He closes his eyes for a second, then sighs. “Abby, let’s go sit down for a minute, okay?”
I follow him to the couch and I sit down on it, while he sits on the coffee table facing me. His left knee is between mine, and he leans on his elbows and holds my hands, staring at them. “I have to tell you a story. It’s going to end badly, and there’s not much I can do about that part. It’s the bit before the end that could maybe be a little bit amazing.”
My mouth goes dry, and my palms start to sweat. Isn’t that odd? How two parts of the same body have the opposite reaction when something horrible is about to happen?
“Abby, you’re the best person I know. I’ve been in love with you for a long while now. I fell for you when we were on the way home from our first boat trip. Olive was asleep on your lap, and you were smiling down at her, and I just knew.” The words are exactly what I’ve been needing to hear, but I can hardly hear them over the blood pumping in my ears.
He sighs and gives me a sad smile. “I love the way you speak and the sound of your laugh and how silly you can be. I love watching you put your hair up when you’re heading out to the yard, or when you’re about to cook. I love listening to you sing along at the pub, and how you go for it even if you don’t know all the words.”
He pauses and looks out the window. The rain is coming down in sheets now, the world has become a leaden blur. I’m glad he’s stopped talking because I don’t want him to tell me how the story ends. Whatever he’s about to say, I don’t want to know.
“To someone else, what I’m about to say would sound crazy, but I know it won’t to you, which is exactly why you’re so perfect for me, and for Olive. I think Olive was right that you were sent to us for a reason. But it’s not the reason you may think.”
Liam finally turns to me and looks into my eyes with a pained expression. I recognize it immediately because I’ve seen it once before.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.
~ Robert Frost
I stare out the thick plastic window of the plane. It is late evening and the lights of Portland are shining below. To an observer, I’m just a quiet woman with a broken arm who’s slightly tired, perhaps from a long day of travel. On the inside, I’m raw with rage. My head and my heart are in a fierce, chaotic battle as they pull me apart with guilt, fear, and a deep sense of injustice that cuts me to my bones.
It’s been three days since Liam told me the truth. Three days since I screamed in his face and called him a fucking liar and pushed on his chest to get him away from me. Three days since I told him to get the fuck out and never come back.
As soon as it was over, I was like a robot, acting out of pure logic—first a call to Eunice to tell her to come by and photograph the house because I’m leaving. Then booking an open-ended ticket home and texting Colton to offer him a job house-sitting. I didn’t bother going next door to say goodbye to Nettie and Peter. They knew. The entire time, they knew. So fuck them too.
I am slow to get off the plane, letting people go ahead of me, although I’m not sure why I’m doing this. I know my parents will be anxiously waiting at the baggage claim and I want to see them and hug them. I do. But I’m also dreading the conversation that’s coming. I don’t want to answer why I’m showing up so suddenly, especially since I just spent two weeks with my mom. I don’t want to cry while I spill out every detail. I don’t want them to ask what I’m going to do now. I just want to forget.
I spot my parents as I’m coming down the escalator to the baggage area. They are both beaming and waving to me, and it brings tears to my eyes.
“Abby!” My dad calls, pulling me in for a long hug and a big kiss on my temple. I squeeze him tight, inhaling the scent of a little too much Polo cologne. “Oh, I missed you, my girl. You’re finally home.”
My mom rushes toward me and we hug. “You look a lot better. I can’t believe how much your face has healed in just a few days.”
I smile. “Yes, I’m almost starting to look like myself again.”
When she lets me go, she looks at me as though she’s trying to read my thoughts. I give her a look that says, ‘I can’t right now,’ and she nods. “It’s just so good to have you home again.”
* * *
Today is Thanksgiving. We’ve been in the kitchen since early morning, chopping, washing, dicing, sautéing, and basting. She keeps checking the clock because my brother, Chad, his wife, Tammy, and their kids are due here around two in the afternoon, and she wants to make sure the appetizers and chocolate chip cookies will be set out before they arrive.
I have two nephews, Christopher, age fourteen, and Graham, age nine, and one niece, Kaitlyn, who is twelve. I haven’t seen them in close to three years and my mom keeps mentioning how much they’ve grown and how much more fun she’s having with them now that they’ve calmed down. I know she’s saying it because I’ve always found them a lot to take, and each time she says it, I feel a pang of guilt for not being a better auntie.
When we hear the front door open, my mom practically runs to the small foyer to meet them while I wash the garlic off my hands and follow her, feeling a little nervous.
“There she is!” Chad gives me a brotherly hug, followed by ruffling my hair and I wonder if he’ll still be doing this to me when we’re old and gray. “Glad you didn’t drown.”
“Aww, thanks, bro, but try not to get too sentimental on me,” I say as I smooth out my hair a bit. “You’ll make me cry.”
Tammy rolls her eyes at him, then gives me a big hug. “You look wonderful.”
“You too. How’s work?”
“Oh, you know, same old, same old. The patients never stop complaining and the doctors never stop ordering me around,” she says, shrugging off her coat. “But more importantly, how are you doing after your accident?”
“I’m good. Really.”
