Two Steps Forward

by Sharon Garlough Brown

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s different.”

  “How?”

  “Different, older.”

  Meg’s brow furrowed. “How old?”

  “Forty-two.”

  “Becca, you’re only twen—”

  Becca threw up her hands. “No! See? This is why I didn’t tell you, okay? Because you’re already judging him, judging us, just because he’s older.”

  Breathe, commanded the voice inside Meg’s head. Breathe.

  Inhale.

  Exhale.

  “I’m not judging anyone,” Meg said, in a voice that sounded strangely detached. “I’m just wondering how you got involved with—”

  “With what? A man ‘old enough to be my father’? Is that what you’re thinking? Well, we’re good together. He says I inspire him, and he wants to be with me, okay? What we have is special, and I’m not giving it up just because you don’t approve! I’m almost twenty-one, and I can do what I want, without anyone’s approval. And yes, just so you don’t have to ask what I know you want to know, we’re sleeping together, okay? There! Now you know the truth.”

  Breathe.

  Oh, God.

  Breathe.

  six

  Charissa

  Charissa tried to get out of bed without waking John at five o’clock Monday morning. But when she returned from the bathroom, he was propped up on his elbow. “Are you still bleeding?” She was. “As much as before?” She wasn’t sure. When the doctor’s office opened at seven thirty, she called for instructions. “What’d they say?”

  “They want me to come in for an ultrasound.”

  “Right now?”

  “As soon as I drink thirty-two ounces of water.” Charissa measured out the exact amount while John called his boss to ask for the morning off.

  “Susan says to take whatever time we need. To take the whole day, if I want. She said there’s a special project I can help with, and I can go in early on Thursday and Friday.”

  An hour later they walked in silence past the maternity gift shop. Charissa looked away from the pregnant mannequins in the window, and she saw John clench his jaw as he held a door open for a pregnant woman on her way out of the doctor’s office.

  They had endured a long and stressful thirty-six hours.

  She had tried to distract herself with final edits on her upcoming Milton presentation, but it was no use. She couldn’t concentrate. So she spent a few hours on Sunday decluttering and rearranging bathroom drawers and cupboards. She needed something mindless and productive to do, and since she didn’t want to overexert herself by vacuuming carpets and upholstery, sorting and purging cleaning products and toiletries fit the bill.

  John, meanwhile, distracted himself by searching for houses online and playing some kind of computer game that involved blowing things up. Neither one of them went to church, and she didn’t answer the phone when her parents called. Instead, she texted to say she was feeling swamped with end-of-the-semester responsibilities and that she’d call them later in the week after her presentation. She wasn’t going to mention any possibility of a miscarriage. She could imagine their response: Well, it may just be God’s way of working things out for the best.

  “Everything happens for a reason,” her mother always said.

  Charissa had said as much to John after the house inspection. He had no doubt spent hours imagining life together in that particular house, had no doubt spent hours imagining sitting in front of that fireplace or playing catch or hide-and-seek in that backyard, and she—with her indifferent “We’ll find another house” comment—had completely dismissed his disappointment. To John, it wasn’t “just a house.”

  There were probably insensitive people who said similar inane things to women who had miscarriages: You’re young. There’ll be other children.

  Well, this wasn’t “just a pregnancy.”

  She wanted this child.

  Please.

  She reached for John’s hand and gripped it hard. He looked up from his magazine. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. His eyes glistened. He kissed her hand and did not let go.

  By the time she and John were summoned to the examination room, Charissa felt as if she were waddling rather than walking. The nurse fastened the blood pressure cuff around her forearm. “Is your bladder full?” she asked.

  What an understatement. She hoped she could last another half an hour.

  John chattered away, firing questions first at the nurse, then at Dr. Newton as soon as she entered the room. Would they know right away? Would they be able to hear the heartbeat? How long would it take?

