Chapter Thirty-Three

When the family noticed how reluctant Joan was to talk about her time in California, they did not persist. Although she seemed more womanly somehow, a little more filled out, she also appeared damaged. They all assumed that her voluntary exile had been as difficult for her as it had been for them, if not more so. Joan seemed to be a convalescent, soaking in the nourishing atmosphere of home. But after she had been there two days she started looking for a job.

This time she wanted to work in publishing, even though that was the glamour career that every girl who was a college graduate coveted and very few attained. But she was also more practical than she had been before she left; she took a crash course in typing and shorthand at Katherine Gibbs, she told the employment agency about her (partly fictitious, but how would anyone know that?) expertise in running a bookstore, and before long she was working as a secretary to an editor at the large commercial publishing firm Webster and Dally and bringing home manuscripts every night to read.

Joan had not yet seen Peggy face-to-face, although Rose had told Peggy she was back. The two had not even spoken. Rose knew they were both afraid, and she waited for the right moment to push them, because by now she was used to waiting.

All Rose wanted was to help repair the hurt and make things the way they were so long ago. She wanted to restore the relationship between Joan and Peggy, and she wanted Joan to stay. Joan was twenty-eight, she had lived alone in another state, she was obviously used to being independent, but Rose hoped she would like being back with her family so much that she wouldn’t decide to get her own apartment as so many unmarried girls were doing lately.

Hugh had come over to see Joan as soon as he heard she was back, bringing Teddy and Blanche. Celia had come too, of course. Ben, while he was relieved to have his middle daughter back, was also wary that she might bolt again if she felt threatened. Ginger, who was impatient, had suggested calling Peggy the very first night, but Joan had put her hand firmly on the phone and fixed her with such a dark look that Ginger had giggled nervously and said, “All right, all right,” and Ben had been so unsettled by this seething emotion that he had left the room.

Joan was sweet and pleasant to all of them, less moody, nicer than she had been before. But she was clearly treading through this portion of her life with extreme caution, and they were obviously meant to respect that.

What they didn’t know, of course, was that Joan was so desperate to speak to Peggy, and so afraid that Peggy would hang up on her, that she rehearsed their first conversation over and over whenever she had a chance. She wanted to be Peggy’s sister again, and even more, she wanted to see “their” child. As much as Joan knew Markie was Peggy’s and Ed’s now, she also knew Markie was hers. She would push her motherly feelings away, she would remind herself that she had never been or wanted to be parent material, she was aware that the birth mother should never know the adoptive mother, and yet she was yearning to see Markie, and each stage of Markie’s development that she missed filled her with frustration. She just wanted to look at her, that was all.

How many evenings she had been poised to dial Peggy’s number, and then had drawn back, wary. “Why don’t you call Peggy, darling?” her mother ventured, from time to time.

“Why doesn’t she call me?”

“You were this way when you were little girls,” her mother said. “If you had a fight neither of you would give in.”

“This was hardly a fight, Mom.”

“I think you should invite her to come over Sunday for dinner.”

“Me?”

“Should I?”

“She won’t come,” Joan said. “By fall Peggy has her life scheduled right through Christmas.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised. Peggy is so proud of her new baby she’ll want you to meet her. May I invite Peggy and Ed? Will that be all right?”

“That’s fine,” Joan said, pretending she was not terrified.

She knew Rose called Peggy often, and every time Joan noticed that Rose was talking to Peggy she was tempted to lift the receiver and listen in. She supposed they discussed her. She wanted to know and she didn’t. When Peggy came with Markie and Joan wanted to touch or embrace the baby, would Peggy pull her away? Joan thought her fantasies were far more punishing than the eventual truth would be, and her dream was far too rewarding. Her dream was forgiveness and even thanks. And that last, she knew, she would never have.

“They’re coming Sunday,” Rose said. She was beaming and triumphant. “We’ll have dinner at two o’clock, a nice family dinner, as if it were a holiday. I’m going to bake a cake; I haven’t done that in a long time. A Martha Washington cake—you know, with the sugary marshmallow icing you girls used to love and the walnuts and cherries in the icing inside the layers. Wait till Peggy sees your new haircut, Joan, I bet she’ll want one just like it.”

I’ll take that bet, Joan thought. We never wanted the same things.

