by Lisa Dale
December 4
Lana lay in her bed, staring. Her alarm clock had started buzzing ten minutes ago, but she didn’t turn it off. She just listened to it droning, demanding. The sound or the silence of it made little difference. Time crept like long winter shadows across the floor, the hours unchanging except for the slant of the sun.
Outside, the first serious freeze of the year had come on hard and fast. The streets had fallen eerily quiet, so silent that she felt as if she lived in a different place, somewhere chilled and far from civilization. It was hard to believe that the frozen, dark town she lived in now was the same town that celebrated spring with bloodroot and columbine. Everything and everyone had tucked in for the long winter. Charlotte was her only communication with the outside world. She stopped in to bring casseroles, bread, milk, toothpaste, DVDs, and magazines. But otherwise, Lana was alone.
There had been no specific moment when she realized that Eli was gone. The first few messages she’d left on his answering machine had been innocent—naive—enough. She supposed there must have been a good explanation for his not showing up to fix their dinner and not calling to explain. But then, the unease that had been niggling in the back of her mind had gained strength and pushed to the forefront overnight. She awoke with a knot in her stomach and misery saturating her whole body. She’d lost him. She knew.
And now she lay in bed, feeling as if her bones themselves had turned to heavy lead and trapped her against her mattress. She turned over in bed, bringing the baby with her. It protested, kicking her once before settling down. She knew it could sense her heartbreak, her longing. Her bed was empty without Eli in it. Her heart was too.
She hadn’t realized how much her life’s desires had changed until now. She’d begun to look forward to her life with Eli and her child. She saw the three of them happy, thriving, living their lives. But it was more than just the desire of a dream. She counted on that future. She needed it. And now there was a chance that it was gone.
On her nightstand was a letter Eli had written her, just a frayed-edge bit of notebook paper with very few words. He told her what had happened. That he’d seen her with Ron. And even though he didn’t stick around to see if she really had accepted Ron’s proposal, what he’d seen gave him pause. The tone of the letter was straightforward enough, but she could feel Eli’s heartbreak underneath. Seeing Ron propose to her was upsetting, but it had triggered deeper, more powerful fears.
She could read between the lines: He didn’t know if he could trust her. She wondered again and again if there was some way to prove herself to him. She envisioned herself calling him up, demanding he come to her house since she couldn’t go out, and then setting him straight. But the shock of discovering that he didn’t trust her now that she so thoroughly trusted herself… it hurt.
She could have written back to him, said Of course I don’t want Ron. I want you. But his doubt was so enormous, such a force to be reckoned with, that she felt it would do little good to bother him with something as trifling as fact. The weakness in their relationship was huge. She hadn’t seen it coming. His doubts were not the small and wondering and inconsequential kind; they called into question who she was—who he thought she was—and that was terrifying.
She felt the baby wiggle a little inside her. Her belly felt different now, a pressure so low and strong it was almost as if she needed to be constantly holding the child in place with her muscles. For days after she’d returned from the hospital, Eli had been at her side, unmindful of her messy hair, her swollen feet and hands, the circles of fatigue beneath her eyes. They’d talked about the day she would give birth; they planned for it and strategized their maneuvers with the precision of generals. It felt like more than just preparing for a baby; it felt like they were laying the groundwork for a future together. But now Eli was saying they both needed time to think. He’d told her to call him for anything—he said he was going away, not far. But merely knowing that she could dial him up in an emergency didn’t mean nearly as much as if she could call him for no reason at all. His offer of help felt like a consolation prize.
In a few weeks, the child would be safe to deliver. In the scheme of her life, three weeks would be a drop in the proverbial bucket. But for now loneliness contorted the minutes into interminable hours. The sunlight shifted imperceptibly, inch by incremental inch, and the city turned up its collar and clenched its jaw against the bone-deep winter freeze. Lana lay alone in her bed, and she rubbed her belly and told her child stories of better seasons to come. In Greek mythology, spring came when Persephone was allowed to leave the underworld and visit her mother; their joy at reuniting brought the flowers back to barren land. It had always made sense to Lana that to tell the story of spring would be to tell the story of mothers and daughters, of reunion. She kissed the tips of her fingers and pressed them to her belly, swearing that everything would be better if they could only make it to spring.
