Sparrow Migrations (15 page)

SIXTEEN

D
eborah listened to her sister’s phone ring. Once, twice. No voice mail clicked on; no one picked up. Three times. It was no longer a comfort to think about where her sister might be when she answered. Four. Instead, she worried Helen might not be there at all. Five. Or Matt, or Hannah and Mariah. Six. They might be at a doctor’s appointment. Seven. Or, if things had worsened, at the hospital. Or—

“Hello?”

Deborah recognized her brother-in-law’s voice, thick with sleep, on the eighth ring.

“Matt, it’s Deborah. Did I wake you?”

“It’s seven o’clock on a Saturday, Deborah. Yeah, you woke me.”

“Damn. I forgot. God, why can’t the whole country agree to be on the same time?” Deborah tipped her head back against the new rocking chair and closed her eyes. “Sorry.”

“I’ll live. This is minor. Hang on a second. What?” Deborah heard a muffled voice, then Matt’s, muted. “Yes, it’s Deborah. You can call her back. You should still be sleeping.”

Helen. She felt guilty. She heard a sigh, then Matt’s voice again in her ear. “She wants to talk to you.”

“Hi.” Helen sounded OK.

“Sorry I woke you guys.”

“Like Matt said, no big deal.”

“How are you feeling?”

“About the same. Not so bad, not so good, either.”

“Oh.” Helen was usually so positive. After Christopher’s reaction, she wanted to talk to someone optimistic. Someone who would say congratulations. She wanted to hear that word. Needed to hear it.

“Matt said he gave Christopher the name of the specialist at Columbia. They’re running some of the same trials that I’m participating in out here. Did you get an appointment?”

“Um, no. No, I didn’t.”

There was a pause. Deborah could feel Helen examining her answer, searching for the rational explanation.

“What, weren’t they taking new patients?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t call.”

“You didn’t call?” Helen sounded dumbfounded. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No,” Deborah said softly.

“No? Look, Deborah, I know you’re busy. You’ve got the big law school campaign and all that. But this isn’t something to mess around with. You’re two years younger. If you do have it, there’s a chance to get after it so much sooner.”

“You sound like Christopher.”

“Well, Christopher’s a smart guy.”

“Smart doesn’t always mean right.”

Helen coughed abruptly. “What’s going on, Deborah?”

Deborah took a deep breath. “I’m pregnant.”

Silence stretched over the line again. Deborah waited. “Helen? Are you still there?”

“I’m here.” Helen cleared her throat. “Did I hear you right? Did you just tell me—”

“I’m pregnant,” Deborah repeated.

“Oh, my God.” Helen exhaled heavily. “You did another round of IVF, after all.”

“Yes.”

“And it worked this time.”

“Yes.”

“You did it without getting tested first.”

“Right.”

“Oh, my God.” Her sister’s voice dropped to a moan. “Christopher was OK with this?”

Through the window, Deborah noticed the utility line that ran along the edge of their yard sagging with the weight of what appeared to be hundreds of birds. Helen’s question rolled over her. “What?”

“I said, Christopher was OK with that?”

“Oh. Well, actually, it’s kind of complicated.”

“Try to explain.” Helen sounded like she was trying to stretch her patience.

“We had seen the doctor. Before you called. That same day, actually.”

“Wait. Which doctor are we talking about now?”

“Our reproductive endocrinologist. Dr. Singh. And Christopher agreed to the third try.”

“OK. And then what? After you told him about me.”

“I didn’t tell him about you.”

“You didn’t tell him?” Helen voice rose, trying to stave off her dismay, Deborah knew.

“No.” Deborah suddenly wanted the whole story out. “I knew that would be a deal-breaker for him. Even though the chances of Huntington’s were only fifty-fifty.”

“
Only
fifty-fifty?” Helen interrupted.

“And I couldn’t let those embryos—our embryos—go to research, or to another couple. So I didn’t tell him.”

