Sparrow Migrations (13 page)

TWELVE

T
he wake-up call jarred Brett out of a fitful slumber at the Charlotte Airport Hampton Inn. Airport traffic and somersaulting emotions—sadness over Jackie’s decision, fear about telling Amanda, uncertainty about her future—had kept her tossing and turning much of the night. She turned the water to cold before stepping into the shower. She was meeting Elizabeth the wunderkind grant writer for coffee at nine and wanted to be as alert as possible.

She was a cup ahead when Elizabeth arrived, the caffeine working as intended. “Thanks for taking the time. I understand you’ve got a very busy schedule.”

“You’re welcome.” Elizabeth sat down. She wasn’t at all what Brett had expected—short, more than a little overweight, with glasses and short curly hair. “What can I do for you?”

Harriet had said she would get right down to business. And Richard would expect her to report on next steps back at home. This was her chance to get answers. But beyond asking her to move to Pennsylvania, Brett couldn’t think of specifics.

“I’m not sure how to answer that,” she said, slowly. “I want to move my church’s operation to something like what you’ve done here. But it seems overwhelming. We’re one church in Scranton. We don’t have the network that you have to share the workload. We don’t have money or anyone with skills like yours to help us get it.”

“Hmm. So what do you have?” Elizabeth asked, tilting her head.

“We’ve got a lot of hungry people,” Brett said, after a moment’s thought.

“I meant the singular you. What do you, Brett, have to bring to the table? For starters, do you have the desire to build it from the ground up? From scratch, networking with the other churches, trying and failing and trying again to get money, all the while still showing up to get dinner on the table every night?”

“I think I’ve got to build it,” Brett answered, feeling like they were talking in circles.

“But do you
want
to build it? Is that how you want to spend your time and energy? From the sound of it, all by yourself, at least for now, and possibly for the next several years? Because if you don’t, then don’t waste your time trying.”

Elizabeth took a sip of coffee, her eyes never leaving Brett’s.

“This is a lot of hard, hard work that doesn’t provide much of a paycheck. So you’ve got to be willing to take your pay in other ways. Sure, you’ll get lots of thank-yous. You’ll see people feeling good, and that can make you feel good. And if you’re jumping into someone else’s operation, that might be enough.

“But if you’re the one building it, you need more. You need drive. You need commitment. You need passion. And it has to come from within.”

Brett was silent, recalling Richard’s edict to get more involved at Fellowship of Hope. She picked the meal program as her project because it fulfilled some of her own ideals about charity and service. But fundamentally, she was doing it because it was expected of her as the pastor’s wife. Though how much longer would that be true?

Momentarily, the rhetorical question shocked her. But yesterday she’d been planning how to come out to Amanda, hadn’t she? Divorce would logically come next.

“Wheels turning, I see,” Elizabeth said.

“I’m sorry. I’m probably wasting your time.” Brett tried to focus. Her heart was racing, and she felt light-headed. She could do it. Break free. Live her own life.

“Not at all. I don’t have another meeting until eleven, and I’d certainly rather do this up front than have you waste a whole lot of your own—and probably mine, with e-mails and phone calls—only to discover in ten, twelve, eighteen months that this really isn’t your cup of tea.”

She took another sip of coffee. “And don’t guilt yourself into it. It’s not a bad thing if this isn’t what you want to do. Just be honest.”

Be honest.

Brett thought back to the conversation with Jackie. She’d told her she was done pretending. She had monumental truths to tell Amanda and Richard. Might as well start with Elizabeth.

“That’s a lot to think about. And not what I expected to hear,” she started. “I thought you’d give me a whole list of websites on grant writing and some boilerplate advice, like ‘start small.
’ 
”

Elizabeth smiled. “I surprise a lot of people. But it doesn’t do anyone any good if a food pantry or a meal delivery or any other service like it starts out for the wrong reasons. People start to rely on it. Then whoever runs it burns out. People are worse off than before, because they’ve become dependent. ‘Consider the sparrow.’ My personal motto.”

“Excuse me?”

