Instantly, I feel terrible. “I’m so sorry. I know I shouldn’t have said something so personal to her. I was just trying to show her that no one is perfect, and that even if a life looks perfect on the outside, sometimes it isn’t perfect in reality. But I’m really sorry. It was totally unprofessional of me, and it won’t happen again.”
“Kate.” His voice is soft, and I realize I like the way he says my name. “I wasn’t criticizing you. I was going to remind you that you always have someone to talk to if that’s ever something you want.”
“You?” I ask, and it’s not until he flinches that it occurs to me how rude that must have sounded. “Sorry,” I mumble. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
He shrugs. “No pressure, but sometimes it’s better to talk to a stranger than to someone who’s been there from day one. Not that I’m a stranger, exactly. I’d like to think we’re becoming friends.” He looks down. “Besides, I owe you after unloading on you about my brother.”
“You didn’t unload on me,” I murmur. I consider, for a moment, whether I should tell him about Dan and the problems we’re having, but it feels oddly disloyal to share my relationship worries with another man. Still, I realize I’m longing for someone to tell me that this will pass.
“What is it?” Andrew asks softly, reading my mind.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. Then I pause and reconsider. “Okay, well, you know how I told you I was having some really vivid dreams?”
“Of Patrick,” he says with a nod, and for some reason, I’m startled that he remembers my husband’s name.
“Right.” I glance at him uncertainly. “Well, they’ve reminded me what it felt like being with him. And being with my fiancé—Dan—isn’t anything like that.” My words border on too personal, too much, and I wonder if my good judgment has evaporated. “Not that I don’t love my fiancé,” I hurry to add. “I do. It’s just different.”
Andrew nods. “But it’s supposed to feel different, I think,” he says after a pause. “The question is whether you’re happy and whether it feels right. That’s what you have to think about.”
“I know,” I mumble, already feeling silly for saying anything.
“Look, what happened with your husband changed you forever, just like what happened with my brother changed me,” he says, and this time, I really listen, because it feels different from the advice I’ve gotten before. “So you can’t compare the present with the past, not really, because you’re a different person than you were when Patrick was alive. You have to look forward, at the things you want, not back at the things you once had.”
I can feel tears prickling my eyes. “How’d you get so wise?”
He laughs. “Trial and error. Emphasis on the error.”
We’ve reached Thirty-First, and we’re silent as Andrew raises a hand to hail a passing cab. As it pulls over, he gives me a hug and I climb into the backseat. “Hey, Andrew?” I say just before he shuts the cab door.
“Yeah?”
“I’d like to think we’re becoming friends too.”
Twenty-Four
On Monday morning, I awaken again in the life I share with Patrick, and I’m so grateful that for a minute, I can hardly breathe. I’d feared, after my last dip into this reality, that I’d ruined my chance to come back.
But Patrick is there beside me in our bed, real and solid and warm. I feel tears in my eyes as I reach for him. He stirs and wakes up slowly as I nestle into the nook under his right arm.
“Morning, honey,” he says, his voice still thick with sleep. He pulls me closer and kisses the top of my head.
“Tell me you love me,” I say urgently, clinging to him like he’s a life raft.
Patrick laughs and ruffles my hair. “I love you, weirdo,” he says. Then he softens, the corners of his eyes crinkling into crow’s-feet that weren’t there twelve years ago. “I knew before I met you—” he adds, looking into my eyes.
“—that I was meant to be yours,” I whisper. I listen to his heartbeat for a moment before asking, “How’s your mom doing?”
He sighs. “I talked to her yesterday, and she doesn’t sound great. This chemo’s really taking a toll on her. I don’t know what I’d do if we lost her.”
“We won’t lose her,” I tell him firmly. “She’s going to be fine.” I feel another twinge of guilt over the real-life Joan, whom I haven’t called since the day I showed up on her porch. I’ve gotten so absorbed with my own life and problems that I let it go. I make a mental note to follow up with her as soon as possible.
