by Robin Wells
I scroll through the photos and watch Lily grow. She’s an older baby on a blanket, laughing at the camera. Now she’s in her mother’s arms clad in a christening gown, a long lacy affair that looks like an heirloom. Quinn, Margaret, and a black-robed minister pose beside them, smiling at the camera.
Here’s Lily in a high chair, with something orange smeared all over her face. Here’s a photo of her wearing a reindeer-motif bib that reads Baby’s First Christmas. Here she is in a fancy dress with an Easter basket.
I study these photos, mesmerized at the way the pink burrito matures into a toddler. There she is, standing upright, holding on to the sofa. Now she’s taking a step, holding on to Margaret’s finger. She’s sitting in a high chair in Brooke’s kitchen with a cake with one candle. Brooke, Quinn, and Margaret are gathered around her, and a crowd of other people are in the background.
This photo shows all three women and the baby at Thanksgiving—I can tell the holiday from the horn of plenty centerpiece and the turkey on the table.
Here’s Lily at another birthday party with two candles—and yet another one at age three. This was less than a year ago, I realize—yet look how much she’s changed!
I scroll back further and realize that Margaret was chronicling Brooke’s life before Lily was in the picture, almost as if Brooke were her child—her only child. There are graduation photos, Christmas photos, Mardi Gras photos, prom photos, and vacation pictures. Since I can’t picture Margaret actually attending some of the events—days at the beach, for example, with a bunch of other young people—I surmise that Brooke sent these photos to her.
Many of these photos include men. I’d begun to wonder if Brooke and Quinn were a couple, but, no—here are photos of Brooke kissing a man. Here’s another one with Quinn on a boat, sitting close to a man who has his arm looped around her.
The thing that seems to be missing in all of the photos—even the holiday photos, and there are a lot of those, spanning different years and hairstyles—is anyone who looks like a parent to either woman.
One photo in particular grabs my attention. Quinn and Brooke are ice-skating at Rockefeller Center in New York, each with a man on her arm. The two women are looking at each other and laughing uproariously. I lean closer to the screen to study the picture. They look a lot alike, and it’s not just because they’re both blondes in black jackets. There’s a joie de vivre about them, a sense of delight in each other’s company. They’re attuned to each other and caught up in the moment. They’re having freewheeling, uninhibited fun.
I feel weirdly jealous. Have I ever had that good a time with anyone in my life? I don’t think I’ve ever laughed like that with Jessica.
The thought makes me sit back in my chair and run my hand down my face. I don’t want to think like this. I love my wife. That’s the kind of man I am—the kind who loves the woman I married, not the kind who looks at other women and feels like I’m missing out on something.
Not that I’m looking at Brooke or Quinn and lusting after them. They’re attractive, yeah, but I’m not thinking about sex—well, no more than any guy does when he looks at pretty, fully clothed women. I haven’t thought very much about Jess in terms of sex in a long while, either, though. It’s as if someone hit the pause button on my libido.
The thing that strikes me in this photo of Quinn and Brooke is their sense of connection—the way they seem to be sharing a vibrant bond that transcends their surroundings or the other people around them. I haven’t felt really close to anyone, including Jessica, in a while. In fact, I’ve felt kind of lonely for most of my marriage.
The thought makes me push back my chair. Maybe I’m still angry, even though I don’t want to be. I want to forgive and move on. I need to; I know I do. Learning about Lily was hard on Jessica. She was already having a difficult time accepting her infertility; it must be killing her to know that the whole time she and I were struggling to conceive, this little girl was growing from a baby into a child.
Oh, God—Jessica will be back in a few days, and I’ll have to share all of this with her. The thought makes my stomach drop and my skin feel clammy. I don’t like this sensation. I don’t like it at all.
I close my computer, stand, and run my hand down my face. I’m tired; that’s all it is. It’s been a long, stressful day. I’ll go to bed and get some sleep, and when I get up in the morning, hopefully I’ll be able to think more clearly.