“The Gospel verse. You know. The Lord watches out for the least of his creatures. Believe me, they’ll flock to you, too. So you’ve got to be sure you’re ready first.”

“I see,” said Brett, though she didn’t really.

“You’ve surprised me, too. I’ll tell you, from what I heard about you from Harriet, I thought you’d say you’re ready to sign on to build this thing with your two bare hands.”

“Really?”

“Really. She said you asked smart questions. Were good with the folks at last night’s dinner. Not patronizing. Helped out with cleanup even though you didn’t have to. But now it seems like you’re holding back.”

“That’s all true.” Brett pondered. “I think I am committed to the cause. Meal nights are the highlight of my week.”

“Tell me about that. Tell me why.”

No one had ever asked her why. For Richard, it was enough that she did it. Turning her coffee cup as she groped for words, Brett saw her face reflected in the dark-brown circle. She imagined what that fluid woman, untethered from the ties that bound her, would say.

“Part of it is that I think I’m good at it. It’s not much different than what I’ve done at home all these years, taking care of my daughter. It’s just on a bigger scale.”

“And you enjoy that kind of caretaking?”

Brett frowned, thinking. “Enjoy’s not quite the right word. Especially since, as a mother, I don’t have any choice. But doing it for Amanda, I’ve learned the value in it. The importance of it. And at the food pantry, when I’m doing it voluntarily—for people who don’t have anywhere else to get a nutritious meal, or a warm place to sit or a kind word—it just feels right. Like I’m doing what I’m meant to be doing.”

Brett looked up from her reflection, at Elizabeth, her words gaining momentum.

“There was this mom who came in a few weeks ago. Young, probably only twenty-one, twenty-two. She had two kids, both of them coughing and sneezing. She didn’t have any insurance, no doctor. I gave her directions to the local free clinic, gave her some bus passes. Last week she was back, both of the kids doing just fine.”

“There.” Elizabeth smiled. “Now you’re not holding back.”

“In college I went on a mission trip with my husband. We built a community center. Really built it. Fourteen-hour days wearing hard hats and carpenter’s aprons. That was my first taste of that kind of satisfaction, of helping serve social justice, whatever you want to call it,” Brett went on. “I loved it. But where I am now, this is part of the role my husband—he’s the pastor—assigned. He thinks of it almost like recruitment.”

“Come for the meal, stay for the sermon.” Elizabeth said dryly.

“Exactly. If I could run it completely my way, yeah, I’d sign up for another hard hat.”

“Hmmm.” Elizabeth gave her a long look. “It’s none of my business, but everything points to more to your story than you’re sharing. It’s fine to keep it to yourself. But if you
do
have the drive, and the ability and talent, you need to use it. There’s a lot of people who can’t do for themselves. Lots of sparrows.

“So you don’t like being under your husband’s thumb. Plenty of food pantries and meal programs, you know. Maybe it’s time to see what else is out there.” Elizabeth reached into her purse.

“One of my pet projects has been a little online network. Nobody’s doing anything new here; we’re all feeding hungry people, just finding better ways to do it. Might as well learn from each other. It’s pretty rudimentary right now, but there is a jobs page.”

She handed Brett a card printed with a website. Eastcoastpantries.org. “When you figure out if you’re ready, check it out.”

Brett accepted the card. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” Elizabeth stood up. “I hope you’ll use it.”

THIRTEEN

W
ithdrawing the needle, Dr. Singh’s nurse pressed a cotton ball on the inside of Deborah’s elbow, secured it with a bandage and lifted her arm in one expert, practiced move. “Keep this elevated. I’ll be right back.”

Deborah watched her leave with the precious, portentous vial. The whole plodding two-week wait was down to these last glacial minutes, which she would endure alone in the exam room. With a shuddering sigh she closed her eyes, remembering being here last with Christopher, and for the first time questioning whether she’d done the right thing fourteen days ago.

At home in Cayuga Heights, Christopher remained decamped in the guest room, leaving before she awoke in the mornings, staying late at the Lab in the evenings. After she missed him two mornings, she had set her alarm an hour earlier. Padding into the kitchen, she noticed the cold coffeepot. Making coffee was one of Christopher’s morning rituals.