December 7
Karin knocked on her sister’s door, the first time she’d done so in years. Then, because she knew Lana wasn’t supposed to get up to answer, she turned her key in the lock. Inside, the kitchen was messy, quiet, and dim. The lacy curtains of Lana’s little windows were open, bathing the room in white winter light that was both luminous and cold. She moved toward Lana’s room with the odd sense that the house had been abandoned for a long time.
She found Lana propped up in bed. She wasn’t sleeping, but when she turned her head, her gaze lacked the clear-eyed alertness that said she was fully awake. Her hair was weighed down from days of not showering, and her skin was tired and dull. There was a television in the room, but it wasn’t on. Karin trembled. Her sister, so flushed and vigorous after she’d returned from the hospital, was now wasting away.
“I know, I look terrible,” Lana said. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“You look…” Karin’s eyes grew watery. Lana was the best sight she’d seen in days. “I’ve missed you.”
Lana nodded. Her voice was hollow and flat. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“How are you feeling?”
“I’ve been better.”
Karin surveyed the room—clothes in bundles on the floor, a stack of filthy dishes, glasses that bore rings from liquid that had evaporated days ago. “What’s going on here? Why didn’t Eli clean this up for you?”
Lana raised her eyes back to the ceiling, and Karin got the sense that she’d been lying like that for some time. She paused long enough for Karin to look around, to realize there were no traces of Eli anywhere—the books, clothes, and other odds and ends Karin would have expected to see were conspicuously absent. She looked at Lana with a pang of concern.
When Lana finally spoke, her voice was lifeless and tired. “He’s gone.”
Gently, Karin sat on the edge of Lana’s bed, feeling the strength of it buckle beneath her. She remembered the concern on Eli’s face in the hospital, his frustration that he could not do more. Something didn’t add up. “What happened?”
“He left me,” Lana said. “I’ll fill you in on the details later. When I can stand to. For now, let’s just leave it there.”
Karin sighed. “I would have come sooner if I knew. Who’s been taking care of you?”
“Charlotte stops in. When she can.”
Karin nodded. “And you didn’t want to call me for help because you thought I was mad.”
The sparkle of hope in Lana’s eyes was more than Karin could stand. “You’re not mad at me?”
“No. And also… I’m alone now too.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Gene’s gone away for a while. We’re taking a break.”
Lana’s glassed-over eyes became a touch more focused. “Oh, Kari. I’m sorry.”
“No. Don’t be. He did the right thing.” She paused, feeling for the first time in two weeks that she was about to do something unequivocally and totally right. She’d been thinking long and hard about who she was, what she’d done, and what she wanted from the future.
It was time for her to start down a new path. And she wanted her sister beside her when she did. “I’ve been a mess. And I’ve done a lot of things wrong. To him. And to you too.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to. Please. Just let me get this off my chest.” Karin took Lana’s hand. “I got so focused on starting a family that I lost sight of the family I already have. I did pressure you to give me the baby. I couldn’t see how desperate I was. How wrapped up in myself. You took the brunt of it, I’m afraid. You and Gene. So I owe you an apology. I’m sorry. I can’t change what I did. But I’m sorry for it. I really am.”
Lana’s eyes were wet. “We both know I’m the one who should be apologizing to you.”
“You need to do what’s right for you and your baby. And for what it’s worth, Lanie, I do think you’re going to be a great mom. Wacky, but a really great mom.”
