Adrift in the Sound (28 page)

THIRTY

“PRETTY BABY,”
the clerk said leaning over the counter. She smiled down at Violet nestled in her stroller. “How old is she?”

Lizette stepped between the girl’s line of sight and the stroller. “About five months.” She held back nervousness from her voice, willed herself to remain calm, hands steady. She forced herself to smile back, but it felt crooked on her mouth.

“Took you a while to get here,” the girl said, pushing up heavy black glasses, staring at the torn birth certificate. Her stringy brown hair clung to the side of her face and she wore a stained blue cotton blouse with an orange-haired troll doll pinned on the collar. “She was born in June?” The clerk checked the form. “What does that make her? Gemini?”

“With Aries rising. My grandmother was sick in Portland.” Lizette lied easily and focused on the scuffed counter. “Had to go down and take care of her. Broken hip.”

“Sorry to hear that,” the girl said, slipping a sheet of carbon between the pages before filling out a receipt. “Is she going to be OK?”

Lizette felt a twitter in the back of her throat and swallowed. Nodded yes. “How much does the birth certificate cost?”

“Ten dollars.” The girl pressed down hard on the paper, checked the carbon impression on the page underneath. “Takes about three weeks for the embossed, certified copy to come in the mail. You want it sent to 4316 Greenlake Avenue? Right?” She looked up and Lizette gave her a confirming nod. “My grandmother used to live over by Greenlake, went to the big Methodist church right by the lake. Do you know that one?” Lizette allowed that she did to hurry the procedure along. “I can still remember Christmas service there, people dressed up like Mary and Joseph, the Three Wise Men. Did you ever rent paddle boats at the lake?”

“Do you need anything else?” Lizette put the money on the counter, grabbed the stroller handle, pushed it back and forth to comfort Violet, who fussed halfheartedly. “She’s getting hungry.”

“No, that’s it. Except for the receipt.” She passed the carbon copy across the counter to Lizette, who slipped it into her canvas bag. “Have a nice day.”

“Thanks.” Lizette pushed Violet through the double doors, the gilt “County Records” letters chipping off the glass, and rolled into the afternoon sunshine. She stood on the sidewalk shaking and put her face up to the warmth, smiled into the bright dome of the world with her eyes closed, heart yelling
“Yes!”

Lizette pushed the stroller to the bus stop, kept herself from skipping and giggling. When the bus came, a passenger helped lift the stroller so she and Violet could get on. They bounced along, the city a happy buzz. She got off a few blocks from her father’s house and dawdled along the familiar streets with the baby, enjoying the fall gardens, the colors fading into burnished yellows and russets, variegated greens. Shasta daisies and chrysanthemums reigned over grasses and ivy. “Bibbity, bibbity, boop!” She prattled into the stroller, surprising Violet into a giggle. Lizette laughed out loud, startled herself with the outburst, looked around to see if any neighbors were watching.

She found her father in the backyard, trimming shrubs across the back fence, a long pile of branches lay on the grass. He waved toward her with a gloved hand, holding the pruning shears aloft. She lifted Violet from the stroller and crossed the grass, stood in front of him, holding the baby out to him. “Meet your granddaughter, Violet Lena.”

“My God!” he dropped the shears and grabbed the baby. “I didn’t know … I had no idea. Why didn’t you tell me? … I’m not prepared.” He hunched over the bundle in his arms. “My God,” he said looking up at Lizette with moist eyes. “She’s beautiful.” He twirled around with the bundle. Violet offered her little giggle and Einar roared, scaring the baby, making her cry.

Lizette stepped forward and took her, put Violet on her shoulder and soothed her with quick pats on the back. Her father sat down on the grass, knees spread, head lowered, offering his bald spot to the sun. “I’m not prepared for this. Never expected … Didn’t think … I need some water.” He got up and went to the house. Lizette settled on the grass, spread Violet’s blankets. The baby gathered herself, rolled, couldn’t quite turn onto her belly, let out a cry, tried again. Lizette watched, but didn’t help.

Einar came back with two glasses of ice water and a plate of crackers and cheese. Lizette took them and he sat down. “When did this happen?” he said in wonderment.

“About five months ago,” Lizette said. “Everything went pretty well. Marian was there.”

“She’s a good girl, Marian. But what about the baby’s father? Where’s he? Are you married?”

“His name is Rocket.” She saw the confused look on his face. “Raymond. Raymond Daniels. He’s from San Francisco. He works on the tugboats in the Sound. He’s a seaman, an inland boatman, actually. Everybody calls him Rocket because of the car he drives.”

“My father was a seaman,” Einar said, trying to reconcile the situation. “Worked out of Seattle and Tacoma in the 30s and 40s.”

“So does Rocket,” Lizette said.

“It’s a hard job,” Einar said knowingly. “Keeps you away from your family. I feel like I hardly knew my dad. He was always working. Paid for my college, though. I’ll always be grateful.” He picked up a cracker and layered slices of cheddar cheese on it. “Where are you living?” he said, cracker crumbs dribbling from his mouth.

“Out on Orcas. With Marian. Rocket’s gone a lot.”

“Well, at least you won’t be alone.” He picked Violet up, studied her face. “Her eyes are breathtaking.” He set her down on her back. “Just amazing.”

“Everyone says that. I wish Mom could see her,” Lizette said sadly.

“I can’t even imagine how excited she’d be,” he said. “She would’ve run around, planning the nursery, painting little pictures, matching paint, driving everybody crazy.” He coughed on a chuckle. “She’d have been in her glory. It’s times like this when I really miss her.” Lizette reached out to him, covered his hand, rubbed the ropey veins.

