This pregnancy is the result of that forgiveness. Jimmy made love to me like he hadn’t in a long time, no longer afraid of breaking me. We both let go.
The familiar sound of his truck pulling into the garage puts me on edge. I force myself to sit still on the couch and take a deep breath. I feel like a little kid on Christmas morning, only I’m excited to give the best present of all.
“Hey,” he says. He strides across the living room in three steps, draping his jacket over the recliner before falling onto the couch next to me. Pecking a quick kiss on my cheek, he sighs, then looks at me closer. “What’s up?” He knows me too well.
I’ve wrestled with how best to tell him the news. From the side table I grab the proof of our miracle and hold it out in Jimmy’s direction. He squints, eyes darting back and forth from the test window to the screen. Two blue lines. Positive. His brows lift and his mouth forms an O, but no sound comes out. I’ve rendered him speechless.
“You’re sure?” he asks, as though the two lines on the test might evaporate before his eyes.
I shake my head and smile, my hands inadvertently finding my belly. He takes his own hands and places them over mine.
“I’m a little over two months,” I whisper. Closing his eyes, I imagine he’s doing the mental math to calculate when this all happened.
“Niagara Falls?” he asks, staring at my belly in wonderment. Tears well up in his eyes and cause my own eyes to water. I’m so happy he’s so happy. I nod, giddy with excitement. In response, he wraps his arms around me and pulls me tight to his chest before recoiling and loosening his grip. “Too tight?” he asks, keeping a hand on my shoulder.
I pull him against me, kissing him hard. “Don’t worry, you’re not going to hurt me.”
“Can we tell our parents?” he asks. Suddenly he looks more nervous than before. Telling other people makes it real.
“Let’s enjoy it together tonight,” I say, resting my head on his shoulder. “We can tell everyone tomorrow.”
Jimmy nods and kisses the crown of my head. “Okay.” Biting his lip, he nods. “Okay,” he repeats, like he’s reassuring himself.
He’s trying to hide the worry, and I love him for it. I’m sure his mind is racing with all the risks and possible outcomes. It’s impossible not to think worst-case scenario after last time. But tonight I don’t want to talk about all that can go wrong. I don’t want to think about miscarriages or cancer. Tonight is about us and our baby. Tonight, I choose happiness. Even if it’s only for one night.
“Want to watch a movie?” I ask, grabbing for the remote.
“Sure. What about dinner?”
In all my anticipation, I forgot about dinner and have nothing prepared. We barely have any groceries in the house. Along with my newfound love of salt, I have a distaste for sweet things and threw out half the cupboard to avoid more puking.
“Takeout?” I suggest. “How about pizza? Or maybe Chinese food . . . Honestly, I could just eat chips and salsa . . .” My mouth waters at the thought of all the salt.
“Oh jeez, you are pregnant,” Jimmy moans. “Can we compromise and order at least one thing that’s healthy? I can personally cover it in salt for you.”
I wrinkle my nose and shake my head. “Tomorrow. We can tell our family and start eating healthy tomorrow. Tonight? Tonight I want pizza and wings and some chips, and there’s nothing you can say to change my mind.”
49
Karen
After
December 2007
I’m not an optimistic person by nature. I’m a glass-half-empty kind of girl. Not my most desirable trait, but I am who I am. This outlook has lent my life stability and comfort. When I have low expectations, I’m less likely to be disappointed. The few times I’ve allowed myself to hope for the best, I’ve been grossly let down. I was optimistic about the Olympics and therefore didn’t prepare myself properly for the worst-case scenario. This failure utterly derailed me. It was made all the harder because I hoped and believed things would turn out in my favor. A torn ACL and ruined career later, I’d learned from this mistake. Now I never hope for the best and simply expect the worst. Then, if I’m surprised, it’s a pleasant turn of events where things actually don’t completely suck.
Despite my bleak outlook, I wasn’t prepared for cancer. I’d always figured bad things would happen to me, but cancer was not one of the circumstances I imagined. Cancer was almost too bad to be true. Maybe this was why I gave up so quickly. After I was diagnosed, I assumed I’d never get better. I began to fear all the worst-case outcomes. I feared remission most of all. I was afraid to allow myself even an ounce of hope, because if I began hoping for a recovery and became sicker, I knew I’d be crushed. This cycle of fear and hopelessness pushed me to the brink until I couldn’t stand it any longer.
This new existence is challenging my pessimistic inclinations. At first, I accepted it as my punishment, another terrible thing in a list of terrible things that have happened to Karen Martin. The longer I exist, the more complicated my view. Although I’m not alive, things are getting better. I no longer fear dying; I’m already dead. My cancer can’t get worse; there’s no such thing as cancer or remission. I try to frame my afterlife in a way that protects me, but I’m not sure what I need protection from. I finally have a friend. Dare I say I have someone I love? The universe is playing a giant trick on my pessimistic ass and proving me wrong. My life isn’t over, it’s just beginning, and it’s full of wonderful things I never allowed myself to hope for.
I want to believe this is true with all my heart and soul, but cynicism dies hard. My newfound happiness terrifies me. I’m scared it will be stolen from me and prove to be yet another cruel twist of fate.
