Empty Arms: A Novel (3 page)

I sit there like that, folded over myself, until the water cools and the light behind the gauzy shade turns from golden to ultramarine.

“Cate?” Paul’s voice echoes from the hallway, but I don’t have the energy to answer him.

“Cate!” He shouts and pounds on the bedroom door. When I don’t answer again, he wrestles with the lock, and I brace myself as his heavy footsteps march across the Berber to the bathroom door. Three loud raps make me jump. “Cate? Are you all right?”

I can’t summon my voice.

He jiggles the handle but it catches on the lock. He shimmies it, and a second later he’s standing over me with open hands, ready to spring into action. His eyebrows furrow when he sees me sitting there with corpse-white skin that’s pruned and covered with goose bumps. The water level is low and murky from the salt crystals. His eyes search mine, which are probably swollen and red from crying. He crosses his arms and sighs, unsure what to do next. But there’s nothing for him to do. We are irreparably broken. And it’s my fault.

He kneels next to the tub. His eyes remind me of sad puddles. In them floats something I’ve never seen before: fear. He touches my war-torn arm. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

I do. I want to tell him everything. The truth is perched on the edge of my lips, waiting for me to find the courage. But instead I sit there like a mute, with my arms wrapped around my legs and my chin balanced on my kneecap, while the truth retreats back to the dark recesses.

T
HROUGH THE DENSE
midnight darkness, black eyes narrow in on me like predators in the wild. With nowhere to run, I turn from them and crouch down, clutching a naked infant in my arms. My stomach is raw with labor pain, my limbs are heavy from the Demerol, and my mind is feeble from their words. They descend on me. An enormous black bear forces me onto my back and holds down my shoulders. A cobra winds up my arms. A jackal locks my ankles into place. A lioness advances between them. “You’ll forget,” she whispers and rips the screaming baby from my arms.

“No!” My body shoots upright, arms outstretched, suddenly free from their grip. But they’re gone. All of them. Nothing but darkness surrounds me.

There’s movement next to me, and I flinch at the feeling of a hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay,” Paul’s sleep-laden voice whispers, pulling me back down beside him. “It was just a bad dream.”

The next morning, I wake to what sounds like a giant carpenter bee burrowing its way through the sub floor. The dregs of my dream drain from my mind and my bedroom comes into focus. The stretch of mattress next to me is empty and cold, and the vibration beneath me is far too loud to be the work of any wood-boring insect.

I tiptoe into the kitchen. A ladder is perched next to the island, and Paul is at the top, drilling into the ceiling.

“What are you doing?” I tighten my bathrobe around me for warmth.

A pencil protrudes from the left side of his mouth. “Hanging your pot rack,” he mumbles.

His unwavering concentration tells me not to bother pointing out that it isn’t even six o’clock in the morning or that, per our conversation yesterday, I no longer care whether he hangs the damn rack or not. No, this morning those things can be left unsaid because, despite how it looks, this isn’t the thoughtful act of a loving husband; this is Paul coping.

I move behind him to the stove and turn the knob until the pilot clicks and the flame jumps to life, licking the bottom of the teapot. “Coffee?”

“Sure.”

I measure enough grounds for four cups; one for now and three to fill his thermos for later. I drape a bag of Earl Grey in my mug and wait for the water to boil.

“Hmm. That’s odd,” he mutters behind me.

“What?”

“I can’t find any studs in this one area.”

“You should just forget about the rack.”

But he won’t. He reaches for the drywall knife, which is conveniently located in his leather tool belt, and cuts a giant square in the ceiling. Dust and bits of drywall shower down on the spotless granite island below. My mouth falls in horror as Paul climbs a couple of rungs and pokes his head through the hole to have a look around.

I cross my arms and wait for him to reappear. “Well?” I ask when he finally does.

“Looks like there used to be duct work up there. Maybe for a range hood?” He eyes the space again. “A commercial-size range hood, from the looks of it.” He sticks his head in the hole again and this time reaches inside with his flashlight. Clang, clang, clang. “There’s an old sprinkler system up here.” His voice is muffled and I pretend not to hear him.

The teapot erupts with a whistle and I turn my attention to my cup of Earl Grey while he bangs around in the ceiling. Since my counter looks like a war zone, I decide on an easy breakfast, rather than our normal eggs and bacon. I retrieve a box of Corn Flakes from the pantry and pour two bowls.

He reappears a moment later. “Ready for breakfast?” I ask, but his eyes are wide with intrigue, and I can see that breakfast is the farthest thing from his mind.

“I’ll bet this old place used to be a restaurant or a bed and breakfast.”

I pour his coffee and hold out the mug, hoping it will coax him down from the ladder. My kitchen is already a wreck, and the last thing I need is any further exploration.

He steps down and takes the cup from my hands, sipping his coffee and staring up at the ceiling. “You know what I ought to do?”

“Clean up this mess and forget about the pot rack?”

“No, I ought to go down to the library and see if I can dig up any information about this old place.”

I almost choke on my tea. “I’ll do it,” I sputter, trying to stay calm.

“You will?”

I take his arm and guide him away from the hole. “I have some library books to return. I’ll go over lunch.”

We transfer our cereal bowls to the kitchen table. Paul’s eyes soften for the first time since yesterday, and he reaches over and puts his hand on mine. “Thanks.”

I pick up the newspaper, fish out the Lifestyle section, and pass him the Sports section. We eat in silence, and I’m secretly grateful for the distraction. At some point in our marriage, even simple breakfast conversation started feeling burdensome. I don’t know whether we’ve covered every topic under the sun or if our failings at parenthood have worn us down, but one thing I know for sure: it’s easier to bury our heads in the newspaper.

