Authors: Drusilla Campbell

Wildwood (35 page)

BOOK: Wildwood

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Hannah got back in the car, into the noise, and reached across Angel to the side pocket in the passenger door where she kept maps bundled together with a rubber band. She sorted through them until she found one for Northern California. After a minute, she located Cutter Dam Road. With her finger she traced it all the way to Watsonville on the coast, hoping to see some other town along the way but knowing that she wouldn’t. The south end of the Coast Range was wild as it had been for hundreds of years. A drop of rain hissed as it exploded on the warm hood of the Volvo.

She felt a shiver of relief.

Angel cried louder and threw up on her Snugglies. A line of mucous spread from her nose across her red cheek. The reek of urine and feces filled the car.

I have to think about this.

She could go back to Morgan Hill but the CHP might be watching for her. She had to think of another alternative.

But the noise made it nearly impossible.

Stupid.

That boy had made her run and now everything was getting messy when it should have been easy.

What have I done?

What she had to do.

She slammed her safety belt in place and drove with furious care, hunched over the wheel like an angry little old woman. Her head ached and a sibilant ringing in her ears would not stop. The atmosphere inside the car was thick with the smells of urine and sweat, baby shit and milky vomit. She opened the window again and rain gusted into the car. Her hair, wild about her face, dripped moisture down her cheeks and neck. She cranked the window up halfway and turned on the windshield wipers. She applied her brakes and the Volvo’s tires skidded on the oily road.

She thought of her garden soaking up the rain, of the bulbs sighing as they resettled in the damp soil, the eucalyptus, the oaks and madrones and alders and acacia, the fruit trees and the ornamentals, the olive tree, the line of liquid ambars all quivering with pleasure as the water reached their roots. Rain gave Glory the jitters; she would run and toss her mane and whinny to the wind and the poor little donkey would stand still and let the water soak through its woolly coat. A benediction, that was what the rain was. A sign that God had put his anger away, that he had turned his head toward them again at long last. She imagined Father Joe standing by the statue of St. Francis, his arms outstretched, palms up. Rain meant there would be a spring Hannah could hope for and count on and plan for.

She thought of planting vegetables and a huge bed of pansies, Johnny-jump-ups and nasturtiums. She rounded a curve fast, braked hard; and the Volvo’s rear tires slipped and squealed. The ringing in her ears was the singing in her cells, the song of atoms and electrons vibrating toward critical.

Oh, God, what have I done?

She began to cry.

She would not plant a garden this year.

Near the summit she drove through squalls. The windshield wipers swooshed back and forth, clicked like a metronome, ticked like that noisy old clock in Jeanne’s office. She swerved to miss a tree that had fallen across the road. Rain. Tears. Slow down. She blinked and rubbed the steam off the inside of the window. Put on the defroster.

Shut up, Angel. For five fucking minutes, shut up.

She must stop. She could not see the road enough to drive. She must either pull off to the side of the road and wait out the storm—it would be hours and what about Angel? She was hours beyond her last feeding. Maybe by now Betts had called Dan and he was home. The police might be with him asking questions.

I could go to jail.

She had only done what she had to, what she was born and designed to do—care for babies, make them healthy and happy. It was what she did best, the only thing she knew how to do really well. Hannah sobbed and beside her, Angel screamed.

A shadow loomed in the road ahead. The second before Hannah slammed her foot on the brake, she thought of the poster of the little girl and the angel in the common room at Resurrection House. She heard the tires shriek and felt the car swing out. The Volvo spun, throwing Hannah’s head hard against the door. The last thing she remembered was the screams: Angel’s, the tires, and her own.

Liz got caught in the rain and broke all records running back up Casabella Road. She burst into the kitchen, her shorts and T-shirt cold and clinging to her.

“Hannah,” she called to the big house, “you home yet? Can I fix you some lunch?” They were going to talk things through if Liz had to tie Hannah down to make it happen. Their friendship would change and it would grow again.
I will plant myself in this house and I won’t leave until it’s restored.

She stripped off her wet things and stuck them in the dryer. Padding across the kitchen in bra and panties she told Cherokee, “Looks like it’s thee and me, sweet pea.”

She went to her room and changed into Levi’s and a bulky sweater the blue-green of the water where she and Gerard went scuba diving. In socks and sandals she scuffed back to the kitchen and made herself a tuna fish sandwich and a cup of tea. The phone rang once but when she picked it up the line was dead. While she ate she stood in front of the refrigerator looking at the clutter Hannah kept in place with magnets shaped like animals, vegetables and fruits. She took down the schedule for Eddie’s football practice, balled it up and tossed it toward the sink. She read an article about the infertility clinic Dan was running with the help of a local psychologist. There was a note to Ingrid dated the week before:
Clean your room, under the bed too.
The number of the car rental agency was behind a yellow plastic pineapple.

She stared at the number for so long without moving, her foot went to sleep. She remembered the receptionist’s voice, nasal and sweet,
You might be more comfortable in a midsize, ma’am.
A syrupy foursquare voice, Hannah would say. Centuries of female rage behind an armor of sugar. If she knew Liz were renting a car to go for an abortion would she refuse her business?

