The Offering (24 page)

“Nonsense. Exercise is good for everyone, especially expectant mothers. Besides, you should be walking to bring on labor. After all, aren't the French people already in town?”

“They're here. They've rented a place on Sandpiper Drive, but I'm not driving by the house because I'm done for the day. But if you want to take me home and keep shopping, Marilee might want to join you.”

“Ice cream!” Marilee clapped and grinned at her grandma. “Can we get ice cream?”

“Of course we can, precious.” Mom tweaked Marilee's cheek. “But we can get it on the way home.”

I lifted a brow. “At nine thirty in the morning?”

“If she wants it, why not?”

I sighed, knowing it was useless to protest. Ordinarily we'd be hard-pressed to find an ice cream shop open at this hour, but no one kept normal business hours on Black Friday.

“Well, look who's here.”

I looked up when the familiar voice startled me. Amelia and Mario were coming toward us, both of them looking a lot fresher than I felt.

I pressed my hand to my belly. The little guy inside was judo-chopping my ribs—I had probably disturbed his midmorning nap.

“Finding many bargains?” I asked.

Amelia shrugged. “Found a few things in the men's department. And there's a great housewares sale at Dillard's. I came out here, though, because I wanted to get a book that's supposed to be good.”

“What's it about?” I asked, hoping she'd found a novel that would take my mind off this pregnancy.

“International adoption. These days I'm reading everything I can find on the subject.”

Mom tugged on my sleeve, her eyes shining. “Mandy, honey, would you mind waiting here while I check out the housewares sale? I've been looking for new dishes.”

I blew out a breath, grateful for the opportunity to rest a bit
longer. Even the walk back to the car seemed daunting. “Go ahead.”

“Are you sure? You're not having contractions or anything?”

“Not a twinge. Go, and take Marilee with you. But she's slippery, so keep an eye on her.”

Mom's mouth tightened. “You talk like I don't have any experience with children. I won't let her get away.” She held out her hand to Marilee, who took it and skipped in time to my mom's slower pace.

Mario pointed toward a sports store down the mall, then said something in Spanish. Amelia nodded.
“Hasta luego.”

I waited until he walked off, then patted the bench next to me. “Have a seat. I've a feeling empty benches will be hard to find in an hour or so.”

Amelia sat and took a long swig from the soft drink in her hand. “I like your mom, but you must take after your father. She's nothing like you.”

I snorted. “Have you looked at us? Mom and I have the same pointed nose and the same sharp chin. Even Marilee inherited the chin, but thank heaven she got Gideon's nose.”

“I meant your personalities are nothing alike. She seems so regimented, and you're so”—she shrugged—“not.”

“I think”—I hesitated, wishing she'd drop the subject—“maybe I'm more like my dad.”

Oblivious to the quaver in my voice, Amelia sipped her drink again, then tilted her head. “By the way, how's your mother handling your pregnancy? Is she still against the idea?”

I pressed my hands to my lower back and tried to stretch. “Mom is conveniently ignoring my belly. She never mentions the pregnancy unless I bring it up.”

“Really?”

I shrugged. “In a way, I don't blame her. If this were my baby, she'd be all excited about having a grandson, but what's she supposed to feel when it's someone else's child? It's weird, that's all.
And Mom's always been old-fashioned. When I was a kid, she never wanted to talk about human reproduction.”

“So you grew up thinking that storks brought babies?”

“Until Sally Hinson told all the girls in fifth grade phys ed that babies grew in bellies and daddies planted the seeds.”

Amelia fizzed with laughter while I stood to encourage blood flow to my lower legs. When Amelia finally stopped chuckling, she took another sip from her straw, then grinned up at me. “Did your mom enjoy Thanksgiving yesterday?”

“I guess. I don't think she understood much of what was happening, though. She doesn't speak Spanish.”

“But neither do you.”

“I don't speak
much.
But being around you guys has done a lot to improve my skills of interpretation. For instance, I had no idea what Mario said a minute ago, but I knew he told you he was going to the sports store and he'd be back soon.”

Amelia snorted. “You know us too well.”

