From Here To Maternity: A Second ChancePromoted to MomOn Angel's Wings

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  “When do you have to leave?” I asked, pushing away the suspicions I had grown to hate. How could I have thought for even a moment that my husband would lie about such a thing?

  “The flight’s at six out of Dulles,” he said.

  “Oh,” I said, nodding.

  He glanced at Sasha, backed up a step. “I’d better shower and pack.”

  Sasha and I both stood in the same spot, watching him walk away.

  THE NEXT MORNING I drove Sasha to the YMCA in downtown D.C. We went inside, and I got her checked in. We walked to the room where a group of children sat in a circle, chattering happily and hurling paper airplanes at each other.

  Sasha reached for my hand, and I was hit with a memory of Emma, first day of school and a wash of tears for the prospect of my leaving her. I glanced at Sasha, noted the stoic set to her small face. Holding on to her hand, I led her away from the room to a quieter spot where I squatted down in front of her. “Would you like me to stay with you today?” I asked.

  She bit her lip, struggling with the answer. “I will be fine,” she said after a moment.

  From my purse, I pulled a piece of notepaper and pen, jotted down my cell number, folded it up and stuck it inside her lunch box. “If you need me for anything at all, ask the instructor to call this number.”

  She nodded a little too vigorously, her eyes bright.

  “I’ll be back at one o’clock, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  We walked back to the room. This time, she went inside and found a spot in the circle. I watched for a moment, unable to imagine how much courage it took to do everything she had done these past few days. She looked back at me and waved slightly. I waved back, then turned quickly and walked out of the building, a knot in my throat.

  Inside my car, I sat for ten minutes or more, at a complete loss for how to spend the next four hours. Amazing, this, in a life that a week ago spun at a pace so dizzying I never stopped to think about what came next. Loneliness washed over me in a great swamping rush, and I realized with total clarity that this was why I never stopped before. As long as I kept spinning, it was easy enough to keep my aloneness at arm’s length. There, I could tell myself I didn’t need anyone.

  The complete farce of this now seeped up from somewhere deep inside me. I closed my eyes for a moment, then grabbed my cell phone from my purse before letting myself think too long about what I was doing.

  Half a minute later, Cathy answered on the other end, concern in her voice. “Is something wrong, Rachel?”

  “No,” I said. “I just dropped Sasha off at her day camp. Would you…do you have time for a cup of coffee?”

  Her silence did not surprise me. I wouldn’t have been shocked if she said no. In fact, I wouldn’t even blame her. But that wasn’t Cathy. “Absolutely,” she said. “Name the place.”

  Her voice carried not a speck of resentment for my lapse these past three years. She was just there, as she always was before, waiting to pick up the threads of our friendship. I felt humbled. And grateful.

  WE MET AT A STARBUCKS on Pennsylvania Avenue, arriving at the door at nearly the same moment. She gave me a hug, squeezing tight, as if she had already figured out how much I needed it.

  We each ordered a latte from a smiling young woman in smart black frame glasses, then grabbed a corner table by the window.

  “I’m so glad you called, Rachel,” Cathy said, both hands anchored around her cup.

  “Thanks for coming, Cath,” I said, meeting her direct gaze. “I’ve been such a lousy friend.”

  Cathy shook her head, raised one hand. “Don’t, okay. There’s no need. I can only imagine where you’ve been these past three years. And besides, I knew you’d come back eventually.”

  My eyes welled up at her generosity. But then that was what separated the real friends from the fair-weather ones. They took you back even when you’d shown them your worst. Even when you didn’t deserve it.

  We talked for a while about inconsequential stuff, before she asked me how things were going with Sasha.

  “She’s wonderful,” I said, hearing the instant warmth in my voice. “An incredible little girl.” I told her then about our swimming lessons, how she and Clay started a garden and I ended up helping them.

  “That’s great, Rachel,” Cathy said, her smile warm. “I worried that Clay might not—” She broke off there, as if what she was about to say might offend me.

