Mystic Summer (21 page)

I haven't been in the Wilder house since I was in college, but when Cam invites me in, I feel like I'm nineteen again. The toile wallpaper in the entryway is the same. As are the damask couches in the living room, and the heavy rose-colored drapes. I stop to look at a high school photo of Cam on the bookshelf. “It wasn't a mullet,” he says, coming to stand behind me. An ongoing joke we shared.

“It was almost a mullet,” I tell him, laughing. Emory lets out a coo. “See? Even she thinks so.”

He motions me to the rear of the house, through the kitchen, which has been updated with cherry cabinets and granite countertops. “The pantry is over there if you get hungry,” he says, pointing to a walk-in.

“Thanks. It's beautiful in here.”

“Well, the basement is not. So brace yourself.”

I follow him down the carpeted steps to the finished basement, the former rec room where we used to hang out and watch TV. The old overstuffed sofas have been replaced with leather and the carpeting switched out for hardwood. The pool table is gone, and the bar area has been turned into a small but cozy corner kitchen.

“What are you talking about? This is great, Cam. Did you do all this?”

Cam piles a stack of dishes in the sink and runs a cloth over the counter.

“I had to make some updates when Emory and I moved back,” he says, quickly shoving a pile of mail into a silverware drawer.

It's a bright space with walkout doors to the side yard, much bigger than my Boston apartment.

“Emory and I share the guest room,” he says, motioning me to the rear. We stand in the doorway together, surveying Cam's bed, the crib, and the changing table. “It's kind of cramped,” he says.

“It's cozy,” I tell him.

Cam shows me where the diapers and wipes are, and I watch as he fumbles through their shared dresser looking for pajamas. Each drawer he opens flashes in pinks and greens, and he looks up bashfully. “Typical girl. Totally took over the clothes storage.”

“I can do that, really,” I say, shooing him out. “You don't want to be late.”

He leaves me with two fresh bottles, points out the bouncy seat, and is halfway up the stairs with Emory still in his arms before I catch him.

“Uh, if you want me to watch the baby, I sort of need the baby.”

We both laugh. “Right. Sorry, I'm just not used to leaving her with anyone besides my mom.” He looks at me bashfully.

“It's okay, Jane is the same way. I've got my cell, you've got yours. We'll be fine, right, baby girl?” I ask Emory as Cam gingerly passes her to me.

Emory looks between us like she isn't so sure. “Go. Quick. Before one of you cries.”

Cam leans in to kiss Emory, whose little face is right next to my own, and for a second we're a triangle of faces pressed closely. “Okay, then. Bye.”

I hoist her up on my hip. “It's just you and me, baby.” She seems to be taking me in through little peeks, though every time I look directly at her she turns her head. Five minutes after Cam has left she starts to cry.

At first it's just a little hiccupy cry, an uncertain whimper about being left with me, a stranger. Lucy used to do this, so I walk her around the basement apartment, humming and talking to her. We make a few laps of the living area and kitchenette, and she seems to settle a bit. But soon she starts crying for real, and we move to the windows, a trick I learned from Jane. Her gaze fixes on the garden and she calms, so we step outside into the side yard. “Let's check out Grandma's yard. It's so pretty out here, huh?”

The sun is lower on the horizon. We walk together through Mrs. Wilder's perennial beds, which are thick and lush with
hydrangea and lilies. I kneel down and pick a yellow lily, and Emory's eyes widen. She reaches with a fast hand and grips it tight. “Pretty. Like you, Em.”

She brings her clenched fist, flower and all, abruptly to her mouth. Yellow pollen covers her nose and cheek, and she wags her head in surprise. “Uh-oh. Let's not eat that.” I wonder for a faint heartbeat if she could be allergic. Or if it's poisonous. Back inside we go, to clean her up.

A half hour later we've washed our face, changed a diaper, given the swing a go, and tried the bouncy seat. To little avail. Emory oscillates between moderate fussing and weepy tears, her gaze sweeping the room, probably wondering when her daddy is going to rescue her from this strange lady. I am starting to wonder the same.

