You Were There Too

by Colleen Oakley

  And that’s when I hear it, the crunch of tires on the gravel in the driveway. At first I think it’s probably a lost driver, or maybe a cable salesman trying to convince me to switch my provider.

  I wait to see if whoever it is will just leave, but I hear the car engine cut off and a door slam shut. Footfalls crunch the gravel now, instead of tires.

  And somehow, I know.

  Slowly, I wipe the charcoal off my hands on a rag and walk toward the studio’s door, peering out the glass pane. The hood of the Prius gleams in the sun, confirming my prescience. I’m suddenly overwhelmed in my embarrassment that I haven’t reached out before now. I thought about it—a few times. But something always stopped me. I hesitate now, only for a second, and then I turn the handle and step out into the day, squinting against the rays of bright sun.

  “Oliver.” His back is to me as he walks to the path toward the front door. He pauses, then twists his body toward the sound of my voice.

  “Hi,” he says. He’s wearing a striped tank top with a pocket, army green pants, his Reef sandals. His hair is scruffier, his eyes still intense. And only then do I consider what I must look like. I’m wearing what I slept in—one of Harrison’s undershirts, stretched tight across my belly, and leggings. My hair, a messy topknot at the crown of my head. If the roundness of my belly surprises him, it doesn’t register on his face.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “About the . . .” I’m experiencing every emotion at once and they cloud my brain, make forming words an impossible task. A trickle of sweat crawls between my breasts. A plane flies far overhead, the distant hum of the engines the only sound in the air.

  “I know,” he says. “It’s nothing.”

  “I heard you were out of the country.”

  “Costa Rica.”

  “Coffee farm?”

  “Banana plantation.”

  And then we look at each other and I know I don’t have to say anything else. I don’t have to say how strange it is, the way the paths of our lives intersected. How neither of us could have ever guessed how it would have all turned out. How no one would ever believe us if we told them.

  I don’t have to say that sometimes I get confused. That because my nightmare about Oliver became reality, I start to wonder if Harrison was the dream. Not in the romantic way that people usually say that, but in that way when you wake up from a really good one and try so hard to capture the feeling you had while you were in it, to hold it. Like a moonbeam, a bolt of lightning. But it’s fleeting; it dances in your peripheral, teasing you, and then it’s gone. I can’t remember what my husband feels like anymore. What he smells like. The timbre of his laugh. And sometimes I go to sleep hoping he is a dream, if only so that I can see him again.

  The plane is gone now and Oliver is still here. “I won’t stay long,” he says. “I just wanted to make sure you were . . . OK.”

  I don’t have to tell him that I am both OK and not sure I’ll ever be OK again. So I just nod. “And you?”

  He wiggles all the fingers on his right hand. “Almost good as new.”

  “I’m glad,” I say. And then I ask after Caroline and find out she named her son Lewis. And I tell him I started taking a class, that I’ve decided to get my master’s in education. And he tells me he’s going back to Australia for his next trip. I ask him if he’s just trying to break up with someone and he laughs.

  “No. But the gun laws are quite a draw.”

  “Ah,” I say. “Right.”

  We stare at each other another beat. And I think of the months we spent together trying to understand the how and why of it all. And how, strangely, I still don’t have any of the answers. Why was Oliver in my life? I could say it was to save me, but then that begs the question: Why was Whitney in Harrison’s life? One life was saved, only for another to be lost. And that’s when I think maybe Harrison was right—maybe there’s no rhyme or reason to it all. Maybe instead of wondering why we’re all connected, what’s important—the only thing that’s important—is to know that we are.

  “I’m working on a book. A novel,” he says. “Another one. Figure it doesn’t hurt to try again.”

  “Based on true events?”

  “No,” he says, chuckling. “You know that saying—truth is stranger than fiction.”

  “Yeah,” I say, smiling. “Well, congratulations.”

  He shrugs. “We’ll see if it goes anywhere.”

