Pickin Clover (16 page)

Clover was eager to help when Polly opened the trunk of the car. She struggled with a huge mesh bag of apples, and Polly wrestled the heavier grocery sacks to the front door. She set them down to unlock the door and ushered Clover in ahead of her, then led the way down the hallway to the kitchen.

The child followed, staring around with big eyes.

Polly dumped the grocery bags on the counter and grabbed the bag of clothing. “Okay, Clover, c’mon upstairs. Lets get you cleaned up a bit before lunch.”

In the bathroom, she filled the tub with warm water, spilling in a generous amount of sweet-smelling bubble bath.

“My mommy have some of that.” Clover pointed at the elegant bottle and doffed her clothing. For a moment Polly’s heart caught at the sight of the fragile little body. The girl climbed into the tub with Polly’s help and sank into the bubbles with a sigh of pure feminine bliss. Polly handed her a sponge and a long-handled brush and let her play for a few moments before shampooing her hair. Clover was stoic about the shampoo and rinse water; without a word of complaint, she let Polly pour pitchers of water over her head.

When she was out of the tub, however, she refused Polly’s offer to help with the new clothing.

“I can by my own self,” she insisted, pulling panties and shorts on, struggling into a T-shirt. With a ferocity that made Polly flinch, she attacked her hair with the brush.

Downstairs again, Polly heated a tin of soup and opened the jar of peanut butter. It was the first time she’d had peanut butter in the house since Susannah had died, and the familiar smell brought back a cascade of memories.

Clover ate two spoonfuls of soup and a quarter of one sandwich between yawns. It was evident she was too exhausted to eat. Polly led the way upstairs once more and opened the door to the spare bedroom.

“This is where you can sleep, Clover. This can be your room while you’re here.”

No response. Accustomed to Clover’s silence, Polly glanced around the sunny room. It was certainly evident Michael had been sleeping here more than he had with her. A pair of his trousers and a shirt were tossed over the chair; an undershirt and a pair of socks lay on the deep window seat; several medical journals sat on the floor beside the bed.

Having Clover here meant that he’d just have to grit his teeth and sleep in their bed, Polly thought spitefully as she gathered up his things.

She turned back the bedcovers, wondering if she ought to put a protective plastic sheet over the mattress. To heck with it, she decided; all of a sudden, like Clover, she was exhausted.

“Time for a nap.”

The child readily climbed into the bed, wriggled her head into the pillow and popped her thumb in her mouth. Before Polly even had her tucked in properly, she’d fallen sound asleep.

Polly closed the door and headed for her bedroom. In the shower she tried to let the stream of hot water wash away the stress of the day. After she’d dried off, she lay down on the bed, thinking she’d rest for just a few moments.

The dream was vivid and alarming. Polly was sixteen. She knew she had a fatal disease and she was dying. The only person who could save her was an old woman, but Polly couldn’t find her.

Frantically, she searched. The search led her through department stores, where instead of the old woman, Polly kept collecting children like a pied piper. All the children were little girls, and all of them clung to her, slowing her down in her frantic search. She studied them, searching for Susannah, knowing that if her daughter was among them everything would somehow be all right. But Susannah was nowhere to be found, and Polly grew increasingly anxious—--

The ringing of the telephone woke her, and she fumbled her way out of the dream and reached for the receiver.

“Pol? It’s me.” “Umm. Michael, hi. I was asleep, give me a minute here.” Polly cleared her throat and tried to orient herself. “What time is it?”

“Five-thirty. Sorry I woke you. Look, Pol, I know I promised I’d get home early. I’ve been trying to get out of here, but I got behind on appointments and I won’t be there for at least another hour. I heard from the hospital. Jerome came through the surgery very well, and he’s doing fine. He’ll be in recovery for a short while, then they’ll move him down to orthopedics.”

“Oh, that’s good. I’m so glad he came through okay.” Polly was having trouble waking up. She felt groggy and thickheaded, unable to believe she’d slept so long. How could it be five-thirty already? She’d lain down at two. Apparently, she’d slept the entire afternoon away. She couldn’t remember when she’d last done that.

