To See the Moon Again (28 page)

And then one the color of sage. Or cactus. Not a grassy green, or the color of lime sherbet, not even as green as avocados or moss or olives, but more muted, a grayish sort of green. But compared to the other five houses, definitely green.
Two doors down. In the green house.
What else could it possibly mean?

That this qualified as a marvel—their search for Luna so mercifully brief, so rich in dividends—was undeniable. If what Luna said was true, that is. Julia was stalled in disbelief.

Carmen, on the other hand, had evidently processed the miracle with astounding speed. Only a moment of stunned joy, then, “Can I see her?” followed by an immediate revision: “When can I see her?” A slight tremble in her voice was the only evidence that such swift success was the last thing she had expected.

Indeed, on the flight down she and Julia had talked about the possibility of having to travel many miles at great inconvenience, perhaps to another country, to see the child—“if by some chance her whereabouts can even be traced,” Julia had said. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew what was coming.

And it did. Another speech on the subject of chance, luck, accidents, and so forth, a speech delivered, as always, with the conviction of an Old Testament prophet, though a shorter version today than usual. Obadiah this time rather than Isaiah. “When we find her,” Carmen had said, “it will be by design, not by chance. We're not rolling dice or flipping coins or playing the lottery here.”

When
we find her, she had said. Oh, the certainty of youth. And as the flight attendant rolled the drink cart down the aisle toward them, Carmen had wrapped up her speech:
“A man devises his way, but the Lord determines his steps.”

Julia had looked out the window at the billowy expanse of white clouds below them and tried to imagine the miles and hours that might be required to track the child down. Or to
try
—she didn't possess the certainty of youth, only the mistrust of middle age. Money wasn't worth a thought. She knew she would sell all she had if necessary. It came to her that whereas she had once worried about how she would fill up a whole year of sabbatical, she now wondered if it would be long enough.

•   •   •

L
UNA
cleared her throat and looked at the clock again. “After her nap, she usually . . . goes to the park,” she said hesitantly, “unless it's bad weather.” She lifted her eyes to scan the sky, as if hoping to see a storm moving in. “She's normally awake by three. Her mother will be taking her to the park today. Her father is returning this evening from a business trip. You can see the park from the front window. Upstairs has the best view.”

Still on her knees in front of Luna, Carmen shook her head. “No, I want to see her up close.” Though courteous, it was a statement of intent, not a request.

Luna placed her fingertips together and studied them a moment. “Of course you do.” She paused again, nodding. Her topaz ring glittered in the sunlight. “I like to go to the park when they're there. Sometimes they let me take her by myself, but not often. I need to tell you something else.” She looked away and spoke to the corner of the room. “They're not just my neighbors. Her father is my son.”

So, another piece of the puzzle.

She looked back at Carmen. “We have to be so careful. They're very protective of her. They went through so much. Four miscarriages and a stillbirth. So many lost babies before they got her, and they know they'll never have another one, so if they thought someone was here who wanted to . . .” She put a hand to her mouth. “I'm so sorry. I know—you lost a baby, too. In the worst way possible.” She shook her head slowly. “How can I sit here and say these things to you? You've waited so long and been through so much yourself.” She looked toward the door into the kitchen. “I could go to jail for what I did. There's a telephone in there. You could call the police right now and tell them.”

Carmen said, “I wouldn't know what to tell them, Luna. Joyce and Milo told me my baby died. That's all I know. You weren't the one who lied to me.”

“No, I just . . . took your baby. In a sense.” She closed her eyes.

Somewhere in the distance a siren wailed. The dog set up a ruckus in the backyard and another dog from nearby joined in. Julia glanced up at the overhead fan and wished it were on. It was getting warm in the sunroom.

Carmen dropped from her knees and sat on the floor at Luna's feet, as if it were story time. “Will you tell me what happened?” she said. “I need to know. I don't remember much about that night, but you were there, and you were . . . kind.”

