Emilie Richards - The Swallow's Nest

She did, but it wasn’t helpful to admit that now. She was saved from trying, because a wail began somewhere in the distance. She put out her hand when Graham started to rise. “He’s upstairs?”

“A friend gave me some kind of contraption for him to sleep in. He’s in our room.”

“I’ll get him.”

“Do you know what to do?”

“Has it changed that much in thirty years?”

“Did you know what to do then?”

The question should have hurt, but both of them knew that Graham’s childhood had been managed by competent professionals, and she had looked on from the sidelines. “I do know how to change a diaper.”

“I think he looks like me.”

“Then he’s a beautiful baby.”

“He should have dark hair and brown eyes like the mother I didn’t give him.”

“I’ll bring him down. Will he need a bottle?”

“I’ll get one ready.”

The upstairs must have been expanded in her years away because the wail was coming from a room she didn’t remember. She followed the sound, opened the door and saw a small mesh-sided crib beside a queen-size bed. She picked up a beautiful hand-stitched quilt from the floor and folded it carefully, setting it on a chair before she dared go to the baby.

And then it was like looking at the infant Graham again.

She reached down and scooped him up, holding him against her breasts. Time stood still, although the baby didn’t. He arched his tiny back and screamed, just the way his father had.

“Well,” she said when she could speak, “Hello, Toby. I’m your grandmother.”

The baby was not impressed. She laughed. “I know. I know!” She looked around and saw a box of diapers on the floor. She set him carefully in the center of the queen bed, grabbed a baby blanket from the floor and tucked it under him before she stripped off his little footie pajamas, then took out a diaper. He screamed as she changed him, but she hummed loudly, and she thought that the screaming paused from time to time as he listened.

His clothes were dry, so she pulled them back on and folded the blanket snugly around him until he looked like a burrito. She smiled and kissed his forehead. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

Downstairs she found her son with a bottle ready. “When was the last one?” she asked.

“When he was hungry.”

“They always seem hungry when they’re screaming, but overfeeding can cause problems, too.”

“So I’m told.”

“Good. You have help?”

“I have a few friends who are still speaking to me, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“The baby’s mother?”

“Is not among them.”

“You haven’t spoken to her?”

“She won’t take calls or texts from me. She probably feels like she’s on vacation.”

He stretched out his arms, but she shook her head. “Let me.” She held out a hand for the bottle. He shrugged and gave it to her.

She settled Toby into her arms, propping him carefully because she remembered being told that keeping the head high might help. Toby sucked at the bottle’s nipple like he hadn’t been fed in weeks.

“He’s beautiful, and yes, he looks remarkably like his father. I never quite knew what to do with you, but I did appreciate what a gorgeous little boy you were.”

“Why did you have me?”

“It’s complicated.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

It took her a while to answer. Toby had taken enough formula that she decided to burp him, despite his protests. Frequent burping was something else she remembered. “I wanted to feel connected to somebody. I saw women with their husbands and children and knew they had something I didn’t. Your father was always busy—”

“Not to mention rigid and controlling.”

“Let’s not talk about that.”

“Why start now?” He closed his eyes again.

“I believed having you would make us a real family.”

“Sorry it didn’t work.”

“Graham, I was never sorry you were my son. And that’s the truth. But I’m also not sorry I didn’t give you a brother or sister.” She didn’t go on. She knew she didn’t have to.

After a loud burp Toby settled back to his bottle and opened his eyes to stare at her. She smiled at him. He smiled back, and the nipple fell out of his mouth. He wrinkled his little face to cry, but she slid it back in.

“He smiled at me!”

“Aren’t you the lucky one.” Graham didn’t sound quite as cynical as he had.

“I feel lucky. A baby’s smile is magic.” She looked at her son, although pulling her gaze from her grandson was hard. “This is going to get better. His nervous system is going to mature. Pretty soon he’s going to seem like a real person to you.”

He surprised her. “How can I blame you for having me after what I’ve done?”

She didn’t know how to answer, but Graham’s question almost sounded like absolution, like he might actually forgive her for being such a distant figure in his life. In the end she shook her head. “I wish I could do more.”

“I don’t want help. I’ll manage.”

“And Lilia? Is there any way you can make this up to her?”

“Can you think of a way?”

He didn’t expect an answer; she knew that. But she gave him one anyway. “You know I never really approved of your marriage.”

“Yes, for some reason you didn’t think Lilia was good enough for me. When the opposite was clearly true.”

She knew better than to address that since whatever she said would make her sound racist and undemocratic, although she was sure she was neither. Instead she moved the discussion sideways. “I can’t help you with that. I’ve never felt close to her, and I probably never will. I felt I lost you for good once you found her.”

“What exactly did you lose?”

“And I’ve always felt she prodded you into confronting your father the way you did. He gave you a job, a future at Randolph Group, and instead of listening to him and following his lead, you went out on your own and brought a stain on all of us.”

“I took the truth to the places where something could be done about it.”

“Your father doesn’t forgive easily.”

“I knew that when I did what I had to.”

She wondered, with Lilia out of the picture, if a miracle might happen. “This could be a time, Graham, when Douglas might soften a little. If you tell him you made a mistake and you’re sorry, he might be willing to let bygones be bygones. Toby is his grandson, perhaps the only grandchild he’ll ever have, and even your father has a sentimental streak.”

“I’m not sorry, and I didn’t make a mistake. Not that time, at least.”

“Is it beyond you to say so, even if it’s not precisely true? Is it beyond you to say it to assure this baby’s future?”

Graham was silent so long she thought he might be mulling over the idea. But when he spoke she realized how wrong she had been.

“I hope my son has a long, happy future with me guiding his steps. And if she can ever forgive me, I hope he’ll have a future with Lilia as his mother.” His voice hardened. “But I would apply for food stamps, Mother, I would stand in bread lines before I would allow my father to sink his talons into anybody in my family, especially Toby. I will never humble myself in front of a man without an ounce of humility or goodwill in his soul.”

As if his own words had spurred him to action, he got up and held out his arms for the baby. “Feel free to tell him I said so.”

7

Blake’s “villa” overlooked a golf course, which didn’t surprise Marina. The day they’d met waiting in line at a popular restaurant downtown, he had been dressed in a bright blue polo shirt with the Pebble Beach logo. Three months into a pregnancy she regretted, she had started an idle conversation with the attractive older man who had lost none of his graying dark hair and held himself like a soldier. They’d cut their mutual wait time by taking a table together, and she’d learned that Blake was adjusting to being a widower. He had seemed lonely, in spite of admitting to a new romantic interest. Before parting, they’d exchanged phone numbers. “Just to chat.”