Chapter 23

Alma Gordon hadn’t slept at all. The only part of the morning’s newspaper she could concentrate on was her horoscope, and she read even that with trepidation. “A loss cannot be softened.” She slammed the paper closed, then crumpled the entire section into a ball for the recycling, breathing so hard she had to hold on to the table.

As expected, Chantrelle returned a few hours later. She looked the same, messy blonde hair tousled in all directions, pretty face covered in too much and too many shades of makeup. Mrs. Gordon hadn’t put on any makeup at all. Her eyes were puffy from crying, and her nose was red and raw.

Frances Noonan stood by her side, and Baby Owen napped in the bedroom. Mrs. Gordon had considered leaving him with Mr. Glenn or with her daughter, Sylvia, far away, so Chantrelle couldn’t find him. But eventually Alma would have to give him up, and hiding him wouldn’t help.

Her heart squeezed and her throat was tight. Could something like this cause a heart attack? She was seventy-five, after all. And she had high blood pressure. Why, oh why, did Chantrelle have to come back?

“I’m back,” said Chantrelle, with barely a hello. “I want my kid.”

So there it was. Mrs. Noonan had tried to comfort Alma by saying they didn’t know why Chantrelle had returned, that she may not be coming for Baby Owen. That she might just be checking on him. That she might even agree to a formal adoption.

But no. She wanted Baby Owen. Alma’s precious Baby Owen. Just that morning, as he’d dropped his Cheerios one by one off his high chair, he’d looked at her with his impish grin and her heart melted. He sang his nonsense songs and dumped over his milk cup, and all she could do was cry. Even when he toppled over her lilac bubble bath and made a slick mess on the bathroom floor that caused her to slip and wrench her knee, her arms went out to cuddle him and hug him close. He had become her child.

“Chantrelle, dear, don’t you look lovely,” Mrs. Noonan said. And she did look lovely, aside from the face. She wore a low cut, silky white shirt and fitted black trousers, a very trim and different look for her.

“Yeah, this shirt cost me a fortune. But it’ll pay off.”

Mrs. Noonan gave Mrs. Gordon a quizzical look. To Chantrelle she continued, “And how have you been? How is Big Owen?”

Big Owen’s whole being sprang into Mrs. Gordon’s mind, his huge menacing presence, his surly attitude, and his threats. She shuddered and her heart squeezed again.

“Owen?” Chantrelle’s face softened. Mrs. Gordon had never understood the attraction. “Owen’s fine. Him and me’s been seeing the state. Been in Los Angeles. I’m gonna make it there, I know I am.”

Chantrelle had talked like this since they first met. They’d try to steer her back to school, and she’d keep on about her potential for stardom. They didn’t want to quash her dreams, but they felt the responsibility of reality.

“We’ve got a nice room, lots of actors living in the house. They give me tons of help because they can see I’ve got what it takes. One girl, Inez, works at The Station, it’s a real cool restaurant and bar, and she thinks she can get me a job.”

Mrs. Gordon listened to this through a fog. She could not bring herself to say anything. She was grateful Mrs. Noonan was at her side, adding some semblance of normalcy and civility.

“That sounds just lovely,” said Mrs. Noonan. “But maybe work in a bar isn’t the best thing for a sixteen-year-old. Why don’t you leave Baby Owen with us while you get yourselves situated? He’ll be just fine here with Alma, and then when you’re ready, we can talk again.”

Chantrelle threw her a sideways look like a pouty challenge. “I’m seventeen now. And I’m ready. I miss the kid. He can be a pain, but he’s mine and he loves me.”

“Of course he does, dear,” said Mrs. Noonan. “He will always love you. You’re his mother. But is a room in a house full of others and a possible job in a bar, probably with night hours, is that the best for him right now?”

“Yeah, it won’t be easy.”

“I can’t imagine you’d want to burden yourself with a baby just yet, what with your new life and all. He’s been very happy here, and we’d be happy to keep him a while longer until your life settles out.”

Chantrelle gave her the look again. “That’d be nice, but, see, the state found out he’s not with me, my mom turned me in, and they’re going to stop my checks, so I have to get him back living with me or I lose my money.”

“Ah…” said Mrs. Noonan.

“Oh, dear. Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Gordon.

“Hiiiiiii,” said Baby Owen.

