Olivia goes on to detail Sam’s illness, personal medical particulars that hit his ears like a complex math equation. It is difficult to absorb on top of everything else she’s dropped in his path. She uses a phrase called haploidentical transplantation, or a half match. Theo gets the gist of it—an offspring or parent of the ill person is the go-to source for this treatment. It’s not a sure thing, but it’s a possibility.
Olivia says that no random bone marrow donor has been found, and that Sam Nash’s brother cannot be located. Theo processes this, forcing the term uncle onto his brain. Uncle Kevin, he’s his uncle—a man with a son who looks just like David McAdams. Uncle Martin, Claire’s brother. He’s also his uncle. Not some oil-rig loser who can’t even be located to help save his own sibling’s life. Theo sinks deeper into the sofa. Father. All this talk is about saving his father’s life.
It can’t be. Theo has spent sixteen years accepting his father’s death. He cannot get his head around a live version, particularly one who may die all over again.
Olivia goes on to say that when Sam Nash was first diagnosed, she didn’t know he was ill. But this time, not only does she know he’s sick, she also knows he has a son. A son who is a potential, life-saving half match.
Right before Olivia arrived, Theo was questioning his usefulness, whether or not he was making a difference in the lives of his Braemore students. And here, in his own living room, Theo is presented with an opportunity to literally save a man’s life. Theo has always thought of himself as the sort of person who would do the right thing, run into a burning building instead of out. He’s positive that on September 11 David McAdams did everything he could to save others in a building that was already burning. Since then, Theo perceives this as the marker he wants to emulate, the man he wants to be. He listens as Olivia winds down and the three of them sit in eerie silence. Theo considers, thoughtfully, the things he’s learned. Finally, he formulates a response.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course,” Olivia says. “Anything.”
He wants to laugh at her willingness to suddenly share. He keeps his composure. “Sam Nash. This is the guy you told me about—the one who wanted you to get an abortion instead of having the baby? The one who wanted a baseball career more than he wanted a child.”
Olivia nods vaguely. “Yes, but when I told you that . . .”
Her words fade and Theo nods back harder. He finds he’s not feeling any of the things David McAdams taught him—whether by influence or actions. Theo is unmoved by compassion for another human being. Instead, he realizes something else: he is very much like his mother. His mouth twitches as impulsive anger rips through him. “So if all that’s true,” Theo says, “why should I do a damn thing to save the life of a man who wanted to end mine? A man who went happily on his way the moment he thought I didn’t exist.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Olivia
Instead of taking India back to the ferry, she asks me to drop her at a girlfriend’s apartment. I imagine India doesn’t want to sit in a car with me for that long. The friend also lives on the outskirts of Boston proper, a short drive from Theo’s apartment. After his declaration of disgust, Theo asked me to leave. He looked pensively to India. For a moment, I thought some good might come of it. I thought India might choose to stay. She did not; in fact, she moved faster out the apartment door than I did. It doesn’t add up. She thought enough, felt enough, to come in the first place. The motivation for India’s behavior grows increasingly muddled. A glimmer of an idea broadens—one where India’s breakup with Theo centers on something other than her lack of feelings for Theo.
“Here, turn here,” she says, pointing at the upcoming corner. Her hand trembles like her drug-addict sister in need of a fix.
It’s a disparaging thought. I should talk . . . “I’m sorry, India. Sorry that you went through all that for nothing.”
“It wasn’t for nothing. It was for Theo. It was exactly what I said. I couldn’t imagine him hearing about his birth mother, not like that, without anyone there.” India swipes at dripping tears. “Just pull up here.”
Her fingers are wrapped around the door handle, and before the fair, flaming-haired India can escape, I say, “One last thing . . . please.”
India’s whips her head around. “I won’t beg him for you. I’m sorry that man will die without Theo’s help. But really . . .” She narrows her watery eyes. “You have no one to blame but yourself.”
I hear truth but focus on a finer point. “I wasn’t going to ask you that,” I say. “I’m not surprised by Theo’s reaction. But I had to try.”
