Read the book: «Talking About My Baby»
“I’ll do it for the baby.” Letter to Reader Title Page Dedication PROLOGUE CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN PROLOGUE Copyright
“I’ll do it for the baby.”
Tara placed the infant Laura in a sling against her chest. “Here’s a man who needs a wife. And I need a husband so I can get a home study to adopt Laura.”
“Tara, you can’t...”
Tara laughed. “Just kidding, Mom.” But she wasn’t.
She wanted to adopt Laura legally and she knew the other midwives at the birth center in Texas would help her. But Tara also knew that in her case, the authorities . would insist on a prerequisite. A husband.
Tara didn’t have time to “fall in love,” as her mother had suggested the other night. It would take a century. But a “suitable” man to marry lived two miles away, and she had the tool to bribe him. Herself. She would care for his children and she would clean his house.
Are you crazy, Tara? What made her think Isaac would marry her because he needed child care—or a housekeeper?
But she needed him. Isaac McCrea, M.D. She needed him so she could keep Laura.
Dear Reader,
Why write about midwives? First, because my son was born at home with a midwife, and I quickly became an admirer of midwives. Second, because although midwives attend most of the births in the world, they attend fewer than five percent of U.S. births. Third, because In meeting and studying midwives, I have found almost as much diversity as in the population as a whole. What these women have in common is their commitment to be “with woman” (from the Old English med-wyf) in labor and birth.
In You Were on My Mind, you met Ivy, a certified nurse-midwife, dealing with amnesia and a forgotten husband and daughter in rural West Virginia. Talking About My Baby is her sister Tara’s book
Tara is a different kind of midwife—trained in Third World settings, committed to being a midwife with no other tide attached. She is spontaneous and passionate, an outlaw who is sometimes hard to understand. But the outlaw is changed irrevocably by an abandoned baby, and a man who does understand her—Isaac McCrea, M.D.
I hope you’ll enjoy this story and look forward to reading about Tara’s parents and a missing Alaskan midwife in There Is a Season, in December ’99.
Best wishes and happy reading.
Margot Early
Talking about My Baby
Margot Early
The Midwives...
for
Marina of the Sea
Many people have offered their assistance in my research for
this book. Also, I have used several references, including
Philip Gourevitch’s We Wish To Inform You That Tomorrow
We Will Be Killed with Our Families, Hanny Lightfoot-
Klein’s Prisoners of Ritual and a host of midwifery articles,
books and conference tapes. I would also like to thank
Maureen Matthews and William Dwelley, MS, LM, WEMT-I
for their help. An unnamed thanks to the other midwives
I have known, who have inspired me with their dedication
and courage. My greatest debt is to Marina Alzugaray,
MS, ARNP, CNM, and director of the CoMadres Institute,
dedicated to enhancing the health of women and their
families through the art and science of midwifery. Long
before she answered extensive research questions for this
book—and allowed me to use her wonderful analogy to
wild hens and her thoughts on the chicken-and-the-egg
question—Marina was midwife at the home birth of my son.
This series, THE MIDWIVES, is dedicated to her.
I am unfamiliar with adoption law in Texas. Direct-entry
midwives may become licensed in the state of Colorado, but
this law was passed years ago. Midwives in many states,
including Colorado, have faced legal action for pursuing
their trade; they have won and lost lawsuits. I have never
practiced medicine, nursing or midwifery. All technical
errors in this fictional work are mine.
PROLOGUE
I always want to control the future, but controlling the future is an illusion, and this is painful to accept. Only the present is ours and not to control but to live.
—Karen Anthony, age 35, written after Elijah’s birth at Precipice Peak Hospital in Precipice, Colorado
Maternity House
Sagrado, Texas
DECEIT COULD BE BOTH survival and a way of life, and so it was for the girl who called herself Julia, who had come across the river to have her baby in the clinic, Maternity House, on the United States side of the river. Tara Marcus knew this about Julia soon after meeting her. The lies were a survival mechanism, and there was no point in arguing with survival.
“I saw the owl,” Julia said. “I flew over the river as we were crossing. I am going to die. Having the baby will kill me. I know it.”
Spanish had become automatic to Tara; she understood it as readily as English, and she followed the teenager’s words effortlessly.
“An owl came to me the day my mother died, too,” Julia continued. “But this one was for me.”
