“I can imagine,” Mom said. She sniffled.
Was she crying? I wondered. It was funny how everyone else—Georgia, Mimi, now even my mother—had cried upon hearing our news, while India and I had remained dry-eyed ever since leaving the hospital. Were we in shock? I wondered.
“What can I do? Why don’t I drive down and stay with you for a few days,” my mother asked.
“Thanks, but no,” I said quickly. “We’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure? I don’t mind. I can do the cooking, take care of the house. I bet India would feel better if her closets were organized.”
I almost smiled at this. “Thanks, Mom, but I don’t think this is the best time. We’ll let you know if we need anything,” I said. I hesitated, then decided it was the right thing to do. “And could you tell Peter that for what it’s worth, I am sorry about our fight, and that I’ll call him in a few days?”
“Of course,” Mom said, her voice breaking again.
“Thanks,” I said. Peter and Stacey could be awful, but I truly didn’t want to have this stupid fight hanging over any of us. My brother and I would probably never be close—we were very different people. But what was the point in having open hostilities? Especially now, when they were on the cusp of welcoming a new life into the world.
I got off the phone with my mother and headed back to the kitchen. I was glad to see that Georgia was still there, and hadn’t snuck upstairs in my absence. Instead, she was contemplating her wineglass. When she saw me, she raised it to me in a toast.
“Here’s to the future,” she said sadly. “May it be brighter than today.”
But things didn’t get brighter. Over the next two weeks, India sank deeper into depression. She canceled all of her appointments and spent most of her time in bed. I made her buttered toast and hot cups of tea, which she ignored, eating only when I pressured her.
I quietly cleared out the nursery, boxing up the clothes and toys India had accrued, and moved it all to Georgia’s garage for storage. I’d half hoped that India would rage at me for doing this—telling me that I had no right to break down the nursery, that we would adopt another baby. But if she noticed, she didn’t say a word about it.
I cleaned Lainey’s things out of the guesthouse and brought those to Georgia, too. Georgia promised she’d call Lainey on her cell phone and arrange with her a time to collect her belongings. I didn’t ask about the details of this transaction. Every time I thought of Lainey and her broken promises, anger burned through me, pulsing at my temples, clenching in my hands.
I had my office back, but I continued to work in the dining room so I could keep an eye on India. Despite all of the stress and trauma—or because of it, perhaps it was my one escape—I’d become oddly productive working there. I’d lost all interest in posting on the FutureRaceFanatics message board. Instead, I turned my attentions to the new book, tapping away on the laptop, churning out page after page.
I was having a particularly industrious work session one afternoon when India stumbled down the stairs, her face puffy and hair sticking up.
“Hi,” I said, looking up. Otis sprang up off his bed and, body wriggling with happiness, brought his stuffed hedgehog over to India. For Otis, offering his hedgehog was the ultimate sign of love.
She seemed startled to see me sitting there. “Oh, hi.” Otis pushed the hedgehog against her leg, and India reached down to pet him.
“More flowers came for you,” I said, nodding toward the newest bouquet sitting on the hall table. We’d already received several bouquets, most of which were now wilting in foggy glass vases. My mother had sent India an enormous orchid nestled in a sea grass basket.
“I don’t know why people keep sending flowers. It’s not like somebody’s died,” India said, her voice flat.
“I think people don’t know what else to do,” I said. “But they want us to know that they’re thinking about us.”
India shrugged and turned toward the kitchen. I got up, and Otis and I trailed after her.
“Your mother brought some soup over. It’s actually not terrible,” I said. “I could heat some up for you.”
“No, thanks.”
“You have to eat something.”
“I’m not hungry,” India said. She picked up an orange from the fruit basket and stared at it as though trying to figure out what it was.
“They’re good. I got them at that produce stand you like,” I said. I took the orange from her, placed it on the cutting board, and, with a sharp chef’s knife, sliced it into eight wedges. I put the orange segments in a bowl and set it on the kitchen table. “Sit down.”
India sat. It wasn’t a good sign, I thought. She’d never been one to take orders, especially not from me. But, deciding to take advantage of this unusual deference, I poured some of the soup—split pea with ham, which looked terrible and tasted wonderful—into a bowl, and heated it in the microwave. While the soup was cooking, I got a biscuit out of the pantry and gave it to Otis. He was delighted and lay down in the middle of the kitchen to eat it. When the microwave beeped, I took the soup out and put it in front of India, along with a glass of ice water, and then sat across from her. India ate a few tentative spoonfuls of soup.
“I have some news,” I said. “Good news.”
India looked up at me, her face blank.
“I got a call from my agent this morning. A production company has made an offer on Future Race. They’re interested in developing it into a television series.”
For the first time in two weeks, I saw a spark of interest flare in India’s eyes.
“Are you serious?”
I nodded. “Yep. You are looking at the creative force behind what could be the next third-rate cable drama series, most likely starring has-been D-list actors who used to be on Melrose Place.”
“I loved Melrose Place.”
“I know.” I smiled at India. She didn’t exactly return the smile, but the corners of her mouth twitched. “And the good news is that they’re paying me a lot of money for it.”
“Really?”