In the kitchen a few minutes later, Patrick pours me a cup of coffee and I struggle with the words I want to say. “Can I ask you something, Patrick?” I finally ask. “Am I . . . Am I a good mother?”
He turns around to look at me.
“I mean, do you look at me and see problems and shortcomings?” I go on, thinking of what Dan said to me about our ability to parent. “Or have I been mostly good for Hannah? Have I been there for her and made the right choices and made her feel loved?”
“Of course you have, honey,” he says. “Where is this coming from?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I guess I’m doubting myself.”
He frowns. “Kate, I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, but the first time I saw you hold Hannah in your arms, I just knew.”
“You knew what?”
“I knew that this was exactly what was meant to be. You always had those maternal instincts, I think—it’s one of the million things I’ve always loved about you—but from the very first moment I saw you holding her, it was like everything fell into place, like the universe was suddenly in total alignment. You were meant to be a mother the way that rain was meant to be wet and grass was meant to be green and ice was meant to be cold.”
I smile. “You’re sure?”
“You’re a great mom,” he replies.
Our conversation is interrupted by Hannah coming into the kitchen, her pajamas rumpled, her hair sticking up at weird angles.
“I had a bad dream,” she says, rubbing her eyes. “I dreamed that—”
But before she can finish her sentence, I’ve pulled her into a tight hug. I’m so glad to see her, so relieved that for a few moments, at least, I get to be here with her, that nothing else seems to matter.
“Geez, Mom, are you trying to suffocate me?” Hannah asks, but when I finally let her go, she’s smiling.
“I’m just so glad I’m your mom,” I tell her.
“Ooooookay,” she says, making the sign for cuckoo around her ear and rolling her eyes at Patrick, who playfully rolls his eyes back but shoots me a quick look of concern when Hannah looks away.
“Okay, you two, enough mocking me,” I say, and when they both laugh, it sounds like music.
“Come on, slowpoke,” Patrick says to Hannah. “Get yourself some cereal and get moving.”
“Wait, where’s she going?” I ask, suddenly panicked at the thought that my already-limited time with Hannah could be cut any shorter.
“You’re so weird, Mom,” Hannah says before Patrick can reply. “You and Dad took the day off, remember? We’re going to Coney Island. Duh.”
“All of us?”
“Duh,” Hannah says again. “You promised after I saw Uptown Girls.”
“That Brittany Murphy movie?” I have a sudden memory of seeing the movie in 2003, just before the first anniversary of Patrick’s death. My sister thought it would cheer me up to go out to a theater and see a silly romantic comedy. Instead, the love story made me cry, and we left before the movie ended.
“It’s, like, the best movie,” Hannah says. “I mean, it’s old-fashioned, obviously. But Jesse Spencer is so hot. For an old guy. And I love the part where they ride the teacups ride.”
“Fun,” I manage. But what I’m really thinking is that if someone had told me in 2003, as I sat insid
e a darkened theater with Susan trying not to cry, that I’d one day be riding the teacups with my dead husband and our imaginary daughter, I would have thought they were crazy. But here we are. On second thought, maybe that just makes me crazy.
As Hannah pours herself a bowl of Corn Pops, I move closer to Patrick and touch his elbow. “I love you,” I murmur.
“I love you too, Katielee.”
An hour later, we’re all on the N train heading for Coney Island. Hannah is sitting across from us, her nose buried in a young adult novel with a stiletto heel on the cover, and Patrick has his arm slung around my shoulders. We watch our daughter together in silence, and I don’t break it with conversation, because there aren’t enough words in the world to describe how this moment feels. Patrick’s warmth beside me. A daughter we love deeply, here with us. A whole life, stretching out before us. None of it real.
