Leaving Haven (35 page)

She remembered a few other things from that date—the bluebells carpeting the woods along the shore, the field chickweed blooming white in the meadows, three turkey vultures circling overhead—but what stood out for her, the thing she never forgot, was that cup of coffee.
Cream, no sugar.

Duncan studied her and learned her because he felt she was worth learning. And that's who Duncan was, a man who noticed things and paid attention and took the time to study and learn things he loved, like the law and trees and that poem about baby wrens. And now, Duncan was gone.

On a sudden impulse, Alice went into Wren's bedroom and pulled out the photo album she had made for her sixth birthday. Georgia, the artistic one, had gone through a scrapbooking phase, and had persuaded Alice to spend far too much money on special scissors and punches and paper and stickers and an album with archival paper, whatever that meant. They had both made special albums for the girls' birthdays that year, a kind of
This Is Your Life
recapitulation of key moments, year by year.

The album Georgia had made for Liza had been beautiful, with delightful hand-drawn borders on every page and clever cutouts of panda bears and flowers and lollipops. Alice's album for Wren was much more straightforward, photos in neat rows, with lots of white space and captions in Alice's careful print.

She turned the first page, to the photo of Duncan holding newborn Wren in the hospital. Duncan stood sideways, his face turned toward the camera, with both arms wrapped around the baby, who was curled against his chest with her head on his shoulder. Her eyes were open and alert, and one tiny fist gripped the neckline of his polo shirt. She was so small in Duncan's long arms, against his strong chest. Alice remembered looking at the photo several days after Wren's birth and feeling her own chest constrict with her love for the two of them, her
family,
the first real family she had ever had.

She sat on the edge of Wren's bed and pushed aside the pile of leggings and T-shirts and dirty clothes Wren had left there. She set the album in her lap and studied the photo—the way Duncan's hand curled protectively around the baby's small thigh; the way his head was tilted just slightly toward hers; the dimples in Wren's small fist as she clutched his shirt. She thought about the other baby, the one she had held just a few days ago, who had opened his eyes and looked at her with her own eyes, her own expression. But that moment had lost its power. She heard Duncan's voice say,
How will you explain to Wren that Liza's baby brother is now
her
baby brother instead?
She heard him say,
I can't raise John Bing's son, Alice.
John Bing's son.

Alice looked down at the album again.
Her
child,
her
family, was right here in this photo, lived right here in this house. She was, indeed, an imperfect woman and imperfect wife and imperfect mother, but it was all she had to offer. And that was enough.

Alice closed the album, put it down on the bed, and stood up. Then she jogged down the stairs to her own bedroom, pulled her black suitcase from under the bed, and began to pack.

25

Georgia

June 25, 2012

J
ohn still hadn't arrived by the time the sky grew pale above the mountains on the eastern shore the next morning, by the time the loon screamed its own wakefulness across the lake. Georgia awoke at six and stood on the porch gazing at the water, listening for the sound of tires on the gravel drive. An early morning mist hung above the surface of the lake, caressed the rocks along the shore, curled through the trees. She could hear the sweet whistle of a white-throated sparrow in the woods and, beyond that, stillness. The baby had slept in Polly's room last night; Georgia had expressed enough of her abundant milk to fill several of the bottles Chessy had brought, then she had put in her earplugs, latched the hook on her bedroom door, and slept.

She heard the creak of footsteps on the stairs and turned to see Chessy, carrying a bright-eyed Lily on one hip.

“How can you be standing on the porch?” Chessy said. “It's freezing.” She wore blue flannel pajama bottoms and an oversized red sweatshirt proclaiming
I
LOVE
NAPS
.

“I keep expecting to hear John's car.”

“Maybe he got lost,” Chessy said. “Here.” She handed Lily to Georgia, and bent to put on their father's black rain boots, which sat under the table on the porch.

“Are you going somewhere?” Georgia said.

“Yes. I'm going to the kitchen to make coffee and my feet are freezing. I didn't bring slippers.”

Georgia followed her into the kitchen and sat down, the baby in her lap. She picked up a set of tin measuring spoons from the counter and handed them to Lily.

“Maybe John was in an accident,” Chessy said, rooting through the cupboard.

“You don't have to sound so hopeful about it,” Georgia said.

Lily banged the spoons against the table. A baby's cry came from upstairs, then the creaking of the floorboards as Polly got out of bed. The crying rose to wails. Polly's voice was a murmur, a river of comfort, and Georgia felt a pang of guilt that Polly was the one up there soothing Haven.

“Did he sleep through the night?” Georgia asked Chessy. The uninsulated walls in the cabin, built as a summer escape in the 1930s, were paper-thin.

“Are you crazy?” Their father's boots were too big for Chessy and she walked around the kitchen in shuffling steps. “He's what—six days old? What do you think?”

He's not my baby,
Georgia said to herself.
He's not my baby.

“Every two hours,” Polly said, coming through the doorway with the baby on her shoulder. She walked over to the fridge, took out one of the bottles of Georgia's milk, and handed it to Chessy. “Here, will you warm this up?” She looked at Georgia. “I breast-fed all four of mine. This bottle business is a pain in the neck.”

Georgia shrugged and bent to kiss the top of Lily's head. She looked up. “John's not here yet.”

Polly shifted the baby to her other shoulder. “Knowing John, he stopped for dinner, had a few beers, and pulled into a Motel 6. I bet he's sitting at the counter in some diner on the Northway right now, giving the cook pointers on how to scramble eggs.”

