The Secrets We Keep

by Nikki Lee Taylor

  “So, now what?” she asks.

  “I have no idea. I can’t tell him, so…”

  “You can’t?”

  “It would ruin his life. I can’t do that, not to him.”

  Samara looks thoughtful, and I know that whatever she says next is likely to have me lying awake all night.

  “Sophie, I know you’re going to say this is stupid – but what if it was all meant to be?”

  “If all what was meant to be?”

  “Everything. You meeting Madelyn-May. Having frozen eggs stored. Madelyn-May offering to buy your eggs. You being in a situation where you had no choice but to say yes. Knowing Gerard and him agreeing to help you. And of course, Bastian being the father. I mean, come on, Sophie. You must admit a lot of things had to fall into place for this to happen. It can’t be all a coincidence.”

  “Then what else could it be? God’s plan?” I ask with a roll of my eyes.

  “How about fate?”

  I scoff, and look away. Fate would mean Bastian and my lives are inevitably and irreversibly linked; that we are meant to be. But James was my soulmate. There could never be another, and as much as Bastian and I have used each other’s shoulders, I find it hard to believe there is anything divine about our situation. “No, I think it’s just an unimaginable chance of timing. That said….”

  “Okay, well, it was just a thought, and I know I’m not being much help. I think the only thing we need to figure out here is how you feel about all this. I know you said you can’t tell him, but the real question you need to ask yourself, is: do you want to tell him?”

  I think back to the park, to her terror at the idea of her husband finding out. “I can’t tell him. If I do, then I’m responsible for breaking up his marriage, and worse than that, their family. And then what? He and I and the kids live happily ever after? That’s just not going to happen.”

  “Because you don’t want it to?”

  “Because it’s not right, Samara. It’s turning the world on its axis. That’s not the life he signed up for. I’m not their mother.”

  “Well, from what you’ve told me, either is she. And things change, Soph. What you want matters too.”

  “But it shouldn’t. I took the money. I gave my word, and there’s two sides to every story Samara. I only know what Bastian tells me – and besides, what about the kids, and what they want? Imagine what finding out something like this would do to their lives, to their sense of identity. I can’t be responsible for something like that, it’s too much.”

  “You were a great mom, Soph. You could be again, and maybe that’s what those kids need. Have you thought about that?”

  “No, I haven’t,” I tell her, a defensive tone creeping into my voice. “And it’s not about that. I know what kind of mother I was. I don’t need you to tell me I was a good mother. I’m just saying that I don’t think it’s right to interfere, and risk messing up their entire life.”

  Samara raises her eyebrows. “Well, I don’t want to be the one to tell you this Soph, but I think sleeping with him is kinda already doing that.”

  The pain that started as a dull ache has spread into my temples, and down behind my eyes. The last thing I want is to end up in a fight with Samara. “Look, all I know is that I just want to see the twins, from a distance, without dismantling anyone’s life. After that… I don’t know.”

  “And you’re sure?”

  I put down my glass, and nod. “About seeing them? Yes, that much I am sure of. Otherwise, what was all this for?”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Lacy

  I found the fake Gucci scarf in a small fashion store in Center City. As I try it on with jeans and a white shirt, the kind of simple, classic outfit the mother of a millionaire might wear, I can’t help but marvel the irony of the situation. It will take an imitation scarf to convince anyone I am genuinely Madelyn-May’s mother. If I was to present myself at the school in my usual jeans, sweater, and frayed canvas tennis shoes, biology alone would not be enough to convince anyone she was related to a person like me. But I have no doubt this $18.00 forgery, and a pair of new loafers, will be more than enough to do the trick.

  I check my phone for any new messages from Harlow. It had only taken three days for her to contact me after I gave her my number at the mall. To be honest, I thought it would take longer, at least a week or two, but once again, Madelyn-May is doing my work for me. The text she sent was simple.

