Empty Arms: A Novel (10 page)

Satisfied, I ripped off the tags, pulled the sweater over my head and tucked it away in my dresser drawer. I kicked off the corduroys and hung them in my closet. Just as I was reaching for my elastic-waist pajama bottoms, my bedroom door flew open.

“Catharine, I came to apologize …”

I dove for my sweater but it was too late. Her eyes zeroed in on my swollen mid-section and her hand flew to her mouth. “George!” she howled, running toward the staircase.

I yanked the sweater over my head and listened from my doorway. “That’s impossible!” Daddy yelled. “Not my Catharine!”

When Mom’s hysterical sobbing and Daddy’s fanatical shouting finally died down, I crept to the edge of the stairs and turned an ear. Downstairs, ice cubes clinked against glass, and what I could only imagine to be the single malt scotch Daddy drank whenever life threw him a curveball was poured with force into one of his new crystal tumblers.

“I’ll take one of those,” Mom said in a defeated tone I’d never heard before.

More ice cubes clinked. More scotch was poured. There was a long pause followed by the plunk of two empty tumblers on the counter. Another round was poured.

I leaned in and listened harder, but all I heard were sniffles and ice cubes sliding inside glasses as they tilted them toward their lips.

“I want her to have an abortion,” Mom finally said, her drunken tongue slithering around the appalling word.

My heart lurched and my hands fell protectively to my stomach.

“Evelyn, you know that’s illegal.”

“I’m a nurse, George. I know people.”

“I don’t give a damn who you know, you don’t believe in abortion.
We
don’t believe in abortion.”

“I know, but this is different. This is Catharine we’re talking about.”

I hurried back to my bedroom and cried into my pillow, terrified that my own mother would even consider such a thing. I worried all night, but the next morning they came into my room and told me that arrangements had been made and I was going to live at a maternity home until I gave birth. The news came as a relief, considering the alternative, so I went along with their plan.

December 31, 1972

James,

They’re sending me away. Mom says my belly is getting too big. She’s worried that someone will find out. She’s made arrangements for me to live at The Home for Fallen Women in Lowville, New York, until I have the baby. I don’t know when or even if I’ll be able to write to you, but I thought you should know that I want this baby, with or without you. Since I still haven’t heard from you, I’m assuming it will be without you. You know how to reach me if you decide otherwise.

Sincerely,

Catharine

As I stare at the cold signoff, I know it’s the last letter I wrote, but there are two more envelopes in my hand. They’re addressed to me but I’ve never seen them before. I rip open the first one.

September 15, 1972

Dear Cate,

Driving back to Texas was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I even turned around once to come back and get you, but I knew I’d never be able to take you with me. I miss you like you wouldn’t believe. When my parents told me I had to go to Angel Falls to help out on my uncle’s farm, I was so mad because I didn’t want to waste my summer. I had no idea it would be the best summer of my life … thanks to you. You are more special to me than you’ll ever know.

I have to admit, I was sort of hoping I would’ve heard from you by now, but I’m sure you’re busy with school and all of your friends. I just hope you haven’t forgotten about me because I’ll never forget about you.

Love always,

James

My heart throbs as I reread his words. All these years, I thought James never cared enough to write back. I cried myself to sleep every night. I hated him for using me, and I hated myself for being blinded by his beauty. But it turns out he did love me. What we had was real.

As I fold the letter, I realize that he waited for my letters too. Letters that never came.

I rip open the final envelope.

October 15, 1972

Dear Cate,

Every day I wait for the mailman, hoping he’ll bring a letter from you. But he never does. You told me you’d write and I really thought you would. Before I left, you made me promise not to break your heart. Well, congratulations, you broke mine instead.

James

I jump up and wade through the clutter. A stack of shoeboxes and a wooden stand full of canes falls to the floor as I push past a lifetime of forgotten junk. I race downstairs and burst through the front door.

“Did you find the shovel?” Mom asks, tossing a heap of snow over her shoulder. Her face falls when she sees my fury. “Catharine, what’s the matter?”

“You want to tell me about these?” I shout, shoving the stack of letters into her chest with such force it nearly knocks her over.

Her eyes widen in panic. “I can explain.”

“Did you take these out of the mailbox?”

“I know it’s hard to believe, but it was for your own good.”

“My own good? You let me think he didn’t care about me. You let me believe I was a whore!”

She glances at the neighboring houses. “Let’s talk about this inside,” she says in a hushed voice.

“Why?” I rip the letters out of her hands and wave them in the air. “So nobody finds out that you robbed me of my only chance to have a child?”

“I did no such thing.” She grabs my arm and pulls me toward the door, but I wriggle free.

“You told me I’d get over it. You said I’d forget. But it’s been twenty-three years and I think about her every single day.”

