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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 e
xist? 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?