  I open my mouth to respond, to assure him it will, but a pain grips my belly. I clutch my stomach and grimace.

  “What is it?” Oliver asks.

  “The baby,” I say, and the next pain almost brings me to my knees. “It’s too early.”

  * * *

  When we get to the ER, I’m in so much pain I can’t even stand up. Oliver rushes in to get help and an orderly comes out pushing a wheelchair and somehow between the two of them they get me into it and the next thing I know I’m in a bright room with my feet in stirrups and a woman with a mask has her hand between my legs and is screaming for me not to push yet.

  But I do anyway, because I can’t not. Oliver squeezes my hand.

  Another woman enters and the nurse holds out rubber gloves and she shoves her hands into them and I realize it’s the doctor as she takes the nurses’ place between my legs.

  “It’s too soon,” I tell her.

  “This baby doesn’t seem to think so. How far along are you?”

  I try to think. To do math. It’s the first week of August. How is it the first week of August already?

  “Thirty-two weeks,” I say.

  She nods, but the wrinkles in her forehead deepen and I know she’s concerned. And then I remember. That’s how long Harrison’s been gone.

  “No, wait. I’m thirty-six weeks,” I say. But still, I had a plan. Or Vivian did. She was going to come up, a week before my due date. Stay with me until I went into labor, drive me to the hospital. “It’s not supposed to be like this.”

  Oliver squeezes my hand again and all I want is for it to be Harrison’s hand. It’s not supposed to be like this.

  The doctor’s expression relaxes as she peers between my legs. “There’s the head,” she says. “Keep pushing.”

  Fire rips through my groin and I feel the pressure build like a bottle of champagne that needs to be uncorked.

  “I can’t do this,” I say. “I can’t do this without him.”

  “You can,” Oliver says. “Look at me.” I do. “You can do this.”

  “Deep breath,” the doctor says. “One more big push.”

  I follow her instructions and Oliver squeezes my shoulder. But it’s not one more big push, as the doctor promised. And it’s not two or three or four. During the eighth excruciatingly painful push, just when I start to think that it’s never going to end—that I will be in labor, my stomach contracting, my groin a hot ring of fire, until the end of days, the pressure in my abdomen suddenly lifts and I feel something flop out like a slippery fish from between my legs and into the doctor’s waiting hands.

  “It’s a girl,” she announces, holding up a squiggling spaghetti squash covered in goo, with arms and legs and a tuft of curly brown hair, like an offering.

  I stare at its scrunched face in disbelief. Stunned awe. It’s a moment I’ve conjured a million times in my head, but sometime after the third miscarriage never truly believed would materialize. It’s my baby. Harrison’s eyes peer back at me from her tiny head.

  Our baby.

  I lamely lift my tired arms, reaching for her, but a nurse whisks her away to a plastic incubator tray. I listen to her whimpers turn into full-on wails and think how unfortunate that all she seems to have inherited from me is my predilection to cry.

  “Is she OK?” I say to no one in particular.

  “She’s perfect,” the nurse responds, swaddling the baby in a white cloth rimmed with blue and red
stripes. She hands the baby to Oliver, who brings her directly to me.

  And just like that, I’m holding my daughter. She’s tiny, I can barely feel the heft of her beneath the swaddle, but when she looks at me, my breath catches. And I’m overwhelmed by how wonderful and miraculous and unfair it all is.

  I think of that banal platitude: Love isn’t supposed to hurt. But really, if you’re doing it right, love hurts all the time. I look down into my daughter’s eyes and I see my husband. And my heart is so full it feels like it’s going to burst and so empty it feels like I could float away into nothing.

  That’s love. For all the great mysteries in the world, perhaps it’s the most mysterious of them all.

  Or maybe not the most mysterious. I think of the psychic. And the realization slams into me like a freight train.

  I look up at Oliver through wide wonder and tears.

  “You gave me a baby,” I say.

