“Then what is it, Ms. Collins?” Mr. Carson said.
Sarah lifted her chin. “I think it’s only fair to tell you . . . I’m pregnant, and I’ve chosen to have my baby.”
Not even a beat passed before Nick said, “I thought you weren’t married.”
“Shut up, Nick.” Jennifer didn’t take her eyes from Sarah, who saw in them the droop of disappointment: not in Sarah but for herself. Sarah made a mental note to apologize to her later.
Henry Carson, in the meantime, seemed to have found his father face. “You did the right thing coming forward with this. You could easily have waited another few months and dropped it on us when you were in the middle of the ConEx campaign. I appreciate your honesty.”
Sarah waited for a stab of remorse. It was clear the job would have been hers. But she felt only the quivering of relief, the kind she felt right after she threw up.
Speaking of which—
“I won’t keep you any longer,” she said. “Thank you for seeing me.”
Nick grunted. “Did we have a choice?”
Sarah pushed aside the vision of Nick and Thad at the helm of a sinking ship, waving their golf clubs at the wind, and went back through the still-open doorway.
“I guess Thad’s our man, then,” Nick said. “At least he won’t get pregnant.”
“Close the door,” Carson ordered.
Before it clicked shut, Sarah heard Jennifer’s voice. “Really, Nick? Really?”
Sarah tapped the secretary’s desk. “Have a merry Christmas.”
Barbie looked over the top of a pair of half-glasses. “Happy holidays. And don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Those words will never cross my lips,” Sarah said.
And then she literally ran for the elevator. By now she knew the location of every restroom in the building, and there was one right across from the doors when she got back to her floor. She barely made it in time.
Between that and the sheer exhaustion and the vision of Thad gloating up and down the hall when the announcement was made, Sarah decided to take the rest of the day off. There wasn’t really anyone around to convince she was sick.
She was almost to the stairs leading to the parking garage when Megan caught up with her. Sarah had considered stopping by her office to tell her, but something drove her to get out of here, to get home. Megan didn’t look happy about that or, come to think of it, about anything. Her face appeared to have been in a grimace for so long it had, as Sarah’s mother had always warned, gotten stuck that way.
“You told them,” Megan said.
“Wow. Word sure travels fast.”
“No, I can just read you. You’re having the baby.”
Sarah nodded. “And I’m keeping her. You told me I had to make my own decision, and I’ve made it.”
“How are you going to do this, Sarah? I just don’t see—”
“I don’t either,” Sarah said. “I just have to do the right thing, regardless of the consequences.”
“But the consequences are what make it the right thing . . . or the wrong thing.”
“I don’t see it that way, Megan.” Sarah started to walk away, but she turned back and tried to smile. “I probably won’t see you again before Christmas, so have a—”
“Don’t say it.”
Megan turned on a kitten heel and marched stiffly to her office. Sarah waited until the blinds closed before she went on to her car.
It was done, then. At least that part of it. The rest of it, the part still to come, crashed in on Sarah as she unlocked her apartment and walked into the chaos it had become. She was going to bring Daisy home to this, not the sunny house with the bay windows and the sledding hill. She would change her diapers on the desk, not her mother’s dining room table.
She stared at the desk, still piled with the detritus of a life she hadn’t paid attention to. She wasn’t even going to have this place if she didn’t pay Catfish the rent. He hadn’t carried through on his threat to involve the landlord yet, but he’d have to soon.
Sarah dropped her bag on the floor and lifted a pile in search of her checkbook. No checkbook there. Just the picture of her and Dad in their choir robes. And Megan’s list.
She could only see the bottom half of it, the part she seldom got to because she hadn’t been able to check off all the ones before it. Number 10 popped out at her, as if its print were raised and in caps and bold:
THE THING YOU RESIST THE MOST IS THE THING YOU NEED TO DO.
Sarah ran her finger over it. She could hear Megan saying those same words to her that day in her office when she was insisting that Sarah “have the procedure and get it over with.”
But even as Megan’s voice echoed in her head, Sarah searched for another voice that had used that word. She knew it before her back hit the wall and she slid down to the floor.
God loves you no matter how much you resist. In my opinion, you should be telling him all of this.
Above her on the desk, the framed photo lay on its side. Sarah tilted her head to look at it and felt her heart stop beating. Her father’s face was turned from the little girl in the picture, straight toward her. His eyes, as bright as they had ever been in life, didn’t say, Sarah, go after your dreams because I never got to go after mine. They said, You were my dream. And they said more than that. They said I was healed, SJ. Because God forgives.
Pain flooded over her. Pain that he wasn’t there to say it. Pain that she had only a wretched studio apartment to bring her baby home to. Pain that she had ended up here, so alone she was no longer sure she was alive. There was no more holding it back. No more covering the pain with anger and the anger with a plan. There was only the tar-smothering pain, and with it the sobs, and with them the cry to the stained, cracked, sagging ceiling—
“God? Are you here?”
Chapter Thirty
Sarah pulled her knees to her chin and flattened her face against them. No golden frame of light turned her life into a flawless dream. She didn’t find herself transformed into a person she could like. The floor was solid beneath her, the wall unyielding behind her, the Dad-smell of the scarf aching in her nose. This was her small, hard, everyday world.