I shrugged. “But Mom doesn't know you at all. So she couldn't help feeling a little left out.”

“Sorry. We tried to be friendly.”

“I know, but my mom isn't the type to put herself out there. You either meet her on her turf or”—I shrugged again—“you don't meet her.”

“That's too bad.” Amelia shook her cup, rattling the ice inside, then looked at me, her eyes shining with affection. “It's a good thing you're not like that, or you'd never have met Gideon. And you wouldn't have me for a cousin-in-law.”

I sat and leaned back, bracing my weight on my arms as I smiled. “And you'd never have a cousin who's a gringa. Speaking of
la familia,
what's the latest on the adoption front? Have you talked to your social worker lately?”

Amelia stood to toss her cup into a trash can. When she sat again her smile held a touch of sadness. “I talked to her a couple of days ago. I called to check in and Helen was nice, like always.
But she hasn't placed any children this month, and there aren't any suitable kids available for us. That's why I wanted to pick up that new book—to see if there were any new avenues for finding kids.”

“With all the children needing homes, you'd think—”

“It's not that easy. And I can guess what our file says: ‘Mario and Amelia are a young Hispanic couple with no parenting experience but a good support system. They prefer an infant, but would accept a child up to age three with correctible medical conditions.' ” She crinkled her nose. “Sounds awfully clinical and not terribly appealing. But no, we haven't heard anything.”

I nodded. After a long moment, I added a postscript: “I'm sorry.”

“It's okay.” She crossed her legs and straightened as she stared into the crowd around us. “All we can do is wait.”

I wanted to suggest that we were in the same boat, but I knew we weren't. My time of waiting had a definite end in sight, but hers stretched into the unknown.

So we sat on the bench together, both of us waiting on a child.

Feeling like an overstuffed sack of skin, I had just settled in front of the TV to watch something mindless and entertaining when Gideon came into the room, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

“Gid—no.” The sight of his gear never failed to send a tremor up the back of my neck, but this time dread lodged in my throat, making it difficult to speak.

“Mandy, baby—”

“You can't go now. I could go into labor at any time.”

“I'm sorry, baby girl.” Gideon knelt on the carpet and caught my hands. “I know this is a lousy time to leave, but I should only be away a couple of days, three or four at the longest. I've spoken to my mom, and she'll stay with you if you want. Or you could call your mother—”

“But the timing! Surely your commander—”

“The doctor said you had a couple of weeks, right?”

“She said babies keep their own timetable. I don't know when it's going to come.” I stared at his face, at his eyes, which asked me to trust him.

So I would.

I lowered my voice. “Your mission isn't dangerous, is it?”

“Nothing's dangerous for Captain America.”

“I'm not kidding, Gid. If you got hurt, I don't know what I'd do—”

“Have I been hurt before? Now stop worrying; it's not good for you. I want you to be strong so you can deliver this kid and we can get on with making our own babies and finding a nice house to raise them in. I still want a son, you know.”

I drew a breath, then kept silent. Gideon was right, of course. He knew his job, and I knew he was completely competent. His unit was one of the best; that's why they were called out to handle tough situations.

I even knew why he didn't ask for permission to stay home—over the past several years other family men, scores of them, had gone to war and missed their anniversaries, their children's birthdays, and their babies' births. . . .

“I'll miss you,” I said, my voice gentle. “And if something goes wrong at the hospital, I'll be waiting at the river.”

“Nothing's going to happen to you, honey. And if you need any help, ask
la familia.
They'll be here before you can say
Ayúdeme, por favor
.”

“I'll be waiting at the river, Gideon.”

His eyes softened and melted into mine. “Okay, have it your way. Though I don't think anything's going to happen to either of us, I'll meet you under the tree.”

And then, as moonlight streamed through the open window and painted a rectangle of light onto that blasted grand piano, Snake Billings rolled up in the driveway and honked the horn. Gideon kissed the top of my head, then picked up his duffel bag.
“Give Marilee a kiss for me,” he said, his smile deepening the dimple in his left cheek.

I batted away a recurrent gnat of worry as he walked to the front door, blew me a kiss, and disappeared into the night.

