Harvesting The Heart Part 13

I put my face into my hands, trembling. I had known that I wouldn't be a very good mother, but I a.s.sumed that my sins would be forgetfulness or ignorance. I didn't know I would hurt my own son. Surely anyone else would have lifted the baby to retrieve the diaper. I was too stupid to think of it. And if I had done it once, it could happen again.

I had a sudden memory of my mother the night before she disappeared from my life. She wore a pale-peach bathrobe and fuzzy bunny slippers. She sat on the edge of my bed. "You know I love you, Paige-boy," she said, because she thought I was asleep. "Don't you let anyone tell you otherwise."

I laid my hand on my son's back, smoothing out his ragged breathing. "I love you," I said, tracing the letters of his name on his cotton playsuit. "Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

Max woke up smiling. I was leaning over his crib, as I had been for the hour he'd been asleep, praying for the first time since he was born that he'd wake up soon. "Oh, sweetie," I said, reaching for his chubby fingers.

I changed his diaper and took out his little bathtub. I sat him in it fully clothed but filled the basin with Baby Magic and warm water. Then I washed off his face and his arms where they were still splattered from the nosebleed. I changed his outfit, rinsing the old one as best I could and hanging it over the shower rod to dry.

I gave him the breast instead of the bottle he'd never finished, figuring he deserved a little pampering. I cuddled him close, and he smiled and rubbed his cheek against me. "You don't remember a thing, do you?" I said. I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the couch. "Thank heaven."

Max was so good-natured for the rest of the afternoon that I knew G.o.d was punishing me. I wallowed in my guilt, tickling Max's belly, blowing wet kisses onto his fat thighs. When Nicholas came home, a knot tightened in my stomach, but I did not get up off the floor with the baby. "Paige, Paige, Paige!" Nicholas sang, stepping into the hallway. He sashayed into the living room with his eyes half closed. He'd been on call for thirty-six straight hours. "Don't mention the words Ma.s.s General to me-don't even say the word heart. heart. For the next twenty-four glorious hours I'm going to sleep and eat greasy food and be a sloth right here in my own house." He walked down the hall toward the stairs, his voice trailing behind. "Did you get to the cleaners?" he called. For the next twenty-four glorious hours I'm going to sleep and eat greasy food and be a sloth right here in my own house." He walked down the hall toward the stairs, his voice trailing behind. "Did you get to the cleaners?" he called.

"No," I whispered. I had an excuse this time for not leaving the house, but he wouldn't want to hear it.

Nicholas reappeared in the living room, holding his shirt by the collar. His good mood had vanished. He'd asked me to go to the dry cleaners two days ago, but I hadn't felt comfortable taking Max by myself, and Nicholas hadn't been home to watch him, and I didn't know how to even begin to find a baby-sitter. "It's a good thing I have off tomorrow, then, since this is the last G.o.dd.a.m.ned clean shirt I had. Come on, on, Paige," he said, his eyes turning dark. "You can't possibly be busy every minute of the day." Paige," he said, his eyes turning dark. "You can't possibly be busy every minute of the day."

"I was thinking," I said, not looking up, "that maybe you'd watch the baby while I go to the laundry and grocery shopping." I swallowed. "I was kind of waiting for you to get home."

Nicholas glared at me. "This is the first break I've had in thirty-six hours and you want me to watch Max?" I did not say anything. "For Christ's sake, Paige, it's my only day off in the past two weeks. You're You're here every single G.o.dd.a.m.ned day." here every single G.o.dd.a.m.ned day."

"I can wait till you take a nap," I suggested, but Nicholas was already starting back down the hall.

I held Max's little fists in my hands and braced myself for what I knew was to come. Nicholas ran down the stairway with Max's b.l.o.o.d.y outfit, wet, wrapped around his fingers. "What the h.e.l.l is this?" Nicholas said, his voice hot and low.

"Max had an accident," I said as calmly as I could. "A nosebleed. I didn't mean to do it. The diaper fell-" I looked up at Nicholas, at the storm in his eyes, and I started to cry again. "I twisted around for a second-well, not even; more like half a second-to get it, and Max rolled the wrong way and hit his nose on the table-"

"When," Nicholas said, "were you planning on telling me?"

