Danielle Steel: Vanished

They were at home the night the baby came, she was reading in her room, and Malcolm was working on some papers in his bedroom when the first pains came. She waited for a while, and then she went to tell him, and he rushed to her side the moment he saw her. Patrick drove them to the hospital and Malcolm stayed with her as long as the doctor would let him, and then they wheeled her away to have their baby. She was groggy from the medication they'd given her by then, and she was telling Malcolm something about how different it had been in Paris. The doctor smiled at him, and the two men exchanged looks of understanding, she was in a dream world.

“It should go easily for her,” the doctor said softly as the nurses took her away. “I'll come back to you very quickly.” He smiled and Malcolm settled into a chair to wait in the huge private suite of rooms they'd reserved for her. It was midnight by then, and Theodore Whitman Patterson was born at four twenty-three that morning.

Marielle saw him first through a kind of haze, and the doctor held him out to her swaddled in a blanket. He had a round pink face and a shock of blondish hair, and he looked at her with surprise as though he'd been expecting someone else, and then he gave a long loud wail, and everyone in the delivery room smiled while tears coursed down Marielle's cheeks. She had thought he was gone …she remembered him so well …the same round cheeks, those surprised eyes …but his hair had been black, like Charles's …shiny black hair like a raven …this wasn't him and yet it looked so like him. She nuzzled her cheek next to his, feeling a primeval ache in her soul, and at the same time a rush of joy and tenderness and completion. They took him away to clean him up and introduce him to his father, while Marielle dozed, and the doctors did some minor repair work.

It was morning when they brought her back to her room again, and Malcolm was dozing peacefully there, waiting for her return, and there was champagne cooling in a silver bucket near her bedside. He woke as soon as the gurney entered the room, and she was more awake than she had been the last time she saw him. Awake, and sore, and happier than she'd been in years …and proud …she had finally fulfilled Malcolm's dreams, and their agreement.

“Did you see him?” she asked as Malcolm bent and kissed her cheek, her eyes tired but content as he watched her.

“I did.” There were tears in Malcolm's eyes now too. This was all he had ever wanted. “He's so beautiful, and he looks just like you.'

“No, he doesn't.” She shook her head, wanting to say the forbidden words … he looks like Andre…. “He's so sweet …where is he?” She looked at the nurse, suddenly terrified …what if he was gone? … if something happened to him … if someone took him….

“He'll be back in a little while. He's sleeping in the nursery.”

“I want him here, in my room.” Marielle looked nervously at Malcolm and he took her hand in his own.

“He'll be all right.”

“I know …but I want to see him….” She was never going to take her eyes from him, never going to let him go, never going to let it happen again …never …she began to feel frantic as she looked around the room for him, and for an instant she was afraid she was getting a headache. But the moment passed and Malcolm poured her a glass of champagne, which she only pretended to sip at. After all she'd been through and the medication they'd given her, even the Cristal he'd brought wasn't too appealing.

They brought the baby back to her after that, and she held him close to her while he slept, and when he woke, she unbuttoned her nightgown and nursed him. It all came back so easily, as though nothing had happened since, no grief, no loss, no tragedy …nothing …the eternity of motherhood was hers, and she was lost in love at the hands of this tiny baby.

Malcolm watched in fascination as she nursed, and he held the baby afterward, watching his son in adoring silence. And later that morning, Malcolm went home, and slept peacefully in his own bedroom, knowing that his life was full, complete, and almost perfect. And despite any doubts he may have had in the past two years, he was glad now that he had married Marielle. The child had made it all worth it.

The heavy oak door swung open somberly, as Marielle stepped into the house on silent feet. She was still serious, from having seen Charles after so many years. It had been a shock, but it had also touched her.

“Good afternoon, Madam.” The butler took her coat from her, as one of the maids stood by to help her. And Marielle sighed as she saw them. It had been a difficult afternoon, a difficult day. She could still feel the chill of the church in her bones as she took off her gloves and laid them beside her black suede handbag.

