This Place: Holmes Crossing Book 3 Page 3

  At least my mother dropped her dead-beat boyfriends before they pulled her too deeply into their horrible lives.

  As opposed to Gregg and me.

  "Anyhow, I'm beat," I continued. "I should check on Celia again and get to bed."

  "Do you know when you'll be back here?"

  I hesitated, thinking of the complication that had entered my plans. "I think I should stay around for Celia's birthday…" I let the sentence hang, not daring to think what would happen past that. I simply had to convince Duncan that he needed to be involved. That he was the better person to take care of Celia.

  "Do you think Gillian will keep your job for you, if you stay longer?"

  The concern in Christine’s voice only made me more nervous. Gillian Dempter was a great boss, but she couldn't be expected to put my job on hold while I sorted out my life. She had already extended her own comfort zone in hiring me. "I can't think about that now. I'll deal with that when the time comes."

  "Sure. Of course."

  But I knew that Christine had her concerns, as well. If I didn't have a job I wouldn't be able to pay rent. I hadn't gotten an illustrating job in eons. Since Celia was born, actually. So my only gig was my job at the hotel. And given the current economic climate and my sketchy résumé, anything else was either minimum wage work or hard to come by.

  I heard a whimper from Celia's room and my heart jumped as I waited, straining as I listened.

  "Miriam?"

  "Sorry. I thought I heard Celia crying."

  She had been restless since everyone had left. Waking up and complaining that it was too noisy, that it was too loud, even though I was the only person in the house. Exhaustion finally pulled her into a twitchy sleep.

  I listened, but then nothing, so I turned off the light and walked to the window, trying to still my spinning head.

  The first night I was here, I stood outside, in the snow and the cold, looking up at the stars tossed across the sky like crushed glass on black velvet. I was still trying to absorb losing my brother and Francine. Wrapping my head around Celia's orphaned state.

  And then I saw it, a band of light spread across the sky in the north. I couldn't figure out what was going on at first and then it shimmered and moved, waving like a curtain and I realized what I was seeing.

  The Northern Lights. Aurora Borealis.

  I'd heard of them, but never seen them before. And as I watched them dancing across the sky, bands of blue and green with flashes of pink, I felt as if I were in the very presence of God.

  And for a moment, I realized that my grief was a small part of a larger cosmos. I felt as if God had given me this small sign of his vastness. His greatness. And I felt a flicker of comfort that in spite of what happened, Celia would be taken care of and given the family she deserved.

  But now, after what Duncan had told me, that certainty had been tested.

  "I still think it's weird that your brother didn't even name you guardian," Christine continued. "That he named his brother-in-law without consulting him."

  I thought it more hurtful than weird, even though Jer, Fran and I had all agreed that his parents were to care for Celia. Not me.

  "Francine never talked to me, either," I said, weariness clawing at me. "Duncan told me his parents were supposed to be guardians. Apparently, his father's logging accident changed all that for them. He has a sister, Esther, but she's in college and I don't think she'd be able to take Celia on. But still…" I let my voice trail off, still trying to absorb the implications of the conflicting wills.

  "It's a big job," Christine said. "I hope you can manage while you sort it all out. But I should go. Need my beauty sleep. I hope you can sleep, too." She paused a moment, then, "You take care. I bet you'll be praying about this?"

  I heard the skepticism in her voice, and in spite of everything, had to smile. "Yes. I will."

  "Hope it makes a difference," was all she said.

  And as I said goodbye, I had to echo her thoughts. I hoped so too. Somehow I had to find a way to convince Duncan that he was the best person to take care of Celia. It was the only solution that made any sense. The only solution that was the best for Celia.

  Then I heard Celia crying out again, and I realized that the long night of trying to comfort an inconsolable child was only beginning.

  Chapter 2

  "What do you want for breakfast?" I gave Celia my brightest smile, determined to try to keep things—air quotes—as light as possible as I wiped down the stove in the kitchen. I couldn't believe it had gotten this grimy in the short time Fran and Jer had lived here.

