Far Harbor (15 page)

“Mebbe. By a few years. But like you said, old’s old.”

If there was one thing Ida hated worse than having someone try to tell her what to do, it was having her own words tossed back in her face. Especially when she couldn’t quite remember them. Though it sounded like something she might have said, she allowed.

They stared at each other.

She might not be as young as she once was, but her will was still strong as cold forged steel. Unfortunately, it was beginning to look as if she’d met her match in Henry Hyatt.

He finally shrugged. “Stubborn as a Missouri mule.”

He turned the sound back on, the noise of the Seahawks game grating on her nerves.

Ida left the parlor and began pacing the wide planks of the front porch. What was keeping them? She’d never been patient. A change-of-life surprise baby, she’d come barreling into her parents’ life just at the time they’d begun looking forward to slowing down and perhaps bouncing a grandchild or two on their knees. Looking back on it now, her mind on babies anyway because of Gwen’s pickle, Ida realized that trying to keep up with a child who didn’t know the meaning of the word
slow
would have been a challenge.

Her weary mother had, on more than one occasion, accused Ida of possessing the attention span of a hummingbird. Which, now that she thought about it, was much the same thing she’d always said about her own daughter. It was the first time in fifty years that it had ever occurred to her that she and Lilith might have anything in common. It was a thought that merited some consideration.

Once she’d quit worrying about Gwen.

She stared toward the direction of Sequim, as if she could will Savannah’s little red car to appear. But the only car on the road was Melvin Baxter’s old clunker of a Buick he insisted on calling a classic, when what it really was was a wreck. The sky between the mountains and the cove was a clear robin’s egg blue, marred only by the puffy white contrail of a jet flying high overhead, the plane’s body glinting like quicksilver.

Quicksilver
. That had been the word her mother had used to describe her mind, which had admittedly hopped from subject to subject, never seeming to find a topic worthy of interest. Her grades had been mediocre at best, which, since she was a girl and not expected to have a career, wouldn’t have worried her parents overmuch had it not been for their concern that her unfortunate habit of speaking her mind would greatly diminish her marriage potential.

Then, on a Christmas Eve she’d never forget, two weeks before her fifteenth birthday, Ida’s life had drastically and inexorably changed. As she’d been doing since she was old enough to ride along on the wooden sled, she’d gone out into the New Hampshire woods with her father to cut down their Christmas tree. A typical taciturn New Englander, John Lindstrom had not mentioned the pain that had been lurking beneath his ribcage when he’d awakened that morning.

Indeed, there’d been scant time for conversation as Ida had been downstairs impatiently waiting for him, already bundled up in woolens and boots.

Her mother had always been a perfectionist when it came to the family’s annual tree, and it had taken a great deal of trekking through knee-deep snow to find a spruce Ingrid Lindstom wouldn’t be able to find fault with.

They’d been returning down the mountain with their lush blue-green prize when her father’s knees had suddenly buckled and he’d come crashing to the snowy ground in the same way the tree had fallen to the ax.

The next few hours of terror passed in a mind-numbing blur, but, frightened as she’d been, the instant Ida rushed into the emergency room behind her father’s stretcher, she felt suddenly whisked from her boring, black-and-white world into a Technicolor wonderland. She could have been Dorothy, landing in Oz.

The bustling, foreign world of medicine that caused her mother to fret so was the most fascinating thing Ida had ever seen. She was fascinated by the nurses, whose starched white uniforms rustled like dry leaves and whose crepe-soled shoes made not a sound as they moved through the halls in a brisk, efficient manner. Even today, Ida could recall in vivid detail the little boy who had fallen through the ice while skating and had miraculously escaped anything worse than a probable head cold.

Another man had been sitting on a gurney, his long legs dangling over the side. He was pressing his hand against a blood-soaked white towel as he’d awaited stitches for a nasty cut on his forehead. Ida overheard his wife telling the nurse that he’d received the wound when he’d leaned too far forward to put the star on the top of the tree and had fallen off the ladder.

There were more people crowded into the emergency room, more than she would have expected for such a small population, all of them dependent on the larger-than-life white-jacketed individuals who moved among them like gods who’d strolled down from Mount Olympus to play with the mortals.

