Whispers of Hope

Book 5: A New Start

by Charlene Carr

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

The act every woman is supposed to be capable of, she's failing at, over and over again.

A year ago, Tracey Sampson met and married the man who helped her finally believe she is worthy of love, just as she is.

But she's yet to fulfill her greatest dream—to hold her own child in her arms.

Tracey's never been one to give up without a fight, but how far will she go to get her happily-ever-after?

Engrossing and inspiring.

Heart-wrenching and passionate.

As real as it gets.

Whisper of Hope, book 5 in the A New Start stand-alone series bares the heart and soul of a woman pursuing her life's dream despite heartache and disappointment.

Although each book in the series can be read alone, the books are best read chronologically. This is especially true for Whispers of Hope. It's part two of a two part story following Tracey's life. If you want Tracey's full story, start with Forever In My Heart.

Ready to read? Click Buy now to order your copy today and witness the power of hope to transform a life.

 

Here's what readers are saying:

“This was an awesome read... As always Charlene delivers.” – Amazon Reviewer

 “Charlene Carr is a premier writer of women's fiction. This book is written with passion and depth of feeling, a trademark of Carr's as she explores the innermost thoughts of the women she writes about.” – Betty Strohecker

"Once you start, you just can't let this one go!" - Amy Sperry

“Whispers of Hope will speak to anyone who has ever wanted something with every fiber of her being ... Well done! - Kay Crisman Petrini

“Charlene Carr's characters are so real.” – Barbara H Binder

“I truly felt every emotion of Tracey's journey. A must read.” – Miss S E J Senkel

“I couldn't put it down.” – Jacintha Atkinson

“Charlene was able to tell a true tale of the heartbreak and desperation in fighting to be able to have a child. I recommend this book to all women who struggle, have struggled or will struggle to make their dreams come true." - Tami, Goodreads Reviewer

“Charlene writes about real struggles that life might throw at us. Issues that change our directions and ‘make-us or break us'. Whispers of Hope is no different." – Yvonne

“Tear jerker! ... I found myself in tears many times... read with a box of tissues.” – Laura Corr

“I loved and understood the ending - it was the way it had to be - it was brilliant.” – Sandra, Goodreads Reviewer

Book Club discussion questions are available on the author's website.

Release date: March 4, 2016

Publisher: Coastal Lines

Print pages: 197

Sample

Chapter One

 

The hospital walls are bright and cheery. In the hall outside Dr. LeBlanc’s waiting room, lions frolic in meadows while butterflies soar overhead, because, of course, lions frolic. Just above Dr. LeBlanc’s head a monkey swings on a vine—a banana in its hand and a smile on its face. I stare at it as Dr. LeBlanc’s words echo in my mind. The cysts have tripled in size.

I hold my back tall. From outward appearances, I know I look poised. I draw my gaze from the monkey’s almost manic smile and focus on Dr. LeBlanc’s mouth and the words it speaks.

“This kind of growth, it’s, uh, not unprecedented, but…”

She should be the one to look poised. Doctors shouldn’t stutter. Doctors shouldn’t twirl a pen while delivering news like this.

She sets the pen down. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Not personally. Tracey, this isn’t severe endometriosis, this is beyond severe. It was severe fourteen months ago.”

My focus drifts from her words back to the painted walls, the happy scenes. It makes sense. The doctors here don’t just deal with women who have no hope. They’re gynecologists. They regularly see women whose joy and excitement grows bigger with each passing day. The friendly murals line up with the hopes and dreams of those women, of the children they eventually bring with them, excited to be big brothers and sisters, to see their families grow.

For women like me there should be a different hall, a different office. Tripled in size.

The doctor smiled right after saying those words, as if a smile would make it hurt less, could change words that tore apart the hope I’ve held as long as I’ve understood what hope is. “It's not impossible,” she says. How plucky. “With surgery and then in vitro, there is a chance. A slim chance.” Her smile drops then brightens again, as if her lips need a break from holding their upturned position. She reminds me of a ventriloquist’s doll.

“What are the stats?” I keep myself poised. Calm. “The success rate of surgery, of IVF afterward?”

Dr. LeBlanc sighs. “The stats look at all women who have endometriosis. There are four stages and you’re beyond the fourth, technically within the fourth—it’s so rare we don’t even class…” Her voice trails off again. She shrugs, another smile pushing through. I want to slap it off her face. Instead, I smile back. This is not her fault. I know none of this is her fault. She reaches a hand toward me, doesn’t touch, just reaches. My body quivers. “If these options don't work, there is always adoption.”

Outside Dr. LeBlanc’s office the happy walls seem to go on forever, just like the months and months of often obligatory, often painful sex, of people telling me not to worry, to be hopeful, it just takes time. Easy for them to say. They’re not broken. The act every woman is supposed to be capable of, to do so easily we spend most of our sexual lives trying to prevent, I’m failing at, over and over again.

