. 11
AM
. In contrast, Nina's is manicured and pristine.

“Could you watch her while we get the groceries?” Nina whispers. Maria nods and waves them on.

After they exit the room, Maria kneels before Bonacieux. She cannot believe her ploy has landed her here. She touches Bonacieux's toe. The child is not cherubic. There are no rolls. But her cheeks are rosy and full, and Maria cannot help but think she is the loveliest child she has ever seen. She understands there is a trickery of genes at work, but refuses to acknowledge any bias. Who can deny Bonacieux's beauty?
She emerged from Maria's own flesh. These facts together astound Maria and fill her with an energy unfamiliar and huge. This is what brings people to church, she thinks, curiosity about the unknowable. For her, that magical quandary is rising to the surface again, like it did in earnest at the quickening, those first early movements of Bonacieux within Maria's startled womb. Again she feels like she is touching the unknown—or instead, it is she who is being touched by it.

“Hi,” Maria says. Her voice sounds unlike any she has ever before used in seriousness. It is coy and high and sweet and she is not embarrassed. “It's OK,” she says, and rubs Bonacieux's cheek. The child turns to her hand as if it might be food and begins to cry softly. Maria unclasps the seat straps and gently lifts her daughter to her chest where Bonacieux becomes silent and still. Maria thinks she may have even fallen asleep again but is not sure. She is afraid to chance a look. When Philip and Nina return, Bonacieux lifts her head and turns, silent and calm and curious. They stop, stunned, just inside the room.

“She woke up,” Maria says.

CHAPTER 10

A
CROSS THE CRACKED
concrete of Ann Street, Maria pushes a blue pram. Inside, Bonacieux lies within its cushioned womb, watching shadows play across the sunshade. An old station wagon creeps toward them across the hardtop, and in a panic, Maria rushes to the curb. She is unaccustomed to being aware of such danger. It is the third day Maria has watched Bonacieux.

She is paid eight dollars an hour and is filled with a constant dread that Bonacieux is going to either die or be abducted on her watch. If the child sleeps more than ten minutes longer than her usual length of nap, Maria cannot help but enter the nursery and place her ear close to Bonacieux's lips in an effort to confirm that she still breathes. Maria has not yet grown comfortable eating food from Philip and Nina's kitchen and still packs her own lunch, despite the fact that they insist she not do so.

At the top of Karen's driveway, Maria gently lifts her daughter and carries her inside.

“Mom?” Maria calls, placing Bonacieux gently atop a small quilt on the floor.

“One second,” her mother says. She has had a hard time getting out of bed the past few days.

“It's OK,” Maria says, “we can come in there,” but already her mother is rustling down the hallway.

“Coming, coming,” her mother says, and then appears in the doorway resplendent in silk pajamas printed with newspaper headlines. Maria does not know where these clothes have been purchased, but her mother has been spending time late at night shopping on odd Japanese websites. She now also owns several brightly colored clogs. Today she is wearing neon green ones. It is as if her clothes have become some battle flag sent up as a warning to any personal threat—even sickness—lest it think her lines are not still well formed and standing.

“Well, well, well,” Maria's mother says, sitting gingerly in a tall wooden chair at the table. She smiles at Bonacieux. “That thing's just plain cute. No getting around it.”

“That's her,” Maria says. “Little Bonny Price.”

Her mother wiggles her fingers at the child, but there is no recognition here—at one day old, Bonacieux looked little like she does now. Maria's mother has no clue who this child is. But Maria knows this cannot last. The Prices live five blocks away. Karen will learn the child's full name through social osmosis if she doesn't already know it, and somehow it will pass to her mother. And Bonacieux is no one else's name anywhere, save old books and bad movies. It's only a matter of time. So Maria understands she must disclose the truth. All morning she has been preparing herself to do so, and unsure of how long her will might hold, she feels it must happen now.

“We have to talk,” she says.

“Isn't that how you hate to start a conversation?” her mother says. “Isn't that the exact line?”

“It is.”

“Do you hate to start this conversation?”

“I do.”

“Oh, this sounds good,” her mother says, pulling at the front of her pajama shirt, straightening the headline M
AN
W
ALKS ON
M
OON
. She grins, thrilled with any life that might still course through her.

“Her name isn't Bonny, exactly,” Maria says.

“What do you mean?”

“The baby. Her name isn't Bonny. It's just her nickname.”

“So?”

“Her name is Bonacieux.”

Maria's mother looks like she is about to laugh. Clearly she does not understand the obvious message Maria is trying to deliver. Maria feels the need to explain that this is not funny.

“What?” her mother says.

“It's Bonacieux.”

“What are you saying?”

“That her name is Bonacieux. The name I named my daughter. That baby is named it. And it isn't a coincidence.”

