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arrie shook her head. ‘Of course. I mean—what we don’t have is any baby clothes. Or any clean blankets. Do you have anything like that? Dan wondered if you might have some things packed away.’
Mrs Van Dyke nodded slowly and opened the door a little wider. ‘I might have a few things that you can use, but most of them will be at the back of my cupboards. Come in, and I’ll see what I can do.’
Carrie stepped into the apartment and stifled her surprise. ‘Wow. What a nice place you have here.’
Clutter. Everywhere.
The floor was clear, but that was pretty much it.
There was no getting away from it—Mrs Van Dyke was clearly a hoarder.
She gave a smile and stepped further, keeping her elbows tight in against her sides for fear of tipping something off one of the tables or shelves next to her.
On second thoughts, Mrs Van Dyke wasn’t your typical hoarder. Not the kind you saw on TV with twelve skips outside their house so it could be emptied by environmental health.
There were no piles of papers, magazines or mail. In fact, the only newspaper she could see was clearly deposited in the trash. And all the surfaces in the apartment sparkled. There was no dust anywhere. Just...clutter. Things. Ornaments. Pictures. Photo frames. Wooden carvings. Tiny dolls. Ceramics. The place was full of them.
No wonder Dan had thought she might have something they could use.
‘They’re mementos. They’re not junk. Everything holds a memory that’s special to me, or my family.’
Carrie jumped. Mrs Van Dyke seemed to move up silently behind her. Had she been so obvious with her staring?
‘Of course not,’ she said quickly.
Mrs Van Dyke picked up the nearest ornament. ‘My husband used to carve things. This one he gave me on our first anniversary. A perfect rose.’
Carrie bent down and looked closely. It really was a thing of beauty. She couldn’t even see the marks where the wood had been whittled away—it was perfectly smooth.
‘It’s beautiful.’
Mrs Van Dyke nodded. ‘Yes, it is.’ She walked slowly through the apartment, pointing as she went. ‘This was the globe he bought me at Coney Island. This was a china plate of my grandmother’s—all the way from Holland. This—’ she held up another carving, this time of a pair of hands interlinked, one an adult’s and one a child’s ‘—is what he carved for me after our son Peter died when he was seven.’
Carrie’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’
Mrs Van Dyke ran her finger gently over the carving as she sat it back down. ‘It shows that we’d always be linked together, forever.’
She reached a door and gestured to Carrie. ‘This is my box room. This is where I keep most of my things.’
Carrie was still taken aback by her comment about her son, so she pushed the door open without really thinking. She let out a gasp of laughter. ‘You’re not joking—it is a box room.’ And it was. Filled with boxes from floor to ceiling. But there was no randomness about the room. Every box was clearly labelled and facing the door, and there was a thin path between the boxes. Room enough for someone of slim build to slip through.
‘The boxes you’re looking for are near the back.’ She touched Carrie’s shoulder. ‘Your baby—is it a boy or a girl?’
Just the way she said it—your baby—temporarily threw her for a second. It took her a moment to collect her thoughts. ‘It’s a boy. It’s definitely a boy.’
Mrs Van Dyke nodded. ‘Straight to the back, on the left-hand side somewhere, near the bottom, you’ll find a box with David’s name on it. And behind it, you might find something else that’s useful.’
Carrie breathed in and squeezed through the gap. The labelling was meticulous, every item neatly catalogued. Did this really make Mrs Van Dyke a hoarder? Weren’t those people usually quite disorganised and chaotic? Because Mrs Van Dyke was none of those things.
The box with David’s baby things was almost at the bottom of a pile. Carrie knelt down and started to gingerly edge it out, keeping her eyes on the teetering boxes near the top. The whole room had the potential to collapse like dominoes—probably at the expense of Mrs Van Dyke, who was standing in the doorway.
She pushed her shoulder against the pile, trying to support some of the weight wobbling above her as she gave a final tug to get the box out.
In that tiny millisecond between the boxes above landing safely in place, still in their tower, she saw what was behind the stack and it made her catch her breath.
A beautifully carved wooden cradle.
She should have guessed. With all the other carefully carved items of wood in the apartment, it made sense that Mr Van Dyke would have made a cradle for his children. She weaved her way back through the piles, careful not to knock any with her box, before sitting it at the door next to Mrs Van Dyke. ‘Do you want to have a look through this to see what you think might be appropriate?’