It was only years later, when she was in medical school, that it would dawn on Ida that the doctors had all been men. Not that it would have mattered if she
had
realized that the only women in the emergency room had been wives, mothers, or nurses. She’d discovered her true calling on that memorable Christmas Eve, the one thing in all the world that could capture and hold her attention.

The god attending her father informed the family that John Lindstrom would live. He would, however, have to remain in the hospital for the next six weeks. “To allow his heart to rest,” the doctor had explained to his relieved wife and spellbound daughter.

Ida visited her father every day. She drank in the always changing sights and sounds and scents like a girl who’d spent years crawling across parched desert sands and had finally stumbled across a sparkling oasis. And she was never, ever bored.

Nor had she ever suffered a moment’s boredom during all the years she’d served as Coldwater Cove’s general practitioner, caring for entire families in a way that made her an intricate part of the community.

She’d kept up with the times, attending seminars and spending her nights reading medical journals to learn new techniques, new methods of healing.

But the one thing Ida had never been able to learn was patience.

“C
an I hold her?” Gwen asked.

“Of course,” Terri and Bill said together.

They exchanged a quick look, then Terri rose, lifted Lily from the swing, and carefully placed her, one mother to the other, into Gwen’s arms. It escaped no one’s attention that this was a reversal of the gesture of that morning in the hospital when Gwen had surrendered her child to the Stevensons’ for safekeeping.

Lily stopped cooing. Her brow furrowed beneath the pink elastic headband. Eyes as wide and blue as a china plate observed this newcomer with sober intensity. On some deeper level, Savannah realized that all three adults on the patio were holding their breaths. Watching the turbulent emotions move across Gwen’s face, she feared the teenage mother had forgotten how to breathe. Gwen’s yearning was painful to watch.

It was as if they’d all been turned to stone—or wood, like the life-size tableau of the crèche and the wise men Ida put out on the front yard every Christmas.

Then it happened.

“She smiled at me!” Gwen exclaimed.

Terri beamed through unshed tears. “She’s been doing that more and more lately. It’s like looking into the sun, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Gwen’s voice was filled with an awe that, Savannah belatedly realized, she hadn’t been allowed to experience the day she’d given birth to Lily.

Concerned for Gwen’s feelings, attempting to help smooth over the wrenching pain of loss, the family had inadvertently stolen any sense of maternity from her. Only Terri, who’d insisted that the baby be photographed with her birth mother, had begun to understand the complex emotions the teenager might be experiencing on that unforgettable day.

“She’s grown so much,” Gwen said softly.

“Like a weed,” Bill said.

“A beautiful, one-of-a-kind weed,” Terri said. “She looks like you, Gwen.”

“Do you think so?” Hope and an unmistakable maternal pride warred on the freckled face.

“Absolutely,” Terri and Bill said in unison.

Gwen ran her finger down her daughter’s cheek. “I decided to give her up for adoption in the first place because she needed a better mother, a better family than I could be right now.”

None of them challenged that truthful appraisal.

“Until that day I was panhandling on the ferry and Mama Ida took me home with her, I never felt as if I belonged anywhere. It’s hard to fit in when you’re being dragged from home to home, always changing schools.”

She smoothed the frilly organdy skirt. Lily cooed and kicked her plump, stocking-clad feet. “I want Lily to know where she belongs. To know who her family is.”

Gwen bit her bottom lip as she dragged her gaze from her daughter, out across the rolling vineyard, then back to the Stevensons.

“You’re her family. I love her with my whole heart. I always will.” She sighed, a sad little shimmer of sound. “But she belongs with you.”

Bill and Terri exchanged another look. If the subject hadn’t been so serious, if so much hadn’t been at stake, Savannah might have envied their silent marital conversation. She couldn’t remember ever sharing such obvious telepathy with Kevin.

“We want you to be very, very sure about this, Gwen,” Bill said. Again, his voice was gentle, but firmer than Savannah had ever heard it. “We’re willing to make accommodations for your feelings and whatever need you have to be included in Lily’s life. Within reason,” he tacked on.

“But you can’t go changing your mind every few months. It’d be too hard on all of us—you, Terri, and me, and most of all it would be too hard on Lily.”