  “I gave you a baby,” he repeats slowly, as if he’s just now realizing it, too. Then he tilts his head, considering, the corner of his mouth turning up. “Not quite the way I was hoping to.”

  Laughter bursts out from deep within me. I look back down at my daughter, taking in her tiny ears and fingers and perfect wisps of eyelashes, and think how wonderful and awful it is that nothing in life happens quite the way we expect.

  * * *

  I’m standing at the base of the Rocky statue, peering up at the bronze metal glinting green in the afternoon sunlight. The sky is a brilliant blue, one of those rare times it actually matches the color of the crayon by the same name. People pass by in a blur.

  I spot a man running up the stairs, his forehead slick with sweat, jaw clenched in effort. I don’t recognize him, yet he’s familiar. I know that I know him.

  Then, just like that, he’s next to me. Close enough that I can almost feel the heat radiating off his skin.

  “Hi,” he says, slipping his hand in mine.

  “Hi,” I say.

  And then we’re in the middle of the Philadelphia museum, one scene fading into the next. One setting morphing into another in the way only dreams can do. I’m staring at a framed tattoo—three Chinese characters. My tattoo. I glance down at my wrist and see that it’s no longer there. It’s now in this museum. I look to the left and there’s a life-size rendering of David Bowie’s face looking back at me. I’ve seen it before.

  “It’s funny,” the man says, still holding my hand. “The things people leave behind.”

  A bird squawks above and I look up.

  I look back at him then. Really look at him. And I know. “Harrison,” I say.

  He smiles. “Dios Mia.”

  I am overcome with relief. And the inexplicable urge to laugh.

  “Why don’t you look like you?”

  “I don’t know. It’s your dream.”

  “Have you seen her?”

  “She’s perfect.”

  “She is.”

  I stare at him. This man that isn’t Harrison, but is. “I don’t want to wake up.”

  “But you have to,” he says. “She needs you.”

  And that’s when I hear it, the birdcalls, which have now melded into faint baby cries. Harrison starts to fade away. “Wait! Don’t go!” I say.

  But he does.

  I wake up, the baby’s cries crackling loud and tinny over the monitor. I blink, long and slow, trying to straddle the gap between dream and reality. Between what I want to believe is true and what is.

  Maybe the future already exists.

  Maybe I will see my husband again one day.

  Maybe time is a circle.

  Or maybe not.

  Maybe all that matters is that love is a circle. Infinite. Eternal. Present, even when the person you want to be there most is absent.

  I think of Oliver. What he said when he left the hospital, right before Vivian got there.

  “Mia,” he started, and I cut him off before he could voice the words I saw in his eyes.

  “I’ll always love him,” I said, quietly. “It’s always been him.”

  “I know,” he said, nodding. “But maybe one day while you’re doing that, you could let me love you.”

  Maybe one day I will.

  But not today.

  I close my eyes and try to return to sleep, to the dream, to Harrison—to allow the ache in my chest to lift for the briefest of moments—but another squawk from the monitor on my nightstand reminds me that life beckons.

  I slip out of bed and go to our daughter.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First, a heartfelt thank-you to my readers and all of the talented bloggers, booksellers and librarians I’ve met over the years. Without you, I’d have to actually put on pants and get a real job. Thank you for your support and for making the world a better place.

  And many thanks to the following people, without whom this book would most certainly still be a tangle of incomprehensible words hidden away on my laptop:

  My extraordinary agent, Emma Sweeney, and her supportive and hardworking team, Margaret Sutherland Brown and Hannah Brattesani. Kira Watson, you have since moved on, but I’d be remiss not to thank you as well.

  My editor, Kerry Donovan, for her unparalleled enthusiasm and sharp insights—and for giving me a wonderful new publishing home at Berkley.

  The rest of the Berkley team, including Diana Franco, Tara O’Connor, Fareeda Bullert and Sarah Blumenstock.

  Dr. David Rice, who kindly spent hours upon hours (upon hours!) explaining medical terminology and minute details of his profession.

