Fortune's Daughter (13 page)

It was early evening when the taxi pulled up. Lila was already in bed asleep when Richard came to lie down next to her. He woke Lila by watching her, and she came to him from a dream where all the furniture in her parents' apartment had been replaced with woven mats, and tea was being served from a silver samovar in the middle of the floor.

“Was she in pain?” Lila asked when she woke.

“She didn't remember me,” Richard said.

“Of course she did,” Lila told him. “You're her only son.”

Richard didn't have the strength to unbutton his shirt—he had been wearing the same clothes for two days.

“The hedges are all overgrown,” he said. “I noticed it first thing when I got out of the taxi.”

“She knew you,” Lila said.

“No,” Richard told her. “She knew my father and she called him by name, but she didn't remember me.”

“You don't understand,” Lila said. “The worst thing in the world for a mother is to leave her child. She couldn't bring herself to remember you, because if she did she'd have to leave you behind.”

In the morning, when she woke up, the first thing Lila heard was a jet overhead. But when she listened carefully she could hear the rhythm of an ax. She got out of bed and reached for her robe. In the kitchen, the back door was ajar. A few hours earlier it had begun to rain; puddles had formed, and when Lila walked out to the patio the sudden rush of cold water on her feet left her confused for a moment. In the rear of the yard Richard was cutting down the vines that covered the fence. The ax he used had been stored in the garage for years, but it was still so sharp that in no time a huge pile of vines had collected on the ground. There were white flowers with green centers all over the yard, as if an earthquake had torn them from their vines.

At this time of year in East China, nothing grew. Lilies were deep in the frozen ground, peach trees and azaleas were bare. It had been the dead of winter when Lila and Richard left New York, but the sky had been deep blue. The cake tin Helen had given Lila was red metal, and because the cake inside was still warm, the tin seemed to shine. The one time Lila looked back, Helen was following their car. She went as far as the end of the dirt driveway, where in the spring there would be so much deep mud that Jason would have to shovel for hours before he could move his car. Helen stopped, and she stood there waving. Up on the porch, Jason Grey lit a cigarette, then leaned over the wooden railing. He stayed right where he was as they drove away, watching his wife and waiting for her to come back to him.

Out in the rain, Lila pulled her bathrobe tighter around herself. Somehow, she had become forty-six years old, and she didn't know quite how it had happened. She wondered if there was something about California that made the time move so quickly. Without winter to shock you into another year, entire seasons had dissolved in the sunshine; and no one could manage time in a place where even the roses were so confused that they bloomed year round.

Richard was almost through clearing the fence. He worked harder than ever, as though his life depended on the steady rhythm of the ax. Later, Lila would make him a pot of hot coffee. She'd sit on the rim of the tub while he bathed, just to be near him. But for now, she waited. In their own backyard, as the rain washed all the snails out of their garden, Lila and Richard crossed over an invisible line together. Impossible as it seemed, they had become older than Helen and Jason Grey had been on that day in East China when ice was everywhere and the sky was so cold and so blue.

PART THREE

I
N NOVEMBER, WHEN THE
moon was clear and white and the acacia trees gave off a bitter scent, Rae began to believe that she had lost the baby. It wasn't just that odd look on the psychic's face as she read Rae's tea leaves, it was that she felt so absolutely well. During the first three months she had been exhausted, and so queasy that she couldn't stand to look at boiled eggs. Now she could stay up past eleven, she could eat hot chili if she wanted to, and she had so much energy that she found herself cleaning out closets on her days off from work. The better she felt, the more she sensed something was wrong, and there was one thing she knew for certain: in all these months she had not once felt the baby move.

She went through lists of birth defects and diseases, but in the end she decided that she herself was at fault. She had taken too many hot showers, eaten too much salt, she'd lifted her arms high above her head so that the umbilical cord had wrapped itself around the baby's neck. In her heart she knew that each time she gained another pound it was only because her body had been cruelly tricked. Her pregnancy was a farce, it would never last full term; eventually someone would cut her open and remove whatever was inside her, and that would be the end of it. She put off going to see an obstetrician, and at work she refused to answer any of Freddy's questions about her health. But Freddy had already guessed, and one day he took her out to lunch at a Chinese restaurant and offered her five hundred dollars.

