The Geometry of Sisters (28 page)

“What are you talking about?” Maura asked.

“The lighthouse,” Katharine said.

“What lighthouse?”

“On Lake Michigan, where you took your vacations.”

Maura's eyes widened. A cold wind was blowing off the harbor, and her cheeks had been bright pink, but Katharine watched the color draining out of her face.

“On the island, across from our cabin?” Maura asked, disbelieving.

“He bought the land, and designed the lighthouse,” Katharine said. “He had it built for you, to remind you of what could be, if you reached for it. And for Carrie. He wanted her to see the beam of light, to feel someone watching over her.”

“But he didn't know her! And she didn't even know he was her father. She thought Andy was.” She closed her eyes, and Katharine knew she was seeing the lake, Andy and Carrie paddling out toward the lighthouse, the violent storm rolling in.

Katharine took a deep breath. “I love you, Maura,” she said. “From the minute I heard that Andy had died, that Carrie had run away, all I've been able to think about is you, what you must be going through.”

“I can't believe any of this. He built her a
lighthouse?”

“He did,” Katharine said. “And somehow, I'm not sure how, it has guided Carrie right here.”

“Right here? What are you talking about?”

“To Rhode Island,” Katharine said. She reached into her satchel, pulled out the large black notebook filled with pictures, drawings, clippings—images she'd accumulated on her days in Providence, unfolding like a dream sequence—and handed it gently to her sister.

“That's where I was when you first arrived in Newport,” Katharine said.

“I know, teaching at RISD,” Maura said, pure white. “But what does that have to do with Carrie?”

“Maura,” Katharine said. “J.D. thinks Carrie went to see him in the hospital last year. And I went to Providence to find her.”

Maura jumped up from the step, clutching the scrapbook. Her eyes burned into Katharine's. “She's there? She's
still
there?”

“We think so,” Katharine said, standing up beside her.

“Oh my God—I knew there was something. Where is she? Why hasn't she called me? You're in touch with her, and you weren't going to
tell
me?”

“No, sweetheart,” Katharine said, trying to grab her sister. “I would never do that to you. I haven't been in touch with her, haven't found her … we're not even sure it's her….”

“I had a crazy feeling—like a dream—I saw her at a football game,” Maura said. “Across the parking lot, watching me. A girl with a baby. Did Carrie have a child?”

“J.D. said the girl who visited him was pregnant.”

“It was Carrie?”

“We're working backward, but we think so. J.D. was in a coma, had an impression of a girl watching over him. He thought it was a dream, but when he went in for a checkup recently, a nurse asked him about her. There were lots of calls to the nurses' station last year, someone asking about his condition. Eventually she showed up at the hospital; I showed the nurses Carrie's picture—J.D. too. They think it was her.”

“How far along was she?”

“The nurse said she looked about to deliver. I checked with family services, found a place called Hawthorne House. They wouldn't tell me anything about the girls who live there, but people in the neighborhood said they used to see a girl who looked like her.”

“We have to go there,” Maura said. “Now.”

“Okay” Katharine said. “Let's go.”

And they did. Katharine drove. They headed north, up Narragansett Bay, across the Mount Hope Bridge into Bristol. Maura could
hardly breathe. They pulled into Providence just as the light was dying, the granite buildings soft gray and the brick houses of College Hill faded rose-brown.

Katharine drove straight to Hawthorne House, a rambling blue Victorian at the head of Wickenden Street. In spite of the cold, three girls sat on the top step, each in a different stage of pregnancy. Katharine parked in the lot beside the house, and Maura fumbled in her purse for pictures of Carrie.

“I've been here before,” Katharine said, gentle warning in her voice. “Nothing has come of it….”

“We have to try again,” Maura said, climbing out of the car. She practically ran to the house, gave the girls her pictures, explained that she was looking for her daughter Carrie.

“We're not supposed to say who's here,” one girl said.

“I'm sure Carrie's moved on,” Katharine said. “She would have had her baby seven or eight months ago.”

“We weren't here then,” another girl said.

“Well, I was,” the first girl said. “But we have a code. Privacy first.”

“Does that mean you've seen her?” Katharine asked.

“Please,” Maura said. “I love her so much—I have to find her. She needs me and her brother and sister, and we need her.”

The three girls stared at Carrie's pictures. Something about their silence felt sweet and sad, as if they knew that Maura's words were true. Maybe they were apart from their families for reasons of their own, but they knew real love when they saw it. Still, their code was too important to break, or maybe they'd never seen Carrie before. In any case, no one said a word. After a few moments, an older woman stepped out onto the porch.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“We're looking…” Maura began, then saw the woman's gaze settle on Katharine.

“Oh, hello,” the woman said.

“Maura, this is Dell Harwood,” Katharine said. “I left my card with her before, in case she ran across Carrie.”

“Yep, that's true,” Dell said.

“I'm her mother,” Maura said, walking toward her. “Was she here? Can you please tell me? I miss her more than you can ever imagine. Please, are you a mother? You take care of all these girls, you look after them, help them while they have their babies … she was my baby. Please, Dell…”

Was it Maura's imagination, or did Dell's eyes flood with tears? The light was dying, the air shimmering with October clarity. Maura's own eyes were streaming as she stared at the woman standing over her three charges, so protective, like a mother herself.

Dell blinked, folded her arms, hardened her stance. Maura stared at her, knew that Dell wouldn't give anything away. She felt her spirit break in half, just snap like a twig, and she heard herself sob.

“I'm very sorry,” Dell said. “Many young women come through here. We have to provide a safe haven for them. Not everyone who arrives looking for them has good intentions.”

“I want my daughter,” Maura wept.