“I know.” Gwen hugged her daughter closer. Her expression was hidden by her cap of red hair as she brushed her lips against the top of the baby’s head.

“I didn’t really want to take her away from you. On the way home from science camp, I was thinking that maybe we could share her. Not just on special days, like her birthdays, or Christmas. But all the time.”

She turned to Terri. “It must be hard being a working mother.”

“It takes some juggling,” Terri allowed. “But she’s a remarkably easy child, and at this age, I can keep her with me while I’m working.”

Gwen considered that. “My mother always said I ruined her life.”

Savannah couldn’t let that hurtful statement go unchallenged. “I never knew your mother, Gwen.” But she’d heard the stories from Raine and Ida, horrific stories of drugs and prostitution and child abuse. “But since we’re all ultimately responsible for our own behavior, I have to point out that your mother ruined her own life.”

“Yeah. That’s what the counselor said.”

The only thing that had worried Savannah about Gwen going to off to science camp was that her court-appointed weekly therapy would be interrupted. She was moderately relieved at this indication that at least some of the self-esteem Gwen had developed while living with Ida had stuck during her time away from home.

“It’d be confusing for Lily to have two mothers.” Gwen sighed again with obvious sadness and resignation. “But I want her to grow up knowing that
she
never ruined my life. That I loved her.” She hitched in a shaky breath. “More than anything.”

“Absolutely,” Terri said.

“I’m going to register with one of those bureaus that let adopted kids find their natural parents when they’re adults. That way, if she ever wants to m-m-meet me”—she struggled against renewed tears—“she can.”

Terri nodded. “I believe that’s a very wise, very mature decision. And you can trust us to support Lily if—and when—she wants to discover what a brave, special woman her birth mother is.”

In contrast to the first time they’d all sat together out here on the patio, sheltered from a spring rain, as Gwen gave Lily back to Terri and good-byes were said and hugs exchanged, there were no tears. Savannah suspected the teenager was cried out.

“I understand how hard it is to lose a child.” Savannah said as they drove back home.

Gwen glanced over at her with surprise. “Did you have to give away a baby?”

“No. I had a miscarriage early in my pregnancy. It was the same day I brought home a new crib.”

It had been painted in a gleaming white enamel that shone like sunshine on new snow and had been topped with a ridiculously feminine, peony-hued ruffled canopy made for a princess.

The crib had still been in the nursery, a vivid pink and white reminder of her loss, when Savannah had returned from the hospital. Despite her doctor’s instructions to rest, she’d spent the entire afternoon with screwdrivers and wrenches, taking it apart and putting it away. She’d hoped that if she didn’t have to look at the symbol of so much hope and happiness, she’d feel better. Of course she hadn’t.

“That must have been awful.”

“I thought my heart would break.”

“But it didn’t break,” Gwen said, with obvious hope.

“It was pretty much shattered,” Savannah contradicted, deciding that she owed Gwen the absolute truth.

Savannah had never told anyone but Raine about her miscarriage. Not even her grandmother, partly because she hadn’t wanted Ida to worry, partly because she hadn’t wanted to think about it herself. She decided the fact that she could talk about it with Gwen now, without that horrid, wrenching pain, was yet more proof of personal growth.

“It’s gotten better. But I can’t imagine that I’ll ever put it entirely out of my mind.”

“I’ll never forget Lily,” Gwen said with a sad little sigh.

“No. You won’t.”

“When I was a little kid, the only thing I ever wanted was a mom who loved me and who’d take care of me.”

“I felt the same way a lot of times.”

“Yeah. I guess Lilith wasn’t a very good mom.”

“I think she was just too young to take care of two children.” But not once had she ever accused her daughters of causing the turmoil her life had been for so many years, as Gwen’s mother had done.

“Yeah,” Gwen repeated. “She was probably too young to be a mother. Like me.”

A thoughtful little silence filled the car. Wanting to leave Gwen to her thoughts, Savannah didn’t speak until they were nearing the lighthouse.

“How are you with a paintbrush? I’m finishing up the trim on the inside of the lantern room today and could really use some help.”

“You’re just trying to get my mind off Lily.”

