“Problem?”
“Madelyn-May,” is all he says.
Careful not to crowd him, I sit down in an armchair across the other side of the room. He’s never shared much about his personal life – not the challenges of it anyway. Probably because he’s always so busy dealing with mine. “You want to talk about it?”
“Got any wine?” He asks. “Nothing fancy. Just anything will do.”
I pour him a glass of red, and retreat to my chair.
“She’s so… argh.” He lifts the glass to his nose, and winces at the biting scent of my. It’s cheap Merlot. “I know you probably don’t want to hear this, Soph, but I need… something. I don’t know.”
“You’ve listened to enough of my whining and woes. I owe you. So, let’s hear it.”
He takes a sip of wine, despite the fact we both know he’ll hate it. “I don’t get her. I’ve given her everything a woman could possibly want, and yet she’s not there.”
“Not there? She didn’t come home?”
“Not present, I mean. She’s in our house, at least sometimes, but it’s like only her body is there. She’s not. I feel like I’ve been married to a ghost for the past seventeen years.”
“And you’ve tried talking to her about it?”
“Talking to her?” He looks at me as though I’ve gone mad. “You can’t talk to Madelyn-May, Soph. I’ve tried so many times, but there’s no point. She won’t budge. She won’t open.” He sets the glass down to speak with both hands. “Do you know, she won’t even talk about her childhood with me? Both her parents were killed when she was young, and I get that she’s traumatized, or scarred, or something, but Christ… I’m her husband for God’s sake.”
I have underestimated how much it will hurt to hear him talk about his marriage. For the past few years I’ve heard so little about her that there is a part of me, and it’s a large part, that almost believes Bastian and my relationship is the only one he has.
“I’m sorry, Soph,” he sighs, seeing my face. “Shit, it was selfish of me to come here like this. I’ll go.”
He stands to leave, but instead I reach for his arm. “I won’t lie, Bastian. This is a hard situation, but I care about you. And putting the other stuff to the side, I am your friend, so let me be that for you, at least tonight. It kinda looks like you need one right now.”
His jaw is tense, but his eyes are tired, hollow. “I don’t understand it. She loves her work. She must, because it’s not like she needs to do it. You know that, Soph, we work together. I mean shit, sure she makes a ton of money from what she does, but my business was always good, and she’s never wanted for anything, not even those stupid designer label shoes she likes so much. You have no idea how much I spent on that shit before she started making her own money. In the end, I even gave her an account of her own, so she didn’t have to ask anymore.”
I nod, and wonder what it must be like to have someone cater to your every whim.
“Then we had the kids,” he continues. “Two perfect kids. A boy and a girl. I don’t know what happened to her after that. She just….”
“She just what?”
“Changed,” he says. “At first I thought it was post-natal. We went to doctors and specialists. She took a bunch of medications and herbs. She even started yoga. Nothing worked. She just slipped further and further away. Then that blog she wrote about the twins went viral or whatever, and that was it. She started her online site, and we all got left behind.”
“Online site?’
“She has a website about parenting, of all things. Can you believe it? She’s barely a wife, let alone a mother, and yet thousands of women worship every word she writes.”
“She’s a writer?” The idea of his wife as a writer is like a knife in my heart. Bastian and my love of literature and writing is the one thing I thought we shared; our special connection. To find out she is part of that feels like a twist of the blade.
“Writer? No, she’s not a writer. She has a blog about things she doesn’t even do. It’s just… I don’t want to go into it, Soph, it’ll just make me angrier than I already am.”
“Did you eat?”
“What?”
He looks up, and I am relieved to see my question has interrupted his train of thought. “Are you hungry?” When the first hint of a smile catches the side of his lip, I breathe out. “Tell you what, if you run to Joe’s, I’ll make you dinner. Deal?”
“You’ll what?”
