One Week In December (21 page)

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Authors: Holly Chamberlin

BOOK: One Week In December
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37
That evening the twins were allowed to eat dinner in front of the TV in the living room. One of their favorite holiday shows was playing, the old animated
Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer
with Burl Ives as the chubby, umbrella-wielding Snowman. Naomi was only too glad to relax the “no TV at dinner” rule on this occasion. The show was harmless—the boys had long ceased to be afraid of the Bumble—and given the gloomy atmosphere of the house, the more times the boys could be on their own, the better for them. Lots of people seemed not to realize how perceptive children were, but Naomi wasn't one of them.
Everyone else was gathered at the dining room table. Julie had made her Bolognese sauce and served it over fettucine. The sauce had been one of Becca's favorites since she was a little girl. She wondered now if her mother had remembered that when she'd planned the night's menu. Was the choice of Bolognese sauce a gesture of love or merely a coincidence?
Since Becca's bombshell of an announcement, conversation in the presence of Rain had been general and careful. That evening was no exception. Steve commented on the current price of gas. Julie wondered what Rain and her friends were doing for New Year's Eve. The answer was attending a supervised party at a friend's house. James mentioned a book he'd just read, the latest in a long line of biographies of Abraham Lincoln. In her usual suave way, Naomi mercifully cut short David's latest lecture on the greening cause. Not that Becca wasn't all for recycling and reducing her carbon footprint, but she could do without listening to a lecture, especially over dinner.
And then, Olivia spoke.
“Listen to this,” she said. “One of our clients, a woman named June Larsen, told us last week that she's in the process of adopting a child from Russia. A girl, I think she said, about a year old.”
James's fork stopped halfway to his lips; he looked horrified. Becca felt for him; she, too, was wary. What was Olivia doing bringing up the volatile subject of adoption?
“Liv—” James said, but his wife cut him off.
“Personally, I think she's crazy. I mean, she's forty-eight, she's single, she's got no family close by to help out, and I know she's not wealthy. I'm not even sure she can afford a part-time nanny, let alone a babysitter for a Saturday night! I really don't know what she's thinking. It's like she's deliberately setting out to ruin her life.”
Becca couldn't help but wonder if her sister's comments were partly meant for her. Wasn't she also a single woman wanting to take on the responsibility of parenthood? True, the situations weren't exactly the same but . . .
“I don't think adopting a child is ‘ruining' your life,” Naomi was saying. “Actually, I think it's pretty impressive.”
Naomi, too? Becca shot a look at her mother. She wondered why someone wasn't putting an end to this potentially volatile subject. She certainly wasn't the one to do it.
“What's impressive about it?” Rain said. “I mean, it's nice that she's adopting, but it's only a baby. Practically everyone has babies. There's nothing so special about that. I mean, maybe if she was, like, forty-eight years old and competing in the Olympics, that would be impressive.”
Becca took a fortifying sip of merlot. Yes, Rain was indeed a very young sixteen. Her comment had demonstrated that she couldn't quite imagine the enormity of the task the woman had undertaken. Her comment also had betrayed a failure of sympathetic imagination; it had betrayed the unthinking cruelty of the young, a cruelty that Becca felt sure her daughter would someday outgrow. But what if she didn't? Would Rain ever be capable of accepting and understanding what her mother had done for her sake? Would she ever be capable of forgiveness? Only time would tell.
“I don't mean to interrupt,” Nora was saying, clearly in an effort to change the subject, “but before I forget, I wanted to ask—”
But Olivia talked right over her grandmother, who, Becca thought, looked both tired and angry. “I've said it once and I'll say it again. Adoption is just riddled with problems. And adopting from a foreign country is just asking for trouble. It's likely the child might not come with a detailed medical history, and what then? What happens if she gets sick with some disease that requires a history in order to be properly diagnosed and treated? My God, what if there's madness in her family?”
David meaningfully cleared his throat. “I don't think anyone uses the term ‘madness' anymore, Olivia. Mental illness is preferable. Psychological difficulties, maybe.”
“Call it what you like,” Olivia said with a dismissive flick of her hand. “And then there's resentment. What if the child grows to hate the adoptive parents for having taken her from her native land? What if she's an ungrateful child, after all the pains her so-called parents have endured, after all the sacrifices they've made?”
