Page 27 of The Baby-whisperer and the Brute
I could relate.
Sinking into my chair again, I turned off the lamp in my room so I couldn’t be seen from outside. I folded my arms on the windowsill and rested my chin on the flattened knuckles of one hand, waiting for him to reach the end of the path, turn around, and come back again.
And as I watched him pass by then disappear into the darkness toward his own house down the path, I realized a solutionhadpresented itself already.
All I had to do was reach out and take it.
* * *
When the bedroom door opened the next morning, I was awake, dressed, and sitting on the edge of my neatly made bed.
Mother peeked inside, her expression reticent until she spotted me ready and waiting to go. Opening the door fully, she actually smiled.
“Good morning. Are you ready?”
I stood and lifted my suitcase and toiletries bag. “I am.”
The two of us went downstairs where I discovered Mother had breakfast ready and waiting on the table.
I glanced at her in surprise. “You cooked.”
“Yes. I’ll have to get used to doing it for myself again, and I wanted to give you a nice sendoff.”
Mother looked younger and healthier than I’d seen her in years. There was a glow about her, an energy that almost made her seem like a different person.
“I’m so proud of you, Angelina,” she said as we ate. “I’m sorry about last night. You’re a good daughter. I know you’re going to be happy in your chosen life.”
The lifeyouchose for me.
Aloud I said, “I hope so.”
When the driver rang the doorbell forty minutes later, Mother and I walked out to the crushed shell driveway. Beyond it, Oceanview Avenue was quieter than usual, much less busy than it would be later today when the summer tourists descended, filling the roadway as well as the sidewalks that lined each side of it.
A black sedan waited in the drive. The driver opened a back door and held it as Mother climbed inside. I walked around the open trunk to the other side of the car, my heart pounding so hard I worried it might actually be audible in the quiet of the early morning.
After closing the door on my mother’s side, the driver, whose name tag identified him as Michael, opened my door and reached for my bags.
But when he grasped the handle of my suitcase, I didn’t let it go.
On the sidewalk just outside the estate grounds, a young family walked by hand-in-hand, loudly singing the theme song to “Sesame Street” together. The song seemed to be coming from very far away as the sound of my own breathing and pounding pulse filled my ears.
The driver laughed uncomfortably. “I’ll get that for you ma’am.”
My fingers loosened, and he took the heavy bag, swinging it up and placing it into the trunk.
Leaning around it to see me, he asked, “You want to keep that smaller one with you in the backseat?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. All I seemed to be able to do was stand frozen in place beside the open back door of the car, staring at my black flats and clenching the handle of my overnight bag with one hand and the strap of my purse with the other.
“Ma’am?” the driver asked, sounding concerned. “Everything okay? Did you forget something?”
Inside the back seat, Mother leaned down so her face was visible. “Angelina? What’s going on? Get in the car, darling.”
My eyes met hers, which were filling with alarm as the seconds ticked by. “I can’t,” I said in a strangled whisper. A little louder, I said, “I’m sorry. I just can’t.”
“You’re turning your back on your promise to me? Your promise toGod?”
“No. I can still become a nun. I’ll just go to the monastery at the end of the summer—when I’m ready.”
