The Things That Keep Us Here

  “Dad did, and she wasn’t even his friend. She didn’t even like him.”

  Ann heard the confusion in Kate’s voice. A bubble of anger rose to the surface. Peter had just gone ahead and brought the baby in.

  “I know.”

  Kate rolled her toe in the slush. “I would be there for my friends.” Her breath fluttered out in a small white cloud. “I know you would.”

  “Michele never did call.”

  It had been weeks since Kate last talked to her friend. “They must have left town.”

  “You always say that.”

  Maybe Ann did. But it was so much harder to think of the alternative. It was so much better to offer Kate hope than despair.

  “She would’ve let me know,” Kate said. “She would’ve put a note in the mailbox or something.”

  So that’s why Kate had been constantly checking the mail. Ann had thought it had been searching for contact from the outside world, but instead it had been from one very small piece of it. Michele.

  Kate said, “She hated that slide, too.”

  Ann smiled, remembering the two girls at the top of the curving yellow slide, arguing over who had to go first. “But she still went down anyway.”

  “She was my best friend.”

  “We don’t know, Kate. Michele could be perfectly fine.”

  “No one is.” Kate leaned her head against the chain of the swing. “I’ve been waiting, but no one came.”

  “Your friends have been meeting here?”

  Kate gave her a sidelong glance. “Some of them.”

  Ann tightened her grip on the chains. She’d come so close. Kate could have caught up with them. “Let’s drive over to Michele’s house. We can honk the horn and see if someone comes to the door.”

  “And what if no one does?”

  “Then we’ll check Scooter’s house, and Claire’s …”

  Kate was shaking her head. “Stop it, Mom.” Her voice was weary. “You can’t fix everything.”

  No, Ann couldn’t fix everything. Some things were completely out of her grasp. Some things were just broken forever.

  “Listen.” Ann turned her swing so she was facing Kate. Their knees gently bumped. “You can’t do this again.” She tilted Kate’s chin up, forcing her daughter to look at her. “Got it?”

  After a moment Kate said, “All right.”

  She’d never survive losing another child. Never.

  TWENTY-NINE

  PETER UNSCREWED THE JAR OF BABY FOOD. JACOB SAT in Shazia’s lap, watching Peter’s every move. Ann knelt at the hearth, holding the pot over the flames, crouched as far away from him and Shazia as she reasonably could.

  Peter dipped in the spoon and captured a smear of creamed carrot.

  Shazia bounced the baby on her lap. “Open up,” she commanded. “Yummy, yummy.”

  Obediently, Jacob took the spoonful and swallowed. Carrot dribbled down his chin.

  “Did you see anyone, Peter?” Shazia said, wiping his face.

  “A little girl.”

  “And?” Ann rocked back on her heels. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the fire.

  “And her mother came and got her. I barely got within ten feet of her.” Ann’s vigilance was relentless. It strained against him.

  Jacob reached out a chubby hand toward the spoon filled with food.

  Shazia caught his wrist. “No, no, baby.”

  Maddie’s voice floated down the stairs. “Can I please come down?”

  “I told you, Maddie. Not until tomorrow.” Ann carried the pot to the counter. She spooned out the bits of chicken and dropped them in the girls’ bowls. She’d added an extra can of water, too. The result would be more the idea of soup than the reality.

  “But there’s nothing to do up here. Kate’s still sleeping. And I’m so boreal.”

  “It’s almost dinnertime. We can play cards afterward.”

  “Why can Daddy be with Jacob and we can’t?” Ann set the pot down. “Because.”

  Jacob swatted the spoon held too long before him and chortled at the answering spray. Shazia grasped the baby’s hand. “No, no.”

  Ann put on her coat and tugged down her hat. Lifting the bag of trash from where it leaned against the cabinet, she unlocked the sliding glass door and stepped outside. Wintry air sliced inside, then vanished as she closed the door again.

  “Jacob seems fine,” Shazia said to Peter. “Maybe his mother was telling the truth.”

  “Maybe.” Ann had refused to consider that possibility. She knew what it was like to bury a child. How could she be so willing to let another mother bury hers?

