Golden State: A Novel (13 page)

“He’s just tired. We were out at Union Square today, working.”

“Working?”

She held out her hand and pantomimed asking for money.

“You took him with you to panhandle?”

She shrugged. “Tourists love him.”

“He shouldn’t be out there, Danielle. He’s just a baby.”

Her face turned red, and I realized I’d been close to shouting.

“Who’s gonna take care of him? The fairy godmother?” She scratched nervously at her neck. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

I lowered my voice. “We’ve been through this, Danielle. You’re eligible for day care. Your child and family services worker can arrange it for you.”

In the two years I’d been volunteering in the Tenderloin, I had tried hard to follow the advice of Dr. Bariloche, who had introduced me to clinic work back in medical school. “There are a lot of sad stories, mountains of need,” she cautioned. “It will break your heart, but you have to keep your distance.” For the most part, I’d
been able to do just that. It probably would have been the same with Danielle, were it not for Ethan.

A couple of weeks before, she had brought him in with a fever, screaming in pain. It was a nasty ear infection. I wrote a prescription for antibiotics and called downstairs to have it filled. Danielle and Ethan weren’t in our records, so I gave Ethan a plastic dump truck to play with while I went through the standard questionnaire with Danielle, filling out the details of their medical histories. She seemed desperate for someone to talk to. She opened up to me about her drug addiction, which she’d been battling for years. “I quit cold turkey the day I found out I was pregnant,” she said. “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

Shortly after giving birth, she confided, she’d fallen back in with the people she used to know, and things had spiraled out of control. “But I’m done with all that now,” she vowed. “I’m going clean. Every time I look at him, I know I don’t have a choice. I have to get better.” She told me about Ethan’s father, who was serving time for armed robbery. “The best thing that ever happened to me was when he got locked up. I finally feel safe.” As she talked, she kept adjusting her headband, a pretty wooden one engraved with an intricate pattern.

It was plain to see that, for all her terrible choices, Danielle was trying hard to be a good mother. Ethan’s clothes were a bit dirty, but he seemed well taken care of, with no bruises, no burn marks, none of the heartbreaking signs of abuse that one so often encounters in the children of addicts. He easily climbed into his mother’s lap and put his arms around her neck, to which she responded with kisses and chatter. There was an obvious bond between them.

At one point he toddled across the floor, patted my knees with his dimpled hands, laid his head down on my lap, and started sucking his thumb. My heart turned over; I was instantly disarmed. I put my hand on his head, then his cheek, which was red and warm from fever. His unruly curls were as soft as air, his skin impossibly smooth. I gave Danielle a paper bag containing a bottle of bubble-gum-flavored antibiotics, a bottle of grape-flavored Tylenol, and
two medicine droppers. I gave Ethan his first dose and carefully explained the instructions to Danielle, extracting a promise that they would visit in a couple of weeks for a complete checkup. When I left the clinic half an hour later, I was startled to see her standing at the bus stop across the street in the driving rain, clutching a squirming, crying Ethan to her chest.

“It’s miserable out,” I said. “Let me give you a ride home.”

“Thank you,” she said, on the verge of tears.

Her apartment was in the Outer Sunset, a block from Ocean Beach, on the ground floor of a shabby building. By the time we got there, the rain had vanished, and the sun was shining over the Pacific. The living room was cheerfully crowded with baby books, teething rings, and toys. The kitchen door led onto a small, enclosed patio. Danielle had hung a hammock from two hooks on the patio’s ceiling. She plopped Ethan into the hammock, and he laughed as she swung him back and forth.

“Hey, want to stay for dinner?” she asked. “We could eat out here. With those trees, it’s totally private. No one can see in. Not bad for the projects, huh?”

I was caught off guard, with no ready-made excuse, and so I ended up staying. Over hot dogs and Diet Cokes, Danielle peppered me with questions about my job, my husband, my family. “Do you want kids?” she blurted at one point.

“One day,” I said, “probably.”

I was still relatively young at the time, thirty-three, so wrapped up in my work that it didn’t seem like a good time to start a family. Tom wasn’t ready yet, either. And besides, unlike most marriages, ours had not begun with the assumption that there would eventually be children. We had never definitively agreed that we wanted to have them. Still, in the back of my mind thirty-five loomed large, the age when the biological clock strikes some gloomy midnight hour and conception suddenly becomes more difficult. I knew that if we did want to be parents, we would need to start sooner rather than later.