The border taught respect for superstition. If Julia had seen an owl, Tara would have worried; owls portended death. But there was something about Julia’s eyes.... Living the way Julia probably lived on the other side of the river made a person lie; it was better to invent a fiction, even a name. Truth had no purpose down there, while lies did; they increased the odds that the person who told them would live to see the next morning.
Now, even glowing in the first stage of labor, Julia’s eyes were desperate, and they did not distinguish lie from truth. Every word from this woman’s mouth would be a lie, perhaps even into transition, perhaps through the birth of her child.
She was not afraid, either.
Tara held her hand because it would have been natural for a girl this young, maybe sixteen, to be afraid—but where Julia had come from was so much worse.
“Promise me,” said Julia. “Promise me that if I die you will take my baby and raise it. Swear on your mother’s grave.”
“My mother isn’t dead.”
“On your father’s grave.”
Tara grinned. “He’s around, too—and so will you be.” She sobered. “Julia, there are adoption services. Are you worried you won’t be able to care for your baby?”
“I would never give my baby to someone else! Not unless I was dead! I will take care of my baby. This baby’s father is a diplomat. He is descended from Pancho Villa. My mother... My mother’s family was very wealthy in Mexico City.”
“Relax,” murmured Tara. She smoothed Julia’s hair. “I’m on your side.”
The touch electrified Julia. Eyes round and dark, she clutched Tara’s fingers, tightly enough to make the bones crunch. “Then, promise. Swear you will keep my baby.”
“I’m divorced. No man. Always broke. Midwives make no money.”
“You’re rich.”
You’ll lose this argument, Tara. Where she comes from you’re filthy rich, like all Americans. Just drop it. She grabbed a blood pressure cuff and fit it around the girl’s arm. There had been no protein in her urine, but Tara checked for edema anyway. Julia’s hair looked dry and dirty, without luster.
“Promise, please, that you will care for my baby.”
I have to get away from the border. And she was going, going north to Colorado to help her mother—at least that was how Tara saw it. In any case, she was going just in time. The desensitization was happening. Another midwife at the clinic had told her, You give and give and give, and then suddenly it’s gone. It wasn’t gone yet, but...
But I look in this girl’s eyes and see only deceit.
Only pointless lies instead of survival lies.
“Okay. Okay, I promise.”
“Swear.” She radiated strength, powerful already in labor. “Swear on the names of your mother and father.”
“I swear on the name of my mother, Francesca Walcott, and my father, Charlie Marcus, that I will care for your child in the event of your death.” The words sent a chill over Tara.
Especially because Julia still squinted at her with dissatisfaction.
TARA STAYED AT THE birth center for forty-eight hours, catching sleep when she could in the sleeping nook off the staff room. She attended eight births; four of the mothers had arrived with preeclampsia. These were not the uncomplicated births that her mother, Francesca, saw in her midwifery practice in Colorado. Even working in rural West Virginia, Tara’s sister, Ivy, had the opportunity to give prenatal counseling.
But when women crossed the Rio Grande and arrived at the birth center to have their babies, they were often visiting the United States for the first time. They had risked their lives to cross so that their children would be born in the U.S.—and become citizens.
Like Julia.
Julia had left the clinic that evening, with her baby daughter, Laura Estrella. She had departed without telling anyone, as though afraid she’d be held to pay for the services she’d received.
You couldn’t allow yourself to wonder where she’d gone or if she and her child would be safe.
The sky was starry, and as she walked to her car, a rusty dark-green Safari station wagon bought from a local rancher, Tara could make out the lights of the border patrol stations just a mile away—as well as the neon from the bars in town. In Colorado, it would be cold now. But October on the border—balmy.
Her car looked just the way she’d left it when she came out the day before to throw soiled clothes in the back seat. Bats fluttered near the parking lot’s lights. One winged close to her ear as she casually checked the station wagon and got in.
Music... Rock and roll to take her home.
Jackson Browne. I love you, Jackson. Her fantasy man. She sang with him as she backed out of her space, ready to head home to the trailer. Her heart pounded the lonely rhythm of her nonworking hours:
I wish the best for Danny and Solange; I do not resent their love for each other, I do not resent that they have a baby. Little Kai...
It was two years since he’d told her. It didn’t help that he and Solange hadn’t consummated their desire for each other at the time, that they hadn’t physically betrayed her. Sometimes, she wished they had. Instead, they both expected her to appreciate their selfrestraint.
