The View from Prince Street (14 page)

“A week should be enough time.” That was the reasonable response, but I had no idea if I would ever know what to do with the land. A part of me was sorry I'd had it cleared.

I reached into a drawer, pulled out a large zip-top bag, and filled it with the remaining cookies. “Can I give the extra cookies to you and Eric?”

Eric sat straighter and nodded yes.

Zeb realized this was a battle for another time. “Sure. But no more cookies today, pal. You'll be bouncing off the walls if you have another.”

He waggled his head from side to side. “I don't bounce.”

“Oh, yes you do.” He pushed the milk toward his son. “Finish up. We've used up enough of Dr. McDonald's time.”

“I'm the one wasting your time.” Though having them here didn't feel like a waste. There was a warmth about the moment that I couldn't ignore.

As Eric gulped milk, Zeb said, “I'll try to keep my schedule open for you, but if you don't have an answer soon, I'll have to move you down the priority list.”

I did not want to lose my place on the list. “I'll decide.”

He sipped coffee, relaxed and unconcerned. “I hear from Addie that you gave Margaret some historical documents.”

“She's helping me catalogue some of the earlier letters.”

He rubbed the back of his head again. “No doubt searching for information on her witch bottles. I hear about them every time I stop by the salvage yard.”

“I suppose you're there a lot.”

“Eric likes to visit his sister.”

“That's Addie's baby?” I asked.

“It's complicated.”

Eric shrugged. “Mom is Addie's sister. But Mom is sick and can't raise me or Carrie.”

Ah. I understood. “I'd say your dad is doing a good job with you.”

Eric shrugged. “I like seeing Mom, too.”

Zeb rustled the boy's hair. “And she likes seeing you.”

Did Zeb like visiting with Addie? His personal life was none of my business, but I still asked, “I thought you and Addie were close.”

He squarely met my gaze. “We're good friends. We both love Eric and Carrie.”

But not each other.

I cleared my throat, oddly glad about the unspoken meaning humming under his words. “The children are lucky to have you both.”

“I guess you could call us an unconventional family.”

“Unconventional can work.” He was a man who thrived on convention but was doing his best.

Eric gulped the last of his milk and hopped off his stool. Eric and Zeb moved toward the front door, forgetting the bag of cookies. I scooped up the bag and followed. At the front door, I asked, “Eric, did you forget something?”

He took them, his hand brushing mine as he grinned up at me. “Thanks, Dr. McDonald.”

“You're very welcome.”

Before I realized it, the boy leaned forward and hugged me. His arms were strong and he squeezed tight. For a moment, I couldn't breathe, and I felt my heart pounding hard against the sheen of ice coating it. My hands stretched out, but I didn't know if I should hug him back or not. I simply stood in place, frozen, as invisible shards of ice cut my insides. I wondered how many thousands of hugs, kisses, and questions I'd missed over the last fifteen years. A lot.

When he released me, it took effort not to stagger back a step. “Thanks!”

Zeb laid his hand on the boy's head, glancing at me, trying to decipher my reaction. “Thanks for the cookies.”

I liked Eric and was glad I'd made him happy. “Of course. Thank you.”

Zeb studied me an extra beat, picking up on the sudden jab of sadness that leaked into my tone of voice. “We'll talk soon.”

“Yes.”

When they left, I closed the door gently and locked it. As I leaned against the hand-hewn mahogany, my breathing slowed and I closed my eyes, willing the sadness and regrets away like a curse. “I did the right thing. Didn't I?”

But doing right didn't always foster good feelings or well-being. Doing the right thing could cause so much pain.

The engine started up and the red pickup drove off. Pressing my palms to my flushed cheeks, I resolved to mention Rachel to Zeb
again. He could use a woman in his life, but he deserved one who understood motherhood and how to hug a child.

I slid my hands to my belly, still able to imagine the feel of Eric's hug. Emotion swirled, and like a rogue wave, this swell of emotion came out of nowhere and settled in my chest. Sitting back, I pressed my fist to my heart as I imagined all the moments lost forever with my boy. I'd never been able to bake cookies for him. We'd never share birthdays. Hugs. Bedtime stories. So much had been tossed away with the stroke of a pen on the adoption papers. Was I dead to him?