“Partly,” Savannah agreed. “But mostly, I honestly could use another hand. John also said something about planting mums today.” She knew that Gwen loved to garden; indeed, the garden she’d created in Ida’s back yard had proven a beautiful place for Lilith’s and Raine’s weddings.

“Okay. If you and John Martin really need help, I guess I could pitch in.” She hitched in an audible breath. “Thank you. For coming with me today. For letting me make my own decision.”

“It was your decision to make,” Savannah said mildly.

“I know.” Gwen stared out the passenger window, pretending grave interest in the trees flashing by, then turned back toward Savannah. “Thank you for being my family.”

Savannah smiled. “That’s the easy part.”

That crisis dealt with, Savannah found herself embroiled in yet another problem when it came time for her grandmother’s visit to the doctor. Independent to the bone, Ida, whose shirt informed them all that I May Have Many Faults, But Being Wrong Isn’t One of Them, was not at all pleased when she came downstairs and found her daughter and both her granddaughters waiting. Even though Gwen had professed a desire to go with them, she had reluctantly headed off to the high school to get her books and confirm her schedule for her upcoming senior year.

“It’s just a routine physical,” Ida grumbled. “I don’t need an entourage.”

Raine folded her arms and met her grandmother’s stubborn glare straight on. “Tough.”

The grandfather clock in the front hall announced the half hour with a peal of Westminster chimes. Ida checked the time on her own watch—the one she’d worn for as long as Savannah could remember, with a wide leather band, round white face, and red sweep hand that ticked off the seconds.

Then she shot a look at Henry, who was sitting at the table, drinking coffee and pretending to read the morning paper. Savannah had known he was pretending when ten minutes had gone by without his turning the page.

“I left you a cold meatloaf sandwich for lunch,” Ida told him. “It’s wrapped in waxed paper in the fridge.”

“Sounds real good.” Savannah gave him points for lying with a straight face. “Thanks.”

“You’re a guest,” Ida reminded him briskly. She turned toward the others. “Well, since I seem to be stuck with you three, we might as well get going.”

It was, Savannah thought as she followed her grandmother out the kitchen door, one of the few times she’d ever seen Ida Lindstrom surrender without a prolonged fight.

The day seemed a month long. While Ida may have always found medicine fascinating, Savannah, forced to wait with her mother and sister while her grandmother—clad in a white cotton hospital gown that hung past her knees—was moved from room to room, cubicle to cubicle, found it bewildering and frightening.

Armed with informational brochures found in the waiting room, she, Raine, and Lilith learned more detail about tests they’d mostly only seen on
ER
or
Chicago Hope
. There were tests to determine how long it took for Ida’s blood to clot, tests to measure her glucose level, and the amount of fat and cholesterol in her blood. There were chest x-rays, a CAT scan, and an EKG, which a friendly, chatty technician had explained was necessary to check heart function, since clots could often be thrown off from the heart and enter the arteries of the brain.

Exhausted herself when the battery of tests were finally concluded, Savannah couldn’t imagine how Ida was feeling.

When the neurologist, Dr. Burke, finally brought the family into his office, Ida was already there. Despite the grueling day, she looked a great deal more chipper than Savannah felt, and if appearances were anything to go by, Raine and Lilith were also wrung out.

Lilith looked especially drawn. Her normally smooth forehead had been furrowed for hours, her midnight blue eyes lacked their usual sparkle, and concern carved deep brackets along both sides of her mouth, drawing her lips down. For the first time in memory, Savannah’s mother looked not just her age, but older.

“I’ve already heard the verdict.” Ida stood up when they entered, pocketbook clutched in her hands. “Since I can’t see any point in sitting here while you all rehash it, I’ll wait down in the cafeteria. Those fool tests cost me breakfast and lunch and I’m starving.”

Savannah decided that the fact that the doctor was letting Ida walk out of his office instead of admitting her immediately was a good thing. Then again, she considered, from her reading, she knew that Alzheimer’s patients could live with the disease for years before hospitalization became necessary.

She was vastly relieved when the doctor skipped the getting-to-know you small talk and went straight to the point.

“Dr. Lindstrom tells me that you’ve been concerned about recent memory lapses she’s been experiencing.”

“We’ve been worried she may have Alzheimer’s,” Raine, equally to the point, answered.