In mid-August, perched at the top of the play structure in McKinley Square, I spotted Grant. He was coming straight up Vermont Street, climbing the hill with his eyes scanning the modern lofts and old Victorians. He stopped and exchanged words with a painter on slanted scaffolding. Turquoise paint dripped from a brush and landed on a drop cloth near Grant’s shoe. He reached down and touched the wet paint, then called something up to the painter, and the man shrugged. Grant was three blocks down the hill, and I couldn’t hear his words, but I could see he wasn’t out of breath even after the steep climb.
I scrambled through the bushes, zipped my bag, and pulled it across the street and into the corner store. When I’d first moved back to McKinley Square, I’d told the store’s owner I was running from an abusive family. I asked him to hide me if my brother ever came looking. The owner had refused, but as time passed and I purchased every meal from his always-empty neighborhood store, I knew I would not be turned away.
The owner looked up when I ran in with my heavy bag and quickly opened the door behind him. I raced around the counter, through the door, and up a flight of stairs. Dropping to my knees, I crawled to the front window of the small, sparsely furnished apartment. The hardwood floor smelled like lemon oil and felt slick against my shins. The walls were painted bright yellow. Grant would not look up twice.
Crouching low under the bay window, my eyes peered over the sill. Grant had already climbed the stairs to the park and passed the swings, the empty seats swaying in the breeze. He spun in a circle, and I ducked down. When I lifted my head again, he stood at the edge of the grass, where thick green sod met the wild forest undergrowth. He pressed a boot into the trunk of a redwood tree before walking across the soft layer of duff and kneeling in front of the white verbena. I held my breath as Grant looked around the sloping hillside, afraid he would notice the carved-out heath bush and the outline of my body, belly round, beneath it.
But he didn’t pause at the heath. He turned back to the verbena and bowed his head. I was too far away to see the delicate clustered petals in which he dipped his nose, too far away to hear his hushed words, but I knew he was praying.
My forehead pressed against the glass, and I felt my body being pulled toward him by the strength of my own desire. I missed his sweet, earthy smell, his cooking, and his touch. The way he placed his square palms over each side of my face as he looked into my eyes, and the way his hands smelled of soil, even after they had just been washed. But I could not go to him. He would make promises, and I would repeat his words because I wanted to believe in his vision of our life together. But over time we would both find my words meaningless. I would fail; it was the only possible outcome.
Closing my eyes, I forced my body away from the window. My shoulders fell forward, belly pressed against parted thighs. The sun warmed my back. If I had known how, I would have joined Grant in prayer. I would have prayed for him, for his goodness, his loyalty, and his improbable love. I would have prayed for him to give up, to let go, and to start over. I might have even prayed for forgiveness.
But I didn’t know how to pray.
Instead, I stayed as I was, folded over on the floor of a stranger’s living room, waiting for Grant to give up, forget about me, and go home.
“Six months,” Elizabeth said.
I watched Meredith drive away. After visiting weekly for two months, she had finally decided to set a new court date. Six months away.
Elizabeth slipped an extra strip of bacon into a sandwich and set it in front of me. I picked it up, took a bite, and nodded. She hadn’t given notice, as I’d expected, but she was different than she’d been before the failed adoption, nervous and apologetic.
“The time will go quickly,” she said, “with the harvest and the holidays and everything.”
I nodded again and swallowed hard, wiping my eyes, refusing to cry. In the time since our missed court appearance, I had replayed scenes from the year before in my head endlessly, looking for clues to what I had done wrong. The list was long: cutting down the arm of the cactus, hitting the bus driver over the head, and more than one declaration of hatred. But Elizabeth seemed to have forgiven me for my violent outbursts. These, she seemed to understand. I’d come to the conclusion that her sudden ambivalence was because of my growing clinginess, or else my tears. Feeling my eyes well again, I shut them and folded over, my forehead pressed against the table.
“I’m really sorry,” Elizabeth said quietly. She had said it hundreds of times in the previous weeks, and I believed her. She seemed sorry. What I didn’t believe, though, was that she still wanted to be my mother. Pity, I knew, was different from love. From what I’d heard of their conversation in the living room, Meredith had made my options clear to Elizabeth. I had her or I had no one. It was out of a sense of obligation, I decided, that Elizabeth hadn’t given notice. Finishing my sandwich, I rubbed my hands clean on my jeans.
“If you’re done,” Elizabeth said, “wait for me on the tractor. I’ll clean up and meet you out there.”
Outside, I leaned against the tall tire, surveying the vines. It was turning out to be a good year. Elizabeth and I had thinned and fertilized in just the right amounts; the grapes that remained were fat and starting to sweeten. I’d spent all fall working beside Elizabeth on the vineyard, writing three-paragraph essays on seasons, soil, and grape growing; memorizing field guides and plant families. In the evenings, just as I had the autumn before, I accompanied Elizabeth on her tasting tours.
I checked my watch. We had a long night of tasting ahead of us, and I was anxious to start. But Elizabeth didn’t come, not after five minutes, and not after ten. I decided to go back inside. I would drink some milk and watch Elizabeth finish cleaning the kitchen.
When I reached the front porch, I heard her voice, half angry, half pleading. She was on the phone. All at once I realized why Elizabeth had kept me waiting by the tractor, and just as suddenly I realized that the failed adoption was not my fault. It was Catherine’s. If she’d shown up, if she’d responded with words or flowers, if she hadn’t left Elizabeth so alone, everything would have been different. Elizabeth would have gotten out of bed and tightened the ribbons on my dress and driven us to court, Grant and Catherine in tow. Filling with rage, I stormed into the kitchen.
“I fucking hate that woman!” I shouted.
Elizabeth looked up. She moved her hand to cover the mouthpiece. Springing forward, I ripped the phone out of her hand. “You fucking ruined my life!” I shouted, and then slammed it against the base. The call disconnected, but the phone bounced off the hook, hitting the hardwood floor and then dangling an inch above the ground. Elizabeth folded her head into her hands and leaned against the counter. She appeared neither surprised nor offended by my unexpected outburst. I waited for her to speak, but she was quiet for a long time.
“Victoria, I know you’re angry,” she said finally. “You have every right to be. But don’t be mad at Catherine. I’m the one who messed up. Blame me. I’m your mother—don’t you know that’s what mothers are for?” The corners of her mouth turned up slightly, a wry, tired smile, and she met my gaze.
Squeezing my hands into fists, I rocked backward on my heels, begging myself not to attack her. Even in the height of my anger, I understood that above all else, I wanted to stay with Elizabeth.
“No,” I said, when I’d calmed enough to speak. “You’re not my mother. You would have been, if Catherine hadn’t ruined my life.”
Storming over to the stairs, I was startled by a flash of motion out the front window. A truck sped up the driveway. In profile, I saw Grant hunched over the steering wheel. Brakes squealed and gravel flew as he parked in front of the house.
I sprinted upstairs at the same time Grant pounded up the front porch. At the top, I leaned against the wall, out of sight. Grant didn’t knock and didn’t wait for Elizabeth to come to the door.
“You have to stop,” he said, out of breath.
Elizabeth crossed the room. I imagined her standing in front of him, only the screen separating their bodies.
“I won’t stop,” she said. “Eventually, she’ll accept my forgiveness. She has to.”
“She won’t. You don’t know her anymore.”
