Elin Hilderbrand - Barefoot - A Novel

“But you did bring a bottle?” Brenda said.

“I did,” Vicki said. “This is going to be known as extreme weaning.”

Brenda moved to the other side of the car and set Blaine free from his five-point harness. A person had to have an advanced degree just to operate the car seats. “Come on, Champ.”

“Actual y, I want to go home. To my house. In Connecticut.”

“Actual y, you have no choice in the matter,” Vicki said in a stern voice. “Mommy has an appointment. Now hop out.”

“Here,” Brenda said. “I’l carry you.”

“He can walk,” Vicki said.

“No,” Blaine said, and he kicked the seat in front of him. “I’m not getting out.”

“After we drop Mom off, we’re going to the playground at Children’s Beach,” Brenda said.

“I don’t want to go to the beach! I want to go to my house in Connecticut. Where my dad lives.”

“We should have left him at the cottage,” Vicki said. “But I couldn’t do that to Melanie.”

Brenda kept quiet. She was not going to be predictable.

“I’m taking you to get ice cream for lunch,” Brenda told Blaine. “At the pharmacy.” This was the ace up her sleeve, and she was dismayed to have to throw it so early, but . . .

“I don’t want ice cream for lunch,” Blaine said. He started to cry. “I want to stay with Mommy.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Vicki said. “Can we just get inside, please? Blaine? Wil you help Mommy out here and come with me inside?”

Blaine shook his head. Strains of “Für Elise” floated up from Brenda’s purse. Her cel phone.

“That’s probably Ted,” Vicki said.

Brenda checked the display, thinking, Yes, it’s probably Ted, but hoping it was Walsh. The display said, Delaney, Brian. Brenda groaned. “Shit,”

she said. “My lawyer.” She shoved the phone back into her purse and, fueled by her anger at the cal , barked at Blaine, “Let’s go. Right now.”

Reluctantly, Blaine climbed into Brenda’s arms. She gasped; he weighed a ton.

“I want to stay with Mommy,” he said.

If only the university officials could see me now, Brenda thought as they walked through the sliding doors into the bright chil of the hospital. They would have mercy on me. Anyone would.

They slogged toward the admitting desk, where a busty young woman waited for them. She had blond hair held in a very sloppy bun with what looked like crazy straws, streaky blusher on her cheekbones, and breasts that were shoved up and out so far it looked like she was offering them up on a platter. Didi, her name tag said.

“Victoria Stowe,” Vicki said. “I’m here for a port instal ation.”

“Righty-o,” Didi said. She had long painted fingernails with rhinestones embedded in them. Brenda wanted to whisk the girl home and give her a makeover. Pretty girl, bad decisions. Didi slid some forms across the desk to Vicki. “Fil these out, insurance information here, signature here, initials here and here. Sign this waiver, very important.” She smiled. She had a lovely smile. “It’s so you can’t sue us if you die.”

Brenda took a long, deep drink of the girl’s cleavage. Could she buy the girl some tact?

“I’m not going to die,” Vicki said.

“Oh, God, no,” Didi said. “I was only kidding.”

In the waiting area, they found a row of chairs in front of a TV. Sesame Street was on, and Porter became entranced.

“Go,” Brenda said. “Get it over with. Go now while we’re calm.” Blaine emptied a tub of Lincoln Logs onto the polished floor.

“I can’t,” Vicki said, sitting down. “I have al these forms to fil out.” As she said this, the forms slid off her lap and fanned out al over the floor.

Suddenly, a nurse appeared. “Victoria Stowe?”

Vicki bent over, scrambling to pick up the forms. “I’m not ready. Were these in any special order?”

“Bring them along,” the nurse said. “You can fil them out upstairs.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Didi cal ed out. “Go now, or you’l back everything up.”

Vicki remained in her seat. She looked at Brenda. “Listen, there’s something I want to ask you.”

“What?” Brenda said. Vicki’s tone of voice made her nervous. Brenda traveled back twenty-five years: Brenda was five years old, Vicki was six and a half, the two of them were playing on the beach on a cloudy day in matching strawberry-print bikinis and yel ow hooded sweatshirts. There was a bolt of lightning, then the loudest crack of thunder Brenda had heard either before or since. Vicki grabbed her hand as the rain started to fal .

Come on. We have to run.

Until the obvious differences between them emerged, they had been raised as twins. Now, Brenda felt a fear as strong as Vicki’s own. My sister!

Fifteen years ago, when Brenda had spent her study hal s as a library aide and Vicki was student council president, who would have guessed that Vicki would be the one to get cancer? It didn’t make any sense. It should be me, Brenda thought.

“Mom?” Blaine said. He knocked over his log cabin running to her.

“If you can be strong and go with that nurse, I wil take care of things here,” Brenda said. “The kids wil be safe. They’l be fine.”

“I can’t go,” Vicki said. Her eyes fil ed with tears. “I’m sorry. I just can’t.”

“Victoria Stowe?” the nurse said.

“They need you in pre-op,” Didi said. “Otherwise, I swear, things wil get backed up and I wil get blamed.”

“Go,” Brenda said. “We’l be fine.”

“I want to stay with Mom,” Blaine said.

Vicki sniffled and kissed him. “You stay here. Be good for Auntie Brenda.” She stood up and crossed the room stiffly, like a robot.

“Vick?” Brenda said. “What did you want to ask me?”

“Later,” Vicki said, and she disappeared down the hal .

An hour passed with Brenda feeling like a broken record. How many times had she suggested they leave—to go to Children’s Beach, to get ice cream at the pharmacy?

“With sprinkles,” she said. “Please, Blaine? We’l come back and get Mom in a little while.”

“No,” Blaine said. “I want to stay here until she comes back.”

Porter was crying—he’d been crying for twenty minutes, and nothing Brenda did made him stop. She tried the bottle, but he wouldn’t take it; he spiteful y clamped his mouth shut, and formula ran al over his chin and the front of his shirt. His face was red and scrunched, tears squeezed out of the corners of his eyes; he threw back his head and wailed. Brenda plopped him down on the floor, put an orange plastic goril a in front of him, and hunted through Vicki’s bag for the goddamned pacifier. Porter shrieked and threw the goril a in anger.

Brenda pul ed out a box of Q-tips, two diapers, a package of wipes, a Baggie of Cheerios crushed into dust, a set of plastic keys, two Chap Sticks, a box of crayons, a sippy cup of what smel ed like sour juice, and a paperback cal ed When Life Becomes Precious . Vicki could go on Let’s Make a Deal with what she had in her bag, and yet there was no pacifier. Brenda checked the side pocket—the bottle was in there, and aha!

Under the bottle, squashed at the very bottom of the pocket and covered with lint and sand, was the pacifier.

“I found it!” she said. She brandished the pacifier for the girl behind the desk, Didi, as if to say, Here is the answer to all my problems! Brenda stuck the pacifier in Porter’s mouth and he quieted. Ahhhhh. Brenda sighed. The room was peaceful once again. But not a minute later, Porter threw the pacifier across the room and started with fresh tears.

“Blaine?” Brenda said. “Can we please go? Your brother . . .”