Fran Canfield woke to the solid snores of her husband. It was Christmas Eve; it was also six in the morning. Fran had hoped to sleep in a little later, only that by midnight she would be falling asleep in her seat. Louie promised they would get to church early enough to sit in a pew. Now she had the ammunition to hold him to it as she got out of bed, rubbing her tired eyes.
By seven, all of her children were awake, but Louie was still in bed, which made the younger kids giggle. Sally had given her mother a curious look, although Fran hadn’t answered her daughter either by a glance or with words. Some things, Fran allowed, were just between spouses. Besides, Sally would understand later when it was her father rousing kids into the car for mass while Fran quietly toted Helene or simply held that girl’s hand. It would be Louie to holler they were going to be late, leaving a mother to say little. And by the time they got home, it would be Louie assembling whatever Santa was supposed to leave behind as Fran tucked their youngest offspring into bed. Fran would fill stockings, but that would take only minutes, while Louie cursed under his breath. Fran would even be awake, for only she would hear his hushed annoyance, all seven kids worn out from what felt like the longest day of the year. Was it made longer by midnight mass, Fran wondered, as she fixed more breakfast for her brood. At least Jane Snyder wouldn’t be out that late. Fran knew that Lynne and Eric’s church held their Christmas Eve service at seven p.m., which to Fran made more sense for families with a little or a lot of kids.
But midnight mass was all Fran had known, Louie too, and attendance was taken for granted. Yet that year Fran would be happy to skip it, allowing her entire family a little more rest. As Louie could be heard coming downstairs, Johnny yelled that Daddy was awake. That little boy scrambled from his chair, meeting his father as Louie entered the kitchen. Only Fran saw her husband’s red eyes and the shine of tears on his hastily wiped face. The rest teased that Louie was the last one out of bed and he took their ribbing gracefully, ruffling his sons’ hair, kissing the tops of his daughters’ heads. He made furtive eye contact with Fran, but she took no offense. If he’d given her any more attention, he might have had to return upstairs.
As breakfast wound down for the kids, Fran started eggs for her husband. Sally helped Helene from a tall seat that all the Canfield kids had used once a high chair was outgrown. Then the eldest led her youngest sibling from the room, tactfully closing the kitchen door behind her. Fran could hear them crowded around the tree, wondering who was getting what, and from the very youngest, what might Santa bring? Only Brad, Johnny and Helene still believed, and perhaps Bradley, nearly eight years old, might only have another year or two left. But with Helene not even three, Louie would be putting together bikes and dollhouses for several more Christmases.
Fran buttered toast, then took the eggs from the skillet. She set the plate in front of her husband, who was nursing his second cup of coffee. Sally had poured her father the first cup, then Will had refilled it, both teens taking those tasks without being asked. Maybe they had seen their father’s disheveled face, perhaps they knew. And just maybe, Fran permitted, they would skip midnight mass that night. No one would blame them, not after everything that had occurred. Fran sat beside her husband, her own coffee cup in hand. Then she stroked Louie’s left arm, trying to catch his gaze.
When he finally looked at her, Fran nearly choked. Tears rolled down his face and she handed him a bunched-up napkin, the closest thing she could reach. He wiped his cheeks, then smiled at her, gripping her hand. “I love you,” he said, then he cleared his throat. “Merry Christmas baby.”
She nodded, then started to smile; his words, while mumbled, were said in a defiant tone. For the last two weeks Louie had been short-tempered, the strain of what 1962 had wrought for their family evident. Now he cried openly, which never happened, but Frannie was glad. He needed to let this go, or to start releasing it. He was much like Sam, which she had never said to anyone, for nobody would have understood. Yet, Frances Ahern Canfield had married a man similar to her younger brother, for how deeply those men felt the pain around them. Neither wore their hearts on their sleeves, but that didn’t mean their hearts were stone. Louie hadn’t wanted more kids, but he also hadn’t been able to refrain from making love to his wife. Now Fran took her weeping husband into her arms, unbothered if one of the kids happened to burst into the kitchen. Maybe it would be good for them to see that sometimes a man did break down. The only one who might be upset was Johnny, but then all Fran would have to say was that Daddy missed the twins. Helene had no grasp on what had occurred in summer, but Johnny remembered, sometimes he brought it up with his mother. Yet as Fran predicted, nobody intruded. Maybe Sally and Will had heard their father’s sorrow, taking everyone upstairs. Whatever the case, Fran comforted her husband, forgetting her slight irritation from the morning. If they made it to church that night, wonderful. If not, there was always next year.