Liz walked around the kitchen until the pins and needles in her foot went away. At Hannah’s desk she stopped a minute to look at the framed photos. There was one of Jeanne with pigtails to the middle of her back and her mouth full of shiny braces. Liz remembered her as a bossy and opinionated little girl; but now she must add to the description hurt and scared and trying not to show it. Like heavy weather Jeanne’s sadness descended on Liz and she accepted it as if it were part of her own.

Her mind churned. She thought of everything. She thought of nothing specific. She put the picture down, picked up the phone on the desk and called Belize.

Eventually Signa answered. “Dis is Palmetto Guest House. Signa Cassasola speakin’.”

“Signa, it’s me. Liz.”

“Miz Lizbet. How you bin keeping?”

“I’m fine actually. Good. How’re you all doing without me?”

“I tol’ Mister Gerard, I won’ cook no more on dat old Aga stove.”

“Bad, huh. What’s it doing?”

“What it
not
doing. Las’ night oven go way hot, tonight too cold so tomorrow I be makin’ my special pork stew for dinner.”

Liz imagined Signa watching herself in the mirror as she spoke, preening like one of the peacocks living wild on the grounds of the old governor’s mansion. “Is Gerard around?”

“Oh, yes, yes. I fetch him come to the telephone.” Liz heard Signa’s long musical call and a moment later Gerard’s voice floated down through the lines of air and wire and in through her ears and down into the warm pit of her stomach.

“How are you, my Liz? Nothing’s wrong? When are you coming back?”

“I’m worried about Hannah. I may need to stay a little longer.”

“As long as you must, chérie.”

“Signa says the Aga’s gone wacko. What about the trouble with the ruins?”

“It goes on. Greed.”

“I guess I didn’t leave at a good time.”

Silence and the sound of Gerard’s breath from thousands of miles away.

“I’m glad I came, but it’s been hard.”

“But you are talking? You and your friends? About what happened?”

“It’s been . . . more difficult than I expected.” Silence. “I’ve decided something.” And more silence. The sense of his waiting was so strong he seemed to be in the room with her. “I want us to get married.”

He laughed.

“I’m not promising I’ll be good at it, but I want to try.”

“You make me happy, Liz.”

“Let’s do it soon, okay? But no big deal. Just us.”

“And the operation?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“Ah.” A single syllable into which she read sorrow and regret and relief and love all at once. “Come home soon, my Liz.”

She stared at the photographs on the desk. Jeanne. Dan. Liz and Hannah and Jeanne together. Hannah with Eddie and Ingrid in the big padded rocker, another of the two little ones riding Glory. And half a dozen of herself—timid child, wild teenager, off to Europe with matched luggage—all her incarnations except the one that mattered most. The woman she was now. She thought of Jeanne, her rigid spine bending at last. Her school, her students, and James. She thought of Signa at the airport waving her parasol and looking saucy for the customs officers. And she imagined Gerard in his broad-brimmed hat and his walking shorts and his muscular legs the color of toasted almonds. She saw him holding out his arms. Knowing her and wanting her, the real Liz.

Hannah parked the Volvo at the side of the house and got out. She hobbled around to the passenger door, opened it and looked down at Angel who was asleep at last and unhurt thanks to the restraints on Eddie’s old car seat. Hannah barely felt her own injuries though there was a rough scrape on her left temple where it had banged against the car door; and every step sent a spasm of deep pain there and through her back and left shoulder. She gathered the baby into her arms and dashed through the rain for the kitchen door. She slipped her key into the lock, turned it, and realized the door was open.

She had forgotten Liz. Suddenly she felt weak in the face of what was to come, like a prisoner being carted through the crowds to the guillotine.

Liz turned from the kitchen sink and saw her. Across the kitchen the phone rang.

“Don’t answer.” It would be Betts of course.

“Whose baby . . . is that Angel? Why’s she with you?”

A third ring.

In Hannah’s arms Angel began to fuss, and her heart-shaped face pinched toward the center like a cushion.

“No matter what, don’t pick up.”

On the fourth ring the answering machine clicked on.

It was Jeanne. Liz answered. “I think you better get over here.”

She hung up.

“I told you not to.”

“She needs to be here.”

Angel wailed.

“She looks sick,” Liz said.

Hannah handed Angel, belting out her misery again full volume, to Liz.

“Jesus, Hannah. What’s wrong with her?”

“She’s hungry. There’s formula out in the car and there should be a glass bottle in my vet supplies in the laundry room. Boil the nipple first. Anything else you need’s in the car.”

She opened the cabinet over her desk. No aspirin. She limped toward the hall.

“You’re hurt. What happened?”

Hannah waved her hand dismissively.

The phone rang again.

They looked at it.

Hannah shook her head.

This time it was Dan, laughing. “Can you believe this, Hannah? We’ve had almost an inch in the last hour. Turn on the Weather Channel. The guy says there’s eight storms lined up across the Pacific.”

Hannah lifted the receiver. “I’m here.” Her voice sounded flat, like a computer generated message to remind her of a doctor’s appointment. She made an effort to sound interested. “There’s a big washout on Casabella, just before the bridge.”

“We’re going to have flooding everywhere.”

Hannah nodded.

“I thought you’d be excited.”

“I am.”

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t need me up there?”

“I said I’m fine, Dan.”

“In that case, I’m going to stay in town until it lets up, okay?”

“Sure.”