Sparrow Migrations (28 page)

Robby thought. Alex and Paula went to U of M–Dearborn. So they were old. Older than he thought. Almost as old as some of his teachers, probably.

“Robby?” His dad was looking at him.

Robby sighed. He shifted in his seat. The plastic bag on his lap rustled. He reached in and unzipped the binocular case, fingering the sleek, dark gray shell. He looked out the window. It was a perfect day for birding, sunny and clear, the trees free of obscuring leaves. And it was still early afternoon. Lots of time left to look for four more birds in the backyard.

He looked at his dad. “Let’s go home.”

THIRTY

T
he White Christmas performance was the best show Brett had ever seen. Amanda’s part was minor, only a few lines. But for three hours, Brett could watch her. Afterward, backstage—where Richard was nowhere to be seen—they hugged for the first time in five months. As they rocked cheek to cheek, tears filled the brown eyes they both shared.

“I miss you at home. Dad’s never around,” Amanda said, stepping back and sniffling.

“I miss you, too.” Brett took a deep breath. “I want you to spend your Christmas break with me.”

“Really?” Amanda hesitated. “I wouldn’t . . . be in the way?”

“Of course not.” Brett was puzzled. “How could you think that?”

“You’re not . . . um . . . seeing . . . dating . . . anyone?”

“Oh.” Brett’s forehead cleared. “No, I’m not. Not now. I didn’t leave to be with anyone, Amanda. I left to be me. And being your mother is a huge part of me.” She squeezed Amanda’s hand. “Anyone I might be interested in—in the future—would have to understand and accept that. OK?”

Amanda gave a tiny smile and squeezed back. “OK.”

“I haven’t had time to meet anyone, anyway. I’ve been kind of a workaholic. In fact, we’re planning to start a new project over the holidays, and I could use extra help.”

To her surprise, Pastor Sue had suggested they launch Project Stork during the holidays. So many other Ithaca charities offered holiday programs that the Alliance’s regular clientele dropped, she explained.

And so, two weeks later, she and Amanda were loading the Alliance minivan for Project Stork’s inaugural run. Just a half dozen deliveries were scheduled, most to mothers Julia Adams knew.

The first five went fine. The families thanked them profusely. Brett and Amanda smiled at the babies, all of whom were quiet and angelic.
All is calm, all is bright,
Brett thought as they headed to the last house. It wasn’t how she remembered her first months of motherhood.

The sixth delivery was to a home in Cayuga Heights. “Deborah and Grace DeWitt,” Amanda read aloud from the delivery list.

“A lot of Cornell faculty live in this neighborhood,” Brett said as she scanned the addresses, pulling up next to a neat bungalow. Snow blanketed the eaves. A Christmas tree glowed inside the leaded glass windows.

“It seems weird to be making meal deliveries to a house like this,” Amanda said.

“That’s the whole point of the project. To expand the Alliance’s reach,” Brett said. “But you never know. Appearances can be pretty deceiving.”

Through the windows, the lights cast a weak glow on the unshoveled walk and steps. The porch light was dark.

“Is this the right place?” Amanda asked doubtfully.

“The address is right. Let’s just ring the bell and see.”

They could hear the baby crying before they even reached the snowy porch steps. Brett pressed the bell. The crying climbed a notch.

“Wow, that’s loud. Think they can hear us?” Amanda asked.

Brett pressed the bell again. Again, the baby’s wail crescendoed. Her intuition tingled. This was the house they were meant to visit tonight. Someone here did need help. Another long minute passed until the porch light came on. The door was flung open by a woman about her age, holding a baby who shrieked again, and then suddenly went quiet.

“Hi, I’m Brett Stevens from Project Stork. This is my daughter, Amanda.” Brett looked into the woman’s face. Pure exhaustion, no sign of recognition. “We’re with the Ithaca Interfaith Alliance?”

“Oh! Julia’s group. I forgot you were coming tonight. Come in.” The woman stepped back, closing the door behind them. The baby resumed her screaming.

“Oh, no, Gracie, please, don’t start again.” she begged in a raw voice. The baby took no pity.

“One of those days?” Brett asked the woman, evidently Deborah.

She nodded. “She’s been at it for the last hour and a half, until I opened the door.”

“Sounds like colic. This one had it, too.” Brett nodded at Amanda. “Opening the door might have helped, actually. Going outside always soothed her.”

“Not really practical this time of year,” Deborah said tartly.

“May I hold her?” Brett asked, ignoring the tone. “My jacket’s cool, anyway.”

Deborah handed the baby over. As Brett rocked the little body against the cool, quilted material, Gracie’s cries again quieted. She blinked and opened her wet eyes, blue like her mother’s.