“Good afternoon, Haverford.” She spoke to the old butler. “Is Mr. Patterson at home?”

“I don't believe so.”

She nodded, and walked up the stairs, torn as to whether she should go to her own room, or the third floor. Often, when she wanted to visit him, she de-tided not to. At first, much to her own surprise, she had had mixed reactions to Malcolm's child. She had a passion and a love for him she had never expected …more even than the first time …more than she'd been capable of at eighteen …more than she had known she could ever love another human being. And yet at the same time, outwardly she held back from him, and often the love she felt for him was a well-kept secret. It was too dangerous to allow herself to fall that much in love with him. She knew that, this time, if something happened, it would kill her. So she forced herself to stay away from him, or even appear to be a little indifferent. But there were times when she couldn't feign the pose, times when she had to be with him, times when she crept upstairs at night on bare feet, and just looked at him while he was sleeping. He was more beautiful than any child she had ever seen, warmer, rounder, sweeter, lovelier, more perfect … he was the reward for all her pain, the gift from God for all she'd lost. He was everything she lived for.

Of course Malcolm adored him as well, particularly his bright mind and easy ways. He had none of her tension or fears or anxieties about Teddy's safety. He was just an easy, happy child who brought joy to all who knew him.

He had made Malcolm greedy for more for a time, and for the first year after Teddy's birth, Malcolm had hoped to get Marielle pregnant. But once again, their efforts had been in vain, and now with Teddy, Malcolm was less anxious to pursue it. His efforts were abandoned before success was gained, and now he and Marielle kept to their own rooms discreetly. She didn't seem to mind and both of them were content with the lives they led. At thirty, Marielle had a child she adored, a husband who treated her well, it was more than most women had these days, and Malcolm had the heir he had longed for. It was enough for both of them.

And Marielle seemed calmer now in some ways, except on the subject of Teddy's safety. There she was leonine in her defenses. The Lindbergh kidnapper had been put to death more than two years before, but she still acted as though there was a potential kidnapper on every corner.

Malcolm was grateful to her, she took excellent care of his child, she was a fine mother, a good wife, and she had given him the perfect, beautiful, bright, blond baby of his dreams. It was all he had ever wanted.

As Marielle walked slowly up the stairs, she debated whether or not to go on, she wasn't really in the mood to endure the nurse, and she didn't want to disturb Teddy with Miss Griffin. But suddenly, she heard him. There was a chortle of laughter far away down an upstairs hall, and as she heard it, she smiled. She had already seen him that morning, and sometimes she tried to ration herself. She had to, or he would become an all-consuming passion. It was a game she constantly played with herself, never al-lowing herself quite enough, never being with him as often as she wanted, because she knew that if she did, she would go mad if anything ever happened. But in truth, the child was already woven into the very fiber of her soul in such a way that she couldn't have torn herself from him. But if she rationed her time with him, she could allow herself to think that she had kept some distance and freedom. Unfortunately, as a result, he spent the rest of the time in the constant care of the indomitable Miss Griffin. Malcolm had insisted she stay with them, and after four years Marielle still disliked her. And Miss Griffin still treated her like a somewhat deficient being. Her migraines, her nerves, her fear of kidnappers, her barely concealed, and obviously unhealthy, passion for the child, alternating with periods of restraint, Miss Griffin felt it was all symptomatic of a truly unworthy person, a view she was not embarrassed to share with any and all who would listen whenever she visited the kitchen. It was Malcolm whom the governess adored, Malcolm she respected, and secretly dreamed of. He was her senior by a mere four years, and had fate been kinder to her, it was Miss Griffin who would have stood in Marielle's shoes, not that pathetic, nervous weakling, as she sometimes called her. She still talked about the Lindbergh child, about how traumatic it had been, and where she'd been when she heard the news. Of course it had been an unpleasant business, but it had happened six years before, and after all, the Lindberghs had had two sons since then.