She sniffs. “I guess even you would do anything for the man you love.”
I don’t respond. I’m not sure that’s what I did. When India doesn’t bolt from the vehicle, I keep going. “What I want to know is why you agreed to come with me in the first place? I appreciate not wanting Theo to be alone . . . Well, alone with me. But why didn’t you call Claire, ask her to be the buffer?”
“Why didn’t you?” she snaps.
I hear a mutual ping of animosity.
“I could have. It would have been easier on Theo, rather than dangling you in front of him, reminding him of what he’s lost. Of course, that’s easy for me to explain—why further humiliate myself in front of Theo’s adoptive mother? The hole I dug . . . It’s already pit-like. What’s less obvious is why you didn’t turn to Claire. Why come with me, when a preemptive call to her would have given him something soft to land on while spearing me nicely?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t think that fast.” She shoots me a look. “I’m not a conniver.”
“No, you’re not. But you are quick and clever, India. So why didn’t you want Claire on hand to provide a shining example of motherhood while I confessed my sins, old and new?”
“Maybe I should have.” Surprisingly, India laughs. “Of course if Claire were there her shining example of motherhood would have shredded you into bite-size pieces.”
“She would have been angry, India . . . surprised. But would she really have gone off the deep end?” India doesn’t reply. She only looks toward the street lamp and triple-decker house where her friend lives. “What happened tonight wasn’t about Claire.”
“It happened to Theo. It happened to Claire.” India twists toward me. “You caused Theo pain. Claire won’t stand for that. She hasn’t since his father died. How do you fault her for that mind-set?” She reaches for the door handle again. “I have to go.”
I grab her arm. I’ve nothing to lose. “India, tell me something. I heard Claire caught you kissing your old boyfriend. Is that true?”
Her tone hardens like an ex-con. “It is. And how do you know that?” But the tone doesn’t last and she doesn’t wait for an answer. Her voice trembles and her story spills out. “I’m not good at hard liquor—martinis in particular. I’m also not making excuses. It shouldn’t have happened. Two martinis and Tom talking about old memories—how marriage is such a big step. Did I think about the fact that I’d known Tom longer than the man I was going to marry? Did it matter that Tom was still in love with me? It was scary and flattering and confusing all at once. As I got up to leave, he caught me off guard. Tom kissed me, and my future mother-in-law called out my name.” India shakes her red head and swipes at tears. “You want to talk about humiliated? It . . . it was so unbelievably . . . awful.”
I hang on to her arm. “Trust me, India. The judgment error you made doesn’t put you within a mile of my league. That and I’m not sure why one fleeting bad moment had to change your entire future.”
“Well, you’re not me.” She aims a steely gaze in my direction. “I’d imagine they’re different thresholds. I don’t deserve someone like Theo.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, homing in on discrepancies. “I was under the impression you left Theo because you were unsure about the two of you, because you doubted how much you loved him after kissing the old boyfriend.”
“Would
you please stop saying that,” she snaps. “And what’s the difference? None of it matters.”
“I think it matters a great deal. Tell me something. What’s she got on you other than a kiss? How did Claire convince you to break up with her son?”
“What? She didn’t.”
India opens the car door. My grip around her other arm tightens. “Not so fast, sweetie. I spoke with your sister at the gala. She hinted at Tiger Mom’s protective instincts. Her buddy, Shep Stewart, he sweetened the pot by telling me that Claire wasn’t too keen on the idea of Theo marrying into the Church family. Tell me the rest. My guess is there’s a part Theo doesn’t know.” It’s visual standoff. “I swear, India, I’ll turn this car around and go right back to his apartment. I’ll tell him my suspicions. It will only add to the wonderful day he’s had.”
“He’ll hate you.”
“He already does.”
India yanks her arm from my grip. “Isn’t it enough? Claire saw me that day. I even knew about the stupid Booktini bar because she’d suggested it. But never in a million years . . . in a city the size of New York did I imagine . . .”
“Running headlong into her? Interesting timing,” I muse about something I have no hope of proving.