Chessy smiled. “Right.” She switched the coffeemaker on and took out the jar of baby oatmeal she had warmed in the microwave. She sat down at the table next to Georgia and reached for Lily. “So,” she said, “let's plan my wedding.”

“I have maternity leggings I can wear,” Georgia said. “In black.”

“I brought a dress for you,” Chessy said. She looked at Polly. “And one for you.”

“If they have puffy sleeves or giant bows on the butt forget it,” Polly said. “I'm too old to be Little Bo Peep. And nothing matching. I'm too old for sister dresses, too.”

“Very funny.” Chessy slipped a spoonful of oatmeal into Lily's mouth. “I think that bottle is warm now.”

Polly picked up the bottle from where it sat in a simmering pan of water on the stove, then handed the bottle and the baby to Georgia. “I did the night shift,” she said.

Haven nestled against Georgia. She picked up the bottle and held it to his lips. He pushed it away with his tongue.

“Why don't you just nurse him?” Chessy said.

“Because I don't plan to
keep
nursing him.” But of course the baby wriggled and turned his face toward her breast and rooted with his small mouth against her, and her milk let down. With a sigh, she put the bottle down on the table, and unbuttoned her shirt. He latched on and looked up at her, his gray eyes studying her face.
Don't memorize me, little man,
Georgia thought.
Don't get accustomed to my face
.

Chessy glanced at the clock. “Ez should be here by two,” she said. Lily banged a pudgy fist against the top of the table and Chessy spooned another bite of oatmeal into her mouth. “I have a list somewhere of everything that needs to get done.”

“
Where
are you getting married?” said Polly. She poured herself a generous cup of coffee. “And who's performing the ceremony?”

“Well, we were going to get married in the meadow,” Chessy said, tilting her head toward the window. “But it turns out Ez is allergic to hawkweed so we've decided to get married on the town beach. Reverend Finster is performing the ceremony.”

“Reverend Finster?” Polly arched an eyebrow at Chessy.

“Yes, don't look at me like that. He's a
real
minister, from that Community Church in town. We've had several phone conversations with him.”

“What denomination is he?”

“I don't know. Some kind of Protestant. Ez and I are meeting him at four today.” She looked up at Polly. “Will you take Lily then? Just for an hour.”

“Oh, my God. I finally have a few days of blessed freedom from my kids and now you two want to do nothing but saddle me with yours.” Polly rolled her eyes, but she nodded. “All right. Fine.” She drew her eyebrows together in a mock serious face and stared at Lily. “Promise me you'll be good, you little demon child, you.”

“She's not a demon child,” Chessy said.

“Haven is the only demon child here,” Georgia said.

Polly and Chessy turned to her. “He's a
baby,
” Chessy said. “An
innocent
baby.”

“It was a joke,” Georgia said. “But I'm not going to—” She stopped as she heard a noise outside: the hum of a car engine and the sound of tires on the gravel road.

“Oh, God,” she said. “John's here.”

G
EORGIA
UNLATCHED
THE
baby's mouth from her breast and buttoned her shirt. “What if he's got the police with him or something?” Georgia felt wild, unmoored, as though she might fly apart in little pieces and go floating up to the ceiling.

“I just heard
one
car,” Chessy said. “He's not bringing the police. You watch too many crime dramas on TV.”

The baby, separated abruptly from his breakfast, began to cry. The tires outside came to a stop and a car door slammed.

“He's got balls, I will give him that,” Chessy said. “Coming up here knowing all three of us were here.” She stood up, propped Lily on one hip, and stepped out onto the porch, Polly close behind her.

“Well, well, well,” Chessy's voice said. “If it isn't Chef Boyardee.”

Georgia cradled Haven against her shoulder, then stood up and followed Chessy.

John stood outside on the wooden stoop. He cleared his throat. “I want to talk to Georgia,” he said. His eyes caught sight of her face. “Georgia, please. Can we talk?”

He was pale, even for John, who spent his life in a kitchen. A dark stubble of three or four days' growth stood out against the whiteness of his skin. His hair was unkempt, as though he had run his hands through it over and over. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt and held his arms crossed over his chest with a hand in each armpit, probably to keep them warm. The mist still clung to the lake and hung over the swamp grass by the shore, and the air was chilly and damp. Georgia almost—
almost
—felt sorry for him.

“I don't want the baby,” she said. She stepped out from behind Chessy. “It was Polly and Chessy's idea to bring him here; not mine. I had nothing to do with it.”

“Can I come in?”

John didn't wait for an answer. He opened the screen door, which squeaked in protest, then banged shut behind him. Georgia expected him to stand right there next to the door, ready for a quick escape, but he walked over to where she stood. His glance flickered to the baby, and back to Georgia's face.

“Here,” she said. She peeled the baby off her shoulder, wrapped her hands around Haven's little chest, her hands under his armpits, and held him out toward John.

John looked at her. “What?”

“Take him. I don't want him. He's yours. You and Alice are welcome to him.”

John didn't move. “Listen. I drove almost all night to get here, except for a one-hour nap in the car in the parking lot of some Stewart's on the Northway. I'm in no condition to drive back to D.C., with or without the baby. I came to talk to you.”

Georgia took a step forward. “Take him,” she said.

John reached out and took the baby, holding him as Georgia had, with both hands under the baby's armpits. “Georgia, come on. What am I going to do with him right now? Where am I going to go?”

Georgia leveled a look at her husband. “Get a room,” she said. “You have some recent experience with that, don't you?”

John sucked in the air sharply between his teeth, as though he'd been punched.