“Oh, thank God,” Deborah said, her shoulders relaxing visibly. “I don’t think I could’ve taken much more.”

“Well, you don’t have to take it alone for the next couple hours, anyway,” Brett said briskly. “You’re the last delivery of the night, and you’re going to get the deluxe Project Stork treatment.”

She held Gracie while Amanda unloaded the food and Deborah ate. While Deborah nursed the baby and put her to bed, Amanda shoveled the porch and the walk. Brett cleaned up the kitchen, filling the dishwasher with stacks from the sink and doing the rest by hand. She folded the laundry in the dryer. Amanda finished shoveling and was stamping the snow off her boots when Deborah re-entered, alone.

“She’s asleep. Thank God.” She had changed her clothes and brushed her hair, Brett noticed, and looked transformed from the woman who had opened the door. She seemed familiar, too, though Brett was sure she’d never seen Deborah around Ithaca.

“Hallelujah.” Brett agreed. “Well, thanks for having us stop by. We’ll see you tomorrow night, same time.”

“You’re thanking
m
e
?” Deborah’s eyebrows rose as she looked around the spotless kitchen. “You called yourselves Project Stork. Tonight you were more like Project Sanity. Even after I was rude.”

Brett laughed. “Everybody needs a hand once in a while. Glad we could help.”

“I’m serious.” Deborah shifted in the doorway. “I’ve never felt so incompetent before. I’m used to being good at what I do.”

“Amanda, would you go out and start the car?” Brett waited until the door closed behind her own daughter. “Gracie doesn’t know what’s good or bad. Right now, all that really matters is that you’re here. Feeding her. Keeping her warm. Safe.”

“Really?” Deborah stared out the window, at Amanda’s back.

“Really. I know it’s hard. I’m a single mom, too.” Brett held her breath, then relaxed as Deborah’s nod confirmed her hunch. “But it’s going to be the most worthwhile thing you’ve ever done.”

Fleetingly, a hopeful smile crossed Deborah’s face. “I hope you’re right.”

“Just take it a day at a time.” Brett opened the door. “Now promise me you’ll go to bed yourself.”

“Promise.” Deborah held up her hand. Her smile stayed a second longer. “See you tomorrow.”

In the car, Amanda held her red fingers in front of the heating vents. Some vacation for her, Brett thought. Running around a strange town delivering food, shoveling a stranger’s porch.

“You must be freezing, sweetie. Thanks for being such a good sport tonight. I’ll make hot chocolate at home, OK?”

“OK.” Amanda seemed preoccupied.

“Wishing you stayed in Scranton?” Brett asked, carefully not looking at her.

Amanda shook her head. “I was just thinking how cool that was. When we showed up, that lady was a wreck. The baby, too.”

“Being a new parent’s tough with two adults. I can’t imagine doing it alone.”

“Then, after dinner and a couple hours, they’re both, like, acting human again.”

“This kind of work is called human services for a reason,” Brett said, mildly.

“I guess.” Amanda looked at her. “I can see why you like it. It feels pretty good.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Brett felt like singing again. “Joy to the World,” this time.

Together they made the Project Stork rounds for the ten days of Amanda’s visit, saving Deborah and Gracie for the last stop each night. Though Deborah was never as distraught as the first night, she was tired and worn out and always as grateful for their visit as for the food. On Christmas night she handed Brett a check.

“Julia told me you’re just getting this thing going. I’ve worked in fundraising, and I know it’s hard to start new projects when the other ones don’t stop.”

“You’ve worked in fundraising?”

“A bit,” Deborah said briefly. Upstairs, Gracie started to cry. Brett filed away the information for another time.

Amanda left for Scranton the morning of New Year’s Eve. Brett ached thinking of her return to Richard’s cold home, even though she seemed excited about a party at Abby’s. But it would only be for five more months, since they had decided that Amanda would spend her summer in Ithaca. Still, the clock dragged until it was time to do the Project Stork deliveries. She saved Deborah and Gracie’s for last, as usual.

Deborah answered the door, her eyes red, clutching a tissue. Seeing Brett she smiled but then broke down, backing into the house, huddling into a lump on the couch. The TV was on.

“Deborah, my God, what’s happened? Are you sick? Is Gracie?”

She wept louder, shaking her head.

“She’s not sick. Not yet. But she could be. I’m such a bad mother, I’ve been so selfish.”

“What are you talking about? You’re anything but selfish.”

“No, I am, I am. You don’t know, you don’t understand . . .”

