Where is the Baby? (20 page)

But early on self-interest had blinded him. And his parents had always been blind, even to each other. They co-existed under forbearance, probably because few other people would have tolerated either one of them. They were cold, clinically detached people who claimed to live lives of the mind. They were disdainful of those who lived emotional lives, which was why they were teachers and not practicing psychiatrists. The cool intellect was God. And that belief rendered them incapable of being of therapeutic value to others.

They should never have become parents, he realized now. They had no patience – not with each other, with their students, or with him. As a youngster he'd learned not to seek them out with his hurts or problems. Until she died when he was eleven, he went upstairs to his grandmother, his father's mother, for soft Russian-accented words of consolation and understanding, for gentle hands, warm embraces, the scent of Chanel No. 5, and a welcoming lap and illicit sweets. He never fully recovered from the loss of her and even now she sometimes came to him in dreams from which he awakened quietly bereft, with a deep ache of longing in his chest.

He'd never loved his parents the way his few friends loved theirs. He respected and feared their authority, admired their austere but handsome features, and their academic accomplishments. So he'd worked hard to win the approval of his ever-elegant, stately mother (hair in a careful knot, cashmere sweaters, pearl necklaces, dark suits with slim skirts, low-heeled pumps on long, narrow feet) and his perpetually frowning father (short-back-and-sides with a touch of brilliantine, Brooks Brothers button-down shirts under Shetland pullovers, gray flannel slacks and navy blazer, Bass loafers) and ultimately he'd succeeded – to a degree – by sacrificing this girl to their inspection. And they went avidly at his offering, almost drooling at the tasty morsel he'd brought into their lives.

She had become a permanent reference source in the house. Not a person. She had taken over his position as the observable resident specimen. But to her credit she had never capitulated to his parents the way he had. Always polite, always accommodating but always keeping a little distance, she had never shared her innermost thoughts with them. She had learned at a very early age to conceal herself in plain view. She had gone to Connie in much the same way he had gone to his
bubbe
.

And now he also realized with a jolt of understanding that Faith was the only person in the household who did genuinely live a life of the mind. His parents were poseurs, generally respected but almost universally disliked by their peers. And he'd abandoned his practice to join up with them, acquiring props and mannerisms en route: the beard, the suspenders, the abrupt and dismissive manner of dealing with people. No wonder Faith found it hard to talk to him. He'd been so busy attempting to emulate his parents that he'd lost most of his best qualities. He had become the polar opposite of his grandmother's beloved and lovable
boychik
.

He looked at Faith now and experienced again a strong degree of the heartbreak that had overwhelmed him years ago in that interview room. He was indebted to this girl and felt now a sudden, powerful sense of obligation to her.

‘Faith,' he said softly, ‘I think you're right. I think you do need to have a place of your own. And I'll agree to give you what you want if you'll do something for me.'

Instantly hope-filled, aware that he'd undergone some sort of transformation, she said, ‘What?'

‘I'd like you to go for residential treatment.'

She blinked slowly. This was not unexpected and very reasonable, given the extent of her performance. She had convinced him. But more than that she'd managed to call him back – perhaps only temporarily – from that place he'd gone to soon after he'd brought her home to the cozy little house he'd shared with Monica. ‘Where?' she asked.

‘I know of a good place upstate, near Kent. I'm confident I can make a phone call and get you in. If you'll do the program and get yourself sober, I'll arrange to sign off on the guardianship and as executor of your trust fund.'

‘How long would I have to stay there?' she asked, hoping not to miss any school. She was trying to do her BA in two and a half years. She couldn't afford to lose any credits.

‘I think it's two weeks, maybe three. I believe you need twenty-four hours without drinking before they'll accept you. That would mean the day after tomorrow. But I'll know more after I phone up there and speak to someone in admissions. Will you do it?'

‘What about your parents?' she asked. ‘Won't they have something to say about it?'