“How are you making out with Clover, Pol?”

Clover.
Oh, Lordie. Michael’s question sent guilt and anxiety shooting through her. She’d totally forgotten about the child. Clover must have awakened long ago. What if...

“Michael, I’ve gotta go and check on her. She was having a nap, and...we’ll talk when you get home, okay?” she babbled. Without waiting for a response, Polly dropped the telephone and lunged off the bed.

She was responsible for Jerome’s daughter, and she’d left her unsupervised for hours in a strange house. Clover was only four. The calamities that could befall an unsupervised four-year-old in a strange house were endless and terrifying.

Near panic, muttering a prayer, Polly snatched the first dressing gown her hand touched, a luxurious rose silk robe Michael had bought her for Christmas. She shoved her arms into the sleeves and tied the belt as she ran out of the bedroom.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Just as Polly feared, the bed in the spare room was empty.

“Clover? Clover, where are you?” Heart hammering, she hurried along the corridor, checking the bathroom, the studio, the sewing room...all empty.

But the door to the room at the top of the stairs, the door to Susannah’s room, was ajar. Polly hesitated and then pushed it wide. There was always an instant when she first entered this room that Polly imagined Susannah was still here, asleep on the bed, smiling from the window seat, twirling in a beam of sunlight to some unheard music. This was where her daughter’s spirit still lived, Polly fancied. It was the reason she’d kept this room exactly the way it had been the morning they’d taken Susannah to St. Joe’s.

Today, there was only Clover, sitting in Susannah’s rocking chair, holding a doll from one of the low shelves that lined one wall. She was taking off its clothes, peeling the small garments roughly from the doll’s body, mumbling as she did so.

“Clover. What are you doing in here?” Polly’s tone was sharp. She felt violated, furious with this ignorant child. “You’re not supposed to be here.” She advanced into the room. “This room is off limits. You are not allowed in here, ever. Do you understand?”

Startled, Clover dropped the doll and shrank back in the chair. She gave Polly a fearful look, and her face contorted. Then she opened her mouth wide and began to cry.

Polly was immediately ashamed. “Clover, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for scaring you. Please don’t cry.” She picked up the doll, replaced its clothing and put it back exactly where it belonged, then took the girl by the hand, led her out of the room and closed the door firmly behind them.

Clover was still howling, and Polly was at a loss about what to do to make the situation better.

“Let’s go downstairs. Do you want some juice and cookies, maybe?” Polly had to raise her voice to be heard over the clamor.

Clover, still howling, nodded, and Polly led the way down the stairs to the kitchen. She poured apple juice and set out oatmeal cookies.

The little girl quieted, although sobs still escaped. Polly handed her a tissue, and she blew her nose and mopped at her eyes, than climbed up on the high stool and reached for the apple juice. Too late, Polly realized she’d filled the tall glass too full. It tumbled to the floor and shattered dramatically.

Juice and glass sprayed all over Polly, down the walls, across the floor.

“Oh, damn, damn.” Polly brushed at the silk gown.

Clover flinched, her eyes on Polly’s face, and immediately began to cry all over again.

“Clover, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it. It’s only juice,” Polly jabbered, cursing herself for scaring the kid all over again. “It was an accident. I spill stuff myself all the time.” Ignoring the mess and carefully avoiding the splinters of glass, Polly filled another glass—a plastic one this time—and gave it to the child, then pushed the cookies over so they were within reach.

“Here, you have this, and I’ll clean up the mess.” She pulled the sticky dressing gown around her and used handfuls of paper towels to gather up the shards of glass. When the worst was in the garbage can, she glanced at Clover. The girl hadn’t touched the juice or the cookies. She was watching Polly with a forlorn expression, her eyes red-rimmed, her mouth downcast.

“Aren’t you thirsty?”