They sat silently, watching Violet struggle to roll over. As the afternoon slipped away and a breeze rustled the trees, they got up and went inside. Lizette prepared a baby bottle. “You’re staying for dinner,” her father said and she didn’t argue.

“I can catch the bus back to Anacortes in the morning,” she said as he moved around the kitchen, opening cans and putting pots on the stove. She took Violet into the living room, settled on the couch and looked out the window on houses and streets already etched in her memory, but new to her somehow, with Violet safe in her arms. She banked pillows around the baby after she fell asleep and went to the kitchen to help with dinner. He handed her plates and glasses, napkins and silverware. They ate in comfortable silence then washed the dishes and cleaned up. It was still light outside and the house felt warm and full. They tiptoed into the living room and settled quietly into chairs.

“Do you have a crib for the baby?” Einar asked softly.

“Hadn’t thought about it,” Lizette whispered. “She’s been sleeping in an old apple box.” He frowned. “It works fine. I mean, she’ll outgrow it eventually, but not yet. Don’t worry.”

“I don’t want my granddaughter sleeping in an apple lug like some fruit tramp’s kid,” he said roughly and saw Lizette flinch, felt her willfulness dig in. “Sorry. I didn’t mean … It’s just that your old crib and dresser are up in the attic. You could use them for Violet.” He got up from his chair and stood above the sleeping baby. “Do you think she’s safe here? We could go up now and take a look.”

“Not now, Dad.” Lizette signaled him to sit down. “It’s OK. I can get her whatever she needs. I don’t have a way to get the stuff to Orcas anyhow. Don’t bother.”

“No bother. Your mother would’ve wanted it. She put all your baby things away. Said maybe you’d want them for your own baby, someday. So, it looks like this is the day.” He chuckled and bent for a closer look at Violet.

He headed down the hall to the stairway and she followed. She hadn’t been in the front hall in years, hardly able to stand going further than the kitchen. She paused to look at the paintings on the walls, mostly her mother’s landscapes done
plein air
on Orcas Island, places she knew well, the play of light at different times, the angles for composition. She could see her mother’s self-centeredness in the canvases, her failure to meld with the scene and render truthfully. Her own work was framed there, too, and she looked closely at the structure of her paintings, leaned in to study her own brush strokes. She realized how much her work had evolved from these early efforts. It had grown into something that excited her, that tugged at her, demanded her urgent attention. She hurried upstairs, saw her father had been watching her from the landing. His intent look caused her to pause beside him, feel as if he’d been reading her mind.

“What?” She searched his face, but it went blank. She slipped past and took the second flight of stairs two at a time.

At the end of the upstairs hall, she opened the narrow door to the attic and went up again into the dimness. The air was close, the heat of the afternoon trapped in the steepled rafters. Cobwebs dangled from the bare wood, translucent in the light from the small, knee-high window that overlooked the front garden and the street. Her father flipped the light switch at the bottom of the stairs before climbing up and the bare bulb cast a decayed glow over dusty boxes and sheet-draped furniture.

“This place is like a tomb,” she said when his head reached the top of the narrow stairway and he paused, squinting like a gopher at the boxes, lamps, and chairs piled there. “Where do you think the crib is?”

“I haven’t been up here in years,” he said. “I can’t quite remember where I put it. We’ll have to move some things around. Do you think we’ll hear Violet if she cries?”

“What’s this?” She pulled an old rocking chair from under a sheet, dragged it to the middle of the floor and sat down.

“My mother rocked me in that chair,” he said. “I always thought it had a good sway. The runners are long and balanced. I loved the claw feet when I was a kid, the glass balls gripped in the talons looked Medieval, made me think of knights and castles. I used to crack walnuts while she rocked.” He stood behind her as she pumped her ankles and smoothed his hands along the edge of the chair back. “Your grandmother was a good woman.”

“Can I have it?” She turned to look up at him, but his gaze seemed far away. “It would be good to rock Violet in. I could put it in the cabin.”

“You can’t keep that child in an old shepherd’s cabin,” he said. “You can’t stay at Marian’s forever. You’ve got a baby now. You have to make plans. I’ve still got that piece of land on Orcas, out on the point.”

“We’re moving into Rocket’s,” she said firmly. “He has a house in Eastlake, by Lake Union. It’s big. He just has to get rid of his roommates and that might take a while, but then we can fix things up. He has a grand piano.”

“Does he play?” Einar asked, more interested.

“Yes. Well, no, not very well. Fisher plays it. He’s a concert pianist, used to play with the Seattle Symphony.”

“Rocket, Fisher?” he said. “I don’t know these people.” Lizette got up and went to a stack of boxes by the window.

“My drawings from high school are still here!” She leafed through the top box, knelt by the large box beside the stack of smaller ones. “Wow! I’d forgotten about this stuff.” She pulled canvases out, held one to the light to examine it, laid it on the floor. “Not bad for a teenager,” she said, embarrassed by her self-praise.

“Lizette.” She looked up at his serious tone. “Please sit down. I have some things I need to tell you.”

“OK,” she said, going to the rocker and sitting, working her feet rhythmically, watching him warily as he paced in front of her.

“Your mother … “ He paused, turned to her. “She … ah.” Lizette leaned forward, searched his face. “She loved you very much.” She gripped the arms of her grandmother’s rocking chair, waited for him to continue. “She was very proud of you, from the time you were a small child, from the moment you were born.” Lizette bobbed her head in understanding and he continued. “She saw your talent. She had dreams. She … ah, she knew you had something special.” He pulled an old dining chair from under a sheet and sat, balancing on the seat’s edge, like he was sitting on a tightrope and might topple over. “She thought the world of you.”

“I understand,” Lizette said, trying to put her father at ease. “I really do. We don’t need to talk about it.”