Perfectly Undone

by Jamie Raintree

  “Always the optimist,” I muse. “But, no. He’s finally told his friends and family. I think it’s finally real now.”

  Dad looks down at the glass of water in his hands with a frown. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Me, too. But I’ll be okay. I’m in a good place, actually.”

  “I can see that,” Dad says. “You look lighter.”

  I smile. “I didn’t call you for a different reason.” Dad raises his eyebrows in question. “I was mad at you,” I say bluntly.

  Dad nods, not surprised. His shoulders fall a little.

  I clear my throat, working up the courage to say the words I scripted on the way over here. As hard as it was to talk to my mom, it’s easier to be straightforward with her. With Dad, I live in perpetual fear of letting him down.

  “I don’t know what I was mad about most,” I start. “That you did it in the first place? That you and Mom kept it a secret for so long? That I think it interfered with my relationship with Mom more than it had to because it was a secret? Or that you used my situation with Cooper to try to get me to forgive you?”

  Dad swallows hard, and I hate this reversal in our relationship. It was always demoralizing to be on the receiving end of one of Dad’s lectures, but it’s even more painful to be the one giving it. That’s the thing about parents, though: you grow up and find out that they’re people, no more or less than you are. They make mistakes. They’re still learning. They will let you down, and you will let them down, and somehow, you will all find a way to keep loving each other anyway.

  “The thing is,” I go on, “I don’t forgive you.”

  Dad’s jaw tightens and I can see that he is hurt, so I continue quickly.

  “I don’t forgive you, because it’s not my place to forgive you. You didn’t betray me, Dad. Whatever happens between you and Mom, you’ve always been there for me. You’ve been an amazing teacher, a gentle leader, a kind role model. You’ve been everything a girl could hope for in a father, and one mistake you made a long time ago doesn’t erase all that.”

  Dad has always been the more affectionate one of my parents, but my words shock him so much, he doesn’t move. He sits there, nodding his head, tears threatening to jump from his eyelids with every jarring movement.

  “I’ll always love your mom,” he finally says. “I always have. I want you to know that. And maybe one day, she and I can find a way to be friends, for you and Charlie, if nothing else.”

  “That would be nice,” I say. “But I don’t want you to worry about me. I don’t want you to feel like you have to hold on to the past to the detriment of your future.”

  “No,” Dad agrees. “But we can’t pretend it didn’t happen either. We hold on to the good times, learn from the tough times, and let go of things we can’t change. You and Charlie and Abby and your mom will always be my family.”

  I nod, wondering if it will still feel that way when Dad finds someone else. If Mom finds someone else. If I do. I can’t picture it, but I mean it when I say, “We’ll just have to take it one day at a time.”

  “Right,” Dad says with a smile. Then, “I’m proud of you, Dylan. If I screw up everything else in my life, I’ll die happy knowing I must have done one thing right.”

  I laugh and take a sip of my water to wash away the tears building in the back of my throat. “I don’t know that I would give you all the credit.”

  Dad laughs, too, and says, “No. You’ve always been stubborn about making your own way in life.” He pauses, like he’s debating whether or not he should say the next part. “There’s one other person who’s been a big support to you.”

  Cooper. But unlike with my dad, in this situation, the forgiveness is mine to give. With him, though, it isn’t so easy.

  “I know. I’ll always be grateful for that.”

  “But you still can’t forgive him.”

  I sigh. “You know that forgiveness in a relationship is a two-way street.”

  Dad purses his lips and nods. “That I do.”

  * * *

  Later that week, Vanessa comes into my office while I’m finishing up my charts for the night. Even though hardly anyone is still in the clinic, she closes the door before she points at my computer.

  “Check your email,” she says, barely containing a grin.

  “Okay,” I say. I rotate my chair away from the charts and open the window. At the top is an unopened message from Vanessa, and in the subject line: Women’s Reproductive Health Grant. My heart skips a beat. I click to open it and scan the contents. It’s a private grant specifically for research in my field, rather than a pool of general applicants. The parameters are exactly what I’ve hoped for—more money and more time than any other grant I’ve seen so far. It’s like someone designed it specifically for me.

  I turn to Vanessa, mouth agape.

  “It’s perfect,” I say.

  Vanessa nods. “I’ve been talking to people about your application, and one of my colleagues came across the listing. She forwarded it to me.”

  “My application...” I mumble to myself. I’ve made progress on it the last few weeks, but it’s been slow going. I’ve decided it’s time to share Abby’s story, to allow it to be the reason people trust my passion for my work instead of the painful secret that keeps me disconnected from everyone...even the people I want to help. But it turns out, pouring your heart out on paper isn’t so easy. Reliving those final moments with Abby has been almost as painful as they were the first time, but I’m older and wiser now, and I can look at them with an objective perspective. I can look at them with self-compassion.

  “I want you to submit it,” Vanessa says. “I want you to send it to them.”

  I frown. “It’s not ready,” I woefully admit. It pains me to let her down after all the time and trust she’s invested in me, but I want my application to be a reflection of who I am now, not who I was the first time I gave it to Vanessa. I want it to convey the confidence I feel that I am more ready than ever to dedicate myself to this research.

