The Homecoming Baby (2 page)

Patrick noticed, with the vague back third of his
brain, that Don Frost was careful to use impersonal terms. The mother. The baby. Never “your mother” and “you.”

The man's eyes were round and sad. It dawned on Patrick that Don Frost pitied him. In an odd, confused way, that made Patrick angry. He didn't need pity. He didn't care about all this. He didn't have the slightest recollection of lying abandoned on a cold bathroom floor.

“Still,” he said. “Someone must know who the mother was. High school girls can't go through a whole pregnancy without someone noticing. That much weight gain shows, doesn't it?”

Frost shrugged. “Unless they wear baggy clothes or starve themselves. Some do.”

“But they can't just give birth at the homecoming dance without someone—”

Patrick stopped. He was being ridiculous. Of course they could. He read the papers. Every now and then a story like that would grab the headlines for a few days. The baby in the trash can, in the Dumpster, in the shoebox in the teenager's closet, hidden behind the video games.

“Actually,” Don went on after a slight pause, “in this case there were a lot of rumors. The whole thing caused quite a stir in Enchantment, which is a fairly small town. People round there still tell the story of ‘The Homecoming Baby.'”

“And what do they say?”

“Well, they seem to agree that the mother was probably a girl named Angelina Linden. Pretty girl,
from a good family, but a little wild. The authorities definitely would have checked it out—checked her out, I mean, about whether she'd given birth. But they couldn't. She and her boyfriend both disappeared that night.”

“They ran away?”

“That's what everybody thought. But then a couple of years later, they found the boy's body. There's an old ghost town just northwest of Enchantment, a place where the kids go to fool around. Some abandoned mine shafts up there, not too safe, actually. Apparently the boy had fallen down one of those. Broke his neck.”

The wind was picking up. Patrick heard it blowing across his ears, but strangely he didn't really feel the cold any more. He felt slightly numb all over.

“And the girl?”

Don Frost must have had to deliver a lot of bad news in his career. He looked grim, but he didn't avoid Patrick's gaze. He met it squarely.

“They looked. No more bodies in the mine shaft. But no one ever heard from Angelina again. Her younger sister still lives in Enchantment. I met her, though of course I didn't tell her who I am.” He smiled. “Nice woman. She works at the birthing center. But she clearly doesn't have any idea what happened to her sister.”

Patrick stood up and moved to the edge of the folly. Turning his back on the ocean, he stared out at the crowded estate, where the pet auction was winding up. He couldn't see Ellyn anymore. People were rush
ing to claim their winnings, hugging the poor, damaged puppies and kittens they'd rescued to the tune of thousands of dollars.

Ironic, wasn't it? A little lost kitten could generate this kind of enthusiasm—all the do-gooders in San Francisco came running, their hearts bleeding for the poor abandoned things. But a real human girl could leave her newborn baby on the bathroom floor, one more piece of trash for the janitor to sweep away with the trampled corsages and dirty silver streamers.

She could do it. And then she could run away. And never look back.

He closed his eyes. What a fool he'd been to unearth this story! He hadn't let himself toy with anything as stupid and dangerous as dreams since he was eight years old. Apparently he'd forgotten what a nasty sound they made when they exploded in your face.

“I've got all the information here,” Don said quietly. “All the names and addresses and such.”

Patrick turned. Don was holding out a plain white envelope. He must have retrieved it from his coat. That's how petty the story was. It would fit in a man's breast pocket.

For a moment, Patrick didn't want to take it, but that would have looked ridiculous. He forced out his hand and accepted the slim envelope.

“Thank you,” he said. He didn't sound like himself, so he made an effort to warm his voice. “Send the bill along. My office will cut you a check.”

The man hesitated. “Mr. Torrance—”

“Thank you, Mr. Frost. I do appreciate your fast work on this. You did a fine job.”

Frost knew he'd been dismissed. He wasn't a stupid man, in spite of the six kids and the pregnant gerbil. And he didn't seem to be a hard man, in spite of how routinely he must encounter the sordid side of the human race.

