A Proper Young Lady (16 page)

No need to be rude, so I shift in my seat to face her a little better. “No, ma’am. Florida.”

Her eyes latch on to my baby bump. “Is your husband meeting you at the airport?”

I grimace and place my left hand against my belly to show her my ring finger. “I haven’t got one.”

“But you are going to marry the boy, aren’t you?”

Isn’t torture illegal? Who are you, anyhow?
“What boy?” 

“Why, the father of your child, of course.”

I think about explaining the surrogacy and all, but I’m not sure she’d get it. None of her beeswax, anyhow. “I don’t know who he is.”

“Oh, my. You’ve slept with that many different men?”

“No. Only one.” Except his post is small, and he hasn’t got any sperm, so he can’t have children. And we never really had sex—not like grownups do, anyhow. 

Her look accuses me of being an idiot. “Well then, dearie, I would think he’s the one.”

Daniel? How I wish he’d come back to me.
“Then I guess I’ll have to marry him, won’t I?” I fold my arms across my belly, turn away from her, and shut my eyes. 

We land a few minutes ahead of schedule.

Dani left a voice-mail, but I’ll only start crying if I try to explain things to her. She wouldn’t like that any better than me. I compose twenty different texts, but don’t send any of them. We went five years without talking before. Might as well let the emotions fade before writing.

Concourse C—Concourse B—Concourse A—the electric walkways at the Atlanta airport stretch on forever. I wander past the displays of African sculpture, plop down on the floor, and rest my head against the wall till the nausea passes. 

Southerners might be known for their hospitality, but not one of the other passengers makes room for a pregnant girl trying to board the train.

Concourse T? No way. You’re not allowed to throw in random letters. Baggage Claim should come next. And who checks their stuff anyhow?

Well, me.
‘Cause my stupid suitcase won’t fit into the overhead compartment and is too heavy for me to lift that high. So I trudge all the way to Baggage Claim, plop down on a bench, and wait for the luggage from my flight to come around on the carousel. 

Beatrice and Fred live in Duluth, about an hour north of the Atlanta airport. My sister jokes that rush-hour on Friday starts Thursday night and ends Saturday morning. No way am I gonna ask her to pick me up at the airport. A MARTA train goes most of the way to their townhouse, though, so I walk to Ground Transportation and check my options before calling her.

“Hi, sis. Would you ask Mom to pick me up at the Doraville station?”

“I thought you were in Virginia. What happened?”

“They don’t want the babies. Ethan claims they’re not his.”

“I can’t believe Danièle threw you out.”

A wave of heartache washes over me. “She didn’t. I left on my own.”

“Wow. I am so sorry. Where are you?”

“At the airport.”

“All right. I’ll be outside the MARTA station in an hour.”

“Thanks.”

The schedule says forty-one minutes to Doraville, so I walk back to the food court and buy a sandwich and a bottle of water.

On the train my thoughts wander across the past five months and find only desolation. I don’t want the babies now. Whoever their father might be. My sister will love the children like they’re her own.

Depression overwhelms me at the thought of being alone, though, with somebody else raising my kids. Okay, so I’ll want to keep them myself the moment I see their tiny faces.

Tommy might let me stay with him. Even with the twins. I almost call, but some spark of hope remains that Dani will yet change Ethan’s mind.

Not gonna happen. Besides, the guy won’t want me around, so I’ll never see my babies.

I pull out my cell again and stare at the screen.
Do I love Tommy? Would I marry him to keep my kids?
 

No. He deserves better. And I left my broken heart on an antique wooden dresser.

The train slows to a stop. End of the line. I wrestle my suitcase onto the platform and bump it—one step at a time—down the stairs. 

Outside the station, Beatrice waits in her old Honda. When I’m halfway across the parking lot, my sister hops out of the car and runs to hug me. She presses a fingertip against my baby bump. “What’s it like to be pregnant?”

“Great. Now that nausea leaves me alone most of the time. It’s awesome to feel the babies move inside me.” I hug her again.

While Beatrice shoves my bag into the trunk, I open the back doors and hug the boys in their car seats. Little Greg squeals and kicks his legs. Joey kisses me on the cheek, like a true gentleman. Another wave of sadness hits. How will I ever give up my babies?