  Dr. Brent Stephens, for answering all of my very strange and personal questions, and for decades of enduring friendship.

  Dr. Jane Greer, for her insights into relationship therapy and psychic dreams.

  C. Noel, for sharing her knowledge of art, past lives and talking to the dead. That was a weird afternoon. And yes, the light flickered.

  Any mistakes or inaccuracies regarding these professions and/or topics are mine alone.

  The books The ESP Enigma: The Scientific Case for Psychic Phenomena by Diane Hennacy Powell, MD, and The Mind at Night: The New Science of How and Why We Dream by Andrea Rock, both of which filled in the gaps of my knowledge about dreams and psychic phenomena, and gave a sound scientific base to my outlandish plotline.

  While writing is a solitary activity, editing and revising often takes a village. Thank you to my village, who all read various drafts of this book, often many times more than once, and all had valuable insights that helped shape it into its current form: Caley Bowman, Karma Brown, Brooke Hight, Kelly Marages, Kirsten Palladino, Amy Reichert, Renée Rosen, Jaime Sarrio and Barbara Khan, for the gas station pizza anecdote. With special thanks to Aimee Molloy and Pam Cope for their incredible writers’ retreat where I finally found the threads of this story and began reweaving them together.

  Thank you to my sister, Megan Oakley, who has never once yelled at me for pestering her to “Read this!” and then, “No, wait, read this one instead!”

  My brother, Jason Oakley, for traveling far and wide for my book events, even if he is just there for the vodka.

  My mom and dad, Kathy and Bill Oakley, for their unwavering support, but especially my mom for reading this book at least forty-seven times, and somehow maintaining the same level of enthusiasm for the material.

  My grandmother, Marion Oakley; my grandparents, Jack and Penny Wyman; and the rest of my Tull, Wyman and Oakley families for their ridiculous amount of support. It’s an embarrassment of riches.

  Henry, Sorella, Olivia and Everett, my four children whose creativity wildly outpaces mine and who make each day an utterly chaotic joy to live. I hope I make you at least half as proud as you make me.

  And last, but never least, my eternally patient, logical, supportive, loving husband, Fred: If our life is but a dream,
may we never wake up.

  Questions for Discussion

  1. Near the beginning of the book, Mia admits she’s been dreaming about a man on and off for most of her adult life. Have you ever had any recurring dreams? What do they mean to you?

  2. When we meet Mia, she tells her sister, “It doesn’t feel like this is where I’m supposed to be.” Why do you think she feels that way?

  3. Mia and Harrison suffer a third miscarriage. What does the way they handle it tell you about their relationship? Do you think they have a strong marriage?

  4. When Mia runs into Oliver a second time, he offers to help her with her garden, and after spending the day with him, she realizes she feels like she’s known him forever. Have you ever felt that way when you first met somebody? What, if anything, do you think it means?

  5. After Harrison misses Mia’s first appointment with the fertility specialist, she thinks, “The downside of being a surgeon’s wife isn’t just the long hours, but that strangers’ misfortunes can impact you so greatly.” Do you think there are any circumstances where the demands of one partner’s job should be more important than the marriage?

  6. When Mia and Harrison have dinner with Caroline and Oliver, she inevitably compares Oliver with her husband. Did you note any similarities between the two men? What are the biggest differences between them?

  7. Mia decides not to tell her husband right away when Oliver confesses to dreaming about her, too. Do you think it’s a betrayal? Should spouses tell each other everything, or is it sometimes understandable to keep something to yourself?

  8. Even though Harrison says he needs time, Mia continues to seek out information about IVF. Do you think she’s being too pushy, or is Harrison not being supportive enough?

  9. On their mini getaway in New Jersey, Mia describes marriage as being like her television from childhood: “The connection gets loose sometimes—even to the point where you think it might not work anymore—but then something jars it and the wires slip back into place, exactly where they belong, lighting up the screen and bringing back the sound; everything working as it should.” Did that strike you as an accurate description of a marriage?