  “She and Ann are good friends?” Shazia said.

  Since the day they moved in and Libby had come over to welcome them with a plate of scorched brownies. “Ann is Jacob’s godmother.”

  He’d stood in the back of the church, having been invited by Smith, and watched Ann as she took the baby from Libby at the altar. The sadness in her expression had been impossible to bear. He’d turned and slipped away.

  “That explains the way she looks at him.”

  The compassion in Shazia’s voice was clear. He looked at her. “Don’t tell me you agree with what she did.”

  Shazia shrugged and swiped a cloth across the baby’s chin again. “Ann’s a mother. I don’t know what that’s like.”

  Was this a glimmer of female bonding? Peter would have never expected it. Shazia had always been so logical, driven more by the objective rather than by the subjective. Give her facts, not feelings. He’d never imagined that she and Ann might share a common perspective.

  The sliding glass door opened again. “Peter, would you come here?”

  Ann stood in the doorway. She sounded upset. Wearily, he stood and handed the spoon to Shazia. Lifting his jacket from the hook, he slipped it on and pulled his gloves from the pockets. He stepped outside and closed the door. “What?”

  She pointed to the ground.

  He followed the rigid line of her finger to the two bowls lying on the pavers just beneath the apron of the grill cover. “You’re kidding me, right?” she said.

  “I only gave him the things we didn’t eat.” She reminded him so much of his father. His dad had had the same look of disappointment when he caught Peter undoing the traps he’d set.

  “What didn’t we eat, Peter? Name one thing. Today I gave the girls crackers with mustard for lunch.” Her voice caught. “And they ate them.”

  He looked at her, her lips chapped, her hair combed back into a messy ponytail. He thought of her picking out the bits of chicken and placing them in the girls’ soup bowls. She’d play games with the girls to make sure they finished every drop. She’d do what she could to make sure no one noticed her own bowl was half-empty.

  He put out his hand. “Ann, I didn’t mean what I said. You are a good mother.”

  She jerked back. “It’s always been like this for us.”

  “No, it hasn’t. Don’t you remember?”

  “I wasn’t enough. Our children weren’t enough. Our life together wasn’t enough.”

  “It wasn’t that. I got so tired of being unhappy. You deserve to be happy, too.”

  She jammed her hands in her pockets. “Just … stop.”

  He knew what she was thinking about, what she always was thinking about. “You know I don’t blame you.”

  He’d told her this a million times. But it didn’t matter. She blamed herself. Nothing he said would ever change that. Her guilt took her to a faraway place, out of his reach. Her guilt had made strangers of them.

  She shook her head, her lips pressed tightly together. “You can’t be here anymore. You left, and you should have stayed away. Together, we just don’t work. We make everything worse.”

  “Ann,” he tried, but she wasn’t listening.

  “We don’t know how long this quarantine will last.” Her face was white. “But you need to think about where you can go.”

  After William died, she couldn’t bear to go ne
ar the nursery. They kept the door shut for months. One day he’d come home early from work and found Kate napping in her room. He’d followed the quiet rustling noises down the hall to the nursery, where the door stood wide open. Ann was inside, kneeling by the bureau, folding tiny white undershirts and little blue sleepers into boxes. He had stood there in the doorway watching her, worried at the furious way she was emptying the drawers. She’d caught sight of him standing there and rocked back on her heels to look up at him. “I can’t live here anymore, Peter. We need to move.”

  He’d phoned Liederman the next morning, got the job offer in Columbus the next month. At the time, he thought she was running away from the memory. Now he realized she’d been running away from him.

  “You want me to explain to the girls?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  THIRTY

  THE RAIN STARTED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT.

  Ann had always loved the steady pattering against the panes. Her moody Irish heritage, her mother used to say. Everything washed clean and new, all the dirty ridges of snow rinsed down the storm drains. The streets would gleam like silver ribbons. The trees would be brighter. The grass might show some green instead of dreary ochre. Bushes would be coaxed to bud pink and yellow and white. The crocuses might poke through. The cold would ease. The girls could bathe in a real tub instead of shivering before the sink. Everyone could take off a layer and move more normally. A break before the rest of the winter roared back. The house creaked.