“Oh, my God.”

“We had the transfer on February eighth. I felt good about it. Christopher seemed good, too. Then, when Matt called a week later, he found out about you.”

“About
us
,” Helen corrected.

“I suppose. So he was furious. Said I’d lied to him. Betrayed his trust.”

“Didn’t you?”

On her end, Deborah shrugged. Whether she did or didn’t, how did that change things now? Instead, she repeated herself. “I couldn’t let our embryos go.” Her voice turned bitter. “But Christopher could.”

“Wh-what do you mean?” Helen’s voice trembled.

“He’s moved out, Helen. Moved into university housing. Some apartment reserved for a visiting professorship the department decided not to fill this year. The Joseph T. Flynn Waterfowl Management Professor, as a matter of fact.” She laughed in spite of herself, the sound a grotesque distortion of humor.

“Oh, my God,” Helen said for the third time. “For good? Are you getting a divorce?”

“I don’t know. He said he needed space. Needed time to think about it. Well, I can give him nine months.” Now her laugh masked tears.

“When are you due?”

“November ninth.”

“So it’s early. Lots of time. Maybe it won’t even—oh, never mind.”

“What? Maybe it won’t even what?” Deborah’s ears pricked up as her eyes dried.

“Nothing. I didn’t mean anything.”

“Maybe I won’t even carry it to term, right? After all, I’ve failed twice already.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you were thinking it.”

Helen sighed loudly. “It doesn’t matter what I think. But I’m worried. This is huge, Deborah.”

“I’m ready for it, Helen. Even by myself.”

“Are you? Do you truly understand what a baby would do to life as you know it? Especially if it takes Christopher out of the picture?”

“It’ll be hard,” Deborah said, switching the phone to her other ear, rocking steadily.

“
‘Hard.’ That’s an understatement. Try to imagine what that really means, Deborah. Imagine being in a hospital, in labor, in excruciating pain—alone. Imagine living on half your income, plus the expense of day care. Imagine what four hours of sleep at a stretch—maybe for an entire night—does to your body and your brain and your relationship with the child inflicting that hell. Imagine that, night after night for months at a time.”

“Wow.” Deborah said in a small voice. “What happened to the sister who kept telling me I’d be a great mother?”

“I said great
parents
. There’s a universe of difference. And you can’t quote what I said a couple years ago when circumstances have changed completely.

“You’re talking about having a baby at the age of forty-three, with an uncertain but potentially fatal disease in your future,” Helen exclaimed. “Now, possibly by yourself.”

In the background, Deborah heard Matt’s voice, then Helen’s terse reply. “I’m fine, Matt. Don’t worry so much.” She spoke into the phone again. “At the very least, call that Columbia doctor. Get tested. Find out where things stand. You owe it to your child now.”

Deborah wanted to end the conversation. “All right. I’ll call.”

“OK.” Suddenly, the energy seemed to drain out of her sister, and Deborah heard a stifled yawn.

“I should let you go. Go back to bed, like Matt said.”

“All right.” Helen hesitated a moment. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Phone in her lap, Deborah stared out the window at the sagging utility line.
Helen hadn’t said congratulations.

She was still stewing over it the next day when she was the first to arrive for the surprise staff meeting. What could be so urgent it couldn’t wait for the regularly scheduled weekly meeting? she wondered, choosing a seat by the window.

Under the blue sky, students tossed a Frisbee and walked with jackets unzipped. It was an unseasonably warm March day, the kind of day that made you believe spring might really be around the corner, even in Ithaca. Impulsively, Deborah opened the window. She felt better instantly. She could even hear birds singing.

“Really, Deborah, it’s a little chilly for open windows, isn’t it?” Phillip’s voice instantly frosted the room. Deborah turned to her boss, rebuttal on her lips. Among other things, the cool air would stave off her afternoon drowsiness. She was startled to see Phillip accompanied by the vice president for advancement university-wide.

