One Week In December (23 page)

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Authors: Holly Chamberlin

BOOK: One Week In December
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41
He would try once more. Just one more time. He'd seen the look of—contrition—on Becca's face at dinner the night before, at the end of that dangerous conversation about adoption. He would bet anything that she regretted her words. Maybe something had changed for her in the past days.
Maybe. But if his daughter still wouldn't—couldn't?—talk to him one to one, well, then, it would have to rest. At least he would know that he had tried. What more could a father do?
He found Becca emerging from the den. Personally, he still felt bad that she had been ousted from her regular room. “Becca,” he said, “I was wondering if you were ready—I mean, I was wondering if you would like to talk?”
Becca seized the moment, unaware that she was ready to do so until the words, “Yes, let's talk,” were out of her mouth. And when she realized what she had agreed to, she felt a thrill of anticipation. Fear was gone. When had it fled?
Steve smiled, but guardedly. He didn't want to take too much for granted. Besides, he was as afraid of this interview with his daughter as he was looking forward to it. “Okay,” he said. “Let's go to my studio. We'll only be interrupted here.”
Without speaking they put on their coats and other cold-weather gear and left the house. They had gone only a few yards when they both spotted a car halfway to the local road.
“Who is that?” her father asked, squinting after it.
Becca recognized the make and color of the car. She could also see that only one person was inside. “It's James. I wonder where he's going?” she asked, though silently she knew the answer: any place Olivia wasn't.
Henry Le Mew was waiting for them at the studio. He greeted them with a loud and, what sounded to Becca, demanding cry.
“Let me just give him some food before we talk,” Steve said with a note of apology in his voice. “If he doesn't have something to eat just before his insulin shot, he could get very sick.”
Becca nodded. Her father retrieved a small bag of specialty dry food from a locked cabinet under his worktable. (Yes, she remembered hearing something about Henry's uncanny ability to open doors and drawers.) He poured a bowl for Henry, who immediately set to his meal with gusto. It made Becca smile. Henry Le Mew was one lucky kitty. One very spoiled, very lucky kitty.
Just like she had been one very spoiled and very lucky little girl. As her father prepared the insulin shot, Becca thought back to her childhood. There hadn't been one thing she lacked. Really, it had been as close to idyllic as she could imagine. She remembered laughter. There had been lots of laughter. And then, she had grown up.
Becca looked around her father's studio. On a large corkboard were posted photographs of the Rowan family, including, of course, Steve's father, Thomas. There was a photo of Becca riding on her grandfather's shoulders. In another, she, David, and Olivia waved from their campstools around a fire. She was sitting to David's right. Above his head she was making devil's horns. Becca smiled.
Oh, boy,
she thought,
what a spitfire I was!
Another photo showed Nora blowing out a forest of candles on an iced cake. Becca remembered the occasion; it was her grandmother's seventieth birthday. There was a photo of her parents with a newborn Lily. Her father still looked stunned, as if he couldn't quite understand where this latest, unexpected child had come from. Finally, there was a photo of Rain, Michael, and Malcolm, taken last Halloween. Rain and her brothers, a Goth witch holding the hands of two small, green goblins.
Suddenly, a child's voice spoke in her imagination. It was the voice of Michael, or maybe it was the voice of Malcolm. It was saying, with confusion, “So you're not really my sister? You're my cousin? I don't understand.”
“There.” Her father's voice startled her back to the moment. “Henry's taken care of for the moment. Please, have a seat.”
Steve settled in his own chair as Becca perched on a wooden stool close by.
“How many rules did you break, Dad?”
It wasn't how she had wanted to start the conversation. She hadn't meant to sound so aggressive or challenging. But the question had been asked. Before she could retrieve it, her father replied.
“Becca,” he said, “please try to understand. It wasn't like that. It wasn't—underhanded. People did us favors. Everything—everything was done in a spirit of support for our family. In a spirit of support for you.”
“I believe you,” she said honestly. “But you're a lawyer, Dad. And you participated in a deception that could have cost you your practice if you'd been found out. It could have cost other people their jobs, too, their reputations. So much was at stake.”
Steve smiled ruefully. “I know. What else can I say, Becca? What I did, I did. I can't undo it. I don't know that I would if I could. A parent will go to great lengths to protect his or her family.” Here, Steve paused. “But you know that.”
Becca didn't take her father's words as an admonishment. A day or two earlier she would have replied defensively. But not now. “Yes,” she said. “I do know that. And I'm really sorry about what I said at dinner last night. Believe me, I had no intention of—”
Her father cut her off. “Apology accepted. It was a conversation that should never have been started. Olivia had no call to bring up the subject of adoption, for several reasons.”
Father and daughter sat quietly for a while. Becca watched Henry, who was on top of the worktable, groom himself in rhythmic strokes of his large pink tongue. The sight was oddly soothing.