  One flight of steps separated her from Peter. It might as well have been a mountain range. She had no idea what time it was. After midnight, probably. The room bore the solid darkness of predawn hours. She punched her pillow into shape. The material was icy against her cheek.

  You know I don’t blame you.

  His leaving would be so hard on the girls. There would be tears, questions, accusations. It would feel as raw as the first time he’d left.

  A second creak, longer this time. Someone was up and walking around downstairs, treading over and over the same spot in the kitchen. She heard a weak cry. The baby. She sat up. Was Jacob sick?

  Someone stood in the dark kitchen. The figure turned. Shazia. “Something’s wrong with the baby,” she whispered. “Does he feel hot?” Ann said softly. The baby whimpered.

  “No.”

  “Has he been sneezing or—”

  “No. I think it’s just baby stuff. Oh, Ann, I don’t know.”

  The baby rubbed his face against the girl’s shoulder. Ann saw that and knew. The relief made her knees weak. Jacob was fine.

  “He’s hungry.” The incubation period was over. And all they had was a hungry, sleepy baby.

  “But he had dinner.”

  Libby had been trying to wean him from his midnight bottle. Ann didn’t know how far along she’d gotten in the process. But this was definitely hungry behavior.

  “Try his pacifier.” Ann reached for the can of formula on the counter and pressed the can opener into the metal. How many ounces would he need? She tried to remember how many Libby had been giving Jacob at his feedings, somewhere between six and eight ounces. Six, she decided. They’d need to conserve every ounce. Who knew when they’d get more? She held the bottle up, trying to see in the gloom, and twisted the nipple onto it.

  Shazia sat rocking the baby in the living room, trying to push a pacifier into his mouth. Every time Jacob opened his mouth to tongue it out again, Shazia shoved it back in. “He reminds me of my nephew,” she said softly. “Such a temper.”

  The longing in her voice was plain. “Would you like to feed him?”

  “I think he wants you.” Shazia stood and ladled the soft, squirming baby into Ann’s arms.

  “Hey, buddy.” Ann clasped him tight and settled herself on the chair.

  Jacob opened his mouth wide. The pacifier dropped. She pushed the bottle’s nipple in. His lips clamped on and his eyes opened. He stared at her. As if unwilling, he gave a tentative suck. His eyes drifted shut and his body relaxed. She rocked, listening to the sound of the rain, loving the simple joy of feeding a baby. She brought him closer to her, bent and kissed his warm, downy forehead, breathed in that delicious baby smell. Innocence. She rubbed her cheek against the top of his head, slipped a forefinger into his hand, and felt his fingers tighten around hers.

  Shazia sat down on the couch opposite. “Does the rain mean winter is over?”

  “No, unfortunately. We sometimes have these warmer spells. They don’t last long. It could snow again tomorrow.”

  Shazia shuddered. “Don’t even say it. I never want to see snow again. I don’t care if I never go sledding.”

  Over Jacob’s head, they shared a smile.

  Shazia lifted her feet and tucked them beneath her. “In Egypt, our biggest problems are sandstorms. You can’t possibly be outside in one of those.”

  “I’ve never been there. I’ve studied the art, though. I’d love to see it in person.”

  “You should go in February. That’s the best time of year.”

  February was only weeks away. Ann imagined it, wandering along warm, sun-baked streets with a gorgeous azure sky above, her girls running and laughing as they discovered one miraculous sight after another.

  “I can’t bear it.”

  Ann lifted her head and saw Shazia staring out the window. “I just can’t, Ann.”

  Ann felt a rush of sympathy for this stoic young girl who’d uttered not one single word of complaint. “Oh, Shazia. I know. It won’t be for much longer.” The same words she used with the girls, the same soothing tone. “You’re just having the middle-of-the-night blues.” Ann knew what that was like. She’d paced this house a million times, despairing, waiting for the sun.

  “I don’t know what to do. Peter’s gotten so strange, too. Have you noticed? After that house burned down … he doesn’t talk.”

