Mia huffed and puffed, demonstrating an alarming contortionist move to reach her bare foot. “If there wasn’t a volleyball in my stomach, I might be able to buckle these sandals.” She leaned back in the chair, her arms flopped over the side, her face waved the white flag of surrender.
Bryce looked at her, his expression a caress so tender I felt as if I’d just intruded on a private moment. He kneeled in front of her, propped one leg up, and helped Mia with her shoes.
“And this,” Mia said to me, “is the kind of man you want to be the father of your child.”
As we were leaving their hotel room, she informed me she’d Googled Wyatt and unearthed as much information as she could, “for your own good since you seem so fascinated with him.”
By the time the elevator doors opened to the lobby, she’d ticked off all the details on her list: He was twenty-three, she couldn’t find any siblings, there was no mention of college, and he worked as the sous-chef at one of the Brennan restaurants. Oh, and there were no known ex-wives or felonies.
“But Livvy,” she said, “he may not be Mr. Right. Maybe he’s just Mr. Right Now.”
“I can live with that,” I said as the door opened, and the humidity swooped by to frizz my hair. “I’m not looking for forever.”
I learned to be careful what I asked for. Sometimes it arrived in the most unexpected ways.
CHAPTER 3
I always wanted a baby.
But, clearly, I wasn’t specific about the when part of the want.
And now to break the news to my parents. My churchgoing, Bible-quoting, choir-singing mother answered my call before the first ring ended.
“Sweetie, of course your dad and I will be home if you’re coming over. I’ll send him to the club to pick up dinner. It’ll be so much nicer to eat at home. Just the three of us. Oh. My. I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean to suggest three was better than four. I meant it would be more enjoyable and civilized for us to eat at home instead of having to listen to all the racket in the Grill Room. You know, those young parents let their children have their own heads and run around like little heathens . . . Well, shame on me. That’s not the kind of thing I should be saying . . .”
She paused for a breath, so I jumped into the void. “Mom, I’m ten minutes away. We’ll talk when I get there, okay?” My mother’s conversations were bait and capture. Interrupting her wasn’t impolite; it was survival.
But despite all her yammering, my mother’s heart never failed to listen. She shielded me from guests’ endless questions after the almost wedding, from the decisions of what to do when the caterer had prepared food for three hundred and no one was there to eat, and from making decisions about Wyatt’s funeral because we were the almost family—the only family he had.
I turned past the long stretch of white picket fence that marked the entrance into Wildwood Country Club. Pulling into my parents’ driveway, I felt as if a slab of granite had landed on my chest. And I didn’t expect that I would leave feeling any better.
“Hey, I thought you liked Carlo’s Eggplant Parmesan,” my dad said as he picked up my plate. “Your mother’s going to have to sew weights in your clothes to keep you from floating away.”
“I’m full, really. I’ll take the rest home. I won’t have to cook for days. And I’m sure I have enough ballast to stay grounded.” I sighed, remembering Lily as a volleyball in Mia’s tummy.
“Your grandmother will be home in a few days, so you might not have to cook ever again.” My mother laughed, but I knew she was serious.
She had grown up in a house where food equaled love. And if someone didn’t eat much, Granny Ruth took it personally. Happy people ate, and, unless you wanted to be the focus of her rapid-fire questioning to exorcise the demon blocking your stomach, you ate.
“Maybe you should have joined her on that cruise. It might have been nice to have a change of scenery,” said my mother.
“Watching everyone on the Oldies but Goodies cruise dancing to ‘Macarena’? No. But it was sweet of her to invite me along,” I said.
Mom leaned across the table and patted my hand—a whisper of her familiar almond and cherry lotion followed. When I was younger, she would come into my room at bedtime, rest her warm hand on my cheek, and kiss me good night. The scent would linger even after she walked out.
“Are you sleeping well? Your face looks so drawn,” she said.
“I’m sleeping. Mostly.”
