“I did love you,” he says. “As much as I was able.”
A new question rises. Had I—Liz—ever loved him? He created Elizabeth out of his need for the perfect wife, and I let him do it out of need for . . . what? Safety, security, meaning?
My own fault weighs me down. I chose to marry him. I let him create my reality. And it was easier, safer, to let him make all of the decisions. To tell me who to be and how to be that person. To let him dictate how to raise our daughter, how to spend my time.
There were so many moments, back in the beginning, when I could have broken free but chose not to. I abdicated responsibility for my own life long before I was so enmeshed in his reality that I could no longer see my way to freedom.
Grief overwhelms me, and I sink to my knees, weeping. Not for the man who is buried here or for the life that I had with him, but for the girl I once was, so young, so eager to latch on to security and structure that what Thomas offered seemed a gift. I weep for the years I lost, for the understanding that I never loved him and he never loved me, and especially for the way I let him step between me and Abigail.
“Not this time,” I tell the baby inside me, along for this emotional ride. “Nothing comes between you and me. Nothing and nobody.”
“I did what I thought right,” Thomas says, his voice nothing more now than the faintest echo.
“I forgive you,” I whisper. “Now let me go.”
Silence follows. My knees hurt and my nylons are soaked from kneeling in fall-damp grass. I feel empty inside, scraped clean. It hurts, but it’s a good hurt. Like I’ve cleaned out an infection and maybe now I can heal.
I buy myself lunch at Ronnie D’s, a decadent hamburger, fries, and milkshake. Pure comfort food. When I get home, Lance’s truck is parked in the yard. This is nothing unusual these days. He comes and goes freely, much as Val did at the old house. Most mornings we have coffee together. I’m usually happy to see him, but not now. Not with the graveyard still clinging to me, with so many feelings to sort and sift and process.
As soon as I open the door, I smell paint fumes and know he’s upstairs working on the nursery, a project the two of us started earlier this week. Maybe I can sneak up to my room and change before I talk to him. I don’t want to tell him about Abigail or that I’ve been visiting Thomas. I don’t want him to know I’ve been weeping. I actually consider getting back in my car and driving away, but apparently today is all about facing up to people and emotions.
“Liz?” he calls. “That you?”
“Yep. Be right up.”
Lance turns when he hears my footsteps in the hall.
He holds a small brush loaded with gold paint, ready to add stars, the finishing touch to the mural he’s creating of a whimsical, friendly moon shining down on trees, owls, and forest animals. He’s delightfully rumpled, unshaven, wearing paint-stained jeans and a T-shirt with holes in it. It makes him look young and vulnerable, and my heart swells with love that rapidly evaporates into guilt and irritation at his first words.
“Where the hell have you been? I was worried.”
“Out.” Good one, Liz. Nice, casual evasion.
“I called. Texted. You didn’t answer.”
“I’m fine.” I turn my back and head for my room. “I’ll just get changed and come and help you.”
“You don’t look fine. Did you fall? Are you hurt? Is the baby—”
“Oh my God.” I turn around and come back. “No, I didn’t fall. I can honestly take care of myself and the baby for a few hours. Stop hovering!”
“Do I pretend that I can’t see you’ve been crying and that you have mud and leaves on your knees?”
I look down, processing, realizing I walked into a restaurant in this condition. All the fight goes out of me.
“What happened? Talk to me.”
Lance crosses the room and puts his arms around me. I lean into the warm strength of him, breathing in paint and clean male sweat and something else that is purely Lance and has no name. It’s comforting to be held like this. It makes me feel like I’m not all alone against the world.
“I really don’t want to talk about it,” I say, my cheek resting against his chest.
His hand strokes my hair. “I wish you wouldn’t block me out.”
“I don’t block you out.”
His silence is eloquent, and after a long moment, I sigh, and admit, “Okay, fine. I’m blocking you out. I went to church. To see Abigail. It did not go well.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, and I know he means it. He cups my chin in one strong, warm hand and tips my face up toward his. I recognize that look in his eyes, but before I fully register what it means, he’s kissing me and I’m kissing him back. Something new and fragile blossoms between us, something different than the Lacey-and-Darcy sexual exploration, something sweet and beautiful.