  Dr. Newton seated herself in front of the monitor and patiently answered all of his questions while Charissa lay on the exam table beside the computer screen that would reveal whether life was still growing within her. “Just pull your shirt up a bit—right there, that’s good,” Dr. Newton said, “and roll down your sweats for me. Here’s a towel, tuck that into your waistband like so—good.” She reached for a bottle. “I’m going to squirt some gel onto your abdomen before I move my probe around on your skin. It’s going to feel a little warm.”

  Charissa watched her squirt the blue gel, then remove the probe from its holder and wrap the cord around her forearm. “Okay, here we go.” With her left hand, she pressed some keys on the computer. Light appeared on the screen as she moved the wand around with her right hand.

  “You okay, Riss?” John asked. He was sitting in the chair on the other side of the exam table, eyes fixed on the computer. Charissa nodded and turned her head to stare at the screen as well. There would be no way to decipher any of the images until the doctor explained them. It just looked like a blur of blue light, grainy lines, and shifting shadows.

  Back and forth the doctor moved her probe, clicking keys on the screen, watching the monitor, saying nothing. Charissa felt John take her hand, but she didn’t turn to look at his face. She couldn’t.

  Click, click. Beep. Silence. Click. Beep. Click.

  The center of the screen had a black area, shaped like an eye, and within that area—was that the baby? John had gone mute, as if afraid to ask the question. Charissa wasn’t sure she could speak without crying, and she didn’t want to cry. Please.

  And then, just when Charissa thought she couldn’t bear the silence a moment longer, Dr. Newton held the wand steady and pointed to the screen. “See this?” Charissa felt John’s hand tense up. She could feel his pulse. Or maybe it was hers. “Here’s your bladder.” She circled an area with her finger. “Here’s your uterus.” She pointed again. “Here’s the baby . . .”

  Oh God. Please. She could make out the shape of a head and a body, but she didn’t see any movement. None at all.

  Click. Click. Beep.

  “And here’s the heartbeat.”

  Oh God. Charissa didn’t realize she had been holding her breath until she exhaled unevenly, making a rattling sound.

  John leaned over the exam table to get a closer look. “The heart’s beating?”

  “Right here. See this area pulsating?”

  John jumped up, both hands on top of his head. “The baby’s okay?”

  “Well, I’m going to take some measurements, but so far, so good.” She moved the wand again. “Here. Listen.” She clicked some buttons, and suddenly they heard a rapid pa-thump-pa-thump-pa-thump-pa-thump.

  “That’s the heartbeat?” Charissa asked quietly. It sounded so insistent, so determined, so resilient.

  “That’s the heartbeat.”

  “It sounds fast—is it too fast?” John asked.

  “No, that’s well within the normal range. Your little one’s got a strong signal going here.”

  John spun in a circle and dropped to a crouching position. “Thank God,” he said. “Thank God, thank God, thank God.”

  Dr. Newton smiled and kept pressing keys.

  “Does that mean everything’s okay?” Charissa asked. “That the bleeding is okay?”

  “Well, there’s no guaran
tee, but getting a good strong heartbeat is a good sign. That’s what we want to see.”

  Charissa’s throat tightened with emotion. Even now, within her, a tiny little person was perfectly at rest.

  “All the measurements look good,” the doctor said. “Almost nine weeks. We’ll just look at a few more things here, and then I’ll let you go give your bladder a break.”

  At the moment Charissa couldn’t care less about her bladder. She wanted to watch the screen, wanted to watch the little one’s heart beating, thrumming with life.

  With life.

  Her chest heaved with a sob she could not control. In an instant John was at her side, cradling her head against his breast, where she felt the beating of his heart, thrumming with life. She dampened his shirt with her tears, tears of relief, tears of repentance, tears of gratitude, tears of wonder, tears that expressed all she could not yet say aloud with words. How much grace was too much grace?

  Jesus. Thank you. I’m so sorry. Thank you.

  “You okay?” John asked.

