“They’ll be in momentarily. Don’t strain yourself.”
“You look settled, Dorothy, so I’ll be off,” Mac suddenly announces as he strides toward the front door.
How could he?
“Are you certain you can’t stay? I thought you’d agreed to join us for dinner,” I say, trying to keep from whining. But I am deeply disappointed. “Could you at least greet the children?”
At the mention of the word “children,” Mac’s expression suddenly changes. I know why, and I plead with him. “It will only take a minute or two.”
He shakes his head, and I beseech him, “Please—you promised.”
His fingers grip the doorknob, and he doesn’t even turn around to reply. Calling back over his shoulder, he says, “The news waits for no man.”
“I think it’s time and tide that wait for no man,” I call back, correcting his quotation. But he’s already slammed the door shut, and the car engine rumbles in short order.
I turn toward Ivy, tears in my eyes. But then I hear footsteps pad across the parlor, and there he is. My son.
Chapter Thirty-Five
APRIL 13, 1931
OXFORDSHIRE,ENGLAND
If one should ever find oneself in the sort of predicament I found myself in January of 1924, then one should be so lucky to have a cousin like Ivy. A cousin who has filled the role of selfless older sister, better than an actual sibling, since the beginning. A cousin who has offered unstinting, unquestioning aid, no matter how terrible the bind one gets in. A cousin who’s made it her life’s work to take in orphaned and unwanted children, to love and care for them as if they were her own.
Because that is what Ivy did for my child, John Anthony. My precious. My secret.
“John!” I exclaim, arms outstretched.
He races toward me, crying out, “Cousin Dorothy!” This is how Ivy explains my relationship to him. For now, at least.
His little arms wrap around my broad ones in a ritual we’ve conducted each of the three days I’ve stayed at the Sidelings. I count the minutes until his activities or his school day are finished. When I hear the back door open with a shudder, and John, with Samuel and Rebecca—Ivy’s two other wards—come bounding into the house, I have to stop myself from leaping up with excitement.
Before a roaring fire and a heaping mound of freshly baked biscuits, I ask the children about their day. On my first day here, they giggled and told me about their Scottish schoolteacher, MissLambert, with her funny accent, and the surprise visitor they had in their one-room schoolhouse—a puppy belonging to their classmate Gus. Today, I hear about the mishaps in their Sunday school classroom. I chortle along with them, taking in my son’s lovely wide brown eyes, deep dimples, and capacity for joy.
This glimpse into the day-to-day life of my seven-year-old son is both uplifting and crushing. While I rejoice that he is happy and healthy, I desperately wish I could be a regular part of his existence. Walking him to school, making him meals, reading him books—I envision it all. But I cannot do any of those things as his mother—not without damning his reputation and ruining my ability to earn a living for us both. An illegitimate pregnancy is a stain that would never, ever fade.
Staring at John, I think back on that day I realized I was pregnant. I’d never imagined I’d find myself alone and with child. Alone, yes: I’d envisioned that state many times. I’d never had much luck with men, and I imagined I’d stay single forever. Until I met John Cournos, in fact, my romantic interests were mostly theoretical. Unrequited crushes on professors or brothers of friends or fellow teachers. But when the Russian-American writer and translator entered my life, all that changed. I became swept up in his brilliant mind and big ideas—all except his views on the necessity of consummating our feelings for each other. There I held fast to my religious upbringing and declined, a decision that undoubtedly prompted his return to America.
I’d been devastated when he left. Even though we’d had heated disagreements over my views, I’d always believed we’d end up together. When days passed without a single letter from him, I was heartbroken. Vulnerable and lonely, I found myself accepting the overtures of a neighbor in my building, Bill White, a car salesman with whom I had very little in common. One evening, after too many glasses of wine, I did that which I’d refused to do with John Cournos. And little John is the result.
Not that I could ever regret it when I gaze into the beautiful, innocent face of my son. The few cherished hours we have together are worth every second of the pain caused by our separation and the shame I suffered by his birth. How I’d hoped my marriage to Mac would create a fresh path for John and me to be together every day, as adoptive mother and son. Because when I confessed the existence of John to Mac, he’d vowed to adopt him—when the time is right. Mac and Ivy are the only two people in the world who know about John; I never told my parents because I knew it would have crushed them. Legitimacy would changeeverythingfor John. But the time never seems to be right for Mac. For a child of our own, yes. To adopt John, no.
Ivy hovers behind the table where the children and I gather. Reaching back, I clasp her hand. “You have done a magnificent job with these children.”
“Caring for them is my calling and a gift, Dorothy,” she replies.
The sound of barking fills the room, and the children race to the kitchen window. Their friend Gus has arrived with his puppy, and they run to the back door, almost as one. Tears well up in my eyes at the endearing sight, but I will them away. I don’t want John to see me crying when he returns to the room.
“How can I ever express my gratitude for all you’ve done for John?” I ask.
“I’m the grateful one.”
“It’s a gift I wish I could undertake myself.”
She squeezes my hand. “I know you do. But in your stead, I try my best.”
“I wish Mac would follow through on his promise.”