Just as I approach the hospital doors Adrian bursts through them. “Tracey.” The harried grin I fell in love with greets me. “I’m so sorry I’m late. Are you just—” He stops. “You’re done, aren’t you? You’re leaving?” I don’t answer. I try to, but my lips won’t work. “It’s bad.”

This time my answer is a nod. His arms circle me. “Ahh, baby. What is it?” He leads me through the hospital doors and out into the bright sunshine. I squint at the light, wanting to hide from it, from him, from my own body. We sit on a bench near the entrance and he pries Dr. LeBlanc’s words out of me. He holds my hand.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here.” He rubs his other hand through his tousled hair, his green eyes frustrated and almost furious. “I was held up at the studio and then there was an accident. The highway was grid locked.” I squeeze his hand back, letting him know it’s okay. His eyes soften. “But this is not all bad, right? You can have the surgery. And she said your tubes could be blocked, right? The dye test, it was inconclusive?”

“Yeah.”

“So maybe that was the problem.” Now his eyes brighten. “She’ll clear those tubes up and it’ll be smooth sailing. That fertilized egg will just fly through to where it needs to be.”

“That could be the problem. Could. It doesn’t mean—”

“Let’s be hopeful.”

I stare at him, smile, because I know that’s what he wants from me. What he deserves, too. I hold my voice as steady as I can. “Even if that’s not the problem, inflammation could be, pressure from the cysts. If that pressure and inflammation is reduced, she said it could make a difference.”

“Exactly.” He grins. “We’ll whip this endometriosis’s ass!”

We’ll?

He puts his arm around me, draws me near. “So what’s wrong?”

I shrug.

“Trace.”

“It’s scary. Overwhelming. Surgery. People die from—”

“But not this kind. It’s pretty standard, right? The…” he hesitates, “laparoscopy. We were reading up on it and—”

“Every surgery has risk.”

“Life has risk.” He pauses. “Trace. This is what you want, what we want. You have the surgery. We try for a few more months. If it doesn’t happen, then we talk about artificial insemination or in vitro. We’ve got options here. We’re lucky.”

Lucky? I hold back the yell inside me. Lucky? Options? We? It’s me. All me. He’s not risking a thing.

“Okay.” He squeezes my hand again. “You’re scared. I get it. So our other options: Try IUI right now or IVF. Before the surgery. What about those?”

“The doctor thinks it’d be a waste of time, money, health. She said if my tubes aren’t clear, and with all the endo inflammation I have, there’d be such a slim chance.”

“She said it’s a waste of time?”

“That’s the impression I got from her words, her demeanour.”

Adrian nods. “You know I’m open to adoption.”

“You know I’m not.”

A long pause extends between us. “We should at least start the process, put our names on the list.”

My head shakes back and forth. I rest a hand on his, wishing he understood.

“It could be an eight to nine year wait for a baby. Your feelings could change in eight to nine years.”

“So you’re saying we should give up hope?”

He closes his eyes, his breath making his nostrils flare. “I’m saying we have options and maybe the best way to see hope realized is to explore all the options we can. And even if we got pushed up the list, received a child sooner than expected, we could still have our own.”

I draw my gaze to the bright flowers nodding happily in a large earthenware pot next to the bench we’re on. Their existence is so simple. I turn back to Adrian, lacking the energy for a conversation we’ve had too many times before. To do to a child what’s been done to me, to have them always feel like they were second choice, the consolation prize…

“You need to let go. You can’t let your adoption define your life.”

My chin juts out. “I don’t. It’s not like I wake up in the morning, look at myself and think, I’m adopted.” Adrian roles his eyes. “It doesn’t affect everything, but it affects this. I can’t help but have it affect this.”

He sighs, sits back, and draws his arm away from me. “You can try.”

“How did the interview go?” I ask, my voice light. “The source pan out?”

He sits forward. “Excellent. Should lead to some new contacts, girls still caught in the cycle.” He pushes himself upright. “Oh! And I can’t believe I didn’t tell you, the producer is pretty sure the documentary will go national. Some of Toronto’s head honchos got wind of it and they’re really interested.”

“Adrian, that’s amazing.”

He grins. “I know.” He sits back. “Sometimes I’m excited about what we’re doing here. Exposing such corruption, showing people how easy it is for things like bullying, manipulation, domestic abuse to lead to prostitution or trafficking.” He shakes his head. “But then there’s the other side of it. Before this all began I had no idea what was going on, right here in Halifax.” He lets out a sad laugh and gestures around us. “It looks so nice. So quaint. These girls, though, they’re living in an entirely different world.”

I graze my fingers along the back of his neck, my heart swelling for him. “I’m proud of what you’re doing. I don’t say it enough.”

“I know.” He draws me back to his side and grins. “Was this your way of diverting the conversation?”