  Hi it’s Harlow we met at the mall on Sat. Got into a fight at school cause of mom’s work. Sick of no1 ever getting what it’s like 2 b me. MayB we could meet soon?

  I hadn’t messaged right back. Instead I gave it an hour, to make sure I didn’t appear too enthusiastic. She must be the one to come to me. If I go in too hard, there’s every chance I’ll spook her, and she’ll alert Madelyn-May before we reach our endgame.

  Sorry 2 hear that and hope ur ok. Let’s make a time soon. Said the spider to the fly.

  She responded with a smiley face emoji, and I left it at that. A couple of days have passed since then, and now it’s time for my next move.

  Wrapped in soft tissue, and tucked away in the zip pocket of my suitcase, is a gift I plan to leave for Harlow at her school. My plan is to seal it up in an envelope, along with a note, and explain to whoever is on the desk that my granddaughter left her watch at home.

  If they ask any questions about why I’ve never visited the school on family or sports days, I’ll simply tell them the truth. I live in California, and am here to re-connect with my family.

  I take out a pen, and on a piece of paper write what might turn out to be the most important letter of my life:

  Hi Harlow,

  I wanted to drop off this little gift to say I hope you’re feeling better after the fight at school. I noticed the frog T-shirt you were wearing at the mall the day we met and thought you might like it. I have some free time tomorrow afternoon. I could pick you up from school and we could go to a café. If your brother needs a ride home that’s no problem, but it would be great getting to know you. I will be outside the school gate tmrw when you finish tennis. If there’s any problems text me.

  Your Big Sister

  I carefully fold the note in half, slip it inside the envelope, then unable to resist, I unwrap the tissue and take one more look at the gift. The fact it survived the fire is remarkable. Madelyn-May’s watch, with the leather band and green frog on the face. I had taught her to tell time with it when she was seven years old. Now it will tick down the minutes until her world explodes around her.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Sophie

  '’Are you sure about this?” Samara asks, as I click my seat belt into place. “You said she has a parenting blog. We could have looked them up online.”

  I’ve considered the same thing. I even looked up her site, but quickly pulled the laptop closed before I found the courage to click any of the links.

  “I know, but it’s not the same,” I tell Samara. “I want to see them in real life – their mannerisms, the real them. If I look at pictures, it won’t be the same. A picture won’t tell me if they have the same walk as Josh, or if their laugh sounds the same. I want the first time I see them to also be the last, so it has to count.”

  She looks me over one last time, clearly trying to assess whether I’m still in my right mind. When she turns the key and the engine comes to life, I figure she’s convinced. “Alright, then. Let’s go.”

  As Fairmount fades into the rear vision mirror, we snake our way through city traffic, and eventually pull into in a marked loading zone half a block from the parking garage by Bastian’s office.

  “And you’re sure this is what he does every afternoon?” Samara asks, for the third time.

  “He picks up the kids from school. That’s who he is. Trust me Samara, I know him.”

  She drinks from her water bottle, while I stare straight ahead, petrified we’ll miss his car.

  “Let me ask you something, Sophie: what do
you think he’d say if he knew we were out here, right now?”

  It’s the same question I’ve been asking myself since we left the house.

  “Honestly? I think he’d be disappointed. I think he’d expect me to be rational, to sit down and explain what happened.”

  “So, tell me again why instead of that we’re out here, like Sherlock Holmes?”

  I stifle a grin. In the worst situations, somehow, Samara can still cheer me up. “Because I can’t tell him what happened. If there was any upside, I would, believe me, but what good can come from that? It would cause irreparable damage to everyone involved.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I mean it, Samara – if there was any reason that would benefit him, I’d spill the beans. I’ve given this a lot of thought, but he’s….”

  Samara lowers her water bottle, and peers over at me. “…he’s what?”

  “He’s Bastian,” I shrug. “He matters.”

  “Enough to make sure he doesn’t know the truth?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well that’s about as clear as mud.”