He crossed the room in three long strides and picked Max up roughly. "Be careful," I said, and Nicholas made a strange sound in the back of his throat.

His eyes swept the kidney-shaped bruises below Max's eyes, the traces of blood on the pads of his nose. He looked at me for a moment, as if he were piercing through to my soul and knew I was marked for h.e.l.l. He clutched the baby tighter in his arms. "You go," he said quietly. "I'll take care of Max."

His words, and the accusation behind them, stung me as violently as a slap to the face. I stood and walked to the bedroom, collecting the heap of Nicholas's shirts. I pulled them into my arms, feeling their sleeves wrap and bind my wrists. I pulled my purse and my sungla.s.ses from the kitchen table, and then I stood in the doorway of the living room. Nicholas and Max looked up at the same time. They sat together on the pale couch, looking as if they were carved from the same block of marble. "I didn't mean to," I whispered, and then I turned away.

At the cash machine, I was crying so hard that I didn't realize I had pressed the wrong b.u.t.tons until a thousand dollars came out, instead of the hundred I needed for grocery shopping and prepayment on Nicholas's shirts. I did not bother to redeposit it. Instead I tore out of the fire zone I'd parked in, rolled down all the windows, and headed to the nearest highway. It felt good to hear the wind scream in my ears and lighten the weight of my hair. The band in my chest began to ease, and my headache was disappearing. Maybe, I thought, what I needed all along was a little time alone. Maybe I just needed to get away.

The supermarket's flashing sign appeared at the horizon. And it struck me then that Nicholas was right to doubt me, to hold Max as far away from me as he could. Here I was smiling into the rushing air, thinking about my freedom, when just hours before I had watched my child bleed because of my own carelessness.

There had to be something wrong with me, deep down, that made me to blame for Max's fall. There had to be something that made me such an incompetent mother. Maybe it was the same reason my own mother had left-she was afraid of what more she could do wrong. It was possible that Max was better off the way he was, in the solid, strong arms of his father. It was possible that given the option, Max would do better with no mother at all.

At the very least, this much was true: I was no good to Max, or to Nicholas, the way I was right now.

As I drove straight past the market, the plan began to form in my head. I wouldn't be gone for long, just for a little while. Just until I had got a full night's sleep, and I felt good about myself and about being Max's mother, and I could make a long self-help list of all the things I could do, without running out of ideas. I would come back with all the answers; I would be a whole new person. I would call Nicholas in a few hours and tell him my idea, and he would agree and say in his calm, brook-steady voice, "Paige, I think it's just what you need."

I started to laugh, my spirit bubbling up from where it had been buried deep inside. It was really so easy. I could keep driving and driving and pretend that I had no husband, no baby. I could keep going and never look back. Of course I would would go back, as soon as I had my life in order again. But right now, I deserved this. I was taking back the time I had been cheated of. go back, as soon as I had my life in order again. But right now, I deserved this. I was taking back the time I had been cheated of.

I drove faster than I'd ever driven in my life. I ran my fingers through my hair and grinned until the wind cracked my lips. My cheeks grew flushed and my eyes stung from the brisk rush of the air. One by one, I tossed Nicholas's shirts out the window, leaving behind on the highway a trail of white, yellow, pink, powder blue, like a fine string of pale scattered pearls.

Part II:

Growth Summer 1993

chapter 19

Paige.

The thick sateen curtains at Ruby's House of Fate blocked out The hot midday sun. Ruby herself, a mountain of copper flesh, the hot midday sun. Ruby herself, a mountain of copper flesh, sat across from me. She held my hands in her own. Her cheeks reddened, her chins trembled. Suddenly her thick eyelids opened, to reveal startling green eyes that had, just minutes before, been brown. "Girl," Ruby said, "yo' future is yo' past."