On the Sunday they were to come, Joan watched the street from her bedroom window, her heart pounding. The Glovers drove up in a car she didn’t recognize: light blue, four doors, with fins and a hard white top. This must be the new car her mother had told her about, since Peggy had started driving again. Joan watched them park and get out and go up the stairs to the house. Peter had grown a lot, he was almost gangly. Peggy was carrying Markie. Markie was wearing a round wool hat with a narrow brim, that matched her coat, but Joan could see that the baby’s white-blond hair had turned gold now, as had happened with Marianne, and herself and Peggy, when they got older. The little head bobbed up and down, and turned to look at the sights.

I can’t believe I made that baby, Joan thought, with a rush of love. I made a miracle. Peggy doesn’t know what I know. I am a good person. A noble person. All debts are over now, on both sides.

She took a deep breath, unclenched her fingers, and went slowly downstairs.

The instant that passed when they first looked at each other seemed much longer. Peggy had taken off Markie’s coat and hat, and was holding her in her arms. Ed stood behind them, in a sort of gesture of solidarity, as if he were their protector. From the background noises Joan could tell that Peter had gone to the kitchen with Ginger, to help get sodas. Rose and Ben were in the corner, in the shadows, trying not to be there, afraid to leave.

“Hi, Peggy,” Joan said.

“Hi.” There was the briefest pause. “Well, this is Marguerite,” Peggy said. “Markie to all who know and love her.”

But Marguerite to me, Joan thought, feeling stabbed. Did she mean it that way, or is it just Peggy being flip? “Well, hello,” Joan said. She advanced a few steps until they were all face-to-face. “What a beautiful baby you are,” she said. “I’m your Aunt Joan.”

Markie beamed at her. “She’s a flirt,” Ed said.

“Hi, Ed,” Joan said. “It’s good to see you again.”

“You, too.”

“And you, Peggy,” Joan said. “And . . . Marguerite.”

“Markie,” Peggy said. She smiled.

Without thinking, because if she had paused to think she wouldn’t have done it, Joan, fighting back the lump in her throat, put her arms around Peggy and the baby. But Peggy did not recoil. When Joan looked at her she had tears in her eyes, too. “I missed you,” Joan said. Her voice sounded strange, strangled.

“Well, we’re here,” Peggy said. She bit her lip. There was another pause. She can’t say she missed me too, because she didn’t, Joan thought. But I wish she’d just lie and say it.

“Do you want to hold her?” Peggy asked.

“Oh, yes!” What a gesture of trust and forgiveness that was. Joan was overwhelmed. She felt again like the warmly accepted sister she had been during that brief period before everything fell apart, and she swore to herself that she would watch herself every moment to make sure she never did harm again. She held out her arms and Peggy placed Markie in them. Joan waited for the baby to stiffen and draw away, but she didn’t. Instead she peered into Joan’s eyes curiously, and Joan realized that because of the strong family resemblance this new adult seemed familiar.

This is my baby, Joan thought. How odd. I made these cells. Look how contented Peggy and Ed are. This one infant saved a whole family. I never dreamed everything would work so well. She kissed Markie’s silky cheek. Then Markie turned back to look at her mother, and strained to get away, and Joan handed her over. “She looks just like Marianne,” Joan said.

“Yes, but she looks like us, too,” Peggy said. “There’s a lot of Ed in her, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Joan said. Not Ed; Trevor, she thought. Viewed at a certain angle the baby looked so much like her father that Joan missed him again. If I had Trevor with me we’d all be couples, she thought; I’d be like the rest of the world.

“Why doesn’t everybody sit down?” Rose offered brightly. “We’re going to have dinner in an hour.”

They sat, and Ginger and Peter came in with the cans of soda and a bucket of ice, Ben opened wine. Uncle Hugh burst in with Teddy and their dog, followed by Grandma, and Ben mixed martinis. Grandma had her one whiskey sour. Peter had greeted Joan calmly, with a sweet boyish smile, as if they hadn’t been away from each other for years, and for that she was grateful too. They all made small talk, the way they used to in the old days.

This is the nature of family, Joan thought: When things go badly it’s a nightmare, and when they go well it’s nothing special. She couldn’t take her eyes off Markie, but she didn’t want to take her away or keep her. Just being accepted again, finally, made her feel exhausted. With everyone talking gaily about nothing—the nothing that was the stuff of family, without which there was a cosmic emptiness, with which there was coziness and boredom—Joan realized she would never fit in completely anywhere, but it didn’t matter. She fit in well enough.