Now they were living in Hawaii—where Tara and Solange had practiced together, where Tara had married Danny, where Tara had been born—with their new baby.
The road to the trailer court was dark and poor and unpaved, and as she reached the turn, a low-rider spun out of the drive, spitting dust in the night. It backfired, and a cat meowed.
No, not a cat. Not a meow.
The short hairs under Tara’s ponytail lifted.
She should pull over.
The baby cried again.
The baby was in her car.
And she didn’t have to look over her shoulder at the back seat to know whose baby it was.
CHAPTER ONE
In Hawaii, I kept chickens. I had free-roaming
chickens that came into the pen to roost at night
or if they had problems outside. Once in a while,
one of the free-range chickens—never a rooster,
always a hen—would not want to roost in the
pen and would find herself in a tree. If she was
not lured back into the pen and retrained to come
in at night, she would never return; she would
go wild. She would join the group at a safe dis-
tance in the daytime, hide her nest from every-
one, and climb higher and higher in her own
roost so no one could get her. Somehow, in Tara,
I have raised a wild hen.
—Francesca Walcott, CNM
On the road again
IT WAS PAST MIDNIGHT. Driving north, out of Texas, Tara chased off night memories and twilight ghosts, excluding everything but the road and Laura. In slumber, Laura opened and closed her soft tiny hands, holding them close against her blue sleeper.
Almost safe.
She had made it out of Sagrado. In Colorado, she would live with her mother, Francesca—and maybe make ends meet as a midwife. She wouldn’t enjoy living with Francesca. But she had to give Laura the best life possible.
She was trying.
No one at Maternity House had questioned her buying a supplemental feeding system or taking donated breast milk from the breast bank. The birth center sometimes helped an adoptive mother get started inducing lactation. But Tara had told no one about Laura Estrella. Not then, not during the two weeks that followed. Laura would have been given to social services, and...
No way. She’s mine.
Hours after finding the baby in her car, Tara had returned to Maternity House for the things she needed. Then, she’d put Laura to her breast, providing the milk through fine, flexible tubing taped to her nipple. A disposable bag hanging between her breasts, beneath her clothing, held the donor milk. She was massaging her breasts nightly and, with the help of herbs... Yes, maybe months from now, her own breasts would produce milk. But she would always need to supplement.
I’m lucky. I’m so lucky.
She had Laura. She had Laura, and she would do what she must to keep her. Anything at all.
Precipice, Colorado
THE TURNING SEASONS sprayed the mountainsides red, orange and yellow. The leaves flashed gold on red and black rocks, contrasting with the dark pitch of evergreens. Driving home at six-thirty that night, Isaac told the kids, “That whole ridge used to be green.”
It was Wednesday; another babysitter was gone from his life—late getting back from a mountain bike ride. The children had been at the clinic since four-thirty. Keeping tabs on three children, ages five through thirteen, and seeing patients, and dealing with his staff... He felt the stress, readjustment to the cold and the mountains and the U.S.
Danielle cried out in Kinyarwanda, begging his help against David, who was dismembering one of her Barbie dolls.
Isaac took a breath. “English, Danielle.”
She burst into tears, and both her brothers began to soothe her—in the language she’d chosen. Oliver turned around in the passenger seat to speak to her. The doll was reassembled.
“Dad,” said David, behind him. “I have the coolest idea for tonight.”
For D&D, Dungeons & Dragons. Isaac’s brother and mother had brought the game to Rwanda years ago, along with a television and VCR that had later become bargaining chips, buying lives. In Colorado, David had discovered D&D accessories—books, boxes of dice with any number of sides—eight, ten, twelve, twenty, one hundred. David was a wizard at probability. He had written his first seventh-grade essay on chance, and his teacher had sent it to a national contest.
Isaac would have to play Dungeons & Dragons tonight. He’d enjoy it, but his life was full of have-tos, and each day he tried to unload more of them, usually at the clinic. The nurses were always dropping hints—like today. Dr. McCrea, we’re two hours behind schedule! Then he’d heard her tell the receptionist, Guess we’re on African time again.
He’d called an office meeting on the spot and encouraged everyone to air their feelings. They had. In a nice way.
In a nice way, he’d explained that his office wasn’t an emergency room. What most of his patients needed was someone to talk to. He liked to find out what was bothering them and try to get across how they could become well.
Everyone in his office needed to relax about the clock. Precipice had one physician for every five hundred residents; Rwanda, one for every forty thousand. He worked well at great speed, but here, why race the clock?