  “He was against having her stay with us,” I said, rubbing a thumb around the rim of my cup. “I all but pushed him into it.”

  She was quiet for a moment before saying, “And now?”

  “It was amazing to watch him with her yesterday afternoon. It was like seeing a part of him come alive again.”

  “I’m so glad,” she said. “I think we may have a family interested in meeting Sasha. I expected to have someone sooner, but you just never know.”

  My heart dropped. I blinked hard and struggled for a response. The words shouldn’t have come as a shock. Cathy had told me up-front they hoped to find a home for her. But already, the thought of letting her go felt like a cord that would be painful to sever.

  “What about you and Clay?” Cathy asked. “How are you?”

  I bit my lower lip, willing my voice to remain even when I said, “I think it may be too late for us.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked softly.

  “We’ve just closed each other out so completely.” I looked away for a moment, and then, almost afraid to say it out loud, added, “I’ve even wondered if he’s having an affair.”

  “Oh, Rachel,” Cathy said. “That doesn’t sound like Clay.”

  “No. But I wouldn’t blame him. I haven’t exactly been there for him.”

  “And has he been there for you?”

  “He tried, at first. I pushed him away,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Do you still love him?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, hearing the pain of honesty beneath the words. “I’ve just been numb. Not wanting to feel anything.”

  “Rachel,” she said, “what you went through…what could be worse? I don’t know how you even survived it. But you did. And I have to believe we’re meant to go on, do the best we can. You and Clay…I always admired what the two of you had. I’ve never known a couple who completed each other the way you two did.”

  I pressed my lips together, unable to meet her gaze. “I guess the truth of it is that we failed each other.”

  Cathy reached across the table, covered my hand with hers. “That said, there’s a place to go from here. You don’t have to throw it all away.”

  I looked at her then, saw the caring in her eyes, realized that we could be talking about our friendship as well as my marriage. I put my other hand on top of hers, squeezed hard. It was a beginning.

  THAT AFTERNOON, I picked Sasha up from camp. She jumped in the car, a different child from the subdued girl I dropped off that morning. She chattered happily all the way home, telling me about the swimming class and how they had a contest to see who could collect the most plastic rings from the bottom of the pool. She made a new friend, Suzanne, who shared her jelly sandwich with her and took up for her when a boy made fun of her accent.

  When we got home, she admitted to exhaustion. We had an early dinner, and she was in bed by seven-thirty. Clay wouldn’t be home until tomorrow night, and so I turned in early, as well, sitting in bed with a book propped in front of me, my thoughts refusing to focus on the words. Instead, I wondered about this family who would like to meet Sasha, but couldn’t quite imagine what it would be like to invite them into our house and step aside.

  At the same time, I knew this might be Sasha’s single opportunity for finding a permanent home. As much as I wished Clay and I were in a position to offer her that, I knew we were not. Our entire life together was mired in uncertainty, and once she left, I didn’t know what would happen between us.

  The next morning, Sasha was already up when I came downstairs. Ou
t back, she was on her knees, watering Clay’s tomato plants, gently spraying the base of each one with the hose. The expression on her face was one of intense concern, small white teeth tugging at her lower lip.

  I scrambled eggs, and she came in a few minutes later, joyfully reporting that each of the plants appeared to be thriving. She couldn’t wait to show Clay.

  In fact, she stood waiting at the door for him when he got home that evening. I’d just finished fixing dinner when I heard the thump of his briefcase on the foyer floor, the low pitch of his voice against the high enthusiasm of hers.

  A minute later, she tugboated him through the kitchen, exclaiming, “You must see! You must see!”

  I stood by the stove, arms folded across my chest, a pot holder in one hand. Clay raised his eyebrows at me, a smile at the corners of his mouth. “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey,” I answered back, surprised when he held my gaze and did not look away. “‘Jack and the Bean-stalk,’ huh?”

