Looking for Jane (87)

“I know.” Dr. Taylor heaves a long sigh. Nancy can see the exhaustion etched in the creases around her eyelids. There’s something else there, too. She’s seen it before. A shadow that Nancy hasn’t been able to identify. Dr. Taylor is usually so professional, one might even call her closed-off. She doesn’t share much.

“We’re getting closer to legalization, but we aren’t there yet. And it can’t come soon enough, for Christ’s sake.” Her mouth tenses and she seems to grapple with what she’s about to say. “The truth is, this has been a long haul, and I’m getting tired, Nancy. I’m frustrated. I know this is all worth it. But sometimes…” She meets Nancy’s eyes. “Just barely.”



* * *



Six weeks later, Nancy is reclined in the depths of one of the pink velvet wing chairs in her parents’ living room, surrounded by a large group of chattering women and piles of gifts in pink, white, and blue wrapping paper.

Nancy hated her own wedding shower; being thrust into the spotlight and trotted out on display for her mother’s church friends made her intensely uncomfortable. But Frances is so excited about becoming a grandmother for the first time, and quite frankly, Nancy didn’t have the energy to push back about the baby shower. She hardly has the energy to put on her own shoes these days, let alone get into an argument with her mother.

Nancy’s dad has slunk off to hide in the den at the back of the house, parked in front of a football game with a plate of devilled eggs and sliced ham from the ladies’ potluck buffet, leaving Nancy alone among the twittering mass of women.

“Traitor,” Nancy accused him when they met at the punch bowl an hour before. “Thanks for throwing me to the she-wolves.”

“You don’t seriously expect me to stick around with this lot, do you?” he asked. “If I don’t bail out, your mother will pop a doily on top of my head and use my body for a side table to hold the dessert tray. Good luck, Beetle.”

And so, out of options for a reasonable escape, Nancy has spent the past hour opening gifts to a chorus of feminine gasping. As the pile finally dwindles, she reaches out to take the last gift from her aunt Lois. Nancy opens the box to find a truly gorgeous crocheted ivory baby blanket.

“Oh, Aunt Lois, thank you,” Nancy says, and she means it. “It’s beautiful. Did you make it?” She drapes it across her belly and runs her fingers over the intricate pattern.

“I did!” Lois says, grinning a little soppily at the group as the ooohs and ahhhs echo around the room. “Sometimes you just can’t beat handmade, especially for something like this. I made one for Clara when she had her baby last year, too.”

Nancy meets Clara’s eyes over the blanket, but her cousin looks away quickly. They still have never talked about That Night, and it put a wedge between them. They aren’t nearly as close as they used to be.

“Well,” Nancy’s mother chimes in from where she’s been hovering near the buffet table, refilling the punch bowl. “There was no need to go to such trouble, Lois.”

Nancy’s mother and aunt have a relationship that always seems to be locked on the Combat setting. The fact that Clara got married and had her first baby before Nancy did was a sore point, and Aunt Lois loved to remind her sister of this victory at every opportunity.

“Oh, it was no trouble at all, none at all,” Lois trills, lifting a cup of tea to her lips.

Frances sets down the pitcher of punch and glances at Nancy. “It just so happens that I have a little something of my own to give you. Be back in a flash.”

She bustles from the room and Nancy can hear her climbing the stairs. She still moves a bit slowly, but she’s too stubborn to ask Nancy’s father to go fetch whatever it is. Chatter breaks out among the assembled women and several get up to refill their plates of hors d’oeuvres. Nancy sinks back in her chair, grateful the event is nearly over. Her mind starts to wander to the rest of her day. She and Michael have planned to have a nice dinner together and watch the hockey game, since opportunities for that will be thin on the ground a few weeks from now.

When her mother returns a few minutes later, she’s clutching a small box tied with a yellow ribbon.

“Here you are, Nancy, dear,” her mother says, perching herself on the arm of the couch across from Nancy. One of the guests shifts her ample bottom over to make room for Frances, but is ignored. Frances only has eyes for Nancy. “Open it.”

Her mother has already bought countless outfits for the baby, and her parents have helped fund the nursery furniture. Nancy wasn’t expecting another gift. “Mum,” she says, “you didn’t have to do this.”

Balancing the present on her large belly, she gives the ribbon a tug and opens the box.

All the air gets sucked out of the room. It happens instantly, like the door blowing off an airplane at ten thousand feet. Nancy sits there, stunned, staring down at her mother’s gift.

“What is it?” Aunt Lois demands. Her shrill voice cuts through the buzzing in Nancy’s head.

Nancy swallows hard and lifts out the pair of yellow baby booties. Margaret’s booties. She doesn’t even hear the cooing from her mother’s friends.

“They were handmade with a lot of love,” Frances says, her eyes bright.

“Oh, are you knitting now, Frances?” Lois asks pointedly.