“Where are you going?” Michelle called after me.
“I have no idea,” I said, returning on nearly the same footprints as I’d left.
“So, looking back, what would you have been … if you could have been anything?”
I blinked. “That’s just it. I still have no idea. I only wanted to be Westley’s wife and your mother.”
She stood before me, my daughter, arms crossed, lips drawn into a thin line. Her hip was cocked, one foot rested slightly above the other. Then, after a tap of one low-heeled pump, she jiggled her keys and said, “You’re coming with me.” She waved her arm in the direction of the door. “Come on.”
I followed, not knowing why, only knowing that to do so was important to her. “Where are we going?”
“Come on.”
“Just like your father,” I breathed out in frustration. I was hurting, for crying out loud. Let me hurt. No more radishes brandished high! Let me hurt!
After a nearly silent half-hour ride in her car, we pulled up to the research center where she worked. “I want to show you something,” she said as she popped the car door open and stepped out.
We walked without speaking, first into the lobby, then—with a wave of a security badge—into the area of the building where she spent her days, so cold, my breath formed puffs of air around my face.
“You get used to it,” she said in response to my shiver.
“I suppose you do but remind me to buy you mittens for Christmas.”
“Cute. Now, then. Do you see all this?” she asked, pointing to the countertops filled with equipment I couldn’t begin to understand, much less title.
“Of course.”
“Good.” She took another step, then looked over her shoulder. “Please follow …”
I started to grin at this daughter of mine with her authoritative voice, then thought better of it. I wasn’t sure I liked the way the tables had turned but was equally sure that I did.
Michelle led me into her office, which was almost as sterile as the rest of the lab. A desk neatly stacked with papers and files. A black leather executive’s chair. Two occasional chairs made of chrome and white leather. A white Ikea-purchased bookcase filled with books separated by plaques and awards dominated the largest wall. It was to this wall, she took me. “Do you see all these?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Whose name do you see?”
I blinked toward them, then back at her. “Yours.”
She took one of the wood-and-brass plaques from the shelf. Wiped it with her hand to scatter the dust that had gathered there. The irony played with my heart and I nodded into a half-smile. “What does it say here?” she asked, now handing me the award.
I peered down and read: “This award is presented to Dr. Michelle H. Hamilton in recognition for her outstanding work in the area of obstetrics and gynecology, most especially ...” My words caught, my eyes having read the words ahead. “... most especially in the field of infertility.”
Gently, Michelle took the plaque from me. She placed it back on the shelf, then led me to one of the chairs before sitting in the other. “Mom, do you know how many women have been able to have children because of the work we do here? Women who otherwise would never know the joy of carrying a child in the womb? Of feeling it kick or hiccup?”
I swallowed. Looked at her. Looked fully at her, seeing the passion she felt toward her job and the compassion she had for me. “No.”
“Me either,” she whispered, then smiled. “There are too many to count.” She straightened slightly before adding, “Do you know why I chose this field?”
I crossed one leg over the other. “You told me once it was something you were just interested in.”
“Well, then I lied. I wasn’t just interested, Mom. I saw—my whole life—I saw what not being able to carry a child did to you.” She reached over and touched my bracelet. Rubbed one pearl between her fingers. Lovingly. Tenderly. “I know how much I mean to you, how much you love me, but I also know that you would have done anything to have given birth to a baby of your own.” She looked around the room, then over her shoulder toward the door leading to the austere laboratory. “I did all this because of your influence, Mom. I did this—all of this—because you were willing to take in a little girl who was a stranger and make her your own, the surprise daughter of your husband and some flaky girl he had a one-night stand with—”
“Michelle,” I breathed out, pleading with her to stop, hardly able to see now for the tears. Nearly unable to breathe from the knot in my throat that matched the one forming in my chest.
My daughter’s fingers played with themselves, then stilled. “Can you even imagine what my life would have been like—how I might have turned out—if Cindie had raised me?”
“I’ve considered it.” Because I had. How could I not. Westley had been right. His methods may have been questionable, but he’d been right to fight for her.
“Well, I have, too. During the time I lived with her, she made it more than a little clear that, while she loved me in her own sweet way, I was not about to be her first concern. She had enough of Lettie Mae in her, trust me. Getting me to live with her was only to keep from being alone. And then Patterson came back and her focus in life was him because—and this is probably me being a little Dr. Phil here—I think she needed that father figure.” She paused. “So, no matter how much they tried to make me a part of their little duo or trio, it really was all about her. Her and him. Her being my mother
