Raising Hope (34 page)
And we were fine. Fine for years and years until we got old and thought we didn’t need to worry so much about protection anymore. Until I’d missed two cycles and began to wonder. Until I went to the doctor and he confirmed what I’d suspected. Until I burst into tears at the dinner table and told Eliot, “I’m too old to go through this again! It’ll kill me this time!”
But the months passed and this baby stayed with me. I became tired and sick, so sick that I thought I was losing the baby and dying besides. “No, no,” Julia Rae said, laughing. “This is how you’re supposed to feel.”
I wasn’t convinced until I felt the baby kick. I was in my kitchen, going to the refrigerator for some orange juice. “Oh, my Lord,” I said, my hands instinctively going to my swelling belly. I picked up the phone. “Julia Rae,” I said, my voice trembling. “The baby just kicked.”
“Of course it did, silly,” she said. “Aimee, you’re having this baby!”
I didn’t let myself think of names. Not yet. Not until she was here. I knew she’d be a girl, the same way I knew the genders of my other children. But it wasn’t until the first pains came that I doubled over, clutched my belly, and allowed myself to say the name I’d chosen from a place deep inside myself. “Hello, Sara Lynn,” I whispered. “I’m so glad you’re coming to me.”
Oh, my Sara Lynn. My baby girl. I think of her as I sit here alone in my room, wondering how I got to be so old and Sara Lynn grew away from me. Well, I suppose she’s been growing away from me ever since that first labor pain I felt, that first time I said her name. I see her so clearly as an infant, with her baby-smelling skin and the blond fuzz covering her soft spot. But I also see her as a toddler, following me around in the garden, dropping seeds and laughing as I tickled her under her chin with a buttercup. “Who likes butter? Who likes butter?” I teased as she tried to grab the flower, shrieking, “Mama, you give to Sara Lynn!” I see her getting on the school bus, her two braids bouncing over her shoulders; I see her playing tennis with her father, laughing as Eliot runs for the ball and misses. I see her as a teenager, reading at her desk as she plays with a strand of her hair; as a college girl, so proud in her Wellesley sweatshirt. I see her as a young woman living in Boston, showing us her first apartment; and I see her with circles under her eyes and thin as a rail when she quit her job and came home to live. I see her showing me Hope for the first time, whispering, “Mama, this is Hope. Isn’t she beautiful?” I see her as she is today, too, her hair piled on her head as she works in the garden. She talks to herself while she’s working; I can see her mouth move. My love for Sara Lynn is layered, spread out for all the Sara Lynns I’ve ever known, all the Sara Lynns she’s ever been.
Sometimes I dream about my ghost babies, the ones I never held, the ones I never named. Their chubby little legs kick, their rosebud mouths suck, and their tiny fingers reach up to find me.
All I ever wanted in my life was to be a mother. To love a child and watch her grow. I never could have guessed how it would feel to let her go. Why, it feels like cramping that’s come too early, a mass of bloody tissue leaving my body too soon.
Stay,
I want to whisper.
Don’t leave me just yet.
J
ack’s bugging the hell out of me, and we’re not even married yet. We’re lolling around in bed after our usual morning rendezvous, and he just will not stop picking at me. Okay, so it might be a little strange that I want to keep our engagement private. Especially given that the wedding is next week and I’m supposed to be inviting people to come. I’ve sort of led Sara Lynn to believe that I have invited people, but whenever I see the people I’m supposed to invite, I can’t seem to open my goddamn mouth about it. I’ve sworn Jack to secrecy, too. I’ll tell people in my own good time; that’s what I keep saying to him. But now it’s looking like my own good time has expired, because Jack is wondering just what in hell is up.
“What are we going to do, Ruth?” he’s saying, tickling my back. “Wait till our kid graduates from high school? Say, ‘Oh, yeah, that’s our kid. We got married some years ago. Didn’t we tell you?’”
Hmmph! Now he’s trying to joke me into saying, “Okay, Jack. You’re right. Let’s put up a big sign at the diner. Let’s rent a goddamn megaphone and ride through town announcing our wedding so everyone can share the joy.”
“Listen,” he says, “Sara Lynn couldn’t have been happier, could she? And Hope—she’s happy, too, now that it’s sunk in.” I don’t answer, and he adds, “And Paulie and Donna are thrilled, just thrilled that their old man found someone so great the second time around. Right? So what’s the problem? Why not tell everybody else?”