I had come to Ruby's House of Fate out of hunger. Driving all day away from Cambridge had brought me to Pennsylvania-to Amish country. For a time I had parked the car and watched the neat black buggies, the fresh-capped girls. Something told me to keep on driving, in spite of the burning in the pit of my stomach. I hadn't eaten since breakfast, and it was now almost eight o'clock at night. So I had continued west, and at the outskirts of Lancaster I discovered Ruby. Her little row house was marked by a big billboard in the shape of a palm, covered with glittering moons and gold stars. RUBY'S HOUSE OF FATE, the sign read. YOUR PLACE TO FIND ANSWERS.

I wasn't certain what my questions were, but that didn't seem important. I wasn't a believer in astrology, but that also seemed to be beside the point. Ruby answered the door as if she had been expecting me. I was confused. What was a black woman doing reading fortunes in Amish country? "You'd be amazed," she said, as if I had spoken aloud. "So many people pa.s.s through."

Ruby did not tear her green eyes from mine. I had been driving aimlessly all day, but at Ruby's words I suddenly realized where I was headed. "I'm going to Chicago?" I asked softly, for confirmation, and Ruby grinned.

I tried to pull away from her grasp, but she held fast to my hand. She rubbed her smooth thumb over my palm and spoke quietly in a language I did not understand. "You'll find her," she said, "but she isn't what you think she is."

"Who?" I asked, although I knew she meant my mother.

"Sometimes," she said, "bad blood skips a generation."

I waited for her to explain, but she released my hand and cleared her throat. "That'll be twenty-five," she said, and I rummaged through my purse. Ruby walked me outside, and I swung open the hot, heavy door of the car. "You need to call him too," she said, and by the time I looked up at her, she was gone.

"Nicholas?" I pulled at the collar of my shirt and ran my fingers over the smooth silk scarf from Astrid, trying to escape the phone booth's heat.

"My G.o.d, Paige. Are you hurt? I called the supermarket-I called six of them, because I didn't know where you'd gone, and I tried the nearest gas stations. Was there an accident?"

"Not really," I said, and I heard Nicholas draw in his breath. "How's the baby?" I asked, feeling tears p.r.i.c.k the back of my throat. It was strange; for almost three months, all I'd thought about was getting away from Max, and now I couldn't stop thinking about him. He was always in the corner of my mind, clouding my vision, his gummy fists reaching toward me. I actually missed him.

"The baby's fine. Where are you? When are you coming home?"

I took a deep breath. "I'm in Lancaster, Pennsylvania."

"You're where?" where?" In the background, I heard Max start to cry, and then the sounds became louder, so I knew Nicholas was jiggling the baby in his arms. In the background, I heard Max start to cry, and then the sounds became louder, so I knew Nicholas was jiggling the baby in his arms.

"I was headed to the Stop & Shop, and I kind of kept going. I just need a little time-"

"Well, hey, Paige, so does the rest of the free world, but we don't just up and run away!" Nicholas was yelling; I held the receiver away from my ear. "Let me get this straight," he said, "you left us on purpose?" purpose?"

"I didn't run away," I insisted. "I'm coming back."

"When?" Nicholas demanded. "I have a life, you know. I have a job to get back to."

I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the gla.s.s of the phone booth. "I have a life too."

Nicholas did not answer, and for a moment I thought he'd hung up, but then I heard Max babbling in the background. "Your life," Nicholas said, "is right here. Not Not in Lancaster, Pennsylvania." in Lancaster, Pennsylvania."

What I wanted to tell him was: I'm not ready to be a mother. I can't even be your wife, not until I patch together the pieces of my own life and fill in all the holes. I will will come home, and we'll pick up where we left off. I won't forget you; I love you. But what I said to Nicholas was: "I'll be back soon." come home, and we'll pick up where we left off. I won't forget you; I love you. But what I said to Nicholas was: "I'll be back soon."

Nicholas's voice was hoa.r.s.e and low. "Don't bother," he said, and he slammed down the phone.

I drove all night and all day, and by 4:00 P.M. I was on the Loop, heading into Chicago. Knowing that my father wouldn't be home for a couple of hours, I headed toward the old art supply store I used to go to. It felt strange driving through the city. When I had been here last, I had no car; I had always been escorted. At a stoplight I thought about Jake-the angles of his face and the rhythm of his breathing. Once, that was all it had taken to make him appear. I drove carefully when the light turned green, expecting him to be on the next street corner, but I was mistaken. That telepathy had been severed years ago by Jake, who knew we could never go back.