The fifteen mile drive takes close to an hour. “Is traffic always this bad?”

My sister rolls her eyes and thumbs the garage door remote. “Not when I’m home.”

I unbuckle the little guys while Beatrice takes my suitcase into the townhouse. Joey explodes out of his seat and disappears through the door without waiting for his younger brother. I lift Greg and carry him in after he starts crying.

My sister takes the boy from me and kisses him on the forehead. “How would you like to help Joey build a fort?”

“For real?”

“Yeah. Aunt Melanie’s gonna sleep in your room tonight. Is that okay?”

“Can I be a superhero?”

“You can be anything you like.”

“Sweet.”

Beatrice puts him down, and he bounds off.

Fred welcomes me with a hug. “Sorry things didn’t work out. You’re welcome to stay with us as long as you need to.”

After I unpack my things, I grab a towel from the linen closet and head for the guest bath. A torrent of steam and soap lather and water washes
away the grime, but leaves me more weary than I’ve been in months. 

Dani got their seamstress to do a maternity makeover on my favorite pair of jeans. I slip them on, along with an oversized sweatshirt, and sneak into the living room to watch the guys build their fort out of chairs, blankets, and cushions from the couch.

My sister pokes her head into the room. “Mom would like to see you.”

“Okay?”
Why didn’t she pick me up?
 

Beatrice swallows. Her eyes flick away for an instant.

Oh, God. No!
I struggle to my feet, sway, and follow her to Mom’s room. 

I saw that nightmare image of my mother once before. She clung to life for months while cancer and chemotherapy battled for her body. But I had Dani to comfort me then.
You’re not gonna make it this time, and neither will I.
 

From her bed, my mother stretches a bony hand toward me. “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t want you to see me this way.”

Mom seems translucent—like some ghost who can’t fully materialize. Her skin is pale, a little off color, and thin as paper. My mother’s beautiful ginger hair is gone. She doesn’t even have eyebrows or eyelashes. She’s halfway morphed into some alien. Yet serenity hides behind the pain in her eyes. 

This is why you sold the house and sent me away. Why you encouraged me to get pregnant.
My legs quiver. “You’re beautiful, Mom. Not even chemo can take that from you.” 

Darkness floods in. I sink to my knees and rest my head against her shoulder.

Breathe.

“Please don’t leave me, Mom.”

The terminal reality of her cancer permeates everything. My mother’s weary eyes. Her rasping breath. The acrid stench of chemicals seeping from her pores. Death hovers over her, like some angel with dark wings ready to snatch her away—away from me. 

“Dad can’t need you as bad as I do, Mom.”

“You’ll have your babies, honey,” she says. Her fingers press against mine, faint as the touch of a butterfly’s wing. “Hold my hand against my grandchildren, will you?”

I slip my jeans down past my baby bump and press Mom’s hand against my bare abdomen.

The ghost of a smile touches my mother’s eyes and lips. “May the good Lord bless you all the days of your lives.”

A muscle twitches. Or one of the babies moves. Does it matter? Too weak for Mom to feel. Mom’s fingers press a breath harder. “The babies aren’t Ethan’s?”

“No.”

“She really did it, then.” Her hand relaxes, and her eyes close. I kiss her forehead and turn to go.

Did what?

Beatrice dims the lights. “I’m sorry. She has so little energy these days.”

Nausea ambushes me outside the bedroom door. I run to the bathroom, kneel in front of the bowl, and heave till my gut cramps and my head threatens to explode.

Breathe.

Why?

A cramp twists my abdomen. I lean back against the door frame, press my eyelids closed, and will my muscles to relax.

“You okay?” Beatrice stands above me.

Another muscle twitches. I hold my breath against the pain.

Breathe.

“My stomach’s kinda messed up. You got crackers or something?”

She brings me a couple of slices of toast, some graham crackers, and a glass of water.

Thirty minutes later, I push myself upright, stumble back to the boys’ room, and collapse on Joey’s bed. Echoes of soft muscle contractions ripple through the gloom. I bury my face in a pillow and breathe through my mouth till the spasms fade.