  Celia sat across the island from me, shoving her doll's arms into the sleeves of a cheerful, apricot-hued party dress. She had spent the night complaining about noise and voices only she seemed to hear. As a consequence, I slept less than she did as I stood, or rather, sat guard over her, ready to console her.

  I wasn't sure how I was allowed to feel about her. This whole 'me and her' wasn't something I had imagined or prepared for. Her life was supposed to take place far enough away that I could spin any fantasy I wanted, imagine any life for her I chose.

  Jer encouraged the distance, saying that he didn't want to confuse Celia and upset me. At least that had been his line. I saw the sense in it, though my heart always yearned for time with Celia. For a chance to see my little girl in the flesh. To hold her on my lap. Read her a story. Instead I was only allowed to send her birthday cards and gifts from her Aunt Miriam. Call her once in awhile.

  And now I was dropped into her life with no preparation. No rulebook on how to deal with a daughter I barely knew. A daughter who pointedly ignored me, as she fussed with minuscule snaps on the doll's dress. Finally, she smoothed it out, apparently satisfied with her work. She tilted her head and I caught a glimpse of myself as a young girl.

  And it hit me.

  She was the only biological family I had.

  I almost staggered under the reality of that, and behind it came an even more tantalizing thought.

  I have a chance, another chance, with my daughter.

  For a dangerous moment, I let the idea settle as my imagination wove other fantasies. Mother and daughter together. My child restored to me again.

  I swallowed a knot of emotion, tried to still my suddenly racing heart.

  Then my practical and unselfish side shoved the sentimental feelings aside. Celia came first. Jer had taught me that well.

  When, as a single mother, I had found out I was pregnant and had been betrayed by the man who was Celia's father, I had turned to the only person I could count on. My foster brother. The only family I had left after his mother, my foster mother, died.

  Jer was the one who encouraged me to think of adoption when I had no other choices left. So when Jer and Fran asked if they could be the ones to adopt her, I saw this as a chance to give Celia the best possible life and the stability I never knew with my own mother.

  Even after she was whisked out of my arms, a part of me had hoped to stay involved with her. To hold the connection. But my brother firmly closed the door on any type of open adoption, and I knew he was right. By naming Duncan Celia's guardian he sent me a clear post-mortem message.

  I was not the right person to care for my little girl.

  My heart stuttered again over the words. My little girl.

  But I caught myself as once more I veered too close to places I had no right going. I gave up my right to Celia all those years ago, and for good reasons.

  Now, she had someone else responsible for her. Her Uncle Duncan. His refusal to be involved surprised and disappointed me. This didn't seem like the loving, caring man I had met at my brother's wedding.

  Forget the past. Do what is in front of you.

  My foster mother’s words wove into the moment. Words she whispered to me whenever I felt overwhelmed and couldn’t figure out which way to go in my life.

  Right now, what was in front of me, was finding a way to get Celia to eat.

  "Celia, honey, wh
at can I make you to eat?" I repeated my request, hoping this time I would get a response.

  Celia looked up from the vigorous hair brushing she was giving the American Girl doll sitting in her lap. The doll had almost as extensive a wardrobe as Celia herself. And I should know. I had contributed many of the overpriced clothing items as well, not even balking at breaking my budget to buy fake baked goods and a doll-sized electric mixer that cost more than the second-hand Sunbeam that sat in the drawer of my apartment kitchen.

  Guilt. The great motivator.

  "Jane wants waffles," Celia finally proclaimed.

  Jane being said doll with said extensive wardrobe.

  "Okay. Jane can have waffles. What do you want?"

  "Jane wants waffles." Celia said in a monotone voice. She bent her head over the doll, her own blonde hair a tangle that she refused to let me touch. I didn't push the issue, but it bothered me that her doll would be more neatly coiffed and dressed than Celia. "So just make Jane some waffles," she continued.

  Well, if Jane wanted waffles, I could oblige. Maybe Celia would eat some of them in the process.