I grin back. “Did it work?”

He laughs. “You don’t need to make a decision today. But you do need to make one. What’s that Einstein quote? Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Each month we’re doing the same thing. Each month…” he pauses, “not that I don’t like the copious amounts of sex. I do.” That smile. “But I know it’s painful for you a lot of the time.” He rubs his thumb against my hand. “Will the surgery help that?”

“It could.” I look down. “The doctor said she has an opening in three weeks. The next one after that is three months away.”

“When do you have to tell her?”

“She put my name down to reserve the spot but asked that I get back to her by Monday if I don’t want it.”

“Okay.” The look I love and hate, depending on the circumstance—excited, eager, determined—covers Adrian’s face. “I think you need to do this.”

“It’s not just surgery then all is well. I’ll need someone to take care of me. I’ll be on bed rest for at least a week. Maybe more.”

“Your mom will take care of you.”

“Maybe.”

“She’d be excited to. It’d be like giving her a present.”

I chuckle. “Maybe.”

Adrian looks at his watch. “Speaking of your mother, we should get on the road. Don’t want whatever glorious meal she prepared getting cold.” He places his hand on the small of my back as we walk to the car, an action that still makes my stomach flutter. He gives my back a rub. “And maybe after dinner you can talk to your mom about the surgery. See if she’ll take care of you?”

“Maybe.” Talking about the surgery with my mother means talking about a whole lot more than Adrian realizes, and more than I’m sure I’m capable of.

 

 

Chapter Two

 

When we enter my parents’ house, the familiar smell of baked goods mingling with the scent of sizzling garlic greets us. Lulu and Reggie propel themselves upon Adrian, who scoops them into his arms. Neveah, running on tip-toe, darts behind them but veers as she reaches her arms to me. I hold her close and she cradles her head against my neck, always the cuddler.

Mom’s voice floats from the kitchen. “Is that Tracey and Adrian?”

“Yep.” Adrian shouts above the twins as they batter him with question after question: “Can we play out back? How old are you? Did you know Mommy’s twenty-seven? Can we play out back?”

“Leave the man alone.” My mother darts toward us. She wipes her hands on her blue polka-dot apron then pulls me into an embrace, her soft arms wrapping around both me and Neveah. Neveah climbs out of my arms and into her Grammie’s. “Adrian.” He gets a one-armed hug from Mom as the twins slither off of him. “Come in. Come in.”

“Smells amazing, Mrs. Sampson. As usual.”

Mom waves Adrian’s comment away. “Just a little something. But I hope you’ll like it.”

“Where’s Jojo?” I ask.

Something flickers across my mother’s face; I’m afraid I know what it is. “She’s lying down.” Mom keeps her smile firm. “Wanted a bit of quiet, that’s all.”

“Quiet.” Adrian chuckles as a twin pulls on each of his arms. “What would she want that for?”

“Oh, I have no idea!” Mom laughs. “Tracey.” Mom sets Neveah down. “Help me in the kitchen a moment.” I follow behind her and the smells intensify.

“What are you making?”

“Garlic roasted potatoes and mushrooms with almond asparagus and honey glazed chicken breasts.” She glances to the back deck. “Though your father’s doing the grilling. For dessert, red velvet cake.”

“Sounds amazing.” Out the window, Adrian and my dad chat as Dad tends the BBQ and the kids run circles in the yard. “What’s the ladder for?”

“Oh, that.” Mom sighs. “Here, I’ll get you to squeeze this for me.” She passes me an icing bag and coupler. “With my arthritis, I just have no more power.” She shakes her head. “Yep. Just hold steady. Squeeze, nice and easy.”

As Mom rotates the cake beneath my hands I ask, again, “The ladder?”

“He’s building a deck out of our bedroom window, which means, of course, building a door where the window is.” She pauses a moment, her tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth as she concentrates. I smile. Has anyone ever told her about this little quirk? I doubt it. She’d probably stop. “He says it’ll be a nicer place to read in the morning and offer some shade on the back porch. Why we need shade on the back porch is beyond me, but if we wanted it, why not get one of those big umbrellas? And if he doesn’t want shade while he’s reading, then simply put the umbrella down.” Her hair bounces as she laughs. “Unless he just wants to read in his knickers.”

“You know Dad can’t sit still.”

I look away from the window, surprised at the intricate design Mom has managed to create while guiding my hands.

“Nice and steady,” she says.

“Sorry.”

Her head tilts in concentration. “It’s not so bad for him to have something to keep him out of my hair.” Her hand rests on mine to pause the squeeze as she surveys her creation. After repositioning my hand she taps for the squeezing to resume. “When he’s not working a project, I admit, I go a little crazy having him puttering around all day.” She grins, her eyes still on the cake. “I just don’t know why all his projects have to bring dust and disorder into my house.”

