Finding Home (16 page)

How stupid could I be? My situation was
enough of a mess without the complication of sex. Especially sex
with Nick. I pretended to be asleep and heard him walking away. But
I knew I was only buying time. There was a powerful attraction
between us, a force that went way back to adolescence. Sooner or
later I’d have to do something about it.

On Christmas morning we ate a late and
leisurely brunch in the kitchen, not even bothering to get dressed
first. I liked my new robe so much I wanted to live in it. Kiera
and Nick wore similar robes, hers white like mine, his black.
Phoebe had left a compote of strawberries, rhubarb and pineapple,
which Kiera served layered with sliced bananas, demerara sugar and
Devon cream. Then Nick made omelets with fresh herbs and mushrooms.
He grated Parmesan cheese and black pepper over each at the
table.

Standing by my place he said, “That your new
perfume?” He twisted the pepper mill expertly over my omelet. “Very
nice.” Then he made his special coffee, to go with Phoebe’s pecan
sticky buns. I’d gone off coffee along with alcohol for the baby’s
sake, but I drank one perfect, satisfying cup.

After that Nick disappeared into the library
with his briefcase and laptop, saying he had a tremendous amount of
work. Kiera and I stuffed the turkey and put it in the oven, but
then there was nothing much to do. Phoebe had left everything else
ready. She’d even set the dining room table. “I’m going to read my
new book,” Kiera said, and curled up in a wing chair by the
fire.

I retreated to my room, wondering how to
spend the day. I wanted to phone the Wembles and the Rivards; that
would take an hour, maximum. But I felt sleepy after lying awake so
long in the night and decided to lie down and read a bit first.
From the stack of books by my bed I chose
Sweet Fetal
Dreams.

I’d picked this book about the developing
fetus from Kiera’s collection weeks ago, then ignored it. Books
about the pregnancy itself, about what was happening to my body,
were far more interesting than books about the growing baby I was
going to give up. I only opened
Sweet Fetal Dreams
then
because I thought I’d be bored silly and go right to sleep.

But once I started reading, I couldn’t stop.
Startled wide awake, I read that book cover to cover. And what I
learned changed everything.

Sweet Fetal Dreams
talked about the
bonding that begins between a mother and her baby at the moment of
conception. It described how everything the mother does influences
the fetus in some way, how the fetus feels the mother’s emotions,
knows her thoughts, hears her voice, senses her love. It said that
this primal relationship, formed in the womb, is so profound there
is no stronger bond in the world.

Certainly the author wasn’t in favor of
surrogate mothers. In fact she wrote that breaking the bond could
mean grief and suffering for both mother and child forever. By the
time I finished reading I felt completely drained and very
scared.

Strange as it might seem, I’d never really
let myself think about the baby as a human being before. In fact
I’d deliberately avoided it. Because I didn’t want to get attached,
I’d been thinking of the baby as a thing, not a person. I’d been
concentrating on the money to stop myself from falling in love with
my unborn child.

Now suddenly I had a whole new perspective on
my pregnancy. My former skepticism about bonding just disappeared.
I knew without a doubt there was more to being a mother than I’d
ever imagined.

I suppose I didn’t have to believe that book.
After all, it was based more on anecdotal evidence, stories from
mothers themselves, than scientific fact. But somehow, being
pregnant, I believed every word. It was almost as if my baby was
communicating with me through it, trying to stir my natural
intuition, trying to wake me up.

And I knew then that my baby was a girl. As I
lay there in the lovely blue room at Malagash on Christmas morning,
love and longing for her surged through me. I couldn’t sleep, and I
didn’t feel like making my phone calls or seeing Kiera or Nick. I
wanted to be alone with my baby, let her talk to me some more. So I
went out for a long walk alone, down to the little sandy cove.

The tide was ebbing, the pewter sea slipping
out from under a thin crust of ice along the shore. I poked at the
bits of ice with my foot, shattering them into the sand. The shock
of what had just happened to me was overwhelming. I felt
transformed into a whole other person.

A mother
.

A fiercely protective mother. This baby was
mine. How on earth was I going to deliver her and then disappear?
How was I going to give her up?

