Grace (27 page)
Authors: T. Greenwood
“Talk to your manager. We're going shopping on Saturday, and that is final.”
Crystal didn't sleep at all on Friday night. She tossed and turned, sleeping in fits and starts, awakening in a sweat each time she did manage to drift off. Angie was passed out cold in her bed, her arms flung over her head in that careless, carefree way she had. Angie never had problems sleeping. She was out within seconds of her head hitting the pillow and she barely moved all night. If it weren't for her snoring, you might think she was dead. Crystal used to be the same way. Up until this past year. Now she was lucky to get a couple of consecutive hours. Some nights she was lucky to get any sleep at all. When she first came home from the hospital, she was waking every hour, dreaming the sounds of the baby crying, her breasts hot and angry. Even now, she slept the sleep of a new mother: the fragile sleep of someone knowing she will soon be woken.
She had been so sure about leaving Two Rivers, but now that her departure was less than a month away, instead of thrilling her, instead of filling her with a rush of excitement, the impending exodus only made her feel anxious. Worried she'd made the wrong decision. Every decision lately seemed somehow incorrect and fraught with potential disaster. When she borrowed her dad's car and drove to work, she'd go the long way, worried that if she went her normal route there would be a car waiting to swerve off the road into her. But then she would second-guess
that
notion and wonder if she'd just sealed another, perhaps worse, fate. Maybe taking this route would bring her into a head-on collision with a
different
wayward driver.
that
notion and wonder if she'd just sealed another, perhaps worse, fate. Maybe taking this route would bring her into a head-on collision with a
different
wayward driver.
And this decision, the decision to go to UVM suddenly struck her as fundamentally ridiculous. She had picked UVM because that's where her dad had gone, because it was one of the best state universities in the country; the caliber of the school had definitely weighed in. So too had the sprawling green campus. But she'd mostly picked it because it was part of the grander scheme, the now-obsolete scheme. Ty was supposed to go to Middlebury. She was supposed to go to UVM. They were supposed to be together. They had planned weekend visits, talked about how they could take the bus to Two Rivers together for the holidays. But now Ty was
not
going to Middlebury. Ty was going to California, three thousand miles away. And her baby,
their
baby, belonged to someone who taught at that university. How could she ever go to school where the adopted father of her child worked? It was inane.
not
going to Middlebury. Ty was going to California, three thousand miles away. And her baby,
their
baby, belonged to someone who taught at that university. How could she ever go to school where the adopted father of her child worked? It was inane.
UVM seemed like some sort of paper-cutout place, like a picture in a child's pop-up book. Not a real place anymore. Not a real school where she would study and stay up giggling with her roommate, Fiona. Someplace where she would become both Crystal and somebody new all at the same time. It seemed like a dream upon waking, one of those delicate dreams shattered into unrecognizable slivers as soon as she opened her eyes.
On Saturday morning, she pretended she was not feeling well, but her mother called her bluff.
“I rescheduled four meetings with clients for this,” her mother said, towering over her bed in some terribly bright yellow blouse, like the sun herself had come in to personally wake her. “I don't care if you've got typhus,” she said, laughing. “Up and at 'em.”
Her mother was not a cheerleader in high school, but she should have been. She had the energy of one, the ability to rouse anyone, even Crystal, out of a slump. Her mother simply didn't tolerate crabbiness.
Funk
was not a word in her vocabulary. She even affectionately referred to the McDonald family as “The Team.” “Come on, Team!” she'd say whenever she needed to rally them into action.
Funk
was not a word in her vocabulary. She even affectionately referred to the McDonald family as “The Team.” “Come on, Team!” she'd say whenever she needed to rally them into action.
Crystal tried again. “I really don't feel well.”
“You can sleep it off in the car,” her mother said, smiling and reaching for Crystal's hand. Crystal knew she had no choice and allowed her mother to pull her, like a fallen runner, up.
She tried to pretend like this was just another shopping trip with her mom, something she used to look forward to. Crystal tried to recapture that sense of propriety, of having her mom all to herself for a whole day. Her mom even made a big show of turning off her BlackBerry as they got in her car, stuffing it into the depths of her purse.
“You don't have to do that, Mom,” Crystal said.
“Your father can handle anything that comes up,” she said.