  "Do you know where your mom—where the waffle iron is?" I caught myself from referring to her mother just in time, wondering simultaneously at the protocol of dealing with a grieving child. I had always been on the receiving end of the forced good humor and smiles. The overeager desire of others to smooth rough patches away from a life stumbling through unknown territory, unsure of which steps to take.

  Somewhere along the line, Celia would need outside help. Until then, however, it was guesswork on my part until the Tiemstra’s took over.

  "Jane says the waffle iron is in the pantry," Celia informed me, still avoiding eye contact.

  Since I met her just before the funeral, Celia had been an obedient little automaton, acknowledging hugs and kisses with a passivity that I recognized all too well. Every time I was moved to a new foster home I held back the same way, unsure of how to behave until I found my footing.

  That Celia had to deal with the same sorrow broke my heart. This wasn't the happy ending I had hoped for her when I gave her up.

  "Thanks for the help, Celia."

  "It was Jane who told you. Not me." Celia looked up at me, her eyes snapping. "You have to thank her."

  I veered between confusion and concern at her angry reply. I knew nothing about psychology but I assumed this was Celia's way of keeping me at a distance until she knew who I was and where I belonged in her life.

  I wasn't about to thank the doll, so instead I turned to the pantry. My heart sank once again when I was confronted with the mess. Ripped bags and open boxes with contents spilling out fought for space with tin cans, empty grocery bags, cleaning supplies and an excess of appliances.

  I recognized a panini maker, four-slice toaster, blender, stand-up mixer, coffee maker, an espresso machine, the waffle maker I had come to fetch and an array of gadgets and contraptions whose function was lost on me. And all were caked and grimy.

  I shoved cans and plastic containers aside to get the waffle maker, and set it gingerly on the counter. It was coated with grease and drips of questionable age. As was the mixer. It took a few tries to find the pancake mix. I just hoped it wasn't stale.

  The fridge was as difficult to negotiate after yesterday. The plethora of food containers made me feel like I was playing Jenga—pulling some containers out, setting them aside and digging through others—all while trying not to cause an avalanche. The eggs were buried on the second shelf toward the back. The milk was in the door and, out of habit, I checked the date on the container. My own refrigerator was also a haphazard affair and the quality of the contents veered from fresh to landfill-worthy. Checking best-before dates was a survival skill I learned early on.

  Then my heart clenched as the date on the carton registered. Francine had been alive when she put this in the fridge. Her hands had been warm. She'd had plans for this milk.

  Sadness washed over me, and for that moment, all I could do was cling to the handle of the refrigerator door for support. Would this happen every time I bumped against a memory of Fran and my brother?

  I dropped my head against the door of the fridge. I can't do this, Lord, I prayed. I can't do this on my own.

  And as the grief slowly subsided, another thought rose up.

  I wasn't supposed to do this alone. I was supposed to have help.

  "Jane says you should close the door of the fridge." Celia's quiet voice slipped into my tortured thoughts. "She says you're wasting energy."

  I turned to her as I closed the door, hearing my brother in her comment.

  "Your daddy used to say that all the time," I said.

  "Don't talk about my daddy," Celia cried out, her eyes wild, her hands slamming on the counter. "My daddy isn't here anymore, and my mommy is dead. And you're not my mommy."

  Her words struck like barbed arrows in my heart.

  I remembered saying the same thing to Jerrod's mother the first time I came into their home. Trouble was, in this case, Celia was wrong.

  Don't even venture into that quagmire. Francine and Jerrod adopted her into their family. She is Celia Tiemstra. You can't lay claim to her.

  But for now I didn't know what to say. What did Sally Carpenter, my foster mother, do each time I came back from visits with my natural mother with a few more emotional scars? A few more bad memories?

  My thoughts scrabbled backward. But all I dredged up was the feeling of arms around me, a gentle hug, and an acknowledgement of my grief.

  So I went around the counter separating us and I tentatively put my arm around her shoulder, but she jerked away.

  I knew why she did it, but nevertheless, her rejection cut deep.

