A hope for emily, p.14
A Hope for Emily, page 14
“I have a bottle of wine,” he suggests hesitantly. “Or some beers…”
I’m tempted, but something in me resists. I’m not ready to let go that much. “A glass of water is fine, thanks.”
“Okay.”
Soon enough we’re all seated around the little table, burgers with all the fixings in front of us. The sky is now the color of burnt orange, the air still warm but holding the faint promise of evening chill. It’s the middle of May, everything is in Technicolor, and I am eating a burger with someone I could potentially call a friend.
I never expected to be here, in so many ways.
“Dig in,” Andrew says cheerfully, and so we do.
The burger is juicy and delicious, and for a little while we just eat, happy to enjoy our meal. Jake is nibbling the edge of his bun, his eyes wide as he keeps darting me glances. I smile at him, trying to help him relax.
“So I guess your house is identical to mine,” I say. I smile again at Jake. “Which bedroom is going to be yours?”
“The one at the back,” Andrew answers. There are three bedrooms upstairs, two big and one small. “I’ll use the little one for an office.”
“Sounds like a good plan.”
“And Jake’s going to have dinosaurs on his wall, right?” Andrew smiles at his son. “We’ve got some stencils we’re going to put on. Jake’s going to help me paint.”
I think of Emily’s room, with its pink princesses on the walls, the canopied bed. Although she was only in it for a few months, Emily loved that room. “Sounds great,” I tell Jake, and he gives me a slightly wider smile.
Andrew asks me about more local recommendations—the movie theatre, the library—and for a little while our conversation is innocuous, easy, or almost. I tell him about the farmer’s market in Wellesley, and the Hayfest at the Jackson Homestead and Museum. James and I took Emily there, when she’d just turned three. I remember sunshine and old-fashioned crafts and exhibits, sugary donuts and warm, spiced apple cider. A perfect family day.
I also remember noticing that she stumbled a bit, climbing over the bales of hay, but we didn’t pay much attention to it then. She was only three, after all. We had no idea what was ahead of us. I feel a longing for that innocence, even as I curse it.
“There’s a jazz festival in Newton, in September,” I tell Andrew. “Although I’ve never been to it, I hear it’s good. Really, there’s enough in the Newton area, you never even have to go into Boston, if you don’t want to.”
“This is an amazing area,” he agrees. “Worcester doesn’t have half as much.”
I smile politely, because I’ve never been there. I grew up in the Boston area, went to college here, made my life. I don’t know anything else.
“So,” Andrew asks when we are nearly done our burgers, “when does school get out?”
I put the remains of my burger down and wipe my ketchupy fingers on the paper towel he provided. Now is the time when I have to start explaining, and I don’t want to. “Actually,” I say as lightly as I can, “I’m taking this semester off.” He looks surprised, and a little guarded. “I have some… family issues I need to focus on.” I give him a fixed smile, but my eyes are saying no more questions, and thankfully Andrew understands that.
“It’s great you can do that,” he says after a moment. “Will you go back in the fall?”
I know James wants me to. “Maybe,” I tell him. “I’m thinking about it.”
He nods, and then Jake asks to be excused—so polite! —and runs off to the jungle gym again, even though it’s getting dark, and the little yard is full of shadows.
By silent agreement, Andrew and I start clearing the table. Inside the house is dim and he flicks on the lights.
“I hope we’re going to be happy here,” he says quietly as he starts to rinse the plate, his head lowered. “It seems like a good neighborhood.”
I know next to nothing about the neighborhood. “I think it is,” I venture.
“Jake hasn’t had an easy time,” Andrew continues, and I brace myself for some sharing. “I mentioned his mom left four months ago…”
“Yes…”
Andrew grimaces. “She just… went. We were having some problems beforehand—I was working too much, I know, trying to set up my own business, which failed. And Christina… she found motherhood hard, I guess.” I wait, tense, not entirely wanting to hear these confidences. Not wanting to be responsible for them. “But I thought we’d make it, you know? It didn’t seem like anything out of the ordinary, what we were going through.” He glances at me, seeming to expect a response.