  I followed the two of them outside. Sasha showed Clay the plants, indicating how she made little mounds of dirt around each one to give it support. “I think they will grow well here, yes?” she asked, beaming.

  He studied her for a moment, then looked at me and said, “Yes, I think they will.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  WHEN WE FINISHED with dinner, Sasha and I loaded the dishwasher. Clay came into the kitchen with a photo album. My stomach dropped at the sight of it, my mouth suddenly so dry I couldn’t swallow.

  Clay sat down at the table and asked Sasha if she would like to take a look. She wiped her hands on a towel, then took the chair next to him, cautious.

  Clay opened the album, and there was Emma as a newborn in my arms. Unlike all the times before, memories flooded me, good and comforting memories.

  Clay turned the page, and I walked over to stand behind his chair. Emma. Crawling, walking, riding on her Daddy’s shoulders. Sasha studied each photo as if she wanted to know everything there was to know about Emma.

  And when he reached the last page, I felt tears sting the back of my eyes. Sasha looked at Clay and said, “Thank you for showing me.”

  He nodded once, closing the album. “Thank you for looking,” he said.

  THE NEXT MORNING, I’d just dropped Sasha off at camp when my cell phone rang. Caller ID showed Clay’s office number, and I picked it up, a flutter in my stomach at the sound of his voice.

  “Do you have anything planned for tonight?” he asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “There’s a Disney on Ice show at the coliseum.” A pause, as if he weren’t sure of my response. “I thought Sasha might like it.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Yeah, whatever you think.”

  “I think it would be good.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Okay.” And I hung up, something warm unraveling inside me.

  We met him at the main door of the coliseum just before seven that night. Sasha could barely contain her excitement. At the concession stand, we loaded up with popcorn and sno-cones that came in an unnatural shade of blue.

  The lights had already dimmed when we got to our seats. Clay and I sat on either side of Sasha, and for the next hour and a half we watched brought-to-life cartoon characters skate across the ice in a series of slapstick high jinks that had her giggling nearly nonstop.

  Every so often, I glanced at Clay out of the corner of my eye and found him looking back. A softness floated between us that was new, and yet not, but familiar, as it used to be. My heart actually ached with recognition of it and a yearning for something I knew we were so close to letting go.

  When the show was over, we followed the throng outside. Clay walked us to my car. He’d see us at home, he said, then turned to go.

  “Wait!” Sasha jumped forward to throw her arms around his waist. She hugged him hard, her cheek pressed to his midsection. Clay’s hands hovered at her shoulders for a moment, and then settled there. When she pulled back to look up at him, there was Christmas in her eyes. “Thank you. I will never forget.”

  Clay started to say something, stopped, then dropped a sharp nod, before turning and threading his way through the sea of cars.

  AFTER GETTING SASHA into bed, I brushed my teeth and put on my pajamas. I heard Clay come in downstairs, but when I came out of the bathroom, he wasn’t in the bedroom.

  I glanced down the hall and saw the light on in Emma’s room. My heart tripped, and I stood for a moment, not sure what to do. My feet moved of their own will, and I stopped just inside the door.

  Clay sat on the bed, his back to me, his shoulders bent forward. “Are you all right?” I asked, my voice barely audible.

  He nodded, not speaking. I walked over to the bed, spotted the scrapbook on his lap. A hard lump formed in my throat. I pressed my lips together, fighting back tears.

  I sat on the bed beside him, several inches of space between us. The drawings were so familiar, preschool, kindergarten, then first grade. It seemed as if it were all just yesterday. Yesterday, and another lifetime.

  On the last page of the book was a cutout of an angel. White on a light blue background with clouds drawn like big puffy circles. Emma made this one at summer Bible school. At the bottom, in her childish scrawl were the words:

  Angels have wings. My teacher said people go to Heaven at different times. Someday when I go, I want to have wings so I can fly back to see Mama and Daddy if they aren’t there yet.

  We sat for a long time, a pounding cascade of grief between us.