“Daddy's coming back really soon, sweetie. It's okay.” I retrieve a fresh bottle from the fridge and place it in the bottle warmer as Cam showed me. Jane breast-fed all her babies and never had such a contraption. When the light goes off I test it on my wrist, fearful of scalding her. But it's only lukewarm. “Perfect,” I say, settling Emory on my lap on the couch. But she does not think so. She arches her back away when I offer her the bottle, refusing. I try again, and she begins to cry louder. “Maybe you're not hungry yet.” In five minutes we're back out in the garden, Emory jigging on my hip and a sense of dread spreading through my chest. I've never had this much trouble soothing Jane's kids. I remind myself that I've been a fixture in their life since they were born. But, as silly as it is, I can't help but take it somewhat personally.

Despite being outside, Emory is now in full-blown wailing mode. I grab my cell, but realize I don't know whom to call. I'm certainly not going to interrupt Cam's meeting. And Erika is not
an option. The thought of my mother flashes briefly, but then I imagine the look of confusion on her face—upon learning that ten years later I am back in the Wilder basement—followed by a disapproving sigh.

Once, when Owen was a baby and Jane was rushing out the door for a doctor's appointment, she had what she called one of her worst-mother-ever moments. It was a cold winter afternoon, and she'd just tucked Owen into his snowsuit. He'd eaten and been changed, but the second she put his snowsuit on, he began howling. She wondered if it was his diaper, so she checked again. She thought maybe he was hot, so she unzipped him. But by then she was late and overwhelmed, and so she impatiently tucked him into his car seat, cranked up the radio, and drove off, praying the ride would calm him down. Halfway down the road when he still hadn't let up, Jane pulled over, sensing something really was wrong. And it was. When she removed his snowsuit to check more carefully she realized one of his little thumbs had been bent back in the sleeve. In her haste, she'd overlooked it. The second she freed his arm, Owen silenced. Then Jane began to sob.

Remembering that, I hurry Emory back inside. I lay her on the changing table in their shared room and undress her quickly. Maybe I put the diaper on too tight. Maybe her toe is tangled in a thread in her sock. Oh God, maybe there's a spider stuck in her pajamas that's bitten her at least twenty times by now. Flustered, I tug the suit off as gently as I can. But everything seems fine.

“What is it, Em? Your diaper is dry. Your pajamas are okay. You're not hungry.” I lean over her, desperate and fully cognizant of the fact that I'm pleading with a six-month-old. “What is it?”

And then her eyes lock on mine and Emory stops. I wipe the tears off her plush cheeks with my thumb. “See? It's okay.” I keep my gaze on hers, unwilling to break our eye contact. Gingerly, I tuck her chubby legs back into her pajama feet as best I can. I button her up, smiling all the while. And then, suddenly, she smiles back at me.

“There's our girl!” In that moment I am overcome. More than for any parent conference, or student win, or classroom score.

This time when I scoop her up, she settles heavily against my chest. “You tired?” I certainly am. Outside the sky is darkening. I carry her around the room, singing “Silent Night.” It's the only soothing song I know all the words to. I grab the bottle from the counter and move to the rocking chair in Cam's dim room.

This time, Emory takes the bottle eagerly. Her crying and her visitor have probably both worn the poor little thing out, but she looks up at me contentedly from the crook of my arm. I rock and she sucks noisily at first, then more softly. Soon her lashes flutter, and her sucking grows intermittent. “That's my girl,” I whisper in the growing darkness.

Much later, there is a noise overhead, followed by the fall of footsteps on the stairs. “Maggie? I'm home.”

I blink at the silhouette that fills the doorway. “Cam?”

Emory is a warm weight, still in my arms, which have grown stiff and ache. I glance down at her, sleeping soundly.

“Did you fall asleep?” he whispers.

I nod, rising slowly, mindful not to disturb her. “Here, let me help.”

Cam steps into the room, but I shake my head. “It's okay. I've got her,” I whisper.