“Maybe he needs to find somewhere to volunteer. Habitat for Humanity?”

“You know something,” she turns the cake one final time then motions for me to stop squeezing the icing bag, “that’s not such a bad idea.”

Dad, Adrian, and the kids enter, along with the grilled chicken. Mom sends Lulu to wake her mother. When Jojo enters the room, it strikes me how different she looks from the woman I introduced Adrian to two-and-a-half years ago. That woman looked like she’d stepped out of a hippie commune. The woman today is more like the Jojo I remember pre-Damien and the kids. She’s wearing torn jeans, an old Dirty and the Derelicts t-shirt, and her long flowing hair is pulled back into a messy bun. Every detail of her must grate upon my always perfectly-presented mother’s nerves.

“Hey, Sis.” Her smile is beautiful. Tired looking, but beautiful.

“Happy Birthday.”

“Is that what we’re here for?” She laughs almost caustically and turns to give Adrian a quick hug.

“Twenty-seven,” I say.

She shrugs and ruffles Reggie’s hair. “Surreal. I still feel nineteen.”

“Who doesn’t?” Dad winks.

“Let’s not let it get cold.” Mom ushers us to the dining room where the food, unsurprisingly, is amazing. With the kids’ help, after dinner we sing a robust round of Happy Birthday, complete with a chorus about farts, courtesy of Reggie. The cake is so moist it practically melts in my mouth. I’ve only taken a few bites when the doorbell rings.

Jojo groans. “That’ll be Damien. An hour early.” She pushes from her seat as the kids yell, ‘Daddy.’ “It’s like he doesn’t know how to read a clock.”

“He can join us for tea and cake.” Mom pops up, her brow creased and her smile on. “We have plenty.”

Jojo rolls her eyes and walks to the door. Jojo and Damien’s voices are a low rumble: his easy and light, Jo’s getting tighter and angrier with every exchange. I hold back the kids, uncertain whether this conversation is one they should hear.

When Jojo and Damien walk into the room, there’s no holding Reggie and Neveah back. They run to him. Lulu stays next to me. Damien embraces the kids as if he really missed them, is happy to see them, but something is not right. Damien motions to Lulu, who shuffles over then hugs him tightly.

“Can we finish our cake first?” asks Lulu.

Reggie pulls a spare chair from against the wall, his smile wide. “Grandma says you can have some.”

“Oh.” Damien, who, unlike my sister, still looks as if he’s stepped out of a hippie commune, turns to Jojo. She averts her gaze. “Well…”

Jojo crosses her arms. “I’m not doing this for you.”

Damien looks toward the kids. “I’m sorry, but,” he pauses, “I can’t take you tonight after all.”

Lulu steps away from Damien and returns to her cake. Reggie stares at him. “But Mommy has a party with her friends. And we’re having a party with you.”

“Not tonight.”

“When?”

Jojo sits. “Yes, when?”

Damien shifts. “Well, that’s the other thing I wanted to talk to you about. Maybe not here though, not now.”

“Whatever you have to say,” Jojo tips her chin, “you might as well get it out. What’s the reason for you bailing this time? Are the stars aligned? Must you meditate in the wilderness?”

“No.” He leans on the chair Reggie pulled out for him. “I’m leaving.”

Jojo doesn’t even try to mask the derision in her voice. “Just tell us what it is, make up an excuse. Don’t run away.”

“No, I mean, I’m leaving. Me and…” he hesitates, “Crystal. We’re going on a spiritual journey.”

Mom swallows. Dad’s fists clench. Jojo pops out of her chair. “A spiritual journey?” Her voice catches. “Like the one that brought us Neveah?”

“Are we getting another brother or sister?” squeaks Reggie.

“Shut it.” Jojo turns to Damien. “Where this time?”

“We’ll start in Asia.”

“How long?”

“Jojo,” his voice holds that sleazy ease I’ve always hated in Damien, “you know these things don’t run by a calendar. When we feel sufficiently self-actualized, we’ll come back.”

Jojo’s voice is low, shaky. “Your children don’t need a self-actualized father. They need a present father.”

“Jojo,” he holds his voice equally low, as if doing so will prevent the rest of us from hearing his words, “you’re the one who left me.”

She laughs.

Mom stands. “I think, umm…” she motions to the kids, “Reggie, Lulu,” and grasps Neveah’s hand. “Why don’t you come onto the porch with me? Won’t it be fun to eat your cake out there?”

Lulu stares at Damien, her feet planted firmly, stares until mom pulls her away.

“You’re a selfish bastard,” says Jojo, not looking at him.

“Jojo, baby. I know you’re mad. But I’ve always been honest with you. I was honest with you about Crystal from the start.”

“From the start?”

“Well, about the potential.” The ease vanishes. Damien’s posture becomes spindly, like an earthworm before slivering into its hole. “Should we go somewhere more private? We can—”

“Talk right here.”

