Whispering Hearts Page 22

  She had brought Dr. Bliskin as well as Mrs. Marlene to the nursery to see what she was doing, where she had placed the cradle in relation to the windows, and the hypoallergenic materials she had chosen for the curtains, the carpet, and even the new wallpaper.

  As far as I knew, Elizabeth Davenport had yet to look at any of the changes and additions. There was no doubt that she didn’t approve of the in vitro method. That got me wondering how she would react to the birth of her grandson. Would she accept him or think of him as something freakish? I was curious, but I never dared ask. Samantha seemed quite disinterested in her mother-in-law’s feelings about it, anyway, but I could imagine Dr. Davenport being somewhat upset about his mother’s attitude. I was sure he was trying to get her to accept what they were doing. Like those of so many older people I had known, especially my father, her beliefs and feelings were cemented in who she was and who she would always be.

  As my due date drew closer, it was sweet to watch how excited Dr. Davenport and Samantha were becoming. In the short time I had been at Wyndemere, I had seen how devoted he was to her, but during these months, he seemed to adore her to the point of worship. Once he was home, he was at her side constantly. I was aware that he was going more frequently to her bedroom at night. I couldn’t explain the odd feeling I was having, but it was like they saw me but didn’t at times. I was hovering above and around them, a promise that would fulfill their happiest dreams. And yet when they became intimate and loving at dinner or after, I felt intrusive and retreated to the library or to my room.

  During the last trimester, Dr. Bliskin’s visits were more frequent. I had the sense that he was as worried about my psychological well-being as he was about my physical well-being. After all, except for Mrs. Cohen and Mrs. Marlene and Samantha, I had no female company. Not that I hadn’t grown fond of Samantha, but she was flighty and childlike at times, and even though she was older than I was, I saw her as I would a younger sister. I needed contact with other people and more stimulating conversation. Knowing that I would see the baby for only a day or so after he was born, I couldn’t get excited about clothes and toys. She was reading books on raising an infant and was always eager to discuss something else she had learned. Reading helped me pass the time, but I knew I looked lost and even trapped sometimes, especially to Dr. Bliskin.

  “Pregnant women can feel too limited, constrained. You can develop cabin fever, even in a house this big with grounds like Wyndemere’s,” he began. “I always tell my patients that I don’t want them ever to feel like they’re recuperating from something and it will take nine months. This is not an illness; this is not a condition or a handicap. Some of my patients get what I’m saying and are determined to lead as normal a life as possible, even working into the ninth month. I had a woman recently who nearly gave birth while continuing to work at a supermarket checkout.” Then he added, “But… I know things are different for you…”

  I didn’t have to verbalize what I was feeling. He sensed and saw it. That was the first time he offered to take a walk with me. Samantha was out shopping for more baby clothing. She returned before Franklin, as he wanted me to call him now, and I were on our way back from the lake. Sometime during our walk, I stopped thinking of him as my doctor. Our talk was more about who we were, our past, especially mine. He had been to England but only to London. I remember when we approached the house, I was thinking that he was more like a prospective boyfriend.

  Samantha’s reaction was mixed. She was happy to learn that I wasn’t off on my own, but she looked like she was actually jealous that he was filling my non-medical time. I think Franklin sensed it and went on about how important it was for me to get good exercise.

  “I wouldn’t have gone shopping,” she said. “I’m so sorry. Is everything all right?”

  “Absolutely,” he told her.

  After he left, she said, “Doctors aren’t supposed to have so much free time. Harrison doesn’t.”

  I thought that was odd, especially because Dr. Davenport was spending more time than ever with her these days, and besides, why wouldn’t she be even happier that Dr. Bliskin was devoting more attention to me, which was the same as saying devoting more attention to her baby?

  I think she realized it later and made sure to tell me she didn’t mean to sound unappreciative.

  “I don’t think he felt that you were,” I assured her, even though I could see that he was sensitive to her reaction. As a result, he didn’t take another walk with me right away, and the few times he did, Samantha came along whenever she was home and pummeled him with questions about my health and the baby’s.