It was dark by the time I got back to the
house. Nick was still in the library, papers spread everywhere.
Kiera, now dressed, was in the kitchen reheating Phoebe’s vegetable
casseroles and steaming the pudding. I could barely manage to speak
to her.

It didn’t matter though. She was excited
because Boxing Day was traditionally open house at Malagash and
Phoebe and Angus would be back for the celebrations. She talked on
and on about what food she had to get out of the freezer, where the
punch bowls were, what she should wear. I just nodded and stirred
the gravy.

Dinner was almost a complete replay of the
September night I’d cried, “To my pregnancy! To our baby!” The
candlelight, the crackling fire, the rosy warmth of the room. Nick,
who had put on a dark charcoal suit and a very pale pink shirt with
a burgundy bow tie, was utterly charming. Kiera was quiet but
seemed very happy. Both of them drank far too much wine.

“That was a ridiculous amount of food for
just the three of us,” Kiera said. She started clearing the table.
“Luce and I are going to be eating leftovers for weeks.”

While she was in the kitchen Nick took my
hand. “I really wish I didn’t have to go back so soon,” he said. He
stroked my fingers and seemed about to say something more, but
Kiera brought in the round plum pudding then, along with a pitcher
of warmed brandy.

“When my father was alive,” she said, as she
set the pudding down, “he used to hire a local piper to pipe the
pudding in, in the traditional way.” She poured the brandy over the
pudding and struck a long wooden match. “Ta da!” she cried as fire
whooshed. We all watched as blue flames licked and burned. Then
Kiera spooned more brandy on the pudding and the flames rose
again.

“Ah, perfect,” Nick cried. “Merry Christmas!”
As Kiera served the pudding he leaned over and kissed me, full on
the lips. The sensation took my breath away. When I recovered I saw
that Kiera had placed a dish of pudding at my place. I glanced over
at her, and her eyes met mine with a look of concern. Funny. I knew
she didn’t care about Nick. But apparently she didn’t want us to
get together. Why?

* * *

Boxing Day was as busy and boisterous as
Christmas Day had been quiet. Phoebe arrived early and she and
Kiera bustled around getting things ready. I stayed in the kitchen
arranging cheese trays and plates of goodies. Nick worked in the
library again. But by early afternoon when people began arriving,
he was answering the door, taking coats upstairs, serving drinks,
looking every bit the big-city lawyer in his navy pinstriped suit.
Kiera wore a long green velvet skirt and fitted, scoop-necked
jacket, a single strand of pearls at her smooth pale throat.

The people from Airdrie Bay, some from the
quilting group, some from the school where Kiera volunteered, some
I’d never seen before, were dressed up too, but they didn’t seem as
comfortable as Kiera and Nick. The women looked overdone, their
dresses too sparkly, their hair too sprayed, their makeup too
bright. Their husbands, most of them fishermen, all looked to be in
distress, as if their Sunday pants were binding, their good white
shirt collars strangling, their church shoes pinching.

I felt somewhere in between, wearing the
cranberry cotton smock dress Phoebe had made me for Christmas,
which fell from a round yoke to just above my ballet-slipper shoes.
I’d piled my hair on top of my head and borrowed a wide silver
bracelet from Kiera. And of course I’d spritzed myself with jasmine
and orange blossom cologne.

It was a fine clear day and sunlight streamed
into the living room through the bay window facing the sea.
Watching Kiera and Nick stand together in the winter brightness,
Lord and Lady of Malagash, I felt insanely jealous. They looked so
regal, so right together. And they were the perfect hosts, speaking
to each guest, introducing me, making everyone feel welcome. No one
would ever have guessed at the rift between them.

Nick chatted up the women, a handsome arm
around one, a gallant compliment to another. Kiera flirted with the
men, paying special attention to those looking most ill at ease,
until their tense weathered faces relaxed and reddened even more,
and they chuckled and flirted back.

Angus MacLaren skipped the champagne punch
and went straight to the kitchen for a beer the moment he arrived.
His deep belly laugh rang out louder and louder as the afternoon
progressed, but his eyes followed Kiera’s every move with
heartbreaking intensity.