Lynne thought that Jane had undergone another growth spurt; toting that girl up for a nap, Lynne’s lower back ached, then a mother pondered the nature of that pain. Jane was nearly asleep as Lynne closed the nursery door. Then Lynne went to her bathroom. Sure enough, she was starting her period.
Taking a deep breath, Lynne changed her underwear, then marked an X on her bedroom calendar. Since the beginning of November, this was only her second cycle, but maybe it would take longer than a few months to return to a predicable schedule. Lynne’s heart ached as well as her abdomen, for she had wondered if perhaps she was pregnant. Now she went to find Eric to tell him the news.
He took it well, she thought, but both had been so happy for the Aherns that maybe they hadn’t expected to fall in line with adding to their family. Lynne had also been considering the Canfields, and again, perhaps it was best to look ahead to 1963. In the kitchen, Lynne consoled herself with that notion, then she sat at the table, wiping away a few tears.
Holiday decorations embellished the usual furnishings, making Lynne smile. She couldn’t rue her cycle, for this year was so different from anything that had come before. Before made her giggle, she couldn’t help it, but a few more tears fell too. Lynne sighed, reaching for a napkin, then blowing her nose. The Aherns were coming for dinner tomorrow, so was Marek. She would see her pastor later that evening at St. Matthew’s. Unless Lynne couldn’t walk, she was going to church that night, so much to be thankful for.
Eric found her sipping coffee and he poured his own cup, then joined her at the table. He squeezed her hand, but didn’t speak, although his eyes were misty. Lynne wondered if that was from her news or in how altered were their lives compared to all their previous Christmases. Jane might be sleeping, but she was reflected in the new decorations, the gift-laden tree, and in the fullness of Lynne’s joyful heart. Another baby would come, Lynne didn’t doubt that. It would simply happen when the time was right.
Lynne wished to say that aloud, not for Eric’s benefit, but to assure him that she wasn’t worried. It had taken several months after his long absence, but Lynne hadn’t even considered such a miracle was possible. Now that conception was feasible, Lynne wouldn’t ruminate about when. She smiled, gripping Eric’s hand. God had given this man back to her and at the best time he would bless them with another baby. “I wonder how Sam and Renee are this morning,” Lynne said.
Eric blinked, then sighed. “Fine, I’m sure. Been thinking about Fran and Louie, to tell you the truth.”
Lynne nodded. “Me too. That was so nice of them to send Jane a gift.”
Now Eric smiled. “She’s got a lot of presents under that tree.”
“I think they’re all for her,” Lynne chuckled.
“Oh, a few are for her mother, I believe.” Eric inhaled, then kissed the back of Lynne’s hand. “I sure love you.”
“I love you too. I thought about giving them a call, Fran, you know. But I’ll wait. Maybe tomorrow or the day after. I’m sure they’re busy today and??
?.”
Eric nodded, then scooted closer to his wife. Lynne leaned toward him, glad for his embrace. This time last year he was so sick, but she hadn’t felt at all anxious, which now that she considered it was quite a feat. Her nursing instincts had been overridden by the most intangible and powerful force she had ever encountered. It hadn’t even been trumped by giving birth, although that had come darn close. Then Lynne laughed. Perhaps the birth of her true faith was a necessary precursor to having a child. Maybe next time, Lynne would seek some sort of pain relief.
Next time made her shiver, then that question was erased by Eric’s soft kisses along her forehead. He’d smoothed back her hair, his touch so peaceful, also sensuous. Yet he didn’t mean to entice her, they wouldn’t be intimate for days. It was to reassure her, or maybe himself, that their affections were as strong as ever. Lynne nestled against him; last Christmas she had been the resilient one, but now Eric supported her as Lynne began to cry. Her tears weren’t born of sorrow, but gratefulness, for myriad people and things. Lynne expended her emotions, then laughed at herself. “My goodness, what a moody wife you have.”