  I was sleeping more now and moving about the mansion less. Some days I didn’t want to leave the room, but Dr. Bliskin was adamant about my getting exercise. He was happy about the amount of my weight gain but made the point of telling me, “We’re not home free yet.”

  Home was on my mind more and more these days. I had put off calling again, knowing that when I did, I would have to elaborate on my original lie. I called once and got only the answering machine. I left a vague reference to my role in the regional theater and promised to call again. I was sure both Dr. Davenport and Samantha knew this was an area of thin ice for me to tread, and so they never asked me about my family in England.

  One Saturday morning, the second week into my seventh month, I placed a call. My fingers were trembling, thinking my father would answer. I almost preferred he would and then immediately hang up. It would eliminate my need to elaborate on my lies, and I would feel that I had fulfilled my obligation. But to my stunned surprise, it was Julia who answered, and like someone who had just awoken, despite the time in England being five hours later.

  “Julia?” I asked, needing to confirm it was she.

  “Why haven’t you called? You never gave us a way to contact you. I couldn’t even write a letter, send a telegram, anything.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, beginning to construct my fabrication, “but this has taken—”

  “Daddy is dead,” she said.

  It was as if something had just exploded very close to my ear. I think the explosion was even ringing with her words.

  “What?”

  “He was walking home after work. It was raining, and people who saw him said he was having trouble opening his old umbrella. You know how he resisted replacing it. He stood there struggling with it. He hadn’t been feeling well for weeks. Some nights he would sit in the living room and not say a word to either me or Mummy. He wasn’t eating well, either, and Mummy was nagging him to go to the doctor, but you know how stubborn he could be.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  At least, I think I did. I couldn’t hear myself.

  That ringing continued.

  “Suddenly, he stopped struggling with the umbrella. A witness said he looked up at the rain as if he could send the drops into retreat, back up to the clouds, and then he sank to the walk. The ambulance was called, but he was already gone. They couldn’t revive him. His heart exploded. That’s the way they put it to us, exploded. Why haven’t you called?”

  I couldn’t talk.

  “Mummy wanted to wait until we could find you, but she couldn’t stomach him lying there in the morgue like that. She said he would be furious. She’s not making very much sense these days. Why didn’t you call us?”

  “I couldn’t,” I said.

  “Why couldn’t you? Why, Emma? Mummy thought for sure something terrible had happened to you, too. Everyone wanted to know why you weren’t at the funeral. I had no answers for them.”

  “Oh, Julia,” I said. I was crying now, crying louder than I thought.

  “What?” she screamed. “Why couldn’t you call us at least when you knew Daddy wouldn’t be home to slam the phone down at the sound of your voice? Why?”

  I was hyperventilating, fighting to catch my breath.

  “Emma. Daddy’s dead. He died over a fortnight ago. Come home tomorrow. Do you hear me?”

  “I…”<
br />
  “Tomorrow.”

  “Can’t…” I said.

  “What? Your damn career? Your confounded selfish—”

  “No, Julia. I can’t because I’m seven months pregnant,” I said.

  Her silence brought the ringing back. I held the receiver away from my ear and then dropped it and slowly sank to my knees and then back against the bed before sitting on the floor, my legs apart. I swung my arm and knocked over the table and the phone.

  Samantha opened my bedroom door and looked in at me for only a split second before she screamed for Mrs. Cohen. I closed my eyes and wished with all my heart that I would simply die, evaporate, and be gone from everyone and everywhere. Mrs. Cohen came running, and with Samantha’s help, got me off the floor and back into my bed.

  Samantha saw that the phone was still off the cradle.

  “What is it, Emma? What’s happened?” she asked as Mrs. Cohen began to check my vitals.

  “Her heart is pounding,” she muttered.

  “Call Dr. Bliskin,” Samantha demanded. “I’ll call my husband.”

  She went to the phone. Mrs. Cohen went into the bathroom and returned with a cool washcloth to put on my forehead.

