Ann Hood - The Red Thread

There exists a silken red thread of destiny. It is said that this magical cord may tangle or stretch but never break. When a child is born, that invisible red thread connects the childs soul to all the peoplepast, present, and futurewho will play a part in that childs life. Over time, that thread shortens and tightens, bringing closer and closer those people who are fated to be together.

A BIRD DOES NOT SING BECAUSE IT HAS AN
ANSWER . I T SINGS BECAUSE IT HAS A SONG.

I n her sleep, Maya dreamed of falling. But in her waking life, she was as solid as a tombstone. People relied on her. They trusted her for support and help and advice. That was why she sat in her friend Emilys kitchen listening to Emily complain about her marriage and her stepdaughter Chloe and her childless suburban life. The kitchen had been decorated to look like something in the French countryside, all exposed wood and large stones. The fact that Emily didnt cook made the kitchen even more ridiculous.

Why are you grinning? Emily asked.

Maya said, You dont even like France and you have these big signs hanging here. Maya pointed to one with a huge pink pig and the word cochon written in white below it.

I do like France, Emily said. I just didnt like my so-called honeymoon there, driving around with Chloe in the backseat grumbling and getting carsick.

I know, Maya said. She patted her friends hand. An eleven-year-old should not be on a honeymoon.

We had to keep finding pay phones so she could call her mother and tell her how miserable she was. And those phone cards never worked. Emily sighed. It has been downhill from there.

Maya looked out the window, to the terraced garden. The flowers there were arranged by color, all of the oranges together, then the yellows and pinks. Werent flowers meant to commingle? she wondered. Hummingbird feeders hung above the flowers, swaying slightly in the late spring breeze.

Do they come? Maya asked.

Hummingbirds? Emily shook her head. I seem to be able to keep everything small and fragile away.

Once, when she had lived in Hawaii, Maya had watched a variety of hummingbirds dart in and out of a feeder in her neighbors yard. They were as tiny as bumblebees, those hummingbirds. Their heart beat, she knew, at a rate of 1,260 beats per minute. Like the racing heart of a fetus, she thought.

Not like you, Emily was saying. You give people life. You give them hope.

Maya Lange ran the Red Thread Adoption Agency. It placed babies from China with families in the United States. In the eight years since shed opened the agency, she had heard about every fertility treatment available. She had seen more broken hearts than she could count. With over four hundred babies placed, a person might think that by giving these families their babies, her own heart would have healed. But hers still felt like someone had punched a hole in it.

A woman in my Pilates class told me that I might be allergic to Michaels sperm, Emily continued. Theres a doctor in Philadelphia who injects women with their husbands sperm to build up antibodies. She said that after ten treatments you can maintain a pregnancy instead of reject it.

Maya did not answer her friend. Long ago, she had buried her own secrets. They belonged only to her, and a man she no longer spoke to. Sometimes she wondered if he too remained haunted. Guilt did that to a person. It made you silent, afraid, alone. It made you listen to other peoples pain but keep your own to yourself.

You think thats weird, Emily said.

Maya shook her head. Nothing is weird on the path to parenthood.

You sound like your own brochure, Emily said.

Do you know what I do find weird, though? The garden. Why are the flowers separated like that?

Like what? Emily said, frowning.

By color. One of the wonderful things about flowers is how orange looks good next to purple, and pink and red are beautiful together. If we dressed that way, we would look absurd. But flowers were meant to mix like that.

The landscaper did it, Emily said. It was all her idea.

The women were quiet, each gazing out at the sunlight-drenched garden, lost in their own thoughts. The expanse of the wooden farm table lay between them.

Except the feeders, Emily said quietly. I hung those. I wanted to bring hummingbirds here.

Maya thought again of those tiny hummingbirds in her neighbors yard. Once she began.

Emily looked at her expectantly.

Maya shrugged. Just a hummingbird story, she said. Not even a story, really.

The sound of the front door opening and the noisy arrival of Emilys husband Michael and his friend broke the somber mood. A familiar, uncomfortable feeling settled in Mayas stomach.

Emily leaned closer to Maya. Your boyfriends here.

Maya rolled her eyes. Please, she said.

Emily had taken it as her mission to find a man for Maya, despite Mayas insistence that she had no desire for a relationship. Everyone needs human contact, Emily had argued. Even Maya Lange. That began a steady stream of mismatched dates that had gone on for too many months. On Friday nights, Maya drove from her house in Providence to Emilys home twenty minutes away in the suburb of Barrington. The town had curvy roads lined with stone walls, leafy trees, oversized houses set away from the road. The only parts of them visible were the turreted roofs and soft glowing lights.

Michael came into the kitchen, his necktie already loosened, the latest victim trailing behind him. When Michael bent to kiss Emily hello, Maya warily studied her date. All of the men seemed the same: balding, belly just beginning to stretch, nice suit and polished shoes. This one wore glasses, those narrow rectangular ones everyone wore to look hipper or smarter than they actually were.

Jack, he said, extending his hand.

Maya shook it quickly.

How about a Stella? Michael called, opening one massive door of the stainless steel refrigerator.

Sounds good, Jack said.

Can you open a bottle of chardonnay for us? Emily said.

Michael pulled out the beer and a bottle of wine and set about getting glasses for everyone.

Why dont you have a seat? Emily said to Jack, who stood awkwardly in the kitchen.

Shouldnt we go into the living room? Michael said. Get comfortable?

He placed drinks on the table, then returned to the refrigerator for hummus and dips, a platter of vegetables.

Why dont you go on? he said. I just want to call Chloe and see how her game went.