“Are we out?” She knew they weren’t. She’d bought a thirty-two-ounce can of decaf.

He glanced up from his cereal bowl and shook his head. “I was going to pick up something on campus. Early meeting.”

“Oh.” She crossed her arms, considering his profile. His shoulders looked tense and rigid. Sitting next to him, she laid a hand on his arm. “Christopher, we need to talk about this.”

Deliberately, he moved his arm away from her touch.

“I don’t know what there is to say until you get the results.”

“Until
I
get the results? Christopher, if the pregnancy test is positive, we’re going to have a baby. It’s going to be ours.”

He shook his head, pushing away the bowl. “Doesn’t feel that way.”

“What do you mean?”

“You say it’s ours, but you’re instigating all the decisions.” He ticked off on his fingers. “Trying again. Three embryos. Withholding the information about Helen.” He shook his head again, looking directly at her for the first time in three days. “I don’t recognize you. It’s like nothing I want matters anymore.”

“You wanted kids, too! You told me. So you could be the father you never had.”

“I did, but I’d come to terms with the fact that we probably weren’t having a family. Until you maneuvered me into this last try, after the crash.”

“That’s not fair. I didn’t know about Helen in New York.”

“But you knew before the transfer. Right?”

She hesitated, then nodded.

He stared at her and threw up his hands. “How can you be so cavalier?”

“I’m not cavalier! I take my responsibility as a mother very seriously. I told you, I couldn’t let anything happen to them.” She’d covered her abdomen.

“Responsibility lasts a lot longer than nine months. Have you researched Huntington’s? At all?”

“Helen told me about it,” she said, defensively.

“She told you about the disintegration of ambulatory function? Followed by the cognitive decline? Dementia? The proportion of patients who wind up needing full-time nursing care?”

Deborah bit her lip.
Dementia? Full-time nursing care?

“I guess not.” Christopher looked grimly satisfied. “Now say we’ve got a baby, too. You’d both be dependent on me. Until I become a single father.”

“Single father? Christopher, really, that’s a bit melodramatic.”

“It’s a risk, Deborah. A real, bona fide risk. One that scares me. Even if you don’t have the gene, the lives we’ve built together are gone. This kind of a breach of trust is foundational.”

“We’d build a new foundation as a family. We’d have new lives. All three of us.”

“All three of us,” Christopher had repeated, shaking his head as he stood to leave. “I don’t think I can do it, Deborah.”

“Good morning, Deborah.” Dr. Singh interrupted her reverie. Startled, Deborah looked up. The doctor’s smile flashed brilliantly, blindingly. “I’m thrilled to tell you, the third time was the charm. You’re pregnant.”

Dr. Singh was reciting the lines Deborah had scripted when she first imagined this scene two years ago, and her spirit duly soared as the guard she had held over her hope vanished. But this perfunctory, three-second doctor-patient hug was not the next cue. Christopher was supposed to be here, the fact of their
fait accompli
releasing an emotional dam that would sweep him into the current of joy and anticipation where she waited, and carry them forward together.

The rest of the appointment was crowded with details—scheduling an ultrasound and choosing an OB and more. None of the teary smiles or locked gazes or fervent kisses of her imagined scene. Now she was walking to her car alone, trying to allow herself to believe it. Well, as alone as you could be when pregnant.

Pregnant. The two syllables bounced around in her head. She said it aloud. “I’m pregnant.” Incredulously, Deborah touched her abdomen.

Only one embryo had successfully implanted. Dr. Singh told her that was good. The pregnancy would be less taxing, and she was more likely to carry the baby, most likely G, to term. Still, she felt a pang for the loss of E and F. She tried to push it away, to recapture that first, brief soaring sensation. She had always expected pure joy at this moment.

Now she had to tell Christopher. She glanced at her watch and turned the key in the ignition. His afternoon office hours began in twenty minutes.
Best get it over with.
The pang echoed. This wasn’t how she expected to feel, either.