“Kind!” Luna turned away and took a moment to collect herself. At length she looked back at Carmen and began. Though her style of speech was slow and languorous, and the story full of turns, she kept it moving.

She had gotten the call from Joyce that Carmen's time had come. “Milo wasn't happy you were early. He liked things to run on schedule—his schedule. You were in labor a long time, but you already know that. But you were brave. Teenage mothers aren't always. You did very well.”
Very way-ell.

She swayed from side to side as she talked.

She had delivered numbers of babies at the Shelburns' house, so she knew the routine. The girls were always young, often younger than Carmen, and the babies were always being adopted through the Babies First Mission. Sometimes the girl's parents were there, sometimes the adoptive parents. Occasionally Thornton or his wife dropped by, too. But that night it was only Carmen, the Shelburns, and Luna.

Luna stayed by Carmen's side, coached and comforted her for hours on end. For days it had been raining off and on, and that night it was coming down in sheets, with gusty winds and lightning. There was no window in the birthing room, but she could hear the storm as a distant roar. Sometime during the night a tree went down, somewhere close to the old paper mill, and the fall had shaken the house. The lights flickered but didn't go off.

Joyce was in and out, Milo too, both of them more visibly fretful than usual. When the baby finally came, Luna checked her, then handed her to Joyce to clean up. “She was perfect,” she told Carmen. “A beautiful, beautiful baby.”

After Joyce left the room, Luna turned her attention back to Carmen. She would have called a doctor right away had there been complications, but her vital signs quickly strengthened, stabilized, and all was normal.

“You kept calling out, saying you wanted to see your baby,” she said. “It surprised me. I assumed the girls were instructed not to ask.”
Not to eye-esk.

There were things she didn't like about these births at the Shelburns' house, but Babies First paid her a set fee that included prenatal visits, delivery, and postpartum. She usually took care of filing the paperwork for the birth certificate. Her duties didn't include giving her opinion about the way things were handled. She kept quiet and did her job. Milo liked the appointments to be as short as possible, didn't want a lot of interaction with the girls.

“But my heart went out to them,” she said. “So young and so frightened, most of them. And not built for childbirth. Little girls having babies—it was hard on them in every way. Sometimes the girls' mothers were there. Sometimes it was harder on them than the girls. Not a happy time at all. The babies whisked out one door and the girls out another, more or less.”

In many ways, however, these births were easier for Luna than regular home births, with family members present in the room, sometimes even little brothers and sisters, and the sounds of everyday living just outside the door. So much activity, so much joy. They had become harder for her over the past few years, to the point that she had been accepting fewer and fewer private patients.

Whenever she handed a mother her newborn and witnessed that first bonding, saw the happy faces of the father and siblings, it made her ache a little more than the last time. To be reminded that her only child, a son, and his wife so deeply and desperately wanted this but would probably never experience it—well, it was getting harder. She often thought of other kinds of work she could do. Or retirement. She had some money put back, and she could start drawing social security soon.

“You had every right to see your baby,” she told Carmen. “You were her mother. So I went to the door and called Milo. Then I tried to keep you calm. I told you the baby was fine but you needed to stay in bed. I sat by you and held your hand. I should have done more, but I didn't.” Her voice broke. “I should have asked you some questions.”

Another adult, Julia thought, who could have intervened but didn't. She wanted to be angry about it but couldn't. She knew firsthand that getting involved was a hard thing to do.

Milo had come in then and told Luna to go. She hesitated because she didn't like to leave a new mother so soon, but he said it was late and she had been here a long time. He told her again to go. Not just go out, but
go
. She checked Carmen once more and left the room. As she closed the door, she heard Milo tell Carmen to lie still and be quiet. It wasn't just a suggestion, but a command.

Joyce had the baby in her arms in the kitchen, wrapped in a blanket. She was sitting at the table trying to feed her from a bottle, and the baby was making little rooting noises. Luna told her she wanted to stay a little longer to make sure everything was okay, but Joyce told her no, if Milo said go, she needed to.