  I screw up my face. “You’re so—”

  “Wait, Soph,” she says, and points at the windshield, “did you say a black Lincoln? Is that him pulling out?”

  I recognize Bastian’s car, and we quickly pull into the traffic, keeping a safe distance, three cars behind.

  “This would be a lot easier if you knew what school they went to.”

  “I know, but like I told you, he never talks about the kids. Her either, for that matter. I know there’s a boy and a girl, Harry and Harlow, and they’re both twelve. That’s about it.”

  Saying their names out loud has an undeniable effect. Harry and Harlow. A little boy and girl, created with my egg, and his sperm. Two little lives I helped bring into the world.

  I allow myself to wonder for the millionth time what they will look like. I wonder how I might feel when I see them. Will I be drawn to them? Will they be the south pole, and I the north, of a magnet instantly and undeniably pulling each other in? Or will seeing them have the opposite effect? Maybe I’ll be overcome with guilt at the idea of searching for Josh in the eyes of another child. Perhaps I will feel that in some morbid, misconstrued way I might be trying to replace him.

  “You okay over there?” Samara asks.

  “Just thinking.”

  “You want me to keep going?”

  I nod and force a smile. “It’s a big day is all.”

  “It doesn’t get much bigger than this, Soph,” she agrees. “You’re about to see yours and Bastian’s children – who you never knew you had.”

  “Samara, they’re not our children,” I remind her.

  “Fair enough, but they wouldn’t exist without you. Their very DNA was created from you and him.”

  “Yes, well, DNA doesn’t make you a parent.”

  “No, being a parent also takes love, compassion, sacrifice, and a damned lot of patience – believe me, I know. But has she given them that, Sophie? If she hasn’t, then I’m sorry, but in this case, nature wins out over nurture. You are hard-wired into them, you and Bastian. That has to count for something.”

  “You’re not helping me. You know that, right?”

  “I just want to make sure you look at this from every angle,” she says. “You’re my best friend, and you’re a good person. I know you want to do what’s right, and that for you this means leaving well enough alone – but Sophie, we’re out here following his car. This clearly matters to you, so try to think about what might be best for them, and you, long-term.”

  “What’s best for them is to be with their mother, Samara, and that’s not me. Like I said, biology doesn’t make you a mom. I don’t exist to them.”

  We follow Bastian across the Schuylkill River, and he turns northwest on 76. We drive past the golf club, and through Northwest Philly. A few minutes later, I see a sign for Newmarch College. “I think we’re getting close,” I whisper, as much to myself as Samara.

  “Damn, that’s one expensive school.” Samara lets out a long whistle, then clicks her tongue as we draw closer. “Damned expensive.”

  When he signals to turn, we slip into a space a few cars back, and Samara turns off the engine. Neither of us speak as we stare out the window, collectively holding our breath. The minutes tick by and my chest begins to burn. I remind myself to breathe, slowly in and slowly out.

  Eventually, two children make their way toward his car, and Samara glances over at me. They are almost the same height, except the boy is a hair taller. Harry. I lean forward until my nose is almost touching the windshield. Samara reaches for my hand, and squeezes it. “That’s him,” I whisper. “I know it.”

  I watch as he lumbers forward, messy, chestnut hair just long enough to tickle his eyes. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of tan slacks, and a navy blazer hangs unbuttoned around his shoulders. He’s so much older than Josh, and it’s difficult to tell from a distance if there’s any real resemblance, but the tug on my heart is undeniable. Trailing behind him, like the pretty tail of a kite, is Harlow. She shares his mess chestnut hair; the only exception are some highlights around her face. I quickly think back to Madelyn-May’s hair, the day we met. It was so dark, almost black, just like Bastian’s. I marvel at the realization that my lighter genes have forced their way in and colored the children’s hair to match Josh’s. I don’t dare to move my eyes as Harlow half skips along behind her brother, keeping the beat of a song only she can hear.