  “That’s fine,” Vanessa says, waving my concern away. “The deadline is next week.”

  I laugh, though Vanessa doesn’t get the joke. She never has.

  I stand and walk around my desk. I lean against it and clasp my hands in front of me.

  “It’s not just that,” I say.

  “Oh?” Dr. Lu shifts her weight. I can tell she feels off balance. She’s used to being the one relaying information, passing off orders. She doesn’t like not being the one in control.

  “Dr. Lu, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you for being an incredible teacher over the years. You inspire me. You really do. And I want to do this research more than I’ve wanted almost anything in my life.” Almost anything.

  Vanessa crosses her arms, sensing where this conversation is going. “But?”

  “But when you pulled me aside a couple of months ago, I apologized for being distracted with my personal life. The thing is...I realize now that having a personal life isn’t a distraction. I think relationships are what make the work worthwhile. And I don’t want to keep putting my relationships second.”

  She raises her eyebrows. The sharpness of her features has never been so apparent. I don’t mean to offend her, but I also don’t want to become her. I want to live my life with the windows open.

  “What are you saying, Dylan?”

  “I’m saying it’s time to cut back on my patient load.” The words come out unsteady. I never thought they’d pass through my lips. But I’m certain it’s the right thing. It’s what I want. Maybe I won’t have Cooper or Megan or Stephen to spend time with anymore, but I’ll start with my mom and my dad and my brother, and see where things go from there. Or maybe I’ll just start with my relationship with myself.

  Vanessa shakes her head, tak
en aback. “Well, if you get the grant, of course you’d cut back on your patient load.”

  “I want to do it either way,” I’m quick to say. “Starting immediately.”

  She scoffs. I’ve never been so forward with her. I’m not sure if anyone has.

  She lets her arms fall to her sides and takes a step back. “I don’t understand. You’re the one who’s always asking for more patients. Your initiative is why I chose you to mentor this year.”

  “I know,” I say. “And I hope it doesn’t change your mind. I don’t know how to explain it, but I just... I need more than this. I want to do my life’s work, and I want to live while I’m doing it. Maybe that seems like a disastrous career move to you, but I have to believe that there’s some way to have both.”

  Her laugh is humorless. “You’re living in a fantasy, Dylan.”

  I shrug, but I don’t back down. I can’t expect everyone to see things my way, but I’ve been through too much these last few months to second guess my instincts anymore. I have to trust them.

  “I guess we’ll see,” I say.

  She opens her mouth to respond, but for the first time ever, she’s speechless. For a minute she’s frozen in time, but finally, she taps her knuckle on my desk with finality and turns toward the door. Over her shoulder, she says, “Don’t miss that deadline, Dr. Michels.”

  I smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

  * * *

  Later that night, an unusually heavy rain for autumn pours down as I climb into bed. When I close my eyes, thunder claps overhead and lightning flashes through the room on the other side of my eyelids. Before, on nights like this, I would curl into Cooper, and he’d make me feel safe. We’d watch the lightning brighten the room, then together we’d count the seconds until we heard the accompanying thunder. It would bring me peace, like counting contractions in the delivery room. I miss Cooper tonight more than I have in a long time, but I’m getting used to being strong on my own.

  My phone rings, startling me. It’s nearly midnight. The caller ID shows it’s Megan.

  “Hey, you,” I say when I pick up.

  “Dylan, I’m so sorry,” she says, her voice panicked.

  I bolt upright in bed. “Sorry for what?” I ask her.

  I hear whimpers coming from her end. “I think I’m in labor. I’m scared.”

  I throw the covers back. She can’t be in labor. It’s too early. Much too early.

  “Okay. It’s going to be okay,” I say, already climbing out of bed and pulling on some clothes. “I’ll meet you at the hospital.”

  “I can’t,” she says. “Stephen is still at work, and I don’t think I can drive. I’m afraid I won’t make it.”

  I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. Thunder rolls outside, as if I need the reminder of the raging storm. “Okay, I’ll come get you,” I say. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  17

  The night is black, the moon suffocated by thick, dark clouds. I pull out of my driveway onto the stormy streets, my blood pumping in my ears. I can’t remember the last time Oregon has seen weather like this. The trees are so dense on my secluded road that they block much of the rain coming down, but when I come to a halt at the first stop sign, water pooled at the corner of the intersection sprays up over the windshield, and I can’t see anything. I curse, set my wipers at a higher speed and make a left turn.

  I can’t do this again, a voice in the back of my mind tells me. I can’t do this by myself. Then I realize, as the lightning strikes and I begin to count, that I don’t have to. I blindly fish around for my phone on the passenger seat, then I tap the number that’s still at the top of my speed dial.

  “Hey,” Cooper says when he answers. His voice is soft but not like he’s been sleeping. It’s also surprised and hopeful.

  “I need your help,” I say without preamble.

  “What’s wrong?” He goes into doctor mode in an instant.

  “Your sister is in labor.”

  “In labor? Now?”