Swallowing through the tightness in my throat, I rose with hands on hips and paced the room. Tears burned my eyes, forcing me to tip my head back so that they did not spill.

“What is this nonsense?” I whispered. “I do not cry. McDonald women don't cry. You're not done.”

But whatever it was that gripped in my chest would not release its hold. In fact, it squeezed tighter, robbing me of breath.

I strode from my office into the kitchen and filled a glass with tap water. Drinking slowly, I focused on the cool water. “I'm not upset. I made a smart, calculated decision sixteen years ago. It was the best for everyone.”

And on an intellectual level I understood that at sixteen I was not in a position to raise a child. I was a child myself. There was high school to finish. College. My Ph.D.

For the first time in sixteen years, my beating heart echoed loudly, drowning out the logic and not heeding the consequences of the drama it stirred.

“Which is why you, Madame Heart, are not welcome in my life.” I set the glass down hard on the counter. “I do not have time for drama.”

And still the tears pushed, begging to be freed. I stared out the window toward the raw scar of land. “It had been a pile of stones and an eyesore with a bogus history that took up far too much valuable yard. The garage makes sense. A pile of rocks, hell no.”

Needing to prove the hearthstones did not matter, I turned from the window and stormed toward my computer, ready to fire off an e-mail to Zeb, telling him to proceed with the plans he had. At this point I didn't care what he built. Finish the job and move on.

My fingers poised over the keyboard; tears gripped my throat, filled my eyes, and trailed along my cheeks. Burying my face in my hands, I wept, allowing the sobs to rise up through my body. I searched for the tissue box I reserved for clients and pulled several sheets, covering my eyes.

“Stop,” I said. “I can't do this. I don't want this.”

But the sadness hurled another round of tears on me.

The last time I cried was the day I laid the boy in Susan's arms. My breasts had ached from the surging milk and my arms felt so empty. The tears flowed, racking my body until I finally fell into a deep sleep. When I awoke the next morning, my eyes were puffy and red. I rose and moved to the small bathroom off my hospital room and showered, trying to wash away my guilt and pain. By the time my mother arrived that afternoon, I was fully dressed, my hair and makeup in place.

She took one look at me, and I couldn't tell if I sensed relief or sadness. She commented on how lovely I looked and picked up my packed suitcase. The two of us left the hospital and never spoke of it again.

Why hadn't she at least asked me about the boy? Why couldn't she have said a kind word? Hugged me?

On the heels of sadness came anger through the tears. This roller coaster ride was maddening. The past did not rule me. But did it have some control over me?

Now I moved up the center staircase to my bedroom, grabbed a stool, and carried it to my closet. Climbing up, I reached for the top shelf and found the box that contained all the letters the boy's mother had mailed me so diligently over the years. She had kept her word.

I moved to my bed and, kicking off my heels, sat on the neatly smoothed comforter. Carefully, I opened the lid and thumbed my index finger over the sixteen envelopes, each thickly packed.

Removing all the envelopes, I laid them out in chronological order on my bed, beginning with his first birthday and ending with his most recent sixteenth. I picked up the first envelope and tried to imagine what was waiting for me. I turned it over and ran my thumb under the back flap and slowly tore the paper.

Inside was a note from Susan.

Dear Rae,

Michael is our light and joy and we thank God every day for him and you. As you can see from the pictures, he has your hair and eyes. He's so smart. Never met a cabinet he didn't want to climb into and recently discovered the taste of sugar cookies. He loves them. You're in our thoughts and prayers.

Love,

Susan

I dropped the letter to the bed as if it were electrified. Energy snapped through my fingertips. And the anger that had spurred me up the stairs vanished. For a moment I sat, unable to leave but barely able to stay.