I rolled off the couch and hurried after him, then opened the door and stared into a yawning black hole that should have been our front porch. The darkness swirled and moved, pulling me forward, threatening to drag me from the house and take me under—

Caught in the riptide between sleeping and waking, I closed my eyes and swam upward. When I lifted my eyelids again, I was lying spread-eagle on our bed, pinned to the mattress by a bowling ball belly. My arms were splayed, my legs tangled in the sheets, my skin slick with sweat.

No need for Dr. Hawthorn's help with dream interpretation tonight. Some nightmares, like road signs, were painfully easy to decipher.

Waddling from side to side like an old woman with arthritic hips, I stopped by the grocery on Friday, the sixth of December, just to hear the sound of friendly voices. Contact with Mama Isa, Tumelo, Amelia, Mario, and Jenna so cheered me that I decided to fill the house with people on Saturday. Gideon had spoken the truth in my dream—I had access to all kinds of help if I wanted it; all I had to do was ask. So I called Amelia and Mario, Tumelo and Elaine, Mama Isa and Jorge, and then I called the elders, Yaritza and Carlos, Yanela and Gordon. “I thought we'd have a potluck while Gideon's away,” I said, shoehorning a bright note into my voice. “Bring a dish and come for dinner, please. I can barely move and I'd appreciate the company.”

Apparently my nonchalant invitation didn't fool any of them. They came early, bearing cleaning supplies and fruit baskets and casseroles steaming with Cuban delicacies. They filled my
dining room table until it threatened to buckle, and after lunch they cleaned the house.

Yanela and Yaritza sat on the sofa and told the younger people what to do. Amelia tackled the windowsills the Happy Housekeepers hadn't touched; Tumelo tied on an apron and dusted, even climbing on a chair to wipe the tops of our doorframes. Mama Isa cleaned out my refrigerator, Elaine alphabetized my spice rack, and Jorge roasted enough pork to feed an army. “You will want it for later,” he said, tilting his head toward the refrigerator. “Freeze it; it will keep. With pickles, ham, and Swiss cheese, it makes great Cuban sandwiches.”

“You need some Christmas decorations.” Amelia stood in front of me with her hands on her hips. “Are you going to put something up? At least a Christmas tree?”

I shrugged and braced my lower back. “I haven't had the energy. Plus, the decorations are in the attic, and I can't climb the ladder like this.”

“I'll get them down.” Amelia set her bottle of all-purpose cleaner on the kitchen counter and moved toward the hallway and the attic ladder, then she paused. “Do you have a tree up there, or is it just small stuff?”

I pressed my hand over my lips to stifle an undignified burp. “It's, um, mostly small stuff. Some ornaments, ribbons, and maybe a wreath—”

“Don't worry, we'll get you all fixed up. Tio Tumelo, come help me get into the attic, will you?”

Delighted with all the company, Marilee played a mini concert on her piano (“Working music,” Mario called it), then basked in the family's applause. After Marilee's performance, someone popped a CD into the player, and Tumelo began to sing along with a Cuban trio.

My in-laws filled the house with festivity and food, and all I had to do was sit with my feet up.

Surrounded by so much life and laughter, I finally began to
relax. As the medicine of loving care worked its magic, I decided I'd been silly to harbor negative feelings toward Simone and Damien. After all, what crime had they committed? They had simply tried to show their gratitude for all the extra trouble I went through for the sake of their family. The problem—the rift in our relationship—had existed only in my perspective.

By the time Yanela finished rubbing my feet, I was feeling so generous I vowed to be friendlier to the Amblours. I should invite them over for dinner, I told Yaritza, and let Marilee play for them. They ought to know she would put the piano to good use.

I accepted a glass of punch from Mama Isa and shifted to make room for her on the couch. Inviting the clan over had been a wonderful idea, I told the ladies; I should do it more often. The next time I spoke to Gideon, I would tell him all about the family's visit. He'd be thrilled to hear that I'd invited
la familia
for lunch. He was always urging me to be more independent, to step out and take charge like so many other military wives. . . .