I look up at him with wonder and new hope.
He blows it all to smithereens.
“Marry me, Liz.”
All at once I’m cold and shivering, even though I’m still circled in the warmth of his arms.
“It doesn’t have to be tomorrow,” he says in answer to my expression. “We can wait until after the baby is here. He can be the ring bearer. We’ll tie it to his pacifier.”
I want to say yes. I want to follow this new emotion, see where it leads. But bits of Thomas are still clinging to me. I thought I loved him. I chose to give up my own life to be part of his. I don’t want to make that mistake again.
Steeling myself for the hurt in Lance’s eyes, I whisper, “I can’t.”
His breath snags on something sharp in his throat; his gaze stays locked on mine. “You still don’t trust me. What do I have to do?”
It’s not him I don’t trust, it’s me. I don’t trust that I’m strong enough, yet, to be me, to stay me. I don’t trust myself not to be possessed and consumed by a man, the way I was with Thomas. The baby growing inside me is already enough to reshape my life a million times over. But I don’t know how to tell him any of this.
I press the palms of my hands against his chest, partly to push him away, partly to feel his solid strength. “You don’t have to do anything. Just . . . don’t push me. I can’t—”
“You could. You can. Anytime you want to. That’s how it’s done, Liz. You take a risk. You make a decision.”
“Then my decision is no.”
“Well, that makes it clear.” He drops his hands, turns his back, and begins cleaning up the paint supplies.
“Lance, please.” I feel desperate now, a pressure cooker of hurt and fear. “It’s not you I don’t want. It’s . . . marriage. The whole two-people-shall-be-one-flesh thing. There was barely anything left of me when Thomas died. I’m working to be me, but I’m . . . already symbiotic with this baby. How can I figure out who I am if I let myself get lost in you? It wouldn’t be fair. Don’t you see?”
He places the lid on the paint can, pauses with his head bent, his hands on the rim, then slowly tips up his chin to look at me. He looks weary, defeated. “I’m not Thomas, Liz. I’m not like that.”
“I know you’re not. I just . . .” My voice breaks and the tears come in a flood. I’m too tired, too frightened, to hold them back. Lance won’t leave me now, because he’s a good man and he’ll be there for the baby. But I’ve just ruined any hope of the two of us together.
“Oh hell.” He turns back to me and draws me into the circle of his arms while I weep, one hand stroking my hair, but I can feel the chasm between us. He won’t ask me again.
Chapter Thirty-Two
December 24, 2019
Dear Munchkin,
Merry Christmas, little one.
Christmas Eve, and it’s just you and me. Rosie invited me over, but I’m already having dinner with them tomorrow, and I was there for Thanksgiving, and being with Lance is . . . difficult these days. He’s kind and considerate and always available to help—but he’s also carefully and politely distant. So things are awkward with us, and worst of
all, I miss my Abigail.
This is the first Christmas without her. We are so hopelessly cut off from each other. I can’t believe that I’m writing this, but I even miss Thomas. Christmas was all about family. It softened him, somehow. He was more indulgent toward Abigail, gentler with me.
And now I’ve gone and made myself cry.
Ah, Munchkin. Next year this time, you will be big enough to crumple wrapping paper and crawl into boxes. You’ll have your nephews to play with you, and your auntie Rosie and uncle Gil will love you. You’ll be your daddy’s whole world. But you’re missing out on a sister.
It’s past my usual bedtime, and I’ve allowed myself to become a blubbering, self-pitying mess. Besides being alone on Christmas Eve, I’m physically wretched.
My back aches. My hips ache. I’ve got heartburn. My breasts hurt. I’m exhausted, but if I go to bed I know I’ll just lie there awake, trying hopelessly to find a comfortable position. I thought I was miserable when I was pregnant with Abigail, but this is ten times worse. The small person growing inside me is also restless tonight, squirming and kicking, trying to make more room.
