Empty Arms: A Novel (12 page)

“It’s me,” Paul’s voice echoes through the speaker. “I’m going to be a little late getting home. I have to stop at the zoning office and pull some permits for the Muellers’ house. I’ll be home around seven.”

Beep.

“Catharine, it’s Mom. Just listen.” My finger hovers over the delete button, but the urgency in her voice stops me. “Margaret Pearson died. She had a heart attack yesterday morning.” I slide onto the wooden bench beneath the phone. “Tommy called to tell me. She’s going to be cremated, and her ashes will be buried at her family’s plot here in Angel Falls. They’re having a memorial service this Saturday at two. I know you’re still upset with me, but I think you should come. Tommy and Maddie Rae are traveling a long way to be here. I know it would mean a lot to them if you came. Let me know.”

The news knocks the wind out of me as I remember the woman I used to babysit for. Margaret Pearson had the energy of a southern Baptist church on Sunday morning. Her hair was the color of rubies, her eyes were like turquoise pendants, and her rolling laughter could spread through a room like wildfire. I started babysitting for her and her husband, Tom, the summer after I lost Emily. I was drowning in depression, and Mom was tired of me moping around the house, so she dragged me over to the Pearsons’ and unloaded me on Margaret.

Tommy and Maddie Rae were the first children I encountered after losing Emily. Tommy was four and he had spiky blonde hair that looked like lemon meringue pie. Instead of saying “hello,” he stabbed me in the leg with a sword and a victorious “raaawwwhhh!”

“Tommy,” Mrs. Pearson scolded as he jabbed me again and again. “What I did I tell you about slaying people?”

“Sorry, Mommy. I thought she was a dragon.”

To my surprise, Tommy was easy to be around, and I actually looked forward to our time together because it meant escaping into his mystical world of fire-breathing dragons and forgetting about my own misery for a little while. It was his baby sister, Maddie Rae, who was the real challenge. Even though she was a happy baby who rarely cried, she was close to Emily’s age and she was a painful reminder of the daughter I’d never see again.

For the first two weeks, I refused to hold Maddie Rae, and I left her in her bed all day. Tommy was more than happy to pretend that she was our prisoner, peering out at us from behind the bars of her crib. But then one day she bawled until her face was red and her voice was hoarse.

“Don’t free her.” Tommy stomped his foot and pointed his sword at me.

But her misery melted my heart, and all I wanted to do was comfort her, so I gave in and picked her up. To my surprise, I wasn’t overcome with agony and despair but just the opposite. The weight of her in my lap and the soft scent of her baby shampoo eased a little piece of my sadness.

After that day, I couldn’t bear to put her down. She went everywhere perched on my hip or curled into the nook of my arm. By the time fall arrived and I started my senior year, Tommy and Maddie Rae had become like little beams of sunshine that managed to brighten my life at the most unexpected moments, like when a stray molecule of Maddie Rae’s leftover scent would wriggle free from my shirt and invade my nose for one blissful moment in the middle of Pre-Calculus or the way Tommy’s laughter—tee hee hee—echoed in my mind late at night as I drifted off to sleep.

The memories capsize me and I feel their loss, just as I felt it when Mrs. Pearson told me that she was divorcing her husband and moving to Florida with the children. The news destroyed me, and I cried for weeks after they left. Mom didn’t make me babysit anymore after that.

I pick up the phone and dial Mom’s number. As always, she answers on the third ring. That’s her rule: three rings, so people don’t think she’s been sitting next to the phone with nothing better to do, though that’s usually the case.

When she answers, I cut right to the chase so she knows that I haven’t forgiven her for ruining my life. “I got your message, and I will be at Mrs. Pearson’s memorial service on Saturday.”

“Good. I’m glad.” I’m just about to hang up when she continues. “Can I ride with you? We’ve been getting a lot of snow here, and I can’t get my car out.”

“Why don’t you borrow a snow blower from one of your neighbors?”

“Oh, I don’t want them to think I’m a mooch.”

“No one will think you’re a mooch.”

“Maybe Paul can help me shovel the driveway after the service? He is coming, isn’t he?”

The thought of spending all weekend together in the car is unbearable. “I don’t know yet. He might have to work.”