“Deborah, you’re not making sense. What do you mean, Gracie could get sick? Can I turn this thing off?” Brett searched for the remote. Deborah cried harder.

“That’s what did it. That stupid TV. I turned it on after Gracie went down. They had a show on, the top news stories of the year, you know, the kind they always do this time of year.” She took a deep breath and blew her nose. “Just give me a minute. I can stop. I’ll get hold of myself.”

“Take your time.” Brett brought a glass of water while Deborah found the remote, muted the TV, and exhaled deeply.

“OK. By any chance, do you remember that plane crash last January? The plane that landed on the Hudson River?”

It was Brett’s turn to struggle for words. “Um, yes. I remember it ve
ry well. Was that”—she stammered—“was that one of the year’s top news stories?”

Deborah nodded. “And I was on that plane. With my husband. Gracie’s father. Christopher.” Tears started flowing again, and she brushed them away fiercely. “You must think I’ve gone crazy.”

“Deborah, no. Definitely no.” Brett couldn’t believe the coincidence. The foggy familiarity she felt the first delivery day cleared. “I was in New York that day, too. In fact, I was on a ferry in the river. We were—I was—going on a sightseeing cruise around Manhattan. Our ferry got pulled into the passenger rescue.”

“You’re kidding.” Deborah stared at her. “We were picked up by a ferry.”

“I’m not kidding.” Brett stared at her friend, remembering, too.

In the silence, the clock chimed. Six more hours left in 2009. Deborah was probably as eager as she to put the year behind her.

“This is incredible,” Brett said. “But you see, I do understand. That was an awful day. Seeing that show, and now having Gracie, it must have brought up all kinds of scary, terrible memories. And what-ifs.”

“Yes. Both,” Deborah said. “But the crash isn’t the worst memory. It’s everything that started that day. What I refused to admit. Because I was selfish. I just wanted to have a baby. It’s all I could think about. But I didn’t think enough about being a mother. A good mother would never endanger her child. And I’ve put Gracie at risk.”

“You’re not making sense again. You would never do anything to harm Gracie. What started that day?”

As the tears slid down her cheeks, Deborah confided everything. Her sister Helen’s panicked call on the wings. Her husband wanting to stop IVF. Persuading him to try once more. Learning of Helen’s Huntington’s diagnosis and withholding it from Christopher. The pregnancy. Christopher moving out. Gracie’s birth and the hell of these first two months. And now, just as things finally started improving, the future. A new year staring her in the face, taunting her with the uncertainty of how many more she could share with Gracie.

Brett listened in mutual, mute sympathy. When Deborah stopped talking, Brett said, “My turn.”

She told Deborah how her life swerved off course that same day on the Hudson. Told her about the guilt and fear of losing Amanda. Told her about the five months of limbo, and how that risk only now appeared over.

“Amanda’s a wonderful young woman, Brett. You’ve been the best mother you could possibly be, sacrificing your own happiness for the sake of the family you thought was best for her,” Deborah said. “But Gracie will probably hate me. What mother brings a child into the world with fifty-fifty odds she’ll become an orphan?”

“The odds aren’t your fault. Stop punishing yourself for something you can’t control,” Brett said, empathy infusing each word. “And she wouldn’t be an orphan. She has a father. A father who needs to step up to the job, even though you didn’t ask me.”

“You think I should try to get back together with Christopher?”

She sounds hopeful
, Brett thought.
Like she wants me to talk her into it.

“That’s not my decision. Do you want to get back together?”

“I’m not sure. Helen thinks I’m crazy to even consider it. She wants me to move to Seattle. And I was angry at him when I was pregnant. Furious. But then when I went into labor, I just called him automatically.”

“So he was there? At the birth?”

“Not the birth. I couldn’t reach him. By the time he got the message, it was over. He came to the hospital the next day.”

“That didn’t make you angry all over?” Brett said.

“At first it did. I told myself it was his fault I was so exhausted and miserable. But then, just getting through the day drained every bit of energy I had. He did call a few times, asking what I wanted him to do. But she was always crying, or needing her diaper changed, or needing to be fed. I didn’t have enough energy to call him back, let alone be angry.”

“And what about now?”

“It’s all just gone. It sounds so corny, but all I feel inside is love for Gracie.”

“So is there any love for Christopher?”

Deborah bit her lip.

“You don’t owe me an answer. But love or not, he has a responsibility to Gracie. Your beautiful,
healthy
baby Gracie, safe upstairs right now. The child you’re sacrificing yourself for, trying to be two parents. Asking what you want him to do, that’s a cop-out. He has to figure out what he needs to do. He’s Gracie’s father, not you.”