The Hazards of Sleeping Alone (42 page)

“Only daughter I have,” Charlotte quips.

“And he's the—father?” from Kit.

“That's right.”

The group exchanges another glance, all of them no doubt wanting to ask the same thing. Rita does it. “So are they getting married?”

“No,” Charlotte says. “At least—not now.”

“But he's sticking around?”

“What do you mean?”

“The boyfriend. He's taking responsibility? For the baby?”

“Of course.” Charlotte feels the heat rise in her cheeks. “He would never not—he's very responsible. He's
thrilled
about it. He wanted it more than she did!”

Rita's eyebrows float upward, two punctuation marks in a sea of liquid base. “Okay,” she says. “Sorry I asked. You just never know. A lot of times they're not so committed. Especially, and I hate to say it, but males of—African-American descent.”

The group registers another look of surprise; this time, it's tinged with discomfort.

“Well, I'm sorry, ladies, but it's true. I'm not making this stuff up. They're more likely to leave, because that's how they were raised. They learn it from their fathers.”

The women look toward Charlotte, as if she—newly experienced in race relations—will be able to steer their response.

Charlotte's voice is hard. “Walter's father didn't leave,” she says. “And Walter isn't going anywhere.”

She clenches her jaw. She wishes Linda were here. Someone she considers a friend, someone who would, if not stick up for her, at least send her a reassuring smile across the room. But when she looks around at the women crowding her kitchen, it isn't unease staring back. There is apology on their faces, and gratitude, and even—could it be?—admiration.

Marion sets down a half-eaten bear claw and brushes off her palms. She bends toward the laptop and asks, “So how far along is she?”

Charlotte is equal parts surprised and unspeakably relieved. “About four months,” she says.

“Do they know if it's a boy or girl?”

“Not yet. They're convinced it's a girl, though.”

“Well,” Marion says, straightening. There's a note of defiance in her voice. “I think it's wonderful news.” Then she steps out of
the way to make room for the others, who start buzzing around the screen. “Oh, look,” they murmur. “So tiny!” “I just adore babies.” “I'm dying for a grandchild, but at the rate my sons are going, I'll be dead before their weddings.” “You're so lucky, Charlotte.”

Listening to them, Charlotte feels an unfamiliar sense of pride. Their comments are more than just polite; they are wistful, wishful. Never before has she found herself in a position to be envied. Her pride swells as she watches the group cluster around her vase of sprawling daisies, her thumbprint of a grandchild, the gallery of her heart.

“Well, I give her credit,” Rita pipes up. “It'll be quite the challenge.”

Charlotte shrugs. Confident, Bea-style. “She can handle it.” She speaks to the sunglasses perched on top of Rita's head. They are, she decides, ridiculous. “She's no younger than we were.”

“No, of course not. I was nineteen. I could barely drive a car much less raise a baby. I just meant—” Rita lowers her voice. “Raising a child who's half black.”

The group stiffens again, eyes shifting from Rita to Charlotte.

“I think they'll do fine,” she says.

“I'm sure.” Rita brushes imaginary lint from her lap. “I'm sure they will. It just won't be easy. You know how people can be.”

“Yes,” Charlotte says. “I do.”

An awkward silence drapes the kitchen. Charlotte feels no pressure to alleviate it. In fact, she enjoys it. She takes advantage of the moment to inform the group that their next book will be Emily Brontë's
Wuthering Heights.
For once, no one objects.

That night, Charlotte settles on the couch in front of the crackling fire. In her lap sit her address book, letter opener, and the long-sealed packages of moving announcements from her kitchen windowsill. There are two packs, twelve cards in each. She slices into the first, the tight plastic yielding with a snap. Opening up the top card, she poises her pen over the inside, where it announces, in elegant purple letters:
I've Moved.

D
ecember is the month for giving and receiving. December is the woodsy smells of cedar and pine. December is the
Today Show
festooned with boughs of holly, heartwarming human interest stories, crowded malls, colorful commercials, a spirit of hope and optimism that doesn't feel quite as genuine any other time of year.

In 1976, December was the month Charlotte Rainer wore an unintentionally bold red dress to a Christmas party and caught Joe Warren's eye. In 1979, it was the month Charlotte Warren insisted she and her new husband get a full-size Christmas tree and he got pine needles in his hair. December was the month she faked orgasms, that she unwrapped a silk negligee, that her only child was conceived. It was the month, when Joe lived with them, her little family was the happiest; and the month, after he left, when things felt worst. When Emily was in middle school December meant Joe picking her up on Christmas Eve afternoon, waiting on the front porch with his hands balled in his pockets. When he brought her back, it meant Charlotte trying to drown her daughter's sadness in fresh-baked ginger snaps,
thick hot chocolate, extra presents Rudolph “dropped off early.” Until the December Emily was eleven, when she looked at the presents and shook her head. The romance was gone; she no longer even pretended to believe.

When Emily was in high school and college, December meant the arrival of a huge package from Seattle. The return address was “V. Warren” and the box was filled with presents, the gift tags covered in effusive Xs and Os. Charlotte displayed them good-naturedly, even playing along when Emily rattled them and sniffed them (some had the distinct scent of potpourri). But this year, when the box arrived, she shoved it in a closet. She'd bring it out when Emily arrived.

Because this December, Charlotte's life felt different. This was the December she would get a full-size tree instead of the half-tree she used to prop on her hall table. This was the December Bea and Bill would drive her to a tree lot off Route 9—where they knew a guy who would give her a deal—and Bill would set the tree up in Charlotte's living room, even stringing the lights for her and affixing the star to the top. And this was the December Charlotte would go Christmas shopping with three new people on her list: Walter, Bea, and Howard.