She plants her hands on her hips and looks at me with pity. “Well, if you want any shot at happiness, Catharine, you better put it out of your mind already.”

T
HE ENGINE SCREAMS
as I floor it back to New York. Even though the odometer hovers at 90 mph, I can’t get away from her fast enough. With every mile I drive, the enormity of her lies continues to register, like the aftershocks of an earthquake. How would everything have turned out if James had gotten my letters? Would he have come back for us? Would we be a family? Would I have gotten to see my daughter say her first word and take her first step? My whole life could’ve been different. Better.

P
AUL’S SILVER WORK TRUCK
is in the driveway when I get home. A glance in the rearview mirror confirms that I look as awful as I feel. My nose is red and raw, my eyes are bloodshot, and my mascara is smudged down to my cheeks. I run a hand through my curls, but it’s no use.

I sling my duffle bag over my shoulder and walk up the driveway, bracing myself for the encore to our fight from the other morning. But Paul’s fighting gloves are off. Instead, he’s standing in the kitchen, staring up at the ceiling with his hands on his hips and a big smile on his face.

The hole is gone and no trace of the war zone remains. The pot rack is not only hanging, it’s filled with the gleaming twelve-piece set of copper cookware I’d pointed out in the Williams-Sonoma catalog over a year ago. My mouth hangs open, and I’m not sure whether I’m more surprised that he actually bought it for me or that he remembered that I liked it in the first place.

My duffel bag falls to my feet and I turn to him. “How did you …? When did you …?”

“Do you like it?”

I throw my arms around his neck. “I love it.”

He laughs and holds me tightly. And I immediately regret thinking that my life might have been better with James. I rest my head against his chest and admire the pot rack. He threads his arm around my waist and sighs with satisfaction. It’s as close as either of us is going to get to an apology, but after what I’ve been through, I’ll take it.

“It was a real mess up there,” he says, shaking his head. “Whoever renovated this place before us did shoddy work. It looks like they cut corners just to appease the city inspector.”

There are very few contractors whose work is capable of impressing Paul. But his obsession with straight lines, clean finishes, and doing things the right way has earned him an exceptional reputation in our community and a steady stream of business.

He scratches his chin. “I’m convinced this place was either a bed and breakfast or some kind of boarding house.”

My body tightens.

“Speaking of which, did you have a chance to stop by the library and look into it?”

With everything else that’s been going on, Paul’s favor completely slipped my mind. I guess I was hoping he’d forget about it.

“I did,” I hear myself say, putting one more lie between us. “They didn’t have anything.”

“Huh. That’s too bad. This old place has a past, I’m sure of it.”

“It’s the future I’m interested in,” I say, wriggling free from his grip. No sooner have the words left my mouth that I notice papers strewn across the dining room table. It looks like Paul had been doing his invoicing there instead of in his office, probably to watch some game while he worked.

“What’s all this?” I venture into the dining room, but it’s not work orders and client invoices, it’s the adoption paperwork. And on top is a completed application with a little yellow flag marking the space where I’m supposed to sign.

Paul reaches for my hand, but I pull away and the memory of Mom squeezing the pen between my fingers and forcing my signature across Emily’s adoption papers sears my brain. He puts his hands on my waist but I move away. I’ve already been forced to give up the child I want, now I’m being forced to take a child I don’t.

“I thought after a couple of days of clearing your head you might’ve changed your mind.”

I spin around. “Changed my mind? Didn’t I make my feelings perfectly clear?” Over his shoulder, sunlight bounces on the shiny copper pots and pans and suddenly his intentions are clear. This was never a silent apology or a selfless good deed; it was an artful manipulation. “You’re unbelievable,” I snap.

“Cate, please.” He reaches for me, but I pull away and bolt up the stairs.

P
AUL KNOWS BETTER
than to come to bed, and I’m thankful he manages to get that right. My hands are balled into fists as I lie there staring at the shadows on the ceiling. I’ve spent my entire life being manipulated by people who are supposed to care about me, but all they care about is what they want. First, Mom and her adoption papers and now Paul and his. What about what I want? No one ever seems to care about that.

The next morning, I leave the house earlier than usual and stop at the library on my way to work. The floor of my car is covered with books about reproduction and survival strategies for infertile couples. I gather them in my arms and drop them in the book return bin inside. I pass a display of books about Lowville’s history, and it reminds me of Paul’s favor. If there are any books about our house, this is where they’d be. I walk past the display without a second glance and head for the reference section.

Tucked among dictionaries, encyclopedias, and some local phone books is a reference guide for national area codes. The pages fall through my fingers until I reach Texas. My fingers glide down the list until I find the one I’m looking for:
830
.