Drawing in a breath, I reached for the pictures, hesitating before I looked. The first picture was taken of the boy when he was a month old. My breath caught. Immediately, I saw the baby I remembered in such vivid detail. His face was a little fuller and his hair thicker, but he had the same upturned nose and the same ears. They were my ears.

I flipped through the next eleven photos, each documenting another month in the first year of his life. He grew so quickly, becoming so chubby that he had rolls of fat at his elbows and his knees. By about his ninth month, the rolls of fat were gone and he stood on hands and knees, poised to crawl while flashing a drooling three-tooth
grin. By his first birthday he stood straight, his small hand wrapped around this father's index finger.

In the last image, he sat in a high chair, a round cake reading
Happy Birthday
and sporting a green-and-white candle shaped into the number
one
. Chocolate icing and cake smeared across his face, hair, and hands. Clearly, he had dunked his hands into the cake and attempted to feed himself. This time, he sported a lopsided six-toothed grin, unmindful of his mess.

As I traced the creases around his wide grin, laughter bubbled up in me. He was pure joy.

In the background, I noticed a collection of laughing adults, totally enamored with him.

By his first birthday, I'd had enough credits to finish high school early and I'd left Alexandria by the fall to attend college. This second letter arrived the day I returned home from my freshman year. I sat in my room for a long time, holding the envelope to my heart, fearing if I opened it and saw my boy I wouldn't be able to function. To keep moving. To live. So I tucked it carefully in this box.

Each year, I anxiously waited for the envelope, and each year I held it close to my heart before placing it unopened in the box.

Instead of replacing these first-year photos back in the envelope, I laid them out in order on the bed and then reached for the second envelope. This one didn't have twelve pictures, but seven. As I examined each one, I could see the boy didn't change as radically as he had the first year. He was healthy and happy.

And so it went. I displayed all the pictures, studied them before moving on to the next year. The first day of preschool. His first ride on the school bus. His graduation from elementary school. The awkward middle school picture with braces that reminded me of the ones I'd worn at that age. The narrowing of his face. The deep blue of his eyes, which looked like my father's.

Over the next several hours, I filled my bed with images and catalogued every bit of him over the years.

He was a McDonald, and yet he was not. And he wanted to know more about his biological roots. I owed him that much.

I found the old scrapbook that Susan gave me when we first met, and I filled it with the pictures of Michael, along with her letters. I owed a debt to Susan, who wrote so faithfully, even though I continued to ignore her each year. God, what had I done?

What had she told Michael about me? Did he know she sent his pictures and that I never responded? She must harbor terrible thoughts of me.

After the book was filled, I rose off the bed, slipped my heels back on, and moved to my office. At the computer, I retrieved the e-mail from Michael and reread it several times. I pulled up a blank message, waiting for the words to come. What was I supposed to say?

Answer his question. Tell him he's welcome to talk to me any time.

And that was what I did. I wrote, erased, and rewrote my response more times than I could count until finally I could lean back and read it and feel somewhat good about myself.

Then, it was the matter of clicking Send.

Such a little motion with such huge consequences.

One press of the button.

My finger hovered over the mouse. My heart raced and sweat dampened the back of my neck.

Send the damn e-mail!

I pressed the mouse button and immediately heard the whoosh of the message jetting off into cyberspace. There was no un-ringing this bell.

Rising, I paced in front of the computer, expecting a response from him to pop back almost immediately. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticked while I paced.

When my front doorbell rang, I jumped. For a heart-stopping
minute I pictured Michael, as if he had been magically transported to my doorstep. And then reason prevailed and shoved the thought aside.

I had a one o'clock appointment today with Samuel and Debra. According to Debra, they had spoken their dark truths to each other and all was well. But they wanted to have one more talk with me.

I checked my face in the mirror, wiping away the extra mascara smudged by my crying and checked my hair. I was back in my element. This I understood.

Opening the front door almost with a sense of relief, I greeted the couple with a smile.

Only Debra stood on the stoop. She clutched her purse in hands tucked close to her waistband. Her brown eyes were wide and a bit red like her nose. She'd been crying.