A Month of Summer (38 page)

Downstairs, the garage door rattled upward, and I came back to the present. I heard Teddy talking to Sy and the crew as they carried in their tools.

I stood up and hovered by the desk a minute, feeling lightheaded and strange. The sensation clung to me as I carried my clothes across the hall, showered, dressed, and went downstairs. Ifeoma was already on duty. As usual, she’d proceeded directly to my father’s room to get him out of bed and dressed. She found it easier to begin the day with him while he was still groggy from the effects of a deep, medication-assisted sleep.

She met me in the kitchen after bringing him to the living room and turning on the TV. “Shall I prepare an omelet for your breakfast, missus?” Every morning, she treated my father to a five-star meal, and he fell in love with her anew.

Groaning, I laid a hand on my stomach. “No, thanks. I don’t feel so well this morning.”

“Again?” She cocked her head to one side. So far, I hadn’t felt the desire to partake of her breakfast creations, even once. In the mornings, I woke with my stomach churning and a million things on my mind. Food hardly seemed a temptation.

“I think it’s stress,” I admitted, rolling my eyes to indicate that I recognized my type A personality, even if I couldn’t control it. “The good news is I’ve lost five pounds.”

“You do not have five pounds to spare.” Shaking a finger at me, she smiled. Over time, Ifeoma’s cool, detached demeanor was slowly warming up.

It was strange to have someone worrying about me. Typically, that was my job. “Well, thanks, but it’s nice to lose a little.”

Ifeoma tutted under her breath, then pulled out the eggs and started cracking them into a bowl.

My stomach rolled, and I angled my line of vision away from the egg whites oozing over her hands. Drawing a glass of tap water, I plopped in a couple Alka-Seltzers and waited for the tablets to stop fizzing.

“I have used all of the eggs,” Ifeoma said, then took the cap off the milk. “Milk and bread will be needed soon as well.”

“I’ll pick some up.” During yesterday’s excitement over Teddy’s absence, I’d completely forgotten to get groceries. “I want to go to the little white church down on Hayes this morning. Teddy thinks some of my parents’ things may have been taken there for a yard sale after Hanna Beth had her stroke. I’m hoping they might know where my father’s computer is.” A glance at the clock told me it was almost eight forty. “Surely someone will be there by nine.”

Ifeoma nodded, searching the drawers. “The building is opened at eight. Father is often down the road taking breakfast.” Pausing, she pulled out the whisk and began whipping the eggs. “I stop there each morning to pray for my son. So he will be well.”

It struck me again that Ifeoma’s son was half a world away. What would that be like? Ifeoma seldom mentioned him, but she often stared out the window, rubbing a small, beaded cross that hung around her neck. The onyx stones were worn smooth and glossy. “How old is he?” I asked. “Your son.”

“He is eight years old this month,” she answered, staring into the bowl. “A small boy for his years, but a good worker.”

I tried to imagine sending an eight-year-old child, a boy not even Macey’s age, to work. “How long have you been away from Ghana?”

“It was one year and six months ago that I must take my son from his father’s town. For some time I search for a good job elsewhere, but very soon I know I must do something,” she answered, without looking up. “My son is a smart boy. I want him to go to school, but where he is living now, there is no school.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. How many times in my work had I sat across the table from people like Ifeoma, separated from family, caught in political limbo, waiting for consulate interviews, the lifting of annual visa caps, I-140 petitions to be approved and slowly processed so their relatives could follow?

Ifeoma held the whisk above the bowl, waiting while strings of raw egg oozed downward. “I hold dreams for my son. I tell him he must work very hard where he lives, and in return, the fisherman will provide food for him and give him a bed at night. Each day, I pray that God will keep my son until I am able to come for him. The work of the fishermen is dangerous.”

My mind swirled with a mixture of dripping eggs, an electric drill squealing in the downstairs bathroom, and fishing boys, compelled to live alone, forced to take to the water to earn a living. My stomach rebelled as the first sip of Alka-Seltzer settled, and the next thing I knew, I was clutching the sink, writhing in a spasm of dry heaves.

Ifeoma wet her hand and rubbed cool water over the back of my neck, and the spasm ended as quickly as it had begun. Pushing away from the counter, I caught a long breath and shook off the last of the headrush.