“You don’t have to sound quite so surprised,” I said.
“Sorry. I meant: Really! How much is a lot?”
“They offered fifty thousand to buy the option. It will be more if the series actually goes into development,” I said. I reached over and took India’s hand in mine. It felt frail and light. “Do you know what this means?”
“What?”
India looked suspicious, so I blurted it out before I lost my nerve. “We can go forward with another adoption. We’ll find another birth mother. Or try an international adoption,” I said. I leaned forward, willing her to take this small piece of hope and hold on to it, the way I had been ever since I’d gotten off the phone with my agent.
India’s face closed. She withdrew her hand from mine. “I’m not ready to think about that now.”
“India,” I said. My wife continued to stare down at the table in front of her, her eyes shuttered by lowered lashes. “We can’t just …”
“Just what?” she asked, her head snapping up, her voice taut. “Because I’m tired of people telling me I can’t. I can’t let this break me, I can’t check out, I can’t stop living. I’m tired of it!”
“But it’s true. We can’t just stop living.”
India stood, her chair scraping the ground. Without looking at me, she strode away, stiff with anger.
“India,” I said.
She stopped and slowly turned around to look at me. I’d never seen her like this before, so beaten down, her pain raw-edged and vast.
“My heart is broken,” she said in a voice so low and desperate I had to strain to hear the words. “Do not ask me to act as though this hasn’t happened. As though I didn’t hold him in my arms, and fall in love with him, and then have him ripped away from me. Because it did happen. And I can’t just forget it. I can’t just forget him. I can’t just move on because you want me to.” Her hands were fisted at her sides.
�
�I’m not asking you to move on or to forget him,” I said softly.
Neither of us, it seemed, could bear to say his name. Lainey had taken that away from us, too. We couldn’t call him Liam anymore, and I wouldn’t call him anything else.
And for just a moment, I allowed myself to remember what it had felt like to hold him in my arms, his body so heavy, so substantial, for such a tiny person. The curve of his soft cheeks. The delicious way he smelled of fresh cotton and soap. The wonder in his round, dark eyes.
It was too much to bear. I drew in a deep breath and willed him away.
But India had no interest in sharing my pain. She was too immersed in her own. She turned away from me and stumbled out of the kitchen. A moment later, I heard the soft thud of her feet going up the stairs as she retreated back to her dark cocoon.
Defeated, I rested my forehead on my hands and wondered how the hell we were ever going to get past this.
———
I had just returned home from the grocery store and was unloading the bags from the trunk of my car when Kelly appeared, basketball in hand.
“Hey, bud. You want to shoot some hoops?” he asked.
Kelly looked like an idiot. He was wearing a long nylon shirt over baggy shorts, just like the kids wore. Actually, the kids also looked like idiots dressed like this, but you could get away with it when you were sixteen. Not so much at thirty-nine.
“No, thanks,” I said. I held up my shopping bags. “I have to get the ice cream in the freezer before it melts.”
Kelly nodded, and bounced the ball on the ground. “I can wait,” he said. “Come over when you’re done.”
“Actually, I need to work.”
“Oh, sure. That’s cool.” Kelly dribbled the ball a few more times.
I waited for him to leave, and when it seemed clear that he wasn’t going to go without prompting, I said, “Did you need something?”
“Lindsay and I broke up,” Kelly announced suddenly.
“Lindsay,” I repeated.
“My girlfriend,” he said.
“I didn’t know,” I began, and then stopped, trying to remember who he was talking about. Had there been one special girl hanging around lately? It was hard to tell. All of Kelly’s girlfriends looked more or less the same. I tried again. “Had you been seeing her for long?”
Kelly nodded morosely, and bounced his basketball again. “Two months,” he said, with the gravitas of a man announcing he was nearing his fiftieth wedding anniversary.
“That’s too bad,” I said.
“Yeah. She met some guy at the bar—my bar, if you can believe that—and then suddenly announced that they were in love. She said—” He swallowed, as though about to divulge something very painful. “She said I was too old for her.”
For a moment, I relished the idea of sharing this information with India, picturing her delight at having been proven right. Then I remembered: That was the old India. The new, depressed India probably would just shrug and go back to staring at the television.
“How old is she?” I asked.
“Twenty-three,” Kelly said.
“That’s pretty young.”
“I thought she was mature for her age,” Kelly said. He snorted with disgust. “Guess I was wrong.”
I nodded. “I better get inside,” I said. I lifted the bag again. “The ice cream.”
“Yeah, okay. Another time?” Kelly asked. He dribbled his ball and pretended to shoot it toward an imaginary hoop.
“Sure,” I said.
“Hey, what happened to that chick who was staying with you?” Kelly asked suddenly. “The hot pregnant one whose baby you were adopting.”
“She’s not here anymore,” I said shortly.
“She took off?”
“Sort of. She had the baby and decided to keep it.”
Kelly whistled. “Tough,” he said.
I gave him the closed-mouth half-smile I’d perfected over the past three weeks for when people offered up their sad eyes and sympathetic grimaces. The smile that said, Yeah, it’s hard, but we’re coping. Thanks for the concern, but I’d really rather not talk about it right now.