His surprise is warranted. Cooking was something I always took such pride in doing for James, and so to do it for Bastian has always felt wrong. But he’s hurting, and after all the time he’s devoted trying to fix me, the least I can do is make him a meal.
When he comes back with the groceries, I kiss him gently on the cheek. “Now, go pour yourself another glass of wine, and find something to watch on the tele. Miss Molly will keep you company until dinner is ready.”
He eyes me cautiously. “Who are you? Where’s Sophie?”
I shove him away, and laugh it off, but the truth is: this version of me is the real Sophie. The version he knows, the messed-up, incapable, unbalanced person is the impostor.
I boil a pot of water for the flat noodles, and chop Spanish onions, coriander, and garlic. In a bowl I combine sugar, lime juice, and fish sauce, with a dash of sugar, then set it to the side. The prawns Bastian bought from Joe’s freezer are toss-fried in a pan, then I add the rest of the ingredients along with noodles and a couple of eggs. It isn’t long before a very basic but delicious Pad Thai is almost ready to serve. My family had loved this dish, and as I garnish each plate with a hint of chili, a tiny voice calls out to me.
“Not too much chili Mommy, it burns.”
“What?” I clutch at my chest, and spin around, one hand gripping the sink for balance.
“I didn’t say anything,” Bastian answers from the couch.
“Did you hear that?’ I ask, stepping forward until I am almost in the living room.
“Hear what?”
I battle to steady my breathing. His voice. “Nothing. Never mind.”
“Are you okay? You look like you saw a ghost.”
“No, I… It’s okay,” I tell him. “It was probably just the television.”
But it was his voice. I know it by heart. I know it so well that my ears can hear what my heart is shouting. My baby. How I miss you.
I steady myself, and take a long, deep breath. Not tonight. Tonight I need to keep it together for Bastian.
“Alright, it’s ready,” I announce, desperate to put my memories to the side. “Try it, if you dare.”
Bastian smiles as I place the dish in front of him on the coffee table. “And I get to eat it by the TV?”
“What do you mean, get to?”
“At home, that’s not an option,” he sighs. “We have twins, and they don’t practice what you might call refined eating. Half of it ends up all over the floor, and if we didn’t eat in the kitchen our living room carpet would resemble a Jackson Pollock.”
I nod, and smile. “I remember when Josh first went onto solids, James and I….” I catch myself mid-sentence, a rock in my throat stopping the words from coming out. “Well, never mind that. How’s your dinner?”
Knowing when to leave things be, Bastian takes a mouthful, and cannot hide his surprise. “Holy shit, Soph! You can actually cook.”
“Gee, I don’t know what to say. Thanks, I guess?”
“I didn’t mean it like that, it’s just—”
“I used to cook for them, before… That was my thing, so it can be hard….”
“…to do for anyone else,” he finishes.
Even amid his own chaos, Bastian is thoughtful enough to use the words anyone else, instead of someone else. Anyone means just that, anyone. Someone means so much more.
“Right, but it actually felt nice to cook again,” I tell him. “I might have to do it more often, even it if is only for Miss Molly and me.”
“Hey, if everythi
ng you cook is this good, you can count me in.” He grins before a somber shadow falls over his face. “The truth is, it’s been a long time since someone cooked for me, so thank you, Soph, I mean it.”
“You’re welcome,” I smile. “Now, eat before it gets cold.”
He piles noodles onto his fork, and I make peace with my decision. He deserves to feel cared for. Don’t we all?
We eat our dinner, and afterwards he helps me clean up. We sit on the couch and watch a few re-runs of Seinfeld, and soon I find myself yawning.
“You’re tired,” he says. “I should get going.”
I can’t deny that I feel sleepy, but it has been so nice playing house for the night. So nice, in fact, that I forgot why he came over. “You think things will have settled down, by now?” I ask, as he stands to leave.
“Settled down? No, I think everything will be exactly the same. We never fight. Tonight was an exception, because I actually got angry for once, but she’ll be the same. Silent, secretive, there, but not there. It is what it is, I guess.”
