The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society (15 page)

“It is true,” Noah declares, lugging a large plastic bag behind him. “Me and Nick were bored. Right, Nick?”

“Yeah, whatever.” Nick is quick to disappear to his room.

Brady trails in last, sucking on a lollipop. Reed scoops him up, then frowns. “His tongue is blue.”

“Well, the lollipop is blue.” Frances hurries to put things away before Reed can get a good look.

“Didn’t Dr. Tindell say Brady needed to lay off the sweets?” he calls after her. “He already has one cavity.”

“I know, I know. But they were giving them out at the shoe store. I couldn’t exactly say no.” The truth is that she could have said no, but it was easier just to give in. She gives her youngest a hopeful smile. “We’ll go brush our teeth, won’t we, Brady?”

Brady gives a solemn nod. Reed deposits him on the ground and Brady takes off for the living room. “Hey, champ, I need you to stay in the kitchen with that,” he says.

Brady ignores him.

“BRADY.” Reed’s voice is loud but calm. Brady does an immediate 180 and heads back to the kitchen, plopping himself down on a stool as he finishes his lollipop.

Frances breathes a sigh. It’s easier managing the boys when Reed is around, all the testosterone playing off one another.

Noah is tugging at a large garbage bag filled with something almost as tall as him. “Look, Dad!” He starts to pull it off before Frances can stop him.

Reed stares at it. “Um, Frances?”

Frances clears her throat. She hadn’t meant to bring it in, but she’d lost track of what was where and who had what.

“A dollhouse?” he says, his voice louder. “It’s practically bigger than our house! Where are you going to put it?”

Frances feels guilty, and then defensive. The plan was to move the home office into the living room but there’s not enough space and they haven’t had a chance to figure out how to make it work. The
desk is next to the couch in the living room but the file cabinets are still in the office because Reed didn’t want the younger boys getting into them. The office is already half full with a princess bed and canopy, a matching dresser, toys, and a closet crammed with clothes.

Noah crouches on his knees and peers inside. “The doors open and everything. And look!” He presses the small doorbell and there’s a chime. “It works!”

Reed is shaking his head. “Frances …”

“Reed, I know,” she begins, but then she can’t help herself. “I saw an ad in the paper for a used dollhouse and I thought I’d take a look, just to get an idea. I wasn’t planning on buying it, but then someone else showed up and wanted it because it’s such a great deal and in good shape and …”

“Noah, take Brady and go play in the living room.” Reed points, his voice firm. A couple seconds later, both boys are gone.

Frances slides into a chair. Their kitchen does seem dwarfed by the dollhouse, giving her a sense of being Alice in Wonderland. The euphoria that’s followed her all day has dissipated and now she isn’t sure where they can even put the dollhouse, much less all of the other things she bought. She wishes she could start over.

“I’m sorry, Reed. I know I’ve been getting a bit carried away. I’ve had so much on my mind lately with Mei Ling coming …”

Reed closes his eyes. “Frances, we need to talk.”

She stares at him. “You have to travel again.”

“Yes, but that’s not what I want to talk about. I want to talk about Mei Ling. About her medical report.” A foreboding manila envelope is in the center of the table.

Frances swallows. “Is that it?”

He nods.

Frances reaches for it, then hesitates. “It’s what we thought, right? What they originally said?”

Reed opens his eyes. “Do you want me to tell you or do you want to read it for yourself?”

She doesn’t know. News, even bad news, is always easier when it
comes from Reed, but Frances doesn’t want to find out that way. Not for this.

She picks up the envelope but doesn’t open it. “Reed, we’re past the halfway point now. It won’t be that much longer, and then she’ll be with us. There are families that have been waiting much longer than us. Most China adoptions are taking five years, some are predicting up to ten. It’s a miracle that this is even happening, you know.”

“It’s happening quickly because we agreed to take a waiting child,” Reed says. “A special needs child.”