Kelly looked thoughtful. “She was really hot,” he said.
I slammed the trunk shut and turned to head into the house.
“Later, bro,” Kelly called after me.
“Later,” I echoed.
When I got inside, I discovered Georgia sitting in the living room with her feet propped on the coffee table, watching television. Otis lounged next to her on the sofa, his head resting on her lap.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hello,” Georgia replied. “I let myself in. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Who minds having their mother-in-law let herself into the house at will?” I replied.
“Don’t be a smart-ass. You’ve been standing there for a full thirty seconds and haven’t yet offered me a drink.”
“Why didn’t you help yourself?” I asked, turning for the kitchen.
“There weren’t any bottles open,” Georgia called out. “I thought it would be rude to open one without permission.”
I put the perishables away, then grabbed a bottle of wine from the rack and opened it. I poured a glass and brought it back to the living room.
“Thank you,” Georgia said, gratefully accepting the glass. “How’s India?”
“You haven’t seen her?”
“I went up to check on her, but she was asleep,” Georgia said.
I wondered if India really was asleep, or if she was just pretending to be. “She’s not good. If this keeps up for much longer, I’m going to have to call our doctor. Maybe she needs to be on an antidepressant.”
“I think she just needs to process her grief. She shouldn’t smother her feelings with pharmaceuticals,” Georgia said.
“She’s hasn’t left the house in three weeks. She barely eats, sleeps, or showers.” I looked up at the ceiling, as though I could sense the pain vibes emanating down. “I’ve let this go on for too long. It’s time to get her some help.”
“Tosh. We can help her. In fact, I brought something for her,” Georgia said. She reached into her oversized faux-leather bag and pulled out a spiral-bound notebook. “It’s a poem I wrote about the failed adoption. As soon as India wakes up, I’m going to read it to her. I think she’ll find it cathartic.”
I stared at my mother-in-law. “You can’t be serious.”
“What do you mean?”
“Georgia. You can’t read her that poem.”
“Why not?”
“Isn’t it obvious? India’s not up to hearing something like that.”
“What better way to express your sadness, your grief, your desolation than with poetry? As Voltaire said, ‘Poetry is the music of the soul, and, above all, of great and feeling souls.’”
Georgia beamed at me, clearly pleased with her quotation.
“I don’t care what Voltaire said,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm, although the eye twitch had returned. “I’m thinking of India’s feelings.”
Georgia stood, bristling. “I always respect my daughter’s feelings.”
“If that was true, you wouldn’t be writing poetry about her grief.”
“What’s going on?” India asked.
Georgia and I both turned, startled at the interruption. India was standing in the doorway to the living room. We’d been so immersed in our argument we hadn’t heard her approach. I realized, with a gut-wrenching twist, that India looked awful. She’d lost a lot of weight over the past few weeks, giving her a gaunt, haunted appearance.
“Nothing,” I said quickly. “Georgia and I were just talking. I didn’t know you were up.”
“I was hungry,” India said. She wrapped her arms around herself, as though she were cold.
“Good girl,” Georgia said approvingly. “Come into the kitchen. I’ll make you something to eat.”
“You were fighting,” India said accusingly.
Georgia and
I exchanged guilty looks, like a pair of schoolchildren facing a disapproving teacher. So we did what any kid would do: We lied.
“It wasn’t a fight,” Georgia said. “We were discussing literature.”
India turned pale eyes to me. I nodded vigorously. “That’s right. Literature.”
“You’re lying to me. Both of you.” She folded her arms. “Tell me the truth. I want to know what’s going on.”
“I wrote a poem for you,” Georgia said.
“Georgia,” I said warningly.
Georgia set her lips in a stubborn line. “Jeremy doesn’t want me to give it to you.”
“Let me see,” India said, holding out her hand.
“No,” I said.
“Actually, it’s meant to be read aloud,” Georgia explained.
“Except that you’re not going to read it aloud to her. I won’t allow it.” I looked at India. “Just trust me. You don’t want to hear it.”
“I abhor censorship in all forms,” Georgia said.
“Let her read it,” India said. She gave me a look that I knew all too well: Just let her do it. It’s not worth getting her upset.
But she was wrong. This was worth fighting for. I hadn’t been able to protect India from Lainey. I hadn’t been able to prevent her heart from breaking. But by God, I would keep her from listening to an atrocious poem that was written about her pain.
Georgia, delighted at the permission, put the notebook down on the coffee table and turned to fumble about in her insanely oversized handbag for her reading glasses. I took the opportunity to grab the notebook up and ripped out the top page, where the poem was written.
“Jeremy!” Georgia was scandalized. “Give that back to me this instant.”
“Sure,” I said. I tossed her the notebook, but kept a tight grip on the page with the poem. I glanced down at it, skimming over the words. It was exactly what I’d feared—overwrought prose detailing India’s grief over losing the baby. Even the title—“Empty Cradle”—was cringe-worthy.
“Give that to me!” Georgia said again. She stepped forward and tried to tear the poem out of my hands. With lightning-fast ninja reflexes, I whipped it out of her reach and held it up over my head. As I was tall and Georgia very short, she’d never be able to reach it.
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