Empty Arms: A Novel (13 page)

He looks sick as everything begins to make sense. I reach for him, but he pulls away, shaking his head. “All these years we’ve been trying to have a baby and you had one all along? How could you keep this from me?”

“I thought you’d leave me if you knew.”

“Didn’t you think this would be an important piece of information for Dr. Hurten to know?”

“He does know.”

“Wait, you told him but not me?”

“I didn’t tell him. He figured it out when he examined me. I asked him not to tell you. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“So you thought it would be better to lie to me?” He jumps out of his chair and it falls over behind him.

“Paul.” I reach for him but there’s a coldness in his eyes I’ve never seen before.

He throws his hands up. “This changes everything.” He pushes through the back door, and it slams shut behind him. A moment later, his truck growls to life. Headlights sweep through the windows and then he’s gone. Paul has stormed out on me before, but I always knew he was coming back. This time, I’m not so sure.

W
HEN
P
AUL ISN’T BACK
in an hour, I eat dinner alone at the kitchen table. My eyes settle on the pile of books he left on the counter, a giant reminder of my lie.

I carry them over to the table and page through black-and-white photographs of our house from the early 1900s, before it was The Home for Fallen Women. The kitchen used to be half the size it is now. A cast-iron stove stood where I’m sitting, and a scullery sink was located beneath the window. When I arrived in January 1973, the house had already undergone a major transformation, and The Home for Fallen Women had dismantled most of its charm. The cast-iron stove was replaced by a commercial range that could cook dinner for two dozen people. The scullery sink was ripped out to make room for a stainless steel behemoth. When I lived here twenty-three years ago, this kitchen looked like something you’d find in a restaurant. Now, with spider burners and a double oven, it’s every cook’s dream.

I glance around, remembering all the love and energy Paul invested in this house and the photos he snapped as he tore down walls, painted rooms, and transformed this house into our home. My gaze settles on the built-in wine rack. The bottles are coated with dust. We used to reach for them after a long day and sit out on the back porch talking and laughing until the sun set and the stars came out. The memories make me shudder. Have I just destroyed the best thing in my life?

I scrape the last bite of chicken into my mouth and load my dirty dishes into the dishwasher. Before Paul’s renovation, the dishes were done by hand. I turn on the light above the stove so he can see when he comes home. If he comes home.

On my way to the den, I pass through the dining room, remembering the long oak table with benches on either side. The Home for Fallen Women always operated at maximum capacity, which meant meals were eaten elbow to elbow.

In the den, I straighten the pillows on the couch and stack the coasters into a neat pile on the table next to Paul’s recliner. This room used to be a library, complete with a wall of books, velvet arm chairs, a floral cretonne sofa, and damask drapes. A black Steinway piano used to sit where Paul’s recliner is. The day I arrived here, a young girl was playing a song I’d never heard before. I listened from the doorway, feeling lucky to be staying in such a lovely place and not one of the Florence Crittenton homes I’d heard about.

“What’s it called?” I asked when she finished the song.

She turned to me, revealing an enormous belly that looked ready to pop at any moment. Her eyes were vacant as the night. “
Pathétique
.”

In hindsight, it was the first clue that life at The Home was not as pleasant as it seemed. The next day, I returned to the piano and let my fingers find their way across the keys. A couple of minutes later, the girl appeared in the doorway. “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked.

“I’m playing Franz Schubert’s
Serenade
.” I slid to the end of the piano bench to make room for her. “Do you know the other half?”

“You better get up before Nurse Templeton sees you. You’re not allowed in the library, and you’re certainly not allowed to play the piano.”

“But you were playing it yesterday.”

“The piano only gets played when someone comes for a tour or when a new girl arrives. There’s a lounge on the third floor. That’s where we’re allowed to hang out.”

The lounge didn’t have a trace of velvet or damask. The couches were threadbare, and the coffee table wobbled. The books on the bookshelf had tattered pages, and the board games were all missing pieces. The radio in the corner had a bent antenna, and no amount of maneuvering could get it to play anything but static. So we spent our time talking instead. Most of the girls liked to fantasize about what it would be like to marry the boyfriends who were waiting for them on the outside and raise their babies together. As for me, I just tried to forget about James.

I flip off the lights in the den and climb the stairs. Rather than turning left toward our bedroom I make a right and open the door to the round room inside the turret. Twenty-three years ago, this was the room I shared with Lola. We called it Rapunzel’s Tower. I step inside. The floors are cold and the air smells like wood polish. The brown shag carpet has long since been ripped up, exposing the original oak floors. The curved walls used to be sunshine yellow but now they’re as plain as paper awaiting a coat of pink or blue.

I sit on the floor in the exact space where our bunk bed used to be. All of the other bedrooms had two sets of bunk beds that slept four girls, except the big bedroom on the third floor, which slept eight people. Our room was only big enough for the two of us. I lie on the cold floor and search the ceiling for the crack that looks like a broken heart. It’s exactly where I remember it. As I stare at it, the rest of the room melts away and I can hear Lola in the bunk beneath me telling me how Jake is going to marry her and work in his daddy’s garage so he can take care of her and their baby. She desperately wanted a little boy who she could name Teddy, after her dad. I remember her muffled sobs when she found out Jake was dating her best friend.

“You forget about Jake and I’ll forget about James. We’ll raise our babies together,” I told her.

This made her giggle. “There’s only one problem. Who’s going to cook for us?”

We laughed, remembering the day we’d been assigned to kitchen duty. The eggs cooked faster than the toast, so we lowered the heat on the stove and cranked the toaster. We ended up with brown, flaky eggs and a small toaster fire.