“He works on the weekends a lot.” She says it lightly, but her voice is full of judgment. I want to remind her that Daddy was no stranger to working on the weekends, but she would just argue that being a police officer and protecting your community is a lot different from tiling bathroom floors.

“Why don’t you pay one of the neighbor boys to come dig you out?” I ask, ignoring the comment.

“I wouldn’t want the neighbors to think I can’t manage this place by myself.”

I resist the urge to tell her that no one gives a damn if her back isn’t as strong as it used be or if her joints ache with arthritis. She’s obsessed with what the world thinks of her, and no amount of reassurance will change that. “I’ll pick you up at one.”

I hang up the phone and pilfer the fridge for something to make for dinner, but her words bat in my brain like a pesky mosquito. Since when is it a crime to work on Saturday? It’s not like it’s the holy day, although Paul’s not opposed to working on Sunday either. But I’d never tell her that, unless I wanted to hear about it for the rest of my life. As far as she’s concerned, we spend our Sundays at St. Mark’s. Little does she know, I gave up on God twenty-three years ago when I was forced to abandon Emily and was convinced that James had abandoned me.

I reach for a package of chicken breasts and wash them in the sink. Speaking of James, I wonder if he works on the weekends. If he’s running his family’s ranch like he’d planned, then he probably does. I imagine him riding a horse and lassoing livestock. The thought of him on a horse triggers a long-forgotten pull in my chest. I dunk the chicken in egg batter and roll it in flour and breadcrumbs as my mind wanders back to the day he taught me how to ride a horse.

He’d rented me a white mare named Cloud and a dark gray stallion named Flint for himself. He looked like a natural, sitting tall on Flint’s back in his ripped jeans and leather cowboy hat. “Hold the reins like this.” He lifted his hands for me to see. “Keep your wrists and fingers relaxed.”

“Like this?” I tried to imitate what he was doing, but Cloud wouldn’t stand still and I jerked around in the saddle trying not fall.

Even though I felt clumsy and awkward, James was patient and kind. “Move your hands up so they’re about an inch in front of the saddle.”

Mom would’ve killed me if she knew what I was doing, and Daddy would’ve thrown James in jail. I don’t know which they would’ve hated more, the horse or the guy. But as Cloud and I followed Flint and James away from the stable, I couldn’t have cared less.

We sauntered through the forest and down the narrow trail toward the river. James was strong and confident on Flint’s back. Despite Cloud’s slow gait, my body shifted in the saddle with every step, and I felt like I might lose control at any second, though that was how I usually felt around James.

“Watch this,” he yelled over his shoulder and Flint galloped off, thundering along the river like a freight train.

My heart raced as I watched him, and I prayed that he knew what he was doing.

“Want to try?” he asked when they returned to my side.

“You’re out of your mind.”

He hopped off Flint’s back and tied him to a tree. He came over to Cloud’s side and reached for me.

“What are you doing?”

“Do you trust me?”

I couldn’t resist his warm eyes. I took his hand and slid down the horse’s soft fur into his arms. He tied up Cloud and knelt next to Flint and clasped his hands to hoist me up.

“Are you crazy? I can’t ride that thing!”

He stood up and pulled me close. “Don’t worry, Cate. We’re going to do it together.”

Together
. I liked the sound of that. He knelt again and I placed my right foot in his hands. He lifted me up and I swung my left leg over Flint’s broad back. I settled into the rear of the saddle, leaving room for James in front of me. He untethered the horse, placed his boot in the stirrup, and in one swift movement slid into the space in front of me. He took my arms and wrapped them around his strong midsection. “Hang on.” He jabbed Flint with his heel, and the horse rocketed. I tightened my grip around James’s waist as Flint picked up speed. Wind blasted through my hair, and the trees became a blur. It felt like we were going 100 miles per hour, but holding onto James I felt safe and invincible.

The back door bursts opens and I jump, dropping a chicken breast into the sink. Paul walks in and the door slams shut, jarring me from the memory. I pick up the slippery piece of meat and wash it again. Our relationship is so strained that even exchanging a simple greeting has become complicated. I wait to see if he says anything, but all I hear is the sound of his work bag dropping onto the kitchen table. I cringe. He knows I hate it when he does that. The thought of all those germs from his worksite transferring from the bottom of his bag to the clean surface where we eat makes my skin crawl. But the urge to remind him that the kitchen table is no place for his dirty work bag dies on my tongue. It’ll be easier to just Lysol the table.