It occurs to me how mundane this moment would be if this was really the life I was living. Would I be taking the time to marvel at how beautiful Hannah’s hair looks when it catches the light, or how happy it makes me feel to see her eyes crinkle slightly at the corners each time she reads something amusing? Would I be pausing to appreciate the scent of Irish Spring lingering on Patrick’s neck, or the warmth that floods me when I notice the few errant hairs he missed on his jaw when shaving this morning? Would I stop to think how safe I feel tucked under his arm, like nothing could possibly hurt me as long as he’s here?
No, because before I lost him, I thought we had a lifetime of endless moments like this stretching before us. I loved him deeply, but I never really knew that every second we had together was a gift until he was gone.
“What are you thinking about?” Patrick whispers as we roll through the Eighty-Sixth Street stop, the last one before we get to Coney Island.
“Just how lucky I am to be here,” I tell him.
He smiles and squeezes my hand, but he doesn’t reply until we’re pulling into the Coney Island station. “We both are.”
He stands up and nods at Hannah, who snaps her book closed and smiles at us. “We always said we have to make the life we want,” he adds. “And I think we’re doing a pretty good job, don’t you?” I start to reply, but we’re already getting off the train and heading for the station exit. I let myself be pulled along, swept by the tide, until I begin to wonder if perhaps that’s been my mistake. Maybe I’ve been riding the tide all along instead of using the current to propel me in the direction I choose.
After eight hours at Coney Island, during which all three of us scream our heads off on the Sling Shot, giggle through the Cyclone, get dizzy on the teacups, and eat so many Nathan’s hot dogs our stomachs hurt, we head home, dazed smiles plastered across our faces.
“It’s no Disney World,” Hannah concludes. “But Coney Island rocks. Can we go back next weekend?”
Patrick just arches an eyebrow at her, and after a minute, she giggles and says, “Okay. I’ll let the hot dogs settle first. Then we’ll talk.”
Patrick reaches for my hand as Hannah digs her book out of her bag and begins to read again. “This has been a pretty perfect day, hasn’t it?” he asks.
“The best,” I agree, putting my head on his shoulder.
At home, we tuck Hannah in together, and I can feel myself growing wearier by the second. I know the dream is already beginning to fade, and I can’t stop it. “Love you guys,” Hannah says with a yawn as Patrick ruffles her hair and I bend down to give her a kiss on her warm, smooth cheek.
“We love you too, honey,” Patrick tells her.
I don’t know what makes me say it, but I hear my words for Patrick come out of my mouth. “I knew before I met you—” I say to Hannah, my heart aching.
She smiles, yawns, and takes off her headpiece. For a moment, I’m sure she’s not going to reply. Then, she signs, That I was meant to be yours, and I find myself blinking back sudden tears. So she’s part of our secret language too. But how can I love this girl so powerfully when she doesn’t really exist?
Patrick flips Hannah’s light off and closes her door behind us as we walk out into the hallway. “Let’s go sit in the living room for a little while,” he says.
We settle on our sofa, and he pulls me toward him. I rest my head on his shoulder.
“What would you want for Hannah if you weren’t here?” I ask after a while. The room fades a little, but I mentally hang on. After all, I’m not asking anything outlandish.
“You trying to get rid of me?” Patrick teases, but when I don’t laugh, he adds seriously, “I’d want to know she was taken care of and loved. I’d want to know that you were taken care of and loved too. I would want you to be happy, no matter what. I’d want the two of you to stick together and love each other for the rest of your lives, because you’re the two best people I know.”
I begin to cry, and once I do, I can’t stop. “You’re the best person I know,” I manage through sniffles.
“Are we going to have to fight about this?” he asks with a smile.
I laugh, despite myself, and he kisses me on the cheek.
“Kate, you’re really good with Hannah,” he continues, his tone serious again. “She’s lucky to have a mom like you. You know that, don’t you?”
I hesitate. I love her, and even though I don’t remember most of it, it seems I’ve done my best to give her a good life and to help her grow into a good person. It makes me believe that I have those skills somewhere at the core of me, just waiting to be used. “Yes,” I say softly.