Lana smiled and reached toward Karin to hug her. Karin felt the warmth of her sister’s arms and she laid her head on Lana’s shoulder. The tenderness she felt for her sister was warm and very welcome. Loving her sister—or Gene, or anyone—was so easy. Love, in its purest form, came so naturally, without complication. She felt the strength and solidity of it rooted firmly within her, and she knew her love for her family could never be compromised. Relationships were always a push and pull, a swinging forward and backward, changes propelled by dreams, circumstances, and time. And yet, Karin felt there was a sameness underlying all of it. Love as bedrock. And it made all the swinging back and forth seem, on the surface, kind of silly at times.
“Thank you for understanding,” Lana said.
“I’m just sorry it took so long.” Karin pulled away, feeling better than she had in weeks. She still had a ways to go before she really understood, but she was getting closer to something. She just didn’t know what. She looked around the room and began to lay out a plan to clean up the mess around them.
December 14
Lana was sitting on the edge of her bed when she heard Calvert’s voice as Karin let him into the living room—his too-loud, overly polite remarks—and she could picture him looking around, taking in her mismatched decorating as he stepped inside. She looked herself in the eye in her bedroom mirror, feeling and seeing a reflection of his nervousness in herself but certain of what she had to do.
Over the last week, she and Karin had spent a lot of time cooped up together. And they’d been talking a lot about their childhood—dredging up all those memories, good and bad. Until now, Lana hadn’t wanted to revisit those old moments that she’d worked so hard to forget. But somehow, the conversations didn’t feel like volunteering for a series of self-inflicted wounds. Instead she was growing closer to her sister, opening up to her as an equal, healing and getting control.
Yesterday, in the midst of a discussion about the way Calvert had treated his boarders, Karin had convinced Lana that she needed to talk to their father. When Lana had collapsed in the Wildflower Barn, Calvert had called the ambulance for her and stayed with her, talking softly and telling her it would be okay. He’d grabbed a sweatshirt from a display and put it under her head, and he’d found a blanket embroidered with cosmos to help stave off shock. At the very least, she owed him the courtesy of saying thanks.
Now, she walked slowly out of the bedroom, excruciatingly attuned to the pressure between her legs. She could feel that the baby was pressing downward now, its little heels tap-dancing on her diaphragm. She had a strong sense that she was carrying the baby inside her the same way that she might carry it in her arms; even the lightest bundle could become exhausting after too long. Being pregnant was no longer one of her body’s functions, but had become its first and most basic function. The baby was impatient to be born and she soothed it, daily, saying, Just a little more time.
Calvert’s eyes grew wide with worry when she turned the corner that led to the living room. Among the brightly colored tapestries and spangled saris that decorated the room, he looked completely out of place. He was dressed more nicely than she’d seen in a while. What hair he had left was slicked flat against the sides of his head; she could see the teeth marks from the comb he’d used to brush it back.
“Here she is,” Karin said, and Lana could tell that she too was a little nervous. “I guess I’ll just leave you two alone.”
Lana sat down in the armchair on the opposite side of the room as Karin left. She had actually gotten dressed today, and her maternity jeans and blue sweater felt constricting and itchy on her skin. “Hi, Calvert.”
“Lana.” He shifted in his chair, uncomfortable. “How you feeling?”
“I’m hanging in there,” she said.
“You like being… you know?”
She managed a smile. “I like it very much. I’d like to stay pregnant for at least a couple more weeks. For the baby’s sake.” She leaned back in her chair to accommodate her belly and clasped her hands. She liked that her father really did seem interested in her pregnancy—that he’d thought to ask if she liked how she felt. It was a nice consolation from a man who hadn’t seemed to care much what she liked or didn’t like ages ago.
“I brought this for you,” he said, reaching into the bag beside him and pulling out a small present. “Karin told me that with everything going on, you weren’t able to get together a baby shower. I hope you like it.”
She took the small gift. It was wrapped in a muted yellow paper, smiling ducks looking back at her. “You didn’t need to do this…”
“Yeah, well… I did,” he said.