He stood and moved toward the stairs of the folly. But at the last minute he turned around. “I included all the pertinent names and addresses. I even included a map. You know. In case you wanted to—” He stopped. “It's a pretty little town. And the sister. She's nice, too. And if it's all true, she'd be—”

She'd be Patrick's aunt. But still Don Frost stopped short of using the personal pronoun. “Well, she'd be Angelina's only remaining blood relative. She could tell you about Angelina and the boyfriend. Handsome kid, but from the wrong side of the tracks. No family. He had lived with an elderly father, but he died while he was still in high school. He ran pretty wild. Kind of a heartbreaker, they say.”

The man tilted his head, as if deciding how far to go. “Teague was his name. Teague Montague Ellis. They called him Tee.”

Patrick let the name settle in. Teague Montague Ellis. Handsome Tee Ellis, who broke hearts. Broke enough of them to end up broken himself, at the bottom of a mine shaft.

Teague Ellis and Angelina Linden. No matter how many times he repeated them to himself, the syllables were as random as nonsense words. What on earth
had ever made Patrick think he wanted to know those names? They meant nothing to him.

Patrick gave the other man a cold smile. “Thanks, but I can guarantee you I won't be making any trips to New Mexico,” he said. “I've already had one set of terrible parents, Mr. Frost. I certainly don't need two.”

“O
KAY
,” C
ELIA
B
RICE SAID
to her weeping patient. “I've got an idea. Let's just lay the whole sad story out on the table and see how it looks.”

Celia smiled over at Rose Gallen, who had run through an entire box of Kleenex in the first thirty minutes of their session. Actually, Rose had used up four boxes in four sessions so far, and Celia had decided it was time to try a different approach.

“All right,” Rose said. She pulled out another Kleenex just in case, and stared at Celia with damp eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean let's analyze the situation objectively. Let's be sure I have the basic details right. Your thirty-two-year-old husband, who you said has a mean temper, iffy personal hygiene and a bad snoring problem, who got laid off nearly a year ago but still spends fifty-five dollars a week on liquor and cigarettes, ran off last month with a nineteen-year-old bimbo.”

Rose blinked. “Yes,” she said uncertainly. “But that's just the bad stuff. He's not always—”

Celia kept going. Usually psychologists just listened, but sometimes they had to redirect the flow.

“He did this, in fact, the day after you told him
you were pregnant. You don't hear a word for a full month. But now he calls. Collect from Phoenix. And what does he want? He wants you to wire him five hundred dollars to have the transmission in his girlfriend's car repaired.”

Rose frowned.

“Yes,” she said again. She touched the Kleenex to her eye and wiped away a tear. “You make it sound pretty bad.”

“Just laying out the details you gave me, Rose.” Celia took a deep breath. “So my question is…are you sure that what you really, truly want to do right now is
cry?
”

Rose stared at Celia, as if the question mystified her. “I'm all alone. I'm pregnant.”

Celia didn't blink. She didn't say a word. It was up to Rose to consider the possibility that there might conceivably be another reaction. Celia's instincts told her that the young woman was ready.

Rose seemed to be thinking hard. She sniffed once, then again, louder. She transferred the stare to the tissue in her hand, and then she slowly, deliberately crumpled it into her fist.

“You know,” she said finally, “you're right.” Her voice was amazingly firm. “I don't want to cry. I want to tell the son of a bitch to go straight to hell.”

Celia leaned back with a sigh. This was just momentary bravado, of course, but it was good. Very good.

She didn't underestimate the difficulties ahead for Rose; the journey to true self-sufficiency was always
long. And Celia should know. She was still traveling it herself, having decided just last month, after yet another particularly disappointing relationship, to take a complete vacation from men.

Frankly, the decision had been a relief. She spent all day solving the problems these women had with their husbands, boyfriends, lovers or sons. She didn't have time for any man problems of her own.

Besides, who needed a man when you had work as gratifying as this? It was exciting to watch people take the first, most difficult step on that journey, as Rose had just done. She had admitted that she was angry, and that she didn't deserve to be treated like dirt under Tad Gallen's shoes.

“Okay. You'd like to tell him to go to hell. Let's talk about that.” Under the table, Celia kicked off her shoes. This session was going to run late. But it was going to be worth it.

An hour later, when she said goodbye to a much happier Rose, it was almost dark and The Birth Place, the best birthing center within five hundred miles of Enchantment, New Mexico, was almost empty.

Though Celia wasn't officially a clinic employee, she counseled many of the pregnant women who came here, helping them deal with the varied emotional complications that could accompany pregnancy, both pre-and postpartum.