I watched Kiera carefully too. Her acting
skills were considerable. She gave no hint that she was madly in
love with Angus and probably wishing they were children again, so
they could slip away from the adult party to fun of their own.

By late afternoon everyone was well into the
holiday spirit, except for Phoebe and me, who were drinking diet
soda. As dusk fell the fireplaces and candles were lit, and hot
food produced. Musical instruments appeared. Dottie’s husband had
brought his fiddle, someone else a guitar, someone else a
harmonica, and they stood in front of the Christmas tree playing
carols which soon turned into rowdy Nova Scotia folk songs. Angus
MacLaren, quite drunk, began to step dance. I’d learned to play the
spoons from Baptiste, so I joined in too.

I looked around for Nick. He was sitting on
the antique gold settee, dancing a plump baby in a blue sleeper up
and down on his knee. It was little Blair, whose mother was Leah
from the quilting group. My heart flipped right over.

I went and sat beside him. “Practicing?”

The baby gurgled and laughed.

“Isn’t he something?” Nick said. His big
hairy hands looked incongruous holding the baby’s tiny pink ones.
“I absolutely can’t wait to have a kid.”

“He’s pretty nice,” I said. “I’ve seen him a
lot when Leah comes over to quilt.” The baby reached for one of my
spoons, held it in wonder, waved it about, then sucked on it. He
drooled and then spit up on Nick’s trousers. Nick grabbed a
handkerchief from his pocket to clean up, wiping Blair’s sweet
little mouth first.

For just a minute I let myself imagine that
this is how it would be if I kept my baby. Nick and me together in
some beautiful house, him holding her, me looking on with joy. But
of course that couldn’t happen. What about my plans, my camp?
Keeping my baby would mean I didn’t get my money. So just what did
I think I was going to do?

I couldn’t see any acceptable solution. I was
almost four months pregnant, too late to abort and get myself out
of this mess. And in any case I didn’t want to; I wanted to have
and keep my baby.

I felt totally lost.

Instinctively, I cradled my stomach with my
arms.
Don’t worry
, I told my baby.
I’ll look after you. I
don’t know how, but I’ll find a way.

After the party Nick went right back to work
in the library, and for all I know he stayed there with his
briefcase all night. The next morning he left right after
breakfast. “I know I said I’d go over that legal stuff about the
camp with you,” he said, gathering his luggage at the front door,
“but it’s going to have to be next time. I’ll try to get back down
soon.” He hugged me like he had on Christmas Eve. “Real soon,” he
whispered into my hair.

“Okay,” I said, “whatever.” I didn’t want him
to know how much I wished he’d stay.

With Nick gone the house felt empty and cold,
the day flat and dreary. The only solace I knew was to walk, and I
did, all the way to Airdrie Bay. The town lay absolutely empty
under a fresh blanket of snow. I checked the mail and found a
package from Jay, not forwarded but properly addressed. He must
have found out where I was from Odette. I couldn’t blame her. She
thought the world of him and probably hoped we’d get back together.
Well, no chance of that. I didn’t know how my situation could be
resolved, but I did know it wouldn’t be with Jay.

How I wished I had someone, say a mother, to
talk to. Though I’d never wanted to meet mine before, the book
Sweet Fetal Dreams
had got me thinking about her. Suddenly I
wished I could find her, whoever she was. There was so much I
needed to know, being pregnant and alone myself. Again.

I still couldn’t think about that other time.
It was a complete mistake. I’d had an abortion and tried to forget.
But now I realized these things are never really over. You can hide
them away in some dark corner of your heart, but they’re still
there. Still able to come sneaking into your mind and make you
crazy. Since reading that book my aborted child seemed to be
demanding to know how I could have terminated its life so easily,
almost without a thought.

Had my mother given me up without a thought
too? That’s what I’d always assumed. But now I knew that might not
be true. She’d probably agonized over her decision, probably
suffered a lot. Abortion wouldn’t have been an option for her in
1966. But even if it had, would she have made that choice? Would
she have been as cold and careless as I’d been? Or would she have
wanted me to survive, even without her?