No one had relaxed. He’d heard about the crying babies and the elderly people on oxygen, and...
There were more have-tos at the clinic. Perhaps he should record his own perceptions of time, as David had recorded his vision of chance.
Looking west at the ski lifts, hanging motionless above the rocks and grass and trees, he weighed the price of season passes against discount ski cards. Oliver and David wanted snowboards. When Isaac had left Colorado, snowboards hadn’t existed. Fourteen years he’d been away.
The face of Precipice Peak bordered one side of the town. Rust-red mountains rose on the other at a gentler angle. He headed that way, east toward Tomboy, and at the top of the road, when he turned left, Danielle exclaimed, “La sage femme! Et une dame et un bébé.”
French now.
Isaac said, “The midwife. And a lady and a baby.”
“Say it, Danielle,” suggested twelve-year-old David. “The midwife. And a lady and a baby.”
“Yes,” Oliver encouraged. “Practice!”
Another have-to. Isaac had to tell the midwife, Francesca Walcott, when the new owners were taking occupancy of her rented Victorian. Two years ago, when Isaac was still in Rwanda, his mother had dispersed most of her assets between him and Dan, his brother. A year later, Dan had negotiated the purchase of the Victorian and Isaac’s own place—as well as empty acres and abandoned buildings sprawled over one side of Tomboy—as a package deal, acting for Isaac. Now Isaac was turning over the Victorian at a profit.
He had to.
PRECIPICE HAD ONCE been a mining town. Since then, log homes and glassy condominiums had sprung up around the turn-of-the-century painted ladies. Yet Tara still saw alpine meadows beneath the grim-faced peaks. The wildflowers were gone, the heavy snows late this year. Aspens dropped golden leaves on her mother’s twenty-year-old Jeep Eagle in the gravel drive.
The sign in front of the Victorian read, Mountain Midwifery. Francesca Walcott, CNM. The name Ivy Walcott, CNM, had been painted over; Tara’s adopted sister had moved back to West Virginia, reunited with her husband and daughter.
Tara had considered turning to Ivy rather than face their mother with Laura. Too late now.
Before she could unfasten her seat belt, Francesca stepped outside and hurried down the walk toward the Safari station wagon, picking her way on stones set in the mud and gravel between naked flower beds. Her gray-tinged auburn curls cascaded over her shoulders. To Tara, Francesca always looked like the Icenian queen Boadicea, who had avenged the rape of her two daughters by waging war against the Romans.
Francesca suited the role.
Tara cranked down her window and smelled snow, unfallen.
Her mother saw Laura.
When Tara released the buckle on the infant car seat and lifted her, Laura didn’t wake, just curled her knees up to her chest. You are so sweet. I love you. I love you.
As Tara unfolded herself from the car with Laura, a blue Toyota Land Cruiser beat its way up the road, rocking over the bumps. The road led up to Tomboy, a ghost town recently turned real-estate speculation-ground. Though several properties were listed, her mother said only one resident had settled on the high alpine tundra, buying up half of what was there. So this must be Francesca’s troublesome landlord. But first Tara saw the children, with luminous skin shades darker than the Rio Grande and wavy, shiny, black hair. A boy, a little girl, another boy.
Finally, she caught an impression of black hair, granite cheekbones and fair skin behind the steering wheel. No one had ever mentioned his looks—only that he was an obstetrician and difficult. Now, there was a real-estate sign in the yard. Was he selling the Victorian?
Where will Mom go?
Where will Laura and I go?
Evicting Francesca so that he could rent out her house to skiers. So why was there a real estate sign on the front lawn?
Francesca plastered on a grin and waved.
The driver nodded, and Tara noted the careless scrape of his eyes, eyes some murky shade of dark gray or green. The children were speaking to each other, ignoring everything else.
“Friends?”
“Shut up and smile.” The hiss of a sigh escaped Francesca’s lips, saying plainer than words, What have you done now, Tara? Whose baby is that?
The Land Cruiser halted in the rocks and mud alongside the road, beneath evergreens. As the dust settled, a car door slammed, and the driver strode toward them.
“Great,” muttered Francesca.
“What?”
“Please, Tara. Let me do the talking. This is my landlord.” She added, “And Dan McCrea’s brother.”