“Promise?”
“I promise,” I say.
“Good.” He’s quiet for a moment, and I feel myself growing wearier, the room growing hazier, as he strokes my hair. “I knew before I met you—” he finally whispers, his voice already far away.
“—that I was meant to be yours,” I murmur. It’s the last thing I remember before drifting off to sleep.
Twenty-Five
When I wake up, I finally know with a calm certainty that I have to break up with Dan, and I have to do it today. I can’t put it off any longer, not if I want to have a chance at a good life, a real life. I’ve spent months now—maybe years—overriding my gut, letting other people’s opinions become my own. But it’s time to take control of my own destiny.
I can’t have Patrick—not in the real world—but that doesn’t mean I can’t go after the future I want. Maybe it’s time to stop getting in my own way.
I want to be a mother. I used to know that for sure so many years ago, back when Patrick was alive. But after he died, it’s like I forgot who I was and where my life was headed. If I couldn’t have children with him, what was the point?
But the dreams have shown me that parenthood is still something I might be good at. They’ve made me reevaluate my life, forced me to see everything in a new light. I’m good with Max and Leo and all the other kids who come through my door because I’m not afraid to speak their language or care about the things they care about. I’m not afraid to open my heart to them. And I can only imagine that if I had my own child, that openness and readiness to love would increase tenfold, maybe even a hundredfold.
Andrew has taught me that too. By exposing me to kids who don’t just need a music therapist but who also desperately need an adult on their side, he’s helped me to realize that I’m someone of value, and that I have the maternal instincts I always worried I would lack. I know how to love. I’ve just been doing it the wrong way for the last twelve years, because I made a decision—albeit an unconscious one—to shut my heart off when Patrick died. Now it’s time to let the light in.
“We need to talk,” I say bluntly when Dan gets home from work that evening.
“You look awfully serious,” he says with a faint smile as he hangs up his keys. “How was your day?”
“I didn’t go in to work,” I tell him. “There were some things I needed to think about.”
From the way he averts his eyes, I have the feeling he already knows what I’m going to say. “Like what?” he asks, his tone flat.
For a moment, I have trouble speaking, because of course it’s not anything Dan’s done wrong. It’s that all along, I’ve been in love with the idea of moving on. I just haven’t been completely in love with the man I’ve moved on to. None of this is fair to him, but I can’t stay in a relationship simply because it’s easier not to rock the boat.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “But I can’t do this.”
He looks taken aback but somehow not totally shocked. “Do what?” he asks.
“Marry you,” I say. “I’m so, so sorry. It sounds like a cliché, but it’s really not you. It’s me. It’s about the life I know I want, Dan.”
I slide the engagement ring off my finger and hold it out to him, but he doesn’t take it. I’m surprised to see so much pain on his face. “This is about kids? You’re throwing me away over something you didn’t even know you wanted a few months ago?”
“No,” I reply, still holding the ring awkwardly. “It’s not just that. It’s everything. It’s about the fact that you can’t make a square peg fit into a round hole, and that’s what we’ve been trying to do, Dan. I just didn’t see it until I opened my eyes. I’m so sorry.”
His gaze hardens. “You know this isn’t fair, right? In all the time we’ve been together, you’ve never once mentioned wanting a child. And now, out of nowhere, it’s the thing that has to define our relationship?”
“Dan—” I begin, but he goes on as if I haven’t spoken.
“You can’t just change your mind like that!” he says. “It’s like the last two years have been a lie!”
“I was never lying,” I say. “Not on purpose. I just wasn’t being honest with myself.”
“Or with me,” he adds coldly.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I never meant to hurt you.”
He stares at me for a moment then laughs in disbelief. “Jesus, this is about Pat, isn’t it? Everything’s about Pat! And now you’re finally punishing me for not being him.”
Life Intended (9781476754178) Page 23