A half sigh, half groan escapes him. “I need this, okay. We need it. To be off the grid, away from distractions. Crystal feels my focus has been on you and the kids more lately, it was damaging, having you leave, and—”

“What?” Jojo’s eyes widen, her mouth hangs open. “She’s jealous? Jealous of your children? Your children, who you abandoned?”

“I didn’t abandon them. You moved out.”

“Because you were living part time with another woman!”

“Crystal, she just needs—”

“What about what your children need, Damien? Your children?” She steps forward, as if ready for a fight. “Not that it really matters, anyway. You hardly see them.”

“I see them.”

“Once a week, twice, if something more important doesn’t get in the way.”

“I’d see them more if you hadn’t moved so far away.”

“And if one of them gets sick? You’ll be off the grid. No address, I’m guessing. No cell. Free, right? Free to not know about your own children.”

“I’ll know if something happens.”

“Sure you will.”

“Jojo.”

“Just leave already.”

Dad stands. “Maybe that would be best.”

Damien steps from the chair. “I’d like to say goodbye to the kids.”

“Go ahead.” Jojo spits the words, her arms crossed.

He takes several more steps. “You can have the apartment over the store if you want. If it’s eas—”

The tendons in her neck flair. “I have my own place.”

“Okay.”

“I suppose that child support you’ve been saying was coming, it’ll have to wait?”

“Things have been tight.”

“Oh, I understand.” She grabs her tea, sips it in a way that would make Mom proud. “So tight you can pay for a flight to Asia.”

“Jojo.” Damien walks toward her, lays a hand on her shoulder, which she jerks away from him. “The universe will provide. It provided those tickets and it will provide for our children, just like it always has.”

“I provide for them.” Her face tightens. “Fuck you, you and your free love and your spiritual journey.”

“Jojo.” Dad shakes his head. She ignores him.

Damien steps back. “I’m disappointed in you.” He raises his hands, as if brushing off the air that surrounds her. “All of this negative energy. You’re not the woman I thought you were.”

“Me, not the woman you thought I was?” She laughs that caustic laugh again. “Well, isn’t that rich.”

He nods as his characteristic ease returns, “I hope you find your peace, your centre,” and backs out of the room.

Adrian and Dad look the way I feel—at a loss for words. At last Dad makes his way over to Jojo. He wraps an arm around her shoulder. “You’ll be all right, sweetie. It will all be all right.”

“Yeah.” The caustic tone remains but, to my surprise, Jojo doesn’t slip out of Dad’s embrace. “It’ll be better. None of us need him.”

Dad squeezes. “You’ve got us.”

Jojo’s face screws up, as if she’s battling a slew of emotions trying to break through. She loses the battle and tears leak down her still tough looking face. She turns into Dad’s chest. “I was supposed to have a night out with the girls from my program. It’s stupid, I know, but…”

Dad makes a tut-tut noise. “We’ve got it. No worries. You go have fun.”

“I was so stupid.” Her voice is muffled into Dad’s shirt, thankfully. She’d die if Damien heard these sobs. “I should have listened.”

“You were young.” Dad’s arms wrap tighter around her. “And now you’ve got the three most amazing kids ever.”

She laughs.

I rise from my seat and motion for Adrian to follow. Leaving Dad and Jojo to their moment, we make our way to the backyard where Damien seems to be finishing his goodbyes to the kids. Mom stands off to the side with Lulu against her legs. Both Reggie and Neveah are in their father’s arms. He looks happy, excited, and it’s hard to tell whether this is for the kids’ sake, trying to prevent tears, or if he’s actually able to feel excitement as he leaves his children for weeks or months or more. Anger seeps through me. It would feel good to knee this man in the balls. He has three children, three children who love him, and he’s walking away.

When the door closes behind Damien, we gather back at the table. The twins ignore their cake and beg to be excused. I try to eat mine, but the flavour seems less. Glancing around the table, I see that no one but Dad and Adrian are still eating. Mom pushes the pieces around on her plate. Jojo stares at the wall, her clenched jaw twitching.

“You still have your party to look forward to,” says Mom with a lilt to her voice. “That should be fun.”

“A blast.” Jojo pushes away from the table. “Mind if I take off?”

Mom looks to her watch. Jojo’s not supposed to leave for another forty minutes.

“That’s fine.” Dad reaches over to squeeze Jojo’s shoulder. “Go ahead, sweetie. Have fun.”

When Jojo leaves Mom stands and clears the plates. She doesn’t ask if I’m done and whisks the plate away from Adrian, whose fork is poised in the air, about to pierce another piece.

“I’m going to go work out back.” Dad gestures to Adrian. “You want to help?”

“Well,” Adrian looks to me and then back to Dad, “it’s such a nice evening, I thought I might take the kids to the park, get them out of Joanna and Tracey’s hair as they clean up.”