She drove to campus in a kind of stupor, adrift now that her script was useless. Inside Christopher’s office she removed a pile of folders from the designated student chair and sat, drumming her fingers on his desk. A laptop was on sleep mode. A light on the office phone indicated there were messages waiting. His cell phone was charging on top of a pile of folders set crossways to each other, to indicate some sort of separation, she supposed. Post-it notes with reminders and to-dos were stuck on every conceivable surface. Yet across from the laptop a three-month whiteboard calendar was almost bare except for a notation April 4–5:
Midwest Regional Audubon.

The door opened. Reading while he walked and automatically aiming for his chair, Christopher heard Deborah before he saw her.

“Pretty slow around here, huh?”

Lowering the papers, he did a double take. “Deborah. What are you doing here?”

She nodded at the whiteboard. “Doesn’t look like there’s much going on.”

He squinted at the whiteboard and shrugged. “My calendar’s loaded on my phone. I don’t even know who wrote that conference up there.”

“Well, I’ve got another date for you to save. But it’s a little further out than the next quarter.” Deborah scrutinized his face, hoping for something—a nod, an eyebrow lift, a cock of the head—that would show he’d been anticipating this moment.

Nothing. He was still skimming his papers.

“And that would be?” He edged around the piles to his chair, rolling to the keyboard.

“Can you guess?”

He sighed, sounding impatient. “Deborah, I’ll have students here for office hours any minute. I don’t have time for games.”

“I’ll give you a hint. Dr. Singh was the one who told me.”

Christopher looked up. She felt the blood in her temples pound as he removed his glasses and massaged his own temples. She had never noticed before how his hands steepled together when he did that, as if in prayer. A minute ticked by audibly on the office wall clock.

“And?” He still wasn’t looking at her, his face hidden beneath the slope of his hands.

“November ninth. Save the date for the birth of your child.” Her voice turned up as she finished the sentence. Like a game show host or a telemarketer, trying to close the deal. The deal of the century. Or a lifetime, anyway. The child’s lifetime. Would it be a life with two parents, or just one?

“Wow.” Christopher leaned back in his chair, finally dropping his hands to his lap. Did she see the briefest smile? The sudden movement sent his chair rolling backward until it bumped into the window. Maybe not. His face was drained, as flat as the gray day behind him.

“You had a blood test. There’s no doubt.”

“No doubt.”

“You said child. Just one?”

“Just one.”

“Wow.” He stood and turned to the window. “I never—I just never expected this to happen to us,” he finished, pressing his face to the glass, steepling his hands again. To Deborah they looked like blinders, shutting her out. Her and their baby.

“What, you thought this round would fail, too?” Deborah asked.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what? I don’t understand.”

“After the crash, pregnant or no, I was ready for what came next. Because we were stronger together.”

Deborah looked at her lap. She could feel his impending accusations—she was wrong, she had deceived, she had betrayed—swirling like a tornado, sucking everything innocent into its path, leaving wreckage in its wake.

But she had a mighty force within her now, too. Maternal ferocity. After her own muted first reaction, she was grateful to feel some emotion, some energy about the pregnancy. At what should have been a moment of euphoria, he chose to hold a grudge against her and the baby. Based on one decision over more than a decade together, ignoring everything else that was good between them, but most important, ignoring the child.

“But I never expected you’d deceive me,” Christopher said. “And that’s too fundamental to move forward.”

“Christopher, I don’t even know what that means. I’m pregnant. We’re going to be parents. This is already moving forward. Nine months and counting.”

Stalemated, they stared at each other. A knock on the door broke the silence.

“That’s my first appointment,” Christopher said hoarsely.

“Fine. We’ll talk at home, then.” Deborah picked up her purse and turned toward the door.

“I won’t be coming home tonight, Deborah.”

His sentence was like a blade, slicing through her. She turned back.

“Excuse me?”

“I need some space. Some time to think.”

“Think about what?”

“Whether I can do this.”

Another knock filled in for Deborah’s silent shock. “Professor Goldman? You in there?”

Christopher stood up, opened the door and motioned the student in. “I’ll call you in the next couple days.”