She and my father exchanged looks. The emotional telepathy of thirty-five years of marriage. Their eyes conveying the words they left unspoken. Would Wyatt and I have experienced that connection?
I’d never know if we would have shared that moment when our hearts could speak for us, because when Wyatt died, his secrets died with him. I hated that answer. I hated it because it was true. I hated it because it swallowed my life whole.
“Well, okay, honey. But remember, Dr. Welsh gave you those pills—”
“Of course, Mom. I remember.” How could I forget? The pills I didn’t take because numbing the pain of losing someone I loved didn’t make sense to me. The grief reminded me what it meant to be alive. And now I couldn’t take the pills because I was responsible for the life Wyatt had left me.
“If you think you need something else, maybe something stronger, we can call him. Not now, because his office is closed—”
“Scarlett, we can discuss our daughter’s drugs later.” He turned and winked at me. “If you get the coffee started, Olivia and I will clear the kitchen table.”
For a second, she looked like someone coming out of a trance. In her mind, she had already scripted her conversation with Dr. Welsh’s nurse tomorrow, made the appointment, and driven me to the pharmacy.
“Sure. In fact, I just bought a new flavor . . .”
Off she went in the direction of the pantry, her glasses pushed up like a headband, her dark brown hair gathered into a stub of a ponytail.
My dad elbowed me as I stood next to him rinsing dishes. “She means well, you know.”
I nodded and handed him a bowl. “I know, but thanks for the distraction.” He smiled, and I wanted to shout, “Please don’t be so nice. I’m about to rock your world, and there’s no distraction for what I’m going to tell you.” Instead, I returned his smile and added one more brick to my wall of guilt.
My mother brewed her Southern Bread Pudding Coffee, the aroma of cinnamon and raisins trailing behind the steaming mugs she and my dad carried to the porch. Its wall of windows faced the tee box behind their house where they watched the sun set. They relaxed in their matching leather recliners facing the golf course, and I sat cross-legged between them on the oversize ottoman.
“Did you two play golf this afternoon?” Since the sun didn’t set until a few hours after they closed the office, my parents often came home and played nine holes.
“I wanted to, but my hip wouldn’t cooperate.” My mother sounded as if she were scolding a disobedient child.
“Scarlett, you make it sound like it has a mind of its own. You really need to make an appointment with that orthopedic doctor.” My dad’s tone matched hers, as did the look in his eyes.
I pretended to be invisible, having learned years ago that taking sides in these verbal exchanges between my parents sometimes ended in an emotional tug-of-war. With me as the rope.
Mom reacted as she often did when she didn’t want to admit my father spoke the truth. She ignored him and changed the subject.
“I love that sundress on you. It’s so flattering. Doesn’t that red look great on her, George?” Mom leaned over the chair arm and riffled through the basket of Good Housekeeping and Redbook magazines on the floor.
Dad glanced at me over the rim of his coffee mug. “Um . . . yes, very nice.”
“It’s great to see you dressed up. Not in those yoga pants and . . .” She paused, tilted her head and scrunched her mouth in that way she did when she was suspiciously curious. “So, did you do something special today?”
&n
bsp; I drank some water to wash away the anxiety that lined my mouth. But there wasn’t anything I could drink to dilute the sludge in my gut.
“You’re looking puny. Are you feeling sick? George, you don’t think anything was wrong with that dinner, do you?” My mother’s eyebrows edged toward each other, a sure sign an inquisition was pending. “Is it indigestion? I’ll check the medicine cabinet—”
“Mom,” I said, my hand on her arm stopping her from getting out of the chair, “I’m not sick.” One breath. Two. “I had a doctor’s appointment. I’m pregnant.”
Her gasp after the word pregnant created a mini tidal wave of coffee that lapped out of her mug and splashed onto the hem of my dress. “Oh my goodness. Look what happened,” she said. In her attempt to lean forward to blot it, the mug leaned with her, spilling more coffee in my lap.
I jumped up, more from the surprise than the warmth.
