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As the days pass, I try to focus on work, salvaging the ethical sourcing campaign that still hasn’t picked up, despite my adjustment of the images and demographics. I talk to Mara about the launch of a new skincare line, offering a giveaway, free samples sent to our most consistent customers.
“I like your ideas, Eva,” she says, and I sense a ‘but’. I wait, a half-smile on my face, alert, professional as always. “But I have to say, you seem a bit distracted lately.”
Mara sounds concerned, but I know I can’t trust it. My working environment manages to be both caring and cutthroat—that’s just the business world these days, for everybody. Too many people needing jobs, too narrow a profit margin in every sector. I’ve heard Mara say, ‘self-care is so important’ and then fire someone in her next meeting. I lean back in my seat, giving her the full force of my confident, professional smile.
“I’m fine, Mara.” I haven’t told anyone at work about Rachel or Emily; it hasn’t felt like my story to share, even though I sometimes feel guilty, as if I’m keeping them a secret. But considering I’ve never even met either of them, my actions feel reasonable.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” I am firm now, brisk. I can’t let my personal life interfere with my professional one. I’m so much stronger than that. “I’m disappointed in the results of the ethical campaign, but it’s given us some helpful data that will prove useful to further campaigns.” I sit forward, poised now for action. “So it’s all good.”
Mara gives me a considering look. “As long as you’re sure.”
“I am.”
A beat passes, and then another, and neither of us breaks what is starting to feel like a game of blink. Then Mara gives me a brief nod of dismissal.
Back at my desk, my body sags. I’m not usually distracted at work, and I shouldn’t be now. Yes, this whole thing with Emily has affected me more than I expected—the knowledge of her there in that unit, just waiting, and the the unspoken tension between me and James. And yes, not being pregnant for the fifth time running might be one more disappointment than I am able to handle, but here I am, showing up for work, doing my job. Can’t that be enough? Why am I always having to try?
I push the thoughts away as I focus on my work, and when I return home several hours later to an empty apartment, I can’t believe I’ve forgotten that it’s Tuesday and James is, as he always is on a Tuesday, at the hospital with Emily.
It’s another beautiful evening, syru
py sunlight and bright green leaves, and I want nothing more than to curl up on the sofa, my head on James’ shoulder, his arm around me, something brainless on Netflix. We’ve only been married a year, but I don’t need romantic dinners or weekend getaways, as nice as they are. I just want to be able to laugh with James over an order of moo shoo pork and some spring rolls. I want to read bits of the Boston Herald out to him and have him snort in laughter or disbelief; I want to joke with him that there’s only one real Red Sox fan in this family, since he was born in Connecticut. I want to be normal again, but lately everything has felt forced and off kilter.
I flip off my heels and pour a glass of wine—I’ve going down the liquid comfort route far too much recently, I know—and flop on the sofa. In an ideal scenario, James would be home, we’d have takeout, and then we’d get busy since it is peak ovulation time, maybe right here on the sofa. Maybe I’d dare him to leave the curtains open; that’s about as risqué as either of us ever gets. He’d laugh and leave them open for about ten seconds, before he’d whip them shut and then reach for me…
As I sip my wine, I count back the days and realize we haven’t had said sex since our two hurried and rather lacklustre attempts last month that didn’t pan out. I know I need to stop thinking like this.
Another sip of wine, and then the doorbell rings, surprising me. No one comes to our door. Despite the bikes chained to railings, the vague talk whenever the weather is nice of a block party, it’s not that kind of neighbourhood.
Amazingly, absurdly, I don’t recognise the woman standing there, her bag clutched to her chest, her expression determined but also a bit… frenzied. The look in her eyes alarms me. She’s middling height, a little shorter than me, with dark hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, worry lines bracketing her eyes and mouth. She’s wearing an oversized sweater in soft gray and a pair of skinny jeans, but the outfit looks haphazard, thrown together, as if she doesn’t care much about clothes. The wrists poking out of the sleeves are too thin. I stare.
“Eva,” she says, testing my name out, seeing if it works.
“Yes?” I have one hand on the doorknob, my body blocking the entrance, my eyebrows raised in a parody of politeness.
She looks at me levelly, her expression determined yet giving nothing away. “I’m Rachel.”
7
Rachel
Was it wrong to come here? Sneaky or manipulative or just inappropriate? James might think so, and Eva might well too, but it’s too late to regret my choice. I’ve got to do something, and James and his refusal to discuss anything has driven me to this.
Admittedly, he has responded to my texts, but only to say he doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t see the point. I sent him an email with links and copy-and-pasted paragraphs, pages and pages. Too much maybe, but this is our daughter. No reply.
I’d be angry, if I didn’t feel so frustrated and frankly panicked. Time is running out. Every day in the palliative care unit is a day where no one is working on Emily’s behalf, where she is just dwindling down and down. I can’t stand to see it.
I can’t stand to sit there, next to Emily, listening to the murmurs and quiet weeping from other rooms, knowing everyone on the ward is just waiting.
Eva’s lips part, her eyes widening as she looks at me. It stings me a little, that she didn’t recognize me. Are there no photos of me at all in their apartment? Did she never even look me up on Facebook? I looked her up as soon as James told me about her, and she was exactly what I expected, strangely enough. The opposite of me, with her careful hair, her perfect makeup, her stylish power suit. For heaven’s sake, James, I remember thinking. It’s a bit cliché, isn’t it?
Except I won’t let myself think like that now, because I’m here to get Eva on my side, on Emily’s side, as absurd as that may sound. It’s the only card I have left to play, my last, desperate roll of the dice.
“May I come in?”
Eva looks like she doesn’t want to move from the door, doesn’t want to let me into her life. And I understand that, to some degree. We’ve been circling around each other’s lives, important and yet unknown, for a year now. How exactly are we meant to relate?