Dan McCrea. The other creep in her life who’d been christened Daniel. Why did she have so much trouble with people named Dan? There was Danny Graine, her ex-husband—
And Dan McCrea, M.D., OB/GYN.
His brother was six foot three or four. Tara rocked Laura, singing softly, “Hush a-bye, don’t you cry, Go to sleepy, little baby....” Under the pine trees, she adjusted the receiving blanket over the tiny head in a cotton hat. She’d found the hat at Wal-Mart in El Paso, along with the infant car seat—everything but the cotton diapers she’d bought from a supplier, also in El Paso.
“Hello, Francesca.”
Tara thrust out a hand. “Hi, I’m Tara. Francesca’s daughter.”
“Isaac McCrea.” He shook her hand, then ignored her. “The buyers signed the contract today. Occupancy is set for November twenty-fourth.”
His eyes were hazel, with black lashes and eyebrows. Yeah, the resemblance to Dangerous Dan was there, alongside the differences. Great chin, nice jaw, straighter hair, more interesting eyes... In Tara’s arms, Laura stirred, made a soft crying sound.
She would have to get the milk and supplemental feeder from the cooler in the car. Her plan was to link up with some of Francesca’s nursing moms, see if any would donate breast milk.
“Is there something I can do to change your mind, Dr. McCrea?” asked Francesca.
“No.” He shook his head.
“Is it because I’m a midwife?”
Tara liked the direct question, the only relevant question. Relevant to everything when one’s life was midwifery—in the United States.
“Of course not.”
“Then, perhaps, when I find a new place for my home and office,” Francesca suggested, “you’ll be willing to serve as backup physician.”
Gutsy, Mom! Incision Dan’s brother serve as backup for the local midwife?
“I have no maternity insurance. I don’t do births.”
Didn’t do births? Tara broke in. “Aren’t you an obstetrician?”
“Family practice. You’re thinking of my brother.”
She blushed. On the phone, months and months ago, Francesca had said he was an obstetrician; but that was when he was new to town. Or maybe there was confusion with his brother, who’d lived in Precipice for years. In any case, Francesca had been getting flak from the hospital about her homebirth practice, and she always assumed the worst.
From the corner of her eye, Tara glimpsed motion. “Your car is rolling.”
The Land Cruiser connected with a house-sized boulder behind it and stopped.
“Not anymore.” Unconcerned about his children releasing the parking brake? Backing away, he murmured, “Enjoy your visit,” and he was partway to his car before he turned and looked at Tara.
She felt to her bones what he saw.
A woman with a newborn and a slender body and flat stomach. Quelling panic, fear of discovery, she grinned. “Bye, doc.”
“TARA. YOUR ETHICS!”
“Ethics, schmethics. This has nothing to do with being a midwife.”
“You attended that child’s birth! You can’t just keep the baby! And you can’t raise a child alone.”
“What would you have done?”
Francesca thought, We’ve been here a hundred times before. Butting heads. “I would have driven straight back to Maternity House. What possessed you to do anything different?”
“I told you. I swore—”
“The mother is clearly not dead.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But her wishes were obvious. She considered herself dead—to this child. And now, Laura can grow up knowing that her mother and I made a pact, rather than that her mother abandoned her, which is the story she’d hear if she was adopted by strangers.”
Francesca pressed her lips together. The baby was darling, with her thatch of dark hair and huge dark eyes. I don’t dare hold her. But Tara... Tara was nursing her with supplemental milk. Ten to twelve times a day. What was she thinking? “Tara, that baby is stolen. From the next couple in the state of Texas waiting to adopt a child.”
Tara had already considered that. “I disagree. Julia fostered her out—informally—to me. People have done it forever, everywhere. Uther Pendragon handed Arthur to Merlin, who gave him to Sir Ector to raise. Dad told me about an Eskimo lady giving her second son to a woman who had none, for the strength of the community—”
Francesca rolled her eyes. She’d once heard Charlie convince a man that moose turn into caribou when they cross the Arctic Circle. “Things have changed, Tara.”
“But remember how it was in Hawaii? Lots of adoption within families. Fostering and adoption are ancient traditions—”
“And this is the dawn of the third millennium.”
Tara lifted the infusion of fenugreek she’d brewed. “To a bright new century. Here we are. And I can help you. I’ll do the homebirths. You do the hospital births.”
“I’ve already told my homebirth clients that I can’t attend homebirths anymore. I can’t risk losing hospital privileges, and there’s simply too much pressure from the medical community.”