  “You see it, right?” Samara asks. “Their hair? It’s the same.”

  “I know,” I whisper. “It’s just like his.”

  “It’s just like yours.”

  They climb into the car, and when the car’s turn signal comes to life, I finally let out my breath.

  “You want me to follow him?” Samara asks.

  “Follow him?” I have been so preoccupied with seeing the children, the idea of following him home never crossed my mind. “I don’t think we should. I mean, isn’t that a bit much?”

  “We’re here now. You must be curious to see where they live?”

  The idea of infiltrating his private world, the one he shares with her, has always been so far off-limits that the thought never occurred to me, until now. “I don’t know, Samara. If I see the house, I can never unsee it. When I haven’t see it, it’s almost not real. But if we go there, his whole other life will be undeniable, and so will all my guilt.”

  “And you’d prefer to keep living in denial?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She pulls out, and keeps a low profile four cars back.

  “What are you doing?”

  “If you don’t make a choice soon, he’ll be gone. I’ll drive, you think about it. I can pull away anytime.”

  Once the car is in motion, the decision makes itself. “For the record, I think this is a mistake.”

  “You’ve been living in this state of denial for years, Sophie,” Samara says. “You don’t move forward – you hang suspended in mid-air. The way I see it, you either tell him the truth and see what happens, or take a good hard look at his life and let him go.”

  Living in a house haunted by memories, and pretending Bastian’s wife doesn’t exist, is not a healthy way to live. I can feel a change coming, the same way a spring breeze drifts in and warms the cold. Every season has its end and perhaps one way or another, my winter might be beginning to thaw.

  Up ahead, Bastian turns right into Chestnut Hill Avenue, and I shift nervously in my seat. The narrow street is lined with tall trees standing sentry over homes set on endless, green lawns. As the homes drift by, they pull my imagination back to the days of Jane Austen. Their grandness, mixed with English pastoral elegance, sings of old money and delicate fixtures.

  Next to me Samara sighs, and cranes her neck for a better view. “I thought Gerard and I were doing alright, but Jesus, Soph. I had no idea Bastian’s business was at this level.”

  “It’s not,”
I sigh, already defeated. “This has to be her.”

  Samara slows the car and drops back, the narrow street making it difficult to follow without catching his attention. “What website did you say is hers?”

  “It’s called Love Mommy.”

  Samara’s eyes widen, and she pounds the wheel. “Holy shit, of course! It’s only the most popular online site for moms in North America. Probably globally, as well. Jesus, Sophie, she started that?”

  I shrug and shrink lower in my seat. Bastian’s life is so much bigger than I imagined. He has a successful wife, two perfect children, and a home that by the look of this neighborhood must be worth millions of dollars. By comparison, I live in a brownstone that I barely leave, and celebrate the ability to cook a meal without experiencing a full-blown meltdown. To say I have been living in denial might be the understatement of the decade.

  When he pulls into a long drive, Samara passes by the house, then pulls over. While most of the homes resemble English manors, with extensive stonework, peeking attics, and curated cottage gardens, his looks more like a sprawling Hampton’s estate, surrounded by perfect lawns and trees so tall they must be hundreds of years old.

  “Well, I guess the lesson for the day is that money doesn’t buy happiness,” Samara says.

  His car snakes up the drive, then disappears around the back of the property. Coming here was a huge mistake. I feel silly at best, and inferior at worst. Madelyn-May is clearly in a whole other league. I slump even further in my seat. “Can we just go, please?”

  Samara re-starts the car, and shifts into gear. “I’m sorry Soph. I shouldn’t have followed him. You were right. It was a mistake to come here.”

  My stomach feels nauseous, and all I want to do is go home, snuggle up to Miss Molly, and disappear beneath the covers. But as the car moves forward, something catches my eye, and I tell Samara to stop. About a meter behind the car a strange light is moving near one of the trees. “Can you move the car back just a bit, but super-slow?”