  She waited until she had control over her heaving, then sniffed loudly. “Just relieved. Really relieved.”

  John brushed her cheeks and kissed her forehead. Once the doctor finished the scan and wiped off the gel, he pressed his lips to her abdomen. “I love you, baby. You hear me? Your daddy loves you.”

  Charissa left the office clutching the ultrasound photo to her chest and did not object when John suggested stopping in the gift shop to buy their baby a special gift as a marker, to celebrate life and love.

  Meg

  A robust knock on the door awakened Meg, and at first she thought Becca had returned to say it had all been a terrible mistake.

  “Housekeeping!”

  Meg rolled over in bed and squinted at the clock. It was already ten.

  “Just a minute, please!” Wrapping herself in her robe, she shuffled to the door. Through the peephole she could see a girl about Becca’s age, standing there with a cart. Meg cracked open the door just wide enough for communication. “I’m so sorry, I’ve overslept.”

  “No worries! I’ll come back a bit later, shall I?”

  “I think maybe—if it’s all right—I think I’ll skip housekeeping today. I’m not feeling very well.”

  “Oh, sorry! Of course. If you change your mind, just ring reception. Can I change your towels for you?”

  “That’s very kind. Thank you.” Meg gathered the towels from the bathroom and handed them to the girl, who looked at her with an expression of deep compassion that threatened to undo her.

  “Would you like me to bring you a cup of tea?”

  “Oh—thank you, but—”

  “It’s no trouble,” she said. “You look like you’re feeling quite poorly. A cuppa always does the trick for me.”

  Fifteen minutes later the girl returned holding a tray not only with tea, milk, and sugar, but with four slices of buttered toast, strawberry jam, and a small vase filled with daisies. “We had these flowers on the breakfast tables this morning. I thought it might cheer you up a bit.”

  Meg’s eyes brimmed with tears. “You have no idea. Thank you.” The sight of those delicate, unexpected flowers stirred a memory, a conversation with Hannah about flowers in winter, about needing reminders of God’s love and care and faithfulness when life seemed bleak and dark. Thank you, Lord. Thank you for the reminder.

  “Just leave the tray in the hallway when you’re finished, and I’ll pick it up later. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “You’ve already done more than you know. Thank you.”

  “My name’s Claire. If you need anything else, just ask for me.”

  “I will. Thank you, Claire.”

  Meg placed the flowers on the table by the window and stared out at the park while she sipped her tea. Though Rachel would no doubt accuse her of being melodramatic, Meg suspected that years from now she would identify that moment when Becca stormed out of the hotel room as one of the most gut-wrenching moments of her life. Nothing she said had dissuaded her. In fact, Meg’s protest only inflamed her and made her more resolute.

  “It’s my life!” Becca had insisted, with a voice that sounded far too similar to a younger version of Rachel. How many nights had Meg spent over the years listening to Rachel argue with their mother, not just as a teenager but right up until their mother died in the spring? That’s what scared her as much as anything else. She didn’t recognize this version of her daughter. Becca had always been free-spirited and independent. Strong-willed, Mother called her. But last night Meg had seen a stubborn, belligerent defiance that she could only attribute to Simon’s influence.

  Lord, help.

  And what about the lying? Becca claimed she had only been involved with him for a couple of weeks, that they met at a pub, that he was divorced, that he used to teach philosophy at the university but now worked for a publishing company. “And that’s it, okay? Now you know the truth!” But their whole foundation of intimate trust, everything they had built over the years, had been damaged. How would she be able to believe anything Becca said, ever again?

  Maybe if you hadn’t withheld her father from her all these years, this never would have happened.

  Oh, God.

  Maybe it was all her fault. It didn’t take a psychologist to see why Becca would be attracted to a father figure. She had waited too long to share Jim, and now it was too late. Now Becca would no doubt see any attempt at conversation about her father as an effort to redirect her, manipulate her, psychoanalyze her, and make her feel guilty.