As we were clearing up the dishes, she looked at me shyly and remarked, “I don’t know many people like you.”

“Like me?”

“Educated, married, a good job. All your nice clothes. I bet you live in a really nice house.”

There was no accusation in her voice, but I suddenly felt pierced by guilt. How easy my life must seem, from her perspective. “I’ve been lucky,” I said.

I couldn’t escape the feeling that I had already crossed some invisible boundary. The fact that, two weeks later, she was standing in my house at ten o’clock on a Sunday night only confirmed that I had gone too far.

“Sit down,” I told her. “I’m going to change him.”

I carried Ethan into my bedroom and laid him on top of the covers. I put my hand on his tummy and jostled him gently, trying to rouse him. He screwed his face up, his eyes flew open, and he let out a loud cry. Overcome with relief, I scooped him up, swaying back and forth. “It’s okay,” I crooned. “You’re okay.” Soon he stopped crying. I sat him on the bed and opened the diaper bag. The powdery smell of the disposable diapers, the comforting orderliness of them, stacked flat and white at the bottom of the bag, and the sound of the plastic tabs sticking into place took me straight back home to Mississippi. I’d been so proud, in those days, to play the dutiful big sister, the mom-in-training.

“Good as new,” I exulted, lifting Ethan high in the air, and he laughed as if we’d discovered some brilliant new game. In the diaper bag, I found a soft blue T-shirt and pants, a tiny pair of white socks with trains stitched across the elastic. The anger I felt toward Danielle eased, seeing the care she had taken in arranging his things. I dressed Ethan and carried him back to the living room, where Danielle was walking in circles around the coffee table, biting her nails.

I sat down on the couch, cradling Ethan in my lap.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“I’m trying,” she said. “I’m trying so hard.”

“You have to try harder. If you keep up like this, you’re going to lose him.”

She looked at me as though I were the most naïve person on the planet. “It’s not that easy,” she said. “This thing, addiction, it’s with you every minute, every second of every day. And when you have a kid, it’s a thousand times worse. Every time I look at him, I can’t help thinking he’d be better off without me.”

Later, I would realize I should have offered some words of reassurance at that moment. “That’s not true,” I should have insisted. “Ethan needs you.” But I didn’t say it; deep down, maybe I agreed.

Ethan was squirming on my lap, so I set him down on the floor. He was instantly off and moving, touching everything he could get his small, fat hands on. I walked around behind him, nervous that he would hurt himself. I kept taking things out of his fingers, steadying him when he looked like he would topple. Eventually, he plopped down on the rug by my feet and became engrossed with a loose thread.

“So, are you going to tell me why you’re here?” I said, trying to make eye contact with Danielle, but she wouldn’t look at me. She kept pacing, chewing her nails.

“I’m in a little trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“I got caught with some stuff.”

“Stuff?”

“Meth,” she said, not meeting my eyes. “My lawyer says I have to check into rehab this week. If I don’t, the judge is going to put me in jail.” She sat down on the couch and put her head in her hands. “Everything’s falling apart. I was thinking maybe you could take care of Ethan, just for a little while.”

“What?” I said, startled.

“My lawyer says I’ll be out of rehab in thirty days.”

“Don’t you have family?”

“A sister in Glendale, but she won’t take him. She hates me. Anyway, I don’t want her anywhere near him. She’s not a nice person.”

Ethan had lost interest in the rug and wandered back over to me. He held out his arms, and I picked him up. His soft curls brushed against my chin.
Keep your distance
, I scolded myself. “It’s impossible,” I said, as much to myself as to her. I had a life, a career, a husband. I had responsibilities. Tom would never go for it.

Danielle gave me a pleading look. “You like Ethan, I know it. Don’t you? You light up when you hold him.”

Just then, Ethan reached up and patted my face, babbling, “Mama.” I was aware, of course, that toddlers just learning to talk tend to call all women “mama” and all men “dada.” Even so, I melted. The wheels started turning in my brain. Just a month. It was nothing. I had some vacation time coming, and anyway, Tom and I could afford to hire someone to help out.
Say no
, my brain was telling me. But I didn’t want to say no.