But a question haunts me: What’s wrong with me, dreading the return of my own wife?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Quinn
Saturday, May 11
MORNING VISITING HOURS for ICU are from eight thirty to nine. I arrive on the sixth floor at eight twenty-five, feeling harried and hurried and badly dressed because all my favorite jeans seem to have shrunk overnight.
I thought I’d allowed myself plenty of time, but I’d forgotten how long it takes to get a small child out the door in the morning. There’s breakfast to dawdle over, toothpaste to over-squirt, funny faces to make in the mirror, and hairstyle choices to consider.
Lily is very particular about her hair. Today she wanted a French braid, then cried because I couldn’t fix it exactly the way her mommy did. I realized that her tears were more about the loss of her mother than about my sadly lacking hairstyling skills, but still, I felt painfully inept. This, I think, is how grief ekes out—unexpected and raw, in small, inconvenient moments.
I held her and comforted her, and Ruffles worked her magic again. A little dog who wants to get in on all cuddle action is turning out to be a godsend. Lily finally settled for a side part and a barrette, then moved on to wardrobe selection.
Margaret hadn’t packed very many of Lily’s clothes—she thought she and Lily would be in New Orleans for only three or four nights—so mercifully the choices were limited, but the time she took deciding made me understand why Brooke used to ask Lily to select her next day’s outfit before she went to bed. The memory brought Brooke to mind so fully that I had to sneak off to another room and wipe away grief tears of my own. It’s no wonder I’m nearly late, I think, as I round the corner to the ICU waiting room.
It’s full of solemn, fatigued-looking people, but my gaze immediately flies to a handsome broad-shouldered man in a blue shirt, sitting in a chair against the wall. Zack. My heart rate jackrabbits. What the heck is he doing here again?
He stands and walks toward me, his mouth curved in a smile. “Good morning. How’re you doing today?”
I’m fighting morning sickness, having a bad hair day—I spent too much time coiffing Lily to do more than run a brush through my own tangled tresses—and now I’m feeling ambushed. He probably came here in hopes of meeting Lily.
“Fine. I dropped off Lily with a friend,” I say, my tone a little too sharp. Several faces in the waiting room—a woman with pointed features, a man with eyes like a forlorn beagle, a gray-haired matron who looks like she hasn’t slept in days—turn toward us, their expressions curious. I step back into the hall so we can talk without being overheard.
He follows me. “How did she take the news about Margaret?”
“She was upset. She thinks people go to hospitals to die.”
“Oh, wow.” His blue eyes are troubled. “Is that what happened to Brooke?”
I shake my head. “She was already dead when . . .” My eyes unexpectedly fill. Pregnancy hormones, grief, and Lily’s meltdown have made me hyperemotional. “When the ambulance arrived.”
“Hey. Oh, hey . . .” He reaches out and touches my arm. I feel a little electric shock and must have flinched, because he drops his hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” His eyes are so sincere and kind that I feel ridiculous for behaving so defensively.
I blink a little and fight to get my emotions under control. “I’m sorry. I had a bit of a rough night. Lily woke up crying from a bad dream.”
He looks so concerned tha
t I feel the need to clarify, so he won’t think I just abandoned a sobbing child. “She’s fine this morning. She was excited to see my friend Sarah and her two boys.”
“So someone different is caring for her today?”
I nod. “Sarah’s a psychologist, so I thought it might be helpful for Lily to spend part of the day with her. That way I can get some professional feedback on how she’s doing.”
“Good idea.”
I toy with the shoulder strap on my handbag and try to think of a diplomatic way of asking, What the hell are you doing here again? “I’m surprised to see you here this morning.”
“I wanted to see how Margaret’s faring.” He steps closer to the wall to let an aide wheel an empty gurney down the hall. “I hope you don’t mind, but I came by at six thirty to catch the doctor.”
“What?” I do mind. I mind very much. Zack is not the person who should be talking to Margaret’s doctor!
He lifts his shoulders. “I thought it was a way I could help.”