“Not that cleft palate is special needs,” Frances corrects. “And you saw her! She looked wonderful, the surgery had obviously gone well.”

A shadow crosses over Reed’s face. “Mei Ling didn’t have surgery for cleft palate, Fran. That wasn’t—isn’t—her condition.”

“What do you mean?” Frances frowns. She lifts the flap of the envelope and pulls out a thin sheaf of documents. The original medical report, written in Chinese, and the translation. Frances skims it, the color draining from her face. Her hand flies to her mouth and she finds herself gasping for air, unable to breathe.

“I’m sorry,” Reed says, leaning toward her, but she pushes him away, shakes her head.

“No,” she whispers. She’s shaking.

“I called the agency as soon as I read the report. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t wait. I had to know.” He gets up and goes to the sink, pours her a glass of water. When he comes back, he crouches next to her. “Mei Ling has congenital heart disease. She’s going to need open heart surgery, among other things, and even then her prognosis …” His voice trails off.

Frances shakes her head, still unable to believe it. “But how … I mean, I didn’t—we didn’t …”

“The agency doesn’t know how it happened, but it happened. They assigned us a child with a complicated medical history that is far beyond what we said we were able to take on.”

“Is there another family waiting for her? Or another child waiting for us?”

A pained look crosses Reed’s face. “Frances, don’t do this. This was a mistake, that’s all.”

“Is there? Was she supposed to be referred to someone else?”

He sighs. “No.”

“Is there another child that was supposed to be referred to us?”

Another sigh. “No, but we’re still at the top of the list and it shouldn’t take long to get a new referral. The agency will straighten it out with the Chinese government so we’re not penalized in any way because they gave us the wrong child.”

At this Frances jerks up. “She is not the wrong child, Reed! She’s ours. You know she is!”

Reed doesn’t respond, but moves to the chair next to hers and falls into it heavily.

“You said you knew she was the one,” Frances says, remembering his wet eyes, his goofy grin when they called their parents on the phone to give them the good news.

Reed closes his eyes and turns away from her. Reed has never turned away from her in the twelve years they’ve been married. Frances wants to burst into tears.

“I thought she was,” he says. “But now I’m not so sure.”

Frances feels as if she’s being ripped apart. How can this be happening? How can any of this be happening? “What are you saying, Reed?”

“I’m saying that we shouldn’t accept Mei Ling’s referral. I’m saying no, Frances. I’m sorry.”

Abilene Gould, 26
Temporary Secretary
 

“Avalon Drywall, can you hold please? Avalon Drywall, can you hold please? Avalon Drywall, this is Abilene. How may I help you?”

“I’m looking for an Abilene Gould. Is she available?”

Abilene frowns. “May I ask who’s calling?”

There’s a guffaw. “Abby, it’s me. Mr. Whatley. I’m yanking your chain, girl! Just wanted to make sure you were on top of the phones.”

Abilene turns to glance back at her boss’s office. Sure enough, there he is, laughing his head off. “Very funny, Mr. Whatley,” she says, waving gamely.

She disconnects the call and punches the button for the first line. “Avalon Drywall, this is Abilene. How may I help you?”

“It’s me again!” comes the familiar chortle.

She disconnects and punches another button, already filled with dread. “Avalon Drywall, this is …”

“You get an A-plus, Abby. You’re an ace on the phones. Now if only people were actually calling. Come back here a moment, will ya?”

Abilene sighs and reaches for a pad of paper. It’s her second temp job and the agency told her that Avalon Drywall is going out of business so the position is on a day-to-day basis. They don’t have
anything lined up for her after that so she’s back to square one, circling ads in the newspapers and trying to squeeze in interviews whenever she can.

Dick Whatley is leaning back in his chair, balling up blank invoices and tossing them into the trash. “Score!” he shouts when he gets one in.

Abilene settles herself in the chair in front of his desk. “Yes, Mr. Whatley?”

