Trespassing(3)

“Daddy. He went to God Land.”

“Baby, Nini doesn’t know what she’s—”

“Nini knows.”

Baffled, I do nothing for a second or two. “Come on, baby girl. Everything’s okay.” I gather her into my arms, and while the fertility doctors tell me not to lift more than a gallon of milk, sometimes their advice isn’t quite practical. I prop her on my hip and make a show of going back to the car for Nini, and even pretend to hold the kid’s hand—as if I’m not holding enough—as we make our way to the door.

We’ve already missed attendance, calendar time, weather report, and meet-a-new-friend. Well, they’ll just have to understand. I should’ve thought to bring a note from Dr. Russo. Maybe they’d spare me the lecture if they knew I’d been attempting to help my child adjust to this preschool routine.

I lower Bella to her feet and punch in the access code at the door. A red light blinks at me. I try again to no avail. Great. I buzz for help.

Through the intercom: “May I help you?”

I push the button again. “This is Veronica Cavanaugh. The code doesn’t seem to be working.”

“One moment.”

A minute or two later, Miss Wendy, the director of the school, appears at the door to admit us. “I’m surprised to see you today.” Her eyebrows slant downward, and her pink lips bend into a pout.

“Oh. I know we’re a touch late, but Bella had an appointment.” We walk into the foyer, decorated with a painted mural of a picket fence and flowers and blue skies that belie today’s overcast cloud cover.

“How are you holding up?”

“I’m . . .” Did I tell them about the egg retrieval yesterday? I don’t think so. But Claudette Winters knows, and since she picked up Bella for us yesterday, I wonder if she spilled the beans. It would be unlike her if she didn’t. “I’m hanging in there.” The generic response is easier than explaining that I feel like shit, thanks to the aching caused by my ovaries blasted to the size of tennis balls and the constant headache. I’ve learned that while people ask, they don’t really care about the specifics anyway. I help my daughter remove her coat.

“Such a tough time.” Wendy crouches in front of Bella and wipes tears from her cheeks. “And how are you, sweetie?” She looks up from my daughter. “You know, I think bringing her today is best. Sometimes a distraction, especially when that distraction is learning, is just what the doctor ordered.”

Just as I’m about to tell Wendy that beyond knowing that Mommy takes baby shots, Bella isn’t all that involved in the IVF process, a classroom coordinator appears to take my kid by the hand and lead her to class.

“Wait!” Bella says. “Wait! Mommy!”

I open my arms and allow her in for one last hug. “See you in a few hours, Ellie-Belle.”

Her little arms are tight around my neck, and I feel her trembling. “Nini’s scared.”

“You and Nini will have a good time today,” I remind her. “You always do.”

“I love you, Mommy.”

“I love you, too.”

She separates of her own volition—sometimes I have to pry her hands off me—and voluntarily takes the coordinator’s hand. She looks over her shoulder at me and rubs a tear into her left cheek.

“We’ll call you if it doesn’t go well.” Wendy takes the backpack from my hand. “And if you’re a bit late picking her up today, we understand, given the circumstances.”

All right, this is just getting weird.

“Or . . . if it’ll help . . . Miss Jennifer doesn’t live too far from the Shadowlands. She’s offered to drop her off after class, and with a signed release—”

“I’m okay,” I say. “We’ve been through this twice before, and it isn’t glamorous, but IVF is more common today than—”

“IVF?” Her face corkscrews into a confused-looking frown. “I thought . . . Elizabella said yesterday . . . IVF?”

“It’s the reason Claudette Winters picked her up for me yesterday. We went through the retrieval process in the morning.”

“Oh.” Her smile melts away the tension. “Well, that’s a little different. Bella gave us the impression that”—she waves a hand—“oh, never mind.”

“What did Elizabella tell you?”

“She said . . .” Wendy covers her laugh. “It’s not funny. I don’t know why I’m amused. She told Miss Jennifer yesterday that your husband died.”

I freeze. “Did you say . . . my daughter told you—”

“That your husband passed away.” She’s nodding. “I’m relieved to know she was mistaken.” Again, she giggles. “Children and their imaginations.”

I cross my arms over my chest to ward off a shiver. “She told you my husband died?”

“Her exact words? My daddy went to God Land. She must have misunderstood something she overheard, but anyhow . . . the new code. You obviously didn’t get the memo.” She hands me a quarter sheet of paper with the new code and instructions for using it.

“Wait a minute.” I shove the scrap into my tote. “My daughter told you . . .”

“Believe it or not, telling tall tales at this age is more common than you might think. If you’d like, I can arrange an appointment with our staff social worker, but aside from a little anxiety, and the tardiness, Bella’s doing really well. And when Claudette came for her yesterday . . . well, let’s just say the transition process went more smoothly.”