Nobody's Child (20 page)

Sophia pulled her sheets up to her neck, her arms bunched tight in front of her chest, eyes focused on some distant point beyond the room. “Loneliness is like being chased down a cold dark alley, Laura Ann. With no way out.” Her voice trembled. “But with you, I finally found a door to a safe warm place.”

When Ian showed up after work, Laura Ann hugged him quickly, then led him by the hand from the room, leaving Sophia behind to nap. Determined to answer the voice inside her that screamed for action, she pulled him through the hospital. She dared not lose her nerve, dared not even one brief glance into his accepting face. If she walked fast, perhaps he wouldn't see her eyes.

“Whoa! Slow it down, McGehee! What's the rush?”

She didn't reply but whisked through the double doors at the main entrance and headed into the familiar embrace of the summer's late afternoon heat. She would not open her heart to him inside, surrounded by the smells and colors of her nightmare. She turned right and pulled him into a grassy area, then collapsed on the ground, her legs folded under her. She patted the grass at her side.

Ian settled beside her with a little space between. She stared away for a long time, praying for the strength. Praying for the
wisdom that Granny spoke of. Praying for Sophia and for James. After a long silence, she cleared her throat, and put her hand out, seeking him.

“Daddy was right,” she began.

“How's that?” Ian asked, his reassuring squeeze of her hand an encouragement to continue.

She wanted to look at him, to see his face. But his disappointment would crush her. She could not watch.

“He used to tell me — especially back in middle school — he'd say, ‘Peppermint, admit it when you're wrong.' “

Ian was quiet, a gentle finger stroking the top of her hand. He had Daddy's patience.

“So. There's this thing,” she began, covering her mouth with her free hand when she coughed. “This thing you need to know.” She bent her head, determined to forge on, her fingers gripping her chin until they cramped.

“About Sophia?”

She nodded, unable to form the words.

“I understand, Laura Ann. I spoke with the doctors. I probably understand better than most.”

“No,” she blurted out, shaking her head, bent at the shoulders. She choked back a sob, determined to be strong. Like Daddy.

“What then?”

Laura Ann took a deep breath, then let the secret fly. “I'm going to be a mother.”

Ian released her hand. He sighed, a deep mournful sound she'd never heard from him. Mr. Positive no more.

“When?” he asked, his voice firm. She could sense him moving away, pulling his knees up in front of him.

“Soon,” she said. “But not like you think.”

Somewhere deep inside her, perhaps spurred by the genes of
her Scottish forefathers who kept living when their homes were seized, she found the strength to turn. She looked up into his eyes, red eyes that bled betrayal and broken trust.

She reached out for his hand, but he pulled it back, his turn to look away. Laura Ann took another deep breath and pushed on.

“Sophia is pregnant with my egg,” she said, waiting for the words to sink in before she continued. They had little effect. “I sold my eggs, Ian. Four times. To make money so that I could pay the mortgage.”

An earthquake inside her threatened to spill itself out, but she clamped her mouth shut, her chin and chest cramping with the effort. She locked her eyes on Ian, her only source of strength. No … her
second
source of strength. Somewhere deep inside, that little voice spoke, that gentle Spirit that Daddy used to tell her about so often.

Love is patient. Love is kind. Love rejoices in truth.

A moment later, Ian looked up, his jaw clenched. “I could have helped,” he said, forcing the words. “But you never asked.”

“I'm sorry.” She reached for his hand a second time, and he pulled away again.

“When?” he asked, facing the entrance.

“The first time? I went to a clinic in Morgantown last fall when Daddy was in chemo.” The tears finally burst. The memory of that first day tore at her, the doctor's leering way, the lingering touch of his fingers, the bite of the needle … all nightmares she'd buried so deep. She bent at the waist, unable to say more.