The owner of the art store was Indian, with the smooth brown skin of an onion. He recognized me right away. "Missy O'Toole," he said, his voice running over my name like a river. "What can I get for you?" He clasped his hands in front of himself, as if I had last stepped into the store a day or two before. I did not answer him at first. I walked to the carved statues of Vishnu and Ganesh, running my fingers over the cool stone elephant's head. "I'll need some conte sticks," I whispered, "a newsprint pad, and charcoal." The words came so easily, I might as well have been seventeen again.

He brought me what I had asked for and held out the conte sticks for my approval. I took them into my palm as reverently as I'd taken the Host at Communion. What if I couldn't do it anymore? It had been years since I'd drawn anything substantial.

"I wonder," I said to the man, "if maybe you would let me draw you."

Pleased, the man settled himself between the Hindu sculptures of the Preserver of Life and the G.o.d of Good Fortune. "What better place for me to be sitting myself," he chattered. "If you please, missy, this place would be very good, very good indeed."

I swallowed hard and picked up the newsprint pad. With hesitant lines I drew the oval of the man's face, the fierce glitter of his eyes. I used a white conte stick for relief shading, creating a fine web of wrinkles at his temples and his chin. I mapped the age of his smile and the slight swell of his pride. When I finished, I stepped away from the pad and observed it critically. I was a little off on the likeness, but it was good enough for a first try. I peered into the background and the shadows of his face, expecting to see one of my hidden pictures, but there was nothing except for the calm brush of charcoal. Maybe I had lost my other talent, and I thought that this might not be so bad.

"Missy, you have finished? You do not want to keep such work all to yourself." The man scurried toward me and beamed at my sketch. "You will leave it here for me, yes?"

I nodded. "You can have it. Thank you."

I handed him the sketch, and a twenty to pay for the supplies, but he waved me away. "You give me a gift," he said, "I give you one in return."

I drove to the lake and parked illegally. Carrying my pad and my box of charcoal under my arm, I went to sit on the sh.o.r.e. It was a cool day, and not many people were in the water, just some children with bubble floats around their waists, whose mothers watched with lioness stares in case they drifted away. I sat on the edge of the water and brought Max to mind, trying to conjure a clear enough image to draw him. When I couldn't, I was shocked. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't catch in his eyes the way he looked at the world, the way everything was a series of first times. And without that, a picture of Max just wasn't a picture of Max. I tried to imagine Nicholas, but it was the same. His fine aquiline nose, the thick sheen of his hair-they appeared and receded in waves, as if I were looking at him lying on the bottom of a rippled pond. When I touched the charcoal to the paper, nothing happened at all. It struck me how strong the slam of that phone might have been. As Jake had done once before, it was possible that Nicholas had broken all of our connections.

Determined not to start crying, I stared across the dappled surface of the lake and began to move the charcoal over the blank page. Diamonds of sunlight and shifting currents appeared. Even though the picture was black and white, you could clearly see how blue the water was. But as I continued, I realized that I was not drawing Lake Michigan at all. I was drawing the ocean, the Caribbean ring that banded Grand Cayman Island.

When I was twelve I had gone with my father to Grand Cayman for an Invention Convention. He used up most of our savings for the plane ticket and the rental condo. He was setting up a booth of rocks, the fake ones he'd created that held a secret compartment for a key and could be placed on the dirt right outside your front door just in case. The convention lasted for two days, during which I was left at the condo to roam the beach. I made snow angels in the white sand and I snorkeled around the reefs and dove to grab at fire-colored coral and neon-streaked angelfish. The third day, our last, my father sat on a chaise longue on the beach. He didn't want to go into the water with me, because, he said, he'd barely even seen the sun. So I went in alone, and to my surprise, a sea turtle came swimming beside me. It was two feet long and had a tag under its armpit. It had black beaded eyes and a leathery smile; its sh.e.l.l was curved down like a topaz horizon. It seemed to grin at me, and then it swam away.