But her mother's attempts at normalcy were transparent. And something about all this effort seemed more sad than generous. Like watching some wounded runner limp his way across the finish line. Still, she was willing to give it one last shot. Take one for the team.
Crystal's mother hadn't driven her to Burlington in ages. The times she'd gone to visit the Stones when she was pregnant, her father had driven. He'd waited in the car while she toured their home (seen the nursery painted those candy colors), drank their herbal tea, listened to their lullaby voices speaking softly to the baby inside her. But now, as they pulled off the interstate, her mother was the one clutching the wheel. Not her father with his sad eyes staring straight ahead so he wouldn't have to look at her. Not her father and his disappointment like another passenger squeezed in between them.
“You must be getting so excited!” her mother chirped as she got off the interstate at the Burlington exit.
Crystal shrugged. “I guess,” she said, trying hard to be cheery.
But as they drove past the street that would have taken her to the Stones' house, she felt like someone had tripped her. The Stones lived near the university's campus in a crooked old house that reminded her of Ty's house. At the front was a wide porch, and a widow's walk was perched on the top. Mrs. Stone had explained that the legend was that widow's walks were built for the women whose husbands were away at sea. For the women whose husbands
died
at sea. From above they could look out into the immense emptiness, to grieve. She wondered if there was an architectural feature designed for girls forced to give up their babies. She was not a widow, but she grieved like one; she felt the same vast sorrow. But she was not a widow. There were no names for girls like her.
died
at sea. From above they could look out into the immense emptiness, to grieve. She wondered if there was an architectural feature designed for girls forced to give up their babies. She was not a widow, but she grieved like one; she felt the same vast sorrow. But she was not a widow. There were no names for girls like her.
For the first time since she had the baby, she allowed herself to think about what had happened to Grace
after
. She imagined the Stones driving back to Burlington with her strapped into the expensive car seat she'd seen on the kitchen table one time when she visited. It was green with a plaid canopy. Mrs. Stone had pointed out its safety features to her, the five-point harness, the way it virtually bolted into the backseat. Mrs. Stone had wanted Crystal to know this was proof that they would keep her safe. But it only made her feel carsick.
after
. She imagined the Stones driving back to Burlington with her strapped into the expensive car seat she'd seen on the kitchen table one time when she visited. It was green with a plaid canopy. Mrs. Stone had pointed out its safety features to her, the five-point harness, the way it virtually bolted into the backseat. Mrs. Stone had wanted Crystal to know this was proof that they would keep her safe. But it only made her feel carsick.
“You okay?” her mother asked. Her mother didn't know anything about her visits with the Stones. She never asked on those days when she came home after crying silently the whole way, her stomach muscles aching from the effort. And Crystal never offered. She hadn't talked to anyone about them. No one even asked who they were beyond the portraits they painted in the agency's application. No one wanted to think past that moment in the hospital when she let her go. But now she gripped her seat tightly and imagined their trip home from the hospital, the way Mrs. Stone would have sat in the backseat with the baby, her heart racing, her happiness and fear mixing together in some terrific emotional cocktail. Intoxicating. And she thought about the way the tires would crush the gravel in the driveway, the way the porch light might have made shadows across their faces. She considered the trellis thick with leaves and blooming morning glories; she dreamed the heady scent of spring.
“I'm okay,” she said, nodding and nodding, but missing the burning flash that had now stopped coming to her breasts each time she thought about the baby. She traced the calligraphy with her fingers.
And for a little while, her mother's enthusiasm was infectious. As her mother helped her pick out fluffy towels and soft sheets and a matching brand-new comforter freckled with daisies, she almost felt like any one of the other girls she saw walking with their mothers up and down the street, arms loaded down with bags. Her mother was trying so hard, it nearly broke Crystal's heart. “You're going to need a new alarm clock,” she said, looking at a display of kitschy oversized alarm clocks at Homeport.
“I've got an alarm on my phone,” she said.
“As a backup, then,” her mother said.
And she tried to imagine herself sleeping on those daisy sheets, her head resting on the ergonomic pillow, waking to the sound of that turquoise clock, but just couldn't. It was like trying to imagine waking up in someone else's life. And while that had seemed like exactly what she needed even a few weeks ago, she knew what she really wanted was something else entirely.