“Once a month, whether we need it or not.”
Eric’s tone was light, which made Lynne smile. “I guess we’re looking at a 1964 baby.”
“Hey now, it’s not too late for a 1963 addition.”
“Well no, but probably in ‘64.” Maybe that was better, Lynne allowed, giving the Canfields space, and the Aherns too. Perhaps it was far better for Renee and Sam to grasp parenthood before the Snyders added…. Lynne pulled away from Eric, a crafty smile on her face. “Paint me,” she murmured.
“Right now?”
“Yes, right now.” Lynne leaned against the back of her chair. Then she stretched out her arms, but didn’t look up, nor close her eyes. She gazed intently at her husband, who nodded back at her.
“Don’t move a muscle.” Eric stood from the table. He was gone for a minute, returning with his sketchpad. Lynne’s only actions were to breathe or blink, but her arms didn’t grow weary, she was now accustomed to holding a pose. And this position, while slightly altered from when she was seated on the stool in the studio, was similar enough. Within ten minutes Eric handed her the pad, which she took, stretching her neck as she did so. Then she gasped, for what Eric had drawn was an image reminiscent of one far more sacrosanct. Lynne shivered, then tried to tear the sheet in half. Only Eric’s quick effort, snatching the paper from her hands, kept it from being ripped in two. “What’re you doing?” he said softly. “Lynne?”
“Not that way,” she nearly cried. Then she did burst into tears.
“What way?” Eric gazed at the drawing, then he sucked in his breath. “Oh Lynne, my God no, I didn’t mean….”
He set the paper on the table, then brought her into his arms. She wept hard, wondering why on that day Eric had chosen to depict her in such a manner. To Lynne, Jesus was an infant, perhaps why she’d been thinking maybe she was pregnant. But her outstretched arms hearkened more to the man of Easter, one hung to die. Eric hadn’t given her a broad smile, but a solemn countenance, her gaze piercing. Yet she was human, a woman, a mother. That pose was only for a deity, the reason for celebrating that day.
Once she was calm, Lynne inhaled deeply as Eric whispered that he was sorry. She stroked his face, then gazed at the paper lying in the middle of the table. “Don’t paint me that way,” she said. Then she looked at him. “Is there something you need to tell me?”
“Nothing obvious, but maybe….” He sighed, then picked up the sheet. He stared at it for seconds, then started to fold it in half. Lynne stopped him, but she didn’t gaze at his work. She would never forget it, not as long as she lived.
Instead she took it from his hand, then holding it face down, she placed it in a cupboard in the far corner of the kitchen. She closed the cupboard, then stood behind her husband, working knots from his shoulders. Neither spoke, but Eric gripped her hands, then kissed her knuckles. Lynne closed her eyes, seeking God’s forgiveness. For what, she wasn’t sure.
By mid-afternoon, Sam was antsy; Sister Harriet had assured the Aherns that by Friday the twenty-first a date would be set for Robbie to leave St. Joseph’s. The final papers wouldn’t be signed until sometime in January and while Robbie wouldn’t spend Christmas Day with his new parents, at least those parents would have an idea of when that little boy would make their house his home. Over the weekend, with no news forthcoming, Sam had been patient while Renee had stewed. Fortunately, she’d also had to work, so her apprehension was only apparent to Sam in the evenings. How she had been at the hospital, he hadn’t asked.
Now more than a few days had passed and Sam wondered how women waited out that last week of pregnancy. Or what about those who went past their due date? He was itching to know about Robbie, had considered calling St. Joseph’s, but couldn’t pick up the receiver. The nuns had their hands full without someone bothering them. Yet, Renee was starting to climb the walls, which spurred Sam’s anxiety. Why was Sister Harriet dithering?
Maybe Robbie had changed his mind; perhaps the little boy decided it was better to stay where he was than risk leaving the only home he knew. Were children given that much leeway, Sam pondered, sitting at his kitchen table, staring at a half-full cup of coffee. He heard Renee fussing about the tree; a dozen times she had rearranged the ornaments and Sam had noted all her altered handiworks. Yet the damn tree still looked like it had the first time she had placed everything on the branches. It looked like every other Christmas tree they had ever shared together.