  It had all gone terribly, irrevocably wrong.

  Inhale: I can’t.

  Exhale: I can’t.

  Meg pushed the toast aside, crawled back into bed, and pulled the sheet up over her face.

  “You are not a terrible person. You’re not. Look at me.” Pippa reached across the table at the Cat and Mouse Pub and lifted Becca’s face with both of her hands. “You don’t have any control over whether your mum freaks out over something silly like this. It’s crazy. If I brought home someone sophisticated like Simon, my mum would be over the moon!”

  “Yeah, well, that’s your mom. You weren’t there, Pip. You didn’t see her face.”

  “She’ll get over it.”

  “You don’t know my mom. She’s kinda, like, fragile.” Becca took a sip of her Tennant’s.

  “What does Simon think about it?”

  “You know Simon. Simon’s cool about everything. He joked about going over to the hotel to read from Sartre or recite poetry to her.”

  “Yeah, that’ll win her over.” Pippa sprinkled some more salt on her fish and chips. “Here, have some. I can’t eat all of these.”

  “Thanks.” Becca scooped some chips onto her plate. “I don’t know how I’m going to survive the next couple of weeks. She’s supposed to be here until after New Year’s. And now, every time I tell her I have other plans and can’t get together, she’ll assume I’m with Simon. And she’ll try to lecture and guilt-trip me out of it. You should have heard her. She was really upset. Begged me to break up with him. Got all judgmental on me, said it was wrong.”

  Pippa rolled her eyes. “Well, you’re not going to give him up just because she doesn’t approve, are you?”

  “No! Of course not! It’s just that when she called me back in October and said she wanted to come and visit, it seemed like this great idea, and I was all excited.”

  “Well, things change. You didn’t know Simon then.”

  “No, you’re right. Maybe I should’ve called her a few weeks ago and told her straight up what was going on.”

  “Yeah, but you said you didn’t tell her because you knew how she’d react. And you were right. Look how she reacted.”

  Becca traced over some of the carved graffiti on the table with her index finger. “You know, when she was my age, she was already married. And she treats me like I’m still a little girl.”

  “Some little girl.”

  Becca spun around
at Simon’s voice. “Hey, I didn’t think you’d get here until six!” She scooted over in the booth to make room.

  “I finished early.” He took off his coat, hung it on a peg, and kissed Becca as he sat down beside her.

  “Simon, tell her she’s not a terrible person!”

  “Who says she’s a terrible person?” He motioned for Pippa to pass him the bottle of malt vinegar, then poured some onto Becca’s chips before popping a few into his mouth.

  “I was just telling Pippa what happened with my mum last night.”

  Simon chuckled. “I offered to go to the hotel to sort it all out.”

  “There’s no sorting it out. I don’t know what to do.”

  Pippa said, “Why don’t you just tell your mum that since you’re obviously not going to agree about things, you think it would be best for both of you if she heads back home?”

  “Yeah, right. And have her completely fall apart on me?”

  “I told you last night, Rebecca,” Simon said. “Choose what makes you happy and hang the rest.”

  “You’re what makes me happy.” Becca leaned her head on Simon’s shoulder and tucked her arm through his. “I choose you.”

  Dearest Jim,

  There is a grief so deep that there aren’t even tears. That was the grief I felt the day you died. You left before I had a chance to tell you one more time that I loved you. You left before I had the chance to say good-bye. And when I stood there beside that hospital gurney and stroked a hand that would never again grip my fingers, there were no tears. Just shock. Numbness. Like I was outside my own body. When the tears found me later, I thought I would drown. So I buried you, not just in the depths of the earth, but in the depths of my heart. I buried you so that I wouldn’t have to feel the pain of your absence. And though it hurts more than I can say to miss you again, maybe the pain is evidence of healing. I was numb and frozen for so long, my love. Now I feel, and it hurts.