Blackberry Winter: A Novel (32 page)

“I’m sorry, Claire,” he said. “Believe me, it was an agonizing decision. I wish there was another way.”

I pushed the glass away.

“Claire,” Dominic said, trying to get me to smile, “please say this won’t change anything between…us.”

He lifted his hand and stroked my cheek gently. I closed my eyes as he pulled me toward him. His embrace was warm, comforting, but I pulled back.

“I’m sorry, Dominic. “I have to go.”

“W
arren, this is Claire,” I said over the phone the next morning.

“Hi honey,” he said in almost a whisper.

“Why the hushed voice?”

“The nurse thinks I’m sleeping.”

“And why would she care if you’re sleeping or not sleeping?”

“She said she has to give me a shot when I wake up.”

“A shot.”

“Yes.”

I stifled a laugh, but not the sarcasm. “Six years old, are we?”

“Apparently, yes,” he said.

“Listen,” I continued, “needle anxiety aside, how
are
you feeling?”

“Very well, dear,” he said. “I don’t know why they’re keeping me here. Doc said I might be able to go home later today. I sure hope so. Anyway, how are you?”

“I’ve had a lot on my mind,” I replied. “Which is why I’m calling, actually.” I paused, thinking of Glenda’s warning not to bother
him with my “drama.” A moth flew onto my computer screen, right above the first line of my story. I waved it away and it flew toward me, taunting me. I batted it down again. Glenda or no Glenda, I wouldn’t say anything about the article, about the Kensington connection. Not yet. I could, however, ask a question. “Warren, I was just curious,” I began, thinking of how to phrase the query.
Be delicate.
“Curious about the Kensington family tree. It occurred to me that I’ve never asked Ethan much about his ancestors. You know, great-aunts, uncles. I’d like to learn more about Ethan’s family—er, my family.”

“Well,” Warren said, sighing, “the Kensingtons were one of the original Seattle families. A very important clan, we are.”

“And not the least bit conceited, either,” I added playfully.

“Claire, you’re a Kensington, through and through.”

I grinned. “So your parents, will you remind me of their names? I don’t recall Ethan telling me.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, obviously relishing the chance to travel back in time. “Mother’s name was Elaine. Father was Charles.”

My heart beat faster.

“He was a good man. A good father.”

“Did you have any…brothers?”

“A younger sister, yes, but no brothers,” he said. “But I did for a time. Well, the closest thing to a brother, anyway. He was Aunt Josephine’s little boy. He and Aunt Josephine came to stay with us for a while before he died.”

“Died?”

“Yes,” he said, sighing. “Fell down a ladder. Bumped his head. Died right there on the gravel driveway. I was there when it happened. Josephine blamed me. I was a little older. She said I dared him to climb the ladder. I didn’t. I was too afraid to step foot on it,
but he didn’t have an ounce of fear in him, that one. He had it in his mind that he wanted to see a robin’s eggs, so by golly, he climbed that ladder.”

“What was his name, Warren?” My heart beat faster.

“Thomas,” he said. “But that wasn’t his given name. I can’t remember what it was. But we called him Thomas. The old house wasn’t ever the same after he died. Aunt Josephine never fully recovered. Children shouldn’t die before their mothers.”

“No, they shouldn’t,” I said, opening up my notebook.

“What was Josephine’s husband’s name?”

“You know,” he said, pausing, “I don’t quite remember. He died, I was told.”

“Died?”

“In any case, he was never around. For as long as I can remember, it was just Thomas and Josephine.”

So, in her grief, she took Daniel and claimed him as her own? But why?

“Warren, do you know where Thomas is buried?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Oh, just curious. I’ve always had a thing for cemeteries.”

“Bryant Park,” he said. “Where all the Kensingtons are buried. It’s the cemetery on the hill by the university.”

I felt a deep pain emanating from my chest, my heart. “I know the cemetery,” I said. “It’s where the baby was…”

“Oh, honey. How insensitive of me. Of course I remember. I—”

“It’s fine,” I said. But it wasn’t. I hadn’t been back to that cemetery since Ethan and I had watched our firstborn, tucked inside a tiny mahogany box—eerily tiny—lowered into a hole in the earth. Our baby was the youngest, and newest, addition to the Kensington grave site, where dozens of deceased family members rested. Glenda
had already seen to it that ten feet of earth next to the baby’s grave was reserved for Ethan and me. There was much I didn’t like about my mother-in-law, but I will always appreciate that she arranged for us to one day be reunited in death.

“The only thing I remember about Thomas’s funeral is the big mound of dirt and that little coffin,” Warren said, reminiscing. “It was trimmed in gold, all the way around. I couldn’t understand why they’d put such a pretty thing in the ground. Father had to hold Josephine back. She almost threw herself into the hole after they lowered the coffin down. It was all very strange for a six-year-old boy to watch.”

I sighed. “So if you were six, how old was the little boy? Thomas?”

“He was a little younger than me,” he said, pausing.

I heard commotion on the other end of the line, and a nurse’s voice. “I’ll let you go,” I said. “I promise to come visit soon.”

“Sure, honey. Anytime you like.”

The keys to Ethan’s BMW lay on the kitchen counter. I’d only driven it a time or two, preferring cabs to a vehicle with a manual transmission. Shifting gears on Seattle’s notoriously hilly streets frightened me, especially after the time I’d rolled back so far between first and second gear. I’d vowed never to drive the car again. It was Ethan’s domain, not mine—an unspoken agreement since the accident. Like much of our lives, since last year, a line had divided my world from his. But the keys glistened in the morning light. It would be easier to drive to the cemetery than to hassle with a long cab ride or navigate the bus lines. I hated buses. I nodded, scooping up the keys and dropping them into my bag.