I followed. I was always a few strokes behind. Finally, when the turtle disappeared behind a wall of coral, I stopped. I floated on my back and rubbed the st.i.tch in my side. When I opened my eyes, I was at least a mile away from where I'd started.

I breast-stroked back, and by that time my father was frantic. He asked where I'd gone, and when I told him he said it had been a stupid thing to do. But I went into the ocean again anyway, hoping to find that sea turtle. Of course it was a big ocean and the turtle was long gone, but I had known-even at twelve-that I had to take the chance.

I laid down the drawing. A familiar breathlessness came when I finished the sketch, as if I'd had a spirit channeling through me and was only just returning now. In the middle of Lake Michigan I'd drawn that vanishing turtle. Its back was made up of a hundred hexagons. And very faintly, in every single polygon, I had drawn my mother.

I knew before I even turned onto my old block that I would not be staying long enough to remember all the things about my childhood that I'd trapped in some dark corner of my mind. I would not be able to remember the bus route to the Inst.i.tute of Art. I would not have time to recall the name of the Jewish bakery with fresh onion bagels. I would stay only until I had gathered the information I needed to find my mother.

I realized that in a way I'd always been trying to find her. Except I hadn't been chasing her; she'd been chasing me. She was always there when I looked over my shoulder, reminding me of who I was and how I got to be that way. Until today I had believed she was the reason I had lost Jake, the reason I'd run from Nicholas, the reason I'd left Max. I saw her at the root of every mistake I'd ever made. But now I wondered if she really was was the enemy. After all, I seemed to be following in her footsteps. She had run away too, and maybe if I knew her reasons I'd understand mine. For all I knew, my mother could be just like me. the enemy. After all, I seemed to be following in her footsteps. She had run away too, and maybe if I knew her reasons I'd understand mine. For all I knew, my mother could be just like me.

I walked up the steps to my childhood home, my feet falling into the sunken brick patterns. Behind me lay Chicago, winking at dusk and spread like a destiny. I knocked on the front door for the first time in eight years.

My father opened it. He was shorter than I remembered, and his hair, streaked with gray, fell over his eyes. "May," he whispered, frozen. "A mhuirnan." mhuirnan."

My love. He had spoken in Gaelic, which he almost never did, an endearment I remembered him saying to my mother. And he had called me by my mother's name. He had spoken in Gaelic, which he almost never did, an endearment I remembered him saying to my mother. And he had called me by my mother's name.

I did not move. I wondered if this was an omen. My father blinked several times and took a step backward, and then he stared at me again. "Paige," "Paige," he said, shaking his head as if he still could not believe it was me. My father held out his hands and, with them, everything he could offer. "La.s.s," he said, "you're the image of your mother." he said, shaking his head as if he still could not believe it was me. My father held out his hands and, with them, everything he could offer. "La.s.s," he said, "you're the image of your mother."

chapter 20

Nicholas.

Who the h.e.l.l did she think she was? She picked up and vanished for hours, and then she phoned from G.o.dd.a.m.ned Lancaster, Pennsylvania, and all the time that he'd been pacing and calling hospital emergency rooms she'd been running away. In one fell swoop, Paige had overturned his entire life. This was not the way Nicholas liked things. He liked neat sutures, very little bleeding, OR schedules that did not waver. He liked organization and precision. He did not enjoy surprises, and he hated hated being shocked. being shocked.

He was not sure whom he was more p.i.s.sed off at: Paige, for running away, or himself, for not seeing it coming. What kind of woman was was she, anyway, to abandon a three-month-old baby? A shudder ran across Nicholas's shoulders. Surely this was not the woman he'd fallen in love with eight years ago. Something had happened, and Paige was not what she used to be. she, anyway, to abandon a three-month-old baby? A shudder ran across Nicholas's shoulders. Surely this was not the woman he'd fallen in love with eight years ago. Something had happened, and Paige was not what she used to be.

This was inexcusable.