“Mm,” I say, and nod. I am out of my depth.
“Anyway, she went to Bali on a yoga retreat. I thought she needed some downtime, and Christina had always enjoyed that sort of thing. It was only meant to be for a week.” He sighs heavily. “But then she texted me to say she’d met someone, on the retreat. A guy named Rain.” A slight sneer to the word, which I understand. “And she ran off to Seattle to be with him, without even coming back to say goodbye to Jake.” He dumps some cutlery into the sink with a clatter. “That’s the part I can’t forgive.”
I’m not sure how to respond. It all sounds awful, and I am sympathetic, of course I am, and yet… he still has Jake. I know it’s not fair to think that. I know Andrew has had his own sorrows and trials. But I do think it. I can’t help but have that thought beat through my brain. You’re still lucky. You don’t know what real grief looks like. Of course I would never say that. I feel guilty for thinking it. And so I stay silent, and Andrew gives me an abashed look.
“Sorry. TMI.”
“No… no.” I shake my head, feeling so miserably guilty. “I’m sorry. That all sounds hard. Really hard.” My words are inadequate.
“Well, it sounds like you’re going through some stuff, too?” The lilt to Andrew’s voice is hopeful; it’s my turn to share. This is how friendship works, an exchange of information, a sharing of stories that knit us together, bind us with mutual sympathy.
But I can’t share mine. Even if I wanted to, I know it wouldn’t be fair. Andrew would have to trip over himself to say how horrible it all is, and then he’d feel duty bound to retract his own sad story, as if it doesn’t count, which is invariably what happens in these kinds of conversations, few as they’ve been. Sorry to have whined, what I’m going through doesn’t even compare, I know that…
No, it doesn’t, but my story doesn’t invalidate his. I recognize that, even if I don’t always feel it. And in any case, I don’t want to explain about Emily now.
“Yes,” I say, giving him a smile that I hope is apologetic. “I am.” And I leave it at that, and although he looks disappointed, Andrew leaves it, too. I feel as if I’ve just shut a door in his face. He won’t open it again.
I’m battling a regret over closing down the conversation as I say my goodbye a little while later, even though I know I wouldn’t have done anything differently. I doubt Andrew will ask me over again, and of course I won’t reciprocate. This was nothing more than a pleasant little interlude, one that ends on a bit of a sour note.
“Good luck with the unpacking,” I say as I head across to my door. It sounds so final. “Hope kindergarten goes well.”
“Well, that’s not till September,” Andrew says with a laugh, and I smile, because I really don’t think we’ll have a proper conversation again before then, if ever.
Back in my empty house, I wish things were different. I wish I were different, that I could somehow find a way to live my life with Emily in the hospital. That I could be normal, or something close to it, instead of putting absolutely everything on hold. I think about texting Denise or Sarah, but I don’t. I haven’t contacted them in months, since before Emily went into the hospital for good.
Maybe I should have told Andrew about Emily. I feel the expected hot rush of shame that I didn’t, that I betrayed her in that way, and yet it was so nice to pretend for a little while.
Pretend your daughter doesn’t exist? The voice in my head is scathing, contemptuous.
No, I answer back sadly. Pretend that my life is normal. That I’m happy, or almost.
But pretending never lasts long.
12
Eva
For two weeks, I pretend things are fine. It’s easy enough, because I think both James and I are relieved to fall into our usual rhythm—mornings moving around each other as we bolt coffee and get ready for work, and evenings chatting over our homemade versions of takeout and a bottle of wine. On Sunday, we even drive up to the Berkshires and browse antique shops.
We talk about Rachel or Emily; I don’t even ask how his visits have gone, when he comes back from the hospital, looking tired and defeated. I tell myself it doesn’t matter. I’m not willing to risk my marriage, my chance for a child, on somebody else’s—someone I’ve never even met. Who would do that? Who should?
