by Davis, L. G.
“You’re doing great,” he says. “Grace, I’ve told you this many times, but we really appreciate what you’re doing for us.”
“It’s my pleasure. I’m happy for you both.”
“You must be looking forward to the end.” He takes several photos, then peers at me over the camera, waiting for a response.
“I am,” I say. “It’s been quite a journey.”
“That’s true. But it will all be worth it. Now show me that smile.”
“Why? My face won’t be in any of these.”
“You’re a bit tense. Smiling will help you loosen up. It affects the entire body, not just the face.”
When Marcia returns to the living room, she’s all smiles, but her eyes are red.
“How’s it going, you two?” she asks and turns to Travis. “Did you get some nice shots?”
“Absolutely. Grace is a great model.”
Does he notice that she’s hurting? Does he see her red eyes? Does he care?
I’m waiting for him to stop doing what he’s doing and pull his wife into his arms, but he doesn’t. He continues to take pictures of the woman who will give birth to his baby.
“Great,” Marcia says and walks to the door. “Looks like you have everything under control. Since I’m not needed here, I’ll go take a walk. Carry on.”
“Sure,” he says. “See you in a bit.”
The photo shoot lasts another thirty minutes. Travis continues trying to make small talk, but I give one-word responses. Finally, he’s done. He asks if I want to see the photos. I decline.
When he leaves the guesthouse, I strip off what I’ve come to think of as the wedding dress. Back in my stretchy jeans and T-shirt, I feel better.
I’m on my way to the kitchen for something to drink when my phone rings from the bedroom. I go and answer it instead.
I’m expecting it to be Clayton, but it’s Sydney. We haven’t spoken for days.
“Hello, stranger,” she says over the sound of Aaliyah, her four-year-old daughter, laughing.
“Hey, you.” I take the phone with me to the couch.
“How are things going? It’s almost the end of the road, isn’t it?”
“Three weeks, and I can’t wait.”
“You’re amazing,” Sydney says. “I still can’t believe you went through with this. I know I wasn’t supportive at the beginning, but I really am proud of you.”
“I’m glad I did this, Sydney.” It’s not over yet and anything can happen in the next few days, but I’m choosing to remain positive.
“I can’t wait for you to come back to Miami, to start living your own life.”
“Yeah, me too.” Worry snakes through me. What if I give birth to the baby and don’t get the peace I’m searching for? What if the feeling of emptiness remains, and I find myself exactly where I started?
“I know what you’re thinking,” Sydney says. “You’re thinking that you have no place to stay. But you do. You can come and stay with us until you find a place of your own. Jeff doesn’t have a problem with it.”
“That’s really kind of you.” Once I get back to Miami, I will need a place to stay and a job. I already lived with Sydney and her family once before, and I wouldn’t want to impose on them again.
“I spoke to Camille. She’s willing to give you your job back at Dear Blooms, if you need a place to start.”
“Thanks for doing that. It means a lot, but we both know it won’t work out. My passion is in magazines.”
There’s no way I’m going to let her and her sister down again.
“Will you try to get your job back at Living It?”
I shrug. “Maybe. I don’t know yet.”
“Grace, I hate to push you, but you’ll be giving birth in less than a month. You need to think about the next steps.”
“I am,” I lie, “but I’m thinking I might want to start my own magazine.” It’s always been a distant dream, but if I go down that route, I will need some money to make it happen.
I move to the window and stare out at the river. The water is glistening in the sun, as if silver-winged fireflies are dancing on its surface.
The beautiful view lures me out of the guesthouse. Still trying to sell Sydney on starting my own business, I find myself walking toward the river, following the glitter of sunlight on the water.
“That’s not a bad idea,” Sydney says. “You should definitely do that, create something of your own. I hated that you had to work so hard at Living It and the credit went to someone else.” I expected her to be against the idea, reminding me of my bleak financial situation, but she really does sound excited about the whole thing.
After talking about me for a while, she tells me that she and Jeff are planning a one-month-long vacation across Africa for the whole family. Sydney loves to travel. When she’s not working, she’s planning their next vacation. She’s been talking about seeing Africa for a long time.
“Maybe one day we’ll go there together.” I’ve never been outside the US, but in the last year, I’ve done a lot of things I never thought I would do.
“I’ll hold you to it,” she says.
We end the call before I reach the river’s edge. I push the phone into my pocket and tilt my face to the sky to enjoy the warmth of the sun on my skin.
I turn at the sound of footsteps.
Beatrice is approaching one of the cushioned benches. She sits down and unwraps a whole grain turkey sandwich. She hardly talks to me, and when she does, it’s never a real conversation, only a word here and there.
“Hi, Beatrice.” I offer an exaggerated smile. She gives me a faint smile back and then focuses on her sandwich.
She has sallow, wrinkled skin and close-set, raven-colored eyes framed by short lashes and magnified by her glasses. She always wears her surprisingly lustrous hair in a long braid down her back.