One of the upstairs offices was set aside for Celia two afternoons a week. Often it was easier for the women to combine their medical checkup with their counseling session. So though Celia might not be
on the payroll, she definitely felt like a member of the team.

Dangling her shoes from two fingers, she wandered through the quiet hallway now, stretching her back and neck, which were cramped from sitting so long in one place. As she passed the accountant's office, she noticed that Kim Sherman's light was off—a sign of the new, happier Kim, the one who finally had a life outside this clinic.

Lydia Kane, the director, was still here, of course. Her light rarely went off, no matter how late it got. In fact, sometimes Celia fancied that Lydia's office was the beating, breathing heart of the clinic. Good for the clinic…but an enormous burden for Lydia, who, Celia thought, had been looking tired lately.

But telling Lydia to take it easy was like telling Niagara Falls to slow down. Though she was in her seventies, the amazing woman had the strength and determination of a mountain lion. Every pregnant woman in this clinic—and every staff member, too—relied on that strength.

Celia moved into the main reception area, looking for Trish Linden, the clinic receptionist. Trish and Celia lived in the same apartment complex and frequently rode home together. Over the past few years, they'd become close friends.

Trish must be running late, too. Celia could smell the sweet scent of peach tea around the reception counter, a sure sign that Trish had been there just moments ago. But she hadn't cleaned up yet. Toys were still upended around the children's play area.
Magazines and cushions were haphazardly scattered over the comfortable sofas.

Celia loved the clinic at night. When the lights were low, shining on the Mexican tile floors, and things were quiet, you might mistake this reception area for the living room of a very happy home. Which, in a way, it was.

Celia neatened up a bit, and then she plopped onto one of the armchairs to wait for Trish. She curled her feet under her and pulled the big clip out of her hair, letting it tumble over her shoulders. She sighed as her tired body relaxed.

She hoped Trish would come back soon. She could use a cup of soup, a bath and about ten hours sleep. Good thing she'd given up men. If she had one at home right now waiting for a back rub or a gourmet dinner, she'd probably hide out here all night.

She almost did anyway. The classical music coming through the sound system was low and soothing, and she must have dozed off. She woke with a start, aware that someone nearby was quietly crying.

For a moment she imagined she was back with Rose Gallen, watching the Kleenex pile up. But, as the sleepy fog lifted, she realized she was in the reception area…and the crying was coming from behind the high reception counter.

She struggled to her feet. “Trish?”

The crying stopped. By the time Celia made her way to the edge of the counter, Trish had stood up and was smiling as she subtly dashed away wetness from beneath her eyes.

“Oh, hi! I'm sorry. I thought you were still back with Rose.”

Wasn't that like Trish, apologizing for crying, as if she had no right to be unhappy, no right to inconvenience anyone else with her problems? Celia took her hand, which was still damp from wiping away tears.

“Hey. Tell me what's wrong.”

“It's nothing, really.” But Trish couldn't quite pronounce her
N.
She'd been crying long and hard enough to completely stop up her nose.

“Trish.” Celia was worried. Trish wasn't a big weeper. In fact, she was one of the least self-indulgent people Celia knew.

At forty-five, Trish's life seemed to consist entirely of work. Long hours at the clinic, then more hours volunteering in the community. Up early to tend her beloved garden at home, up late to keep her little apartment spotless. It was as if she had assigned herself a perpetual penance.

“Trish, it's not good to hold things in. Please, tell me what's going on.”

“Honestly, it's nothing.” But she must have seen Celia's stubborn skepticism, because she smiled. “Well, it's such a little thing. It's almost nothing.”

She waved her hand toward a large box on the floor behind her desk. “You know how they were collecting old dresses for the vintage clothing auction?”

Celia nodded. The local Women's Club was auctioning off vintage dresses to raise money for the Teen Center. She had donated a couple herself. One from her senior prom ten years ago, and a couple of
bridesmaid's dresses, which weren't quite vintage, technically…but close enough.

She knew she'd never wear those stiff, uncomfortable gowns again. She hated dressing up—her daily wardrobe was all long, full skirts, gypsy tops and khaki slacks and blue jeans.

“Well,” Trish went on, her voice still thick and husky, “I gathered together a lot of Angelina's old clothes and donated them. They were so beautiful, you know. I'd kept them all these years because…”

Her voice trailed off. But she didn't need to finish. Celia knew why Trish had kept them. She'd kept them because they were all she had left of her glamorous older sister, a sister who had disappeared thirty years ago.