I bend over the crib, holding Emory away from my chest
as I lower her to her mattress. She stirs, and I hold my breath, keeping one hand on her tummy as reassurance, as I've seen Jane do. When I'm sure she's settled, I tiptoe out.

Cam is waiting in the kitchen, pouring us each a glass of water. “How'd it go?” he asks.

I stretch and look around. The floor is strewn with blankets and soft toys. The bouncy seat is tipped over. “Great. She fussed a little when you left, but we worked through it.”

Cam cocks his head. “Just a little? I forgot to mention, she's teething.”

I make a face. “Never would have guessed.”

“So she worked you over, huh?” He chuckles softly and hands me a glass.

“No, no, she was great. Just wondering where her daddy was. How'd the meeting go?”

“It went well, I think. I should hear back from him tomorrow. Hey, it's still early. Do you want to hang out for a bit?”

Sitting on the couch in Cam's parents' basement, like we used to as nineteen-year-olds, should feel strange. But the strange thing is how normal it feels. Cam tells me about the house renovation bid and gets up to grab the blueprints, his expression intent as he walks me through the plans. After, I tell him about Emory, coming clean about how I'd almost called him at one point in her crying jag.

“You can call me anytime,” he insists, shaking his head. “Now I feel bad. You were so great to help me out tonight.”

“No, I'm glad I did. Even with the rough start, I have to tell you, putting her to bed was really sweet.” I glance back at the bedroom door, left ajar in case she needs us. And then at Cam. “You go from those moments of feeling so desperate to feeling so . . .”

“Numb?”

I laugh. “I was going to say full. Content. But yes, I suppose numb works.”

Cam looks at me appreciatively. “That's just it; they're so little, and yet they can make the whole world screech to a halt in those moments. You did great, Mags. Thanks for helping me get out of a jam.” He leans back against the cushions, quiet for a moment. “Being a single parent you find yourself needing help more than you'd like to admit. But it's still hard to ask.”

I look over at him, his eyes heavy with fatigue. “You can ask me anytime.” And as I climb the stairs on my way out, I find myself feeling surprisingly good. Good about helping Cam out, and even better about how I was able to keep it together with a crying infant. But mostly, how good it felt while she slept in my arms, this helpless little creature, who moments earlier had me feeling so helpless, now snuggled against my chest. It was a feeling I couldn't quite put my finger on, but terribly satisfying.

Cam walks me to the door. “So which did you end up deciding on?”

I pause on the front step, confused. “Which?”

“Romantic night at the Ocean House or wild night in Newport?”

I fiddle with the straps of my purse. “Oh. Yeah, that was for a weekend trip I was sort of planning.”

Cam smiles. “I'm just teasing you, Mags. I'm glad you've got someone to make plans with.”

While I've never
consciously
kept Evan away from Cam, I still feel as if I've been caught. Or as if I've somehow betrayed him, after the many confidences he's shared with me. But neither
of those sentiments stings as hard as his comment: if Cam is glad I have
someone
, then what does that make
us
?

“I probably should've mentioned that earlier,” I say, struggling to meet his gaze. “I'm seeing someone back home.”

“What's his name?”

I flush. “Evan.”

Cam jams his hands in his pockets and looks somewhere past me, out into the night. “Evan's a lucky guy.”

As I walk to my car, I can't shake the feeling that I've messed up somehow. I will not glance back to see if he's watching me go, I tell myself. But halfway down the driveway, when I do, the door has been closed. I stop beside Cam's Jeep, wondering if I should go back and knock on the door. What would I possibly say if I did? As I stand there, something bright catches my attention in the backseat—Emory's polka-dot car seat. There are stuffed toys strewn across the seat and a half-filled sippy cup tipped on its side. A bag of diapers gapes open on the floor. The front seat, however, is tidy—all business. Several poster tubes lie neatly across the passenger seat. Probably containing building plans like the ones he just showed me. Then I notice that around one of the tubes is a bright-yellow plastic teething ring.