Seashell Season (25 page)

Chapter 69

T
he opening was an unqualified success. That's not bragging; that's just being honest. The turnout was good. The meeting between David and Gemma, though brief, went well. I got to see and say hi to some very nice people I hadn't run into in ages.

But the best moment of the entire night, far better than making a fairly big sale, the money from which will help pay for a new dishwasher, as ours is dying a slow and painful death, was the fact that Gemma hugged me. It was brief and awkward, but it happened. It was at the end of the evening, when the two of us had just left the building. For some reason we both paused for a moment before walking on to the parking lot. And then she did it. I can't tell you how good I feel. I know, I know, it's only one battle won, not the entire war but . . . Come to think of it, maybe I should give up on the conflict imagery. Think more positively.

After breakfast this morning Gemma went to take a shower. I had just begun to put dishes in the dishwasher (hoping it would work), when the phone rang. I didn't recognize the number, though I did recognize the area code as one from Massachusetts. I picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Verity. I bet you can't guess who this is.”

The voice wasn't even vaguely familiar. It was, however, annoying. It had that overly bright, strident quality that immediately turns me off. For a moment I assumed the voice belonged to someone trying to sell me something I didn't want.

“No,” I said. “I can't guess.”

“Hold on to your hat. It's Ellen Burns-Cassidy. Alan's cousin!”

Who?
I thought. And then came a very small recollection of having once or twice heard Marion mention her name. But that was a long time ago. That was a world away.

“Oh,” I said, my hand tightening on the receiver. I don't know why I suddenly felt so anxious, but I did.

“I know, I know, it's been an age,” she rushed on. “I'm so sorry Richard and I haven't been in touch, but time really does seem to fly by, doesn't it, and I know you've probably been busy too and—”

I blocked out whatever words came next and thought,
Busy? Yeah, I've been busy. I've been busy grieving my missing daughter
. As if Ellen had read my thoughts, she now said, and I heard her say it: “Richard and I are simply dying to see you and to meet our long-lost Gemma.”

“I'm not sure that's possible,” I replied as politely as I could, which probably wasn't very politely. I felt a sick combination of disbelief and outrage. I'd never even met this woman—she'd never once shown any interest in me or in my baby, and according to Marion, had written Alan off before I'd even met him—and now she was claiming rights to “
our
long-lost Gemma”?

“Sure it is,” she said briskly. “How silly, I didn't mention that we rented a house on Katahdin Way for the rest of the summer so we could get to know Gemma. And to see you, of course.”

I said nothing.

“We're having a few people over on Saturday about four,” Ellen went on. “Nothing fancy, no need to pull the diamonds out of the safe! We'd love it if you and Gemma could join us.”

“What people?” I asked. You know my policy about not exposing Gemma to a gang of gaping strangers. The opening had been risk enough. And diamonds? Really? For those of us who can't afford a decent diamond, that's not even remotely amusing.

“Just a few dear old friends of ours up from Massachusetts for a week,” Ellen explained. “Not staying with us, of course. They're staying at The Starfish. Anyway, just a burgers-and-salad sort of affair. Do say yes.”

“I'll have to get back to you,” I said, casting an eye in the direction of the bathroom. The shower had been turned off. Gemma would be out soon.

“Please do say yes, Verity. You can call me at this number.”

I got off the phone somehow—I don't really recall saying good-bye—leaned against the dishwasher, and put my head in my hands. After the emotional high of the night before, this call served to throw me into a mood of confusion, even despair.

You can control this
, I told myself.
You're the one in charge
.

But I couldn't really believe that. I still can't quite believe it.

“You okay?”

I dropped my hands and looked up to see Gemma, wrapped in my old bathrobe, toweling her hair.

“Yeah,” I said, managing to smile. At least, I think I managed a smile and not a grimace.

“We're almost out of shampoo,” she said. “I'll put it on the list.”

She turned and went off to her room.

My daughter, wearing my bathrobe, sharing my home, using my shampoo.

Gemma
, I thought,
is mine. And it's going to stay that way
.

Chapter 70

I
n the afternoon while Gemma was out on her bike, I drove over to see Annie. If anyone could help me think clearly about the sudden emergence of Ellen Burns-Cassidy and my fiercely negative response to it, it was Annie. And David, of course, but he was at a one-day conference down in Boston. I'd have to wait until evening to talk to him.

But before I introduced my dilemma, I told Annie about Gemma giving me a hug.

“Bravo!” she cried. “Or is it brava? Either way, that's great progress.”

“I know. I felt elated.”

Annie regarded me closely. “You don't look elated. What's wrong?”

I told her about the call from Alan's cousin. “She wants to meet us,” I said then. “At a party this Saturday. They've rented a house locally.”