“You should have called me.” Zack and I had exchanged phone numbers yesterday.
“I’m sorry. You’re right.” He runs a hand through his hair, his gaze apologetic. “But I knew you were taking care of Lily and probably wouldn’t be able to get here that early. When my mom was in the hospital, I learned that catching the doctor on morning rounds is often the only way to get any information.”
I don’t really want to be appeased, but I sort of am. This is the second time he’s mentioned his mom in a hospital setting. I make a mental note to ask him about it later. “Did you see Dr. McFadden? What did he say about Margaret?”
“He’s encouraged. He said it’s too soon to tell for sure, but so far she isn’t showing signs of major cognitive impairment.”
“That’s great!”
He nods. “He said she’s responsive and conscious. She’s got some confusion and forgetfulness, but he said a certain amount of that is normal, and hopefully it’ll get better with time. She’s having a little arrhythmia, so he’s prescribed a drug to control that. If she continues to improve, he’ll move her to a post-ICU room tomorrow.”
“That’s fantastic!” I immediately feel lighter. I didn’t realize how worried I was that she wouldn’t make it.
“Yeah.”
The door opens. A nurse stands in the doorway. “Immediate family may come in. No more than two visitors per patient, please. We ask you to keep your voices low. The maximum amount of time you can stay is thirty minutes, but we prefer that you limit your visit to fifteen minutes so as not to tire out the patient. Please use the hand sanitizer on the way in and out. Thank you.”
“I’ll wait here,” he says.
I’m glad he’s not going to be pushy about this. I get in line with the other visitors and we file into the large room. Medical equipment beeps and swooshes beside every bed. Most of the patients in them look unconscious—or worse.
Margaret’s bed is on the left. Her eyes are closed. I touch her hand—the one that doesn’t have an IV in it. “Margaret—it’s Quinn.”
She opens her eyes and looks at me. I can’t tell if she recognizes me or not. “Hello, dear.” Her voice is weak. “How are you?”
“Fine. I’m fine.” I give her an encouraging smile. “You seem much better this morning. How do you feel?”
“Like someone worked me over with a bully stick.”
I grin. “You took quite a tumble.”
“What happened to me?”
“You had a heart attack, then fell off a stepladder at Brooke’s house.”
“Brooke!” Her eyes brighten and seem to focus. “Where is she, dear?”
My heart catches. “She’s gone, Miss Margaret. Remember?”
She closes her eyes and turns her face away for a moment. My heart aches as a tear trickles down her cheek. I find a tissue on the tray beside her and press it into her hand.
“I knew something awful had happened, but I forgot what.” She dabs her eyes. “Something with her head, right?”
I nod. “She had an aneurysm. A little over a month ago.”
“And her little girl?”
“I’m taking care of Lily. She’s at a friend’s house this morning.”
“Lily,” she murmurs. She wipes her eyes. “Did I dream it, or did Lily’s dad show up?”
My chest squeezes. Why does she remember that? “Yes.”
“I want—I want Lily to know him. There’s no substitute for family. There needs to be a line of blood.”
It sounds like something from a gothic novel. The nurse who escorted us in from the waiting room approaches to check one of Margaret’s IVs. “All—all right,” I manage.
“Is he here?” Margaret asks.
I nod, a little unnerved by the question.
“I want to see him. Can you bring him in?”
“Well, um . . .” Everything within me counsels against it.
“Do you want me to go get the gentleman?” the nurse asks.
“Yes,” Margaret answers before I can get out a word.
I can’t argue that he’s not immediate family, because I’m not, either.
“I’ll be right back,” the nurse says. “But you need to stay still and calm, Mrs. Moore. Your heart rate is going up.”
“Tell me about Lily,” Margaret urges.
I babble a bit. I’m describing what she ate for breakfast when Zack walks up to her bed. “Hello, Mrs. Moore.”
Margaret’s face lights up. “You were here earlier.”
“That’s right. I’m Zack Bradley.”