“You’re a smart girl, Abby. Noticed that the minute you walked in. So I’m sorry to tell you that today’s your last day.” He smiles but it’s a struggle, his bravado gone. “I’m closing up shop tomorrow. Gonna pack everything up.” He gestures to the walls where pictures and plaques of recognition and community service have hung proudly for years. “This was my father’s business,” he says, pointing to one photo. “He built it from the ground up. He managed to weather two recessions. I wish I could say the same.” He picks up a framed photo on his desk and shows it to Abilene. “Those are my girls. My wife, Ann Marie, and my little girl, Tiffany. Though she’s not a little girl anymore—she’s sixteen. I haven’t had a chance to put a new picture in.”

“It’s a nice picture,” Abilene says politely.

“So, I know you’ve only been here a couple of days but I’m happy to write a recommendation, say that you impressed me from the get-go. It’d be the truth. I hope you find something that you like, something good.” He starts piling the papers on his desk, then stops and looks around, suddenly overwhelmed. “I have to be out by Saturday. Thought it would be quick, you know? But I haven’t been able to do much of anything. I’ve already sold the furniture and the file cabinets, most of my equipment. Movers come tomorrow to take everything where it needs to go. But my files and personal belongings—well, I’ve yet to make a dent in things. I guess I’ll be up all night packing up and ferrying things back and forth over the next few days.”

Abilene swallows, can see the sadness on Mr. Whatley’s face. He’s a portly man, a bit rough around the edges, but nice. She can see that at one time business was booming, that he held a position of respect
in the community. He has a lot to be proud of, but in the face of the devastating close of his business, it’s hard to see any of that.

“I’d be happy to come in and help you,” she offers.

“Oh, I appreciate that, Abby, but I can’t afford to pay the agency past today.” He powers down his computer and the sound is so depressing they both slump down a little lower in their chairs.

Abilene forces herself to sit upright, fastens on a bright smile. “You wouldn’t have to pay me,” she tells him. “I don’t have anything going on anyways. I’d much rather stay busy and I’d like to help you.”

For a second his face brightens. But then he shakes his head. “No, no. It’s my business, I should be the one to do the work.”

“Okay, Mr. Whatley. I understand.” But Abilene finds herself drawn to the pictures on the wall, to the framed dollar bill, to an autographed photo of Mr. Whatley and his father posing with the governor of Illinois. There’s a timeline, too, and three different graphic renditions of how the logo has changed over time. Abilene can’t imagine the despair Mr. Whatley must feel at having to take it all down and put it away.

And that’s when it hits her.

A few weeks ago she’d stood outside the Pick and Save, relishing a yellow gumball. She’d come back from yet another disappointing interview and the globe of glass, filled with large, multicolored gumballs, beckoned her. She fished around in her purse until she came up with a quarter, then slid it into the slot and turned the knob. There was a satisfying crunch of machinery and then the sound of a gumball falling into the dispenser. Abilene opened the little door and popped a yellow gumball into her mouth. She felt, for the moment at least, a wave of simple happiness overcome her.

A petite woman with silvery-blue hair stopped and pointed to the gumball machine. “Colorful, isn’t it?”

Her mouth full, Abilene could only nod.

“I bet your generation has a lot of good memories about gumball machines,” the woman said. “It’s childhood at its best. Right up there with ice cream trucks and tree houses.”

The hard sugary shell finally gave way and Abilene was able to speak. “I had a tree house growing up,” she said. “My dad and I built it.”

“You see?” the woman exclaimed. “That’s what I’m talking about! Did you have a stamp collection, too?”

Abilene shook her head. “Not stamps. I had an eraser collection, though. And I liked Betty and Veronica comics. Double digests especially.” She had smiled at the memory, remembered how she had over a hundred in all. What happened to them? Did her parents give them away? Abilene could have sold them—she kept them in mint condition, each one carefully stored in archival plastic sleeves. They’d be worth something now.

The woman grinned. “You’re new to Avalon, aren’t you? I’m Bettie Shelton, president of the Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society.” She stuck out a hand.