He’s waiting for me to say something, but I bury my face in the pillow and pretend I’m not hearing him. Finally I say, my voice all muffled, “I just don’t want anyone to laugh at me.”
“Why would anyone laugh at you? Because you’ve got the misfortune to be stuck with me?”
I peek my head out and narrow my eyes. “Don’t you ever think that.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s . . .” I sigh and roll over on my back, looking up at the ceiling. “People at the diner are so used to seeing me one way. They’ll just laugh their asses off when they find out I’ve been carrying on with you. That I’m
in love
.” I say the last phrase in a joking way.
“Are you?”
“Am I what?” I snort.
“In love.”
“What do you think?” I ask, hitting his arm. Damn fool.
“I don’t know,” he says, and he sounds a little sad. “You never say it.”
I feel goddamn tears sting my eyes. I swear, these hormones are going to kill me by the time this kid comes out.
“Say it,” he says, cupping my breast. A plus of pregnancy—I’ve got some actual, B-cup boobs.
“Say what?” I ask, and push his hand away.
“Say that you love me.”
“Good God, Jack,” I say as I sit up and look at him fiercely. “Would I be marrying you if I didn’t love you? Would I be having your baby?”
He sits up, too, and picks up my chin. “I love you, Ruth Teller.”
Dammit, I just can’t stop the tears from flowing, and I put my hands to my face to catch them. “I . . . I love you, too, Jack Pignoli.”
“Was that so hard?” he asks, hugging me close.
“Yes . . .” I cry onto his shoulder. “It was.”
“I know,” he says gently. He kisses me and then pulls away, getting up to go over to his bureau. Jesus, where’s he going? Doesn’t he know he’s supposed to comfort his crying, pregnant, soon-to-be wife?
“Here,” he says, sitting back down on the bed. He takes my left hand and spreads out my fingers to slip on a ring.
“Oh, my God,” I say, and my tears dry right up because I’m in absolute shock looking at the huge diamond I’m now sporting.
“Do you like it?” he asks, and he reminds me of Hope. It’s just what she used to say when she’d draw me a picture and give it to me from behind her back, looking up at me with eager eyes.
I can’t stop looking at the damn ring. It’s likely to blind me, that’s how big it is. I can only nod; words seem to be failing me.
Jack pulls me to him and pats my back. “No one’s going to laugh at you for being in love, Ruth,” he whispers. “And if they do, I’ll knock their block off.”
So now I’m at the goddamn diner, wearing a rock as big as Mamie’s, a rock that might as well be a huge sign announcing to the world, “Hello! Somebody’s claimed me.”
“More coffee, Tom?” I ask, making my rounds. It’s the usual breakfast group, reading their papers and talking local politics before work. I’m just trying to keep out of everyone’s way and do my job.
“Jesus, Ruth, what’s that?” Tom Cassidy asks as I pour. He’s pointing to my ring.
“Oh, that,” I say casually. Here goes nothing. “I’m getting married.”
He about chokes. “You’re what?”
“Yep.” I can’t look at him, just grab a paper napkin and wipe up a tiny drip of coffee on the laminated counter. “Me and Jack. Next week.”
I steel myself for the laugh, but it doesn’t come. Only a happy cheer, and he’s up and hugging me. “I’m happy for you both,” he says, kissing my cheek, and then he bangs his fork against his glass to get everyone’s attention.
“Hey, everyone,” he calls to the whole morning crowd. “Ruth and Jack are getting married!”
Chet’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen, shaking his head and beaming with joy. He starts it—puts his hands together and claps—and then everyone else gets on their feet and joins in. They’re all clapping and cheering for me, and I swear, I feel like that idiot Sally Field getting her Oscar. You like me, I want to tell them; you really like me.
W
hen I wake up, it dawns on me that Ruth’s getting married in three days. I’m not altogether happy about that because things are going to change big time for me. She’s leaving, although I almost believe her now when she says she’ll never leave me, not by getting married, not by having a baby, not ever. And Jack
is
pretty nice. I smile, thinking about how he brought me a chocolate sundae from the diner yesterday. Extra cherries on top, too. So I’m okay with Jack, I guess, but I’m still not so sure about the new baby.
Well, worry never stopped life from knocking a person on her ass. That’s what Ruth always says anyhow, so I turn off my mind, hop out of bed, and run downstairs.
“Hi, Sara Lynn,” I say as I come into the kitchen. She’s sitting at the table, sipping her coffee and reading the paper. I put some bread in the toaster and lean against the counter.