“Zack,” she murmurs, as if she’s trying to commit this to memory. “Have you met Lily?”
“Not yet, but I want to. Quinn showed me pictures.” His dimple flashes. “She’s a beautiful little girl.”
“Yes, she is. And so bright!”
“Are you all right, Mrs. Moore?” the nurse asks.
“Yes, yes.” Margaret dismissively flaps her wrist at the nurse, then gestures toward Zack. “I want you to meet her.”
“I’d love to,” Zack says.
She turns her head toward me. “You, dear—will you please arrange it?” I think she’s forgotten my name.
“Mrs. Moore, you need to lie back and rest,” the nurse says. “Your heart rate is too fast.” She adjusts a bag attached to Margaret’s IVs, watches the monitor, and then turns to us. “I’m sorry, but you’d better leave. We need to keep her heart rate stabilized.”
My own heart is tripping all over itself. “We didn’t mean to upset her.”
“Oh, I don’t think you did.” She gives me a kind smile. “For some older patients, though, any emotion—even happiness—is just too much stimulation for their fragile condition.”
I reach out and touch Margaret’s arm. “We’ll see you later, Miss Margaret.”
“All right, dear,” she says weakly. “Give my love to Lily.”
* * *
—
“WELL,” ZACK SAYS, once we’re again out in the waiting room.
Well, indeed, I think, walking into the corridor. Morning sickness is putting in another unwanted appearance. “I’ll be right back,” I say, and head down the hall to the ladies’ room. I use hand sanitizer, pull a cracker out of my purse, and force myself to eat it. I phone Sarah. After giving her a quick update about Margaret, I get to the point of the call.
“Margaret wants Lily to meet Zack,” I tell her. “What’s the best way for me to arrange it without telling Lily that he’s her dad?”
“I’d suggest meeting in public and keeping things light,” Sarah says. “Maybe you can run into him while you and Lily are out shopping or getting ice cream or something. That’ll be easier than a big, heavy, ‘there’s someone I’d like you to meet’ kind of thing.”
I like the sound of that. “What if Lily asks how I k
now him?”
“Just say he’s a friend. Don’t lie, but don’t give unnecessary information. Children don’t usually press for specifics.”
“Thanks, Sarah,” I say.
I draw myself up, pull in a deep breath, and remember something I read that morning in the reparenting book: Address troublesome issues head on. The sooner you act, the less time you’ll spend worrying.
My upper lip is perspiring. I splash some water on my face, then head back into the corridor.
“There’s a coffee shop in the atrium,” Zack says. “Want to go there and talk?”
“Sure,” I say.
It’s a PJ’s, my favorite New Orleans coffee franchise. I order an iced tea and a carrot muffin. He gets a black coffee. We settle at a table near the front.
“Margaret was a lot more coherent this morning,” Zack says.
I nod. “The heart thing was scary.”
“Not as bad as yesterday, though. The nurse stayed calm, and that’s always a good sign.”
He talks like a man who’s had a lot of experience with ICUs. “You mentioned that your mother was in the hospital,” I say. “What happened to her?”
He blows out a long sigh. “About six years ago, she was jogging in the neighborhood. A car came around the corner too fast, and the driver didn’t see her.”
“Oh, how awful!”
“Yeah, it was.” He gazes at his coffee for a moment. “She ended up partially paralyzed.”
“Is she okay now?”
He shakes his head. “No. After thirteen months, three additional surgeries, and a bunch of complications, she died.”
“I’m so sorry!”
He nods, acknowledging my condolences. “It was rough, especially on my dad. He had a heart attack less than a year after she passed away.” He takes a sip of coffee. “I think he died of a broken heart.”
My chest feels hot and tight. “So your parents had a good marriage.”
“Oh, yeah. Mom once said that home is a person, not a place. They adored each other.” He’s silent for a beat, his mouth curved in a soft smile. “They were married forty years, and they still held hands. I used to catch them dancing together in the kitchen with no music.”