Somewhere, a bird called. Here in the middle of the city, surrounded by acres of paved land and towering buildings, a mockingbird sang. Its varied tone parodied her own behavior, pretending to be someone she was not. She should have told Ian long ago. Before the first kiss. Before Sophia. She stared at the
grass beneath her through a long silence, her vision dulled by tears.

“How many?” he asked at last, an answer to her prayer that he not shut her out forever.

“Four times,” she said, wiping at her eyes with a hand, but unable to look up.

“No. That's not what I meant.” He paused, his long exhale a sign he was trying to make a point. “How many eggs did you sell?”

The question pierced her. The one truth she'd never dared to voice. “Dozens,” she said, then came clean, determined to find closure in this confession. “Sixty-eight eggs.”

Ian stood up, moving farther away. He leaned into a tree beside her, facing the entrance. “How many more Sophias?” he wondered aloud. “How many more children?” He sighed again, then added,
“Your
children.”

His words trumpeted her deepest fear, a mystery that would haunt her for years to come. “I don't know, Ian. And I don't think I ever will.”

J
ULY 3

“It could be a week … or a month. There's no way to know,” Laura Ann said, stepping out of Ian's truck near The Jug Store. It felt good to be back on home turf after five trying days at the hospital. “She's got a lawyer friend coming down today from Pittsburgh. Said she had some important papers to sign. This is a good time for me to get out, to take care of things at the farm, and get some clothes. You should take some time off and enjoy the holiday tomorrow, Ian. I plan to stay with Sophia.” She watched him for some reaction, then added, “For as long as it takes.”

Will he understand?

Ian stood on the far side of the vehicle, looking at her across the hood. His face showed neither smile nor frown, his lips a straight line of pragmatism. He spoke up at last. “Stay until the baby's born?”

“If that's what it takes.”

They regarded each other from opposite sides, her hands resting on the fender. The ride down from Wheeling had been horribly quiet, so many unspoken words between them. “Give him time,” Granny Apple had counseled her. “You wounded his
trust … and his pride. He wants, more than anything, to protect you and provide for you.”

Laura Ann waited on the other side of the truck, hoping for some words, for some of the spark to return. Suddenly transformed, Ian's face made a funny expression, one eyebrow up, his lips contorted in a half frown, half smile. He raised his hands in the direction of the creek. “Then lead on, McGehee. Let's get you home and get packed.”

Home.

The word sunk in for the first time when she turned from Ian and faced the Middle Island Creek. Five days in Wheeling with one change of clothes, five days in the frigid overlit world of the hospital where night never came, where rest was fleeting, and no wind ever blew. Standing on the roadside near The Jug Store, she could feel home, taste it on the hot damp air.

Summer wrapped itself about her. July's sun scorched the earth, the flood a distant memory for the baking clay beneath her feet. The sweet aroma of clover floated on the breeze. More than a week after the flood, hayfields would be thriving, swollen with sugar and ready for harvest. Hot and dry, it was a perfect day for mowing.

For the first time since her confession, Ian took her hand. “Come see your new crossing.” The touch of his skin shot sparks of new energy through her. A rejuvenating hope.

She followed him down the slope from the store, holding him tight. A trickle of water ran out the base of the logjam, a stark contrast to the roaring waters of last week. In front of her a silver cable ran from a nearby tree to a post on the far bank. A pair of harnesses hung from the tight wire, dangling just beyond her reach.

Ian released her, his hand to the harnesses, admiring his handiwork. “Pretty neat contraption, huh?” He pulled on the line and slid it along the taut wire. “When the water's up, we
can strap this baby on and wade across,” he said. “I towed your truck to the top of the hill, by the way. The key's under the mat.”

Laura Ann's mouth fell open. “When did you have time?” she asked. “You were with us in Wheeling yesterday until five or six.”

Ian smiled, rubbing his eyes with mock fists. “Took us a couple of late nights. Some guys helped.” He held a small line attached to the harnesses. “You can pull these back across the creek when someone leaves them on the other side. You're gonna get your feet and legs wet, but at least you can cross safely.” He offered her a harness. “Ready?”