“Now what have I done?” Her voice vibrated, and the flush in her cheeks spread to her neck. “Don’t move. I’ll find a towel.”
“Mom, it’s fine. Just wet, that’s all.”
“You might still have some clothes here. I’ll go look. We’ll get it clean. It’s going to be okay,” she said, but her hand trembled, and the mug she placed on the end table performed a little tap dance of its own.
“Are we still talking about the dress? Mom, you heard me, right?” My words scratched like fingernails against a chalkboard.
“Scarlett, Olivia, both of you, please sit,” said my dad, folding his newspaper in half, then in half again, creasing the edges as he did.
The silence swelled between us.
We both sat.
I blotted my wet dress with a napkin, glad to have a reason to avoid eye contact. I didn’t want to know what I’d see in my parents’ eyes.
My dad placed his hand under my chin and lifted my face. “You’ve walked through hell for weeks. The worst part of it for us has been watching you suffer this pain and not being able to save you from it. Wyatt’s accident and being robbed of one of the happiest days of your life . . . you had no control over any of that. But you had to live with the consequences.”
He looked at my mother whose quiet tears streamed down her face and spotted her blouse. “But this, Olivia. You had control over this. I don’t understand,” said my mother, her face drawn in disappointment.
“I didn’t ask you to understand. Nothing about this makes sense. Wyatt and I loved each other. We were getting married. It’s not like we were irresponsible teenagers.”
“Exactly, Livvy. You weren’t. You were irresponsible adults,” my mother said. “There’s a reason sex outside of marriage is discussed in the Bible. This is one of them.”
Somewhere between the words irresponsible and Bible, I dropped the reins of my seething anger, and let it rip. “Not the God talk. Not today. Maybe not ever. You know, if Wyatt hadn’t died, we’d both be here telling you about this baby. And, whether we were married or not, you’d be thrilled.” God had ruined my life. I didn’t care anymore about anything He said after He had let Wyatt die, leaving me alone.
“Olivia, you knew your father and I disapproved of your moving in with Wyatt before the wedding. We certainly didn’t think you slept in separate bedrooms. But it’s obvious to all of us now that our plans often don’t work out the way we expect. It would be foolish to think there wouldn’t be consequences for your actions.” She folded her arms across her chest, her back erect, shielded by her self-righteousness.
My father stood on the sidelines like a referee at a tennis match that was disintegrating into a vendetta. “Scarlett, Livvy, both of you calm down. We can handle this better if—”
“Dad, it’s too late for that.” I held my hands out in disbelief. “Mom, that’s it? That’s your compassionate Christian response? If it is, then why are you shocked I’m not buying into this God of yours who’s ruined my life?”
“Olivia, please—”
She reached toward me, but I backed away.
“No. I don’t have the energy to fight about this. Wyatt’s death should be punishment enough for whatever wrong I’ve done. Or he’s done. Or we’ve done. I don’t even know.” I placed my hands on my stomach, “But this baby . . . this baby . . . I refuse to let you make this baby a punishment, too.”
“We don’t have to do this to one another,” my dad said. “Scarlett, can we stop with the accusations? All of this fighting isn’t going to change the facts.”
“Exactly, which is why it’s time for me to leave.” Before I walked out, I lowered my voice, laced it with sarcasm, and snarled, “By the way, this new life you’re ashamed of? It’s your grandchild.”
My father flinched. The recognition of what this child meant flashed through his face when I said those words.
“Olivia, don’t you think there’s something very important you’ve forgotten in all of this?”
It wasn’t a question my mother meant for me to answer. When she spoke with such deliberate softness, whatever she had to say would be anything but.
“Wyatt’s car wasn’t headed in the direction of the church when he had that accident. And we still don’t know why. If he hadn’t died, you’d be just another bride who’d been jilted at the altar.”
CHAPTER 4
Jilted at the altar?
I wanted to run back into my parents’ house and scream, “Did you forget something? I didn’t have a chance to get to the altar.”