“Family closes ranks when there's trouble.”
Becca looked back to her father. He'd spoken quietly, almost as if unaware he had spoken at all. She wasn't sure that he wanted a response, but she said, “Sometimes it feels more like the family closed ranks and left me outside.”
Steve leaned forward; his expression was earnest. “I'm sorry for that, Becca. I'm sorry you feel that way. None of us ever intended for you to feel alienated, least of all me.”
For the first time in a long time, maybe ever, Becca felt the truth of those words.
Steve went on. “No doubt we made mistakes caring for you after Rain was born. Maybe we should have insisted you see a therapist. Maybe we should have insisted you talk to someone about what you were feeling.”
“Maybe,” Becca said. But the truth was that at first, all Becca had wanted to do was move on. She hadn't wanted to dwell on her feelings about being a sixteen-year-old mother/aunt. She'd wanted to finish high school, go to college, make a career. She'd wanted to prove to everyone in her family that she would no longer be a problem.
“Dad?” she said. “Did you ever, even once, regret what you did for me?” Only days before, Becca would have said “what you did
to
me.” She was aware of this change. She wondered if her father had heard it.
“I'm not sure if I'd use the word ‘regret,' ” he answered. “But I did have second thoughts. I did wonder if what I'd done—what we'd done—had really been the best thing. Of course I wondered. How could I not have doubts? But the adoption was a fait accompli. And for all I could see, things were turning out for the best.”
“Yes,” she said, almost to herself. “For some.” Becca looked back at Henry Le Mew. He was sitting in a lump, staring fixedly at her. It unnerved her.
“I'm sorry, Becca, for your unhappiness. I truly am. I only wanted . . .”
Becca turned back to her father. He looked so terribly sad. Becca felt her heart ache for him. If that was sentimentality, so be it. If it was love . . .
“What, Dad?” she asked. “What did you want?”
“I only wanted what was best for my family.”
Becca nodded. “One more thing, Dad.”
Her poor father looked justifiably apprehensive.
“What is it, Becca?” he asked.
“Well, I was just wondering why Henry doesn't like me.”
Steve's eyes widened with surprise. “What makes you think he doesn't like you?”
“Look at him, Dad. Look at that stare! He hasn't blinked for minutes. He looks like he wants to kill me.”
Steve laughed. “Oh, that's nothing. He gives everyone that look. Even me when I give him tuna when he's in the mood for turkey.”
“I don't know,” she said doubtfully.
“Look, I'll show you. Henry, come on over and say hello to Becca.”
Henry stood up on his fistlike paws and stretched to a magnificent arch. When he'd regained his normal, still impressive stature, he yawned, showing, to Becca's unease, many very pointy teeth. And then, to her utter amazement, he walked, with some dignity, to where she now stood by her father.
“Let him smell your hand,” Steve directed.
Hesitatingly, Becca put her fingers under Henry's large pink nose. Henry sniffed—and before Becca could panic, he was rubbing his face against her fingers.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered. “I can't believe this!”
“I told you he liked you. He just hates crowds. With everyone in the house he prefers to stay on his own.” Steve chuckled. “Can't say I blame him.”
Abruptly, Henry Le Mew turned and walked back to where he'd been sitting a few moments before.
“He's got some napping to do,” Steve explained.
“And I've got some thinking to do,” Becca said softly. “I'll see you back at the house later, Dad.”
She left her father's studio before she could allow herself to be hugged.
42
Becca had told her father the truth; she did have some thinking to do. But first, she had to deal with something that had been nagging at her for the past hour.
Olivia was one of her least favorite people—and clearly, if their confrontation in the attic had proved anything, it was that Olivia didn't care much for her younger sister, either—but Becca felt compelled to check on her, to see if she was all right. Seeing James drive away earlier had given Becca a bad feeling. She was afraid that the Rowan family was to see yet another dangerous rift in its once sturdy structure.
A quick check of the first floor assured Becca that her sister wasn't to be found there.
“Have you seen Olivia?” she asked Lily, when the younger girl passed her in the hall, a paperback novel in hand.
“Yes,” she said. “About ten minutes ago she came into the kitchen for some tea. She was acting strangely. Her hands were shaking. I asked her if she wanted me to get James, but she just went up to her room. I mean, I guess that's where she was going.”
“Okay. I'll go see if she's all right. And I know what you're thinking,” she added. “That I'm the last person Olivia wants to see.”
Lily smiled ruefully. “Anyway, it's nice of you to check on her. Thanks, Becca. I was a little worried, but I wasn't sure what to do.”
Becca shrugged. She felt embarrassed by Lily's thanks. “Whatever,” she said, and headed for the stairs.
She knocked softly on the door of the Queen Anne's Lace Room. Really, her mother was so silly with these ridiculous names.
