‘‘My guardian angel was here again,’’ Mary would tell Belinda, her voice quavering with delight.
Being called a guardian angel did make Belinda feel special, but it was unfair to say she was preening.
Her mouth stretched into another yawn. The baby, whimpering throughout much of the night, had slept fitfully and only in short bursts. So had Belinda. And while the coffee, robust and deliciously bitter, had taken the edge off her weariness, sleep tugged at her eyelids, which felt like sandpaper. If not for the baby, she would crawl back under her comforter and stay in bed forever.
She did that sometimes, when she was between projects. Well, not forever, but for hours. There was nothing wrong with that, though her family would disagree. (One time she stayed in bed for three days, getting up only to relieve herself. She didn’t like to think about that dark period. She had promised herself it wouldn’t happen again.)
‘‘Kind of self-indulgent, don’t you think, Linnie?’’ her father would say, a smirk playing around his thin lips. ‘‘Slothful, in fact. Your sister wouldn’t do that. Alicia’s raising two boys, but she still finds time to chair committees and help others. You don’t find her lolling in bed.’’
‘‘Now, Arnold.’’ Her mother would shush him with a gentle shove. ‘‘Linnie is helpful in her own way. And she does have a job.’’ Then she would urge Belinda, again, to move back into the room she’d shared with Alicia. ‘‘This old house is way too big for your father and me, and why do you want to live all alone, anyway?’’
And of course, Alicia (‘‘the pretty twin’’), married to a successful (and shady) real estate developer, and mother to two bratty toddlers, would throw Belinda a pitying look before imparting some of her sage advice.
‘‘You need to get a life, Linnie.’’ Alicia would sigh while studying the acrylic finish on her nails. ‘‘Why don’t you let me fix you up with one of Martin’s colleagues? Or I can help you write your profile for eHarmony or another Internet site.’’
‘‘Every pot has its lid,’’ her father would say. ‘‘Every roaster, too,’’ he’d add with a sly wink, enjoying his cruel reference to Belinda’s large frame.
Belinda had a life, thank you very much. She enjoyed copyediting the steady stream of manuscripts that provided her with security and some luxuries and allowed her to set her own schedule. And she excelled at what she did: finding the perfect word, correcting diction or grammar or inconsistencies or clumsy phrasing. In her desk drawer she kept notes from editors complimenting her thoroughness and expertise, and from authors thanking her for saving them from embarrassment. Some authors listed Belinda’s name in their acknowledgments. Belinda flushed with pleasure each time she saw her name in print, but she didn’t fault authors who hadn’t thought to include her. She didn’t mind the anonymity. Sometimes, she preferred it.
Helping people, making things right. That’s what life was about, really. Whether it was fixing an author’s words, or providing groceries for a lonely widow, or making sure Megan Conway was chosen class valedictorian in Belinda’s senior year-not that pothead Jeffrey Ames, who had earned top class ranking with four years of cheating. Jeffrey had been the faculty and administration favorite, until they found the marijuana Belinda had placed in his locker.
No, it was Alicia who deserved pity. Belinda knew for a fact that Martin was having an affair, and not for the first time.
Careful not to make noise, Belinda opened the door to the bedroom and tiptoed to the crib. The baby had maneuvered herself into a corner and wriggled free of the blanket Belinda had taken pains to wrap her in tightly. She was fast asleep, sucking on the thumb she had worked out of the covered sleeve on the pale yellow nightgown.
‘‘Lilly,’’ Belinda whispered. She loved the name more every time she said it. ‘‘Lilly’’ made her think of whiteness, of all things beautiful and pure.
Leaving the bedroom door open, and the bathroom door, too, Belinda slathered her face with moisturizer and coaxed her damp hair into shape with her fingers. She would have liked to use her hair dryer, just as she would have enjoyed luxuriating earlier under the shower’s stinging hot spray. But what if the baby woke and Belinda didn’t hear her? She had learned to her dismay how quickly a whimper could become an ear-splitting cacophony of shrieks that would turn the baby’s face a dangerous red and set her arms and legs flailing.
Even if Belinda took Alicia up on her offer to fix her up with one of Martin’s colleagues, nothing would come of it. And what could she put in a profile for one of those Internet dating sites?
Guardian angel, solid, dependable, compassionate, loves word games, looking for same.
Men weren’t looking for guardian angels. They weren’t looking for ‘‘solid’’ or ‘‘dependable’’ or ‘‘compassionate.’’ They wanted sirens. They wanted ‘‘voluptuous’’ and ‘‘vivacious’’ and ‘‘sexy,’’ like her neighbor Melissa, a mother in name only to little Carrie, the precious child she neglected and had probably never wanted. Melissa never took the baby out of the apartment, never strolled her down the block. It was as though the child didn’t exist. From what Belinda had observed, Melissa was more interested in the men she invited into her bed. The bed thumped against the wall Melissa and Belinda shared. The noises made Belinda cringe and had brought her close to phoning the police several times.
So, no, Belinda would not be posting her profile on a dating site. She knew she was dull. She knew she was plain. Her face was flat and wide. Her thin brown hair was limp and without luster. Her chin was too square, her pale brown eyes too small, the lids almost lashless even with mascara, which she rarely used because it irritated her eyes. She had learned at an early age from her father, and later from her classmates, that she would never be anyone’s favorite. She had seen disappointment on the faces of the blind dates for whom she had opened her door.
(Even plain, unexciting women found husbands, so she had to be lacking something else. What?)
Alicia, younger than Belinda by two minutes, had thick auburn hair that framed her heart-shaped face and green eyes that sparkled when she laughed her tinkling laugh, which she did often, especially around men. When the twins were toddlers, passersby would stop in front of the double stroller and coo at ‘‘the pretty one.’’ Belinda’s mother would say, ‘‘Both my girls are pretty.’’ She would pinch Belinda’s cheeks. ‘‘You’re a love, is what you are. You are the sweetest little girl in the whole world. Mommy’s angel. And you’re pretty, just like your name. That’s what Belinda means, pretty.’’
The name was a jinx, Belinda had decided, directing her bitterness at her parents and sometimes at God, who had participated in the joke. She couldn’t remember when her parents had started calling her Linnie, probably to put an end to the lie.
But now the baby had come into her life. Lilly was a gift, a miracle. Belinda would shower her with love and make certain no one ever harmed her.
Her family would be shocked when they learned about Lilly. (‘‘Adopting a child? What were you thinking, Linnie? How do you plan to take care of that baby on your own?’’) They wouldn’t understand. They wouldn’t have understood about Megan Conway, either. That’s why Belinda hadn’t told them about Megan, or about her friend Jim Langdon. He wouldn’t have believed that his wife was cheating on him if Belinda hadn’t followed her several times and taken compromising photos that she’d left in an envelope at Jim’s office. Jim had a right to know. He had left his wife, and yes, he was miserable, but ultimately his life would be better, because of Belinda.