Chapter 52

Alma Gordon waited with Sarah and Frances Noonan for Chantrelle to return from her weekend with Baby Owen. Chantrelle and her sister had recently had a reunion, and into this tenuous situation Mrs. Gordon handed over Owen.

What if Chantrelle and her sister got along? What if the sister was nice? Would Chantrelle move back to San Francisco and move in with her? Would this be a good home for Owen? Would Alma get to see him?

What if Chantrelle decided to take Owen back to Los Angeles? Zach was already out of the picture, broken up in the few days he and Chantrelle had spent alone together. What if Chantrelle decided a toddler was just the thing to fill the empty space?

What if Chantrelle was able to take Owen back? Because Alma Gordon was tired. It had been easy when Owen was a baby. But he was a toddler now and toddlers were nonstop. She spent all day trailing behind him, keeping him safe, entertained, fed, happy.

He was such a happy little boy. Her heart squeezed, and though her heart test had been normal, her heart hurt just the same.

Chantrelle would make a good mother. Wouldn’t she? In time? With lots of coaching?

Los Angeles was so far away.

A sharp knock at the door made her jump. She couldn’t manage to get off the soft couch, and Sarah went to open it.

“She’s here.” Enid Carmichael strode into the apartment. She homed in on the plate of brownies on the table supplied by Frances Noonan and helped herself.

“Saw her from my window. She’s having a hard time getting the kid out of his car seat.”

“Oh, dear.” Alma Gordon couldn’t believe it. She’d gone over this and over this with Chantrelle. They’d practiced several times. She and Frances had no trouble with the car seat themselves.

“She’s swearing like a banshee. I opened my window to get the breeze and I heard her.” Mrs. Carmichael took another brownie.

“Oh, dear.” It was freezing outside, and Alma doubted Enid had wanted a breeze, more likely wanted to spy on Chantrelle. Still, Alma was glad for the information.

“She called him a little sh—well, you know. I don’t use that type of language myself. I’m just telling you what I heard.” Mrs. Carmichael licked the chocolate off her fingers.

“What!” Frances Noonan cried.

Alma sat stuck in place on her squishy sofa. She felt her face get squishy, too, and she started to cry.

“She doesn’t seem very suitable,” Enid Carmichael said. “Do you have anything to drink?”

“Alma, Alma, don’t worry. We will find a way. We have to find a way. Owen cannot go with her.” Frances Noonan put her arm around her shoulder. Alma knew she meant these words as a comfort.

Mrs. Gordon couldn’t tell them the truth. That she’d hoped Chantrelle had matured into a mother. That she got along with her sister and had a home to go to with Owen. That Mrs. Gordon really was too old and tired to take care of a toddler.

Owen. Her Owen.

The buzzer shrieked. Sarah buzzed them up and waited by the open door. The elevator opened and the hall filled with screaming.

Chantrelle spilled into the apartment. She pulled Owen along by his arm. His face was maroon, and he tried to plant his feet to keep from moving. Then he saw Alma and broke free from Chantrelle. He ran to the couch on his short legs and flung himself at her so that she fell backward deeper into the cushion.

Up close, Owen’s face was grimy and tear streaked. He stopped screaming and tried to speak, but he could only cry.

“We lost the bear,” Chantrelle said. “I told him it’s only a bear, and he’s too old anyway, and we can get another, and why won’t he just shut up?” She shouted now. “First it was the food, he didn’t want what we had, then he wouldn’t go to sleep, then it was the park and not wanting to leave, then it was the jacket, which he refused to wear.”

“Sit down, dear, you must be exhausted. Have a brownie.” Mrs. Noonan offered her the plate.

“My sister was exactly how I remembered. She’ll never change. She knows everything. I’m a failure. My life is a waste. She’ll never take in my kid. She’ll never take in me. I don’t need her. She’s been out of my life for years and I’ve done fine.”

“You sure about that?” said Enid Carmichael.

“It’s Owen. That’s the problem,” Chantrelle continued. “I can live on my own in LA. But Owen takes so much work. I can’t get a job. I can’t do anything.”

Chantrelle was crying now, not shouting. “I’m too young to be a mother. It’s too hard. I can’t do it, I can’t do it, I can’t do it.”

Neither can I, Mrs. Gordon thought. I’m too old to be a mother. The courts won’t let me, and I can see why.

Owen had calmed in her lap. He lay limp against her chest. She dried his eyes with her handkerchief, smelling its lilac scent and trying to calm herself.

“Wing, wing,” Baby Owen suddenly shouted, climbing off the couch and toddling over to Sarah. She bent her arm, and he held on and lifted his feet and started swinging.

“That’s what he wants?” Chantrelle’s voice rose again. “He said it all weekend. He kept trying to grab my arm. I couldn’t figure it out. I thought he wanted me to flap like a bird. How was I supposed to know this is what ‘wing’ means?”

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Gordon said. “It means ‘swing.’ I’m afraid this is Harold’s fault. He taught Owen this ages ago.”

“Owen will swing until your arm feels like it’ll fall off,” Sarah added.

“Men don’t notice things like that. Stronger. That Harold could probably do it for hours,” said Enid Carmichael.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute.” Frances Noonan waved her hands in the air. Alma looked at her. Everyone was silent.

Mrs. Noonan pointed to Sarah, with the toddler swinging on her arm.

“Harold. Harold and Sylvia. No one would turn down Harold and Sylvia. They can adopt Owen.”

And she was right. Mrs. Gordon called Sylvia. She knew immediately from the tone of her daughter’s voice that this would work out. Sylvia said she would talk with Harold. They called back a few hours later. They sounded so happy.

Chantrelle met them the very next day, visiting their house and seeing their town. Jonathan put through the papers and said they could start any time. The papers were simply a formality as long as everyone was in agreement.

Mrs. Gordon planned to take Baby Owen to Sunnyvale as soon as Sylvia and Harold made arrangements. Which somehow took them no time at all. Sylvia shifted her hours at work. Harold painted the spare bedroom blue. They said they were ready before the week was out.

“I can’t believe I’m going to be a mother,” Sylvia told her. “I only hope I can be anywhere near as good a mother as you.”

Mrs. Gordon’s heart squeezed again. A squeeze of joy.