Hello Loved Ones (44 page)

Nell followed a receptionist down a dingy carpeted hallway to a room marked
Mrs. Van Dam, Department of Family Services
. She was here to talk about Mandy, but all of that seemed strangely distant in light of this latest bombshell. She had a folding-in sense that brought to mind the time she saw, on television, a building being demolished. Though the sound was turned down, she would swear the room she was in vibrated as, on screen, foundation and façade gave way and walls imploded in a graceful, relieving collapse.

Nell would crumble just as silently. Facing the caseworker, a harried-looking older woman with an untidy bun and a cardigan that was pilling at the elbows, only her hands trembled. When the woman motioned for her to sit down in a gray metal chair, the plopping-down sound she made was not as loud as she feared.

“It says here that Mona Veenstra has left town,” Mrs. Van Dam said. “Can you confirm this?”

Nell nodded mutely.
Procedure.
That was the word Sally used. Nicer than murder, which was what it was. A roar rose in her ears.

“What makes you think the girl’s stepmother is gone?”

Nell tried to focus. “I saw her leave with a suitcase and she hasn’t been back.”

“I understand that you live right downstairs?” Mrs. Van Dam asked. “And that you work for the police department?”

Nell winced. That life lay in ruins.

“I’ve been suspended, actually,” she said, surprised that she sounded so calm. “Mrs. Veenstra and I had an altercation and the Sergeant is reviewing the details.”

Mrs. Van Dam nodded. “And the father says he’s made arrangements with you to watch the child…Mandy, is it? While he works.”

“That’s right.” Mr. Veenstra was switching to third shift. He’d offered Nell $25 a week to let Mandy sleep on a cot in Nell’s room. Nell would take her at seven p.m., already fed and in her pajamas, put her to sleep at eight, and give her breakfast in the morning before sending her back upstairs. It would be easy work for Nell. Too easy. She wanted the satisfaction of doing more.

“Tell me about that,” Mrs. Van Dam said mildly.

“Uh…” Maybe not so easy. Nell would be under the microscope now, something she hadn’t considered. Would the social worker make surprise visits to check up on her? To make sure there were locks on the doors, and milk in the refrigerator? What would she think of the Van Sloeten family? Here’s my sister. Pregnant teen. My mother. Adulteress. Oh, and my father? Drunk. My brother Lenny? Delinquent. Was Nell so damaged that she couldn’t take on a simple babysitting job?

“I haven’t started yet,” Nell mumbled, suddenly afraid to say anything. The wrong words from her and they might open a file on
her
family.

Mrs. Van Dam spread her hands in front of her. “Who lives in your household? What are the sleeping arrangements? What is your schedule like?”

“I have my own room. So does my mother and my sister.” Nell hesitated. Technically, Lenny did not live with them, so why mention him? “Mandy will sleep in my room. It’s very quiet. And...” She put on a bright face, as in
here comes the best part!
... “as I said, I have no job commitments at the moment. I don’t have a social life. I don’t go out evenings. My sister and mother both go to bed early.” She shrugged and laughed self-consciously. “It’s a pretty dull household, actually.”

Her heart was pounding as Mrs. Van Dam went on looking at her. If she didn’t stop staring, Nell would surely blurt out everything. Including the abortion plan. Then would Sally be arrested? Would they put some undercover cops on her tail and let her lead them to the lawbreakers who pretended to be doctors?

She
ought
to tell! But, really, what good would it do? Except for Lenny, no part of this Van Sloeten family saga was criminal. Yet. Mrs. Van Dam would only say something worthless.
Might I suggest a member of the clergy to help?
And Nell would laugh, one of those edgy, maniacal laughs. Oh, if you only knew!

“Well, we’ll be watching the situation closely. If the stepmother is gone, there shouldn’t be any more problems.”

Nell couldn’t hold back. “Getting rid of someone doesn’t solve anything!”

Mrs. Van Dam looked surprised. “How do you mean?”

She swallowed. She didn’t know what she meant. Maybe Sally was right. Why bring an unwanted child into the world? Just look at the stack of files on this woman’s desk. Each one no doubt full of the most depressing details. Kids like Mandy—beaten, neglected,
murdered
.

Nell’s own childhood hadn’t exactly been a picnic. As if to remind her, a wave of doubt and loneliness washed over her. The loss of her dad had seemed, at one time, ocean-deep, pushing and pulling her. But growing up was the tide receding. She was proud of the fact that she could shake it off. She thanked the Lord for her maturity. But
Sally?
Sally wasn’t equipped to raise a baby!

Wait. The answer was like an eager hand shooting up. I can do it! Let
me!

“Can I ask you something?” Nell said slowly. “How difficult is it to adopt a member of your own family?”

Mrs. Van Dam seemed confused. “It depends. As a single woman? Aahhh...” She clucked her tongue and grimaced.

Nell sighed. Being Old Nellie the spinster, dying alone of cancer, wasn’t punishment enough. No, she had to endure The System and all its stupid rules crushing an idea that was taking root, growing, spreading like a high speed film clip of a sprouting seed. Why should Sally kill the life inside her when Nell was so willing to love it and raise it and have it
as her own?

“Are you assuming I’m single?” Nell asked.

“Well, yes, because you said...”

“But what if I was married?” She might just as soon imagine being a brain surgeon, or a rock star. What man would want her? It took only a split second for her to see her wedding, ruined by her dad crashing drunk down the aisle, hanging on her intended’s arm.
Personally I never liked her much. Guess there’s no accounting for taste
.

“I don’t follow,” said Mrs. Van Dam. “You’re not related to Mandy Veenstra, are you?”

Nell didn’t appreciate being grilled on the subject. “Unless you mean in the Christian sense, no,” she said primly. “No relation.”