“Oh, Trish,” Celia breathed. “That was unbelievably generous.” She knew how hard it must have been to let them go. Only Trish, so schooled in self-denial, would have been able to do it.

“I thought they might bring in quite a bit of money. And you know the Teen Center needs all the help it can get.”

“They must have been absolutely thrilled.” That was an understatement. Heaven only knew what Angelina's wardrobe must have been worth.

The Lindens had once been the premiere family of Enchantment. Angelina had disappeared before Celia was even born, but everyone knew the story of the rebellious princess who roared through the night on the back of the town bad boy's motorcycle, silky
black hair flying in the wind, red sequins flashing in the moonlight.

“No,” Trish said. “They definitely weren't thrilled. This box was delivered to me an hour ago. The Women's Club thanks me for the offer, but they're afraid they won't be able to use the dresses after all.”

“What?”

Trish pointed to the box again. “They returned every one of them. Apparently they think Angelina's clothes are…tainted.”

Celia was speechless. She looked at Trish's pale face, and then she knelt next to the box on the floor.

She opened it carefully. Inside, wrapped in crisp white tissue, were at least a dozen of the most magical dresses Celia had ever seen. Peacock-green chiffon and Mandarin red silk. Deep gold satin encrusted with pearls. Ivory lace edging lavender ruffles. Wedgwood-blue and sunshine-yellow, sequins and flounces, daring necklines and flowing skirts.

Celia found herself holding her breath. She'd heard a hundred stories about Angelina Linden—who in Enchantment hadn't?—but these dresses made the stories come almost eerily alive. As she touched these fabulous fabrics, she understood that Angelina had been exquisite and sensual, daring and vain and elegant. She'd been in love with life, color, movement, texture, sex.

And with an uncomfortable flash of insight, she realized that it was no wonder the Women's Club had rejected them. Everyone who saw these dresses would
ask the same question. Had she been wearing one of these
that
night? That terrible, bloody night the baby was born?

Even Celia, who loved poor Trish so much, found herself imagining that night. And wondering how a girl must have suffered, starved, squeezed her poor young body to fit it into her normal clothes when she was nine months pregnant.

A small catch in Trish's breath warned Celia that tears were near again. Celia fought back a wave of fury toward the judgmental old bats who had refused these dresses. It was too cruel.

Trish deserved to be happy. Someone needed to take her in hand and force her to have a little fun.

On the spot, Celia appointed herself that someone.

“I've got an idea,” she said. She folded the box shut again and stood with a smile. “There's a full moon tonight. They say that if you stand on Red Rock Bridge at the full moon and make a wish, it'll come true. Let's go out and wish that every member of the Women's Club goes prematurely gray.”

Trish smiled. “I'm pretty sure the legend says you have to stand out there naked with a live rattlesnake wrapped around your neck.”

“Well, one out of three isn't bad.” Celia raised one eyebrow rakishly. “Maybe just every third member of the Women's Club will go gray. That's enough for me.”

Trish threw her tissue in the trash, obviously having overcome her momentary weakness. “Don't be silly,” she said. “We can't do that.”

Celia frowned. “Why not? It's Friday night. If you can't be silly on Friday night, when can you?”

Trish didn't answer that directly, of course. Trish didn't think that being silly was ever appropriate. Which was why her lovely face was always so pale and faded, Celia thought with a sudden frustration.

“I'm serious. Let's go out there. We can stop off and buy sandwiches and some white zinfandel and eat dinner by moonlight on Red Rock Bridge. It will be beautiful and pointless and kind of scary—and great fun.”

Trish was already shaking her head. “I can't,” she said. “This is the night I pay my bills.”

Celia squeezed her hand. “To hell with the bills. Be impulsive. Be foolish. It might make you feel better.”

“No,” Trish said, extricating her fingers. She patted Celia on the shoulder. “Being foolish doesn't make people feel better. Working does. Being sensible and getting things done makes people feel better.”

Celia sighed. This was so unfair. And it was such a waste. Trish was only forty-five. She was healthy and intelligent and a very attractive woman. She wanted to grab Trish by the shoulders and say,
No. You don't have to atone for your sister's sins.