“Tara to the rescue. I’ll start a homebirth practice to fill in the gaps. After all, I have no hospital privileges to lose.”
“You should not be practicing in the state of Colorado, Tara. It’s not legal. In January—” Francesca began.
“Not an issue. These hands caught more than eight hundred babies just last year.”
“In Texas. I know your credentials, Tara. But the answer is no.”
The infant in her arms ceased sucking at Tara’s nipple and the tube from the supplemental feeder. Her head dropped away in slumber, and Tara carefully turned her to burp her.
Pretending not to see the bonding between her daughter and the newborn, Francesca watered pots of cacti in the solarium. The muscles in her shoulders ached. How could Tara have done it?
Only Tara would have done it.
And Tara was fragile as a cactus. Cacti seemed hardy, but if you ignored what they were and watered them too much... Was Tara really over Danny, over his running off with her partner, having a child with her partner? Now ex-partner.
How can I turn her away? Wandering to the kitchen, Francesca touched the soft cheek of the sleeping newborn. Skin so fine. The smell of her so new. “Do you even have her birth certificate?”
“No.” The solution—the last-gasp, avoid-losing-Laura solution—confronted Tara again. Surely it wouldn’t come to that.
“How do you plan to adopt her, Tara?”
“I’m working it out. Don’t worry. If I’m not worrying, why should you?”
Francesca folded her arms across her chest. Lines in her forehead deepened as she returned to the solarium. After a bit, she shook her head and muttered, “That man.”
“Isaac the Greedy? His kids are cute.” Releasing the parking brake.
“His children are in dire need of a mother.”
In dire need of a mother?
Tara came alert. “Where’s their mother?”
“I understand she’s dead.” Reluctantly, Francesca added, “In Rwanda. That’s where they came from.”
Rwanda?
Tara saw the terraced slopes, felt the heat and humidity, smelled the scents, the unique scents of that country, the faces of the people. She had read the newspapers and books in ’94 and since, and cried for Rwanda.
She placed Laura in a sling against her chest, a style she’d learned in South America, and went to the sink. She removed the feeding system and emptied the remaining milk, then prepared for next time. Afterward, she took flour, cinnamon and nutmeg from the cupboard. “I’m going to make a couple of pies and take them up to your nemesis and his motherless children.”
Francesca’s eyes rounded. “You’re going to do what?”
“It’s for Laura. Here’s a man who needs a wife. And I need a husband so I can get a home study and adopt Laura.”
“Tara, you can’t—”
Tara laughed. “Just kidding, Mom.”
Francesca reminded herself to breathe. It sometimes occurred to her that Tara had been conceived in a turbulent year—oh, in how many ways—and that she’d been born on the fifth anniversary of President John F. Kennedy’s assassination, and that maybe all of this was to blame for her having turned out as she had. But no. Charlie Marcus’s genes—and personality, if you could call it that—were responsible.
“I’m going to try to talk him out of selling this house,” Tara explained, almost as though reasoning with herself.
Francesca studied her daughter. Was Tara lying? She’d learned from the best—her father. “The house is a done deal.”
“Not till closing.”
“He’s not going to back down, Tara. I’ve known him longer than you have. Not to say that I do know him, only that I know how he feels about selling this house. I always get the same answer.”
Her daughter’s smile made Francesca uneasy, as if Tara actually planned to marry Isaac McCrea. “Then maybe someone else should do the asking.”
SHE DROVE SLOWLY, yet the low-slung station wagon hit rocks in the four-wheel-drive road. Her mother had offered to watch Laura, but Tara had declined. She didn’t want to be apart from her. You’re so precious. Blowing bubbles in her car seat.
Twilight bathed Tomboy. The ghostly skeleton of an uninhabited mining structure rose against the far rock walls. Closer by stood another deserted building, the Columbine, which had once been a bordello. Now the windows were boarded, like those of the houses across the road where miners had lived, but Tara drove with one elbow in order to direct an X made with her two index fingers toward the house of prostitution.
Had he bought that, too? Her mother had said “everything north of the road.”
Lights shone from a house set alone at the edge of the tundra. Decades ago, the mine owner had resided there, in a two-story cabin set eight feet above the road, at winter snow level. Subsequent owners had built onto the sides and back, adding the steep rooflines of a chalet, with outdoor shutters and balconies. A snowmobile near the side porch awaited the first storms.
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