you were sleeping, but you weren’t. You weren’t breathing.” Joshua’s hands still, but he doesn’t say anything. “Dad snatched you up out of the bed so quickly he must have scared the breath right back into you because you started crying immediately.”
“Whew,” Joshua says with relief, and begins rotating the ring again.
“Whew is right,” Claire says emphatically. “Truman saved the day. So he might not know how to skateboard, but he’s pretty special.”
“I guess so,” Joshua murmurs. “I’ll go say sorry.” He slides the ring back onto his mother’s finger, springs from her lap and runs off to find Truman. What she doesn’t tell Joshua is how, during the endless seconds between when Claire and Jonathan saw him lying in his crib, blue and still, to when they heard his angry cries, her own breath escaped her. How could I lose him already? she had wondered. Did God change His mind? It wasn’t until air filled his tiny lungs that she breathed again, too.
Claire slowly gets to her feet, mindful that she is every bit of her forty-five years. When Joshua celebrates his tenth birthday she will be fifty. When he is forty she will be eighty. Motherhood is the hardest, most terrifying, most wonderful thing she will ever do. Perhaps the greatest joy she’s gotten from having Joshua coming into her life, besides hearing him call her Mom, is watching Jonathan and Joshua together. Together they pore over home restoration magazines and, entranced, watch old episodes of This Old House. Claire has to laugh when Joshua, asked what he wants to be when he grows up, answers Bob Villa or his dad. As they scrape, sand and varnish together, refurbishing fireplace mantels, armoires, banisters, when she watches as Jonathan teaches Joshua how to hammer a nail or twist a screw, her heart swells with pride.
Even though Joshua is their only child, Claire knows that he isn’t quite like other children. For the longest time she thought of him simply as a dreamer. His head is so full of creative, imaginative ideas, she can almost ignore the fact that he often doesn’t appear to hear them when they speak to him. They can tell him to do something many times and Joshua will seem to understand, but he rarely follows through. There are times when he seems to leave their world completely, can stare into space fully absorbed by she doesn’t know what, and he’s gone until they bring him gently back to them. It’s as if there is a buffer that surrounds him, keeping the harshness of the world away. Without it, she believes, he would be left exposed and vulnerable. Claire doesn’t know if it had to do with those moments when he was deprived of oxygen or if something traumatic happened before he came to them. Sometimes she fears their love hasn’t been quite enough to renew Joshua’s trust in the world around him.
Claire runs a finger along the row of photos that line the sofa table. The pictures capture the day they brought Joshua home, the day he was legally theirs, the first time he ate pureed squash, his first Christmas. Every single day Claire says a little prayer of thanks for the girl who left Joshua at the fire station five years ago. Because of her, she and Jonathan have their son. Sometimes she wonders about her, the woman who gave birth to Joshua. Was she from Linden Falls or did she come from far away? Was she young, a teenager who just didn’t know what to do? Was she an adult who already had several children and couldn’t take care of one more? Maybe Joshua has brothers and sisters out there somewhere who are just like him. Maybe his mother is a drug addict or abused. Claire doesn’t know and doesn’t really want to. She is grateful that the girl chose to give him up. In that single act of altruism or selfishness—she’ll never know which—that girl gave her everything.
Brynn
There are dozens of us crammed into Missy’s one-bedroom apartment, which she shares with two other girls. The only person I know is Missy, who is on the couch, making out with some guy. I’m standing awkwardly in a corner, trying not to watch their frantic kissing, the way his tongue pokes into her mouth, the way he has his hand up her shirt. I gulp from the glass that someone has pressed into my hand and welcome the pleasant numbness that begins to spread throughout me. I’m not supposed to mix alcohol with my medication, but it’s okay because I haven’t taken my pills in days. A boy I think I recognize from campus squeezes through the bodies and comes up to me. “Hey,” he says loudly, trying to be heard above the pounding music.
“Hey,” I respond, and mentally roll my eyes at the lameness of my social skills. He is short, but still taller than I am, and his blond hair stands up in gelled spikes.
“I think I know you,” he says, leaning in toward me. His breath smells sweet, like wine cooler.
“Oh,” I say carelessly, trying to act as if this happens to me every day. I take another swig from my cup and find it empty. The skin on my face feels loose and I touch my cheeks to make sure they are where they need to be.
“Here, you can have mine,” he says, and gallantly wipes the mouth of the bottle with his T-shirt. He has a sprinkle of brown freckles on his nose and I want to reach out with one finger and count them. I feel dizzy and lean back against the wall to keep my balance.
“Thanks,” I tell him, taking the wine cooler and drinking from it because I can’t think of anything else to say.
“I’m Rob Baker,” he says with a grin.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, smiling back. “I’m Brynn.”
“I know,” he says. “You’re Brynn Glenn.” My smile widens. He knows my name.
“Yes, I am,” I say flirtatiously, and take a woozy step closer to him, wondering what it would be like to kiss him. To feel his tongue against mine.
“I’m from Linden Falls,” he says, and my heart seizes. “We used to go to the same church.” I can see it coming. He isn’t looking at me because he’s seen me around campus or because he thinks I’m pretty. “Your sister is Allison Glenn, right?” I can’t answer. I stand there blinking wordlessly back at him. “Allison is your sister, right?” he repeats. I see him glance back over his shoulder at a group of boys who are watching us.
“No,” I say, and from the look on his face he knows I’m lying. “Never heard of her.” I peer over his shoulder as if I’m looking for somebody.
“We went to the same church. Our moms volunteered at the bake sale together. You’re Brynn Glenn,” he says forcefully.
“Nope. Not her.” I shove the wine cooler back at him, sloshing the contents all over his shirt, and step past him through the crowd. Unsteadily, I push my way through the sweaty bodies until I reach the door. Once outside, the mild night air cools my face. I make my way to my car and climb in. I know I can’t drive like this. My head feels heavy and I rest it on the steering wheel and close my eyes. Growing up, teachers were always saying, You’re Allison Glenn’s little sister, aren’t you? Are you as smart, athletic, funny (you can insert your own adjective here) as your sister?
Well, no, I’m not. I’m not my sister, I want to shout. I am nothing like her and never will be. But no matter how hard I try, no matter how far away I go, Allison is always there. It always comes back to Allison.
Allison
In the dark of night I still question how the police found out the baby was mine. Someone had to have called them and it sure wasn’t me. In the back of my mind I know it was Brynn, even though I can’t believe she had it in her to actually pick up the phone. Brynn couldn’t even order a pizza on her own. Five years have passed and I still have trouble picturing her making the call.
The strange numbness that I had felt after giving birth the day before was gone, replaced