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” I tell him. “You deserve so much more than that.”
“Like your cooking every night?” He pulls me close, and we kiss for the first time since he arrived.
“Every night might be a stretch,” I grin. “How about once a week?”
“Deal. Call you tomorrow.”
After he leaves, Miss Molly follows me upstairs, where I shower, slip on my nightgown, and pad over to the bed. My skin feels toasty from the hot water, and my heart even warmer from a night spent with Bastian. For once, I wasn’t the one in need of help. For once, I had been the one to give support, and it feels good. Tonight, I have proven to myself that I can keep control when I need to. Hearing Josh’s voice like that, even if it was only in my mind, was a curveball, but I regrouped. I kept it together. Slowly, slowly, little by little, the light might finally be finding its way in.
On my bedside table, the manuscript catches my eye. What if….
It’s not like I would ever make contact, or announce myself. Nothing like that. I just want to see. Just to know.
I flick off the light, and sink into my pillow. They say in the dark that when your sight is challenged, other senses become more acute. Smell, touch, taste, sound. I wonder if darkness can also heighten other physical reactions. The connection between your memories and your heart. The heart’s ability to sway your mind, and your mind’s capacity to justify unrealistic desires. For the first time, I allow myself to go there: to wonder about the child I helped conceive all those years ago. I can’t know for certain how old he or she might be. I never saw or heard from Jane again, and it would come down to how many rounds of IVF it had taken her and her husband to fall pregnant. It could’ve happened right away, or perhaps it took years. All I know for sure is that there’s a child in this world who was conceived using my egg. I can feel it. That undeniable connection born of faith, blood, and a mother’s intuition. Somewhere out there is a child who is the only living, breathing proof I ever created life. All I want is a glimpse, just for a moment to see what that tiny part might look like. Unlike the woman in Jackson’s manuscript, I don’t need to explain, or apologize. I don’t want to interfere. What I want is to know whether the child carries any traits of my son. If there might be a tiny piece of him that still lives on in the child I helped Jane conceive.
Despite the dark, I squeeze my eyes even tighter. I wasn’t there when Josh died, and in the morgue I only pretended to glance at his tiny, pale frame. A mother doesn’t need to see her child’s body to know he is dead. The last memory I have of my son is watching him pull on his shoes and take his father’s hand. He smiled at me, waved, and I blew him a kiss.
It’s a blessing, and a curse. I spared myself the pain of seeing my child’s broken body, but how do you let go of someone you can’t bear to believe is gone? How do you stop listening out for their footsteps, for the unmistakable sound of their voice? How do you stop thinking of things they’ll like, and what they might say? How do you stop waiting?
It is a question that drives me closer and closer to insanity. But here in the dark, I finally allow myself to wonder if seeing this child might instead bring me closer to redemption. Would seeing a tiny piece of Josh walk safely into Jane’s arms finally allow me to let him go?
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lacy
It’s Saturday morning, and people are marching through the Philadelphia Mills shopping mall like brightly colored ants. They follow each other in long lines, this way and that, occasionally stopping to step awkwardly left, then right, then left again, to avoid bumping into each other. They laugh to try and hide their annoyance, but I can see it simmering there under the surface. What they really want to shout out is, “What the hell are you doing?! Move you idiot, get out of my way. Can’t you see I’m carrying bags and trying to get to Cinnabon?” But instead they artfully dodge this way and that, smiling, and apologizing, and pretending it’s their own fault. I find it ironic that people are willing to apologize to the person they wish would get lost, just because they’re a stranger. If it was a family member, or close friend, they’d probably tell them exactly what they thought. People.
Up ahead, Madelyn-May and the girl are making their way through the mall, drifting over to storefronts, where they pause, occasionally point at something in the window, then navigate their way back into the flow of ants.
