Twelve Days (8 page)

"She's really adorable, isn't she?"

Sam stood there awkwardly and said, "Yes."

"Emma told me Grace is almost one, so she must have been born around Christmas."

"She's not a present, Rachel."

"I'm sure she was to somebody."

"Somebody who abandoned her at a cheap motel on the edge of town."

"We don't know what happened. " Rachel was torn. She wanted these children to have someone to love, but worried they'd be left again someday in another motel, in another town. Who would take care of them then?

"If you and I had children, you would never leave them anywhere, no matter what happened to you. You'd defend them to your last breath."

Yes, she would have. She would have done anything for them, just like she would do anything for these children.

"I know it's an awful thing," she said, "to have left them there. I'm not going to defend their mother for that. But they seem to be such good kids. Kind and gentle and loving. I think someone must have taken good care of them along the way. That was all I was thinking in saying we shouldn't judge this woman without knowing anything about her. I want to believe there's someone who cares about them, someone who wants them."

"If there is, Miriam will find her."

Rachel nodded. He didn't want her to get too attached to the kids. She knew that. She was telling herself that about once every minute. And that she could do as Miriam said—give the kids what they needed now.

Which made her think about Sam and what he needed. It had been a long time since she thought of what Sam might need or want from her, but he was here now. Suddenly she didn't want to let him go this morning. Time was ticking away. She didn't know how many more times they'd have to talk. Suddenly there were so many things she wanted to know.

"Why did you start sleeping somewhere else?" she blurted out.

He paled, his jaw clenched tight all of a sudden. He glanced in her direction and quickly looked away again. "It seemed like the thing to do."

"What does that mean? You didn't want to be with me anymore?"

He didn't answer for the longest time, finally saying, "Sometimes it's easier. To keep some distance between us. You told me that. You felt it, too."

He was right. Sometimes everything hurt. Seeing his face when he saw her too caught up in her own pain to do anything for anyone. Seeing that same kind of pain in him and not knowing how to fix it. Did he think he was fixing it? By walking away? Did he think it too late to do anything else?

He must. He was going.

Rachel started shaking.
Come here, Sam,
she thought.
Just come to me.

"I miss you," she said truthfully, painfully.

He flinched, his jaw going even harder than before. "Well I thought if it bothered you—having me sleep somewhere else—you would have said something about it. Honestly, it seemed like you didn't even notice at first."

She stared back at him.

"Do you even know, Rachel?" he said bitterly. "Do you know when it started? Or how long it's been going on?"

Rachel started to cry, thinking with something akin to panic,
How long had it been?
She dipped her head down low, over the baby's, trying to hide from him, because he hated it when she cried.

"Too long?" she asked. Too late to change things?

"Three weeks and five days," he said.

Rachel closed her eyes, thinking,
That long?
It seemed like a lifetime. Her marriage had all but died, nearly a month ago, and she hadn't even noticed. How could a woman miss something like that?

"I'm sorry," she said. "But I do miss you."

Sam stood there and stared at her. She could feel anger radiating from him and a strong sense of self-control. Even now, he wasn't going to tell her. He was going to bury it. Ever since the baby, they'd buried so many things.

"I'm sorry," she said again. Sometimes it seemed they did nothing but apologize to each other.

"It's hard to sleep in the same bed with you and not touch you," he said, still angry. "And it's really hard to touch you and see you cry."

"Oh." It came out as the breath rushed from her body. She remembered now. For the first time, she knew why he was sleeping somewhere else.

And it was her fault, too. There had been times when she went for days with no one breaking through the barriers she'd erected, but before Sam still tried. One night in particular, the last time, she remembered, it coming to her in a rush—Sam, the richness of his touch, the terrible need she had for him, and then it was like all the sadness she had inside her just burst through. He froze, and she'd told him not to stop, because she was so very lonely and she still needed him, even if it hurt. He'd held her in his arms while she cried, but he'd hardly touched her since that night.

"I remember," she admitted. "It's just... It's easier in a way, when you're hurting that much, to not feel anything at all. It hurts sometimes just to touch you. To be close to you."

