Daughters for a Time (30 page)

“You can do this!” I said, squatting down to make eye contact, summoning the coach in me. “You’re a big girl and you’re in prekindergarten!”

“I was in prekindergarten last year.”

“Well, yeah,” I agreed. “But that just means that you’ll know what’s going on. You’ll have to help out some of the other kids, okay?”

Maura thought about that. “Like be a big sister? Like I am to Sam?”

“Exactly! You show the new kids what to do.”

“What does kindergarten mean?”

“Well,” I said, “I believe kindergarten means ‘children garden.’ It’s like a place where kids can grow. Does that make sense?”

“That’s silly,” Maura said, her eyes widening, “because kids don’t grow in gardens. But they do grow.”

“It is silly, isn’t it?” I said, flinging my arms around her, so happy to see her smile. I gave her a final kiss and a squeeze and promised her that Sam and I would be back for her at one o’clock.

“You
promise
?” Maura said.

“Maura, I
promise.
”

On our way out, we found Ross standing in the parking lot, pulling at his hair as he looked up to the sky.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey.”

“I thought you had an early-morning meeting.” My tone wasn’t too forgiving. I hadn’t been too subtle in expressing my displeasure when Ross had told me that he wouldn’t be able to drive Maura to school on her first day.

“I did…I do,” he said, smoothing his silk tie. “I told them I needed to take a half-hour break.”

“Good.”

“But you already got her settled?”

“I did, but go in anyway,” I urged. “She would love to see you.”

“I don’t want to disrupt the class, if she’s already settled.”

“They haven’t started yet. Go. See her.”

Ross nodded hesitantly, looked in the direction of the school.

“Ross, listen. I know you’re hurting.”

Tears sprang to his eyes.

I reached out and touched his arm. “And I don’t know how to say this to you without hurting you more, but Maura needs you in a way that you can’t even understand. You know that I will care for her, love her, cherish her as if she were my own, but you need to stay close to her. You need to scoop her into your arms, kiss her on the mouth, and sleep by her side. I’m telling you, Ross…You cannot let the distance between the two of you grow even one more inch. You’ve got to stay close to her. She’s got to know that her father is still here.”

“It hurts so fucking bad,” he said, covering his eyes, rubbing them hard.

“Claire and I needed our dad, Ross, and he wasn’t there. You’ve got to trust me when I tell you that you’ll regret making the same mistake.”

Ross turned, clenching his jaw while tears poured down his face. When he opened his mouth, cries bellowed out like a baby’s. I wrapped my one arm around him, while Sam buried her face in the cave of our hug.

“I love her so much,” he said.

“Everyone knows that but her, Ross, and she’s the one who needs to know.”

Ross nodded, kept holding on.

“She’s going to be so excited to see you,” I said. “Go. Go now.”

Each morning, after Sam and I dropped Maura at school, we’d walk across the parking lot to the church for morning Mass. The half-hour service each morning had become meaningful to me in a way I hadn’t yet figured out. But then again, I wasn’t clear on how most things worked: how the planets aligned, how the sun moved the waves, how birds knew when to fly south in the winter. So why did I need to understand the grace of God to believe in it? I still had my doubts, the doubts that had grown in me like a wildfire when Mom got sick. I still had my fury: What kind of God would take a mother from a daughter who needed her so badly? First Mom, now Claire. Even back when I was a kid, as Mom fought for her life, she’d tried to explain to me that God’s will was a mystery, not always easily understood. And while my doubts were still a part of me, I couldn’t deny that, in some way, on some level, I
felt
Claire and Mom. Still with me, undeniably so. And if I could still feel them, I reasoned, in at least that way they were not truly gone. What then was the truth about death and dying? Really, just maybe, it wasn’t so hard. Maybe it was all just a matter of faith. Those who had it were in the clear—for dealing, for understanding, for rationalizing. Those who didn’t were the ones who struggled. My resistance was still there, but I was veering in the right direction.