She chose her words carefully. Mrs Van Dyke had already revealed she’d lost one child; there might be items in this box that would hold special memories for her. Items she might not want to give away. ‘I’ll go and try and get the cradle.’
It took ten minutes of carefully inching past boxes, tilting the cradle one way then another, before she finally managed to get out of the room.
She sat the cradle on the floor. Mrs Van Dyke was sitting in a chair with the open box on her lap, setting things in neat piles next to her.
Now that she had the cradle in the light of the room she was able to appreciate how fine the carving was. The cradle actually rocked. Something Carrie hadn’t seen in years. The wooden spindles were beautifully turned, with a variety of ducks and bunnies carved at either end on the outside of the crib. Something like this would cost a small fortune these days.
She ran her fingers over the dark woodwork. ‘This is absolutely beautiful. It looks like the kind of thing you would see in a stately home. Did your husband really make this himself?’
Mrs Van Dyke’s eyes lit up at the mention of her husband. She smiled proudly. ‘Yes, he did. It took him nearly four months.’ She leaned forward and touched the cradle, letting it rock gently. ‘This held all five of my children. Just for the first few months—they quickly outgrew it.’
‘Are you sure we can borrow it? It looks like a precious family heirloom.’
Mrs Van Dyke nodded. ‘A cradle is only really a cradle when it holds a baby. That’s its job. You’ll bring it back, mind?’
Carrie nodded. ‘Social services have been called—’ she held out her hands ‘—but with the snowstorm it might be a few days before they can collect the baby.’
Mrs Van Dyke handed her a small pile of clothes. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t keep too much. There’s some vests, socks and some hand-knitted cardigans. Oh, and a blanket.’
‘These will be great. Thank you so much. I’ll launder them and bring them back to you in a few days.’ She fingered the edge of the intricately crocheted blanket. ‘This is beautiful and it looks brand new. Are you sure we can use this?’
Mrs Van Dyke smiled and shook her head. ‘It’s not new. I made a new blanket for every child. This was the final one. You’re welcome to use it.’
Carrie smiled gratefully. ‘Thank you, it’s gorgeous and I’m sure it will be perfect.’ She sat the clothes inside the cradle and picked it up. ‘I’m sure Dan will be really grateful to you, too. If there’s anything you need in the next few days be sure to let us know. We can ask Mr Meltzer to open his store again.’
Mrs Van Dyke shook her head. ‘I’ll be fine. My pantry is well stocked.’
Carrie walked over to the door. ‘Thanks, Mrs Van Dyke.’ She opened the door and gave a little smile. ‘You have a beautiful home here.’
Mrs Van Dyke smiled. ‘And you’re welcome in it any time.’
Carrie juggled the c
radle in her hands and closed the door behind her quietly.
Wow. Not what she’d expected at all.
Mrs Van Dyke was lovely, a real pleasure to be around. And she could imagine that Mrs Van Dyke could regale Carrie with hundreds of stories about her life and her family.
She thought of the little carving of a mother’s and child’s hands interlinked. It was heartbreaking—and it was beautiful. It hadn’t felt right to ask any questions about her son Peter. She’d only just met Mrs Van Dyke and that would be intrusive.
But she’d felt the connection. The connection that only another mother who had lost a child could feel.
Obviously she hadn’t said anything to Mrs Van Dyke. The woman hardly knew her. But that little feeling in the pit of her stomach had told her that this woman would be able to understand exactly how she felt.
Their circumstances were obviously different. Mrs Van Dyke had spent seven years loving and cherishing her son, getting to know his thoughts and quirks, growing together as mother, child and part of a family. Carrie had missed out on all that.
She’d spent seven months with her hands on her growing stomach, with a whole host of hopes and expectations for her child. In her head she’d been making plans for the future. Plans that involved a child.
None of those plans had been for a future without her daughter.
Her hands were starting to shake a little. Was it from the weight in her hands—or was it from the thoughts in her head?
A cradle is only really a cradle when it holds a baby.
How true.
She’d loved the white cot she’d bought for her daughter. But it hadn’t been nearly as beautiful as this one. It had been dismantled and packed off to the nearest charity shop, along with the pram, because she couldn’t bear to look at them.
Hopefully some other baby had benefitted from them.
Carrie walked down the stairs carefully, making sure she didn’t bang the cradle on the way. Who knew what Dan would say to her? She wouldn’t be surprised if he let rip with some choice words.