  “Are you in any pain, Emma?” she asked. Samantha was already talking to Dr. Davenport.

  I shook my head. “I’m a little dizzy,” I said in a loud whisper.

  “What is it?” Samantha asked. She came to hold my hand.

  “I called home,” I said. “My father died. More than two weeks ago. They didn’t know how to reach me…”

  I closed my eyes. I was sobbing, but I couldn’t feel any tears on my cheeks. Mrs. Cohen called Dr. Bliskin’s office, but he was in the delivery room. Mrs. Topper said she would give him the message, and he would surely come as soon as he could. Samantha looked like she was in a serious panic attack, and Mrs. Cohen didn’t know where she should put her attention first.

  “Give her something to calm her!” Samantha screamed.

  “We don’t want to give her anything without Dr. Bliskin, and we usually don’t give sedatives to pregnant women, Mrs. Davenport. Please try to get hold of yourself. You’ll do more damage if you frighten and upset Emma more than she is.”

  Samantha swallowed hard and nodded.

  “Take deep breaths,” Mrs. Cohen told her. “Let’s keep everyone as composed as we can.”

  “I can’t go home,” I said, more to myself than to them. “I can’t let Mummy see me like this. She won’t understand. She would be terribly embarrassed. Julia said she wasn’t well. It might kill her.”

  “It’s all right. You can’t travel, anyway,” Samantha said. “Dr. Davenport will figure everything out for you. You’ll see.”

  I looked at her and nodded. Dr. Davenport was so like my father, imbued with self-confidence, stalwart, and dependable. People, after all, put their lives in his hands. Their very heartbeats relied on his skill. There was no hesitation in him when he had to make a decision.

  Yes, I thought, yes. Dr. Davenport will know what I should do.

  I lay back on my pillows and closed my eyes. I knew Samantha was hovering beside me and probably wouldn’t move, but I didn’t want to think about her or the baby now. That last image of my father that had haunted me for so long was on the insides of my eyelids. But it started to fade, and in its place was a different image of him, an image that I cherished. I wasn’t much more than four. He was laughing at the pile of pennies I had stacked very neatly for him to see. Some of them I had found on the sidewalk and washed. I was telling him to take them to the bank, where they would grow as tall as the house.

  “Yes, that’s good thinking, Emma,” he said. He brushed my hair back, and then he kissed me on the forehead and helped me count the pennies, before putting them in a bag for him to take to the bank. It was how my first savings account was begun.

  Oddly, I had never touched that money. It wasn’t much, but I hadn’t withdrawn it before I left. It was still there, like some promise I had made to him years ago.

  “Daddy,” I whispered, and fell asleep for a while.

  When I opened my eyes, Dr. Davenport was there. Samantha was standing right behind him.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your father,” he began.

  I almost uttered a revised reference to the rising of Lazarus in the Bible. If you had been there, he would not have died.

  “I know how frustrated you must feel. Now I’m glad I asked you to give me your family’s contact details.”

  I widened my eyes in confusion. “Why?”

  “I’ve booked a flight to England tomorrow morning. I’m going to see your sister and your mother,” he said. “I’m going to explain everything to them. I know that doesn’t mean they’re going to understand or approve of what you’ve agreed to do, but I feel it’s my responsibility to lay the groundwork for what you will do afterward. I’ll be sure they’re all right, too.”

  “Harrison can help them understand,” Samantha said, stepping up. “If anyone can…”

  “I don’t know that anyone can,” I said.

  “Then it’s best he be the one to try,” she said.

  He smiled and reached for her hand.

  “I’m frightened,” I said.

  He took my hand, too. “As Samantha and I are for you and your family. We’ll get through it together,” he promised.

  I was crying. The only way I knew was that I felt a salty tear reach my lips. He wiped it away with his handkerchief.

  “Franklin will be here in twenty minutes,” he said. He tightened his fingers around my hand gently and then stood. “I’ll try to call you from Guildford, but if not, I’ll come right here when I return.”