“Good man.”

I know what the look Adrian gave me meant, and what he wants me to say in the kitchen with Mom. It seems a bad time, with Mom’s mind so full of Jojo and all her woes, but who knows when a good time will arrive? Silence surrounds us as Mom washes the dishes and I dry. She scrubs the cake pan with vigour. “Awful, that man is awful.”

“He’s still their dad.”

“I could just wring his neck.” Mom wrings her dishcloth, the force of the action a shock to us both. She lets out an embarrassed laugh.

“Jojo will be all right, Mom. She’s tough.”

Mom smiles at me. “That she is.”

I take the cake pan and dry it. I look at her, perhaps a moment too long, then back to the pan. With a final swipe of my cloth I deem it finished and place it in the cupboard. When I turn back to Mom, she’s staring at me.

“Something is on your mind tonight. Something more than this ugliness with Jojo.”

I take my time drying a mixing bowl before answering. “There is.”

“Care to talk?”

I glance toward the breakfast table. “Can we sit?”

 

 

Chapter Three

 

At the kitchen table I finger a place mat before starting. Mom’s eyes are wide and attentive. “So,” I pull the edge of the place mat through my fingers, “you’ve probably been wondering about Adrian and me, when we’ll have children.”

“You’ve always wanted a family but,” she pats my knee, “no rush.”

No rush? I expected excitement, urgency, questions about whether I’m pregnant now…but my mother’s not stupid or unobservant. She must know this is not a happy conversation. “We’ve actually been trying for over a year now.”

She nods.

“It turns out I have endometriosis. Severe endometriosis.”

Her lips press together, turning into an even thinner line than they usually are.

“The doctor thinks I should have surgery, that other methods won’t be worth much without it.”

“Oh, Tracey.” She shakes her head. “I don’t think so, unless…unless the pain is unbearable. Surgery is so dangerous.”

“There are risks. But usually it’s fine.”

Mom looks to her hands in her lap. “Why are you just talking to me about this now? You knew…you know my struggles, that I…”

“We’ve never really talked about it. Not really.”

“Yes, but—”

“We don’t talk about these things.” I look away from her. “We talk about happy things, positive things.”

“Is that what you think?”

I shrug.

“You’re right.” Her gaze falls. “I’ve never talked to you about it, not in detail, but the surgery I had, it was two years before we got you, and it almost killed me.” She stops, pain crossing her brow at the memory. “They’re risky. One little mistake and I had a colostomy bag for weeks. The pain from the endometriosis was even worse afterward. Not better. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

“But it worked, right?”

Mom seems to pull into herself. “I don’t know about that.”

“But Jojo.”

“The surgery was years before Jojo. I can’t imagine it had much to do with her at all. Jojo was—”

“A miracle.”

She makes a little noise of affirmation. “Just like you.”

It’s hard not to laugh, but I hold it in.

“Adoption is a beautiful thing, darling. You know that. If I had known, I never would have had the surgery.”

“You would have been fine with never having your own child?”

“Tracey,” Mom reaches for my knee, “you are my own child.”

“Mom, please. You know what I mean.”

“You’re my child.”

“I’m not asking for your advice or your blessing or anything, anyway. I’m just asking if you’ll stay with me during recovery. Adrian’s so busy with this investigative piece, he can’t be with me full time and I need someone there in case. Especially in case—”

“There are complications?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know.” I follow her gaze to the family photo on the wall, taken when Jojo was just a toddler. “I’m watching Neveah while Jojo’s at work. You know that. And I pick the kids up after school. It’ll be even busier now that Damien will be gone. He didn’t help out much, but it was something. A backup.”

I pause, considering. “I could stay here, I suppose.”

“With yelling kids and a screaming toddler? You’ll need your rest and they won’t help.”

“They’re not monsters. They could be quiet if need be, if we explained.”

Mom shakes her head. “I don’t think you should have this surgery. If something happened…”

I take several breaths as her voice trails off. “So this is your refusal then? You won’t take care of me because you’re against the surgery?”

“No, of course not. It’s just…if you’re at your house it would be carting the kids, all that driving, and if you’re here…would Adrian make the drive every day?”

“What about Dad? To take care of me or the kids or—”

Mom’s face lights up. “That may work. It would be a different kind of project for him. But maybe.”

“I doubt I’d need around the clock care. I’m healthy and—”

“But you might. You said it’s severe?”

“Cysts the size of oranges in my ovaries.”

Mom’s eyes widen and her mouth makes a little ‘o’. “Baby.”

“It’s okay.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “The pain. Is it bad?”

I let out a little laugh. “One night I was lying on the couch home alone with my hands underneath me. I had to stay like that because I was so scared if I stood up, if I let my hands free, I’d grab a butcher knife and try to cut the pain right out of me.”