I took the elevator down to the parking garage and stepped into the car, setting my bag on the passenger seat. I took a deep breath. Ethan. The car smelled of his cologne, his skin, and—I picked up a petrified french fry near a cup holder—his secret love of fast food. I smiled to myself, tucking the fry into a plastic trash bag in the backseat.

The tires screeched as I navigated out of the garage, taking a right onto the street. It felt good to be behind the wheel of a car again. I felt in control. I flipped on the radio and the U2 song “With or Without You” drifted from the speakers. I hardly noticed the big hills before turning onto the freeway. I turned the volume up, letting the music soothe me as I drove, taking the exit that led to the cemetery. They’d given me a Valium the morning of the baby’s funeral. It had made me feel drowsy and secure, like being cloaked in a big fluffy comforter, warm and protected. I wished I hadn’t taken the pill, though. I should have felt the emotions in all of their rawness. I should have let myself grieve. I’d needed to grieve. And now, as I drove the car through the gates of the cemetery, I did so fully conscious, feeling every tug at my heart, every dark memory, every regret.

I stepped out of the car, cautiously, locking the doors with a swift click of the button on the keychain. I looked out ahead over the grassy hill. As children, my little brother and I had often played in a cemetery near our home. Dad had cautioned us not to step too close to the headstones. “It’s disrespectful to step on the dead,” he had said. After that, I’d made sure to tread more carefully. But once, my brother had hidden behind a headstone and jumped out, screaming, “Boo!” In a frightened state, I’d leapt back, landing on my feet right in the space beside the headstone of a little girl who’d died in the 1940s. I’d felt terrible about that. Dad had said it wasn’t
a big deal, that I hadn’t disturbed the little girl’s grave, but I cried the whole way home, too sad to ride my bike, so Dad pushed it for me.

The sun shone down on my head. I was grateful for its warmth after last week’s snowstorm. I thought about what the cemetery must have looked like with the headstones covered in snow, like cakes piped with white icing.

I stared ahead, recognizing the willow tree in the distance. The baby was buried just beneath it. A breeze blew a blossom from the nearby magnolia against my cheek, and I swiped it away. I shivered, turning back to the car.
I don’t have to do this. I could turn back right now.
Then I remembered Vera. I was here for her. I could be strong for her. I took a step, and then another, winding my way through the grave sites until I reached the willow tree that presided over the Kensington family plot.

With magnetic pull, the baby’s headstone drew my eyes to it. Ethan had picked it out, with his parents’ help. We’d kept it simple. No name. Few details. It’s how I’d wanted it. Ethan couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to know the child’s gender. He had accused me of being emotionally cold, frozen. Perhaps I was. But it was the only way I knew how not to succumb to my sadness. If I didn’t
know
, I didn’t have to
feel
. The hospital grief counselor had advised that while a funeral wasn’t necessary, it could give us closure. A couple who had lost twins recently, he’d explained, had buried the ashes of their children under two plum trees they’d planted in their backyard. Another couple had buried their stillborn daughter under a rose tree in their garden. Ethan had insisted that our child needed a funeral, but to me, it only seemed to add to the pain. I had been distraught, and a nurse had to come in to give me a sedative.

I knelt down beside the grave, running my hand along the edge
of the headstone, wiping a bit of moss off the edge with my hand. I pulled a package of tissue from my bag, and used one to rub dust from the shiny granite.
BABY KENSINGTON
, the first line read.
BORN MAY 3; IN THE ARMS OF JESUS 13 MINUTES AFTER BIRTH
.

I didn’t bother to wipe away the tear on my cheek. No one was watching. I could let myself grieve. “Mommy misses you,” I whispered, as the wind whistled through the willow tree. I longed to hold my baby, to feel the softness of a cheek against my breast. I remembered the way they’d been engorged with milk, pulsing with pain, the day I came home from the hospital. How cruel, I’d thought, to have milk for a child I could never feed. I stared at the headstone. Every part of me ached for what I had lost. And when the stream of tears came, I did not try to stifle them.

Startled by a rustling noise, I looked behind me, where an older man in overalls with dirt stains at the knees stood with a rake on the hill above.
How long has he been watching me?

He set the rake against a tree and walked toward me. I wanted to tell him to go away, to leave me alone, but something about his face—friendly, kind—told me not to. “This your child, miss?” he asked, pointing to the headstone.

I nodded.

“The name’s Murphy,” he said, pulling a wrinkled hand out of his work glove. “James Murphy. I’m the caretaker here.”

He gave my hand a squeeze, and I tucked it back in my pocket. “I’m Claire Aldridge,” I said, eyes fixed on the headstone.

“Must be a special one, this child,” he said, kneeling beside me.

I didn’t answer.
He probably says this to everyone.

“I’ve been tending these grounds for more than forty years,” he said. “Never seen a blackberry vine grow here, least not in my time. The soil’s too dense. But look.” He paused, pointing to a sprig of
light green peeking out from behind the headstone. The crinkly leaves covered a thorny vine with a single white flower, its petals so delicate they might as well have been lace.

I reached down to touch its stem, but pulled my hand back quickly, feeling a sharp prick. Blood dripped from my finger. “Ouch!” I cried.

“Careful,” he said. “Those thorns are sharp.”

I put my finger in my mouth to stop the bleeding.