TRISH
After my father retired, but before he relocated offshore to the Caymans, he moved into an eight-room postwar brick colonial not far from Sibley Memorial Hospital so James and I could have Savory Mew to ourselves. The colonial was a step down for him, both in the status of its neighborhood and its lack of palatial splendor, but he claimed to love it. A previous owner, a highly placed congressional aide who landed big in the lobbying business, had whitewashed the exterior brick walls twenty years before my father had bought the property. The vestige of white remaining on the brown clay bricks was like the mold that fuzzed over fine cheese: something to distinguish it from the newfangled homes, condos, and cookie-cutter townhouses that flooded the market.
It was my father’s wedding gift to me, deeding me Savory Mew, and in the years that followed, we brunched, James and I, at my father’s new house on Sunday afternoons. We were very close, my father and I. All our finances—our banking accounts and investment portfolios—are tied together under both our names, but as much as I valued my father’s sound investment advice, I valued him more for the effect he had on James and me. My father was always his usual effervescently cynical self on these occasions, and although we teased him about his inability to toast a bagel with any real authority, my father’s camaraderie helped James and me soldier on as man and wife despite our inability to conceive. For these brunches, he eschewed the neckties, gold cufflinks, and customary silk pocket squares that would accessorize his sports jackets and suit coats on any normal business day, instead attiring himself in what he characterized as “Sunday casual” code—khaki slacks, brown penny loafers, and a blue Brooks Brothers blazer over a blue oxford shirt. The brunches were high-spirited affairs, and James usually restrained himself from drinking too many mimosas. Every fifteen minutes or so, conversation would halt while ambulances raced past the house, their sirens wailing on their way to Sibley. It baffled me how my father could live amid such constant noise. Wouldn’t he be happier in the peaceful horsey surroundings of Middleburg? Or how about Great Falls? Or McLean? I pictured my father living in genteel comfort, and yet he pooh-poohed my concerns, laughing, telling me, “Honey, I didn’t thrive in Washington for as long as I have just to be driven off by sirens and ambulances.”
Now, driving to Sibley, I pass by my father’s whitewashed house and am surprised by the FOR SALE sign staked in its front lawn. Though he hasn’t stepped foot in this country for a year, he said he’d keep the house so he can visit us often once his first grandchild was born. I thought we were close. Following my mother’s death, I forgave him for his egregious philandering, which compounded the misery of my mother’s last years. I’d have thought he’d mention this to me, email me some notice or explanation. What drove him to put the house on the market? Seeing the sign staked in his yard, I half expect we’ll never see each other again. Has he finally given up on me ever bearing him a grandchild?
My father used to say, “Keep your friends close but your enemies closer.” With this in mind, I head back to Sibley Hospital after meeting Simpkins. Awkward as it might be, I need to learn more about Laurel in order to know what I’m up against. As I step off the elevator onto the maternity ward, the cries of a baby from a nearby room make my knees go weak. The crying fills me with longing and anxiety, reactions I would’ve thought mutually exclusive of each other. I imagine holding the baby, trying to soothe it. I imagine the moment Laurel realized she became pregnant. How soon after bedding my husband did she realize she’d conceived? Was it minutes? Did her breasts ache as he pulled out of her? Did her heart suddenly lurch, delirious with joy? Or was it morning sickness that gave away her condition?
Lois Belcher, the lactation consultant, approaches me in the hallway. Being around babies must give her special powers, for she looks like someone’s idea of a fairy godmother, a kindly woman possessing a glittery magic wand capable of transforming pumpkins into stagecoaches. Cheerfulness abounds from her. Although every job has its stresses, it must be refreshing to work in a profession where positive outcomes overwhelmingly outnumber the bad, where the people she serves are so abundantly accepting of her assistance. Seeing me, she waves.
“She’s still recovering. Her episiotomy wound’s giving her some trouble, but I think she’s doing well,” Ms. Belcher says.
“Who?”
Ms. Belcher laughs. “Your daughter, of course!”
Despite this prompt, it takes a moment to realize she’s still under the assumption that Laurel is my daughter, which stings me because my hunch is that she also assumes James is Laurel’s husband, not mine. And yet my ears perk up. I hadn’t realized Laurel had an episiotomy—something that, frankly, I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
“Is she awake?”
“You bet! So is your granddaughter! They’ll be glad you’re visiting them again!”
“Thanks,” I say. There’s not a chance Laurel will be glad to see me. The maternity ward smells of antiseptic iodine and the fresh-cut flowers friends and relatives deliver to the new moms. Should I have disguised my intentions by bringing her a big bouquet of zinnias, irises, maybe even roses?
Two babies from rooms directly across from us start crying at once. Another baby, swaddled in blue blankets on the lap of a convalescing mother being wheeled down the hallway, starts wailing. The babies in the ward are like a flock of crows: as soon as one squawks, the others join in.
“Is it always this loud in here?”
Ms. Belcher grins. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
A girl with long caramel-red hair, the kind I’d wished I had when I was eight or nine, walks past us carrying what must be her baby brother. She looks at the baby in her arms with rapturous care, and it’s as if I can read her thoughts: she’s pledging to be the most wonderful, tender, loving big sister the world has ever known. She wanders through the hallway so focused on the baby that our presence doesn’t register upon her. As she reaches the end of the hallway, Lois Belcher calls out to her, telling her to stop.
The girl looks up at Lois as if awoken from a daze.
“You can’t go past that door,” Lois says, pointing to the glass door the girl was just about to open.
The girl apologizes and then walks back down the hallway, again staring at her baby brother.
“Why couldn’t she go past that door?” I ask.
“Security. Babies can only leave the maternity ward with someone whose KISS bracelet code matches the baby’s KISS bracelet,” Lois Belcher says, explaining that the plastic medallions with Mick Jagger lips I’ve seen on babies and new mothers are electronic security devices. “That little girl doesn’t have a bracelet. If she went past that security door, or if she tried to go onto the elevator with the baby, alarm buzzers would go off immediately.”
“So if she’d have taken the baby through the door, you would’ve issued an Amber Alert or something?”
Lois laughs. “It wouldn’t have come to that. Believe it or not, the bar is set pretty high when it comes to issuing Amber Alerts. Authorities want to avoid overwhelming the system with false alarms, so they need to be a hundred percent certain an actual abduction has taken place before they issue a full Amber Alert.”
We walk toward Laurel’s room.
“I’m going to register you for your KISS bracelet. That way, you can stroll with Anne Elise while Laurel’s napping and not have to worry about setting off alarms.”