But what if it’s real? What if I’ve finally found my glass-half-full? In this afterlife, I’ve found a man who loves me and whom I love back. Every day it feels more possible. More real. Maybe by the end of this eternal afterlife, I’ll be an optimist. Stranger things have happened.
My mother used to say good things happen in threes. She was always coming up with little quips to explain the unexplainable. At the time, it annoyed me. I assumed she was justifying her actions—or lack of actions—by blaming luck or fate, anything besides herself. Now I wonder if maybe there’s some truth to the little sayings. Good things are happening all around me. Wren is pregnant again, and I dare to hope this time it will be okay. She’s past the six-month mark, much further along than she ever got with her first pregnancy, and she’s absolutely glowing. Jimmy dotes on her and looks almost relaxed, a far cry from the stressed-out husband he was those first few weeks into the pregnancy. Instead of treating Wren like a fragile doll that might break, he treats her like the most important thing in the world, and that’s more than enough for both her and the baby.
“We’re helping them,” I say. We’re lying naked on the nursery floor. Much to our delight, we’ve discovered that everything works the same in the ghost world as it did in the real world. Our clothes hover in a pile beside us, touching and not touching the floor at the same time. Honestly, having no other sensations to distract us makes the sex all the more powerful.
“What do you mean?” He trails his finger down from my breast to my hip, tickling me.
I shiver from his touch and remember the feeling of goose bumps. This feels the same, but different. “This might be crazy, but I think Wren and Jimmy are better since we got together.”
He drags his finger across my belly and lifts his brows. “Maybe,” he murmurs, clearly distracted.
I slap his hand away. “I’m serious,” I say, lifting up onto one elbow and facing him. “Remember how you broke the vase when you were upset? Maybe the opposite can happen and all this bliss is causing a positive reaction.”
He smiles wickedly. “So, you’re saying you’re blissful?” Playfully I push him away, and he bites his lip. “All right, I’ll bite. So you think we’re sending good vibes their way?” He finally considers what I’m proposing.
&nbs
p; I nod. “I think we’re connected. Look at us. We’ve been so happy, and it can’t be a coincidence that they have too.” I hope this is true. In either case, our happiness can’t be hurting.
“They have been doing well,” James agrees. “Wren’s getting so big now. I can’t wait for the baby.”
I can’t stop my hands from rubbing my own stomach. That’s one thing that is not happening for us. At least we get to watch Jimmy and Wren raise their child. That will have to be enough.
“I’d like to think our presence is doing some good,” I say, snuggling closer to him again. Our thighs touch, and I can’t help but shudder. It’s like the first time every time we touch.
“It’s almost Christmas,” James whispers into my ear before nibbling on the lobe. “What do you want?”
I laugh, savoring his mouth on my neck. “Oh, I have everything I want,” I say. Strangely enough, it’s true.
50
James
After
January 2008
Once upon a time, there was a guy named James Knight. James Knight wasn’t a bad guy, but he wasn’t a good guy either.
James Knight lived for himself. Even though he was lucky enough to have wonderful parents, he treated them badly, mistaking their grief for disappointment. This is just one example of how self-centered James Knight was.
James had a lot of girlfriends. They were all very young and very pretty. James used each of them until her use was up. Then he replaced her with a new one. He’s only ever said I love you to three girls—his mom, his sister, and his long-ago girlfriend, Karen Martin.
James Knight was a successful lawyer who made a lot of money and owned a lot of stuff. When he died in a tragic car accident, a lot of people attended his funeral, but only five people there actually loved him. Many people didn’t even like him that much. James Knight’s life and death made a dent in the lives of only a few people.
That’s my life story. An uncensored, truthful account of my pitiful existence. I had so much potential, but I squandered it again and again. Those that didn’t know me well assumed I was happy. I was a big-shot lawyer with all the trappings money could buy. I was a lucky guy. But these people were wrong. Sad thing is, I didn’t realize it at the time. So obsessed with what others thought, I simply believed it when I was told so many times that I was blessed.
I didn’t believe in New Year’s resolutions. Resolutions were for weak people who were too pathetic to live their lives according to a plan in the first place. I ate healthily and worked out every day; no need to start that on January first. I never vowed to work harder or get a promotion; I was at the top of my game. I never resolved to be a better man or treat others better. I thought I was great already.
What I should have done is resolved to be better. Resolve to make up with my parents. To find love—the type that lasts longer than a few nights. I should have done so much more.
I doubt I can make up for all the terrible things I’ve done or for the pain I’ve caused, but I can at least start trying. I’ll never see my parents face-to-face again, but in my heart I can try to understand their side of things. Through the lens of hindsight, I see what really happened, and I can forgive them. I no longer blame them for forgetting about me after June died. It didn’t happen like that. They never stopped loving me. I was a scared kid, afraid they’d turn to me to make up for all they lost when they lost June. Instead of facing the challenge head-on, I ran away. In my escape, I stole their other child from them.