“Easy,” I whisper, my hands stroking my belly. “We’ve got another five weeks to go.”
Next week, after Val gets back from visiting her son for the holidays, I’ll be moving into her place to stay until I deliver. Everybody, including me, is unhappy about me being so far from town. Lance has begun sleeping on the sofa at night so I’m not here alone, although tonight he’s off celebrating Christmas with his family, as he should be.
So I am utterly alone, with my unborn child and my phone for company. Even Moses has abandoned me, annoyed by my frequent changes of position. He’s dozing in Abigail’s chair, signaling his disapproval even in his sleep.
I’m watching It’s a Wonderful Life and lying to everybody by text message. They don’t know I’m weeping. The beauty of texting over calling is that it’s easy to pretend to be fine. In response to Val’s check-in and Merry Christmas text, I reply that I’m indulging in eggnog—no alcohol!—and watching Christmas movies. I tell Lance that I’m perfectly happy and all is well and he should enjoy his family. I text Abigail, something I’ve taken to doing daily although she never responds, and tell her I miss her.
A knock at the door startles me.
Lance and Rosie and Gil all have keys. Val is in California. The knock comes again. Irrational fear creeps up my spine. I’m alone and about as capable of self-defense right now as a capsized tortoise. Moving as quietly as possible, I make my way down the hallway and pause with my hand on the deadbolt. No peephole. No window in the door.
“Who’s there?” I call.
“It’s me.”
I fling open the door. “Abigail? What on earth?”
It’s snowing, big, fat flakes clinging to her dark hair. She’s also not wearing a jacket, and her eyes and nose are red from weeping. I grab her by both arms and drag her into the house, closing the door behind her to shut out wind and snow. “Honey, what’s happened?”
“Nothing,” she says, but a little sob slips past the word, and I know it’s a lie.
Bedraggled as she looks, she’s still Abigail, so I don’t try to hug her, even though that’s all I want to do. “Come in and get warm; you’re shivering. You want a cup of tea?” I lead the way into the living room, and Abigail scoops up Moses and buries her face in his fur. He makes no objection, purring happily at the attention.
I fix her a cup of tea with lemon and honey, the way she likes it. All the while, my heart is thumping with a combination of worry over what must have happened to bring her to me, and joy at having her home.
“It looks good in here,” she says, accepting the mug and cradling it in both hands, blowing to cool it.
“All Lance’s doing,” I answer, then want to bite off my tongue for mentioning him. He brought in a little tree for me and we decorated it together. A wreath hangs above the fireplace, in which there is no fire because bending down to make one just felt like too much trouble.
“I was worried you wouldn’t have a tree,” Abigail says, her lower lip trembling.
“Abigail. Honey. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Tears overflow again and slide down her cheeks. She bends her head over the cat pooled bonelessly in her lap. “I was alone, and it’s Christmas.”
“Me, too,” I say, my own tears rising to match hers. “I missed you so much.”
“Josh went to his folks in Seattle. I was invited but I had to work today. And again the day after Christmas. And everything was all wrong. Everybody else was with family. You texted me, and I knew I needed to come . . . home.” She stops short on that last word, her chin jerking upward so she’s looking at me, wide eyed and surprised.
“You have a home with me anytime you need one.”
Abigail sips tea, regaining her usual composure after this unusual display of emotion, and scrutinizes me. “You look very—pregnant. You’re what, thirty-five weeks? You should not be way out here all by yourself. Or is that guy living with you now?”
I can’t help smiling. That’s my girl.
“Lance has not moved in, but he does sleep on the couch sometimes just in case something goes wrong.”
She focuses on her tea mug as if it’s of absorbing interest, and finally says slowly, “I should have been here. Maybe I don’t like your choices, but I shouldn’t have cut you off like that. I’ll stay until after the baby comes.”
It’s as close to an apology as I will ever get from her, and the grace of it brings me to tears all over again.
“And now I’ve made you cry,” she says. “That’s not what I meant to do.”
