Together Alone by Barbara Delinsky Page A

typical teenage stuff.”
    “‘Sean Potts carries an assortment in his back pocket,’” John read aloud.
    “Well, didn’t you, when you were in high school?”
    “They didn’t have assortments then. I carried one. For show.”
    “So now they carry an assortment. For show.”
    “Doesn’t that worry you?”
    “It panics me. I’m not ready to have a sexually active child. But I’m even less ready to have one with AIDS.” She turned to find Brian studying her. Julia was across the room, with her tiny fingers on the window sill, trying to make herself tall enough to see outside.
    “You don’t look old enough to have a child in college,” he said.
    She supposed not, what with her huge T-shirt covering all but the frayed cuffs of her shorts, her face and feet bare, and her hair in its sixteenish bob. “I am. Forty last month.”
    “Same here. But look at me.” He hitched his chin toward Julia, who had settled onto the floor with an unhappy plump and was puckering up to cry. With a weary sigh, he scooped her up.
    “It goes fast,” Emily said, half-wanting to take Julia from him and give her a hug. Arms were made for holding children. Hers felt bereft. “Anyway”—she cleared her throat—“you can see that this place has problems. Once the appliances are in, and the furniture, it’ll be pretty cramped. And stuffy. And dark. The windows are too small.”
    “But the view is great,” he said. “It’s all woods. I wouldn’t even need drapes.”
    “I have to strip the walls, scrub the windows, repaint the woodwork, sand and varnish the floors, repair the stairs,” the thought of it all left her breathless, “and then there’s the matter of appliances. They’ll take weeks to arrive.”
    “Nah. We can find some quickly.” He had returned to where she stood and was passing her, heading into the second room.
    Emily followed. “Small, huh? You couldn’t possibly fit a bed and a crib in here.”
    “Just a crib. I’d use a pull-out sofa in the main room for myself. This is perfect for a child.” He shifted Julia in his arms. “What do you think, toots?”
    Julia began to cry. He cradled her closer, to no avail.
    “I’m sorry,” he told Emily over the baby’s head. “She’s not always like this.” He fixed a stare at the wall. “Wrong, Bri. She is always like this. You can sweet-talk a stoolie into ratting on his mother, but you can’t get a goddamned smile from this kid. Not a one.”
    Emily stroked Julia’s head. “She’s been through a trauma.”
    “You don’t know the half. She was there when it happened.”
    “When your wife was killed?”
    “Gayle was jogging, pushing Julia in one of those special carriages joggers use for their kids.” His words came hard and fast over Julia’s sobs. “She had run through the park and was back on the streets. She thought she could catch the end of a WALK . She didn’t want to break stride, never wanted to break stride, damn it. She was always like that, determined that she could beat every odd, and she did, until this time. She gave the carriage a shove a split second before she was hit.”
    “Did Julia see?”
    “No, but there were the sounds—brakes, screams, sirens—shhh, sweetie, it’s okay, Daddy’s here.”
    Emily’s heart broke for the crying child. For the father, too. She sensed the panic in him.
    Desperate to do something, she reached over, took Julia from Brian, and settled her in her own arms. The crying continued, but the fit was comfortable. Oh yes, arms were made for holding. They were adjustable in ways nothing made by man could be.
    “When did it happen?” she asked softly.
    Brian looked relieved to be spelled for a bit. “Nearly five weeks ago. My mother had Julia with her for the first month, then I insisted on taking her. I thought I was doing the right thing—I mean, everyone says fathers are supposed to be able to do it. Only no one tells them how.”
    “No one tells mothers, either.”
    “Mothers are born