“And that girl you rescued, how is she?”
“She was over it about ten minutes after she was pulled out of the water.”
“Kids are amazingly resilient, aren’t they?” she asks before turning to her children. “Say hi to your auntie the hero.”
I look at my nephews and niece, who are all taking off their winter wear while Chad says, “Hang those up, and don’t leave your boots around blocking the entire floor.”
When they finish, they all turn to me, looking as nervous as I feel.
“Hi Kaitlyn,” I hold out my arms for my niece, who is now almost as tall as me, but with a lanky build under her oversized sweatshirt. Her dark blond hair is up in a high ponytail with at least four scrunchies in it.
She gives me a half-hearted hug and says, “Hi Aunt Abigail.”
“I see you have braces.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Do you hate it? I hated them.”
A surprised look crosses her face, and she nods enthusiastically. “Totally. They’re the worst.” She spits a little when she says worst, then slaps her forehead with her hand and rolls her eyes. “See? I can’t stop spitting when I talk.”
Graham bursts out laughing and points at her. “You’re so gross.”
Pulling him in for a quick hug, I say, “That’ll be you in three years.”
“No way. I’m never getting braces,” he says, squirming away from me.
“I never used to spit when I had my braces,” Christopher says, which gains loud protests from Kaitlyn and both his parents.
Lowering my voice, I say to Kaitlyn, “I used to spit all over the place. Once I spit right on the nose of a boy I had a huge crush on.”
“Eww! That’s, like, the worst thing that could ever happen!”
“I thought so too until my orthodontist made me wear headgear through all of grade eight.”
“Shut up! He did not!”
“Swear to God, it actually happened. I bet Grandma has some pictures of it somewhere.”
Her eyes grow wide suddenly, and she turns to her mom.
“Oh my God! Am I going to have to wear headgear?”
“No. Not at school anyway.”
Chad speaks up. “I’m going to demand it, if it’ll keep the boys away.”
“Dad!” she shrieks. “You wouldn’t!”
Chad is laughing and nodding at her, “Oh, I will. You can count on it.”
I watch the scene unfold, remembering how much he used to torture me when we were growing up.
Tammy shakes her head and gives him that exasperated look that doesn’t register with him anymore. “Relax, Kaitlyn. It’s not going to happen.”
My mom decides we’ve had enough chitchat at the door and ushers us all toward the kitchen. “You kids must be starving. Grandma’s got some chocolate chip cookies for you fresh out of the oven.”
The kids clamor down the hall, fighting to get to the sweets first. Chad calls, “Relax! It’s not like she only made two cookies. You’ll all get some.”
“One each or you’ll spoil your dinner!” Tammy adds.
* * *
After a whole lot of snacking and chatting, my dad leaves to pick up my grandma. When they arrive, I go to the door to greet her. She looks so tiny and frail, and I suddenly see why my mom was so worried about her. Tears fill her eyes when she sees me, and she holds her arms out for a hug that I have to duck down to receive.
“There’s my Abigail. Look how beautiful you are,” she says, pulling back and holding my cheeks with her ice-cold hands. “So young and brave, saving that little girl from drowning. I’m driving everybody nuts at the seniors’ center going on and on about how my granddaughter is a real-life hero. And a successful author, to boot!”
I blush and take her hands in mine to warm them up. “You’re good for my ego, Gran.”
“Well, I don’t know about that, but I do know I’m proud of you.”
My dad puts his hand on her shoulder. “That makes two of us. Can I get you some tea, Mom?”
“Oh, yes, that would be lovely, Bill.”
An hour later, we finally cram ourselves in around the long table in the dining room that gets used exactly three times a year. It has the same gray carpet with the same red stain from the Christmas of 1995 when my dad had one too many rum and eggnogs before dinner and tipped over his glass of merlot. After that, my mom instituted the red wine moratorium that still stands. The turkey is carved, mashed potatoes and brussels sprouts are dished up, gravy is poured, and cranberry sauce is tucked along the edges of plates.
Graham picks up a piece of turkey with his fingers and takes a bite, which earns him a quick poke on his side from Chad. “What are the two things you did wrong?”
Graham looks at him. “Fingers and …” He pauses, looking confused.
Chad sighs. “We haven’t said grace yet.”
“But we never say grace at home.”
My brother turns red and I burst out laughing. “Busted by the nine-year-old.” Turning to Graham, I say, “Well played, young man.”
My dad taps the side of his knife on his wineglass. “Let’s get the praying done before the kids faint from hunger.”
The room grows quiet and everyone bows their heads, waiting for my dad to say his usual grace. “Good bread, good meat, good God, let’s eat.”
“Amen.”
Forks and knives clatter as the eating commences. I have a sip of my pinot grigio and sit back for a moment, trying not to think about how well Liam and Olive would fit in here in this room, or how much my grandma would love both of them. I try not to think of Liam winning Tammy over with his charm or Chad over with his quick wit. And I definitely don’t think about having him sit next to me with our arms touching while we eat, or him leaning in to whisper some private joke in my ear at some point during the meal.