  I waited a moment, but she held her shoulders stiff under my arm, and I knew this wasn't working. No violins would accompany this tactic.

  So I went back to cleaning the waffle iron, mixing batter, and struggling against the sorrow I couldn't indulge in.

  Ten minutes and a few taciturn replies later, I set the waffles and a cup of milk in front of Celia, who promptly pushed them over to Jane, sitting on the counter, legs splayed, hair neatly braided, her permanently cheerful face mocking both of us.

  "She needs a fork," Celia said, still not looking at me. "And a smaller cup."

  I remembered seeing a small baby fork in the cutlery drawer and hoped this would do the trick for the increasingly demanding Jane. I also found a smaller cup and poured some juice into it.

  Celia forked a piece of waffle, and held it in front of Jane. I half expected the doll to open her mouth.

  "Jane doesn't like it when you watch her eat," Celia grumbled.

  Chastened, I turned around, busying myself with cleaning the mixer and washing the bowl. Jane was getting to be a pain but I needed her on my side. So I kept my mouth shut.

  When I was done, I snuck a peek over my shoulder, thankful to see both juice and waffle gone.

  "Jane wants to go upstairs to her room," Celia announced, stepping off the stool, her doll tucked up against her.

  "Do you want to do anything else today?" I needed to keep busy and while the messy house promised me at least a few days worth of work, Celia was my priority.

  Celia conferred with her doll, still not making eye contact. "Jane wants to stay home today." Then she trudged up the stairs, a sad, little ragamuffin with her wrinkled nightgown and tousled hair.

  As she left, I sank back against the counter.

  Help me Lord, was all I could pray.

  Then, a ringing of the doorbell pulled me away from the counter, and I hurried to the front entrance, grateful for the distraction.

  Duncan and Francine's mother stood on the step, her smile tight, her heavily-made-up eyes staring me down, her bobbed hair looking as if she had just stepped out of the beauty salon. A cream-and-orange silk scarf filled the open neck of a brown pea coat worn over beige slacks. Gold hoops swung from her ears. She was an elegant study in neutrals that made me feel like I
should have thought twice about putting on the faded blue jeans and old T-shirt that were my go-to wardrobe choices. And I should have spent more time cleaning up the house.

  "I hope this isn't a bad time?" she asked, stepping quickly inside. I cut off the blast of winter air as I closed the door behind her. "I just wanted to make a quick stop to see how my granddaughter is doing."

  My resistance to her claim on Celia surprised me.

  "She's struggling, as I'm sure you are," I said. "Can I take your coat?"

  "Thank you," she said finding a spot for her purse on the overflowing bench in the porch. She slipped her coat off, tucked the silk scarf in the sleeve and handed it to me. "I wanted to stop and see Celia though I can't stay long."

  I opened the door of the closet in the foyer to hang it up, pushing aside the other coats that still hung there, my heart fluttering at the sight of my brother’s and sister-in-law's clothing.

  "Oh, my." Mrs. Tiemstra's hand flew to her mouth at the sight. "I'm sorry, I should have arranged for someone to clean up."

  "You've had enough on your mind," I said. "I'll deal with it."

  "Are you sure?" Mrs. Tiemstra asked, her voice tight as she held back her own grief. "Though Jerrod was only your foster brother, I'm sure this has been difficult for you as well."

  I tried to stifle my own hurt feelings at the casual comment I'd heard dozens of times before. 'Only a foster child' seemed to be a steady refrain in my life. As if my birth mother's lack of concern for our relationship gave everyone else permission to devalue it as well.

  "It's hard," was all I could manage.

  Mrs. Tiemstra patted me on the shoulder, her smile tight, then she walked past me directly into the kitchen. She glanced around the room and I felt a flush of guilt when I saw Celia's syrup-covered plate still sitting on the counter.

  "I just gave Celia breakfast," I said, hurrying over to clean it up.

  "At least she's eating. I haven't been able to swallow a single bite," Mrs. Tiemstra said, hugging herself.