‘Actually, no,' he answered. ‘I'm your legal guardian for another few months, but that's merely a technicality. My parents have no legal standing where you're concerned. I am responsible for your well-being and, frankly, I don't think I've done too great a job of it. I'd like to try to make it up to you and this would be the first step. Will you go?'

It was an apology. She could scarcely believe it, but she certainly wasn't going to reject it. All at once he resembled the man who'd broken into tears in that room with all the mirrors; she remembered how surprised she'd been, only in the past day or two having ever seen grown-ups cry. ‘What kind of place is it?'

‘It's upstate in the mountains. They have an excellent track record. And if we can get you in right away, because it's coming up to the Christmas break, you won't miss more than a few days of classes, if any. If you'll let me, I'd like to drive you up there, get you settled.'

‘Okay,' she agreed, reasoning that it couldn't possibly hurt her. As long as she was out of this house, away from his parents, it was a major step in the right direction. ‘I'll do it. But will you promise me that if I go there and complete the program you'll let me take charge of myself when I'm finished?'

For the first time in years, he smiled at her. He was suddenly present, no longer posturing or performing. ‘I will put it in writing and have it notarized,' he promised. Then, the smile dimming away, he said, ‘It's the least I can do. I think I've done you more harm than good. It's . . .' He shook his head sadly.

‘I think you meant to do good.'

For the second time in his experience with her, he was choked with sorrow for the losses suffered by this misleadingly frail young woman. ‘I'm sorry, Faith,' he said. ‘I never intended to make you so unhappy. Somewhere along the way everything got very mixed up.'

‘You should get your own place, too, Stefan,' she said sagely. ‘Maybe you'd be happier.'

He could only stare at her, once again able to see the old, sympathetic soul gazing out at him through the dark windows of her eyes. ‘I'd forgotten what a sympathetic and generous person you are,' he admitted. ‘I won't ever make that mistake again. I hope you'll allow me to go on being a part of your life.'

‘Of course I will. You're the only parent I've ever known.'

He couldn't respond to that or he risked breaking down, so he addressed the practicalities. ‘I'll continue to pay your school fees, the cost of your stay for treatment, and all your expenses,' he added. ‘So don't worry about any of that.'

‘Thank you, Stefan. I appreciate it.' Everything inside her had lifted, was rising buoyantly. She was going to be free. More than that, the man she'd first known had reappeared and was looking at his surroundings with visible dismay. And she knew with certainty that he was going to move out, too. She and Stefan were going to leave his parents on their own to figure out how to live alone again.

H
ay's eyes were caught and then helplessly kept returning to the young girl alone at a table at the far end of the barn. She didn't look old enough to be there, but of course she had to be. The age limit was eighteen. Long brown hair and shapeless black clothes gave her a frail, waif-like appearance and she had a sorrowing aura that relentlessly drew his attention.

He couldn't help noting that she waited until almost everyone had been through the food line before she came down the length of the room to the serving window. Up close he studied her pale, delicate features and deep brown eyes, the glossy dark hair that fell forward from a center parting and partially concealed her face. This, he thought, was a child in hiding. He felt immediately protective of her, touched by her state of distraction.

‘How about some of this perfectly roasted chicken?' he asked, drawing her attention.

Faith tuned in to see a big, bearded fellow smiling at her. In a food-splattered apron, with a blue-printed kerchief tied over a red-brown ponytail, he looked like a cheerful lumberjack. He had clear grey-green eyes, warm with kindness.

She looked down at the aromatic array of food and said, ‘Yes, please.'

‘White or dark?'

‘Either is fine, thank you,' she answered.

‘Excellent. And some nice buttery mashed potatoes with a hint of dill?'

She couldn't help returning his smile. ‘Yes, please.'

Encouraged, he asked, ‘Perhaps a
soupçon
of green beans?'

Still smiling, she said, ‘
Oui, merci, monsieur
.'

‘
Il me fait plaisir, mademoiselle
.' He made a demi-bow, saying, ‘Hayward,
à votre service
.'