Sam stared at the phone, then he sighed. He picked up the mug, tried a sip, but it had grown cold. He stood, heading to the sink, then he stopped, hearing Renee’s sniffle. Sam put the mug on the counter, then moved swiftly into the living room, where he found his wife in a heap on the carpet just two feet from the tree.
He joined her there, but Renee was inconsolable. Sam ached for her sorrow, but he was also slightly irritated; why was she being so maudlin? “Honey, it’s okay. Renee, baby, oh Renee….” His anger slipped away for her tears were from a place deep inside her. Rare were the times she cried that hard, but Sam knew the sound, in part that she had just wept that way in summer. This time his heart was soft toward her, unlike his bitterness from earlier in the year. Sam would never again feel that way about his wife, or anyone else. The cost had almost killed him.
He stood, then helped her to her feet. They went to the sofa where Renee collapsed against him. He wanted to ask what had brought on this flood, but she was in no way able to speak, and even if she did, it would probably be nothing she could accurately describe. Maybe she was due to start her period, then Sam frowned. She had just gotten it a couple of weeks ago, but maybe motherhood was messing up her cycles. Or maybe she’d been thinking about Frannie, which made Sam inwardly flinch. The Canfields weren’t going to mass that night; Sam had called them after lunch, speaking with his sister. Louie wasn’t up to it, Fran had said explicitly. Usually Frannie wasn’t that blunt, but Sam wondered if that was for his benefit. It was her tone, very much that of an older sister, but hedged in love. Sam had told her they were all in his prayers and Fran had thanked him as kids hollered in the background. Sam had let her go, for she was busy, and he didn’t need further explanations.
The Aherns had planned on going to church, so much to celebrate, but now Sam had to wonder. If Sister Harriet didn’t call that day, chances were slim she would call tomorrow, and then it would nearly be a week since they were supposed to know exactly when Robbie was coming…. Sam didn’t permit the word home into his head, but it was wedged in his heart the same way he’d felt in Korea, wondering when he would again see the still quivering woman in his grasp. Renee wasn’t crying, but she trembled so badly that Sam squeezed her hard.
“Ow,” she exclaimed. “Sam, not so strong.”
“Oh sorry. I’m sorry honey.” He pulled back, but didn?
??t get far as Renee burrowed against his chest. Then he gripped her, but more gently than before.
She took a deep breath, then looked up. “No, I’m sorry. I’m just a mess right now.”
He stroked hairs from her forehead, then kissed her brow. “We’ve got a lot to think about.”
She nodded, then stared at the tree. “I was just fiddling with the ornaments, you must think I’ve lost my mind this year. But every time I see them, I find one’s too close to another, or they’re all the same in one area. Silly, I guess, ’cause it’s just us and….”
Her voice had dropped significantly when she said us, making Sam tune out the rest of the sentence. Us sounded solitary, and definite. But it wasn’t going to be only them. They had a little boy waiting for some rather busy nuns to simply say the word. What in the world was taking those sisters so long?
Just then the phone rang. Sam flinched, so did Renee. They stared at each other, then both stood from the sofa, nearly running into the kitchen. Sam permitted one more ring, then he answered. “Hello?”
“Oh good afternoon Mr. Ahern. This’s Sister Harriet, from St. Joseph’s.”
Sam lifted the receiver from his ear, wanting Renee to hear as much as possible. “Merry Christmas Eve Sister Harriet.” Sam smiled, feeling a ten-ton weight fall from his shoulders. “We’ve been, uh….” He nearly said waiting for your call, but didn’t want to appear that desperate. “How are you Sister?”
“Fine. I realize you’ve been waiting and I do apologize for the delay. There’s been an, um…unexpected fly in the ointment. Again, I am so sorry for only getting back to you now.”
As Sam heard those words, he gazed at his wife, her eyes wide, her mouth turning into a smile. Yet, Sam grimaced. It was the manner in which the nun was excusing her belated call; a fly in the ointment, was that how she had phrased it? But more telling to Sam were her next words: only getting back to you now.