  “Tell them I’m sorry.”

  “It goes without saying, but they’ll understand that, I’m sure.” He rose.

  “Thank you, Harrison,” Samantha said, and hugged him as if he was doing all this for her perhaps even more than for me. Maybe he was.

  In the end, what difference would it make? Until their baby was born, she would cry when I did and laugh when I did. My fear that she would become my shadow had been realized. She would cry tonight for my father the way she had cried for her own. And in the morning, she would look for the same restorative hope in the sunshine pushing away the darkness.

  I shared no DNA with their child, but they were now a part of me, and I was now a part of them, no matter what was written in the science books doctors quoted.

  FOURTEEN

  Dr. Bliskin was with me for most of the early evening after Dr. Davenport had left for the airport. He sat at my bedside, mainly trying to keep me calm. He empathized and talked about the loss of his father. He was only in his teens when his father had passed.

  Before he left, Mrs. Marlene brought up some dinner for me herself. She and I had grown quite fond of each other, but the only reason I ate anything was to please Samantha. Like someone entranced by a movie, she sat there watching me eat and listening to Franklin and me talk. He wanted to stay longer, but I insisted he go home to his family. I assured him, and he assured Samantha, that I was all right. Samantha remained until I finally closed my eyes and drifted into an uneasy sleep, waking often.

  Before I could even think of rising, Samantha appeared and insisted on my breakfast being brought to me. I wanted to get up, but I let her have her way, and then, after I had eaten under her watchful eye, I rose, dressed, and started down. What I wanted more than anything was to be alone. She started after me when I headed for the doorway. I turned on her sharply.

  “I need some private time, Samantha. You’ll have to trust that I won’t do anything to jeopardize the baby.”

  She could see the determination in my face and swallowed back her fears. I left her in the outside entryway and walked slowly toward the lake. I knew she was going to remain there, watching my every move.

  The day I left home seemed ages ago now. When you do things that are so intense and demanding, the time it takes to accomplish them flows in every direction
in your memory. Pinning down when you had this feeling or that, this dream and ambition or another and all the voices and visuals associated with the efforts to achieve them, is as evasive as water you’re trying to hold in your closed hand. Right now, I felt lost in a fog, desperately hoping not to cry. I feared I had made a terrible mess of everything.

  In my earliest New York days, I had seen my father everywhere. I’d look out at the crowds of people walking up the sidewalk toward me and swear I saw him moving among them, until the man who resembled him had drawn closer. Sometimes, I imagined my father looking out at me from a high floor in an office building and then backing away to disappear inside. Occasionally, I heard someone shout what sounded like my name and spun around expecting him, but saw only strangers. He was constantly on my mind during those early hours, early days.

  Gradually, he drifted back as my pursuit and my work to support it took all my attention and energy. I grew stronger and more independent. My father, who actually hated to see anyone give up on a personal goal, loved to quote Nietzsche: That which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. It was his favorite way of dealing with disappointment. I clung to it until one thing had piled on another and I had felt the desperation that had brought me to Wyndemere.

  I never intended to hurt my family. I really believed that I would find success and make them proud, including my stubborn father. Guilt kept my head down this morning as I walked. Until now, I didn’t feel anywhere as awkward or as heavy with the pregnancy. The true weight of what I had sold myself to do was pressing on my shoulders. I took deep breaths and paused. Foamy clouds were being torn by the high winds and shredded into wisps of themselves. I thought I could hear them screaming. Eventually, I made it to the dock and stood there watching the water lap against the wood and the rocks on the shoreline. People were already out in their boats, enjoying the sense of freedom it gave them. I could hear engines and even voices in the distance. I was awash in pure envy. Their lives seemed so carefree, like pure joy.

  There was nothing left to do but finish here and go home, I thought. I’d use my money to help Mummy and Julia and find some menial job to help time pass until all my ambition took its final gasp and sank somewhere so deep inside me that years and years later, I couldn’t even remember ever setting out for America.