“Is that him? Is that my baby?” Chantrelle rushed toward the bedroom but stopped short of opening the door. For a moment she looked uncertain, and Mrs. Gordon stepped forward.

“Here, dear, let’s go in and see him.” She could barely speak, could only manage a whisper.

The baby stood in his crib, hands on the rail, bouncing up and down. “Hi, hi, hi,” he called.

Mrs. Gordon and Chantrelle approached him together. He slowed his bouncing and then came to a stop. He gaped at Chantrelle, his eyes large. Mrs. Gordon summoned her cheeriest voice. “Baby Owen, look who’s here. It’s your mamma. Your mamma is here.”

He didn’t cry. He let Chantrelle pull him out of the crib. He sat in her arms without squirming. But he didn’t take his eyes off Mrs. Gordon.

“He’s so big,” Chantrelle said. “He’s much heavier than I remember. And he’s got hair now.”

Mrs. Gordon nodded, watching the baby, her baby, in Chantrelle’s arms. She couldn’t get any words out.

She saw the problem well before Chantrelle realized what was happening. Though Alma had tears in her eyes, she could see a darkening ring start at the crotch of Baby Owen’s blue pants. It spread quickly and within seconds Chantrelle yelped.

“He’s wet, he’s wet!” she cried. “Take him! It’s getting on my shirt!”

Mrs. Gordon took the baby and deftly wrapped him in a towel hanging on the crib for just this purpose. “We’ve had some leakage problems,” she explained lamely, imagining Owen’s sodden diaper.

Chantrelle didn’t hear her. She pulled the wet shirt away from her skin and searched wildly around for something to dry her off. The wet area was huge. How such a tiny child put out so much urine was a mystery. Mrs. Gordon was used to it. Of course, she didn’t wear silk.

She had the baby changed and in a new pair of pants in no time, but Chantrelle did not want to hold him again.

“It’s ruined,” she said. “It’ll have to be dry cleaned now. I can’t believe it. I just got this shirt.”

Mrs. Gordon regarded her own white cotton shirt and lavender sweater and thought how much urine and spit up and poo the outfit had seen. She hugged Baby Owen to her chest and said nothing. He clutched her arms so tight with his small fists it pinched and hurt, even through the sweater.

Mrs. Noonan talked some more with Chantrelle, trying to convince her that Baby Owen should stay where he was. Mrs. Gordon couldn’t bear to listen. She could see by the hard set of Chantrelle’s mouth that she had no intention of leaving Baby Owen behind. They had spoken to Jonathan just before Chantrelle arrived and decided their only hope was to get Chantrelle to agree to an adoption, an amicable independent adoption which would permit Chantrelle to visit whenever she wanted, but would free her from everyday childcare responsibilities. Mrs. Gordon had allowed herself to actually think Chantrelle might agree. If they could only offer Chantrelle something in return, some compensation…But Jonathan had been very clear. They would lose their chance at adoption if they even hinted at such a thing. So Mrs. Gordon clasped the baby in her arms, perhaps for the last time, and watched Mrs. Noonan struggle with a losing battle.

In the end, Chantrelle said she would be back the following day to pick up Baby Owen and take him to Los Angeles.

“You have a car seat?” Mrs. Noonan asked. “He’s in a forward-facing seat now.”

Chantrelle stared at them like they had asked if she had a chauffeur-driven limousine to drive them to LA.

Mrs. Gordon winced, wondering what else Chantrelle did not have.

“You can have ours, of course.” She could barely get the words out but continued as best she could. “I’ll get all his things together. He’ll be ready. If you were thinking of a snack on the road, I recommend against apple juice. He has a tendency to vomit in the car.”

Now Chantrelle winced. But she didn’t back down. “I’ll be here at noon,” she said.

And that was that. Chantrelle was gone. Baby Owen was eerily quiet. Mrs. Noonan said she was very sorry. And then Mrs. Gordon was alone with the baby. Her baby. Her little fellow. Her pride and joy. She thought of him first thing in the morning and last thing at night. She thought of how much progress he’d made, how he never used to smile or laugh. Chantrelle wasn’t a bad mother, she wasn’t mean or violent. She was just inexperienced and uninterested. Which leaves a mark on a child. Her child. Baby Owen needed her. He loved her. And she loved him.

But Chantrelle was his mother. She loved him too. She could learn to be a good mother. Mrs. Gordon would see to it.