‘I'm Faith.'

‘
Bon appétit,
Faith.'

‘Thank you, Mister Hayward.'

She carried her tray off toward the distant unoccupied table and Hayward watched for a moment, then returned his attention to dishing up food to the last of the latecomers. He was intrigued. Despite her very youthful appearance, there was nothing particularly young about her. She seemed careworn and weary, and alarmingly thin. Little Faith was well-mannered, smart as a whip, and very alone – plainly anxious to keep to herself. A troubled soul, yet possessed of a lovely sense of fun. There was definitely whimsy in those vivid red-painted fingernails.

By the time everyone had been served, he spotted the girl heading out of the barn, head bent in the act of lighting a cigarette as the door swung closed behind her.

The Farm was not the institutional structure Faith had imagined it would be. There was a cluster of well-kept houses – some considerably older than others – situated around what had once been a working farm. Grassy areas spread off to either side under patches of snow, with benches invitingly positioned here and there. Trees and bushes everywhere, and naked flower beds demarcated by whitewashed rocks. The entire place sat in the broad cupped palms of surrounding hills.

With her free hand she pushed the snow off one of the benches that overlooked the valley below and sat down, smoking her cigarette and savoring her first taste of brand-new freedom. People here seemed to leave each other alone; they understood the need for privacy but were available if someone needed to talk.

For the first time in too long, she'd actually been hungry and the food had been delicious. And best of all, no one seemed to care if she ate, or how much, which made it possible for her to eat in peace for the first time in more than a decade. She sat very still now, enjoying the fullness that pushed out her belly, and she imagined her organs hard at work dealing with what she'd consumed. Protein was being sent here, carbs went over there. Her internal machinery was humming away, happy to be back at work tending to her neglected body.

She had expected the people here to be deeply serious and so had been taken off guard by the amusing little exchange with . . . What was his name? Hayward . . . A nice man, with gentle eyes. Educated. Someone who looked like a lumberjack but spoke effortless French.

Gazing up at the very clear, very blue sky, the frigid air biting at her ears, she fretted about her dishonest replies to the sheet of twenty questions she'd been given to complete shortly after arriving early that morning. Some of her answers had been essentially truthful: yes, she felt remorse after drinking. Yes, she drank alone. Yes, she drank to escape from worries or troubles. Thinking of those questions and her replies, she felt a sudden spasm of anxiety. She was here under false pretenses. Maybe they'd recognize that and kick her out, send her back to the Lazarus clan. She couldn't let that happen. No matter what, she was never going back to that house.

Smoking her cigarette as she gazed out over the snow-covered land spreading off into the distance, she felt she was in a safe place. She wanted to stay. She needed this time to get healthy, to build up her mental as well as physical strength. She had to stay.

‘Would you mind if I sit with you?'

She looked up. The kerchief was gone and he was wearing a bulky down jacket. ‘No, that's fine.' Her gaze returned for a moment to the view, then she watched as he pulled the makings from his jacket pocket, quickly rolled a cigarette on his knee, returned the tobacco and papers to his pocket and got his roll-your-own lit. Then exhaling a plume of smoke, he said, ‘So, I assume you just got here this morning.'

‘You assume correctly.'

‘Beautiful, isn't it?'

‘It's not what I was expecting,' she admitted.

‘Hardly anyone ever expects this.' With a sweeping gesture he indicated their surroundings. ‘I think it's a big part of the magic. It certainly was for me.'

‘Magic?' she glanced at him for a moment, then bent forward to extinguish her cigarette in the snow. She fished a tissue out of her pocket and wrapped the butt in it, to throw away later.

He gave her points for being respectful of her surroundings. ‘Most of us are pretty wrought-up when we get here. The atmosphere, the beauty, they have a calming effect.'

She nodded, eyes back on the valley below. ‘I can see how that would be. Have you been here a while?'

‘Nine years. I came as a guest back in the summer of 'seventy-four and never left. I've been on staff for all but six weeks of that time.'