Weren’t they past that stage, getting back to us? As the sister continued, he wasn’t hearing her, he was looking at his wife; her eyes were closed, her smile gone. Renee’s face was ashen, tears streaming down her cheeks. Then Sam focused on the phone, set between his and Renee’s heads. Renee had heard the news, which to Sam must not be at all good, especially if the nun was just now getting back to them. A fly in the ointment, he recalled. What sort of fly would cause his beautiful wife to once again weep so hard?
“Pardon me Sister, I didn’t hear that last bit. What’s come up?”
Now Sam pressed the receiver close to his own ear, for he needed to pay attention, he had to hear about this pesky fly, this problem. Even on Christmas Eve, nothing was perfect, what with Mary and Joseph stuck in the manger as their child approached. Last Christmas Eve Sam had nearly gone out of his mind worrying about Eric and Lynne. But this year, it was going to be different. Sam knew exactly that man’s whereabouts. Louie wasn’t doing so well, but then that was to be expected. Frannie was okay, she was alive, thanks be to God. Fran was alive and Eric was home but Robbie, there was something about Robbie….
“So at this point, we have to honor his grandmother’s request. We realize this’s a very hard situation for you and Mrs. Ahern, however, and I will tell you that Robbie is quite, well, he’s confused, the poor lad. He’s grown quite fond of you and your wife, and doesn’t understand that we have to give his blood relatives first priority. Now Mr. Ahern, please be assured that Robbie won’t automatically be handed over to them. We vet every prospective parent the same, there’s no special allowances given to family members. But we have to follow the law, which clearly states that Robbie’s paternal relatives have a legal claim on the boy.”
“The boy,” Sam repeated, his voice flat. “He’s supposed to be our son Sister.”
“Oh Mr. Ahern I know, and again, I am so, so sorry to break this news, especially today. We’ve been hoping that his grandmother was going to, well, change her mind. But we received a letter today from her attorney. At this point, we can’t promise you and your wife anything regarding the pending adoption.”
A swirling rage built in Sam’s gut, anger he hadn’t felt since the day in the Snyders’ kitchen when facing the unreal notion of what Lynne believed about her husband. That had been what most grated on Sam’s nerves; for some godforsaken reason Lynne believed the story she’d told Renee. But this was worse, for Sam hadn’t been married to Lynne. Sam was married to Renee, who had fallen in love with Robbie, Robbie Carver. Carver was his last name and his father’s mother, Bernice Carver, had just now tracked down her grandson. Sam hadn’t been paying attention, or maybe Sister Harriet hadn’t revealed all the details. But someone related to Robbie was asserting a familial claim. Where had that woman been years ago, Sam wanted to scream. And why had she found him now, right before Sam and Renee were ready to bring him….
What was home, Sam wondered, as he said goodbye to Sister Harriet, not hearing her anguished tone. What was home, Sam continued to ponder, while he hung up the receiver which felt like an icy weight in hand. What was home, when Sam’s precious wife was a sodden mess in his arms. Home was merely a house, nothing special, nothing permanent. The tree in the other room would be gone within…. Sam wanted to chuck it right out the front door, but at that moment his main concern was the wailing woman near to collapse. Sam led Renee from the kitchen straight to their bedroom, placing her on her side. As she bellowed, Sam laid himself all along her shaking frame. She wept and wept, and he did too, but his tears were a hot brand along his face while hers felt as cold as the bitterest winter storm. He wondered how that was possible, easier to consider than what had happened that afternoon. That day, Christmas Eve of all days, their cozy loving home had been blown apart like a hurricane had hit. This dwelling was merely a shell, what with most of Eric’s paintings missing, no child….
It took ages for Renee to settle, although occasionally she choked. Sam wasn’t surprised, for she had cried harder than ever in her life. Maybe as a child she had wailed that profoundly, over what Sam wouldn’t hazard a guess. But as an adult, Renee had never broken down so thoroughly. All of her adult life had been spent as his wife, which now made Sam feel very old. They were old, no getting past it; he was thirty-five, she was thirty-four. Maybe that was too old to start something too damn precarious for Sam’s liking. They had been so close, presents for Robbie waiting under the tree. Sam had been nervous when Renee asked if she could wrap the gifts they had chosen together, but then he had relented, for it was Christmas and all had seemed so…. It had appeared right, but they had been wrong. Robbie had relatives looking for him; he had a family, but it wasn’t Renee and Sam.
Chapter 86