Nicholas glanced at Max, still chewing on the piece of telephone cord that dipped into his playpen. He picked up the telephone and called the twenty-four-hour emergency number of the bank. Within minutes he'd put a hold on his a.s.sets, frozen his checking account, and revoked Paige's charge cards. This made him smile, with a feeling of satisfaction that snaked all the way down to his belly. She wasn't going to get very far.

Then he called Fogerty's office at the hospital, expecting to leave a message for Alistair to call him later that evening. But to Nicholas's surprise, it was Fogerty's brusque, icy voice that answered the phone. "Well, h.e.l.lo," he said, when he heard Nicholas. "Shouldn't you be sleeping?"

"Something's come up," Nicholas said, swallowing the bitterness that lodged in his mouth. "It seems that Paige is gone."

Alistair didn't respond, and then Nicholas realized he probably thought Paige was dead. "She's left, I mean. She just sort of picked up and disappeared. Temporary insanity, I think."

There was silence. "Why are you telling me this, Nicholas?"

Nicholas had to think about that. Why was was he calling Fogerty? He turned to watch Max, who had rolled onto his back and was biting his own feet. "I need to do something with Max," Nicholas said. "If I have surgery tomorrow I'll need someone to watch him." he calling Fogerty? He turned to watch Max, who had rolled onto his back and was biting his own feet. "I need to do something with Max," Nicholas said. "If I have surgery tomorrow I'll need someone to watch him."

"Perhaps the past seven years haven't clarified my position at the hospital for you," Fogerty said. "I'm the head of cardiothoracic, not day care."

"Alistair-"

"Nicholas," Fogerty said, "this is your your problem. Good night." And he hung up the phone. problem. Good night." And he hung up the phone.

Nicholas stared at the receiver in his hand in disbelief. He had less than twelve hours to find a baby-sitter. "s.h.i.t," he said, rummaging through the kitchen drawers. He tried to find an address book of Paige's, but there seemed to be nothing around. Finally, tucked against the microwave, he found a thin black binder. He opened it and riffled through the pages, alphabetically thumb-indexed. He looked for unfamiliar female names, friends of Paige's he might prevail upon. But there were only three numbers: Dr. Thayer, the obstetrician; Dr. Rourke, the pediatrician; and Nicholas's beeper number. It was as if Paige didn't know anyone else.

Max began to cry, and Nicholas realized he hadn't changed the baby's diaper since Paige disappeared. He carried him into the nursery, holding him away from his chest as if he might get soiled. Nich olas pulled at the crotch of the playsuit until the snaps all freed themselves, and then he untaped the disposable diaper. He went to reach for another and was holding it in the air, trying to determine if the little Mickey and Donald faces went in the front or the back, when he felt something warm strike him. A thin arc of urine jetted from between Max's kicking legs and soaked Nicholas's neck and collar.

"G.o.d d.a.m.n you," Nicholas said, looking squarely at his son but speaking to Paige. He loosely tacked on the new diaper and left the playsuit to hang free, unwilling to bother with the snaps. "We're going to feed you," Nicholas said, "and then you're going to sleep."

Nicholas didn't realize until he reached the kitchen that Max's primary source of food was hundreds of miles away. He seemed to remember Paige mentioning formula. He put Max into the high chair wedged into a corner of the kitchen and pulled cereals, pasta, and canned fruit from the cabinets in an effort to find the Enfamil.

It was a powdered mix. He knew something should be sterilized, but there wasn't time for that now. Max was starting to cry, and without even checking him, Nicholas put the water up to boil and found three empty plastic bottles that he a.s.sumed were clean. He read the back of the Enfamil bucket. One scoop for every two ounces. Surely in this kitchen he could find a measuring cup.

He looked under the sink and over the refrigerator. Finally, under a collection of spatulas and slotted spoons he found one. He tapped his foot impatiently, willing the teakettle to whistle. When it did he poured eight ounces of water into each bottle and added four scoops of powder. He did not know that a baby Max's age could not finish an eight-ounce bottle in one sitting. All that Nicholas cared about was getting Max fed, getting Max to go to sleep, and then crawling into bed himself.