“I’m all right.” I wiped my face with a paper towel and caught my breath. Finally, I grabbed my purse. “I probably just need to get some fresh air. I’m going to take Teddy to the church with me. We’ll be back in a half hour or so. If it takes longer, I’ll call.” I started toward the patio, where Teddy was carefully watering his plants. “Sorry for all the drama. I don’t know what’s wrong with me this morning.”

The cutting board rattled as Ifeoma pulled it off the wall, then opened the refrigerator. There was no telling, on any given day, what she would choose to put in the omelets, but my father was always pleased.

“Might you be pregnant, missus?” Ifeoma’s question caught me as I reached the doorway. Without seeing her face, I couldn’t tell whether it was a serious inquiry.

My sardonic laughter was both an instantaneous reaction and an answer. “Not likely, thank goodness. We’ll be back in a little while. Thanks for making breakfast, Ifeoma.”

“It is my pleasure. I am hungry as well.”

As I went out the door, I heard her singing a slow, rhythmic song that reminded me of some long-ago trip to Morocco with my parents. Early in the mornings, the fishermen sang outside our bungalow as they went to sea in their boats. I sat in bed sometimes and watched them prepare to go out, the men barking orders as young boys scampered about, porting crates, readying nets, mending broken ropes.

I never wondered about the children, their dreams interrupted, while I lay peacefully sleeping.

Thoughts of the fishermen followed me as Teddy and I drove to the little white church. In the passenger seat, Teddy was talking about the seeds he’d planted with Brandon and Brady. The boys were excited because tiny marigolds were coming up in the cups.

I couldn’t focus on Teddy’s intricate description of baby plants.

Was it possible? Four years ago, when Macey started kindergarten, Kyle and I had agreed that one child was enough for us. With my mother suffering more frequently from lupus-related illnesses, me helping with the boutique, and Kyle working twelve-hour days, we were both at the breaking point, and there seemed to be no room for anything else. Kyle went in for a vasectomy, and our busy life moved into the next phase.

Vasectomies have been known to fail.
Was it possible? Kyle, himself, was the product of a failed vasectomy, a late-in-life surprise to his parents. Six weeks ago, Kyle and I had been on our anniversary trip to San Diego. We’d stayed in the historic Hotel Del on Coronado Island, tried to recapture the magic of our honeymoon, but old issues crept between us.

We made love to silence the discussions, agreed to leave issues until later, just relax for the weekend. We laughed, flirted, walked on the beach, enjoyed a long, slow dinner together, made love again as a luminous, orange moon rose above the water. After so many years of being consumed by the obligations of life, I was certain that we were finally finding our way back to each other.

Was it possible that weekend had produced a baby? On the heels of the thought came Susan Sewell sitting in the café, cuddled intimately close to Kyle, going through yet another divorce.

I felt sick again. My breath came in short, quick gasps, and my chest burned until I couldn’t get enough air. I wanted to pull over, throw open the door and run.

What if I was pregnant? What then? What if it wasn’t just Macey and me, but Macey and me and a new baby to consider?

Don’t,
a voice whispered inside me.
Don’t do this now.

“There Mama church.” Teddy broke into my thoughts. “A-becca, there Mama church.”

My mind came back to the present as we passed the driveway. I took the next opportunity to make a U-turn, and went back.

“There Past-er Al.” Teddy pointed to a man in a green fishing cap, who was pruning rosebushes in the small memorial garden beside the church. After stopping his work as we pulled into a parking space close by, he exited the garden, removed his gloves, and set his pruning sheers on a bench by the antique iron fence.

“ ’Lo there,” he called, pausing to wipe his eyeglasses on his knit shirt, then put them back on as Teddy and I climbed from the car.

“Hieee, Past-er Al!” Teddy called, moving up the path in a lumbering trot.

“Why, Teddy!” Pastor Al opened his arms as I hurried to catch up. “My word, son, did you grow another foot?”

“I been this foot.” Teddy gave Pastor Al an exuberant hug. The pastor disappeared momentarily behind Teddy’s body. His lightweight hat drifted to the ground, and he scooped it up as Teddy released him.