“Do you mind if I join you?” I ask. She shakes her head.
I take a seat next to her on the bench, and we sit in silence for a bit too long.
“How long have you been working for the Thorpes?” I ask.
“Since Miss Marcia was a little girl.” She speaks with a noticeable lisp. Beatrice is approaching retirement age, and she looks frail and tired. But she’s an example of how looks can be deceiving. When she cleans, she works quickly, efficiently, and leaves every room spotless.
“That’s amazing. You must feel like part of the family.”
“Not really, not when things are like this… different.”
“In what way?” I ask.
She takes a bite and chews before answering my question. “It’s hard to be a witness to an unhappy marriage. He’s not the right man for her.”
I never expected her to pull back the curtain and reveal what’s really going on. I sit up straight, ready for more.
“Maybe a baby will bring new life into the family,” I say when she doesn’t elaborate.
“Maybe,” she says and stands up, her unfinished sandwich still in her hand. “I should go. Have a good day.”
As I watch her walk back to the house, I think about what she said. I’m not surprised that she noticed the fighting, that she feels the tension. Even I have experienced some of the unpleasantness between Travis and Marcia, but she’s just confirmed it’s really bad.
Will the fighting continue once the baby comes? Will it get better, or would the demands of a newborn make it worse?
The fact that Travis is constantly referring to the baby as his and not theirs is not a good sign.
Sudden nausea hits me, and I hurry back to the guesthouse. When I reach the door, I no longer feel like throwing up. I just want to climb under the covers and take a long nap.
Lying in bed, I stare up at the ceiling. For the first time, I seriously think about the future. If I had accepted payment from Marcia and Travis, it would have been easier to start my own business. But there’s no point thinking about that now. I signed a contract that specified I was doing this for free.
Exhau
stion finally takes over and I fall asleep. An hour later, I awaken from another nightmare about losing the baby.
This time, instead of screaming, I pull myself out of bed and go sit in the closet until I calm down.
Twenty-Three
Past
I had not spoken to Peter since the day Rachel and the baby died. But for three years in a row, on the anniversary of their deaths, he showed up at my house.
Today was the fourth year, and it had been a particularly tough day for me. It was hard to get out of bed that morning, to go on living my life, knowing that my sister lost hers because of me. A couple of Xanax pills took off the edge, but not enough.
Knowing that Peter would show up at any moment made it worse. I stood by the window, my arms around my body as I waited for his car to slide into the driveway.
He always showed up at exactly 7:00 p.m. The hour the doctors confirmed Rachel had died.
I glanced at my watch. One minute to go.
One. Two. Three…
I counted to forty-five and stopped when I spotted his silver car emerging from the darkness and sliding into the spot next to my Toyota.
He didn’t exit the car. He never did. He simply sat in there, staring up at the house, the engine running. I knew why he kept coming back. He didn’t want me to forget that I was responsible for what happened. As if I would ever forget.
Normally, I would go out there and try to talk to him, but he always drove off before I got a chance. I hadn’t heard the sound of his voice since that fateful day. I wanted to do the same thing tonight, to try to mend the bridge between us, but he had been doing this for three years. What would make tonight different?
It was hard for me to remember Peter the way he used to be, happy and funny, with an optimistic outlook on life. He worked as a music teacher at Montern Hill, a Montessori school, and his skills fit the role perfectly. But that Peter was long gone, buried with his dead family.
The first time I met him, we hit it off instantly. I loved that he adored my sister, and she loved him the same way. Most couples don’t love each other equally. All too often, one couple invests more than the other in the relationship. Not Rachel and Peter.
A part of me didn’t want to go out there, to end up disappointed again. I wanted to stay inside where it was safe, to protect myself from Peter’s silent wrath and unspoken accusations.
But it’s your fault. You did this.
I put on a pair of overalls and rushed out of my bedroom before he drove away.
On my way down the stairs, as my knees turned to water, I mumbled a silent prayer for strength. My hand shook as I placed it on the door handle and pushed it down. I swung the door open and stepped into the fresh, early spring air.
When I was halfway to his car, I stopped walking and frowned. Something was different. Usually, as soon as I walked out the front door, he was off. Not this time.
He was ready to talk, and I needed to take advantage of it. I couldn’t mess it up. But what would I say? I had not thought it through. One wrong word at the wrong time could burn the already fragile bridge between us to the ground.
But there was no time for me to think. I needed to act.
I started walking again, didn’t stop until I made it to the car. I waited for him to roll down the window. He didn’t. He continued to stare at me through the glass.
A faint smile curled one corner of his lips, then he lifted something to his head. I didn’t realize what it was until the bang ripped through my eardrums.
A pistol.
I watched as his hand dropped from his head to his side. The gun fell from his hand and landed in the space between the driver and passenger seats.
Peter had shot himself.
The world went silent, and shock tore through me like a tornado. Scream after scream came pouring out of me, and I clutched the window as I tried to push down the glass to get to him. “Oh, my God! Oh, my God! No, Peter!”
