Within Arm's Reach (14 page)

“I asked her to come, Bill,” Grayson says from behind me. That shuts him up. Still frowning, he takes a seat. It is interesting to see how all these editors and writers, mostly men in their forties and fifties, respect Grayson. I rarely see him in this kind of group setting. My personal and professional relationships with Grayson have generally taken place one on one.

While Grayson grills the editors on the major stories in their sections, I flip through the paper to find my column. I try not to listen to their discussion. Wars in countries I can’t find on a map, car wrecks, plane crashes, abandoned children, drug busts, local zoning battles, etc., have never been anything I’ve gone out of my way to hear about. I ignore the news and turn right to the Lifestyles section.

Once I’ve located my column, I see that Grayson has done it again. He has rewritten my advice. This has been going on to a small degree since the beginning. He used to edit my writing. He would cut a sentence here or there, or rework a phrase. But over the last six months, he has begun to alter the content of my advice. He has deleted parts, and changed the very nature of what I was trying to say.

I look up at Grayson. He is pacing with great energy at the head of the room. He says, “I think the Route 17 overpass coming in two years ahead of schedule and ahead of budget is front-page material. Who disagrees? Then let’s move on to the story on Christie Whitman’s presidential ambitions. Quick answers please.”

This week the response Grayson has changed the most radically is the one I wrote to a girl grieving over the death of her mother. The girl felt her life had fallen apart and that she didn’t know who she was anymore, or what to do next.

My advice was for her to experience her sorrow from beginning to end. I suggested she keep a journal, and live one day at a time. I suggested that if she ignored her sadness, or buried it, she would just have more problems later on. I told her that once her mourning had ended naturally, she would see who she was and know what to do. Her course would unfold before her.

Out of the advice that was actually published, only the first sentence was written by me.

Dear Sad in Secaucus,

Your sorrow is completely appropriate and natural, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. But it has been several months now, and it is time to return to your life. I am sure that right under your nose there is a good friend or a relative who cares about you and knows you. Turn to that person now and let them lead you back to your life. You have been trying to make things work on your own and that can be a mistake. Don’t be ashamed to ask for help.

I read this advice over and over again. I try to imagine this young girl, twelve or thirteen, sitting in her pink bedroom in her dad’s house in Secaucus, reading this advice. Seeing it for the first time this morning, just like me. Letting it seep in, trying to feel whether it is true. Trying to feel whether it is what she needs.

I can only hope that it is. I know I have let her down. If my advice can’t make it through a run-in with Grayson’s red pen, then it is not strong enough, right enough. Things have changed; I can’t deny that. I can still feel the heat of Margaret’s letter on my fingertips. Maybe I do need somebody to check and balance what comes out of my mouth. Besides, Grayson is the only one who seems to pay attention to me at all, as of late. Gram is just interested in the baby, and Lila is so often gone. I shouldn’t disregard the only person who is listening to what I have to say, even if he is forever rewriting the content.

“Gracie,” Grayson says. “You with us?”

I look up from the newspaper. Grayson is staring at me from the head of the room, and many of the editors and writers have swiveled their chairs in my direction.

“Yes,” I say.

“You read your column? Any problems or comments you want to make?”

Bill the Lifestyles editor shifts uncomfortably in his chair. There is a tangible feeling of resentment. I am the smallest fish in this room, and they’d like to either throw me out the door or into the frying pan. I don’t belong here.

The business editor says, “Grayson, I think we need to take a harder line with the Dow Jones story. I’d like your guidance on that.”

“One minute, Carl. Gracie, anything?”

“No,” I say. “Nothing. Thanks.”

I AM back home in the empty house and on my way upstairs to change when I glance out the front window and see a car sitting in the driveway. It is an old gray sedan that looks vaguely familiar. Because of the way the afternoon sun glints off the windshield, I can’t see who is sitting behind the wheel. I stand perfectly still, watching, torn between hiding in my bedroom and walking outside to see who it is.

I am still deciding on my course of action when it is decided for me. The driver-side door opens and Aunt Meggy gets out. Then the passenger door opens, and I see Aunt Angel. Meggy walks around the car and extends her hand. Angel takes it and lets Meggy help her out of the car. I watch from the window, wondering what is going on. Neither of my aunts has ever visited me before.

