Whose Baby?. Janice Johnson Kay

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СКАЧАТЬ or seals or horses, those inner imaginings that her short fingers were not yet capable of rendering. It was home: loving, safe, clean and ordered. What else mattered? Certainly not money.

      Nor blood. She didn’t care whose ran through Shelly’s veins. She would never let it matter.

      But first, she had to be sure.

      The blue plastic clock on the wall said eight-thirty. Not too late to call Brian’s mother.

      Ruth Schoening’s voice held caution, once she knew who was on the phone.

      “Lynn. My, it’s late in the evening to be calling.”

      Not: Oh, gracious, Shelly is all right, isn’t she?

      Lynn noticed the lack, and decided on honesty. “Brian’s told you he doesn’t think Shelly is his daughter, hasn’t he?”

      The pause resonated with awkwardness. “He did say something.”

      “I would never…” The automatic denial caught in Lynn’s throat. Oh, God. She might someday have to claim she had. She took a breath. “You don’t believe that, do you?”

      Really, she was begging, You know me. Please say that you have faith in me, that you love Shelly no matter what.

      “It’s not really my business,” her ex-husband’s mother said, the constraint in her voice obvious.

      “She’s your granddaughter.”

      “Is she?”

      She had begun to shake again, Lynn noticed with peculiar detachment. “This is so ridiculous,” she exclaimed, trying to laugh and failing.

      “I hope so,” Ruth said. “But, you know, he’s right—Shelly doesn’t look like anybody in the family.”

      “When my grandmother was a little girl…”

      “Brian said he’d looked through your family album, and Shelly doesn’t look like anybody on your side, either. She’s so…so dark, and with that pointy chin she makes me think of, oh, a pixie from a fairy tale. My children were round and sturdy and blond. Like little Swedes.”

      She always said that as if Swedish children were fairer than any other kind. She never addressed the fact that Schoening was a German name, not Scandinavian.

      Obviously, there would be no assurances of unfailing love no matter what. Shelly would lose her grandparents, too, if it came to that.

      “Well,” Lynn said, “the reason I’m calling is that I’m considering having Shelly tested so we can lay this foolishness to rest. It makes me mad to have to subject her to needles and all that scariness, but I might do it. So what I wondered is, do you remember what Brian’s blood type is?”

      “Oh, yes,” his mother said promptly. “He’s O positive, just like me. What a good idea, Lynn! Doubts should always be laid to rest, don’t you think?”

      Fury kindled in her breast. Now that she’d gotten what she wanted, she let anger have its rein, sharpening her voice. “What I think is that all this is incredibly insulting. I understand that Brian’s still angry about our divorce, but you know me better than to believe this…this hogwash. You claim to love Shelly. You always say I should bring her for visits more often, that she’s adorable, that I should send pictures so you can show all your friends, and now you talk about her as if she’s tainted and you’ve always known something was wrong with her. She’s…she’s a bright, beautiful child whose eyes don’t happen to be blue. Well, I’m not Swedish, and I don’t expect my daughter to look like she is!” Lynn ended with a snap. “That’s what I think.”

      She didn’t wait for a response. She hung up the telephone in a righteous rage that deserted her too quickly. How could she get mad, when Shelly wasn’t Brian’s daughter? Maybe she was the one who was blind! Maybe she should have realized immediately that something was wrong, that the baby the nurses handed her was a changeling.

      But she hadn’t, oh, she hadn’t. Instead, the connection had been deep and instant, a mother’s love for this child and only this one.

      Well, the fierceness of her love hadn’t diminished. She would tell Brian that she wasn’t going to get Shelly tested, and if he cut his daughter off, so be it. She would let him live with a creeping feeling of shame. It would serve him right.

      She stood up, as wearily as if she’d just overcome a violent bout of flu, and turned off the kitchen light, using the glow from the bathroom to find her way to her bedroom.

      Life might get harder; Shelly would be hurt that her father didn’t want her. But no one must ever know.

      THE DREAM CAME EVERY NIGHT from then on. She was searching desperately for someone. For her little girl. First she was on the beach, and she’d been reading her mail, and the fog had rolled in, and she looked up suddenly and realized she couldn’t see her.

      “Shelly!” she began crying. “Shelly, where are you?” She leaped to her feet and spun in every direction, crying over and over, “Shelly!”

      She began stumbling toward the water. Boulders reared from nowhere, tripping her. The roar of the surf filled her ears, and she knew with sickening certainty that Shelly had been caught by a wave.

      But, no, she wasn’t on the beach at all. She was in a city, although the fog still played tricks with her eyes. The sound was from traffic. Oh, no! How could she have looked away, even for a moment? The sea was merciless, but cars were deadly.

      She searched the sidewalks frantically for a bright chestnut head. People passing ignored her. Then she saw her, out on the median, cars racing by without slowing at all for the toddler who teetered there. She wore rags; she looked like Cosette in Les Misérables, wretched and unwanted. Brimming with tears, her bright blue eyes met Lynn’s momentarily through a break in the traffic, but without recognition.

      My daughter doesn’t know me, Lynn realized with horror.

      “Stay where you are!” Lynn screamed. “Wait! I’m coming!”

      But her voice meant nothing to this child, and with greater shock Lynn discovered she didn’t know her own daughter’s name.

      Sobbing, the little girl stepped from the curb.

      And Lynn awakened, as she did every night, her screamed “No!” trembling on her lips and tears running down her cheeks.

      With a moan she curled into a ball and shuddered. At last she went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face, then stared hopelessly at herself in the mirror.

      Of course she was having dreams; their content was hardly subtle.

      Somewhere out there was another little girl, one she’d carried in her womb. How many promises she’d made to that baby as she dreamed of the future! She sang to her and laughed and tickled her own belly when a tiny toe or elbow surfaced. She played music and danced and read aloud, just so her child would know her voice, would know she was loved.

      But, through no fault of her own, she hadn’t kept those promises. Her baby had never heard her voice again. Someone else had taken her home. Did these other parents love her and sing to her and tickle her toes? СКАЧАТЬ