The message has now been received. Her mother stops smiling and turns to the child. Maria is not sure what her mother is thinking—she is clearly in shock, amazed that the child, who was a stranger only moments ago, has now suddenly become her granddaughter. Maria has not prepared any explanation beyond this point but now recognizes the obvious need for one. She is afraid of sounding crazy. But she isn't crazy, she tells herself, she's just in an odd situation, one in which few people have ever had the chance to find themselves.

“It's complicated, but not crazy,” Maria says. “Even though I know it sounds that way. Last summer . . .” She places Bonacieux's
bottle on the counter. “I used to see Philip like every day last summer, walking his dog. Here, in Beaufort. He's the husband . . .”

“I know who he is,” her mother says.

“Well. I'd see him all the time. He doesn't know me; I'd just see him walking. So when I was looking at the adoption sites, I just happened to recognize his picture on one. It was like a sign. Like fate. That's why I picked them. Because I knew who they were.” She gestures toward Bonacieux. “I just thought . . .”

“Do they know this?”

“Christ,” Maria says. She shakes her head. “No, I just thought . . .” Bonacieux places one foot into her mouth. Maria feels the conversation slipping away from her control and regrets not having thought it out further. She is not sure what impact her news is going to have on her mother, or other people for that matter. She is now only a witness to its effect. “And then, when we went trick-or-treating on Halloween I saw her. And then Karen found the job listing. It's all like a miracle.”

“You pick a person to adopt your daughter because you know where they live, then you go to that place,” Maria's mother says. “It's not really a miracle at all.”

“Well,” Maria says. “OK.”

Her mother runs her hands over the headline D
OW
J
ONES
C
OLLAPSES
, then struggles out of her chair. In a series of jerky folds, she lands beside the child. Maria cannot tell if she is angry or amazed. Perhaps she is both. Her mother pets the down on Bonacieux's head. She kisses her nose. “Jesus Christ, Maria,” she says, rolling a bit of Bonacieux's hair between her fingers.

“Yeah,” Maria says, unsure of how to respond.

“Sweetie girl,” her mother says, rolling onto her back on the floor. And then, with a feat of strength Maria did not know her mother was even capable of, she lifts Bonacieux, squealing, into the air. They are not going to discuss the dangers inherent in this situation, not today, Maria can tell. But she also knows from the look on her mother's face that no matter the risk, her mother is not going to let this child stay out of her arms for long.

CHAPTER 11

M
ORNINGS PHILIP AND
Nina's house is skirted by fog. Maria approaches on foot. It is a five-block walk through roads empty and cracked by weeds. Gulls undulate atop gusts in the cold. Rain falls often, coming first with wind. A turning over of leaves. The first drops fall large and clumsy, then all of a sudden in a rush. The ocean seems no longer to reflect the light but to absorb it. It is a gray, heaving mat.

Philip works early, most often in a converted storage shed in the side yard. Inside is a wood-burning stove, a small oak table, and a wooden folding chair bought from a church yard sale.
ZION LUTHERAN
is stenciled onto a slat on the back. He has begun a new book about the history of adoption in the United States. He says he is starting at the end. That the last chapter is about Nina, Bonacieux, and him.

But when Maria arrives at eight each day, Philip has not yet begun work. He drinks chicory in the kitchen with Bonacieux. He makes Maria a cup. Nina wakes later, sometimes napping already by the time Maria even arrives. She sleeps in the guest room now because, she has told Maria, she does not want to wake Philip when she feeds Bonacieux at night. But Maria knows Philip wakes with the child too. She wonders if there is something else afoot. She sees them pass without speaking. Sometimes Philip will ask Nina a question and she will not even reply. They soften in Maria's company, but she has seen them when
they did not know that she could. Nina is prone to long silences. She does not seem mean, but rather just a touch cold. It is, in fact, to her credit, Maria thinks. It complements Philip's warm sophistication. Still, Maria can feel Philip relax when Nina is not around. Maria feels the release as well. She has long conversations with Philip, but only when Nina has left the house. She eats their food now, answers their phone, and borrows Nina's raincoat from the closet without asking. Where before she was guarded and careful, she is now assured and at ease.

Each day Maria sketches Bonacieux. She works quickly with a heavy mechanical pencil, filling her ribbon-bound sketchbook with examinations of baby toes and her daughter's face while napping. Any rendering of the child produces nothing but soft curved lines, and it occurs to Maria that the innocence of Bonacieux's youth is part of what makes her so easy to draw. The more one lives, she thinks, the harder the lines become, the more they proliferate, the more difficult they are to capture. The curve of Bonacieux's cheek requires little more than a brief stroke, while the hollows of her mother's face demand labored shading, a network of acute angles, and prolonged study of the architecture of the skull. After a while, drawing Bonacieux's face seems like nothing more than transcribing a series of circles. The act is a simple sacrament, a silent worship of the flesh.