I lay the chicken in the frying pan and the oil snaps and spits. I jerk my hand away and wash off the raw chicken juice.

“What’s wrong with your new pots and pans?” he fires when he sees that I’m cooking with the old set. My body tenses at his tone. Is he really reading anything into which pots and pans I’m cooking
his
dinner in?

I force the bitterness from my voice. “Nothing’s wrong with the new set, it’s perfect. That’s why I didn’t want to dirty it up just yet.” I don’t have the energy to explain that sometimes it’s easier to just stick with what you know; that I don’t have the patience to learn how food will react with the new surface or that burnt chicken might actually push me over the edge of sanity. More than that, I can’t look at my new pots and pans without feeling guilty for not wanting to adopt a child.

“Well, there’s no point in having them if you’re not going to use them. They’re too expensive to just look at.”

I spin around. “Then maybe you should just return them.”

“Maybe I will, goddamn it.” His face is red and his eyes are furious. He’s panting like a rabid dog and for a moment I worry that he’s going to drop dead of a heart attack, like Mrs. Pearson.

“What’s gotten into you, Paul? Is this about the adoption papers again?”

“It has nothing to do with the goddamn adoption papers.”

“Then what could possibly have you so angry?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that my wife is a liar?”

My retort halts at the tip of my tongue as I try to read his expression. Did he find out about Emily? No, that’s impossible. Short of talking to my mother or digging through Harper’s files, there’s no way he could know about her. I cross my arms with a huff. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, making sure to sound both innocent and insulted.

“Really? No idea, huh? Well, maybe this will jar your memory.” He pulls a book out of his work bag and shoves it at me.

When I see the photo on the cover, I immediately understand his fury. “I must have missed this one,” I stammer.

“Really?” He pulls out a second book, then a third. They each have different titles but the covers are nearly identical. They all show our Victorian home the way I remember it: mauve with light blue trim and a small wooden sign hanging from the front gate that reads,
The Home for Fallen Women.

“And there are five more just like it.”

I root through my mind for an explanation, but I’m caught in a lie and there’s no way out. I set the book on the counter and sigh in defeat. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t understand. Why did you tell me you looked into this old place when you didn’t?”

The truth claws inside of me, desperate to get out.

“What is it, Cate? You don’t love me anymore?”

“No! It’s not that.”

“Are you sure? Because you don’t seem to give a rat’s ass about what I want.”

“Of course I do.”

“Then what? Are you just turning into a cold-hearted bitch like your mother?”

Tears burn at my eyes. I turn away and lean against the counter so he won’t see how his words are affecting me. But keeping this secret from Paul is exactly like my mother keeping James’s letters from me. It’s one tiny omission, but it changes everything. And just like I deserved to know the truth about James’s letters, Paul deserves to know the truth about me. “You’re right,” I confess. “I didn’t research the house. I didn’t have to.”

“What do you mean you didn’t have to?”

I turn to him and take a deep breath. “Do you remember when you brought me here and proposed in this kitchen? You said you’d noticed me
admiring
this place?”

His eyes soften ever so slightly. “You always stared at it. Sometimes I even took the long way home just so we could drive by it.”

I smile sadly. “Thank you for that, but the truth is I wasn’t admiring this place. I was remembering it.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Paul, I lived here for three months back in 1973.”

“But, Cate, this place was a maternity home …” He stops as the pieces click together. “Wait. Are you telling me
you
lived
here
?”

I nod slowly and my voice quakes as the truth finally comes out. “I got pregnant when I was sixteen years old. My mother was so ashamed that she told everyone I was accepted into a gifted program. But really I was here.”

He stumbles backward and falls into a nearby chair. “You have a child?” His eyes are wide and incredulous.

“
Had
a child. A daughter.” My right hand trembles as I reach up my sleeve and pick at the scabs lining my arm. “I was forced to give her up for adoption.” My arm twitches as I rip back the hardened patches of skin. “That’s why it’s been so hard for me to even consider adopting a baby. I never got over them taking Emily from me. I couldn’t do that to someone else.”