Empty Arms: A Novel (14 page)

“Your choice.”

He presses the button for the elevator and turns to me. “Have you ever been to the Wildflower Café over on Market?”

The question sideswipes me. Lola and I used to go there for lunch every Sunday on our way back from the mandatory mass at St. Mark’s. We’d sit in the booth by the window chewing over all the questions we couldn’t talk about at The Home. What would labor be like? How would breast-feeding feel? Would our lady parts ever return to normal? The Wildflower Café was our place and I haven’t been back since. “Not in a long time,” I say.

“Great. Let’s go there.”

The elevator doors open and we step inside and ride up to the lobby. As we make our way out the front door and across the parking lot, I stop. “Oh no. I forgot my purse in your office.”

“Don’t worry. You won’t need your purse. My treat.”

“I appreciate that, but I’d rather not leave it behind. Why don’t I run back down to your office and grab it while you get the car?”

“I can come with you,” he offers.

“Really, that’s not necessary.”

He thinks about it for a moment and then relents. “My car could use a couple of minutes to warm up.” He twists a key off his ring and hands it to me. “I’ll pick you up at the front door in a few minutes?”

“Thanks.” I turn and head back through the lobby. My heart jackhammers as I ride the elevator down to the basement and hurry back to the Adoption Registry. I unlock the door and slip inside. I turn on the lights and glance around, making sure no one else is there. I sneak behind the wooden counter and shake the computer mouse. The screen comes to life. The cursor blinks. My hands shake as I key in
pearljam63
. When the desktop appears I sigh with relief and double click on the database icon at the far left side of the screen. The program loads, and just as Harper did for Joanna Galen, I enter my maiden name, Social Security number and the date I surrendered Emily: March 25, 1973. I press enter and an hourglass appears. It spins around and around. I glance toward the door, willing the machine to work faster. “Come on, come on,” I urge. And then it appears. The most beautiful five-digit number I’ve ever seen: 41079.

The metal walls are heavy, but I slide them across the tracks until I get to the section labeled 40,000–44,999. My eyes scan the numbers on the top shelf. Too low. I search the middle shelf and then drop to my knees and scan the lower shelf until I find the 41,000s. I run my finger across the files. 41077, 41078 … 41080. I lean closer, sliding through the files again. But there’s no mistake, Emily’s file isn’t there.

“G
OT IT?”
Harper asks when I open the door of his beat-up old red Jetta and climb inside.

I dangle my purse in the air and place the key in the palm of his hand. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem.” He shoves the key in his pocket and turns up the radio as we speed across the parking lot. “Do you know what band this is?”

“Pearl Jam?” I guess trying to squelch my bitterness.

His smile doubles in size and he bobs his head to the beat. “If I would’ve known you’re a PJ fan, I would’ve asked you to lunch sooner.”

“Actually, I asked you to lunch.”

“Good taste in music and assertive? Catherine Chase, I think I’m in love with you.”

Though I know he’s only kidding, I feel ill. What was I thinking leading him on like this? What would Paul think if he knew? You did this for Emily, I remind myself, and my mind returns to the walls of files. How could they have a file for every child who’s been adopted from Lowville General since 1886, except Emily?

I pretend to listen as he professes his love for Pearl Jam, but I can’t get my mind off the missing file. “STP’s cool too, but Pearl Jam’s definitely my favorite. Who’s your favorite?”

The question jars me out of my head and back to our lunch date. “I’m with you, Pearl Jam is the best.” The truth is, I wouldn’t know a Pearl Jam song if it came up and bit me.

“Have you seen them in concert?”

“No. You?”

“Like ten times. Vedder’s voice is even better live. Man, I wish I could sing like that.”

The way he talks about music reminds me of the image of Cord in the corduroys I’d created in my mind. “Harper, by any chance, are you in a band?”

He steers the car into a parking space in front of The Wildflower Café. “My friends and I have a garage band called Stone Magic. We play some local gigs every now and then. How did you know?”

I smirk. “I can see that.”

T
HE
W
ILDFLOWER
C
AFÉ
looks exactly the same as it did twenty-three years ago. The booths are purple, and the wallpaper is covered with flowers. While we wait at the hostess stand, I glance over my shoulder to the booth by the window. Twenty-three years ago, that was our booth. Mine and Lola’s. Today it holds a tiny woman with a long blond ponytail and four young children. Her back is facing me, and her arms are moving at lightning speed as she cuts her son’s chicken nuggets and catches her daughter’s sippy cup before it teeters off the edge of the table.

