Summer Snow (18 page)

The day was overcast but warmish, and I was still peeling off my light sweatshirt when Mrs. Walker gestured at the stacks of envelopes and beribboned invitations on her dining room table. She gave me a wry smile. “Thomas is busy writing a big unit for his class on teaching history, and Francesca has her last round of clinicals. Guess who gets to address all 350 of their wedding invitations?”

I nodded in what I hoped looked like sympathy and waited for the familiar falling feeling that I associated with Thomas and Francesca's impending wedding. It wasn't that I was still pining for Thomas or that I was jealous of Francesca. Rather, when I thought of the future Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Walker, I had a sense of being cut loose, of finding myself floating and anchorless and not at all sure of how to plant my feet on solid ground again.

Thomas was what I had always planned for myself, and although I thought I had let him go long ago, when he and Francesca announced their engagement in the beginning of April, I didn't know what else to hope for. But as Mrs. Walker showed me the pearl-colored rectangles of paper with their pink and apple green striped ribbons, they seemed inconsequential to me. I realized I was already flying, pushed forward, upward, by a completely different current. The dream I once had of Thomas was nothing more than a memory. It had been replaced when I wasn't paying attention.

I settled my sweatshirt over the back of one of the tall chairs and pulled down the edges of my short-sleeved shirt, self-consciously making sure that it wasn't too short to cover my ill-fitting khakis. Trying to appear interested, I made a little noise of appreciation. “They're beautiful,” I said, vaguely admiring the exquisitely lettered cards. There was a sheer piece of embossed vellum over the heavy paper of the formal invitation. The grosgrain ribbon holding the two pieces of paper together was tied in a perfect, tiny bow, and I fingered it absently, knowing that Francesca had been painstaking with each and every one. It was just her style.

Strangely, I had thought of doing something similar for birth announcements. But who announces the birth of an illegitimate baby? Who would I send such cards to?

And yet, I would have written her name across the top of the vellum, just her name, with the rest of her information—weight, length, time of arrival—printed on the inside.
Ellie Danielle,
the announcement would have read. Ellie for Grandma—her name without the
N
—and Danielle for Dad. Ellie Danielle DeSmit. It was perfect.

But she was a he.

“Just perfect,” I said, startling myself with the sound of my own voice. I hadn't intended to say anything aloud. I wasn't even sure what I meant.

Mrs. Walker assumed I was talking about the invitations. “They certainly are pretty,” she agreed, picking one up and then tossing it back on the teetering pile. “But what a pain! Be glad that you didn't get roped into helping.”

I almost said, “Believe me, I am.” Instead I murmured a meaningless nicety: “They were worth it.”

Mrs. Walker pursed her lips. “I don't know about that.”

The teakettle on the stove began to whistle its shrill note, and Mrs. Walker disappeared into the kitchen. “Back in a sec,” she called.

I pulled out a chair and was about to sink into it when I noticed a framed photograph across the table. It was a portrait of Thomas and Francesca. Their engagement picture. I walked around the enormous harvest table and picked it up.

The couple was staring directly at the camera, so no matter which angle I surveyed them from, their eyes seemed locked on mine. Francesca's head was tilted toward Thomas, and her chin was slanted down a little too far, giving her an almost sinister look. Thomas didn't fare much better. His smile was wooden, and one eye was open slightly wider than the other. He had never been very photogenic. But I was being critical. They were a lovely pair.

Mostly I was just thankful that I didn't have to worry about any residual feelings for Thomas Walker. My life had been consumed with the pregnancy, and any longing that I had for Thomas had been placed like billowing robes of consequence on my anticipated Ellie Danielle. A daughter that didn't exist.

It bothered me that I mourned her so much. In the ultrasound room, after the technician told us the news, Grandma had squealed with delight and buried me in a hug that hid the disappointment— no,
shock
—on my own face. I had been so sure; I had left room in my heart for nothing else, and it was almost frighteningly disconcerting to know that I had been dead wrong all along. It was so stupid, but I couldn't help feeling like a stranger occupied my body instead of the tiny soul mate that I had thought I'd known for five months.