Chapter 18

Danièle

Despair chases me through the manor. I flee to Mum’s garden—the one place no one will bother me. Not at night, anyway. The cold silence envelopes me while I wait for my eyes to adjust. 

The wind picks up as I walk the stone pathway around the pond to the grove. In the west lies darkness. Far above, the first clouds of a storm front struggle against the bright glow of a full moon.

Beams of soft light dance along the garden pathways, a slow waltz of shifting grey and blue shadows. Only the great trees remain forever black, their silhouette arms swaying in time to the quiet beat of the cold wind.

On the far side of the garden, beneath the ancient walnut tree, my bench awaits. The bare branches of a weeping willow—once my childhood friend—urge me away, but I duck beneath their grasping arms and push on through dormant maiden grass to take a seat. 

The moon—obscured now and then by storm-driven clouds—hangs above the garden and casts a dim reflection across the water. In the distance, Victoria Springs Manor sleeps in quiet contentment. 

My heart yearns for Melanie. For her gentle touch. Her winsome smile.

The rain begins as an occasional splash in the pond and builds to a steady rustle in the treetops. The music it makes brings me a measure of peace.

Drops filter through the branches and plop on my skirt. Run down my leg. Patter against my cheek. I lean my head against the trunk and let my mind drift.

By the time I open my eyes again, the clouds have dispersed, leaving behind a sprinkling of diamonds across the heavens. God promised Abraham his descendants would outnumber the stars. Two children would have been sufficient for me, but even they have fallen from the sky.

“Danièle?” My mother’s voice drifts across the darkness.

A deep sigh shudders out before I answer. “I’m out here, Mum.”

When we first moved to Virginia, the limbs of the old walnut were my place of refuge from an often cruel world. Proper young ladies don’t climb trees, though, so I sit on the bench below. Only my mother would think to look out here for me now.

“I’d like a word with you before you retire.”

“All right, Mum. I’ll join you in a moment.” One more glance at the stars, and I head back to the house.

We often gather in the kitchen for snacks and informal conversation. Only silence greets me there.

More serious mother-daughter chats concerning etiquette, fashion, and romance we hold in Mum’s inner sanctum—her sitting room. With patience and a pleasant smile, Mum taught Miss Danièle Aileana Welles poise and manners there. Acid bubbles in my stomach when I find it dark and lonely. 

After a wistful glance at the place associated with so many fond memories, I head downstairs again.

Before I convinced Mum I wanted to be a refined young woman, we met in the den. The massive stone fireplace, the animal trophies, the antique sporting equipment—the room at one time fascinated me. Finding Mum waiting there strikes like a willow branch across my back side. 

She glances up at me and looks away. “You know your condition was inherited.”

“Yes, Mum.” I sit in the high-back chair across from her and pull my legs up under me.

A distant pain flows from her eyes. “I had an older sister once—Veronica.” 

I never considered the familial aspect of my condition. Mum’s an only child—or so I thought. My heart throbs in my throat as I wait for her to continue. 

“The doctors performed surgery on her when she was an infant. Making her genitals more feminine was supposed to fix everything. She was never to know, and they said that if her family never doubted her gender, she wouldn’t either.”

Surgery, secrecy, and shame—the pillars of intersex treatment since the early 1950s—and a miserable failure. You can’t hide that sort of thing from a child. 

Mum’s eyes bore deep into my soul. “She never quite fit in as a girl. Veronica was your age when she took her life.” Something I’ve never seen in Mum’s eyes appears then—fear. 

You’re terrified I’ll do the same.
“That’s why you wouldn’t let them operate on me.” 

“And why we never pressure you about your gender.”

True—they always said the choice between blue and pink belonged to me. But their joy grew at my success as a young lady and withered the few times I mentioned being a boy. Only Melanie ever liked the idea of my being Daniel. 

“Veronica fell in love toward the end—a rather scandalous affair, at least in the eyes of our parents.” 

“So you moved back to England.”

“Yes.” Mum studies my face for a moment before continuing. “You know how proud we are of you, Danièle, but if you ever decide to be our son instead of our daughter, your father and I will support you. Even now.”