Five minutes later, she and Ian climbed into her farm truck at the top of the rise. On the slope behind them, two sets of tracks narrowly avoided ruts worn deep by heavy rain. She marveled how he'd driven the truck back up this hill.

Laura Ann sat in silence for most of the ride home while Ian drove. She ran her hand across the nap of the cloth seat, stained with bits of dark oil and umber clay from workdays in the field. The cab smelled of diesel, the sweet heavy scent of tractors, the fragrance of good times. Outside, poplars and sweetgums burst forth with new green after the deep watering of the rain, lining the road with fresh growth. Blackberries sprouted verdant brambles, and brave weeds fought for a foothold in the tire tracks of an unused road.

Topping the ridge, the truck emerged from the wood and home beckoned. Laura Ann wondered what Sophia might have thought when she followed this path. What did she feel when she drove out of this dark forest tunnel into the light? When she saw the white farmhouse, red barn, and undulating green pastures filled with black cows? Dr. Murphy filled her mind's eye for a moment, his dire predictions ripping a hole in Laura Ann's heart.

She put a hand on Ian's arm. “Stop for a minute.”

He pulled over at the top of the pasture and she stepped out
of the truck to sit at the cattle guard, looking downhill toward home. Ian followed, curling up in some tall grass at her side. She leaned back against a rusty metal post, wrapped her arms about damp jeans, and rested her chin on her knees, in wonder.

I have three loves.

Her lifeblood sprang from these fields, from the forest behind her, and from the house beyond—her first love. Ian captured her heart — her second love, if he would have her. Yet, in Wheeling lay a third love — in the bosom of her new friend. A sister from another culture, from another country, years older, tied to her by a powerful maternal bond she would not sever. Much as she missed this place, much as she longed to fall into Ian's arms this moment, some part of her yearned to be back on the bedside with Sophia. She leaned left a bit, her head resting tentatively on Ian's shoulder. His arm circled about her but he felt distant. Not the firm grip of days gone by.

“Something's different,” she said, at a loss for the right words. Like a tiny thread run through her heart, she felt the tug to race back to Wheeling, fifty miles north. Her heart tore, pulled in three directions.

“Different? Maybe,” Ian replied. “But some things have never changed.”

She fed the silence, inviting an explanation.

“I cancelled our reservation at the Blennerhassett,” he said at last. He pulled her closer in a reassuring hold. “But that didn't change my reason for inviting you.”

Her heart leapt and she looked up at him. “Aye,” she replied in the mock brogue of her daddy's people. “And what might that reason be?”

Ian's eyes twinkled with the sparkle of a secret he could barely contain. She let go of her knees, and leaned into his chest, her ear to his heart.

Ian's hand found its way to her head. Like a human brush,
he ran his fingers through brown tresses, sweeping them slowly back over her shoulder. Each pass, with his fingertips starting at her forehead, she tingled. She matched his rhythm, breath for breath, his chest rising and falling with hers.

Ian's hand rested on her head at last, the brushing stopped. His hand quivered, the faintest of a shake in his arm. He inhaled deeply, and then spoke, his voice cracking just a bit. “There's something I've waited a long time to ask you.” He paused. “But maybe now's not the time.”

Laura Ann sat up, pulling away to look at him. “Ask me
now,”
she implored, desperate to bury the past and move on.

“Okay.” Ian reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out what looked like a house key, with a small leather tab bound to the key ring, three letters embossed in brown. It read “L. A. S.” Her heart skipped.

“I changed the locks on the house … since you're going to be away for a while. Here's the new key.” He rubbed his thumb across the embossed letters. “I took some liberties with the monogram.”

Laura Ann sat up and spun around, grabbing both of his hands, her eyes wide with surprise. He released one hand and reached up to touch her, the first caress of his fingers on her face like touching a high-voltage line, sending jolts of joy down her spine.