I wave her not-quite-apology away, laughing. “I’m pregnant. I cry about everything. And you don’t have to stay unless you want to. Lance hovers. His sister is right down the road and can be here in five minutes.”
Abigail glances up at me, almost shyly, and says, “I want to be here, if you’ll let me. You’re the only mom I’ve got.”
Those words are the best Christmas miracle ever, and I smile at my daughter through a haze of tears while silently whispering a prayer of thanks to the God I might believe in after all.
It’s almost impossible to believe that in two days I’ll be thirty-seven weeks. Christmas and New Year’s have passed quietly and surprisingly peacefully. Tomorrow I’ll be moving into Val’s house for the last few weeks, all of us agreeing it would be best for me to be closer to medical care. Abigail has already packed my things, and in the morning, Lance will drive me into town. Tonight, though, we’re having a party—a part-housewarming, part-baby-shower event that Val has been planning for weeks. My part in it—from guest list to what will be happening—has been nonexistent. I have no idea who is coming, what we’re eating, or what we’ll do when everybody gets here.
The doorbell rings, and I prepare to heave myself up out of my comfy chair to answer it, but Abigail waves me off and practically floats down the hall. So light. So graceful. So not a whale out of water, floundering and flailing to get out of the recliner.
So wonderfully and miraculously present in my life.
I hear voices in the entry, and Val appears, brushing snowflakes off her shoulders with one hand, carrying a gift bag printed with multicolored elephants in the other. “Don’t bother getting up, Liz. You just sit right there. I’ll hang up my own coat, and Abigail and Lance can help me get the food set out.”
She leans down to hug me, smelling of cool air and snow and cinnamon gum. The promised arrival of the new baby has inspired her to stop smoking about five times in the last five months, and she’s taken up gum chewing to help her kick the habit. She wants to babysit for me, wants the baby to sleep over at her house, wants me to come and stay with her until the baby is born. She knows I’ll put my foot down about tobacco exposure no matter how much I love her.
“You okay?” she asks, brow furrowed with concern as I let out a little gasp.
“Fine. Baby kicked me. Plus Braxton-Hicks.”
>
“Those can be intense,” she says, heading for the kitchen.
They’ve been intense for a week now, but this one feels different. Deeper, more intimate, an ache in my lower back and pelvis at the same time. But it eases and I let it go. Tonight is for celebration and hope, not worry and fear.
Tara and Bernie come in without knocking, both with their arms full of oversize, brightly wrapped packages. Both of them still have their boots on and leave a trail of melting snow behind them.
“Thought the snow might have kept you away,” Val says, helping them arrange the packages in the corner of the room, while Abigail grabs a towel and wipes up my precious hardwood.
“What’s a little snow to keep us from a party? Food. Drinks. We’re in.”
More footsteps in the hallway, and to my great surprise, Earlene appears, minus her boots and wearing slippers, with a tray of cookies in her hands and a gift bag hooked over one arm. “Huh. You people again?” she says with a side glance at Tara and Bernie, but there’s no energy behind the complaint. “You’re melting on Liz’s floor.”
“Oops. Sorry.” Tara bends to unlace a pair of furry mukluks. “We were bearing heavy gifts.”
They trail back toward the door, shedding bits of snow and leaving slushy footprints. Abigail follows with the towel.
“Where’s that man of yours?” Earlene demands, setting her gift with the others.
Lance pops out of the kitchen like a summoned genie. There’s a smudge of flour on his face, a flowered apron tied around his hips.
“Your wish is my command,” he intones, lifting the tray from Earlene’s hands. “Do I see peanut butter cookies? Be still, my heart.”
“When are you going to make an honest woman out of Elizabeth?” Earlene unravels a scarf from around her neck and peels out of a down jacket that makes her look like the Michelin Man. “For the sake of the baby if not for propriety.”
Lance juggles the tray onto one hip so he can assist her with her coat. “You’d have to ask Liz.” He says it lightly, pretends to meet my gaze, but his smile isn’t real, and he’s looking at my forehead, avoiding eye contact.
A Borrowed Life Page 27