After our argument, when I sat on the edge of the bed and told myself I couldn’t let it go, I made myself do just that. James came to bed in silence, his movements stiff and offended. When he climbed into bed next to me, I put my hand on his shoulder, felt him tense. The silence breathed on, and then he relaxed, and even though we didn’t say anything, he turned to me and brushed a kiss against my forehead. I close my eyes and breathed him in, willed us to be okay. It was as good as a conversation, and from that moment on I did not mention Rachel or Emily again. I didn’t even want to.
And so I live my life, and I tell myself everything is fine, and it almost is. On a balmy evening toward the end of May James and I try the new tapas place downtown we’ve been meaning to for ages. We sip Rioja and nibble at huevos rotos, and watch the world go by, and it’s fine.
Later, as the sun streaks towards the horizon and everyone seems full of goodwill that nice weather always brings out, we hold hands as we stroll back to our apartment, sleepy and content with good food.
And even later, in bed, James reaches for me in a way he hasn’t for a little while, fitting me close against his body, brushing my lips with a tenderness I’ve yearned for. I rest my palm against his chest and he fits his hand to the curve of my waist. We move sweetly, silently, finding an agreement, an understanding, in this, as we always have.
It’s only after, when James has fallen asleep, that my mind drifts inevitably to the things that aren’t so fine. The silences that still weigh between us, that I feel. The fact that I still think about Rachel and Emily—a lot. And, not least of all, the realization that according to my ovulation predictor, tonight wasn’t a peak time to try, so I can’t even hope that anything happened there.
It’s been three weeks since I spoke to Rachel, and I haven’t contacted her; I don’t think I even can. I don’t know her number, and I’m not going to go hunting for it. No matter how resolved I once felt, with that precious box in my hand, I don’t want to pursue this any longer. I am choosing not to, a choice I make deliberately, every day.
I roll over onto my side, tuck my knees up to my chest. Next to me James snores gently. I think of Rachel, wondering what she’s doing, how she is feeling, and then I make myself stop. I won’t feel guilty. I won’t.
Eventually I fall into a light, uneasy sleep, to wake up the next morning and repeat the whole day again, and again. This is life, and it’s good. It has to be good.
Things at work are fine, as well. The campaign for the new skincare line has taken off, and we’re up for some minor award. Mara is happy, and I accept her approving smile as my due. Yet I realize I’ve lost the passion I once had for my work; I can’t shake the niggling feeling that no matter how ethical our company is, no matter how responsibly resourced our makeup, it’s still so… shallow.
I’ve never thought of working for Maemae as unworthy before. I know it’s not saving lives the way my brothers, the firefighter and the paramedic, do, but it’s still something. Women wear makeup; we’re giving them an ethical choice. And I was never going to become a nurse or a teacher as my parents expected—the only two careers they believe are truly open to women, although they’d never actually say so outright. So why can’t I be happy and satisfied, doing something that is important and valuable in its own way?
I tell myself this restlessness will pass; it’s to do with Rachel, and all that, and not how I actually view my career or my life. And yet the days slip past and I find myself starting to get touchy, a little short with my colleagues. I snap at a secretary, I make a mocking joke about the important of mineral-based eyeshadow, and Mara gives me a questioning lift of a single eyebrow, a precursor to a more formal dressing down. Not good.
I pretend I don’t see it, and I try to reign in my temper. This too will pass. I can’t risk my job, not yet, not until I’m pregnant, at least. If I can get pregnant.
But my peak ovulation time arrives and when I reach out to James, he rolls away, too tired. I don’t feel brave enough to point out now is a good time for baby-making, and so I lie flat on my back, staring up at the ceiling, sleep eluding me yet again as I wait to start another day.
One Thursday in late May, when James is at the hospital with Emily, I end up swinging by my parents’ house, even though I hardly ever surprise them with such a visit. I realize I am lonely; my nights feel empty along with my days.