Clover shook her head. “I wants my daddy. Is my daddy all better now?” The question was plaintive. “Is he coming to get me? Does he know where you lives?”

Feeling infinitely weary, Polly slumped onto a stool. “Your daddy’s in the hospital, Clover. Michael called and said his operation went fine, and he’s sleeping now. He’s gonna get all better, but it won’t happen today. You’ll stay here with us until your daddy gets out of the hospital. He knows you’re here. Your daddy knows we’ll take very good care of you for him.”

We’ll take care of you? She was hallucinating, believing for even a single moment that Michael would be around enough to be any help. It’s you and me, kid, so we’d better get used to it.

She sighed. Michael didn’t spend enough time at home even to water the plants, never mind care for a kid. It was a bleak thought in a sea of bleak thoughts.

Clover shot Polly a rebellious look, her lower lip jutting out. “Tomorrow my daddy will come for me.”

A vision of the days ahead, with this conversation repeated again and again and again, flashed through Polly’s head. Children Clover’s age didn’t understand time; the little girl couldn’t realize how long it was going to be before Jerome was well once more.

Polly took a deep breath and prayed for patience. “Not tomorrow, either, Clover. Nor the day after that. It’s gonna take quite a few sleeps before your daddy’s okay.”

How long? Polly wondered desperately. How long would she and Clover be trapped here with each other?

Clover’s expression was mutinous. “I don’t wanna stay at your house. I gots my own house. I want my daddy.”

“I know you do, Clover.” Polly struggled to find a way to explain. “Sometimes we can’t have what we want most. When that happens, we have to do what’s best for everyone, and it’s best that you stay here. Drink your juice, now, and have a cookie.”

“No. Don’t want juice. Don’t want cookie. I...want...my...daddy. I don’t like it here.”

Polly stared at the defiant little face. Her patience was wearing thin, and she didn’t know how to handle this child at all. And it could only get worse. Silently she cursed her mother, her mother’s house, the new paint job, the ladder. Yet a part of her couldn’t help but feel sorry for this lost little girl who obviously didn’t like Polly any more than Polly liked her.

There had to be a way to survive this, and she had to find it for both their sakes, Polly decided. Maybe she could put Clover in a day care for at least a few hours a day, to give them both a break. But reason told her such a move would only make the girl even more insecure.

“Look, Clover.” Polly searched for a solution. “How about this? Michael will take you to see your daddy this evening at the hospital, I promise.” If this happened to be the one night Michael didn’t have to visit St. Joe’s, then too damned bad. He was taking this kid there anyway.

“And until then, I’ll find you some toys and...and maybe you’d like some stuff to draw pictures with. We can put your drawings up on the walls in your bedroom.”

Clover obstinately shook her head, but Polly went in search of paper and felt pens anyhow, not knowing what else to do.

“Why not make a picture for your daddy? You can take it to him when you go see him tonight.” She spread a large sheet of drawing paper in front of the girl and gave her the set of multicolored pens.

For a while, Clover ignored them. But then she sighed dramatically, took out a red pen and began to scribble on the paper. Within a few moments she was engrossed, and Polly breathed a sigh of relief. She hurried upstairs, shucked off the stained and sticky robe, quickly washed the juice off her legs and pulled on underwear and a denim dress.

She was still fumbling with the buttons as she raced back downstairs, wondering what new trouble the kid could get into in the few moments she’d been gone.

But Clover was still drawing, and she played quietly with the pens and paper while Polly threw together a stir-fry and put a pot of rice on to steam.

Polly was setting the table when Michael arrived. She glanced at the clock, amazed that the time had gone so quickly.

“Well, ladies.” Michael sounded deliberately cheerful. “How’s everything going? That’s a great drawing, Clover.”

“It’s for my daddy.” Clover gazed up at Michael, her face wreathed in smiles. Polly felt a stab of annoyance, knowing it was petty but still feeling irritated. The kid hadn’t come close to smiling at her once, despite the fact that she’d done her level best to amuse her.