They seem to be conferring by the side of the car. Angel leans against the door as Meggy rubs her lumpy shoulders. Suddenly, I understand: Angel is sick, and they have stopped by looking for Lila, looking for help. I cross the living room and swing open the front door. But I have moved too quickly, and the sunlight hits me in the face and turns the world into bright spots of loose color. I move my head and struggle to focus on the two women.

“Lila’s not here,” I call out. “She’s at the hospital.”

They both turn and look at me. Meggy says, “We’re not here to see Lila.”

“Isn’t Aunt Angel hurt?”

Angel steps away from the car and I can see that she’s been crying. Meggy says, “She’s fine. We came to see you. Aren’t you going to invite us in?”

I move so the door is left unblocked. I tell myself to calm down. No one is injured. This is not a matter of life and death. My thoughts reorder, and I know that if my aunts have come to see me, it must be about the baby. They have come to tell me what an embarrassment I am to the family.

Meggy requests a cup of tea, and Angel accepts a glass of cold water. We sit at the kitchen table while the teakettle rattles and shivers its way to hot.

“So,” I say, looking from Angel’s swollen face to Meggy’s determined one. My silly hope that I might be able to keep the conversation light and pleasant fades.

“All right, Angel,” Meggy says. “You wanted to talk first. Go ahead.”

I am almost amused by Meggy’s obvious sense of agenda, but not quite because I know that my situation is what she is headed for, and I suspect that the collision is going to hurt. I have never had much to say to Meggy. She and Lila can banter back and forth, but I don’t have the quick wit or sarcasm to take part. My aunt and my mother don’t get along because my mother’s feelings are so easily hurt and Meggy has such a sharp tongue. Meggy cuts immediately to the point and my mother never gets there. Mom complains that her younger sister is selfish. I don’t argue with my mother, but I never thought that her accusation was entirely fair, because Meggy always seems to be looking out for someone—Aunt Theresa and Aunt Angel, for instance. She took in Mary and John when Aunt Theresa became upset about Uncle Jack. And she is always harassing Johnny to be a better husband to Aunt Angel, and to stop being so absorbed in his alleged depression. Today I assume she is here on behalf of all my aunts and uncles, to tell me what a disappointment I am.

“How’s your job, Gracie?” Angel says. She taps the tabletop with ragged fingernails. “I always enjoy your column. I tell everyone I know that you’re my niece.”

“Okay, you’ve lost your chance,” Meggy says.

The teakettle lets out a sharp whistle, and we all jump. The noise always reminds me of Gram, and this time it reminds me that she’s expecting me to visit her tonight to pick up my monthly check. I pour the hot water into Lila’s favorite mug, which is covered with scientific equations. I have already set out the tea bag, milk, and sugar, so I simply hand the mug to Meggy and sit back down.

“Listen up, Gracie,” Meggy says. “I’m going to start with a story that took place when I was a kid. It’s something that happened all the time in the Irish community, but this is just one example.”

“It happened where I grew up, too.” Angel nods.

“There was a family that lived two houses down from us. They had eight or nine children, the normal amount in our neighborhood. Your mother and I used to baby-sit for them. Anyway, the oldest girl got pregnant when she was in high school. She was sent away on a trip before she started showing. When she gave birth, her mother adopted the baby and said it was the child of one of her husband’s business colleagues. The teenager then came back home and finished growing up. And it all worked out. The girl went to college and got married, and her little boy was raised by his grandmother, who loved him.”

A dark feeling fills my stomach, as if I have swallowed something that doesn’t agree with me. I must be misunderstanding the story. This can’t be headed where it seems to be. I try to keep my voice casual. “What happened when the kid found out who his real mother was?”

Meggy and Angel look at each other. “That’s not the point. The child could have just as easily been raised by a cousin or by an aunt. This practice was very common at the time. It’s like adoption, but within the family so everyone remains together.”

My body folds over slightly, protective against the hunger in my aunts’ gaze. The air in the room is so heavy I have a hard time opening my mouth. “You think I should give up my baby?”

“You’re barely showing, for being five months along,” Angel says softly.

“You haven’t told many people, right? Your mom has mentioned that you don’t have any girlfriends. And you have to admit that this is not the best time or way for you to have a baby.” Meggy’s voice is hard, insistent. “It might work out better if you waited.”