“Diva!” My father looks thrilled I’ve shown up. I smile and hug him; I’ve never told him I disliked that nickname, because he’s the one who gave it to me. And there is a kernel of truth in it; when I was little, I was the spoiled princess to his rough and tumble sons. I flaunted that fact to my brothers, because even though my dad cossetted me, I was never part of the impromptu football games in the backyard; I didn’t go fishing upstate when they organized a trip one spring. That’s just the way it was—unthinking, impossible to ignore or combat. That’s the way it’s always been.
“Is everything all right?” my mother asks anxiously as she presses her cheek to mine and then bustles me back to the kitchen, the women’s domain. My father settles himself in the armchair, in front of the TV, having done his duty.
A gleam comes into my mother’s eye as she looks up at me from the ground beef she is frying on the stove. “Or is there news…?”
“No. No news.” I smile tiredly. If only.
My mother deflates. “Oh. I was hoping…”
“I know, Mom. So was I.” My period is due in a couple of days, and I know there’s no point in even using one of the pregnancy tests lined up in my underwear drawer, under a set of lacy thongs I never wear.
“You were?” My mother looks up, surprised, almost hopeful again. “Because you never say, Eva. To tell you the truth, I haven’t even been sure if you’ve wanted children.” Which is about the worst thing a woman could feel, according to my mother.
“I told you I do, Mom.”
“I know, I know, but you’re so quiet.” She shakes her head, half in annoyance, half in affection. “You keep so much in. I have no idea what you’re thinking most of the time.”
I’m not sure what to say that, because I know it’s true. I shrug.
“Well, you’re trying then?” Now she definitely sounds hopeful. “Because it can take some time, you know. With Steve we had to—”
“Please, Mom. No details.” I hold up a hand to forestall hearing about my brother’s conception.
My mother gives a girlish little grin. “Well, you know, trying can be fun.”
“Please.”
Thankfully my mother drops that line of conversation, although she’s not done with talking about conception. Far from it. “James doesn’t bicycle, does he? I’ve read that can limit sperm.”
This is why I have avoided this conversation. This, and a lot of other, more complex and painful reasons. “He doesn’t bike.” Not that much, anyway.
“And I hope you’re taking folic acid, because you know that’s important? Right from the beginning. Otherwise babies can get that horrible disease—the one where they have that awful bulge in the spine—”
“Spina bifida. And yes, I am taking folic acid.” I have been for six months, so I’m definitely okay on the vitamin front.
“Well, it will happen then,” my mother says as she pats my hand. “But you know, you could always go the gynacologist? Get things checked out? Make sure it’s all working down there?” A faint blush touches her cheeks. My mother is the queen of euphemisms when it comes to a woman’s body parts. She didn’t seem to have the same kind of trouble discussing my husband’s sperm.
I nod, reluctant but not wanting to admit it. “Yes, maybe I’ll do that in another month or two.” But I’m afraid to see my doctor, afraid of what she might say, the bad news that will be the end of my hopes.
“It can’t hurt,” my mom says, ever philosophical.
“No,” I agree. “I don’t suppose it could.”
She smiles and pats my hand again. “Don’t worry, Eva. Not every woman can pop out babies the way Tiffany can. It can still happen for you.” I think that’s meant to be reassurance, but it feels like a jab. I nod and murmur something like agreement.
“And how is James?”
“He’s all right. He’s visiting Emily tonight.” I don’t normally mention Emily to my parents. It’s easier not to, and it’s not as if I ever have news to impart. I told them about her after James and I got married, because it felt necessary. They were sympathetic, anxious, a little bit horrified. And my mother continues to be all three as she shakes her head and gives me one of her looks.
“That poor, poor girl. Has there been any change?”
“I don’t think so.” I don’t actually know. Emily has been in the palliative care unit for four weeks; James and I have been deliberately not talking about her for two.
My mother prods the browning beef. “It’s just so sad, the way she’s gone downhill so quickly. And no one can find out why?”
“No.”
“Do you think…” My mother’s voice drops to a hush. “Do you think she’ll die?”