On the other side, I watched his body slump forward, his head hitting the steering wheel, smearing it with blood. So much blood. The car honked without stopping, but the sound was distant in my ringing ears.
Suddenly, there was movement around me, people appearing from nowhere—neighbors, nighttime dog walkers, strangers.
If I had been one of them, the sound of a gunshot would have kept me indoors with my doors and windows locked.
Someone grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me away from the car.
People screamed in horror and asked questions.
“What happened?” a man asked. “Are you all right?”
I ignored their questions as I begged someone, anyone, to call 911. My phone was inside the house, and I didn’t want to waste any time.
When one of my neighbors informed me that the ambulance was on its way, my body went limp and I started to fall. When my knees gave way, she was not able to catch me in time. I went down fast and hit the concrete hard.
When I awoke, I was in a hospital bed and Sydney was at my side.
She had been on her way to my place, knowing it would be a difficult day for me. The neighbors told her what had happened, and she rushed to the hospital.
“He shot himself,” I said, remembering everything that happened. “Peter shot himself.”
“I know, honey. I know.” Her words were smothered in tears.
“Is he... Is he all right?”
Sydney looked away, giving me my answer.
I didn’t stop crying until a nurse came into the room and assured me I would be okay. I only suffered a minor concussion.
Funny. I felt like I’d gone through open heart surgery.
When the nurse left, a police officer came into my room to ask me questions about the events of the evening, as they called it.
“I don’t know what happened,” I said. Everything had happened so fast, and my mind was only now catching up. “I wanted to talk to him…” My words dissolved into uncontrollable sobs.
The police officer waited until I calmed down enough to speak again.
“I wanted to speak to him, but he put a gun to his head.” I shook my head, awakening a headache. “I can’t do this.”
The officer promised he only had a few more questions.
“Mr. Collins was your brother-in-law, am I right?”
“He was.” I bit back tears. “My late sister’s husband.”
Was. Past tense. A few hours ago, the word would have been is.
I watched Sydney standing by the door, shifting from one foot to the other. I knew she wanted to come and comfort me, but there was nothing she could do to pull me out of the darkness. Nothing anyone could do.
“Your sister died four years ago?” He glanced at Sydney. She must have filled him in.
I licked my dry lips. “Yes. Rachel. Her name was Rachel Collins.”
Tears blinded my eyes again.
“I’m almost done,” the officer said. “Just give me a quick summary of what happened tonight. Did Mr. Collins say anything to you before he shot himself?”
That was information Sydney could not have given him because she was not there to witness every gory detail.
“No,” I answered. “He never did. He showed up every year, but we never spoke.” I gasped for air. It felt like holes had been punched into my lungs, causing oxygen to escape before it did me any good.
“He visited you every year but never spoke to you? I don’t understand.”
“He blames me for my sister’s death... and their baby’s.”
As confusion deepened the lines on the officer’s face, I explained, my voice low and weak. I told him about Peter and Rachel wanting me to be their surrogate. I told him how I agreed, then turned them down. I told him how she became pregnant again against doctor’s orders and paid the price with her life.
He wrote everything down in his little notebook.
“So, your brother-in-law thought if you had agreed to be their surrogate, his wife would still be alive?”
“He wasn’t the o
nly one who thought so,” I said.
I turned away from him. I didn’t want to talk anymore, to remember.
A sob caught in my throat. “I’m tired.”
The officer continued to ask a few more questions, but I couldn’t give him any more answers. The most important thing was Peter, Rachel, and their little girl all died under tragic circumstances. What more was there to say?
Two days after Peter died, Sydney moved in with me for a few days. She begged me to get out of bed every morning and failed on most days.
“I’m so sorry,” she said one morning, gripping my hand tight. “But you need to know this is not your fault. Peter made the decision to end his life. You have nothing to do with it.”
“How can you say that?” I blinked away tears, but they refused to be shunned. “He committed suicide because he was depressed. He lost his wife and his child. And I—”
“Did nothing wrong. You did nothing wrong.” Sydney brought her face close to mine. “What happened to your sister could have happened to anyone. You are not responsible for all that happened. Do you understand me, Grace?”
“No,” I said. We had to agree to disagree. “I’ll never forgive myself.”
When my sister died, half of me had died with her. Now that Peter was also dead because of a single choice I made, the half of me that had survived was fading into nothingness.
I didn’t deserve to live. I didn’t deserve to be happy.
Life as I knew it was over.
“I’ll go make you something to eat,” Sydney said. “How about fish filets and veggies?”
“I’m not hungry,” I whispered. “I feel like… like I want to die.”
“Don’t say that. Rachel would not have wanted you to blame yourself for this. You need to live, Grace. Enough lives have been lost.”
“How can I live with this much pain?”
“It’s going to be tough, but you’re not alone. I’m here with you. We’ll get through it together.” Sydney slid into bed next to me and held me like a mother would hold her baby. She rocked me back and forth as I cried.