There were other moments, plenty of them, when, clearly, I didn’t have it. Moments when my perspective was anything but divine, when my thoughts grew dark and murky, and finding meaning in any of the pain seemed a fool’s game. I hurt too much.

From St. Mary’s, Sam and I headed down to Harvest. We had hired a part-time college student, Abby, to watch Sam for three hours each day. In those hours, Abby would wheel Sam to the park in her stroller, take her out to lunch, scribble pictures with crayons. Other than that, Sam was with me. By now, I had read plenty of resources on adopted children, and one point was clear: it was vital that Sam viewed me as her primary caregiver until a strong bond was established. I knew what it was like to miss, want, and need my mother. I never wanted Sam to feel that way.

In my mornings without Sam, I would stand behind the stainless steel table, working through the motions that many would find monotonous: the cutting, the measuring, the stirring, the kneading. But I found deep pleasure in the repetition, the assurance that there were a few things in life that I could control. Margot—the other pastry chef—and I were now job-sharing. Allowing me to be a full-time mom to Sam and an attentive aunt to Maura.

Tim had made a commitment, too, the day Claire died. He decided to let Philippe run and close the kitchen from Sunday through Wednesday. This way, he would be home with the family on four nights out of seven. And Larry was part of the gang now, too. He came over a few times a week. He and Maura were training Chip. Sit, come, stay. Larry would buckle Sam in the stroller and walk with Maura and Chip around the block, throw him a tennis ball in the backyard, and give him baths with the hose. The girls would take turns brushing him, rewarding him with biscuits. Eventually, I would put Sam down for a nap and set Maura in front of the television, and Larry and I would sit and drink coffee. Sometimes he’d talk about Mom; often we’d talk about Claire. I’d watch as his face would soften and a smile would turn up the sides of his mouth. He provided for me the one thing that Claire never could: he
allowed me to talk about Mom, and now Claire. I had suspected all along that Larry and I were alike, that we were fellow wallowers in the past. We were good for each other that way.

Sam was out with Abby one morning when my cell phone rang. On the phone was Mrs. Murphy, Maura’s substitute teacher. Her regular teacher had sprained her ankle and was on leave for the next three weeks.

“Is everything okay?” I asked. “Is Maura okay?”

“Everyone is fine,” Mrs. Murphy assured me. “I was just hoping to grab a few minutes with you before pickup today. Would that be okay?”

The kids were on the playground when Sam and I showed up at school. Sam found the cardboard bricks in the corner of the classroom, while I perched on a little plastic chair with Mrs. Murphy, feeling like a giant.

“It was such a gorgeous day today,” she began, “I decided to take the kids outside to eat their lunch on the hill while we did our music lesson. ‘Grab your lunch boxes and rhythm sticks,’ I told the kids, and we marched outside. After a while, I noticed that Maura wasn’t eating her lunch
or
playing her rhythm sticks. When I asked her what was wrong, she just looked down and wouldn’t answer me. You can see why I was concerned.”

I pointed to the blackboard, where there were fat, colorful arrows—a pictoral flow chart of the day—clearly indicating the schedule. After “Arts and Crafts” was “Lunch.” After “Lunch” was “Music.” My heart was thumping. I wanted to throttle this woman. I thought of poor Maura, how she must have felt so betrayed by the schedule.

“Maura just lost her mother,” I said, trying to steady my voice. “I figured that someone might have told you that. So for her, now, predictability is very important. In
her
mind, the day didn’t go according to plan,” I said, pointing at the flow chart. “That is what she expected,” I said, pointing to the arrows.
“She needs to know exactly what to expect. As long as you stick to the routine, she’ll be fine. But being spontaneous doesn’t work for her. She’s a kid who doesn’t need more surprises, even small ones like a change in the schedule.” My stomach twisted in a knot.

“I see,” she said, though her voice was strained.

