Owen's Daughter (9 page)

Glory frowned. “Not great. She’s on a new drug. Benlysta? It’s given via IV. Took me months to talk her into trying it. I hope it helps. I wish I could talk her into moving out here.”

The smell of scorching milk filled the air.

Margaret stood up and went to the stove. “Did you take the pregnancy test while you were in the bathroom?”

Glory nodded. “The directions say it takes ten minutes to develop. I figured if it turned out positive, you’d be here to soften the blow.”

Margaret reduced the flame and added four tablespoons of the Dutch cocoa to the steaming milk, whisking it until it turned a rich chocolate brown and adding a tablespoon of honey. “Would it be so terrible to have another baby?” she asked.

Glory laughed. “Picture me running after a toddler while I’m nursing a newborn.”

“Well,” Margaret said, “I suppose you can consider other options.”

“Not me,” Glory said. “What if he turns out to be another Joseph?”

Margaret smiled. “Or he could be a she.”

“It’s definitely a boy,” Glory said. “Snips and snails and all that. What is a ‘snip,’ anyway?”

“Parsnip, that root vegetable, I think. Cocoa’s ready,” she said. “Go fetch that test and let’s have a look.”

“Auntie Margaret!” Aspen shouted. “There are f-f-f-fairies in your garden! I seed a million of them.”

“I
saw
a million of them,” Glory corrected.

“You seed them too?” Aspen asked.

“Never mind,” Glory said, laughing as she headed to the bathroom.

“Is that so?” Margaret said. “How many marshmallows would you like in your cocoa?”

“Forty-eleben, please!” Aspen said.

“I’m afraid I only have six marshmallows left. If I give them all to you, then Grandma and Auntie Margaret won’t have any. Do you think we could share?”

Aspen stamped her foot.

“Remember, we don’t do that at Auntie Margaret’s house.”

Aspen pouted. “Fine, okay. I will share.”

“If you have two, how many does that leave for your grandma and me?”

Aspen counted on her fingers. “One, two. Can I put them in?”

“If you wash your hands first. With soap.”

The deed was done, but Glory had not returned to the kitchen. Margaret set Aspen up with a newsprint pad and some erasable markers. “Remember, we only use the markers on the paper.”

“I know, I know,” the little blond girl said. “Not on the wuh-wull and not on the floor and n-n-n-n-not on the dog. Auntie Margaret?”

“Yes, honey?”

“How sick are you? Are you going to get well?”

Margaret’s blood ran cold, the same way it always did when Aspen let out these bits of information that she had no way of knowing. The little girl did it infrequently, but when she did, she was consistently right. It started when she knew Glory had gone into labor, and again when she told Margaret that Echo had an earache, which was confirmed the next day at the vet’s. “It’s true I am sick,” she told Aspen, trying to make light of it, “but not very. I’ll be here with you for a long, long time.”

Aspen took a slurp of her cocoa. “That’s what Dolores said. I loves you, Auntie Margaret.”

“I love you, too. Now keep an eye on Sparrow for me, just for a minute,” Margaret said, and went down the hall to find her neighbor.

Glory was sitting on the edge of the claw-foot tub, crying.

“Positive?” Margaret said.

Glory nodded. “Is it okay if I sit here awhile, cry myself out?”

“Tell you what,” Margaret said. “Leave the girls with me. Go spend some time with your husband. I can give Aspen her bath, and I have instant formula from the last time I sat for Sparrow. Go on home.”

“You’re the best friend ever,” Glory said.

“I consider you the very same.”

“Aren’t we fortunate to have found each other?” Glory asked her.

“Profoundly fortunate,” Margaret answered.

And then she was babysitting instead of feeling sorry for herself. Probably that was the way things were meant to be.

The next morning, Casey came over for the girls. She looked like any other twenty-something in her blue jeans and hoodie, but Margaret knew—perhaps better than anyone—that appearances could be deceiving. “How are you doing, sweetheart?” Margaret asked as she placed Sparrow in her carrier.