“I don't bring much to this relationship except a pickup truck and a small savings account, Laura Ann — “ “No! You do — “

He shook his head, interrupting her. “And I still don't know exactly how to deal with all the things you told me. But I do know
you
— we've been friends for too long to let it end here. Whatever led you down the path to that fertility clinic in Morgantown, whatever motivated you to keep it such a secret, I know that you did it to honor your dad and your family. It was
the wrong thing, in my opinion, but you made that sacrifice for the right reason.”

A million words rose in her throat, the first one his name, but Ian put a finger to her lips to quiet her. He pulled on her one hand to get up from a sit and knelt before her. He palmed the leather key fob and held it up. “L. A. S.,” he read, with a smile. “Laura Ann Stewart.” He took a deep breath, and then continued. “I think it has a nice ring to it.”

“I love it,” she said, her voice cracking.

Ask me now!

Ian held her left hand with his right, his fingers encasing her palm, and then shoved his other hand in a pants pocket.

“Laura Ann McGehee, you're the best friend I've ever had. My one true friend.” He cleared his throat, the beating of his heart telegraphing itself in his temples. “But I don't want to be just friends.”

He opened the other palm, revealing a small diamond ring, a tiny stone in a Tiffany setting. Sunlight danced off the facets of the little gem, glimmering in his hand.

Her heart racing, she launched a silent prayer of thanks.

“I didn't really change the locks,” he said with a little laugh. “That's the key to my heart, Laura Ann. It's always been yours, tucked away, right here,” he said, touching his chest. “If you'll have it.” With a shaking hand, Ian slipped the diamond onto her ring finger, then looked up, his eyes misting.

“Will you marry me?”

“She kissed me first.”

Daddy's words arose from nowhere, the first he'd spoken in half an hour of tending trotlines in the Middle Island Creek. Wading in green-tinged summer water up to her waist, twelve-year-old
Laura Ann tended her own line, some twenty feet upstream from him. Bare feet feeling her way across a muddy bottom, she listened as she worked.

Like her, Daddy followed his own line, a stout cord strung between trees on opposite banks, suspending a series of shorter lines that descended into the slow waters of summer. Like her, he pulled chicken livers from a pouch at his waist, threading them one at a time on sharp treble hooks. Livers that would beckon dinners from the creek's lazy pools. Catfish.

Daddy moved through the deepest water, baiting his line of hooks, not looking up when he spoke. He wandered through the water, lost in another world, in daydreams of a time years ago.

“I was thirteen,” Daddy said, speaking to the water. “She was twelve. Your age.” He laughed, pausing in the memory. “I thought I was all growed up, schooled to seventh grade in one room. Headed off to the big middle school in town.”

Daddy slid dark crimson livers expertly onto each hook, sinking razor-sharp barbs into bloody flesh. Three silver tips, hidden in wait for their prey. He moved at one with the water, Daddy, the master of the fish.

“She was a bonnie lass.” Standing still, Daddy's eyes focused on some distant mirage. “I asked her to meet me at the Valentine's dance.”

Daddy peered down at the deep red of the next bait as though into a crystal ball, somehow connecting with a life that had been torn from him far too early. Ripped from him like a fish tearing the liver from this treble hook, a gash that would never heal.

“Your granddaddy took us home that night. He pushed me out the car door when we dropped her off at the Sinclair place.”

Daddy threaded the next liver and dropped it in the creek, the weighted line forming a brief hole in the water. Like this
memory, it dropped out of sight of the present, yet waited to be retrieved by the simple tug of an invisible thread.

“Not a word she spoke on that porch,” Daddy said a bit later. “Just those eyes. The green and blue emeralds of Hope, staring up at me.”

He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, staring at the line where it dropped into the green-black of the creek. His wet hand tarried at his lips, connecting mysteriously with a woman she barely remembered.

“She kissed me first.”

Laura Ann moved to his side, submerged to her armpits in wet life.

“Aye, Peppermint. Never another. She was the only one for me.”