“You're kidding,” Rae said. “You want to give me money?”

“I was thinking of it as a loan,” Freddy said. “For one thing, Rae, you need new clothes.”

“Are you going to fire me?” Rae said.

She and Jessup had managed to save four thousand dollars—the bankbook was hidden in the silverware drawer, under the forks and spoons—and if she really had been having this baby she could have used the savings to cover the hospital bills if Freddy fired her.

“Of course I'm not going to fire you,” Freddy said. “But I'll tell you the truth—I'm real uncomfortable about this whole pregnancy thing.”

“So am I,” Rae said.

“You know what I'd like to know?” Freddy said. “Where's that assassin now that you need him?”

“I'm not interested in your money,” Rae said stiffly.

“Oh, come on,” Freddy said. “I'd charge you less interest than a bank would.”

Rae couldn't help laughing.

“Seriously,” Freddy said. “It's a gift.”

Rae knew that Freddy was feeling sorry for her, and somehow that made her feel sorry for herself. She put down her chopsticks and watched him write out the check, unable to stop him, unable to tell him the baby would never be born. If she and Jessup had only left California things might have been different. For a while they had talked about using their savings to go to Alaska. Actually, Jessup had been the one doing the talking.

“This country feels too small for me,” he had told Rae one night.

“Oh, really?” Rae was amused by the idea.

“Yes, really,” Jessup had insisted. “Everything's been overdone and overused in this country. There are no options any more.”

“What about Alaska,” Rae had teased. “Is that too small for you, too?”

The moment he looked over at her she thought, Oh, shit—he's serious about this.

“Admit it,” Jessup had said. “It's not a bad idea—even if it is yours.”

“Not Alaska,” Rae told him.

“I'll tell you what,” he said. “Let's just consider it—that's all.”

They had been in bed, and Rae wrapped her arms around him. “All right,” she'd agreed. “But that doesn't mean we'll really do it.”

Now she wished they had. If it had been just the two of them somewhere in Alaska, they might still be together. Snow would reach the rooftop of their cabin, and at night the ice outside would turn everything blue—everything, the glaciers and the white wolves and the owls that lived in the eaves. A child born there would be so healthy it would reach out its arms to hold you the moment after its birth.

“I think I have to go home,” Rae told Freddy.

She took the rest of the day off, and when she got home she opened all the windows in the apartment. She had suddenly begun to miss Boston, and although she had always hated the winters there, she yearned for a real November, and clear, cold air. Once, on the Tuesday after Thanksgiving vacation, she had been sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee, when Carolyn came downstairs, wearing her camel's-hair coat and a black wool hat.

“Listen,” Carolyn had said to Rae, “don't go to school today.”

Rae looked up from her coffee, but her mother didn't explain any further. They still weren't really talking to each other, except for those things that had to be said: Pass the butter, Pass the salt, The telephone's for you. But Rae had a math test that day, and everyone suspected a surprise quiz in French class.

“All right,” Rae agreed.

They drove downtown, to the Museum of Fine Arts. In the parking lot Carolyn turned to Rae after she took the key out of the ignition.

“I've been thinking about going back to school,” Carolyn said. “Maybe even law school.”

Rae had heard this before. “Do it,” she advised.

“I don't know if I can,” Carolyn said.

“Then why do you always talk about it?” Rae snapped.

“You know what my problem is?” Carolyn said.

It had begun to grow cold in the car; Rae shifted uncomfortably.

“I was always afraid to be alone.”

“Oh, yeah?” Rae said without interest.

“Now I see you making the same exact mistake with Jessup as I did with your father,” Carolyn said.

“Oh, for God's sake!” Rae said. “Could we just go to the museum?”