Sam said nothing, just stood there.

"I'm sorry," she said again.

"Me, too."

And that appeared to be that. "Thank you for letting the children stay," she said.

"Sure."

"We can try to have a nice Christmas, can't we? We can..." Pretend, she thought. They'd gotten so good at pretending.

"We'll see that they have a nice Christmas. And then they're going. Don't forget that, Rachel."

"I won't."

He was going, too. If she thought her house had been lonely before, she couldn't imagine what it would be like then. No children. No Sam. No nothing.

Sam left, and Grace finished her bottle. Rachel burped the baby, then they just lay there in the warm, soft bed and dozed for a while longer, and Rachel had another dream. She dreamed her baby hadn't died. That it was nearly twelve years ago. She was eighteen again, and they were in Rachel's bedroom on a cold winter's morning close to Christmas, Rachel and her baby, with their whole lives ahead of them. Sam still loved her, and life still held all the promise she'd ever imagined. She was still so young, so hopeful, so sure that everything would work out just as it was supposed to.

Then she woke up and remembered it all once more. She lay there for a moment, almost feeling justified in feeling so bad. She remembered telling Miriam she felt like one of those punch-toys, with no bounce left in her, and Miriam saying,
"Then you can lay there, Rachel. Are you ready to just lay there on the floor forever?"

Rachel sensed that she was at a crossroads—her last chance to decide what she was going to do with the rest of her life. At the moment, it seemed certain that things were about to get worse, and there didn't seem to be anyone ready to pick her back up again. It was all up to her.

Surely she wasn't so weak that she couldn't save herself. Surely she wasn't ready to just lay here and wallow in her misery for the rest of her life.

Grace stretched and cooed and started to fuss once more.

"You're not going to let me fall apart, are you, sweetheart?"

Grace seemed to agree. She burst into a grin and tried to grab on to Rachel's cheek with one pudgy baby hand.

"Then I guess it's a good thing you're here," Rachel said.

After all, she didn't have time to fall apart. There'd be time enough to dwell on all the bad things later, if she simply couldn't help but do that. For now, she had things to do.

Get up, Rachel,
she admonished herself.
Move.

* * *

Rachel got up. She got Zach bathed and dressed, and Emma took care of herself. Then Rachel and Emma bathed Grace.

At Emma's suggestion, they put her in the deep sink in the kitchen. Rachel just about worried herself to death over something as simple as giving the baby a bath. There was the water temperature to consider—baby skin was so sensitive. The temperature in the room; she didn't want Grace to get cold. It was nearly impossible to hang on to a soapy, squirming baby, she discovered. Grace loved the water and patted her hands on the surface, dousing the front of Rachel's clean shirt, but the baby giggled and looked so pleased with herself, Rachel just smiled and decided to live in the moment.

She worried over getting soap in Grace's sensitive eyes and worried over how to get her hair wet and rinsed and about Grace trying to eat the washcloth again. Emma hovered right behind Rachel, and Rachel thought Emma's devotion to the baby was adorable.

"I have three sisters," Rachel told the girl. "All older than I am. My oldest sister, Ellen, claims she spent all her time taking care of me when she was a teenager."

"I don't mind taking care of Grace," Emma volunteered.

Rachel smiled. "I didn't think you did, and you're very good with her, Emma. She's lucky to have you."

They got Grace out of the tub and wrapped in a big blanket, then took her into the living room and laid her on the sofa while Rachel wrestled with her over the business of getting her dry and dressed. Grace cooed and swung her arms and legs and kept rolling over and trying to crawl away.

"Is she always like this?" Rachel asked.

"She's always busy, and she doesn't like to be still anymore," Emma said, staring at the pictures on the mantel. "Is this you and Sam?"

Rachel picked up the wriggling baby and glanced over her shoulder to the photograph.
Oh, God,
she thought, feeling another big tug on her heart.
Sam.

"That's from the summer we first met," Rachel said.

"He's kind of cute," Emma offered.

Rachel laughed. "You're going to be twelve soon, right? I was about your age when I saw Sam for the first time."