Casey took hold of it with one hand and clasped Aspen’s hand in her other. “All right. Glory’s teaching me to knit.”

Her gravelly voice was always a shock to Margaret. “Really? I love knitting. You should both come over sometime and we’ll have ourselves a stitch-and-bitch.”

Casey laughed. “Thank you. We will.”

One of the brothers who’d kidnapped her had slashed her neck. Margaret never asked, but she guessed such an act indicated they were tired of her and didn’t want her found alive and able to identify them. When she didn’t die, apparently the older of the two brothers took pity on her, and Casey, with courage Margaret wasn’t sure she herself could have summoned, survived. What could have ended her life had severely damaged her vocal cords.

One of the kidnappers was dead, and the other one had recently been profiled on
America’s Most Wanted
. Someday, she prayed as Casey waved good-bye. Let him be found, and let the justice system extract seven years’ worth of life from him. It was only a start, but it would be something.

That evening, Margaret was standing at the sink washing dishes, wondering how Joseph had taken Glory’s news. She knew the man well enough to be certain he would shed tears of happiness, but he would also worry. With her last pregnancy Glory had ended up confined to bed with eclampsia, and now, in addition to baby Sparrow, Casey and Aspen were living with them. Glory had told her about Casey’s nightmares. Sometimes the flashbacks of what she’d endured exhausted her for a couple of days, which left Glory caring for Aspen. If Glory was bedridden for this pregnancy, Joseph would have a lot to do at home while trying to get Reach for the Sky off the ground.

Margaret decided she would start knitting a baby blanket. No, two of them. One blue and another yellow with pink flowers, because no matter what Glory thought, it might not be a boy. She’d make a list of casseroles, go over them with Glory, and then she’d bake them a loaf of bread every week. And cupcakes. Aspen loved cupcakes. Making them meals would be fun and would keep Margaret herself eating properly. Aspen was big on macaroni and cheese, but Margaret’s recipe sneaked in grated carrot and zucchini. Margaret wiped down the zinc counters and put the dishes away in the cream-colored cupboards with the black hinges. The farmhouse sink was chipped, the chrome fixtures worn to copper in places. Margaret would never change a thing about it. She heated up water for tea and was about to sit down with the new Robyn Carr novel,
Moonlight Road
, when the computer trilled, indicating someone was trying to Skype her. It had to be Peter calling, or his wife, Bonnie. It couldn’t be her sister, Nori, because she was in London.

She sat at the computer on the small desk in the living room. She logged in and clicked on Skype. A fuzzy picture of her son showed up on the screen. He was wearing one of those woolen beanies kids favored these days. She clicked to change the view from a window to full screen. “Hi,” she said, signing as she said the word.

Hi, Ma
, he signed.
How are you?

Peter could still talk fairly clearly, having lost his hearing so late, but mainly he signed. He tried his best to fit into the deaf culture, but Margaret sensed there was always a bit of tension there. There was a huge rift that Margaret didn’t understand between those who were born
deaf
versus those who had lost their hearing. The bridge that could connect the two worlds had yet to be built.

I’m good
, she signed back.
What’s up?

OK I visit for spring break?

Yes
, she signed.
Bonnie too?

She watched the smile he put on his face.
Not this time. Busy at work.

Something wasn’t right.
When will you arrive?
she signed.
Coming into Albuquerque or Santa Fe?

Santa Fe. Probably tomorrow, OK? I’m flying standby.

Tomorrow?
That surprised her.
Of course.
Everything OK?

Everything OK. No worries.

OK
,
she signed back. But she didn’t believe him.
How long can you stay?

A week. OK?

OK.
She smiled back.
Anything else?

He shook his head no, then signed,
I’ll text you my flight time. See you soon.