“I can’t promise you anything,” I said, “but I will at least talk to my husband.” I was surprised by the words as they came out of my mouth.

“Thank you,” she said, beaming. “Oh, God, thank you.” She wiped her eyes with her sleeve, smearing mascara across her face. “Ethan will love it here,” she said, as if it were a done deal, as if I’d given her a definite yes instead of a lukewarm maybe. “His caseworker’s card is in the diaper bag. Her name is Terry. Anything you need to know, she can tell you. I packed Ethan’s favorite blanket and binky. He can’t sleep without them. He likes to have music on the radio when he goes down for a nap. Country music works best, for some reason. I can’t stand it, but he likes it, so …”

Her voice trailed off. She came over, lifted Ethan out of my lap, and pressed her mouth to his hair. “I’ll miss you, little man,” she whispered.

“It’s only maybe,” I reminded her. I kept waiting for her to leave, but she didn’t. “The heat is off at my place,” she ventured finally. A question, a nudging.

I looked at the clock. It was late, and it was so cold out, I’d had the heater running all day. Danielle’s place by the beach must have been freezing. “You can stay in the guest bedroom tonight. I’ll talk
to Tom in the morning, when he gets home from work.” What was I doing? I wasn’t sure. Nothing in medical school had prepared me for this.

After making up the guest bed with fresh sheets, I stood in the doorway of the living room, watching Danielle. She had showered and changed into flannel pajamas I’d lent her. She’d even consented to eat a few bites of a grilled cheese sandwich. Clean and fed, she was now calm, quiet, and totally oblivious to me. Ethan had fallen asleep in her lap, and she was cradling him, crying softly.

That night as I drifted off to sleep, I felt strangely comforted by the knowledge that Ethan was asleep down the hall, warm and safe.

When I woke up early Monday morning, Danielle wasn’t there. A note lay on the kitchen table, and on top of the note a key. She’d scrawled a message on the back of an envelope.
I’m sorry for not saying goodbye
, the note read.
Here’s a key to the apartment so you can pick up Ethan’s things. Please don’t bring Ethan. If he comes home he will want to stay
.

That was it—no phone number, no further explanation. I read the note over and over again, feeling a strange mix of nervousness and happiness. When I saw Ethan curled in the guest bed, mouth open, breathing loudly, I felt oddly at peace. I lay down beside him. There was a smudge of bright pink lipstick on his ear.

When Tom came home from work, I was still watching Ethan sleep.

“What’s going on?” he asked, standing over us, thoroughly baffled.

“We need to talk.”

Tom made a pot of coffee, and I explained everything, then laid out my case: it would only be a few weeks. We could hire a sitter for the daytime while I was at work. I’d take some vacation days. “Wouldn’t it be fun to have a child around?” I said, desperately hoping that he felt the same. “Sort of like a trial run.”

Tom pulled me toward him, wrapped me up in his arms, smiling. “Uh-oh,” he said. “Are you getting baby stars in your eyes?”

“Maybe.”

He wandered into the bedroom where Ethan was sleeping. We stood by the bed, watching him. “He’s a cute kid,” Tom said finally.

“Insanely cute.”

“Thirty days?” he asked.

“Thirty days.”

He wrapped his arms around me again. “Why not?”

At that moment, I loved him more than ever.

“Will you two be okay while I’m at work this morning?”

“Don’t worry about us,” he said. “We’ll kick back with some
Sesame Street
and Cream of Wheat.”

And I didn’t worry. That was one of the best things about Tom: he was always up for anything.

7:40 a.m
.

I glance over at the baby in the backpack, who has fallen asleep, his head bobbing against his father’s neck. The father is on his cellphone, texting. I long ago got past feeling envious at the sight of parents of babies and young children, parents whose very nonchalance is evidence of their good fortune. Instead, I feel a tug of desire.

This morning, more than usual, the city feels so raw. Every corner holds some memory I can’t escape. The cable car lurches forward again, and the sudden motion sends a shooting pain up my leg. We don’t get far. Up ahead on California Street, a crowd has gathered. The driver keeps pushing uphill, but our progress is glacial. Several passengers decide not to wait, jumping off the cable car in the middle of the street. A few policemen are trying unsuccessfully to disperse the crowd.