Summer Snow (32 page)

“You can't just stop there. Sounds intriguing.” Grandma leaned in, a good-humored grin on her face. “Where'd you get the name from?”

The ruddiness in Janice's cheeks spread to the tips of her ears. We were all hot, and her flush could have been attributed to the sun, the wind, the rising temperature. But I knew better.

“It's really quite silly,” Janice said firmly.

“Oh, seriously.” Grandma dismissed Janice's timidity with a wave of her hand. “No, it's not. If it's significant to you, it's not silly.”

Janice studied her hands, still wrapped around a half-eaten sandwich. A fly landed on it, and she flicked it away absently. “I got his name from the Bible,” she admitted. Her voice was sheepish, and she refused to look at us.

“That's not silly at all!” Grandma concluded forcefully.

“Come on, Nellie. You know I'm not exactly the churchgoing type.” Janice turned her head to regard Grandma full in the face with something like defiance flashing behind her hazel eyes. They were more green than brown in the bright summer sun, spunky somehow, and for a second it looked like she was challenging Grandma. Like she was willing her to say more, to openly contradict her. But then Janice crumpled a little and she sighed. “I mean, I go to church now, and I used to go to church when …” She trailed off.

I finished the sentence for her in my mind:
when I was married to Daniel
.

“It's just … I don't …” Janice tried again but couldn't—or wouldn't—finish what she started.

Strangely, I felt like I knew exactly what she meant.

Grandma didn't say any more and neither did I, but suddenly Janice muttered something I couldn't make out. Then she deposited the remainder of her sandwich in the grocery bag we were using for garbage and took a deep breath. “Right before Simon was born, I was at a very bad place in my life,” she began, the words coming quickly now that she had decided to get them out. “I don't know why, but I wandered into a church one Sunday morning and I heard the pastor preach about Simon Peter. He told the story of this nobody fisherman Simon and how Jesus Himself came and called him. Jesus called him Peter. The Rock.” Janice humphed as if she had discovered that in the retelling, her story was indeed rather silly.

We didn't say anything for a few minutes, each of us considering Simon as he emptied sloppy sand in bucketfuls all over his little stake of beach. I decided Simon Peter was a nice name, a meaningful, solid name, but then I remembered that Simon's middle name was Eli. Confused, I turned to voice my question.

Grandma beat me to it. “Why didn't you name him Peter, then?”

Janice's laugh was shallow. “That would be pretty audacious, wouldn't it?
Me
naming my son after the rock of the Christian church?”

I watched my grandmother open her mouth to say something wise, but she clamped her lips down as quickly as she parted them.

“I named him Simon,” Janice finished, “because maybe … well, maybe he's waiting to be called.”

Her explanation rang in my head. I understood that the name Simon was the best Janice could do. It was her version of reaching out a tentative hand, though I could also tell that she didn't think she deserved to do even that. “What does Simon mean?” I asked, almost unaware of the question until it filled the air between us.

“Listening.”

All at once I knew exactly why Janice had returned to Mason. It was her last-ditch effort, her attempt at redemption, if not for herself, at least for her son. It made me inexplicably sad for who we all were. Broken, disappointing, flawed. Well, except for Grandma, and it seemed that she stood in the middle of our riotous little storms, trying desperately to gather us in and calm the gales that blew us from sorrow to sorrow. How could she stand us, group of Simons that we were? It felt as though in every trial, in every situation, we were
not enough, not enough, not enough
. Trying but failing. Listening but never hearing the call that would make us living stones.

“Well,” Grandma said quietly, interrupting my sad reverie, “I know that God has placed an amazing call on Simon's life.” She smiled at us softly, blessing both mother and daughter with a tender sweep of her knowing gaze. Then Grandma got carefully to her feet and stepped off the blanket into the sand. “I'm going to see if Simon is interested in getting an ice-cream cone with me at the concession stand. Would either of you like to join us?”