“You’re alone,” Angel says, her eyes down. “I’m married. I’ve been ready for a baby for years. He or she would be so loved. Your uncle Johnny would be a wonderful father. Can’t you see?”

“And the kid would be well provided for,” Meggy adds. “How do you plan to support yourself and a child? I bet you’re getting money from your grandmother, and that’s fine, but how long do you want to be on the dole from her? The only other person in the family she supports completely is Ryan. How would you feel about being in that company for the long term?” She shrugs. “It would make me feel like a loser.”

Angel says, “You’d get to see the baby as much as you want.”

I look down and see that my hands are gripping my stomach. I move them away and start playing with my hair, twisting and pulling at it. I’ve been trapped in a terrible nightmare. I have spent too much time alone and started to hallucinate. This is not happening.

“Does my mother know about this?”

“Of course not,” Meggy says. “I thought that if you were adult enough to get knocked up, then you were adult enough to make this decision.”

“Meggy,” Angel says.

“I’m keeping my child,” I say. The sentence rises out of me clearly, as the only thing I do know.

“Just think about it,” Meggy says, and stands up. “You’ll realize that the best thing you could do for this baby would be to give it to Angel and Johnny.”

Meggy takes Angel’s elbow and guides her up from her chair. Angel’s eyes, so sad and wanting, are fixed on my face.

“Just think about it,” she echoes.

I can’t seem to move, so I don’t see them to the door. I hear the door click shut, the clack of their shoes on the front walk, the hum of the car engine, and then I am left alone in silence, my hands back on my stomach.

I VISIT Gram later that day at the agreed-upon time. I considered canceling, but knew she would be disappointed, and then I would have had to see her tomorrow. There’s no point in putting Gram off.

On the way to the assisted-living center I stop at McDonald’s and buy a chocolate milkshake. The shakes seem to be my only pregnancy food craving. I am on a steady diet at this point of one small and one medium shake a day. There are two McDonald’s in Ramsey, so I alternate which one I go to, and whether I use the drive-through or the inside counter, so I don’t see the same staff people too often.

When I enter Gram’s room she is sitting where I usually find her these days, in the desk chair beside the window. I don’t know why that spot appeals to her. There’s not much of a view. Just some grass, a few trees, and the parking lot. It’s much nicer on the loveseat, where all of her family photographs and the television are in her line of vision. I kiss her on the cheek and sit down on the loveseat.

“What’s wrong?” Gram says. “What a face you have on, Gracie.”

“I don’t have a face on.”

“If you say so. Tell me, how’s Lila? I haven’t seen your sister in quite a while. Tell her she owes me a visit.”

“She’s been really busy lately. I think Lila might have a boyfriend.” I feel guilty as soon as the words are out, as I know this is something Lila wouldn’t want Gram to know.

Gram gives one of her pleased nods, a quick tuck of her chin. “How nice.”

We sit in silence. I study the black-and-white photographs on the wall and try not to be bothered by the fact that Gram is watching and waiting for me to break. Of course, I can’t keep quiet for long.

I gesture to the photographs, the jumble of smiling or unsmiling freckled McLaughlin children. “I heard a story about a family in your old neighborhood. The oldest daughter had a baby when she was a teenager and her mother adopted the baby as her own. Did that really happen?”

“The O’Connors.” Gram nods.

“Did the child ever find out who his real mother was?”

“Goodness, yes. When he was a teenager he started to get into a lot of trouble, which seemed odd, because the eight brothers and sisters ahead of him had been on the whole very good children. I believe he was caught smoking marijuana, and drove drunk several times. Wouldn’t listen to his parents, who were, of course, his grandparents. In the meantime, the oldest daughter, the child’s mother, had gone to college and ended up marrying her high-school sweetheart, the father of the boy. They had two or three children of their own by the time the boy started acting out. Everyone was very worried about him; he seemed headed for even bigger trouble. As a last-ditch attempt to save him, someone decided to tell him the truth. That his oldest sister was his mother, her husband was his father, and their children were his full-blooded brothers and sisters.” Gram shakes her head. “That really confused the boy for a few more years, but then he finally settled down. It was quite a scandal—everyone in the neighborhood was talking about it.”