“I’m sure she’ll loosen up over time,” I said, wanting to be sure that I didn’t make this into something bigger than it was. “I’m just saying that the reason why she didn’t eat her lunch is because, according to the schedule, lunch comes after arts and crafts, but before music.”

“Okay,” she said quickly, as though I’d hurt her feelings. “I think I understand.”

Come on, lady!
I wanted to say.
She’s a kid
.
Just tell me that you can stick to the schedule.

I softened my voice considerably. “Did she meet with Ms. Julia today? Maybe she has some thoughts on this issue.”

That night, I sat on the edge of the tub, helping Sam and Maura wash and shampoo. Maura used to love baths, but now bubbles bothered her—the fact that she could never completely get them all off before she left the tub.

“I talked to Mrs. Murphy today,” I said to Maura. “She said that you didn’t eat your lunch.”

Maura shrugged.

“Did something happen at school today that upset you?”

Maura shook her head.

“I told her that you probably weren’t used to eating outside,” I said, offering Maura an out. “Plus, you were supposed to have lunch,
then
music, right? Not at the same time!” I said it in a silly voice with a slap to my forehead. “How can you eat lunch
and
play music at the same time, right?”

“We have to make a family tree,” Maura said.

“Oh, honey,” I said.

“There’s a spot for a mom, but I don’t have one.”

“You can still put a picture of Mom in it, honey.”

“That’s okay,” she said. “I’m going to leave it blank.”

Sam looked at me, splashed, and chanted, “Mama, Mama!”

“Well, honey,” I said. “That’s up to you. Whatever makes you feel the most comfortable, but I think it would be nice to put a picture of Mom in the spot.”

“I’m going to leave it blank,” Maura repeated, looking away, pouring cups of water over her arm, which was covered with stubborn bubbles.

I used my hand to wash away the bubbles on her shoulders. “Did you meet with Ms. Julia today?” I asked, knowing that Tuesdays and Thursdays were the days she visited the school counselor.

“Uh-huh,” she said, nodding.

“What’d you two talk about?”

“I said that I wanted Mommy to come to school with me,” Maura said.

“And what did Ms. Julia say?”

“She said that Mommy
does
go to school with me because she’s my angel.” Maura looked at me skeptically, gauging my reaction. The old Maura would have bought this, hook, line, and sinker. The new Maura had her doubts about everything.

“I believe that’s true, Maura,” I said, bobbing my head up and down, putting my weight behind the Catholic school’s unequivocal rules of life and death. Rules where there was no wiggle room, no gray to contemplate, just black-and-white beliefs.

“I hope so,” Maura said solemnly. She poured another cup of water over her arm. All of a sudden, light flooded her eyes and her mouth turned upward. “Maybe I could put a picture
of Mom on the family tree,” she said excitedly, “and draw angel wings around it.”

“You could do that, honey,” I said, pulling a strand of hair from her face. “You could definitely do that.”

After bath time, Sam and I walked Maura across the street, just as the sun set in a fiery ball of vermillion on the horizon. Martha scooped her granddaughter into her arms. Eight o’clock at night and her father was still at work.

“Mawa!” Sam called, reaching for her cousin.

“I know, pumpkin,” I said. “You love Maura. We’ll see her tomorrow.”

“Mawa,” Sam repeated, burying her face into my neck.

As Sam and I crossed the street again, the sunset to our backs, and entered our house that was now firmly a home, a sudden jolt of electricity surged through me. An idea—
the
idea, a recurring thought, an ember that would not be extinguished—kindled again. But now, the idea was accompanied by a solid assuredness, a rightness, and a plan.

“What’s with you?” Tim asked when he got home, a smile covering his face.

“Oh, nothing!” I said. “Well,
something
,” I admitted. “I’ll tell you after I put Sam down.” In Sam’s room, I sat on the bed and read her a stack of books, tidied her room, and then tucked her in her crib. I leaned down and put my face near hers. “Mommy and Daddy love you, peanut,” I said. “Up to the sky and around the stars and through the clouds. We love you and we will forever and always.”