Golden Girl(2)

“Six weeks,” Willa said.

Still very, very early, Vivi thinks. Willa basically just missed her period. “You took a test?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“More than one?”

“Two,” Willa said. “The first was inconclusive. The second had two lines.”

What Vivi did not say was Don’t get your hopes up. Willa had miscarried three times. The first pregnancy had progressed to fifteen weeks. Willa started bleeding while she was giving a tour of the Hadwen House to a group of VIPs from the governor’s office. She ran out on the tour and drove herself to the hospital. It was a horrible day, the most physically painful and difficult of the three miscarriages, though after the third, Willa became convinced there was a problem.

A thorough examination at the Brigham and Women’s fertility clinic in Boston, however, showed nothing wrong. Willa was a healthy twenty-four-year-old. She had no problem getting pregnant. If Rip even looked at her, she conceived.

Privately, Vivi suspected the miscarriages had something to do with Willa’s type A personality, which Vivi and her ex-husband, JP, used to call her “type A-plus personality,” because regular As were never good enough for Willa.

“If this doesn’t work out, why don’t you and Rip take a break? You’re so young. You have years and years, decades even, to conceive. What’s the rush?”

Predictably, Willa had become defensive. “What makes you think this won’t work out? Do you think I’m a failure?”

“You succeed at everything you do,” Vivi said. “I just think your body might benefit from a reset—”

“I’m pregnant, Mama,” Willa said. “I will give birth to a perfectly healthy baby.” She sounded like she was trying to convince herself.

“You will give birth to a perfectly healthy baby, Willie. I can’t wait to hold her.” Though Vivi didn’t feel quite old enough to be a grandmother. She was only fifty-one and in terrific shape, if she did say so herself. Her dark hair, which she wore in a pixie cut, didn’t have one strand of gray (Vivi checked every morning). She might occasionally be mistaken for the child’s mother. (Well, she could hope.)

The conversation had ended there but an unsettled feeling had lingered in Vivi through the night. Are children ever punished for the mistakes of their parents, she wondered, or was that just her novelist’s mind at work?

Vivi had woken up at five thirty, not only because it was June and sunlight streamed in through the windows like it was high noon, but also because she heard a noise. When she crept out into the hallway, she saw her daughter Carson stumbling up the stairs, smelling distinctly of marijuana.

Vivi had last seen Carson the afternoon before, dressed for work in cutoff jeans and her marigold-yellow Oystercatcher T-shirt, her dark hair still a little damp, neat in two French braids. Carson was the most attractive of Vivi’s three children, though of course Vivi wasn’t supposed to think that. Carson alone favored JP—the dark hair, the clear, glass-green eyes, the fine pointed nose, and teeth that came in white, straight, and even. She was a Quinboro through and through, whereas both Willa and Leo favored the Howes. They’d inherited Vivi’s overbite and crowded lowers and spent years in braces.

Carson was still in her cutoffs, but she had downgraded her T-shirt to something that looked like a silver-mesh handkerchief that only just covered her breasts and left her midriff and back bare except for one slender chain. She had no shoes on; her hair was out of its braids but held kinky waves. When she saw her mother standing at the top of the stairs, her eyebrows shot up.

“Madre,” she said. “What’s good?”

“Are you just getting home?” Vivi asked, though the answer was obvious. Carson was walking in at five thirty in the morning when her shift had ended at eleven. She was twenty-one, fine, so she’d had a drink at work and she probably went to the Chicken Box to catch the band’s last set, then she either went to the beach with friends or hooked up with a random stranger.

“Yes, ma’am.” Carson sounded sober, but that only served to make Vivi angrier.

“The summer isn’t going to be like this, Carson,” Vivi said.

“I hope you’re right,” Carson said. “Work was slow, my tips were trash, the guys at the Box all looked like they were on the junior-high fencing team.”

“You can’t stay out all night then come home reeking of marijuana—”

“Reeking of marijuana,” Carson mimicked.

Vivi searched for extra patience, which was like trying to find a lost shoe in the depths of her maternal closet. This is Carson. Ten years earlier, when Vivi learned that her husband, JP, had fallen in love with his employee Amy, Vivi had moved out. All three kids took it hard, but especially Carson. Carson had been almost eleven years old and unusually attached to Vivi. Vivian’s novel that year, Along the South Shore, had been something of a breakout book, and Vivi, wanting to escape the inevitable divorce fallout—people asking what happened, people asking was she okay, people telling her she was brave—had gone on a twenty-nine-stop book tour that kept her away for seven weeks (she’d missed the first day of school and Carson’s birthday). By the time Vivi got back, Carson had changed from the funny little spitfire of the family to a “troubled child” who threw tantrums, swore, picked fights with her siblings, and generally did everything in her power to get attention. Vivi blamed the transformation on JP’s affair (which their therapist had insisted they not disclose to the children), and JP blamed it on what he called Vivi’s “abandonment.”