In the days after the revelation, I forced myself to confront my desire for a daughter. I had to admit that she was the child who was supposed to complete the broken trinity of generations under Grandma's roof: mother, daughter, granddaughter. Janice had vacated her place in our family tree so long ago that it was almost as if she had never existed—and yet something was missing; something was not as it should be. So I had risen to take her place. And my little girl would have finished it. She would have made things right, steadied the scale and mended the chain that Janice had broken when she walked out of our lives.

But now Janice was home. I still couldn't really accept that she had returned to take her own role, and I half blamed her for the presence of my son. I was angry with her—she had upset the balance, insufficiently plugged a hole that my daughter was supposed to fill. But I also knew that I was being ridiculous. I was a silly little fool. And though I knew it, accepted it, I couldn't help missing the young woman who would have been the smallest sliver of my very soul. She would have been an extension of me, a part of me somehow and yet altogether separate. She would
not
have made the mistakes that my mother had made. That I had made. She was my freckled, ponytailed redemption. She was a dream.

“Strawberry tea with a squirt of honey and an almond-cranberry scone. I baked them fresh this morning.” Mrs. Walker set a wicker tray right on top of some scattered envelopes. “Don't know if they're any good, but we'll see. You're my guinea pig.”

“Everything you bake is good.” I put the picture down and found a chair that had access to an open plot of table. “I promise not to spill on the invitations.”

“And I promise to
try
not to spill on the invitations,” Mrs. Walker countered. “Maggie already made a mess of one of the stacks by tipping a glass of orange juice. She promised she wouldn't, but …”

The thought made me smile a little. I could picture Maggie's eyes flashing as she defended herself to Francesca. No, she wouldn't defend. She'd just shrug as if to say,
Oops
. Maybe a sassy half apology would follow. Maybe not.

“Do you care if I address some envelopes while you're here?” Her question surprised me because Mrs. Walker was one to tell, not one to ask. I wondered that she bothered to secure my approval at all. It made me feel self-conscious, like she was afraid it would hurt me to watch her mail invitations to her son's wedding.

“Of course not,” I replied quickly. “In fact, I'll help you. Grandma and I took a calligraphy class together when I was in middle school, and I still have a pretty neat hand.”

Mrs. Walker sighed with relief. “Thank you. I think it's absurd that Francesca insists on handwritten envelopes. I have a computer program that would do this all in minutes! And it's not like we have tons of time, either. Have you ever heard of such a short engagement?”

“When is the wedding?” I asked absently.

“July 14. Three months to plan, prepare, and pull off the wedding of the century.” Mrs. Walker sipped her tea and pursed her lips abruptly because it was too hot. “I still can't believe that they're having the wedding here. Francesca's from California, you know. I'm the mother of the groom! I'm supposed to be taking it easy, flying out to sunny San Diego instead of worrying if the Glendale Golf and Country Club is going to be swanky enough for the
familia
Hernandez.” She rubbed her thumb and fingers together as if to show me the extent of their wealth.

I shrugged evasively because I had always thought of the Walkers as well-to-do. “Do you have an extra calligraphy pen?”

“Silver ink,” Mrs. Walker said with a dry edge in her voice. She fumbled through the piles of papers to find a sleek pen. “The postal workers are going to love her.”

It was healing to copy out line after line of distant dwellings in the clean, steady hand that I had learned all those years ago. The first few envelopes would probably be considered substandard, but by the time I had written out a dozen addresses, there was a certain flair to each capital letter, a swivel and sweep of arching lines that became bigger and bolder with each stroke of the pen.

Mrs. Walker and I talked about everyday things, work and weather and her girls, and when she began to slip references to Janice and Simon into our conversation, I didn't object. We had been down this road before; in fact the entire Walker clan had met Janice and Simon at Sunday dinner one week. Simon Walker had been a little overwhelmed by the utter adoration of the younger boy who shared his name, but other than his deer-in-the-headlights look by the end of the meal, everything had gone relatively well. I had expected the meeting to be colossally awkward. Instead, the Walkers seemed somehow respectful, maybe even reverential, as if something significant was happening in our home. Something rare and beautiful, something that should not be undermined. The whole thing left me mildly confused.