“Hmm.” She smiles gently. “I understand that. I remember.”

A pressure wells in my throat. “Anyway,” I push a smile, “it is what it is.”

“And the doctor thinks the surgery will help with the pain?”

“Some of it.” I shift in my seat. “We’ve decided she’ll only operate on the cysts and adhesions that directly affect fertility. It lowers the risk of complications. But based on my symptoms, some of the pain may be stemming from other areas.”

The room is quiet for so long it feels weighted. “I’ll try to make it work, but Tracey, if this isn’t about the pain, I just think…it can be a long and torturous journey. It takes a lot out of a person, a lot out of a marriage. There are other options. Wonderful options. You’re proof of that.”

“Mom.”

“No, honey. I know aspects of being adopted were hard for you. I understand that. But we did the best we could to give you a good life. Your adoption doesn’t define you.”

My anger flares. First Adrian, now Mom. “Well, it feels like it defines me. Aspects of me at least. It defines this.”

“Trace—”

“Mom.” I stare at her, throw up my hands. “Maybe I am really messed up. Maybe I’m damaged. Scarred. Maybe you should have had me in therapy so I wouldn’t be like this. But I am like this.”

“Therapy?”

“Don’t you remember what it was like, how I’d get so sick and worried every time you left? How at camp I couldn’t handle being away from you, how I was so terrified you’d never come back I threw up everything I ate? Desertion. Adoption. It defined that.”

“Tracey.” Mom laughs. “That wasn’t homesickness, honey. It was food poisoning. Dozens of campers were sick. You were just more upset about it than the rest, so you came home. I’ll admit, you seemed more nervous when we left after that, and you didn’t want to go back to camp. But you didn’t get sick when we left.”

“But…”

“Sometimes children blow events up, make them bigger than they were, believe some traumatic thing happened more often than it did…But that was a one-time thing. I promise.”

“Only once?” The narrative I’d written for myself threatens to unravel…could she be telling the truth? I’d always thought I couldn’t handle being separated from them, that my body couldn’t handle it…

“Maybe we should have had you see a counsellor. You’d been through a lot. But you seemed so well adjusted. You were well-behaved, obedient, you smiled. We thought you were okay.”

“I wasn’t.” I look away from her. “I pretended to be okay. I thought if I didn’t, you’d give me back. Just like the others.”

“The others were foster parents. That was never our intention. We never—”

“Anyway,” I look away, “that’s not what we’re here to talk about. We’re here to talk about my surgery.”

“I just think—”

“I want a family.” The words rip out of me.

Mom jolts back, as if I’ve pushed her. “You have a family.”

“A real family.”

She inhales sharply.

“A blood family.” I choke on my words. “I meant—”

Her lips tremble, and though what I said is true, I wish I could take it back the instant the words pass my lips. There’s no way she’ll understand. She stares at me as if I’ve just struck a dagger to her heart. “We may not be blood.” Her voice comes out thin and tight. “But we’re real.”

“I know. I—”

A clatter and yell from the backyard snaps our heads in that direction. The ladder is gone. Mom slides the patio doors open with a speed and force that shocks me. “Henry!”

My father lies in the backyard, just past the porch, groaning. His leg lies at an angle that doesn’t look possible.

“Call 911,” Mom shrieks. I run inside, dial the number, then dash back outside. I answer the operator’s questions as best I can and prod Mom for responses when I don’t know what to say. Dad isn’t lucid through any of this. He moans and groans and then goes silent. But he’s breathing. At least he’s breathing. The operator tells me not to move him but to get several blankets, ensure he’s warm. Now I ask questions. Could he have internal bleeding? What if he hit his head? Will he be okay? She can’t answer, of course, but tells me to remain calm. Hold his hand, she says, so I do, taking the one not already in Mom’s grasp. We wait.

The paramedics appear and it feels like something out of a movie, though less…they don’t move with the speed I expect, the amped up intensity. They’re calm. It helps me breathe. If they’re not terrified, maybe I shouldn’t be either. They don’t make any assurances as I repeat the questions I asked the operator, but one tells me my father is in good hands. I stand, helpless as Mom climbs into the ambulance beside Dad, and takes his hand again. The doors close and I watch the van get tinier and tinier, uncertain of what I’m supposed to do next. The feel of the phone in my hand brings me back to reality. I call Adrian, tell him what happened, and to get back here fast. Then I call Jojo. “The paramedics said he’d probably be fine, I don’t want to ruin your night, but—”

“Are you kidding?” she snaps. “Damn.” She lets out a groan. “I’ve already had a few drinks. Bring the kids. Come get me.” I jot down the address she gives me and wait for Adrian’s car to turn up the driveway. At last it does.

“Take your mother’s car.” Adrian gestures to the Volvo in the driveway. “She may want it at the hospital if this is a long haul.”