But she clearly wasn’t alone in it. And the nearness made her speak to it.
“Are you still listening?” she said. “After all the things I’ve said about you?” She pressed her forehead harder into her knees. “When I acted like you didn’t exist? When I knew you did only because I hated you—”
Sarah gasped. And gasped. And gasped again.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry . . . but I just missed my dad—”
Sarah’s voice choked out and she rolled to her side, still clinging to her shins. Tears clogged everything except the thoughts crying out in her head.
I had to blame someone. Someone I could shut out.
Sarah listened to her sobs, so like those of an inconsolable child. She wove her next words among them: “And I’ve been alone ever since.”
Another grief-wave washed her breath away. In the stillness, her heart continued its cry. I’m sorry I hurt you, God. I just missed him so much. I needed him.
With the first breath she could find, she whispered, “I need him now. I’ve made the right choice, but I’m still so scared.”
Sarah opened her eyes and stared into what was clearer than any Daisy-filled vision: she was terrified because she didn’t know how to be a mother.
But her father couldn’t have shown her that. Neither could her own mother. Because she wasn’t Daisy’s mother.
Sarah sat up and pulled the hands already grasping for each other against her chest. “I needed you,” she said. “And you gave me everything. You gave me the visions. You gave me Audrey.” A laugh worked its way through the sobs. “You gave me me.”
She caved to the tears again, but they were soft ones now, wept easily from a deep place. She let them go until they slowed to a trickle. She stayed quiet until the trickle reached her lips. When she ran the
back of her hand across her mouth she uttered an “Ugh.” She literally had snot everywhere there could be snot.
The Kleenex was in the bathroom. She got unsteadily to her feet and started in that direction, and then stopped. Something faint seeped from her. Something like the first few drops of . . . a period?
Sarah palmed the walls the rest of the way to the bathroom and pulled down her underwear with hands already shaking. Two tiny red stains looked back at her. Small, but there enough to make Sarah cry out, “Daisy . . . no!”
Matt’s cell phone read 10:55 when he walked out of the elevator on Sarah’s floor at Carson, but he couldn’t wait any longer. I’m-afraid-of-what-she’ll-say had been replaced with I-have-to-say-this-before-it’s-too-late. He gave the two cups of coffee with Reverend Smith the nod for that shift. More the reverend than the caffeine, actually. Matt had been right as a teenager: Joseph deserved a whole lot more credit than people gave him.
You can do the thing nobody would blame you for, were the pastor’s words over their second cup. Or you can do the best thing.
Okay, so it was still hard not to cringe in advance at what Sarah might say to his offer of “the best thing.” But Matt told that to wait outside as he stuck his head into her cubicle. It was empty, and her desk had that tidy look most people gave it when they left for the weekend. He himself wasn’t one of those people, but he knew Sarah. She’d left with a purpose.
Reverend Smith had advised him to pray, and that kicked in before Matt knew he was doing it. If she’s gone to have the abortion—STOP HER!
He rubbed at the back of his neck and groped for the Plan B he hadn’t formulated. He had no idea which clinic she would go to, and even if he did, racing over there and dragging her from the waiting room was out. Okay—okay—um—okay . . .
Matt smacked the side of his head. Okay wasn’t going to cut it. He scanned the tack board over her desk, but there was no Post-it note for an appointment. Like she would write 8:45 Abortion and stick it up there, idiot.
He turned to the precisely stacked set of folders on her desk and flipped through them with fingers so clammy he left smudges on the pages. It was all work stuff. No file for a clinic or a doctor or a therapist. Come on, she had to be talking to somebody about this, right?
Actually, no. Matt tried to get the folders back in line and gave up. Sarah was trying to tough it out alone, like she always did. The thought of that brought panic up his throat.
Dude, you can’t do that. Think.
All right . . . she wouldn’t go have an operation by herself. Somebody had to go with her. Somebody who would go with her, which ruled out Agnes and probably Denise. That left only one person.
Constricta.
He would rather crawl into the viper tank at the Brookfield Zoo, but then what was the difference actually?
Matt swung through the doorway and took off down the hall. He’d never had a reason to know where Megan’s den was, but Sarah had mentioned it was glass enclosed and sophisticated and all those things she said she wanted that Matt could never believe. He charged toward a bank of clear-walled offices with the intention of sticking his head into one of them and asking, but Megan herself emerged from the one at the end and stood in her doorway like a boa wrapped around a tree. Just the way he remembered her.
He was six feet away when she said, “Sarah isn’t here,” but he waited until he didn’t have to shout before he answered. He was sure his next words were going to be, Pull your fangs in. I just want to know—
“Where is she? Do you know?”
The cold blue eyes narrowed in on him. What was he even thinking? The chances of her telling him were nil to none.
“It’s not my day to watch her,” she said.
Matt chomped down on the inside of his cheek. He wasn’t a swearing kind of guy but he was ready to make an exception. But as he watched the eyes go into slits, he realized that was exactly what she wanted him to do: prove he was the loser she had him pegged for. The loser he couldn’t go on being.