She wanted something impossible. She wanted the life she had failed to choose. She wanted to go back to that moment at the hospital when she lifted the baby and passed her like she was not a baby at all but a baton in some horrific race, trusting that the Stones would get her to the finish line.
They were sitting outside at Leunig's, in a sea of other mothers and other daughters, waiting for their food when she caught sight of a woman in the distance. She was nearly a block up the street, but she was blond, her hair in a high ponytail, and she was pushing a stroller. Crystal felt a tug in her chest as the woman came closer, as if they were connected somehow, sewn together at the chest, as if she were somehow reeling her in, pulling her closer with this invisible thread. She was filled with both a terrific sense of dread and excitement. Waiting for the moment to come, the moment when she would be able to make out the woman's face, to confirm that it was Mrs. Stone, and that inside that stroller was her baby. That it was Grace. Crystal felt like she might faint. She clutched the table, but couldn't take her eyes away. And then the woman's face came into focus. It wasn't her. And the baby in the stroller wasn't a baby but a toddler. A little boy with a crusty nose and overalls. Crystal felt like she might vomit.
“I'm not going, Mom.”
“Not going where, sweetheart?” she asked, distracted. She was checking her phone for messages; Crystal had told her to go ahead. That she didn't mind.
“To school.”
Her mother looked up, her bright face suddenly drained of color, making her peach-colored lipstick look alone on her face.
“Of course you are,” she said. “Don't be silly.”
“I can't,” Crystal said. “I'm not ready.”
“No one is ever
ready,
sweetie,” she said. “You were like this before you went off to camp for the first time too, remember? I had to practically carry you onto the bus.”
ready,
sweetie,” she said. “You were like this before you went off to camp for the first time too, remember? I had to practically carry you onto the bus.”
“This is not camp!” Crystal said, her voice quivery and high.
Her mother glanced around, smiling apologetically to all the other mothers, all the other daughters. “Of course not, sweetie. I'm just saying that it's natural to be nervous. To be anxious.”
“I'm sorry,” she said. “I can't do it. And if you make me go, I won't go to classes. I'll fail out. And I'll come home again anyway. Why not skip right to that part? Just fast-forward four months. Because that is exactly what is going to happen.” Crystal felt manic, trapped at the table, trapped by the bags that were hanging off her seat, surrounding her feet. “I am so tired of pretending that none of this happened. I am sick and tired of pretending like I'm just some normal girl. I'm not. I made a mistake.”
“I know,” her mother said, still acting as though she were talking to a defiant child. “And you
took care
of that mistake.” Her mother was smiling maniacally, as if she smiled hard enough she could make what was happening not happen.
took care
of that mistake.” Her mother was smiling maniacally, as if she smiled hard enough she could make what was happening not happen.
“You don't get it, do you?” Crystal said, her chest about to explode. “The mistake wasn't getting pregnant. The mistake was letting you talk me into giving my baby up.”
Her mother had gone from looking apologetic to looking mortified. “You need to stop, young lady,” she said, as if Crystal were eight instead of eighteen. “You're making a spectacle of yourself.” Her voice was hushed and furious.
The waitress came to their table, setting down their plates. “I can't,” Crystal said, shaking her head, feeling the tears coming hot and hard. She practically knocked over her water glass as she stood up. She rushed toward the restaurant door and went inside, grateful that she was able to locate the restroom quickly. Inside the tiny room, which was decorated to look like some sort of Parisian
toilette,
she sat down on the toilet seat and waited for the heat in her head to dissipate, to somehow disperse through the rest of her body. She wondered if it was possible to bring on a fever by simple, sheer will. Finally, someone knocked on the door, and she gathered herself.
toilette,
she sat down on the toilet seat and waited for the heat in her head to dissipate, to somehow disperse through the rest of her body. She wondered if it was possible to bring on a fever by simple, sheer will. Finally, someone knocked on the door, and she gathered herself.
She found her mother outside, paying the waitress, both plates of food untouched. Her mother had gathered their bags together.
“I think it's time to go home,” she said, without looking at Crystal.
Crystal nodded, suddenly compliant. And she did feel like a child. Like a child who had just had the biggest tantrum ever and somehow gotten her way. She followed behind her mother, scolded, all the way to the parking garage.
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