“Liv? You in there?”
There was no response.
“Olivia?” she called, knocking again, this time more loudly. “Are you okay?”
Still there was no response. Becca gently tried the doorknob. The door was locked from the inside.
“Olivia,” she called, “if you don't answer me I'm going to get Mom.”
Finally, a hoarse voice responded to Becca's knocking and threat. “I'm fine,” it said. “I'm just—resting.”
Becca didn't believe for one moment that her older sister was “fine,” but at least she'd proved to be alive. “Okay,” she said. “I'll be downstairs if—if you need anything.”
Becca walked back down the hallway. It had felt odd to offer help to her older sister. It had felt odd, but also somehow right.
As she approached the room that Rain was sharing with Lily, Becca noticed that the door was now partway open. She stopped and peeked inside. Naomi was sitting on the edge of the bed. Rain lay there with a wet washcloth over her eyes, probably suffering from a migraine. She had inherited that awful genetic trait from her grandmother, who had been hit by the pain and nausea every month just before her period.
Becca didn't mean to spy, but the scene arrested her. She watched surreptitiously as Naomi adjusted the washcloth and murmured what were no doubt consoling words to her daughter.
Her daughter.
And suddenly Becca knew, deep down, knew without a doubt, that it would be a crime to shatter the bond she was witnessing.
It would be a crime against every one of the Rowans.
Time marched on. At the age of sixteen, Becca herself had given birth. Now Rain, at sixteen, was capable of bringing new life into the world. The reality was that time passed; no matter who was Rain's acknowledged mother, Rain would move away from her. Even if she were to come to understand and accept that Becca, not Naomi, was her birth mother, she would still be off on her own path before long. It was inevitable that everyone moved forward and that all ties loosened even as they endured. Love, it could be said, was elastic.
And it had a cost. Sometimes it seemed a cost too high to meet. But you just had to pay it, because a life without love was simply not worth living.
Suddenly, Naomi turned her head and saw Becca at the door. She smiled, her expression questioning but not unkind or suspicious.
“I'm sorry,” Becca whispered, already beginning to tiptoe away.
Once back in the den, Becca, suddenly exhausted, stretched out on the lumpy couch and pulled a heavy blanket up to her chin.
She used to think that the stupidest thing she had ever done was getting pregnant at sixteen, and the smartest, the best thing she had ever done was going through with the pregnancy. Well, she still thought that giving birth to Rain was the best and most beautiful thing she had accomplished. But now she was beginning to think that the stupidest—the most selfish—thing she had ever done was threaten to destroy her family—each and every one of them—with the truth.
The truth. What was the truth in this situation? The truth was that Becca loved her daughter. That was the biggest and the best truth. Becca loved Rain. That should be enough.
And Becca now knew something she hadn't really known only days earlier. She knew that even if Rain were to be told the truth about her parentage, that truth would never erase the fact of the relationship that had existed between Rain and Naomi for sixteen years. Today's truth didn't invalidate yesterday's reality. It might taint it, but it could never erase it entirely.
No. To attempt to consume her daughter, to attempt to assume her daughter in the way she had been planning to would be, as Olivia would say, a form of madness. To attempt to force her into becoming a best friend would be wrong.
And really, Becca thought now, hadn't she been one of the lucky ones? She'd read stories and seen movies about women who had given up a baby for adoption at birth, women who'd never seen or who had only glimpsed their children before they became the children of other mothers. She'd read how years later, so many of those women were filled with regret and longing, how many of them were desperate for contact with those babies, for assurance that they had grown and thrived. She'd read how so many women were never, ever to know the fate of their children.
But Becca had had the opportunity not only to observe the baby she had given up at birth but also to interact with her, to love her face-to-face. If that was sometimes painful because it was done in the guise of an aunt and not a mother, so be it. In the end it was a hell of a lot better situation than it might have been. What if David and Naomi hadn't offered to raise Rain as their own? What then? Becca might never have had the privilege of watching her little girl grow into a young woman.
Becca threw off the blanket and sat up. She had a sudden, burning need to see Alex, and she wasn't at all sure why. She had never been to his house or studio, though he'd given her directions of a sort the morning she'd run into him after breakfast. Was it really only days ago that Becca had sworn she'd never have an intention to pay her parents' neighbor a visit?
Now the thought of just showing up on his doorstep scared her a bit. She wondered what sort of reception she would receive. She considered calling ahead but didn't want to ask her mother for his phone number. God knows what sort of ideas her mother might get, matchmaker that she was. Besides, she hadn't seen her mother for a while; she might be off running an errand or stalking through the snowy woods with Hank.
Becca wanted to act now. She bundled up in her sweaters and coat. In the hall she pulled on the heavy boots that now seemed like the smartest investment she'd made in some time. And once again she ventured out into the Kently winter.

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