“Howard, is it?” asked Emily, when they were on the phone one night making Christmas plans.

“He said he prefers it,” Charlotte said.

“Before or after you started using it?”

“Fine,” she admitted. “After. And I'm hoping if I use it enough it will stick.”

“I better meet this guy,” Emily laughed. “Actually, you might as well know, I'm not leaving Jersey until I do.”

The plan was for Emily and Walter to arrive late on Christmas Eve. They were making a “roommates brunch” that morning,
then dropping Mara and Anthony at Logan Airport, continuing on to New Jersey to spend Christmas Day with Charlotte, and visiting Walter's family in Philadelphia the next morning. “Wal went totally overboard for his mom,” Emily said on the phone. “You should see what he made.”

“Oh, I saw,” Charlotte said, remembering the rocking chair. “He showed me. It's lovely. Isn't it lovely?” She paused, biting her bottom lip. Every time Emily mentioned Walter, Charlotte felt herself becoming overly enthusiastic, as if to drown out any misgivings Emily may have.

“Yeah, it's lovely,” Emily said. “It's perfect. It's so totally perfect it's almost enough to make you puke.” Charlotte tensed. “And believe me, I've done enough of that to last me a while.”

For December was also the month Emily's morning sickness abated. It was, however, the month her clothes started feeling tight. The month she resigned herself to taking out her belly ring. All of these things—the mutterings about pregnancy, mutterings about Walter—made Charlotte all the more determined to make this the best Christmas she could. From the storage area, she dislodged some old things from the box marked DECOR: the reindeer-shaped cookie cutters, a styrofoam snowman, the stockings with
EMILY
and
MOM
written in gluey glitter across the furry tops. She even had a stocking glittered
WALTER
at a mall kiosk, the afternoon she went shopping with Linda Hill.

It was five days before Christmas, later than Charlotte ever liked to shop—much less at the Millville Mall, on a Saturday, with snow in the forecast—but what with bringing Rachel home from the clinic, Linda had barely started shopping. She hadn't wanted to leave her home alone, Linda said. Charlotte was glad she'd asked her along, thinking Linda might be frazzled.
But despite the mob scene at the mall, she seemed unfazed. As they threaded in and out of stores, Linda checking things off her list, Charlotte filled her in on what she'd missed at the book group: the uncharacteristic husband-bashing, the sonogram photo,
Wuthering Heights.
When Linda added, “And I heard there's a new man in your life?” Charlotte gladly relayed the details.

Charlotte wanted to ask about Rachel, though it seemed too serious a topic to broach among the piles of sweaters in the Gap or the throbbing music in Sam Goody (Linda had detailed instructions on CDs to buy her younger daughter, none of which either of them had ever heard of, some of which they skipped when they saw the
PARENTAL ADVISORY
decal). It was when they took a snack break, sitting in the food court with their shopping bags, fountain Cokes, and cinnamon-covered soft pretzels, that Charlotte finally asked.

“So how is Rachel doing?” she said, suddenly unsure how to phrase it. “Is she—better?”

Linda straightened her back and crossed her legs, as if arranging her body in the proper position before replying. “Yes,” she said, every muscle alert, composed. “Well, yes and no. She's better, but not cured. Her doctors say it's something she'll struggle with for years, probably. Maybe all her life.” She delivered all of this very matter-of-factly, her face remarkably calm. “For now, I'm just glad she's home. I don't think I could have handled knowing she was there, for Christmas.”

Charlotte watched as Linda rubbed two fingertips together, cinnamon dust falling to the table.

“I can't tell you how scary it was, Charlotte,” Linda said, “how terrifying—to see something happening to your child and know there's nothing you can do to stop it. To feel like you can't
protect them—when all you've ever tried to do, ever since they were born—” She looked up and her face was suddenly weary, as if exhausted by the effort of holding itself together. “Well, it was the most scared I've ever been.”

Charlotte nodded. “I can imagine.”

Linda smiled, a tired smile. Then she picked up her soda and was raising it to her mouth when her cell phone rang. It was a neutral ring—a ring for practical use only, no frills, no rock-n-roll songs—but somehow its neutrality made it all the more urgent. A look of alarm flashed across Linda's face and she began rooting through her handbag, tossing aside wallet, keys, lipstick, grabbing at the phone. “Honey?” she answered. She listened for a moment, then her face relaxed. Charlotte relaxed too. “Tell Allison's mother it's fine. Dad can drop her off tomorrow morning …”

Though her voice remained sprightly, Linda's body seemed to collapse inward, one elbow leaning on the table, forehead sinking against the heel of her hand. Charlotte, out of a kind of maternal respect, looked away. She gazed around at the food court, marveling at its obliviousness. Yet even a place as carefree as this one was scattered with minefields: cell phones in handbags, security guards at doorways, red Clubs pinching steering wheels. Charlotte looked at the harried young mothers pushing strollers or clasping children by the hands and remembered a recent story on the news about a baby stolen from a mall parking lot. She saw a pregnant woman stepping on an escalator and her mind flew to Emily: to the kind of mother she would be. Her fearlessness would be an asset, Charlotte thought, though in the end it didn't really matter who you were: how loving, how devoted, how strong. Bringing a child into this world was an act of faith and danger, heart and nerve.

Linda placed her phone back inside her purse. Calmly she began retrieving her things from the table, tightening her lipstick cap, brushing cinnamon from her wallet. “It's just—my cell phone never rings,” she explained, and snapped her purse shut. Charlotte nodded, wanting her friend to know that she knew, that she understood panic, but Linda's gaze had shifted to the unwieldy line forming beside their table: irritable shoppers and jostling teenagers inching toward the register at Chick-fil-A.