The hostess appears before us and grabs two menus. “Table for two?”

Harper and I nod and she gestures for us to follow her. We pass the booth with the young family and she seats us two tables away.

When I open the menu, I’m surprised to see that it hasn’t changed. All of the salads and sandwiches with their clever wildflower names are just as I remember them. I find my Clover Club on the second page and above it, Lola’s Searocket Sub.

The waitress is an older woman with a big stomach that dwarfs her apron. Her hair is spiky jet black with bold gray streaks, and her lipstick is a far-too-bright shade of fuchsia. “Ready to order?”

I order a cup of tea and the Clover Club. Harper asks for a Ginger Ale and the Blazing Star Burger.

When she walks away, I stare at Harper, determined to figure out where Emily’s file is. “Thanks for telling me about the Adoption Registry yesterday.”

“It’s nice to meet someone who’s actually interested.”

“I still can’t believe that you have the files for every single adoption, all the way back to 1886.”

“Yeah, it’s a lot of files.”

“Do any of them ever go missing?”

“Not on my watch.”

I shake my head, feigning amazement. “All of those files and they never get lost or, you know … misplaced?”

He looks at me funny. “Cut it out. No one’s ever been this interested in my job.”

I laugh nervously. “Well, I want to make sure my patients’ information is in good hands.”

He puts his hand on mine and I flinch. “It is. I assure you. Now, no more work talk. Tell me about you.”

Beyond Paul, Emily, and my unexplained infertility, there’s not much to tell. And since work is off the table, I’m at a loss. I watch with envy as the young mother two booths away helps her children put their coats on. She glances in my direction, and we both do a double take. Her mouth falls open. “Jacqueline?”

The sight of her renders me speechless. “Excuse me,” I tell Harper and slide out of the booth. Her eyes are the color of a cloudless day, I’d recognize them anywhere; they always reminded me of summer. She’s much thinner than I remember, but then again, she was nine months pregnant last time I saw her. “Lola?”

Her little boy tugs at her sleeve. “Mommy? Mommy?”

“What is it, Timmy?”

“Why did that lady call you Lola?” He looks at me with big, curious eyes.

“I think she meant to say Melody,” she tells him and winks in my direction.

“Of course,
Melody
,” I say, using her real name, which satisfies him enough to slide back into his seat.

At The Home for Fallen Women we had to use fake names to protect our identities. Melody chose to go by “Lola” because everyone said that her blond hair and big blue eyes reminded them of Lola Albright, the actress who played Dolly in
Kid Galahad
. I’d never seen it, but she told me it was a boxing movie starring Elvis. I picked “Ali” after Ali MacGraw, but apparently
Love Story
was everyone else’s favorite movie too because they already had a girl called Ali at The Home. “You can be Jacqueline,” Nurse Templeton said. “Like that Bisset girl in
Airport.”
I wanted to protest but then I realized how fitting it was. Not only did I sort of look like Jacqueline Bisset, with my long brown hair and green eyes, but the movie I knew her from was
The First Time
. So, everyone called me Jacqueline, though Melody and I told each other our real names.

“How are you?” I ask, eyeing her brood of towheads.

“Good,” she sighs, and it’s only then that I notice how tired and pale she looks. “I’ve got my hands full, as you can see.”

I watch with envy and awe as she tugs at her son’s coat zipper, ties her daughter’s shoelace, wipes all eight sticky hands and puts them in gloves without missing a beat in our conversation. A wisp of hair escapes from her ponytail as she reaches and bends. Though she looks worn around the edges, I’d trade places with her in a heartbeat. Unlike me, somehow she found a way to move on with her life.

“Is that your boyfriend?” she asks, nodding toward Harper.

“Him? No, he’s a colleague. I’m married, actually.” My thumb automatically grazes the finger where my wedding band usually sits, but it’s empty. “My ring is at the jewelers getting resized.”

“I had to do the same thing after Haley here came along.” The little girl with blonde pigtails looks up at the sound of her name. Her lips and cheeks are covered with orange cheese from the macaroni she was eating, and her eyes are bright blue saucers, like her mother’s.