“Look, I just need to find her,” he said. “Did you see her before she left?”
“Yes.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“Yes.”
“Did she say where she was going?”
Matt heard the desperation in his own voice, and he didn’t care. He was just about to take her by her skinny shoulders and shake her when she said, “Oh, for Pete’s sake, stop whining. She wasn’t feeling well so she went home. Okay?”
Matt sucked in air. “Not feeling well as in . . . morning sickness?”
“You’re a genius. Yes.”
Megan’s you-sorry-loser gaze left his face, so Matt was sure she didn’t see the hope spring to it.
“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you. So. Much.”
The kiss he planted on her forehead surprised him probably more than it did her, but he would actually have hugged her if he’d had time. Sarah was still pregnant. There was still a chance. He might even send the Constricta flowers for delivering that news.
Matt’s hope revved up even higher when he reached Sarah’s apartment building and the Toyota was there. He took the steps two at a time, losing traction near the top where Catfish never did ice-removal. From there he skidded all the way to her door and pounded on it before he even came to a complete stop.
“Sarah! Sar, it’s me. Open the door—please?”
“Hey—Sarah’s Boyfriend.”
Matt recognized Catfish’s voice on the stairs, but he ignored it and used his key to unlock the door. Her absence was obvious the minute he stepped in. No Sarah-energy vibrated the air, and she didn’t answer when he called her name again. But he still ducked his head into every space, because her scarf hung over the back of the chair. Sarah never went anywhere without that scarf. She was like Linus with his blanket. Fear grabbed at his gut again.
“Hey, while you’re here, maybe you could write me a check for the rent.”
Matt turned to the orange-capped Catfish lurking in the doorway. “Dude, this is not the time.”
“Come on, man, you live here half the time anyway.” Catfish shrugged his minimal shoulders. “At least you used to—”
“I said it’s not the time! I need to find Sarah.”
Matt said it more to himself than to Catfish, but the kid said, “They left about ten minutes ago.”
Matt turned on him. “They?”
“Yeah. Her and a blonde chick driving a van.”
A van . . .
“Did it sound like it needed a valve job?”
“Sounded like it needed something. I tried to mention the rent, but she was bawling—”
“Who was? Sarah?”
“Yeah. The other chick said they were going to the hospital and for me to back off. Which I did . . . even though I’ll get canned as manager if the landlord has to evict her—”
“What hospital?”
“I don’t know. They didn’t stop to give me their full agenda, okay?”
Catfish squirmed and Matt realized he had the guy by the front of his army surplus jacket. He let go.
“Sorry . . . Here . . .”
He yanked his wallet from his pocket and emptied the cash contents.
“Pay what you can out of this,” he said, cramming it into Catfish’s hand. “I’ll give you the rest later.”
“Sweet.”
“Did you see which way they turned when they pulled out of here?”
Catfish jabbed a thumb to the east. “That way. You can see the tire marks where that blonde chick burned rubber.”
The rest was lost as Matt headed for the stairs. He was already calling Uncle Clay to find out the closest hospital east of there.
“Why would they keep an ER so blasted cold?” Denise pulled the blanket up to Sarah’s chin. “You’re shaking.”
“It’s not from the cold,” Sarah said. “I’m scared.”
Denise put her impossibly warm hand to Sarah’s forehead. “Two tiny drops doesn’t mean you’re losing
the baby. I had that with one of mine. I don’t even remember which one: that’s how meaningless it probably is.”
Sarah wished she could believe her, but even the voice that could soothe small boys and panicking mothers and probably your average savage beast didn’t stop the shaking she hadn’t been able to control since she first saw she was bleeding. Only the words in her head kept her from flying off the table to pace: Please, God . . . don’t take my Daisy.
The door opened and a tenor voice entered before its body did.
“Hi—you’re Sarah Collins?”
Sarah nodded.
“I’m Dr. Painter.”
The resonance seemed to vibrate from the doctor’s high forehead, but nothing else about him registered except the bright blue eyes that scanned her chart like an intelligent bird.
“So you’ve had some first trimester bleeding.”
Sarah nodded for the second time. She was afraid if she spoke or moved or breathed it would start again.
“It’s not necessarily anything to worry about. The hormones are still settling in.”
“That’s what I told her,” Denise said.
“And you are . . .”
“Her sister.”
He gave Sarah a smile that revealed two slightly crossed front teeth. “You mind if your sister stays while we take a look and see what’s going on?”
“Don’t even think about leaving, Denise,” Sarah said.
The crooked toothed smile broadened. “She’s pretty clear on that. Let me get a nurse.”
While he stuck his upper body out into the hall, Sarah grabbed for Denise’s hand. “You know what’s scaring me about this?”
“Everything?”
“If this had happened a week ago, I would have actually been relieved. Now that I’ve fallen in love with this baby, do you think God is punishing—”
“Okay, just stop. God does not work that way.” Denise put her face close to Sarah’s. “There are only about five things I know for absolute certain, and that’s one of them, so don’t even start there with me.”
The rich voice preceded Dr. Painter through the doorway again. “All right then, Sarah, let’s have you slide all the way to the end of the table.”
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