“The problem being?”

“I don't want Gemma to meet her.
I
don't want to meet her. Alan's family wrote him off when he was barely out of his teens. All but his mother, of course. And she's been trouble enough. But at least she's a known quantity. I have some control over her regarding Gemma.”

“You're wondering about this cousin's motives in wanting to reconnect?”

“She was never connected in the first place! She didn't even acknowledge Gemma's birth. So why now? Maybe she wants in on the celebrity.”

“Or maybe she really cares. Just saying.”

“It's a possibility,” I admitted grudgingly. “Anyway, I'm not sure I have the right to keep family from Gemma. Or to keep Gemma from family.”

“Well,” Annie said, “keep in mind that just because someone is family doesn't necessarily mean they're of more value than someone who isn't. Then again, I do understand your hesitation. Especially in Gemma's situation, knowing she belongs to a family larger than just a few people, knowing she exists in a context of blood relations, might be terribly important for her. It probably explains why she's corresponding with Tom. Her grandfather. She needs to connect.”

Right,
I thought.
I have to be consistent. I can't—I shouldn't—pick and choose with whom my daughter can have a relationship
. I wasn't thrilled she was getting along with my father, but that was my problem, not Gemma's. And as for Ellen Burns-Cassidy. . .

“I spoke to Marion right after I got off the phone with Ellen,” I said.

“And?”

“And I asked her opinion of Ellen. I asked her to be honest.”

Annie frowned. “Always a crapshoot with that one, from what you've told me.”

“Yes, but this time I think she told the truth. She said Ellen is self-serving and always has been. She said it was the worst she could say about her.”

“I'd say that's bad enough. Still, how much harm can it do to meet with the woman just once? You won't send Gemma alone. You'll be right there to intervene if she proves to be a wack job.”

Annie was probably right, I decided. But I wanted to prolong the experience of Gemma and me and our new closeness for just a while longer before the intrusion of so-called well-meaning strangers.

“Still, I think I'll wait a day or two before I tell Gemma about Ellen's call.”

Annie smiled. “I understand,” she said.

And I know she does.

Chapter 71

I
rode my bike to Cathy's house this afternoon. Like I said, it's not like we have much in common or anything, but she's okay, and if she can tolerate me, then I can tolerate her. Plus, there's always a chance Annie will be around, and I like her.

Annie wasn't there. She had been—and so had Verity, it turns out—but both were gone.

The Strawberries have a really nice backyard—not that ours isn't nice too—but theirs has something called a gazebo. It was built by the guy who owned the house before them. It's really just for sitting in, but I like it. Cathy was in the gazebo, and she wasn't alone. On the bench next to her—the bench, by the way, goes all around the inside of the gazebo, which is round—was one of those car seat carrying criblike things. I don't know what you call it exactly. And in it was a baby.

“His name is Thomas,” she told me. “He's four months old.”

I sat on the other side of the baby and looked down at him. He was asleep, his tiny fists on his tiny arms held up against either side of his head. And for the first time it struck me just how totally helpless and totally vulnerable a baby is. I mean, they can't do
anything
for themselves. Nothing.

I was even younger than Thomas when I was taken. I suddenly felt a sense of outrage. How
dare
Alan do such a violent, insane thing to an infant, and it doesn't matter one bit that the infant was his own daughter. I could have gotten sick so easily. I could have died! It took a lot of effort to get past that moment of outrage. If Cathy noticed my clenched fists, she didn't say anything.

“Mr. and Mrs. Collins tried for years to have this baby,” Cathy told me. “They're beyond thrilled. Look, can you watch him for a minute? I'll run in and get us something to drink. Plus Thomas is going to wake up soon, and he'll want his bottle.”

Cathy dashed off to the house, and I wondered then, not for the first time, if I was an accident or if Verity and Dad had wanted a baby, “tried for” one, as Cathy had put it. What a strange way to talk about having sex;
trying
sounds like effort and purpose, and shouldn't sex just be fun? But what do I know?

Looking down at Thomas in his car seat thingy I thought:
How must Verity have felt when suddenly I wasn't there?

How could Alan have done that to her?

Very, very gently I touched Thomas's cheek with the tip of my finger. It was so smooth. His nose was so tiny.

Cathy reappeared a few minutes later with one of those wicker trays with handles. On it were two glasses with lemonade and a baby's bottle with milk, I guess.

“Mrs. Collins expresses her milk ahead of time,” Cathy said, putting the tray on the small table in the center of the gazebo and handing me a glass.

Was I breastfed? I'd never thought about it. If I was, what did Verity do when I was suddenly gone? And how had Alan known what to feed me? I felt the anger building in me again, and I took a swig of cold lemonade.