“Do you still live in Connecticut?” I ask, hoping to change the subject before she asks how many kids I have.

“I do. We’re just outside of Hartford.”

“You’re a long way from home. What brings you back to Lowville?”

“Oh, just passing through on our way home from visiting my brother in Syracuse. The kids were hungry and I remembered this old place.”

She and I both know that the Wildflower Café is over an hour out of her way, but I don’t mention it because I know all too well that this place has a magnetism that pulls you back.

“Well, you’re sitting at the best table in the house.”

“That’s why I picked it.” We exchange a secret smile, and for a split second I see pain in her eyes. I want to ask her if everything is all right, but that would be like her asking me if everything is all right. Of course it’s not, but I wouldn’t get into the mess of my life right here in the middle of the lunch crowd.

“It’s hard to believe it’s been twenty-three years,” her voice drifts off.

“I know.” The last time I saw her was from our bedroom window as Nurse Templeton loaded her into the van. She was doubled over in pain, gripping her stomach and crying. For weeks, I wondered what happened to her, but then I went into labor and found out for myself.

“We should catch up sometime,” I suggest.

The baby girl in the high chair begins to fuss. Melody leans over and scoops her up. “God, yes. Let me give you my number.” She balances her daughter on her hip and grabs a blue crayon. She scribbles her phone number on a napkin and passes it to me. “Call me,” she says. “Soon.” She pulls me into a tight hug. “It’s really great to see you.” When she lets go, she wipes at her eye with the back of her hand and begins rounding up her kids. I wish there was a pause button we could hit so we could talk and I could find out what’s bothering her, but the busboy squeezes between us and begins clearing the table, and the hostess approaches the booth with another family at her heels.

I wave goodbye to Melody as she shuffles her family out the door. When I return to Harper, I notice that our lunch has arrived and his Blazing Star Burger is untouched on his plate. “You should’ve started.”

“I wanted to wait for you.” Once I sit down, he reaches for his burger and takes a bite. “Who was that?”

“A dear friend from a different lifetime.”

His eyes widen with intrigue as he bites a sweet potato fry in half. “What sort of different lifetime?”

I glance at the now empty doorway, remembering how we used to stand belly to belly in the mirror to see whose was bigger.

“Childhood,” I say wistfully.

When the waitress delivers our check, Harper grabs the billfold, shoves a twenty inside, and hands it back to her before I can stop him.

“This was supposed to be my treat,” I object.

“You can treat next time.”

Next time. Guilt pulls in my stomach as I realize what I’ve started. How can I tell him there’s not going to be a next time?

We slide out of the booth and he helps me with my coat. Then he turns to me with a grin. “Don’t forget your purse.”

W
HEN THE ELEVATOR DELIVERS
me to the maternity ward, I head straight for the NICU. Baby Girl Glass is just as I left her. I sink into the chair next to the incubator, and her frail limbs and struggling organs fill me with self-reproach. Here is a person with a soul as pure as a blank canvas, yet her entire life will be full of obstacles. And then there’s me with all of my lies and deceit. If anyone deserves to be punished, it’s me. I reach inside her sterile little world and place my hand on hers so she knows she’s not alone.

W
HEN
I
TRUDGE
through the door after work, Paul is already sprawled in his La-Z-Boy with his feet up, watching a game. I bang around in the kitchen to announce that I’m home, but he doesn’t move. The only thing worse than keeping Emily a secret from Paul is having him know about her and ignore me. Maybe his favorite dinner will get him talking to me again? At the very least, it’s a first step toward making amends.

The second step is using the new cookware he gave me. One by one, I lift the copper sauce pot, sauté pan, and stock pot down from the rack. In their flawless sheen I see my own imperfections. I fill the stock pot with water, set it on the stove and watch as the flame curls up around its base and clouds its sides with moisture. I guess nothing stays perfect forever.

While the flame warms the water, I slice mushrooms and chop an onion, squinting and straining as the sulfoxides burn my eyes. With one slow sweep of the dull side of my chopping knife, the onions and mushrooms fall from the cutting board into the puddle of olive oil warming in the sauté pan. I wash every last drop of onion juice down the drain and rub at the mascara that has undoubtedly smeared beneath my eyes. I hate cutting onions, but it’s a small penance.