  Peter had been the same way after William’s death. If he did talk, it was about the inconsequential things. Maybe they could get another year out of the car. Maybe Kate would like to see that play, the one with the dancing mushrooms. “We’re all feeling the strain. We just need to hang on. You know that as well as anyone.”

  “That’s what makes it so much harder, Ann. I know this is just the first wave. How can we possibly survive two more waves of this?”

  “We can’t think like that. We can only go one day at a time.” Ann was rocking harder. Jacob gave a small mew of protest. “Sorry, baby,” she murmured. “Sorry.”

  “My grandfather died last year. He suffered for weeks, refusing water and food. He didn’t recognize us. He cried out to ghosts only he could see. He shriveled and became a stranger. It was a relief when he finally … just … stopped.” Shazia was crying now. Ann could hear it in her voice.

  Ann needed Peter to wake up. She glanced at him, but he was lost in a sea of blankets. Could she reach him with her foot? The baby reached up and batted her chin. She caught his fingers in hers and held them to her lips.

  “I saw my best friend die, too.” Shazia swiped at her cheeks with her fingers. “A motorcycle ran onto the sidewalk and hit her. One moment she was alive and talking to me about a boy we both liked and the next moment she was gone. She was eleven.”

  Ann and Libby used to talk about everything—relationships, motherhood, whether true happiness was real. They’d taken their friendship for granted. They hadn’t stepped out of the way of tragedy, either.

  “Tell me, Ann. Which do you think is the better way to die?”

  Ann put the baby to her shoulder and rubbed his back. He wriggled his head into the crook of her neck just the way William used to, his breath coming in soft little feathers. She pressed him close. A sudden death was the worst way, she knew. “Oh, Shazia,” she said, helpless.

  Rain streaked the glass and puddled on the sill. A silvery light seeped into the room. Dawn was coming. Ann could see the outline of Shazia’s profile, the curve of her cheek, the slope of her shoulders.

  “Peter said he is l
eaving in the morning.” The girl’s voice was low. “I’d like to go with him.”

  It sounded like she was asking Ann’s permission. Of course, it wasn’t hers to give. She couldn’t bless Shazia’s relationship with Peter. She didn’t even want to. “Where will you stay?”

  “The dorm. I’m sure something’s opened up there by now.”

  “You can’t possibly do that. It wouldn’t be at all safe. You know that.” Ann resettled the baby and fitted the bottle back into his mouth. He looked up at her with wide, trusting eyes. It had been so long. She kissed the top of his head. “This is your home now, Shazia.” It was the truth. “Besides, your parents think you’re here.”

  “My parents expect me to take care of myself.”

  What a strange thing to say. Ann looked at her. “What is it, Shazia? What happened?”

  Shazia shrugged and gazed out the window at the lashing ropes of rain. Her hands remained folded in her lap.

  “Shazia?”

  But the girl refused to meet her gaze.

  Ann found herself staring at the girl’s cupped fingers. Shazia had picked at her food for weeks. All that crying behind closed doors. All that endless napping, her studying the calendar when she thought no one was watching. The pieces rushed together into one telling whole. Ann caught her breath.

  Shazia was pregnant.

  Then … who was the father?

  Ann shifted her gaze to Peter.

  THIRTY-ONE

  MADDIE LEANED AGAINST THE LAUNDRY ROOM DOOR and thumped the back of her heel against the wood. “But I don’t want you to go.”

  Peter rolled up a pair of jeans and shoved them into his duffel bag. “I won’t be far, honey. I’ll just be a few minutes away.”

  Twenty minutes or ten miles. Somewhere along the way he’d stop and get some supplies. He might chance upon an open grocery store, or perhaps a convenience store. Even a gas station would do. There were several between here and his place. He didn’t need much. He could manage a long time on peanut butter and candy bars. If those didn’t pan out, well, surely he’d figure something out. He zipped the bag shut and glanced over at Maddie. She had her mouth turned down and was blinking rapidly to keep the tears back. He came over, knelt, and took her small hands in his. “As soon as I get settled, you can come for a visit.”