“Deborah.” He nodded.

Something was definitely up. Reluctantly, Deborah closed the window. It wasn’t worth the argument.

Angela, her assistant, and the rest of the staff filed in, exchanging puzzled glances. Phillip ended their suspense quickly.

“As you all know, we’re scheduled to go public with our capital campaign in less than six months. Unfortunately, I’ve recently learned two of our major donors to date have reduced their support significantly.” He clasped his hands before him on the table, the gesture exposing a precisely stitched monogram on the immaculate cuff beneath his usual pin-striped suit. Deborah felt acutely aware of the fact that under the table she’d kicked off her pumps, which had been pinching her feet in the afternoons.

The room absorbed the words silently for several seconds. Sonja from the annual campaign spoke first.

“How significant?”

“Five million combined.”

“And how far along were we?”

“About forty million. It’s more than a ten percent hit,” the vice president said. “And based on what I’m seeing at other programs, you can expect more donor retrenchment. This economy is brutal.”

Around the table, Deborah saw her colleagues collectively sag. Phillip, however, sat up even straighter. He considered the new law school the capstone to his career, and he would achieve it, damn the economic realities.

“So that means that our work is cut out for us,” Phillip resumed. “Starting immediately. We’ll be stepping up donor and alumni club visits, so most of you can plan for more travel over the next several months.”

Travel. It was the thing Deborah disliked most about her job. She remembered considering it exciting, a long time ago. But even before the crash, it had become tedious. She didn’t expect any renewed appeal now that she was pregnant.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Angela glance her way. She’d confided in her assistant after the positive pregnancy test. She needed someone she trusted to create cover for the flurry of doctor appointments she now had on her schedule, until she figured out how to break the news to Phillip. She already knew he wouldn’t be happy about a maternity leave, especially since it would fall so soon after the campaign’s launch.

Now she had another reason to dread going to work. Home was no sanctuary anymore, either, with Christopher’s absence a constant reproach to her decision. Pregnancy was turning out to be a twilight zone. She stifled a yawn and shifted in her seat, fumbling under the table to force her feet back into the pumps.

“You and Dad will both be there tonight, right?” Amanda was putting on her jacket, waiting for Brett to finish ironing her costume for the final performance of
Grease
.

“Both of us. I promise. Fourth row seats, stage right,” Brett assured her. She and Richard had already attended opening night together. She’d watched two more performances solo. But apparently it was also tradition for parents to attend the closing night show.

That was fine with Brett. She loved watching Amanda onstage. The role of Rizzo had uncovered a whole new dimension to her daughter, who had expected only to make the chorus. Simultaneously, Brett felt profoundly content, thrilled, and relieved as she listened to others applaud. After this experience, Amanda would not be one to hide her true self, to resign herself to meeting others’ expectations.

She was already talking about studying drama in college, to the dismay of Richard, who was pushing a business degree starting at Lackawanna, Scranton’s community college. So far, he was low-key about it, but Brett knew how easy it was to bend your life to the expectations of others, going along to get along. After seeing her daughter fling herself into rehearsals, however, she had new faith that Amanda’s future would be of her own creation.

Chauffeuring Amanda to and from rehearsals also gave Brett plenty of time to mull her conversation with Elizabeth. It haunted her how Elizabeth peeled back her soul and gazed inside. Combined with the energy left over from her brief affair with Jackie, Brett had felt, in the days after her return from Charlotte, as if she occupied a rare window of opportunity to act.

She almost did after that one Sunday in church.
Stop stalling
, she’d told herself that morning, standing in this very same kitchen. But someone had kept Richard after the service. And the next day it was something else. Day by day, the power of her familiar, comfortable routines sedated her, closing the window. Like ironing Amanda’s costume. Richard’s shirts, too, were again crisp and ready for his Sunday sermons. At the backyard feeder, the sparrows were fed and happy.