“She won’t be going anywhere as long as Dad’s in there.”

He offers a smile. “He won’t be in there forever.”

“Fine. You take the kids. Get Jojo.” I hand him the address. He nods. I’m on my way toward the front door in search of Mom’s car keys when Adrian stops me with a hand to each shoulder. He turns me to him and pulls me tight.

“Henry’s strong. He’ll be fine.”

“I know.” I smile up at him and wipe my eyes. “Just fine.”

At the hospital I enquire at the information desk, then make my way to the waiting room. Mom sits flipping through a home and garden magazine without looking at the pages. She glances at me then turns her attention back to the magazine.

“Any news?”

Her posture is stiff, composed as always. “He’s lucky.” Her voice wavers. “No head injury. At least they don’t think so. They’re doing extra tests to make sure. His reflex tests were positive. They think no spinal injury either.”

“The leg?”

“He’s getting a cast now. A clean break. They said that’s good.”

“Well, good.” I take her hand. After a few moments she draws it away.

“Mom?”

“What do you care, anyway? He’s not your father.”

“Mom.”

“Isn’t that what you were saying? That he’s not your father. We’re not your family?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s what you said.”

“I just…” The sound of Reggie and Lulu bickering carries up the hall.

“Well,” Mom sets the magazine down and stands, “I certainly can’t take care of you now. So if you insist on having that surgery, you’ll either have to wait or find someone else. Maybe Lydia. She’s your real family anyway, right?”

“Mom. I hardly know her.”

Mom gives me a hard look. “But she’s blood.”

“I—” My protest is cut off as Jojo comes into view and Mom rushes to embrace her.

“Dad. Is he all right?”

“He’ll be fine, sweetie. Just fine.”

I stand and watch them, feeling as if the wind has been knocked out of me, a feeling I deserve. I should have spoken quicker, told Mom she’s my mother, not Lydia, but the words didn’t come. Adrian sidles up beside me and rests his hand on my waist. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I keep staring at Mom and Jojo. “I’m fine.”

We sit in the hospital’s waiting room until Dad is cleared for visitors. In twos, we’re able to see him. Mom and Jojo go first, next will be me and Adrian. The twins and Neveah are told they can see him tomorrow, once he’s likely to have fewer tubes sticking out of him. The doctor who says this lets his arms wave and screws up his face, making them laugh.

When we step into the room, my father looks all of his seventy-three years and more, but still that smile and calm confidence he wears so often remains firm.

“Guess that deck will have to wait.” He sighs.

“Maybe your construction days should be over.” I move closer to the bed. “At least construction that requires those kinds of heights.”

“Nonsense.” He grins at me and reaches for the hand that lingers beside him. “You stop living, and you die.”

I let out a laugh and sit beside him. “I’m glad you’re all right, Dad.”

“Never better.” I laugh again. “Your poor mother though—she’s got those three kids and now me too. You’ll help her when you can? Maybe drive up an evening or two when Jojo’s working?”

I hesitate. If I have the surgery, I won’t be helping at all. “I’ll try.”

He squeezes my hand. “That a girl. Now let a man get some rest.” He grins. “All this hustle and bustle, it takes a lot out of a fella.”

Back in the waiting room Jojo and I try to convince Mom to go home for some rest too, but she’s like a boulder, refusing to be moved. When a nurse offers to put a cot in Dad’s room for her, we give up. Mom maintains her coldness toward me, which I can tell Jojo and Adrian notice. They don’t question. When I offer to drive to the house and get a change of clothes for her, and whatever else she’d like, she says she’ll be fine. I want to say more, to apologize again, instead I offer her car keys. “Take these.” My hand lingers in the air. “Dad will be fine.”

Mom stands tall. She takes the keys and sucks in a deep breath. Her shoulders rise then fall. “He’s old. He can’t keep taking risks like this.”

“We’ll help you rein him in.” Adrian gives Mom’s arm a squeeze.

She smiles at him with a look of love. “Thanks. Go on now.” She motions to the twins and Neveah, fast asleep atop some bean bag pillows in the corner. “Help Jojo.”

Adrian heads toward the children. Jojo lifts Neveah into her arms then nudges Reggie awake as Adrian picks up Lulu. I linger near Mom. “About the surgery, I—”

“Tracey,” she snaps, “how can you even still think to ask? No. The answer is no.”

I step back as if she’s slapped me. “I was just going to say I was sorry for putting any extra pressure on you and not to worry, I’ll figure it out.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders slump. The anger she’s held these past hours seems to dribble out of her. “Okay then.”

I shuffle on my feet, take a quick breath. “And what I said. I didn’t mean…I just…to carry my own—”

“Just go, honey, all right.” Her fingers brush my upper arm. “We all need our rest.” I turn to walk away, but her voice follows me. “You think what you think and you feel what you feel. There’s no apologizing for that.”