  At some point, Clay reached for my hand, tentative at first, as if sure I would pull away. But I didn’t, and instead, linked my fingers through his.

  “I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself,” he said.

  The pain in his voice, jagged and raw, took the breath from my lungs. I squeezed his hand hard. “Oh, Clay. What happened to Emma wasn’t your fault.”

  “You didn’t want her to go,” he said. “I should have listened to you.”

  “It could just as easily have been something I wanted her to do.” It was true, and yet I realized suddenly that somewhere in a hidden spot inside me, I had blamed him. The admission washed over me in a rush, and an unrelenting sense of shame filled me. I had pushed my husband away. And even though I never once said the words out loud, I knew I had let him take responsibility for Emma’s death.

  Tears fell from my eyes onto our joined hands. I slipped off the bed, onto my knees in front of him. I took his other hand in mine and held on as if it were the only thing keeping me from falling off the edge of the earth. “Oh, Clay. I failed you. Instead of being there for you, I put blame on you. Blame you didn’t deserve. My God, I’m so sorry.”

  I dropped my head onto his knees and wept as if I would die from it. I longed for his forgiveness, and I didn’t think I could go on without it. Clay put his hand to the back of my head, and in his touch, I felt absolution. The kind that can only come from unconditional love.

  I looked up, my face wet with tears. He took my hand again. The connection between us had frayed, but the current was still there, a trickle of feeling that re-charged within me something I had thought long gone.

  Clay closed the book, put it back on the nightstand shelf, all without letting go. He led me out of the room, turned off the light and closed the door.

  Without words, we walked down the hall to our own room, stepped into its darkened interior. He closed this door behind us, as well, and we stood facing each other, our gazes direct and searching. And for the first time in so long, I saw my husband before me, this man I had once desired and adored. He was the same, and yet different. Still beautiful to look at, his dark hair falling across his forehead in its haphazard way. His blue eyes no longer certain of what life had ahead for him. There was vulnerability there now, and it was this which filled me with a deep yearning to be the wall between him and any more crashing waves.

  With his eyes on mine, he pulled me toward him, until we were almost touching,
our joined hands the only thing separating us. We let go then, apart for only a second, before we fell into each other, my arms locking tight around his neck, his around my waist. We held on as if our very existence depended on it.

  And, oh, it was so wonderful to be here, locked in my husband’s sweet embrace, this place where I used to take refuge from all hurts, large or small. To have deprived myself of this these past three years now seemed beyond the watermark of sanity.

  For a long time, we simply held each other, refilling the well of what we had both thought lost to us. After a while, Clay drew back, cupped my face with his hand.

  “Rachel,” he said. That was all, and yet there were a thousand layers within his voice. I leaned in, kissed one side of his mouth, then the other. He made a low sound of longing, and then sank his lips onto mine, pulling me tight against him.

  And it was sweet. So sweet. How could I have forgotten this? But then the truth was I didn’t forget. I just didn’t want to remember. The truth was I let our marriage die because it was what I thought I deserved.

  Tears welled in my eyes now, fell down my face un-checked. Clay wiped them away with his thumb, then kissed my forehead, one hand at either side of my neck. “Thank God,” he said. “I thought I had lost you, too.”

  The words were bracketed in anguish, and I wanted so badly to take that away from him. I unbuttoned his shirt, ran my hands across his chest. I took off my own sweater then. He studied me with a hunger that made me feel things I had not felt in such a long time.

  The rest of our clothes found their way to the floor, and at first, I felt vulnerable beneath his gaze. But Clay looked at me exactly the way he used to look at me, as if I were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And I remembered how this felt, how amazing it was in this world of disappointments not to be found wanting.

  He kissed me then, a kiss filled with such desire, such need. I felt weakened with gratitude by it, and together, we fell onto the bed, entwining ourselves around each other, as if we could not get close enough. I thought of how we had continued to share this bed these past three years, sleeping side by side each night. But it was only now that we were really here together, one again, instead of two.