“Come on, Maura,” Katharine said, putting her arm around her. Maura leaned into her sister, feeling her legs might give out. Those girls on the steps … if she and Katharine had arrived eight months ago, might they have found Carrie? She remembered being young, pregnant, confused about who she loved, and she cried harder.

Katharine eased her into the car. Started it up, began to drive. Instead of heading for the highway south, they cruised the local streets. Maura tried to look at people passing by, walking on the sidewalk, but her eyes kept blurring.

She thought of Carrie. Could she really be in this city? Had she lived at Hawthorne House? What made her come looking for her Rhode Island roots? She glanced down at Katharine's big black
book, wondered if the answers were in there. “You met that woman, Dell, before?” she asked finally.

“I did,” Katharine said. “I've made a pest of myself there.”

“Don't you think she'd tell you, give you some kind of sign, if Carrie had really been there?”

“I think it's her job not to.”

“How, why, do you think Carrie was here? What if J.D.'s wrong, and it wasn't her at the hospital? How would she have found him, anyway? How would she even know he exists?”

“J.D. had the strongest feeling she wanted to make sure he had survived the surgery and was recovering. The only way I can imagine she even knew of his existence, since you never told her, was that Andy must have.”

“How would she—did she—trace him to Providence?”

“He's listed in the phone book,” Katharine said. “And he always left detailed messages on his answering machine when he was away. He left the hospital information on there.”

Maura just stared. She thought of the times she'd opened the Newport directory, stared at his name.

“In case you or Carrie ever called him,” Katharine went on. “And she must have—it was right after the lake that she was first spotted here.”

“But she's out there, alone with a baby … why won't she come home?” Maura whispered. “My daughter, and a grandchild. Why won't she come home to me? Does she hate me so much?”

“Maura, she's been through a trauma …” Katharine began.

“She has,” Maura said. “And I just want to help her.”

“I know you do,” Katharine said, taking Maura's hand. Maura laced fingers with her older sister and let her drive her around, up and down the streets, knowing she'd been here before, knowing she'd done what sisters were supposed to do: look after, take care, be with, love….

16
MAURA COULDN'T BEAR TO LEAVE PROVIDENCE. She'd wanted to drive the streets, knock on the doors, never leave until she found Carrie. The East Side was filled with college kids. Maura had had Katharine park the car, and she'd walked down Thayer Street, gazing into every young face. That night, instead of going straight home, Maura asked Katharine to drop her off at J.D.'s apartment.

“Thank you for today,” Maura said before she got out of the car.

“You're welcome.” Katharine tried to smile, but neither one of them could. They leaned across the seat to kiss, and Katharine made sure Maura took the black book with her. Maura had felt Katharine's gaze, charged and full of emotion, seeing her go to J.D.

Now, walking up the driveway, Maura tried to catch her breath. She knocked on the heavy garage door, heard him call “Come in.” So she clicked the wrought-iron latch, let herself in.

“You have to explain things to me,” she said. “Right now.”

He'd been working out with weights, and he lowered them to the ground and wheeled closer to her. His arms and blue T-shirt were soaked with sweat. The room felt stifling, and she weaved in place.

“Here,” he said, grabbing her hand. He held her firmly while she caught her balance.

“I'm fine,” she said. She stared into his wide blue eyes, so light and clear. Carrie's eyes.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

“I need to know everything,” she said. “Every single thing that makes you think Carrie visited you.” She watched his gaze flicker, his eyes cast down at his knees. He took a deep breath.

“You talked to Katharine?”

“Yes. We just got back from Providence.”

“Maura, I don't know what to say. I was so out of it, I might have been dreaming. I didn't want to start something that would only hurt you more. I wanted to protect you by being sure.”

“But the nurses saw her too, right?”

“They saw a girl who looked like Carrie,” he said. “That's true. She visited me, even when I wasn't awake. At first I thought she might have been a volunteer, a high school kid. They sometimes read to the patients, deliver mail, things like that. But I don't think that anymore.”

“What do you think now?”

“One nurse asked what she was doing there, and she said she had to make sure ‘at least one of them survived.’”

“One of them'?” Maura asked.

“Her fathers,” J.D. said. “That's what she said when the nurse asked.”

“She was talking about Andy… she saw him die,” Maura said, tears flooding.

“I think so.” He held her hand. “Once I came out of it, and heard about the girl, put it together and realized Carrie had been there, I called Katharine.”

“Carrie found you….”

“All those years,” he said, “I left messages on my answering machine, hoping you or she would call. And finally she did.”

“She's really here,” Maura said. She bowed her head and started to weep. “Why won't she come home?”

“Maybe she has to figure some things out first,” he said.

“If Andy told her about you… or she heard us arguing…” she said, going over the fight she and Andy had had just before he and
Carrie had gone out on the lake. “He was so angry, so hurt. He was going to leave me.” She stared at J.D. for his reaction, saw only sadness.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

Maura thought of the storm. She saw the dark green canoe out on the lake. She heard Andy's and Carrie's voices floating across the water, then the low rumble of thunder in the distance. When she turned to look west, she saw the dark wall of low pressure coming fast across the water. The wind had just picked up hard—trees were shaking, leaves flying everywhere, and the smooth blue lake turning dark gray and whipped into whitecaps. The canoe was heading toward the lighthouse. Were they trying to make it there before the storm hit? She had never had the chance to ask Carrie.

“You built her the lighthouse?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Why?”

“It's not going to come out right,” he said.

“I don't care. Just tell me.”

“I wanted to be near you, do things for you, be part of your life, and hers,” he said. “I always have. I never gave up. A couple of years back, I had this idea. I don't write songs, or paint pictures. But I fabricate metal.”