This is the first time I’ve seen Madelyn-May take either of the children out of the house. Usually it’s the husband who takes them to the park and to do activities, but from the shopping bags fastened to her arm, it looks like the girl needed to update her closet and who better than the always-stylish Madelyn-May to lead the charge. It wouldn’t surprise me if this whole trip is more of a branding exercise than anything else. With millions of followers watching their every move, the girl can’t be seen bumming around in track pants and worn-out kicks, now can she? Even now, she is dressed in a white T-shirt with a frog on the front, which seems normal for a twelve-year-old girl, if it wasn’t accompanied by Chanel jeans and a small Louis Vuitton shoulder bag.
I follow them as they make their way into Coconut Grove, a ritzy fashion store for young girls. From a safe distance, I watch as the girl pulls at dresses and shakes out T-shirts, Madelyn-May too engrossed in her phone to even look up. At the swimwear section the daughter stops, balances her stash of clothes in the crook of her elbow, and picks up a leopard-print bikini.
“OMG, this is so cool,” I hear her say. “Mom, I like, totally need this.”
But Madelyn-May shakes her head, and tells the girl to put it back.
“No, but I want this,” she argues. “I’m trying it on.”
Intrigued to see how the exchange plays out, I find a safe place, behind a pile of summer knits, and watch it unfold.
“Put it back,” Madelyn-May tells her. “If you want a swimsuit, you can choose a one-piece. You’re not wearing that.”
A smile creeps across my face as I watch the girl challenge her mother: “I’ll try it on, and then you can decide.”
Realizing the swimsuit situation is about to escalate, Madelyn-May finally slips the phone back into her bag. “You’re not getting that swimsuit, and that’s all there is to it, Harlow. Now put it back, and choose something else, or you can put everything back and we’ll go home.”
It’s a stand-off, the two of them glaring at each other as shoppers unknowingly make their way around a bomb about to explode.
“Why are you so frigid and boring?” Harlow hisses. “Last week Tori posted a pic wearing a bikini exactly like this one on her Insta. What’s your problem? It’s not like you care anyway.”
“My problem Harlow, is that you’re twelve years old. Tori shouldn’t even have an Instagram account at her age.”
“Well, she does. All my friends do. I’m the only one with no socials. You have no idea how you’re killing my life, seriously. Not everyone wants to be a leper, you know.”
“I want to see those knits,” she says. “If you’re not looking at them, can you move aside?”
I look her up and down, and wonder if I should play the amputee card to make her feel bad, or come up with something better. I quickly decide on the latter. “Sure, of course,” I reply. “My apologies, and I hope you get better soon.”
“Get better?”
“After your chemo,” I tell her. “I mean… You are in treatment?”
“What are you talking about? I’m not sick.”
“Oh… I just thought, well, with your hair, and this whole thing,” I say, my finger indicating to her overall appearance, “that you must have some kind of… Anyway, my mistake.”
I feel her staring after me as I wander off in search of another place to watch Madelyn-May’s drama unfold. Sometimes people just need to be reminded they’re not special. I consider it more of a public service than anything else. Once you start thinking you matter, disappointment is sure to follow, because the truth is, no cares about anything more than they care about themselves. And the sooner people figure that out, the better off they’ll be.
Over by the swimwear, Madelyn-May snatches the bikini out of her daughter’s hand, and throws it back onto the pile. “You do not talk to me like that in public. Not ever. You got it?”
“Why?” the girl challenges. “You worried it will hurt your brand?”
For a moment, Madelyn-May stares at the girl, and I can tell she is at a loss for what to do next. If she makes a scene, there will be a video of the argument posted on Facebook before they make it back to the car – but if she gives in, the girl wins, and life will unravel from there. As far as I’m concerned, either will suffice, and my only disappointment is that I don’t have a bucket of popcorn to snack on while I watch.
“Go and try on your other clothes,” Madelyn-May tells her. “We’ll discuss the bikini later.”
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