  “I’m in the car. I can’t talk. Can you meet me at her house? And call Stephen and an ambulance, too?” After a pause: “I really need you.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  The drive to Megan’s house on a good day is ten minutes, but with the excess water on the roads after a long, dry summer, two-lane streets are narrowed down to one. I drive carefully. At least the roads are mostly clear of other drivers. We Oregonians may be used to the constant cloud cover and drizzle, but storms sequester us like birds in a hurricane, same as any other part of the world.

  The closer I get to Megan’s, the more frequently I have to dip into the pool of water on the right side of the street to allow oncoming traffic to pass. The rain shows no signs of stopping.

  When I finally turn into Megan’s driveway, all the lights in the house appear to be off. I slam the car into Park, almost forget to yank the keys from the ignition and then run up the front porch steps, sloshing through the puddles in my jeans. I hardly notice how wet my hair is or how muddy my tennis shoes are.

  “Megan?” I call as I burst into the house. It’s so dark, I can’t see my hand in front of my face.

  “In here,” she moans. I don’t even try to find a light switch, I just reach my hands out in front of me and follow the sound of her frail voice to her bedroom. Coming from the end of the hallway is the faint flicker of candlelight, and I find Megan kneeling beside her bed, hunched over it with her fingers digging into the comforter. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, but stray strands are stuck to her temples with sweat, her face red.

  “I’m here,” I say. “I’m here. Have you heard from Stephen?”

  She gives me a strained nod. “He’s trying to get out of the hospital, but I guess it’s crazy there.”

  “I bet it is,” I mumble. I take a deep breath and look around to find an anchor in an unfamiliar situation. Here, there’s no pre-delivery ritual, no Enrique at my side. A clap of thunder makes me jump. I reach for the light switch, but after a few flicks, it’s clear the power is out. “How close are the contractions?” I ask.

  “I don’t know exactly. Every few minutes, I think. It feels like they’re right on top of each other. I think something’s wrong, Dylan.”

  “No, there isn’t. Nothing’s wrong,” I reassure her, though they’re false words. Any of a dozen things could have caused Megan to go into labor early, some of those things life-threatening to her and her baby. “You’re probably just progressing quickly.”

  She releases a guttural moan, and her face contorts with the pain of another contraction. I bend down next to her, and, careful not to disturb her too much, I place two fingers on the inside of her wrist to find her pulse. Blessedly, it’s within a normal range.

  “It’s too soon,” Megan says, once the contraction passes. “Why is this happening?”

  Cooper appears outside the bedroom door and relief washes over me. His reaction is the opposite when he sees Megan on the floor in tears. I rush over to him before he can start asking questions and speak quietly so Megan won’t hear me.

  “If we don’t get her to the hospital soon,” I say, “she’s going to have this baby right here on the floor.”

  Cooper runs his fingers through his hair to steady himself. “I called the ambulance, but I don’t know how long it’s going to take them to get here with the weather. The woman I spoke to said there have been a lot of accidents in the city.”

  The light coming from the candle on the dresser makes the lines of worry carved into his forehead more apparent. I fight to keep a certain little blue face from haunting my thoughts.

  I open and close my fists as I debate my options. There aren’t any. It would be too dangerous to drive Megan to the hospital myself in her condition. I would have even less to work with if she delivered her baby in the back
of a moving vehicle.

  “All we can do is hope the ambulance arrives in time and make her as comfortable as possible,” I tell Cooper, and he nods in agreement.

  I go back into the room and lean down to run a reassuring hand over Megan’s back. “I’m going to check you, okay?”

  She moans into another contraction, shaking her head.

  “I know, sweetie, but I have to. I’ll do it quickly. Cooper, I think I have some gloves in my bag in the trunk.”

  “I’ll get them,” he says and disappears.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” I ask Megan while we wait. “What would make the pain easier to cope with?”

  “Stephen,” she cries.

  “I know. He’s going to get here as soon as he possibly can. Can we get your pants off for a minute?”

  She nods, and I help her to her feet. Cooper returns and looks away when he sees me pulling her sweatpants off. He holds the bag out, and I grab it.

  “Just get into any position that’s comfortable,” I tell her as I open the bag and find a single pair of gloves. During med school, I was taught how to deliver with the help of machines and sometimes with the slice of a scalpel, and throughout my career, I have come to rely on these things. Tonight, when it matters most, I have little more than a pair of gloves. I pull one on.

  Megan gets back onto her knees so I duck down and maneuver my way underneath her. Immediately, I feel her bag of waters bulging out but not broken. In fact, I can feel it a little too easily.

  “Shit,” I say, and immediately regret it.

  “What?” she asks. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I say softly. “Everything is fine...except you’re eight centimeters.”

  “Does that mean what I think it means?” She knows exactly what it means. She’s probably read every book about birthing a baby ever written by now. Since her water hasn’t broken yet, we may be able to prolong her labor until the ambulance gets here. Even if we don’t make it to the hospital, they would have more tools than what I carry around in my bag. If her water breaks, though, this baby will be making its debut within the hour, ready or not.