She slid her thumb under a bit of masking tape and slowly opened the present. Inside was a kit to grow a child’s garden. It was too old for a newborn. But Calvert most likely saw the child-friendly colors and baby-sized gardening tools, and it had inspired him.
“I know how you feel about flowers…,” he said.
Tears came to her eyes, and she blinked them back, remembering too vividly the moment when he’d given her a bit of jewelweed and shown her what flowers were for the first time. Could he know how much that moment still meant to her? She set the garden kit down gently on her lap. “Why did you have me?” she asked.
“What?”
“I understand why you had Karin—because it was an accident. But why me? Why didn’t you stop at one?”
He took in a deep breath, then sighed. “Well, see, Karin wasn’t totally an accident.”
“Okay…?”
He fidgeted in his seat, and he seemed to struggle for something to look at, something other than Lana’s face. “Your mom and I… we were young. Dumb. We sorta kicked around the idea of getting married and having kids. And so we stopped being totally careful all the time.”
Lana couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. “So Karin was intentional?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way,” he replied. “Neither one of us actually thought Ellen’d get pregnant. We just liked the danger of it. I imagine Ellen got to telling people it was an accident on account of the divorce. But at the time it felt like we were daring the gods or something. And when Ellen did conceive, I remember feeling… good. But scared too.”
Lana bit the inside of her lip, not sure how to respond. She couldn’t picture the man sitting before her now being joyfully reckless, tempting fate. He’d always seemed so insensitive, so resigned to whatever fate dealt him. At least, that was how he’d been when they moved in with him. He’d always tolerated them, but nothing more. “Well, even if Karin wasn’t exactly an accident, why did you have me?”
Calvert grimaced, deep wrinkles pulling around his mouth. “It was your mother’s idea mostly. And I’m afraid she didn’t get a fair shake. She told me she wanted another baby, and what was I supposed to do?”
“You didn’t want another baby?”
“No. But I went along.”
“You could have told her no.”
“I thought maybe if we had another one, I’d be happy.”
Lana couldn’t ignore the pang of sympathy she felt for him. “W
ere you happy?”
“I suppose not,” he said, thoughtful and a little sad. “I wasn’t cut out for a family. For kids. But you don’t always know these things when you’re young. And I made a mistake.”
Lana turned the little garden kit over in her hands, the bright tulips and daffodils blurring as she spun it around. Her father looked at parenting a different way than she did. His reasons for having a child extended beyond the simple desire to be a parent. He’d wanted Karin and Lana to fix a problem—for Karin to be the thrill that kept a young romance going. And for Lana to be the glue to keep a failing marriage from falling apart.
But Lana wanted her baby only for its own sake. She wanted to search out the joy in life with her son or daughter by her side—to share that enjoyment. And maybe, if she did things right, to go someday from being called Mother to being called Friend. She wasn’t giving up on her dreams of traveling—not by a long shot. But she hoped someday to have her child beside her when she saw the world. The baby had become an important and intrinsic part of the fabric of the future, bonding with her dreams the same way it had bonded with her body as the months passed.
Calvert slid his palms along his thighs as if they were sweaty. His gaze stayed focused on his hands. His words seemed measured and deliberate when at last he spoke. “You and Karin turned out real well. No thanks to me. I mean, I ignored you girls. I know I did. I thought it was unfair the way life turned out, and I took it out on you.”
Lana was quiet, astonished by the simple way he admitted to doing wrong. It took courage, she knew, to be able to apologize so candidly. She respected him for that.
He looked up, his ice-blue eyes fathomless, when she looked on. “I’m not asking for you to all of a sudden forget everything. But I’d sleep a whole lot better at night if you’d tell me you forgive me. If you can.”
She nodded and managed to smile. Forgiveness rolled up out of her soul, easy as breathing. She realized she’d been waiting for this moment a long time. “I’m over it,” she said, to keep the moment light. “All of it. Water under the bridge.”