The only person on the altar that evening was my father. Over an hour after the ceremony was scheduled to start, he announced to the guests that there wouldn’t be a wedding, while I curled, fetal-like, on the bed in the bridal suite. A frothy crescent of beaded lace, swathed in layers of embroidered tulle, my expensive and time-consuming makeup application smeared on my illusion sleeves like an Impressionist painting.
My mother’s playing the Bible card tonight followed by her “just another bride” comment were two sticks of contention with enough friction to spark a fire in my gut.
I pulled the front door shut behind me, opened my car door, then flung my purse down on the passenger seat. Bunching the front of my damp, coffee-soaked dress, I slid behind the wheel and stabbed the button to start the car.
My dad stepped out of the house carrying a white bag in one hand and waving the other. “Olivia, wait. Wait.”
I opened my window and stared out the windshield. “I’m not going back inside.”
“I know,” my dad said, his voice gentle with understanding. He held up the bag. “You forgot the leftovers.”
“Keep them—”
“No. You’re going to take them because you need to eat,” he said with a hint of sternness.
“Don’t lecture me.” I rolled my eyes, not much differently than I had as a teenager when he expounded on late curfews and generous allowances.
He set the bag on my lap. “You know, it’s not just about you now. That’s my grandchild, too.”
I couldn’t ignore the tears in my eyes any more than I could the ones I saw in his.
“Give her time, Livvy. She loves you.” He tousled my hair. “We both do.”
As soon as I turned onto the highway, I directed the phone’s voice activation to call Mia. I’d learned to enunciate all syllables in her name or risk arguing with the annoying female voice who’d keep repeating, “Call Me. There is no one by that name on your call list.”
“Well? How did it go?” Mia’s confident curiosity was about to kill someone’s cat.
“No more advice unless you’re going to be here to witness the fallout for yourself,” I said. My stomach already grumbled at the pungent smell of basil, garlic, and eggplant in the bag. Why isn’t my sickness limited to mornings?
“It couldn’t have been that bad,” Mia said.
“You’re right. It was worse.” I started my play-by-play of the night, then I heard Bryce’s off-key singing and water splashing in the background. “Please tell me you and Bryce aren’t bathing while we’re having this co
nversation.”
She laughed. “We might as well be. I should wear a swimsuit when it’s Lily’s bath time. It’s like a water park in here. I’ll let Bryce finish so we can talk.”
Seconds after a subdued conversation with her husband, Mia found quiet, and I continued my story. I finished with surprisingly few interruptions and waited for her response as I drove past the country club entrance, taking my time navigating the snaky road in the dark.
“Okay, in my defense I said you needed to tell them sooner rather than later. I never said they’d be happy to hear that you’re pregnant. But, really, what did you expect?”
I wasn’t sure if it was the intensifying smell of Parmesan cheese or Mia’s answer that incited a new tiny riot in my stomach. “If you were so sure it was going to be a train wreck of a conversation, why didn’t you warn me ahead of time? I might have felt less blindsided.”
“What? Are you kidding me? I don’t understand why, in the name of everything holy, your parents’ reactions shocked you. And I was supposed to warn you? Come on, Livvy . . .”
“A little compassion would have been nice—from all of you.” I pressed my lips together, hoping the sour taste coating my mouth wouldn’t escape.
“Girl, you know I couldn’t love you more if you were my own sister. So I’m going to talk to you like one. That ‘little compassion’ business works both ways. Your parents are the ones who met the police at the scene of Wyatt’s accident before they’d even changed out of their wedding clothes. They’re the ones who identified him in the morgue to spare you having to do it. They’re the ones who finished paying for a wedding, then helped pay for a funeral. And, all the while, watching their daughter experience something I would personally die to save Lily from, and I’m sure they felt the same way.”
“But she still had to remind me that Wyatt was driving away from the church . . .” As soon as those words stomped out of my mouth, I regretted having sent them out to battle. I sounded pathetic, petty, and ungrateful.
Since You've Been Gone Page 2