Paul devours his cereal in half the time it takes me. He folds the paper, sets his spoon in his bowl, and rests his chin on his hand.

I can feel his eyes on me. “What?”

He shrugs. “I was just wondering if you meant what you said yesterday.”

I look over the paper at him. “What did I say yesterday?”

“That you’re not ready to consider adoption. Is that true?”

My stomach tightens, and I think of Emily. I nod and shove another spoonful of Corn Flakes in my mouth.

“You won’t even consider it?”

The desperation in his voice makes me ache as I chew. “I’m not ready to give up on having our own biological child.” It’s a partial truth and it’s the best I can do.

“You realize we’re not getting any younger, right? You’re thirty-nine and I’m forty-two for crying out loud.”

“I’m well aware of my age, Paul.”

“Well, the adoption process can take years. The application and interview process alone will take several months and then the waiting list …”

I fold the newspaper and set it down. “Since when are you such an expert on adoption?”

He looks away.

“Paul?”

He gets up and goes over to the cabinet above the refrigerator, where he hides things he doesn’t want me to find. But I far prefer the diamond tennis bracelet he gave me for our five-year wedding anniversary to the blue binder in his hands.

“What’s that?”

“Just a brochure from a local adoption agency, that’s all.” He sets the binder in front of me, but the “brochure” looks more like a welcome kit than some flimsy pamphlet. In fact, there’s nothing flimsy about the durable plastic folder or its contents, which include an adoption workbook, a welcome video, glossy photographs of happy families in parks, case studies highlighting success rates, and a three-page questionnaire that promises to match you with the perfect child.
Everyone benefits from infant adoption
.

I slam it shut and glare at him. “When did you get this?”

He puts his hands up. “I don’t want to fight.”

“When?”

“A few months ago.”

I jump out of my chair. “A few months ago?”

“Cate, we’ve been trying for five years.”

“I know how long we’ve been trying, Paul. I’ve been there too, remember?”

“Why are you getting so angry?”

“Because. All this time I thought we were trying for a baby of our own. I didn’t realize that you gave up months ago.”

“I haven’t given up.” His voice is thin and I wonder if he even believes his own words.

“Paul, you’ve started the adoption process. Without me.”

“Don’t be dramatic. I haven’t started anything. I just picked up some information.”

“Picking up information
is
starting something. And not only did you pick up the information, you read the information and then went ahead and formed an opinion about it. Jesus Christ, Paul, you’ve gone halfway through the damn process without even consulting me.”

He shakes his head and crosses his arms. “You always do this.” His voice is bitter.

“What do I always do?”

“Whenever I bring up adoption, you change the subject.”

I want to argue back and make him see that he’s wrong, but he’s not.

“Just tell me one thing, Cate. Why are you so against it?”

I push away the memory of Emily being pulled from my arms and the sound of her hysterical wailing. Paul doesn’t know about any of that. Maybe if he did he’d understand. Or maybe it would just make things worse.

I pick up my empty cereal bowl and drop it the sink with a thud. When I turn around, he positions himself between me and the doorway. “Why won’t you just think about it?” The fight has drained from his voice.

“Because,” I sigh, searching for something that’ll get him to back off. “I don’t think I could love a stranger’s baby. I want my own.”

My words sting him, and immediately I’m sorry for it, but it’s as much of the truth as I can give him right now.

“So not having a baby is better than adopting one?”

“I want my own baby, Paul.
Our
baby.”

“And what about what I want?”

My gaze falls to the worn tips of his construction boots, but before I can respond, he brushes past me, climbs the ladder and sticks his head back in the hole.

P
AUL IS GONE
by the time I get out of the shower. It’s just as well. I have no plans to apologize, and Lord knows neither does he. But our predicament plagues me as I drive through town in my Volvo wagon, which is yet another thing he purchased for us to fill with children. How can we ever move forward if we keep pulling each other in different directions?

I turn at the row of barren oaks and drive up the long winding path to Lowville General Hospital. Even after fourteen years of working here, and a multimillion-dollar renovation that nearly tripled its size, I can’t look at this hospital without remembering the day I left Emily here.

At first, they weren’t even going to let me hold her. Mom didn’t think it was a good idea. “Holding her will only make it harder,” she’d said.

“Harder? I’ve been holding her for the last nine months, nothing can possibly make this any harder,” I argued. “I just want to say goodbye.”

It was Daddy who finally convinced her that I deserved that much and told the nurse to bring her in. Nurse Unger thought it was a bad idea too, but she listened to Daddy and wheeled the bassinet into my room. Inside, a rosy pink face with innocent eyes looked up at me. I fell in love with her instantly.

Nurse Unger placed her in my arms, and I swaddled her tiny body in the pink cashmere blanket I’d brought for her. “You’ve got ten minutes,” she said and everyone filed out of my room.

My eyes locked on my daughter’s sweet face, memorizing every detail. My heart swelled with love, and tears streamed down the slope of my nose and dropped onto her forehead. I wiped them with my thumb and stroked the light brown fuzz covering her head. Even though she was only a few hours old, I could see James in the shape of her eyes and nose. Her pouty lips and apple cheeks were mine. I nuzzled her face and kissed her nose. I removed her tiny white mitts and kissed every one of her ten tiny fingers. “You need a name,” I whispered as she wrapped her hand around my finger. As I stared into her eyes, I remembered the boy I’d fallen in love with and the day we climbed into the backseat of his Camaro with Art Garfunkel crooning “For Emily, Whenever I May Find Her” on the radio. “Emily,” I said, hugging her close to me.