Instead, I watch my parents as they lovingly observe their youngest grandson and trade ‘isn’t he perfect’ looks. I realize that this moment, right now—having us all in the house together—is probably the closest my parents ever get to pure bliss. They’re both lit up with wonder and awe for all the things the kids are doing at school and the funny things they say, and they keep glancing around and beaming at each of us in turn.
Chad is to my left. He gives me a bump on the shoulder. “You look deep in thought.”
I smile. “I was just thinking about how your children have managed to turn our parents into people I don’t recognize. They’re patient. And happy. Do you remember that from when we were kids?”
He laughs. “No, I do not. Last Sunday, Graham dropped an entire bowl of spaghetti on the white rug in the living room and when I got mad about it, Mom actually told me to ‘take a chill pill, Chad. He’s just a little boy.’”
“That didn’t happen.” I shake my head. “Not our mom.”
“True story. She even gave him some ice cream to make him feel better about it.”
“No, she didn’t,” I say.
“She did. Swear to God.”
“Wow. It’s like your children have literally cast a spell on them.”
My dad narrows his eyes at us, meaning he must have picked up on bits of our conversation. “What are you two knuckleheads talking about?”
“How patient and kind you are since you became a grandfather,” I answer.
Chad and I burst out laughing, and I’m glad to be home.
* * *
For the next week, my mom drags me to visit every family friend we’ve ever had, breaking only to stop at the outlet stores so I can ‘update my wardrobe now that I’m almost thin again.’ I don’t even mind, actually. It keeps me too busy during the day to think about my fight with Liam, or the fact that when I go back to South Haven, it’ll be to get Walt, pack my things, and spend the rest of my life pretending I was never there.
With any luck and a lot of time, I won’t wonder if Liam is still alive, or worry what has become of Olive. They’ll fade into the distance in my mind, two strangers I knew for a little while. As much as I wish I had it in me to be there for them, I know without a doubt it will kill me this time.
My mom and I have just left House of Vintage, my favorite clothing store outside New York. Our arms are loaded down with all our finds. We hurry outside into the cold, light rain, and drop everything into the trunk of my mom’s Accord. She starts up the car, turns to me, and says, “We have a couple of hours before I need to get home and make dinner. Starbucks?”
“Sure.”
I stare out the window as she winds her way through the busy streets. The entire world seems overcast, except for the Christmas lights that are already out in full force downtown.
“You’re quiet today,” she says.
“Oh,” I say, giving her a relaxed smile. “Nothing a shot of caffeine won’t cure.”
“I don’t think that’s it,” she says, signaling to indicate a left turn into the parking lot.
“I’m just a little tired. All that shopping.”
“Please don’t mistake my patience for stupidity. You suddenly show up with no explanation. You don’t mention Liam or Olive even once,” she says. “I was always good at math, Abigail.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I can add two and two.”
“There was an irresistible seat sale and my mother taught me to never pass up a bargain.”
“Abby,” she says in a warning tone. Then, switching gears, she attempts to sound like we’re just a couple of girlfriends out on the town. “I promise not to tell you what to do. I’ll just listen.”
“It’s going to be awfully quiet then because there’s nothing to say.”
“Did you and Liam have a big fight or something?”
Tears spring to my eyes and I turn to face the window, trying to regain my composure. Sniffing, I say, “Not really. Well, sort of, I suppose. But the silver lining is we figured out we weren’t right for each other before things got too complicated.”
“Hmph.” She finds a stall, turns in, and parks the car.
“I really don’t want to talk about it, okay?”
“Okay, but I’m here to listen if you change your mind,” she says, clearly restraining herself.
“I’m thinking of moving home, actually,” I say, surprising both of us equally. “It would take a while to sell the house but there’s nothing for me in Cape Breton and New York is too expensive.” And even though I can’t say it, I think I’d like to be closer to my family.
Turning to me, she smiles, her eyes filled with glassy hope. But she doesn’t whip into planning mode or tell me she knows the perfect place. And she doesn’t suggest I take over their basement or say she’s glad I finally saw the light. Instead, she says, “Well, you’ll figure it out. You always do.”
“Yeah, I will.” I nod, trying to reassure myself.
Her face grows serious, and she rests her fingers on my shoulder. “What happened, Abby? You seemed so perfect for each other—all three of you.”
“Oh, fine.” I sigh, closing my eyes for a second. “Four years ago, Liam had cancer—Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. He thought he beat it, but …” I shake my head, unable to get the words out.
“Oh, Abby!” she leans over to give me a hug which proves challenging, given the space.
I twist my body and cling to her anyway. Tears fill my eyes and for once, I have no desire to stop them. “It’s come back, low-grade this time, which means he might be okay for a while. It could even be a few years, but then …”
“I’m so sorry, sweetie,” she says, when I finally let her go.
I sniffle and dab at my eyes. “Life is just so unfair.”
“It is. It’s fucking unfair,” she says, her voice filled with anger.
My head snaps back and I look at her. “You just said the ‘f’ word.”
“And I meant it. First, you lose Isaac, then you meet the perfect man, and now this. And poor Olive. Oh my God, that poor little thing. There’s no justice in this world.”
The After Wife Page 27