“Saying I hate that it happened doesn’t begin to cover it. Claire walking in on . . .” India stops long enough to catch her hiccupping breaths. “Even so, at first I thought Theo and I could work it out. Telling him wasn’t easy. I still can’t believe I hurt him like that. And he didn’t say, ‘No biggie, India. Kiss whoever you like . . .’ But he did tell me . . .”
“Tell you what?”
“Theo told me he had lunch with an old girlfriend a while back. Just weeks before he asked me to marry him. He never kissed the girl or anything. He said he didn’t make the lunch date out of doubt—but he still did it. Later, he realized he’d done it because . . . Well, he wanted one last glance back.”
“So not a kiss, but a good-bye,” I clarify.
“A glance,” she insists. India focuses on her wringing hands. “Hearing Theo admit to something so small . . . It stung. So if anything, it only made me feel worse about the kiss with Tom. Theo went on to say he didn’t tell me because he knew how meaningless the lunch date was. Then he asked me if I was still sure that I wanted to marry him.”
“And at that point?”
“Of course I wanted to marry him. I still—” India purses her lips and stares out a rain-dappled window. “Like I said, Theo was hurt and upset that I’d kissed Tom. But he believed we’d work through it.”
I pause, reflecting on outcomes. “You know, chances at happily ever after . . . If you get one you’re lucky. A second is even rarer. If Theo was so willing, why didn’t it happen?”
“Because it kept snowballing. I didn’t tell Theo about Claire showing up. I was too mortified, too ashamed. I figured I’d confess to that part when I got back to Boston.”
“Claire beat you to it.”
India shakes her head. “Claire never told him either. He still doesn’t know his mother was at Booktini that day. A couple days passed. I thought maybe it was for the best—give Theo time to cool off. Give me time to feel something less than horrible.
“But in the meantime, Claire spoke to Theo,” India says. “He didn’t tell her what had happened between me and Tom. I was surprised Claire didn’t bring it up to him. Theo’s mother and I got along. But I’d seen it—her protectiveness. It startled me more than once. I couldn’t believe she was going to let me off the hook that easy.”
“She didn’t. Did she, India?”
And through her tears, India smiles. “A tongue lashing—like the one you should have gotten tonight. That wasn’t Claire’s plan.”
“Her plan was to erase you from her son’s life.”
“How do you know—”
“Because I understand how someone like Claire thinks. Her past is nobler than mine and her street credit earned. But tragedy doesn’t make her a good person. It just gives her a wide berth.”
“Lucky Theo.” She gives me a long once-over. “To have ended up with two such similar maternal creatures under sheep’s wool.”
“Not exactly,” I say. Whatever my shortcomings, I see what Claire and I don’t have in common. “With me,” I tell her, “and the exception of this Theo mess—you get what you see.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning if I had seen you kiss an old boyfriend, I would have kicked your ass in public. But I would have let you and Theo work out the particulars. Claire didn’t do that, did she?”
India averts eye contact. “I had two more days at the catering convention in New York. On the last day, Claire showed up. She asked if we could have coffee, talk. She was very direct. Blunt.”
“What did she say to you?”
“A lot of things. Starting with the fact that I should be so ashamed, she didn’t know how I’d ever face her son again, never mind forgive myself. I explained that I’d already told him. That while Theo was upset, he was willing to forgive me. She said I was taking advantage of his generous nature. In the moment, that’s exactly what it felt like. Claire said I didn’t deserve him.”
“You kissed an old boyfriend, India. You didn’t commit murder and ask Theo to help you hide the body.”
“I think Claire would have had an easier time with that.” She runs a sleeve across her nose. I dig in my purse and come up with a package of Kleenex. India accepts this much from me. “Claire did a lot of talking that afternoon—including talk about my family’s shortcomings. I wasn’t in much of a position to defend myself.”
“No doubt Claire is expert at pouncing on vulnerability.”
“Even so . . .” India sucks in a tremulous breath. “She wasn’t wrong. Theo, he should be with someone . . .”