Nora spoke, and this time she was heard. “How sharper than a serpent's tooth . . . Olivia, any child can be ungrateful. It's not the sole province of the adopted child. Besides, I'm not sure a good parent should be seeking gratitude. If you receive it, fine. If not, well, that's a risk you accept when you decide to have a family. You risk being rejected or ignored by your children. You risk losing them in all sorts of ways.”
Why had her grandmother even bothered to answer Olivia's ranting? Becca poured another glass of wine and considered excusing herself before yet another family member indulged Olivia in her plan to drive Becca insane before the dessert was served.
“Maybe so,” Olivia conceded. “But I still say the risks of disaster are far greater with an adopted child than with a biological child.”
“I'm not sure there's any scientific proof of that, Liv,” James said quietly, but with some force. “Anyway, I think it's quite wonderful of June to be doing this. Adopting a child in her circumstances requires enormous sacrifice.”
“That's for sure!” Julie shook her head. “I can't imagine being in my forties, without a partner, and taking on a small child. It would require a huge amount of energy, not to mention patience.”
“This girl in my political science class,” Lily said now, “is pregnant. It's been a really tough pregnancy, but she's determined to finish up the school year. And then she's getting married to the baby's father. They're a really good couple, but I have to admit it's kind of weird seeing a classmate already having children. I mean, I just can't imagine myself having a baby at this age. Honestly, I feel too—young.”
“You want to have fun before settling down to raise a child, right?” Rain guessed.
“It's not that so much. It's that I feel I'd make so many mistakes if I had a baby now. I feel I just don't know enough to be responsible for someone else's life.”
Instantly, the look of embarrassment that came to Lily's face proved she knew she'd tread on dangerous turf. “Not that all young mothers make terrible mistakes,” she said hurriedly, with a quick glance at Becca. “I didn't mean it that way. I just meant—”
But Becca simply could not keep silent any longer. She looked directly at her older sister, and then at the other members of her family, one by one. She looked at everyone except for Rain.
“I don't see why we should talk about this woman's adopting a child as a sacrifice,” she said. “I don't see why we should talk about it as being something noble or, as Naomi said, impressive. I'm assuming she's going into the process with her eyes open—and yes, I know how dangerous a thing assuming can be. She's an adult. Presumably she's responsible and has enough money to pay for legal rights to the child and then enough money to support her, nanny or no nanny. Why should this woman be lauded any more than—than a teenaged girl who gets pregnant accidentally and then is forced to—”
Becca stopped short. She saw—she felt—the looks of anger, panic, and pain on the faces of her family. David's face was almost purple, as if he were about to spout blood. Only Rain's expression was neutral.
And Becca herself felt a little sick. She was worse than Olivia. She knew she'd been torturing her family just now. She knew she shouldn't have said a word in response to her sisters' insensitive comments. But something had come over her and once again she had found herself saying things she instantly regretted, saying things she wasn't even sure she meant. Now Becca didn't know if she could erase the further damage to the family—and to her own reputation as part of it—that she had just caused by her careless words.
“And what, Aunt Becca?” Rain prodded, all innocence.
Before Becca could reply—and she still didn't know what she would say to salvage the moment—Nora's knife was tapping against her crystal glass. “I'd like,” she said, “to use what authority I have as the eldest Rowan and change this conversation to one less—fraught. It is Christmastime, after all. And there are far more pleasant, less contentious topics to discuss.”
Steve unclenched his hand and put his fork gently on the table next to his plate.
“Good idea, Mom,” he said. “Any suggestions?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, I do have a suggestion. Why don't we—”
But Becca could hear no more of her grandmother's words over the accusatory din in her head.
38
Nora retired to her room rather early that night. Carefully, she hung up her skirt and blouse and put away the heavy wool cardigan she had been wearing, one Julie had given her for a birthday. Once dressed in a warm flannel nightgown, she eased into bed and sat up against the pillows to read for a bit before sleep.
But her mind would not stick to the story on the page before her, interesting though it was. Instead, she found herself reviewing the far more compelling story of her own family's life.