I shook my head at her, and though I didn't see Janice's reaction, I knew that she was doing the same. We watched Grandma walk over to Simon, and when he looked up at her, there was love in his eyes. As far as he was concerned, she was his grandmother. He trusted her implicitly, and it struck me that of all the people in his life, she was the only one who truly deserved it. Simon happily abandoned his water toys and slipped his hand in hers to follow her down the beach.

Janice and I trailed them with our eyes until they became lost in the small crowd around the concession stand near the dock. It was uncomfortable to be alone with her, knowing that she had revealed far more than she intended to and not quite aware of what I should do with the weight of such knowledge. I felt sorry for Janice, for us, and yet I was also afraid that she would use this mood against me. I was afraid that her failures would make her doubt my ability to make this work. And I wasn't entirely convinced that she was wrong.

When Janice started to talk, I knew that she had been waiting all day for a chance to dive into her rehearsed adoption speech. What better time, when we were contemplative and melancholy? What better time, when we were immersed in the bittersweet tale of the Simon who would never quite be Peter? But I was ready for her.

“You know, Janice,” I cut in before she could utter two syllables, “I don't know who you've been talking to lately, but I do think that it has something to do with me and the baby. Have you contacted an adoption counselor? Mrs. Walker's friend?” I paused for less than a second before hastily fluttering my hands in front of me, fending off her response. “No, wait; don't answer that. I don't want to know.”

“Julia, I—”

“Look, I know that it's going to be hard. I know that figuring this out, making it work, is as close to impossible as I'll ever experience. But it really has nothing to do with you. I don't need you interfering in any way.” It felt good to get this off my chest, and although Janice was looking at me with distress written all over her face, I went on. “In some ways I appreciate what you are trying to do. I mean, you've been there, and I suppose you are trying to protect me. But you're not. And it really bugs me that you would go behind my back, sneak around and—” I stopped abruptly. “What exactly is it that you're doing? Are you trying to find a family for my baby? Are you gathering information so you can try to convince me?”

I didn't mean to sound so accusatory. I just wanted to firmly, confidently let Janice know that her so-called help wasn't solicited or appreciated. After her unanticipated disclosure, that peek into her motives and her mind, maybe even her heart, I felt a certain tenuous connection to her. I too felt inadequate, grasping. I too wondered if I would ever be able to listen hard enough to hear what I was supposed to hear. Lurking in the shadows of our relationship was a growing link that I couldn't help wanting to explore even as my heart rebelled against such knowledge. I set aside any feelings of amity because I didn't need Janice muddling things up any more than they already were, and more importantly, I needed her to know that.

But Janice didn't try to defend herself or argue with me like I thought she would. Instead her shoulders slumped and her head hung for the briefest of moments before she visibly gathered herself and looked up, past me. “I wasn't talking to an adoption counselor,” she said in a voice that was barely more than a whisper.

Something cold spilled through my chest at the gravity of her words. Janice had revealed nothing, but her tone was so significant as to assure me that whoever she
was
talking to posed far greater implications than some random adoption counselor. Who? What? What had Janice done?

“You have to tell me,” I demanded around the ice that was slowly forming painful crystals in my throat. “Who have you been talking to?”

Janice swallowed with difficulty, and I suddenly realized that whatever she had to say was far worse than what I had imagined.

“What?” I cried.

“I was talking to Ben. He's been calling me for about a week now.”

Her admission tumbled out so fast I had to repeat the words silently to myself to make sure that I had heard her correctly.
Ben?
He's been calling?
It took me the span of a few unsteady breaths to recognize that the pounding sound that had filled my head was coming from the uneven cadence of my own heart. I held myself rigid, dreading what Janice was going to say next but guessing at the general gist of the words long before she worked up the courage to say them.

“He wants me to come home.”