One night, Lola woke me out of a sound sleep. “The baby’s coming,” she cried. I fetched Nurse Templeton and begged her to let me go to the hospital with Lola, but she wouldn’t hear of it. And that was the last time I ever saw my friend.

P
AUL ISN’T BACK
by the time I crawl into bed. Visions of his truck crashed into a tree plague me. I try to reassure myself that he’s just down the road at the Blue Line Bar, sitting like a lump on one of the bar stools watching a game with the other scorned husbands and divorcees.

I roll over onto my back. Is that where we’re headed … divorce? I stare at the flawless ceiling above our bed, wishing Lola was there in the bunk beneath me. She was the one person I could talk to about anything. She always knew what to do.

It’s after two when Paul’s headlights illuminate the window. I listen as he cuts the engine, closes his truck door, and comes inside. His footsteps echo on the floors beneath me. I wait, but he doesn’t come upstairs.

I
’M FLOATING ON A LAKE
. Paul is beside me, tightening the ropes that hold our wooden raft together. A child cries. A little girl with auburn curls sits just beyond my feet. Her back faces me as she leans forward, reaching for a fish. Waves knock at the raft threatening her balance.

“Emily,” I call, but she doesn’t respond.

I sit up and reach for her, but my shifting weight causes the raft to splinter. A divide forms between me and Paul. The more I reach for her, the bigger the gap becomes.

“Stop!” Paul begs.

I reach for him but the raft splinters on the other side of me, separating me from Emily. I reach for her again but the raft breaks and Paul begins floating away. I reach for him but the raft severs and Emily is floating away too.

I
WAKE THE NEXT MORNING
, relieved to feel mattress beneath me. But when I see the empty space next to me, I know that the nightmare wasn’t entirely in my head.

It’s Friday. I push the nightmare from my mind and concentrate instead on my lunch date with Harper. If everything goes as planned, I’ll come home with information about Emily.

I shower and slip on dark purple scrubs, which bring out the green in my eyes. Normally, I love working in such comfortable clothes, but today it would be nice to wear something a little more flattering. I pull a chocolate brown cardigan over my shoulders and clip my brown waves back into a half ponytail.

Paul is already gone when I get downstairs. The smell of burnt coffee and the half empty cereal bowl in the sink are his way of showing me that he can get along just fine without me. I rinse the abandoned Corn Flakes down the garbage disposal and load his bowl into the dishwasher. I can get along fine without him too.

My impending lunch with Harper makes it hard to concentrate on anything else. I arrive at the hospital with no memory of the drive. And as I walk through the sunny lobby, I feel like I’m floating. In a matter of hours, I will have answers to questions that have eaten at me for twenty-three years.

I ride the elevator to the fifth floor, and the sound of my whistling echoes off the empty locker room walls. I hang up my coat and purse and find Delaney standing at the nurses’ station. “Good morning,” I sing, walking past her.

She looks at me over the top of her glasses. “Why are you so happy?”

I shrug. “Just glad it’s Friday.”

“Well, good. There’s a little girl who could use your optimism.” Del nods toward the Special Care Nursery.

I pull on a gown and scrub cap and push through the door. My happiness is snuffed out when I spot an incubator holding a baby no bigger than my hand. Her body is tethered with tubes and wires that help her breathe, deliver nutrition, and monitor her struggling heartbeat. Her skin has a yellowish pallor, and her fragile chest rises and falls, like a baby bird that’s fallen from its nest.

I open her chart.
Baby Girl Glass. 3 lbs., 5 oz. Prenatal Cocaine Exposure. Fetal stroke. Surrendered to the state.
I sink into the chair next to the isolette and watch her work for every breath. She is living proof that not all mothers love their babies.

I reach through the round opening. Her arm is the size of one of my fingers. I hold her delicate hand between my thumb and forefinger. Contact is especially important for pre-term babies who are too small to hold. As I watch Baby Girl Glass fight for her life, my own problems fall away. It all ceases to matter when you stare into the face of a three-and-a-half-pound person who has all the odds in the world stacked against her.

I stroke her tiny hand with my thumb. “Welcome to the world, Miss Glass. I’m so glad you’re here.”

W
HEN NOON ROLLS AROUND
, I’m still holding Baby Girl Glass’ hand. I consider calling Harper and rescheduling our lunch date, but all I can think of is Emily’s file. I glance at the monitors that beep beside the incubator. Her vitals are stable and they have been for hours. I glance at the clock and then back at her. Not all mothers love their babies, but I love mine and it’s time to find her.

“I’ll be back soon,” I whisper, patting her hand and slipping out of the Special Care Nursery. I return to the locker room for my coat. I glance over my shoulder to make sure no one is looking and then I slip off my wedding band and drop it inside my purse.

I ride the elevator down to the basement, trying to calm myself but my heart is tap dancing in my chest.

When I open the door to the Adoption Registry, the bell jangles, announcing my arrival.

“Be right there,” Harper calls from behind one of the moveable walls of files.

“Take your time.” I set my purse on the floor and lean over the counter, elbowing the mouse so the computer screen comes to life. A cursor blinks, waiting for a password. Shit, I hadn’t planned for a password.

“Hi,” he says, emerging from the archives.

“Hi.” I return his smile, easing away from the computer. “Hungry?”

“Starving.” The way he smiles at me, I get the sense this lunch means a lot more to him than it does to me. “Just give me a sec, I need to finish up the request I was working on.”

“No problem.” I watch his fingers type his password.
pearljam63
. I back away while he finishes his work.

“All done.” He pulls on a charcoal gray pea coat and walks around the counter. He’s wearing forest green corduroys and dark brown leather boots. He opens the door for me and then locks it behind him. “So where are we going?” he asks as we walk down the hallway toward the elevator.