“Is it too hot out here for the baby?” I asked. Then I wondered if I'd sounded like I was criticizing Cathy.

“No. See, he's dressed lightly. If it were, like, ninety degrees, we'd be inside with the AC turned on!”

“Oh.”
Had Alan ever let me get overheated?
I wondered. Had I ever been sick enough when I was a baby that he had to rush me to the emergency room? Wait, I thought. He probably would have been too scared to show up at the ER with an infant and no mother, with the police looking for him!

“You're frowning,” Cathy said. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“I'm not thinking anything,” I said.

“You know,” Cathy said, a few minutes later, “Verity always takes me back-to-school shopping. My mom hates to shop. And let's face it, she has no style!”

I felt a twinge of what could only be called jealousy, and it surprised me. How, I wondered, would Cathy feel if I hung out with
her
mother? But maybe she wouldn't care. Maybe it was normal for people my age to spend time with someone else's parents. How would I know what was normal and what was weird?

“This year, I guess the three of us will be going shopping together.”

I didn't say anything. What was I supposed to say?

Cathy gave me a look then, one of those steady, kind of serious I'm-here-to-help looks. “If you're okay with that.”

“Why wouldn't I be?” I snapped. I took another swig of lemonade. Not a perfect bad-temper diffuser, but it was all I had to hand. “Maybe I'll go back-to-school shopping with Annie.”

That made Cathy laugh, though honestly, I'm not sure what I intended by saying that, about going shopping with her mother. If I'd wanted to make Cathy jealous, I'd failed.

Both of us watched Thomas for a while without talking. It's amazing how interesting it is to watch a baby sleep. I mean, nothing much happens, but I felt almost mesmerized. Maybe it was because it was my first time hanging around with a baby. A novelty. But I don't think that was it, not entirely.

“You know,” Cathy said after a while, “I was thinking about Verity and David last night. I don't know why they haven't gotten married already. I mean, they've been together for a few years, and it's clear they're in love. So what's stopping them?”

I guess the look on my face revealed my ignorance, because then Cathy squealed: “Oh my God, I thought you knew! Didn't you meet him at the opening?”

“Yeah,” I said. “And of course I know they're together.”

She probably didn't believe me, but I can't help that.

I felt—I feel—kind of left out. I don't need to be protected from stuff. Still, I'm not really mad at Verity. I can guess why she hasn't told me about David yet.

Thomas kind of wiggled in his sleep then. He stretched his fingers, too, and then put both hands on the sides of his head, like he was thinking hard about something. (How do babies think?) Seriously cute.

“So,” I asked, changing the subject but maybe not enough. “Did you dump Jason?”

“He's history.” Cathy laughed, but it wasn't a happy laugh. “He's already got another girlfriend, if you can believe it.”

I could easily believe it. Jason is a teenage guy. One big bag of raging hormones. “You were smart to get rid of him,” I said. “Obviously, he's only out for sex.”

And then I thought:
Cathy is way smarter than I've ever been, at least regarding guys.

Thomas woke up then, and Cathy lost all interest in hanging out with me—that's probably what makes her a popular babysitter—so I left. When I got back to the house, the neighbors with the twins—I think Verity said their last name is Gallison—were walking up their front drive. Each parent held a kid and a few bags of groceries. As I got off my bike, one of the bags slipped from the mother's grasp and fell onto the pavement. I didn't think twice but called out, “I'll get it!” And then I dashed over to their front yard.

As I picked up the bag, I finally did think twice. Now I'd have to introduce myself. But the idea didn't bother me the way it would have a few weeks ago. I even knew what name I was going to use. I mean, why not?

“Hi,” I said. “I'm Gemma.”

“I'm Grace, and this is my husband, Peter. And this,” Mrs. Gallison said, tickling the cheek of the kid she was holding on her hip, “is Molly.”

“And that's Michael,” I said. “Verity told me their names.”

Grace and Peter look a lot younger up close than they do from across the yard. In fact, they look closer to my age than to Verity's. And they already have two kids. Yikes. I thought about what I'd told Cathy a while ago, that I wasn't ever going to have kids. And then I thought of cute baby Thomas. I suppose I should never say never. Right? Because all sorts of weird shit happens in life.

We began to walk toward the door of the house. I was still carrying the one grocery bag. “I hope there aren't any eggs in here,” I said.

Peter laughed. “I'm just glad it wasn't the beer.”

At the front door Grace put Molly down on her fat little legs and took the grocery bag from me. “Thanks,” she said. “Feel free to drop by. I'm here all day every day with these two monsters. Frankly, I could use a break!”

She smiled as she said it, and I thought,
Well, maybe I will stop by someday
.

But I didn't make any promises.