Emma said nothing, just blushed, and Rachel sensed that she was shy at the idea of boys as Rachel had been when she was almost twelve. Seeing Emma now and that old picture, Rachel remembered so clearly being thirteen and absolutely breathless at the sight of Sam McRae.

"He was the first boy I ever really noticed. The only one, really. You know what I mean? When I was just discovering boys and deciding there was something wonderful and interesting about them."

"Yes," Emma whispered, wide-eyed.

"Do you have your eye on a certain boy?" Rachel asked.

"No," she said, too quickly. "Well, maybe, but I don't think he even knows I exist."

Rachel nodded. She knew how that was, and she would bet Emma didn't have a lot of time to waste admiring boys. Poor Emma probably spent her time taking care of her brother and sister. She wouldn't have lazy afternoons to spend wandering through the mall with her friends, giggling and whispering over every boy they passed, or going to parties or anything like that.

"When you first met Sam," Emma asked, "what was it you liked about him?"

"Everything," Rachel said. "Absolutely everything. He was only a year ahead of me in school, although he's two years older than I am. He's from Chicago, but after his parents died, he missed a lot of school. By the time he settled in here in Baxter with his grandfather, he was a year behind. He seemed so much older than the other boys, so much taller and broader and more solid.

"He was quiet, kept to himself, and all the girls made fools of themselves over him. He had those black eyes and black hair, and he was so intense, so serious. I don't think he was very happy here. You know how some people, particularly when they get old, seem to have permanent scowls on their faces, and they're always mad about something?"

"Yes," Emma said.

"Sam's grandfather was like that. He was rude and unhappy and kept to himself. I can't imagine he was thrilled to have Sam with him, and Sam must have felt the same way, because he never seemed to be there. I'd walk into town with my mother or my sisters, and I'd see Sam standing on the corner of some street, just watching everyone. Or he'd be in the park, planted against the trunk of a tree as if he were the only thing holding it up. He made people nervous, I think, because he was so big and had a way of watching everyone, hardly saying a word or ever smiling. My mother called him 'that wild boy.' "

Emma laughed.

Rachel laughed, too, then shook her head. "Nobody here really knew him or what he was like then. They just knew his grandfather and didn't like him. Small towns can be like that. People watch everybody else, and they always have an opinion. I don't think they were fair to Sam back then."

"But you liked him?" Emma said.

"Yes. I couldn't stop thinking about him. I had long, imaginary conversations with him in my head, because I was too shy to talk to him in person, and I just stared at him, the way he stared at everyone else."

"Did he like you?" Emma asked.

"Mostly, he ignored me. He called me a little girl one day and told me to run along home to my mother. He didn't even know my name, and I was absolutely crushed. I was sure he was a much better person than anyone realized. He got into some trouble as he got older. Mostly just fighting with the boys his age, but he was so much bigger than the other kids, and people were ready to blame him for everything. It wasn't fair at all."

"So how did you get him to notice you?" Emma asked.

"I didn't really. Jimmy Richardson did. Jimmy was an obnoxious boy, but his father owned the Ford dealership in town and unlike Sam's grandfather, everybody liked Jimmy's dad. I was fifteen and Jimmy was pestering me, grabbing me and trying to kiss me. I think it was his way of flirting, but I didn't appreciate it. One day after school, Sam grabbed Jimmy and told him that when a girl said to take his hands off her, Jimmy had better do it. Or else. Jimmy didn't appreciate that at all and they got into a fight. Sam got into trouble. Jimmy didn't.

"I tried to tell everyone what happened, but no one really listened. They all said Sam overreacted, that everything would have been fine if he hadn't grabbed Jimmy like that. But I was there. I know what happened. I didn't want Jimmy's hands on me at all, and Sam was just trying to help."

"So you were friends then?"

"More or less. I spent a lot of time defending him to anyone who'd listen, and Sam spent some more time ignoring me and telling me I was wasting my breath trying to change anybody's mind about him. But in the end, we did get to be friends. He's the best friend I ever had."