“Then I’m not sure—”

Nell stood abruptly. “Mrs. Van Dam, you’ve been very helpful.”

The real question now was what single men did she know? It wasn’t like choosing a book off a shelf, running a finger along so many spines, deciding which was best to curl up with under the covers. She’d have to settle for a tattered copy. Cover torn off. Bargain basement price.

Who?
Who did she know?

She turned and walked purposefully down the corridor, hardly noticing the drab aqua walls, the woman in the waiting room fanning herself with a copy of Reader’s Digest, the boy in overalls with a drippy nose. What she saw was herself, holding a baby, one hand cradling the soft, pulsing head, her arm tucked tightly around the tiny bottom. She was in her own kitchen, her own house, finding fulfillment in all the ordinary things.

All she needed was a man.

Back home, Nell moved deliberately around the house, waiting for the idea to dissolve into doubt. Instead, a peacefulness descended. A clarity so strong she found herself reaching for her diary. Not to question, but to plan. There were lists to make, under headings such as: Husband Hunting. What a Baby Needs. How to Convince Sally.

She brought the diary out to the front porch. Opening it, another list jumped out at her. One she had written weeks ago, when she first found out her father was in town.

What I Want To Know:

Where did you go?

Why didn’t you call?

Do you think about me?

Something caught in her throat and it came to her, momentarily, that she might be in the midst of a kind of breakdown, perhaps caused by seeing her father after all these years. She was no psychologist, but maybe that, followed by the shock of learning that the pastor was Sally’s father, then the news of Sally being pregnant, was making her delusional.

As she began to write, she noticed a man coming down the sidewalk, and something about him made her look twice. The walk! The little hop, the swing of the arm. Her father! She slammed the diary shut, feeling a tingle on the back of her neck, that breath of God that comes with coincidence too uncanny to explain. She wondered if her questions had somehow conjured this visit. He must be coming to see Sally, who was at school. Or her mother, who was at work. Maybe he was looking for Lenny, but Nell had no idea where Lenny was.

She watched and realized: he was looking at
her.
More than looking. He was
seeing
her. She smoothed her skirt and waited. Okay, they’d be alone. Just the two of them. She could say anything she wanted to him. But she could feel all the questions flying away, already up in flames. Was there anything she could ask that would make him say he loved her? She’d imagined that for so long, in so many ways, but now she didn’t think she’d ever hear it. Well, she’d live. Anyway, love was a funny thing. Not the steady stream of affection she’d always thought. Hadn’t her own heart changed? Hadn’t she felt, if only for a moment, that she could never love her mother again? Or Sally? Hadn’t she seen that hate and love were not so far apart after all? Just a wispy thread between them.

What he said now didn’t matter. He’d noticed her. If he didn’t like what he saw, it was his own damn problem. She watched him come closer, and when he was in front of Mrs. Dekker’s house she raised her hand and waved. She felt calm, ready. She opened her mouth, said “Hi Dad,” and it was like she’d been saying it all her life.

Nell took her mother’s lipstick tubes, one by one, from the makeup bag in the drawer and lined them up on the counter. Candied Almond. Pink Pansy. Softest Mauve. She chose one called Persimmon and carefully applied it, then blotted her lips with a folded piece of toilet tissue.

Seeing her dad had boosted her confidence. You wouldn’t even call it an official visit.
Just wanted to say hi
, he’d said.
Have yourself a nice day.
But he was sober. That alone was intoxicating.

Outside, she forced herself to step lightly and swing her pocketbook a little. See? Carefree. That’s how she’d look to anyone who saw her. Not like a woman with a hare-brained scheme to snare yet
another
man. As if the debacle with Pastor Voss had taught her nothing. She’d been so foolish then. This time her eyes were wide open. For one thing, she was not in love. She’d even had to ask Mrs. Dekker
what’s Gizzy’s name?
It was Gerald Ten Harmsel, and that was ok. She could see it: Nell Ten Harmsel. She didn’t know much about him, but she had noticed a thing or two. He carried white labels with him to replace names that were peeling off mailboxes, writing them out carefully in pleasing block letters. He liked to announce the arrival of catalogs and magazines.
Time to order spring bulbs!
he’d call.
Holiday cookie issue just in!

Not exactly presidential commendations. But it was at least as much to go on as her Victorian-era sisters would have had. Back then a woman got some starchy chit-chat and a few turns about the drawing room and
voila!
she was engaged. Even today, in some parts of the world, a girl might not meet her betrothed until the wedding day. Not that Nell believed in arranged marriage. But, really, there were worse things. Like being alone. Or standing by watching innocent lives destroyed.

She’d simply present the possibility of a union to Gizzy. As long as she wasn’t drippy or emotional, she’d have no reason to be embarrassed. If he wasn’t interested, so what? She’d keep looking. His loss.

She popped into the Salt Shaker on the way and picked out a giant wedge of blueberry pie with a crystal crust of sugar on top. As she waited at the counter for the waitress to wrap it, she took in the lunch crowd, the regulars arguing amiably about the Tigers, some girlfriends gossiping over salads and cigarettes, businessmen who tucked napkins over their ties. For a moment she had a sickening sense of being invisible, then the waitress handed her a white bag and said,
‘bye hon
, and she was back in the game. She felt it again—the optimism, like a sip of something bubbly.

Pie in hand, she walked the remaining blocks to Gizzy’s house. It was a small red brick bungalow near a busy intersection. Beside the front steps lay the twisted frame of his bike, a reminder of the wreck her life had become. She’d brought on his accident with a simple wave.
Hi! Over here!
Sally had done much the same and brought on a different disaster.
Hey Dad! Remember me?
Wanting to be noticed. What trouble it caused!