“Good morning.” She smiles at me, looking up from the paper. “Did you sleep well?”
“Uh-huh,” I say as I wait for my toast to pop up.
“It’s going to be hot today,” she says, setting down her coffee cup. “I’ll drive you over to the club to swim if you’d like.”
I shrug. “Maybe.” I’ve been avoiding Sam. What am I supposed to say when I run into him—I know you know I totally loved you, but let’s play tennis anyway? I don’t think so.
When my toast pops up, I butter it and slide into the chair across from Sara Lynn. I look out the bay window and notice all these potted flowers sitting on the lawn. “You’re planting today?” I ask, motioning to the window.
“Well, yes,” she says, bringing her eyebrows together. “We need a little color down in the gardens for Ruth’s wedding.”
“Because I wrecked them, you mean.”
“Oh, Hope.” She waves her hand. “You didn’t wreck them. You just . . .”
“Removed all the flowers?”
She laughs. “Yes. Temporarily removed all the flowers.”
“I’ll help you,” I say, my mouth full of toast.
Sara Lynn tilts her head to the side. “Help me with what?” she asks.
“Planting. I want to. It’ll make me feel better for what I did.”
“Don’t be silly; there’s no need—”
“I want to,” I say. “Please let me.”
She looks at me for a moment, like she’s thinking about it, then says, “Well, all right. Thank you. That would be very nice of you.”
Oh, it feels so good to be close to her again. The first few days I wasn’t talking to her, it felt great to punish her, to know I was making her feel alone and unloved. But after that, it was lonely for me, too, my stupid pride preventing me from going to her and saying, “Let’s just work this out, because I miss you.”
We hear a shuffling step from the hall, and Sara Lynn pauses in midsip of her coffee. I put my head down over my toast, my heart beating faster. Mamie walks into the kitchen without saying a word. She walks right past the table, opens the porch door, and looks at the herb garden surrounding the terrace—the one garden I didn’t get around to wrecking. “The terrace looks lovely, Sara Lynn,” she proclaims, as if she’d never stopped talking to her daughter. “You really do have a knack for plants.”
Sara Lynn raises her eyebrows and shrugs her shoulders at me, as if to say, “Well, that’s how it goes. You wait long enough and even the most stubborn person will come around.” Then she smiles her gentle smile. “Thank you, Mama,” she says. “I come by it honestly.”
I think I come by some things honestly, too. I get my sense of humor from Ruth, my love of beautiful things from Sara Lynn, and my determination from Mamie. After I find my father, I’ll find out what I get from him and my mother. And I think there must be certain things that started with me, special things, things that are just mine alone.
I
t’s hotter than blazes out here. The air is still and heavy, and my throat already feels parched. I’ve brought down a jug of water, though, so Hope and I can stay hydrated. That’s the most important thing to do in the heat, you know—drink lots of water.
“Are you sure you want to help with the planting, Hope?” I ask. “It’s brutally hot today.”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” she says. “Just tell me what to do.”
“Okay.” I point to the edge of the meadow garden. “I’m thinking we’ll just plant these annuals right along the edge here. The structure of the garden is still intact. We’ll just add some color to pretty it up for Ruth’s wedding.”
I kneel down and grab my trowel, but Hope just continues to stand beside me, scratching some bug bites on her arms.
“Ready?” I ask.
“I . . . I don’t exactly know how to plant a flower,” she says sheepishly.
Well, my goodness, how can she have lived with me for twelve years and not know how to garden? How is it that we’ve never worked together like this before? I smile and pat the ground next to me, motioning for her to kneel beside me. “Of course you don’t,” I tell her. “I’ve never shown you how.”
As she kneels next to me, I say, “Look at what I’m doing. First dig a hole. Just like this, see?” I put my trowel in the soil and dig.
“Okay, now you tap the plant out of its pot, gently—watch me.” I pick up a pink petunia and turn it upside down, lightly tapping the bottom of the pot.
“Then you loosen the roots a little at the bottom, see?” I use my fingers to pull out the roots curling in a circle at the bottom of the plant. “That’s so the roots will take in the soil.”
I place the petunia in the hole I dug and use my hands to bridge the gap between the potting soil and the soil of the earth. “Then you just pop it in the ground. Look how I’m patting the soil around the plant, helping settle it in its new home. And that’s it! That’s how to plant a flower.”