“Who you got with you there, young Ted?” Pastor Al squinted through thick lenses.

Grinning, Teddy brought me forth like a new toy. “This A-becca. This my sister.”

Momentarily confused, Pastor Al rested a hand on Teddy’s arm, cocking his head to study me. I could imagine what he was thinking.
What sister?

“I’m Edward’s daughter. Rebecca Macklin,” I explained, and Pastor Al’s lips parted in a breath of comprehension.

Shaking my hand, Pastor Al smiled warmly. “Well, good to meet you there, Rebecca, and good to see young Ted again. We’ve missed you around here, son. These flowers sure looked better when you watched after them. Afraid they’re on their last legs right now. I thought if I cut them back, maybe it’d help.”

Peering around Pastor Al, Teddy checked the flowers. “Uh-oh.”

“Maybe you better go see what they need,” Pastor Al prompted. “In all my years, Teddy, I’ve never seen anybody better with flowers than you.”

Beaming, Teddy started toward the garden. “I gone see, Past-er Al.” As he turned, he pointed toward a two-wheeled dolly propped against the side of the church. “There Sy dolly. I gone take Sy dolly home.”

“I wondered who left that here,” the pastor commented as the two of us watched Teddy move down the path. Pastor Al turned back to me, his jovial demeanor straightening into an expectant look.

I tried to decide where to begin. “I’m not sure how much you know about my father and Hanna Beth’s situation lately.”

Pastor Al sighed regretfully. “Not a lot, I’m sorry to admit. We haven’t seen your family in close to a year. I have to apologize for that. I was out for cancer surgery and then treatments most of last year, and best I can gather, there was some brouhaha about Teddy helping keep the children in the nursery during service. I want you to know that should never have happened. Sometimes new people coming into the congregation can be quick to judge, but Teddy’s never been anything but good with the little ones. He’s as gentle with them as he is with the flowers.” He glanced over his shoulder with an obvious fondness. Teddy was squatted down next to a rosebush, talking to it as he carefully pruned dead leaves. “I’m sorry your mother was upset.”

“Hanna Beth isn’t my mother.” The words were a knee-jerk reflex, out of my mouth before I considered how they would sound.

“Of course.” Pastor Al gave me an astute look, and we hovered in a moment of uncomfortable silence. “Will you tell her I’m sorry for the misunderstanding about Teddy? He’s welcome here anytime. The truth is that if everyone else were as accepting as Teddy is, there’d never be any problems in the church. I tried to go by a few times to tell that to Hanna Beth, but their caretaker said your father wasn’t doing well, and they weren’t taking any visitors.”

“My father hasn’t been doing well,” I agreed. “Hanna Beth had a stroke last month and has been in a nursing center care. We hadn’t been . . . in touch, so I didn’t know until some weeks after the fact. When I got here, Teddy and my father were living in the house alone. There was no caretaker, and from the looks of the house, there hadn’t been anyone for some time.”

Pastor Al frowned, rubbing his chin, the skin stretching back and forth between his fingers. “That’s odd. I had the impression the caretaker was living there. I’m sorry to hear about Hanna Beth. How’s she getting on?”

“She’s better, but unfortunately her speech and memory were affected, so she hasn’t been able to tell us much about what was happening in the house before she was taken to the hospital. My father’s memory is pretty fragile, and all Teddy knows is the caretaker’s first name, Kay-Kay. I was hoping you might have some information about her—a last name, where they hired her, where I might find her?”

The pastor sighed. “Afraid I can’t be much help. About all I could tell you is what she looked like. Brown hair, kind of heavyset, in her fifties, maybe. Dark skin, but I don’t think she was Hispanic, more like Greek or Italian, maybe. Wore glasses. Real friendly. Seemed sorry to have to tell me I couldn’t visit with your folks. She didn’t give me a last name, not that I recall anyway. Just said she was helping Hanna Beth look after Edward and that it was too hard on him to have strange people in the house.”

My hopes flagged. That wasn’t much to go on. “Teddy said he and Kay-Kay brought some of my father’s things here for a rummage sale several weeks ago—a computer? I was hoping it might still be here, or possibly you could tell me who bought it? I think my father’s financial records were on it. I’m trying to straighten out his accounts.”