Part 3

Timing

I
HAD MY FIRST
genuine experience with the feelings of labor nine days before my projected due date. Grandma had warned me about Braxton Hicks, deceptive contractions that would seem as if I was beginning labor even though my body was doing nothing more than carefully preparing me for the eventual real thing. I figured I had been undergoing the symptoms of false labor for weeks—a painless tightening of my stomach that I often didn't notice until I put my hand on my abdomen and realized how insanely hard it had become.

But when I woke up shortly after falling asleep the last Sunday in July, I knew that something very different was happening. At first I assumed that I had merely stirred because I needed to make another trek to the bathroom or shift to a different, slightly less unpleasant position. And then, before I could even force myself to peel my eyes open, I felt it: a tightening, gripping, aching vise that compressed itself around my middle until my very core was rigid and my lungs struggled to fill with air.

I panted a little, trying not to hold myself too tense, and rolled onto my back to make an effort to ease what felt like the most intense muscle spasm I had ever suffered through. The sound of my own confusion filled the air, a fast succession of tiny exhalations, and in the sudden stillness of the night the sound seemed deafening. I was mystified to find that I was able to drift outside myself and observe what was happening, as if a part of me had detached from the situation. Thankfully, it was over quickly, leaving me a bit breathless and completely alert, sleep utterly forgotten.
Labor
, I thought as a helpless wave of nausea passed through me.
I'm going into labor
.

The very notion sent me into a nearly mindless tailspin, a frantic, desperate state of fear and even grief. I wasn't ready. I wasn't anywhere
near
ready for this. I hadn't really made a decision yet, and I wasn't prepared to face all the consequences of my vacillation. Should I go with my heart? Should I go with my head? If I was supposed to give up the baby, it would be much, much harder—if not
impossible
—to do so after he was born and I had had a chance to cradle him against my chest. But if I was supposed to keep my son, I didn't want him to enter the world amid my own irresolution and doubt. I wanted to welcome him with arms wide open, with the knowledge, the absolute assurance, that he was—and always would be—
mine
.

I lay awake for over an hour and a half, watching the numbers on my alarm clock approach midnight and then march right past it. The contractions continued to attack erratically, clenching down at unexpected times and bringing with them a certain sense of irrepressible fate. Though I couldn't exactly call them painful, I was definitely uncomfortable and made more so by the interfering thoughts that seeped from my yearning mind and filtered through the rest of my now trembling body.

What am I supposed to do?
I cried silently.
Tell me what to do!

Around one thirty, I had so eaten my insides to shreds that I had no choice but to go and wake Grandma or face the prospect of losing my mind completely.

I crept down the stairs quietly, grateful that I did not find Janice huddling in the kitchen, wrapped protectively around the telephone. Just the idea of her there, talking to
him
, made the knots in my stomach redouble. I strained to push such images from my mind and focused instead on the swelling wave of a new contraction. I walked through it, but the floorboards creaked as I passed Janice and Simon's little sewing room turned apartment. I paused there with my hand flat against the smooth wall, waiting out the contraction and listening for any signs of movement. There were none.

Grandma's door squeaked a soft, high note when I opened it, and almost simultaneously I heard her whisper, “Julia?”

“How did you know it was me?” I whispered back. “What are you doing awake?”

“I have a hard time sleeping sometimes,” Grandma explained simply. I could hear her sheets ruffle as she shifted in bed. “What are you doing up, honey?”

There was no point in being coy, so I blurted it out, a little louder than I intended to. “I think I'm in labor.”

A sharp intake of breath told me that Grandma was as surprised as I was at my seemingly early delivery. Dr. Morales had assured me that most first-time moms go late, not early, and he even went so far as to sternly warn me that he had no plans whatsoever to induce me if I did become overdue: “For the most part, babies know exactly when it's time to come out. We unnecessarily start labor way too often in this country.”

But just as I was on the verge of panic, assuming that Grandma was about as ready for this as I was—not at all—I heard her move again. She seemed to draw apart from me to the far side of the bed away from the door.