She waved good-bye as he did to her. Click. Off. End of conversation. The computer screen saver returned to Gustave Baumann’s woodcut
The Bishop’s Apricot Tree
, one of her favorite New Mexico paintings.

Margaret took Echo out for a nightly pee, and as usual, the dog sniffed every corner of Ellie’s garden, finally choosing her favorite spot, a patch of gravel alongside the house. Margaret patted Echo’s head, and once they were inside, she locked the back door. She ran a bath and soaked in the tub for an hour, reading a book touting a low-fat diet for multiple sclerosis patients. It was one of several that Dr. Silverhorse had suggested, and she’d picked them up at Collected Works bookstore, one of her favorite places to sip coffee and shop. The women who ran things, Mary and her mother, Dorothy, had such a wonderful eye for books and for the greeting cards and gifts they carried at holiday time.

At first, the diet sounded austere and hard to follow. Margaret was used to eating pastries and the occasional steak, but those indulgences would have to go. Nothing was too much to give up if it gave her better quality of life. Dr. Silverhorse told her to read a couple of books, try out the diets, and if none of them helped, they’d discuss medication. Steroids were the most often prescribed drug. The side effects included mood swings, insomnia, weight gain, and lowered immune response. No, thanks, Margaret said to herself. I will make the diet work.

With Peter coming to visit tomorrow, she’d have to do a big shopping at the market. Peter ate as if his stomach had no bottom. The good part, she told herself, was that now they’d both be eating vegetarian. Swank’s diet for MS said saturated fat was limited to 20 grams a day. She’d have to start reading labels and buying organic. The hardest thing would be finding the right moment to tell Peter about the diagnosis.

She set the book on the sink and got out of the tub. Echo tried to lick the water off her legs as she always did. “You silly girl,” Margaret said as she dried herself off and put on her flannel Nick and Nora pajamas. She made most of her other clothes but splurged on these pajamas, which came out in new styles twice a year.

While she brushed her teeth, she took a good, long look at her face, noting the wrinkles and spots from sun damage. People complained about getting old. She never would again. She wanted every day she could get, especially now that Glory would need her help. “Put a kind thought into your mind the minute you wake up,” her aunt Ellie used to say, “and send that little bit of cheer out to the first person you see. Good works, like good thoughts, improve life for people on both the giving and receiving ends.” As always, it hurt a little to think about Ellie, the closest thing to a mother she’d ever had. Mother was stern and standoffish, but Aunt Ellie gave great hugs and told bawdy jokes. A small part of Margaret had always wished Ellie were her mother, and she knew Nori felt the same way.

Despite worrying about the impact MS would have on her life, and how to tell Peter, Margaret couldn’t keep her eyes open. She was emotionally spent from yesterday’s news. Echo waited, as she always did, for Margaret to start snoring, and then she climbed up on the bed, inching her way closer. For some time now, Margaret had faked snoring just to witness Echo’s approach. She put her arm around the dog and went to sleep.

Dolores

Of all our senses, emotion and memory persist the strongest. Now imagine the parts of your brain that are never used. After the corporeal death of the body, those places come to life. How I am, and where I live, makes it easy to pass through years, to fix on certain events, and occasionally, never often enough, to mete out a small justice.

Remember the maid who slowly poisoned the husband who’d killed his wife? You’re wondering if I had anything to do with it, aren’t you? So what if I did? There’s more to tell about what had happened at the moment of the wife’s death. As the firewood came down on her neck, her pain transformed into a sense memory of the farm boy she had loved in England. Their first kiss. The afternoon light that came through the barn window. The innocent way the boy had gone to her father, his employer, to ask for her hand. Her father’s outrage that a common person had thought such a union possible. He’d forced her to marry the trader instead, a man of means, and a better station.
I forgive you
, she said to her father as she passed from this world to the next.

When news of her death came, her father realized his mistake. Inside his head, a bubble formed and exploded. This is how it arrives sometimes: A stroke delivers peace. Mercy requires a second death.