She got out of the car and slammed the door behind her, then walked ten paces ahead of Carolyn to the door of the museum. All through the Grecian ruins Rae stayed far enough away from her mother to prevent any conversation between them.

“I'm sorry,” Carolyn finally said.

They were walking through a room filled with Japanese kimonos. “I don't mean to insult you,” Carolyn said. “It's just that I see you running after Jessup.”

“I am not running after him,” Rae said.

“Well, going after him, then,” Carolyn said. “And once he wrecks your life there'll be nothing I can do about it. I'm warning you—don't come running to me.”

A young couple had come into the room, and now walked past them. Rae moved away from her mother. Carolyn followed her daughter to the next glass case of kimonos. The material had been painted by more than two dozen women; willows and water lilies washed over gold-and rose-colored silk.

“The one time I didn't feel alone was when I was pregnant,” Carolyn said. “After you were born I couldn't imagine how I had managed to live all those years without you. How did I survive before? Who did I love?”

In the gift shop, before they were about to leave, Carolyn had insisted on buying Rae a gift, a poster of Monet's water lilies, which somehow seemed crude after the delicate kimonos. “Perfect for your room,” Carolyn had whispered as they waited for the cashier to wrap the poster in brown paper.

Rae had agreed, she had even politely thanked her mother, but she knew that before long she and Jessup would be leaving, and the Monet poster would hang in her empty bedroom.

When they left the museum it was four, and very nearly dark. Rae carried the rolled-up poster under her arm and kept her hands in her pockets. If she had gone to school that day she would have already been home for a half an hour, waiting for Jessup to appear on the sidewalk.

“I don't know why it is, but November smells like smoke,” Carolyn said. “Maybe I'm crazy, but I think it's delicious.”

When Rae breathed in she realized that her mother was right, the air was delicious. For some reason Rae had the sudden urge to put her arm through her mother's arm, to feel the weight of the camel's-hair coat that Carolyn stored in a cedar closet every summer. But by then they had reached the car and Carolyn was humming as she reached into her coat pocket for the keys. Rae felt something in her chest, and she forced herself to take several deep breaths. As Carolyn unlocked the car, Rae wondered why it was that she should have to feel sorry for her mother, and why, as she breathed in the smoky blue air, one visit to the Museum of Fine Arts could make her feel so lost.

In Massachusetts, Rae could look out her window and see chestnut trees, white stars, clouds that covered the moon. Here, from her kitchen, she saw only the empty street. But the dogs were out there, she knew it. Ever since the heat wave they had been wandering through the neighborhood, looking for water and bones. And sure enough, when Rae pressed her face up against the glass she saw a large black Labrador in the courtyard; she quickly pulled down the shade. Late that night, at ten minutes after twelve, she telephoned Lila Grey.

“Are you crazy?” Lila said after Richard had handed her the phone. “How dare you call me at this hour. I'll tell you something right now—I don't intend to read for you ever again. Got that?”

Richard sat up in bed, concerned.

“It's nothing,” Lila told him. “Go back to sleep.”

“This is the thing,” Rae said slowly, as though she hadn't heard a word Lila had said to her, “I think there's something wrong with my baby.”

Lila leaned up against the headboard; she could feel her mouth grow dry.

“Don't ask me why, because I can't tell you,” Rae said. “I just know something's wrong.”

“Do you want my advice?” Lila asked. She was shaking, and she wished Richard would turn on his side and stop watching her. That motionless child in Rae's teacup refused to disappear. “Go see a doctor,” she told Rae.

“I can't do that,” Rae said quickly.

“Tomorrow, as soon as you get up, call an obstetrician and make an appointment,” Lila said.

Rae didn't answer; she lifted the windowshade and watched the black dog stretch out in the courtyard for the night.

“Are you going to listen to me?” Lila said. She could hear the edge of panic in her voice, and she took Richard's hand to reassure him; under the sheets their fingers intertwined.

“Yes,” Rae said.

“And I don't want you to call me again,” Lila said.