But I respected Mrs. Walker's advice and found her insight helpful. After our less than disastrous Sunday dinner, I was particularly grateful for her grace when it came to my unconventional family. I didn't mind when, after approaching the topic every way but head-on, Mrs. Walker finally gave in and said, “How are things with Janice and Simon these days?”

“Fine,” I said matter-of-factly. She wanted more than that, but there wasn't much more to say. Janice and I orbited each other as always, and while Simon and I were getting closer, it was hardly momentous. “I'm teaching Simon how to read,” I offered and immediately chastised myself because I had broken his confidence.

“That's sweet,” Mrs. Walker said, obviously happy that my half brother and I were doing something together.

“It's a secret,” I clarified. “Please don't tell Grandma or Janice. Or anyone, for that matter. I know he's five, but he trusted me with this.”

Mrs. Walker laughed. “Don't worry; my lips are sealed. Besides, I'm much more interested in your other secret.”

My hand stopped dead on the page. “Other secret?” I asked, not looking up.

“Something's going on. I've known you long enough to know something is eating you up. And for once I don't think it's my  son.”

I would have been mortified, but it was Mrs. Walker. “That obvious?” I asked, a little numb that she could see through me so easily. “I don't know what I should be more upset about: that you know I loved Thomas or that you know I have a secret.”

She reached across the table to give my arm a friendly pinch. “I love it that you loved Thomas. It's no secret that we all adore you. But God has something different planned for you, honey. Something better.”

My skepticism must have been etched across my face when I glanced at Mrs. Walker because she suddenly got serious. “I don't believe that, Julia DeSmit. I
know
that.”

Her declaration made me feel equally guilty and indignant; it both bewildered me and enticed me to wonder at the path she took to know so much about the road that God had laid out for me. I knew so little about it myself. I had gone to church with Grandma faithfully every single week. I had read my Bible almost daily, even when the words swam together on the page and made about as much sense to me as the list of side effects in small print at the bottom of pharmaceutical advertisements. I was doing my part. And nothing had changed. The eternal
He
did not seem to be doing His part. But then again, maybe I was doing something wrong. Maybe I hadn't yet figured out the formula.

Still, Mrs. Walker's interest touched me. She could almost make me believe that what she said was true: there was something better for me.

Thankfully, Mrs. Walker couldn't know the emotions that her words had stirred up, and she made her voice light again to continue her gentle probing. “Anyway, I think you just admitted that there is another secret.”

I thought of my baby boy and my deal with Grandma that we would keep it between the two of us. I knew Grandma would keep her end of the bargain. “It has to stay a secret,” I said apologetically.

She had a wonderful way of curving her eyebrow so high it was almost comical in its stature and expression. I had to look away from her to stop myself from laughing. “Big secret?” she asked, knowing the effect she had on me.

“I'm full of big secrets,” I teased back, but somehow it didn't sound very funny. It sounded rather real. “But this is a small one,” I added. “Not a big deal at all.”

“Hmmm,” Mrs. Walker intoned. “I wouldn't want to pry it out of you.”

But I wanted it out. I wanted to let Mrs. Walker see a little bit of my disappointment because I couldn't let Grandma know how I felt. She was so happy.

Mrs. Walker saw me crack and instantly reined herself in. “You absolutely do not have to tell me. I was only kidding around.” She turned back to her envelopes.

I took a deep breath. “I'm having a boy,” I said, staring at her soft, short curls. There were more gray strands than I remembered.

Mrs. Walker's head popped up. “A boy?” she exclaimed, obviously thrilled. The look on my face pulled her up short. “That's not a good thing?”

“Of course it's a good thing,” I said in a rush. “I just … I just thought I was having a little girl.” Once I had said it out loud, I realized how incredibly dumb it sounded. I was acting like a selfish child, and it was downright embarrassing. Flustered, I capped and uncapped my pen, fumbling as I exposed the gleaming gray nub and tried to focus on the next address.