India doesn’t finish. She wants to describe the woman her ex-fiancé should be with. I suspect the idea is more than India can stomach.
“Eventually,” she says, “Claire got around to Helen and her point. She’s aware of my sister’s drug problems. She even knew about Helen’s most recent overdose. Claire had an envelope of information with her—the details and a room waiting in one of the best treatment centers in the country. Nothing like what my family could ever afford.”
“Oh my God, she blackmailed you into leaving Theo.”
India crinkles her brow. “She called it an even trade. She was quick to ask if I thought it was a matter of time until Helen overdosed again.” She offers the tiniest smile. “It was something we agreed on without question.”
“What a bitch,” I mutter.
India looks at me as if no one has ever thought this about Claire McAdams, let alone said it out loud. “From there, Claire went on to note lifelong family issues—my mother’s history isn’t too different from Helen’s, plus a suicide attempt years ago. A variety of unworthy, susceptible behaviors. Helen’s slips . . . I slipped, even if it wasn’t drug related.”
“So by the end of your conversation, Claire had you convinced that Helen could greatly benefit from her generosity and Theo would be better off without you.”
“Helen is doing so much better.” India’s knuckles tap against the rain-soaked window. I imagine it doesn’t come close to the tears she has cried. “And I’ve spent these past months reminding myself that, like it or not, Claire wasn’t wrong. Theo does deserve someone better than me.”
India has no respect for me. Nothing I say will convince her otherwise. I sink back into the Audi’s leather seat, thinking Theo deserves better than all of us.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Olivia
When I return to the brownstone late that night Rob isn’t home. There’s no note, not even the kind meant for the cleaning lady. I’d listened to his message after leaving India—it was only empty air, as if he’d dialed and then changed his mind. My thoughts waffle between a business trip and Rob simply exiting my life, the ways I pushed him toward the door. My own mother’s forewarning.
I
wake in the middle of the night with my arm gripped around Rob’s pillow. I breathe him in. Instead of betrayal, it occurs to me how smitten Rob was all those years ago, to plot with Sasha after a single date with me. To call and ask her to make a pact, expunging their one-night stand for smoother courting ground. I think of the disastrous dinner I made for Rob in my Bay Village apartment, how that same night ended in unparalleled passion and the more concrete beginning of us. I am reminded of our trip to Italy, before we took the turn toward this, and Rob’s better financial victories—many investment deals that went his way. His first reaction, always, was to reward us—well-spent time together and tangible things, like a remodeled master bath. While Rob’s not much for common gestures that define husbands and wives, and he only brings roses when his error is flagrant, he’s made other, more meaningful statements. I bury my nose in Rob’s pillow until I can’t breathe at all. I think of Rob’s most remarkable act—something like a cat bringing you a bird. It’s valor that some might define as murder.
On the day my father wouldn’t die, Rob sat silently in an upholstered chair in my parents’ bedroom. It was three a.m., the light was dim, the musical demands endless—a stunning feat from any other dying man. I’d played so long my fingers bled and my body achieved the point of dutifulness for which my father had always hoped. I listened to Asa Klein’s faint corrections about rushed measures and less than clean staccato beats. I played Mozart and Strauss and Tchaikovsky and a dozen others to the point where I knew death was the only way out. I was fine if it was mine. The hospice nurse came in, saying that my father’s breaths had shallowed and she didn’t think it would be long. She said the same thing the hour before. Then she left the room. My mother, in her exhausted grief, had finally gone to lie down in my old bedroom. It was Rob who convinced her to go by assuring her that he’d oversee my father’s care.
Another request passed from my father’s pale lips. That’s when Rob said, “Enough.” I didn’t say anything. I watched in a hazy fatigue as my father’s mangled hand drew upward, grasping vainly at Rob’s wrist. Rob, who coolly placed enough fentanyl patches on my father’s chest to ensure that his musical requests and heart stopped. At his funeral, in front of the plain pine box, I gripped Rob’s hand with my battered fingers and whispered, not “good-bye,” but “thank you” to my husband.
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