Luna said she would be available by phone, as always, and would come back in two days to check Carmen and the baby, too, if they were still here. Sometimes these babies didn't stay here two days.

But Joyce told her not to come back unless they called. Luna asked about the birth certificate, whether she should fill out the paperwork right now before she left, but just then Milo came out to the kitchen and repeated what Joyce had said, a little more forcefully: Don't call or come back unless she heard from them. They would take care of the birth certificate later. This was a departure from the standard procedure, but she had learned by now not to question Milo. He didn't like anybody trying to tell him what to do, especially women.

•   •   •

S
O
 . . . I
left,” Luna said.

When she stepped out and saw it was still raining, she remembered her umbrella, which was propped against the washing machine inside, just off the kitchen. So she slipped back to get it. She tried to be very quiet. She didn't want a scolding from Milo about taking too long to leave.

She paused now and frowned, as if trying to put the details in order. “Just as I picked up my umbrella,” she said, “I heard Milo tell Joyce he had given you something to help you sleep. Then he said they had to get the baby out of the house to make sure you wouldn't hear it. At first it sounded like a thoughtful thing to do—so you wouldn't be so upset about not keeping her. I could have left then since I had my umbrella in my hand. I can't really explain why I didn't.”

She looked back at Carmen. “Joyce asked him if he had gotten you to sign the papers, and he said no, he hadn't even tried and wasn't going to, it was clear you weren't going to cooperate, so he had gone ahead with plan B. That's what he called it. Plan B. Joyce said, ‘So you told her?' She sounded scared. And he said yes. And the only sound for a while was the rain coming down.”

Luna stopped talking and took several deep breaths, expelling them slowly each time. Then she continued. “Of course I was wondering
what
he had told you. Joyce suggested taking the baby to the Thorntons' house, but Milo said no, they were out of town until the weekend. And Phyllis couldn't help either. She was the office girl at Babies First. Milo wasn't happy. You'd really messed him up having the baby early. Then Joyce said she was worried, she didn't think they ought to do this, she had a bad feeling about it, and Milo said it was too late, he'd already called the couple in Michigan and told them they had a new baby and they were already making plans to leave. And Joyce must have started crying because Milo said, ‘Stop that, you know this is what we have to do. Babies need stable families.' And Joyce said the money wasn't worth it, this just wasn't right, and he said maybe she would change her mind when she heard how much it was this time. He said he only wished the people weren't from Michigan because their laws were harder to work around.”

Carmen was taking in every word. She sat motionless, hardly breathing as she looked up at Luna. Though her mind must have been full of questions, she never interrupted. Occasionally she turned her head for a quick look at the clock, as if not knowing which she wanted more—to hear her own story or to see her child.

By now Luna had heard enough of the Shelburns' conversation to know something very wrong was going on. But she couldn't think of what to do and she certainly didn't want to be caught still hanging around, so she left very quietly. She got in her car and wound her way to the end of their long drive, then sat there a good while instead of pulling out onto the road. It was still raining hard.

“I should have called the Pittsfield police right then,” she said.
Rat thee-in.
“That's what I should have done. I should have told them what I had just heard and what I suspected—and then let them take it from there. If I had, you would have left the Shelburns' house with your baby.”

She was looking down at her ring now, running a thumb over the stone as she talked.

But there was something holding her back, she said—maybe fear of Milo, maybe the slightest doubt about what she heard, maybe just her habitual timidity and indecisiveness. She hated confrontation. What if she was wrong?

So she was sitting at the end of the drive in a dilemma, but afraid to do anything about it, when her cell phone rang. It was Milo. In his usual domineering way, he told her they needed her help. No apology for the fact that he had just pointed her to the door. He went on to say they had a “timing issue” with the adoption and needed someone discreet and trustworthy to keep the baby for a couple of days, and would she mind? There would be compensation, of course.