Nora knew, on an intellectual level, that she was not in a direct way responsible for the happiness of her child—not any longer, not since he was a boy—or of his children. Still, as matriarch of the Rowan family, it was hard not to feel like—it was hard not to feel like the prime cause, the well from which all else had sprung. Maybe if Thomas were still alive, she wouldn't feel this burden quite so acutely. They could share the feeling of responsibility for the personal success of their family members.
Nora smiled to herself. No. If Thomas were still alive, it was more likely he would tell her to stop being so silly. He'd remind her that she had done her job and done it well. If a child or grandchild decided to live his or her life badly, then so be it.
Nora put the book she had intended to read on her bedside table. She still slept on the right side of the bed though her husband had been gone for over twenty years. Thomas. In some ways life had been a lot easier for Thomas than it had for Nora. Maybe, she wondered now, life was in some ways a lot easier for all men than it was for women. Maybe. Her own son seemed to be a person deeply touched by the emotional lives of those he loved. She could see it on his face, in his every movement, how intensely he was feeling his daughter Becca's distress. And she knew that he, like Nora, felt an inordinate amount of responsibility for that distress.
Now, Julie was a different sort of person. Her daughter-in-law wasn't as deeply touched by the emotional burdens of others. At least, it seemed that way to Nora. Unless Julie was a master of concealment, and Nora didn't think that she was, she managed to sustain a balance of caring and—could one call it unconcern? Where Julie could detach from sorrow or fear, many people—including Nora's son—could not.
Well, when she was gone, Julie would be the matriarch of the Rowan family. And Julie might be inheriting that role sooner than she anticipated because Nora felt something inside her slowing down. She felt something coming to an end. It was nothing physical, nothing tangible—not like a building ache or an increasingly violent pain that signaled a breakdown of the body. She just had a sense that she wouldn't be around for another Christmas. Still, she couldn't help but wonder if this sense was “real.” Was her mind really in close tune with her aging body? Or was she simply experiencing the common sense of the old, telling her that time was, indeed, running out?
Nora hadn't lied to Steve and Julie about the results of her recent physical examination. She just hadn't told them every little detail. Her doctor, a man in his sixties and close to retirement himself, was, like Nora, a firm believer in the older person's right to retain a degree of independence in all things for as long as was possible.
Inevitably, with the thought of a person retaining independence, her mind turned to Becca, her fiercely independent granddaughter. Nora had resisted forcing a private conversation with Becca as Julie and David had done, and as she knew Steve had been trying to do. She hoped that Becca would come to her grandmother when she was ready. But would she ever be ready?
She didn't blame Becca for what had happened at the dinner table earlier. Olivia had brought up the dangerous topic of adoption, and the others had unwittingly goaded Becca to a point of explosion. And Nora was pretty sure that Becca felt bad about having succumbed to the temptation to fight back. She'd seen the look of remorse on her face, even if the others hadn't.
She wanted to help her granddaughter. No, more than that. She wanted to solve the problem; she wanted to be the architect of a resolution that would satisfy everyone, especially Becca. But she just didn't know how to go about doing that.
And as for Olivia . . . Nora sighed. In her opinion her oldest granddaughter was nearing a nervous breakdown. Professional help sooner rather than later just might stave off the worst of it, but there, too, Nora's hands were tied. If James, Olivia's own husband, couldn't convince his wife to seek help, well, then . . .
Nora was worried a bit about Lily, too. She seemed extraordinarily naïve for a woman her age. Or maybe she wasn't naïve as much as she was romantic. Either way, Nora didn't like the idea of Lily being released into the wider world without a few more years of—guidance. Nora wasn't self-important; she didn't tend to overestimate her worth. No one could ever describe her as “full of herself.” But in this case she did believe that she was needed. She did believe that she was an important person for her youngest grandchild.
Well, her time would come when it would come, whether it would be next year or the year after that. There was little if anything she could do about that. The Rowan family would survive without her. It would be changed, but it would survive.
Nora stretched her legs under the covers. She never failed to enjoy that delicious feeling of relaxation. Stretching, Nora thought, had definitely added quality to the quantity of her life. Still, it didn't much help ease the tensions roiling outside her own diminished body, those tensions ebbing and flowing in the other bedrooms of the Rowan house.
Nora turned off the small lamp by her bedside. She loved her family, each and every one of them. But at that moment all she wanted was for each and every one of them to go away, just for a little while. She was tired.

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