When Karen and I followed Jimmy and Wren to his (my) parents’ house to share the news, I was surprised to see them fawn over Wren and their first grandchild. For some reason I thought the pregnancy might spark some bitterness in them, but again I’ve been proven wrong. They aren’t disappointed about the grandchildren June will never give them. I’m sure this still brings them sadness, but it doesn’t temper the joy they feel for the grandchildren they will have. Even my dad is excited. Somewhere around age seventeen I vilified Dad, and I can’t remember exactly why. Watching him hold his big hand on Wren’s belly and smile when he felt the baby kick made me reevaluate why I made him the bad guy in the story for so long.
This year, I resolve to make love last. Karen is so amazing that I doubt this will be a hard resolution to keep. She’s smart and sassy, and she challenges me like no other woman ever has. Also, she’s stuck with me, so I have that in my favor.
Of all the things I have to account for, the most important resolution I have this year is to forgive myself. Forgive myself for June dying. For being a shitty man, son, boyfriend. I vow to forgive myself and move on. I think this is the key to everything.
***
“Biggest success?” Karen asks. Lately she’s been a never-ending source of get-to-know-you questions. She claims she played a lot of them when she was a coach with new students.
“Law school graduation,” I answer. “I was good in school, but I never knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. I think my parents always assumed I’d be a lawyer. I fought it for a long time, since I desperately wanted to not be like my father, but as I got older, I knew I’d be a good lawyer. I’m proud of myself for continuing on that path and not listening to my inner rebel telling me to do anything else.”
“Biggest regret?”
“I should have gone to Boston College,” I say, surprising myself. I’ve never let myself speak the words out loud.
“Why?” she asks, turning to look at me. She went to BC, just like my Karen did.
“I went to NYU to run away from my parents and everything at home,” I start. I pause, taking a deep breath. “I was a coward. I knew both my dad and Karen wanted me to go to BC. I was scared to disappoint them, but I was more scared of making them proud. I felt this insane pressure to be everything to everyone and chose to run away instead. Turns out it’s easier to disappoint people.”
“Do you think your life would be different if you went there?”
“Obviously. I mean, maybe I wouldn’t have stayed with Karen forever, but at least I wouldn’t have deceived her and broken up in such a cruel way.” I shrug, and she touches my arm, reminding me she doesn’t blame me. It wasn’t her. “Dad and I might have been able to resolve our differences. Going to NYU was like spitting in his face, telling him I didn’t appreciate any of the things he did for me. That’s what I regret most, I suppose. Not making up with my dad.”
“See, you’re a good guy, James,” Karen says, smiling at me sadly. “Just took you a little while to realize it.”
51
Wren
Age 36
February 2008
“Stop,” I mumble, my voice raspy. My breath is visible in the crisp air. I’m unsure when it got so cold outside. Where’s my hat?
The dog keeps whining. It’s a really big dog. Or is it a wolf? It stares at me intently while whining and digging into the snow with a giant paw.
“Stop,” I say again. The wolf/dog keeps its eyes on me. “What do you want?” I ask. It stops whining and tilts its head. Its eyes shine icy blue in the darkness.
It barks at me. Not a menacing bark, but a bark of warning. Wake up! it barks. Wake up!
I roll onto my side. This is no easy task, since I’ve gained twenty pounds in the last two months and resemble a beached whale while sleeping. My hands and feet are so swollen I look like I was stung by not one bee, but an entire swarm. When this first started happening, Jimmy took me to the emergency room, and I was diagnosed with a condition called preeclampsia. Apparently my radiation treatments had weakened my heart, predisposing me to this disorder. They prescribed me magnesium sulfate and suggested I spend the rest of my pregnancy in bed. I’ve been in bed for a few weeks, but it feels like an eternity.
Even after I rub the sleep from my eyes, the room won’t come into focus. Behind me, the dog whines. I know this is crazy, since we don’t have a dog and I was definitely dreaming. But it’s whining all the same. The sound splits through my brain, splintering behind my eyes.
&nb
sp; “Jimmy,” I whisper, elbowing him gently in the back. He sleeps deeply beside me, oblivious to the fucking dog. “Jimmy,” I say, louder. The exertion of speaking makes me nauseous. I swallow back bile and close my eyes. I’m awake, but I feel like I’m swimming up from the depths of a murky pond. I keep waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but I can barely see the lamp on my nightstand. Leaning off to the side of the bed, I fumble and knock my watch to the floor. The motion makes me sick, and before I can stop, I’m throwing up onto the rug. I cry out, a cross between a moan and Jimmy’s name.
Jimmy hears my cry and stirs next to me. “Wren?” he murmurs. “What’s wrong?”
“Jimmy?” I can’t lift my head; it’s too heavy. He rustles beside me, awake. The lights flick on and I cringe, the sudden brightness making my head spin and causing the dog to whine louder. It pierces through my whole body.
He rounds the bed and kneels beside the vomit on the carpet. “I’m going to call the hospital,” he says calmly, using the corner of his shirt to wipe my mouth. “Do you think you’re in labor?”
I shake my head, and a million marbles bounce around my skull. They continue to roll and bounce off each other even after I stop. I have no idea if I’m in labor. For the last few days, I’ve had a mild headache and felt slightly nauseous, but it didn’t seem serious. When you’re pregnant, these things are normal. I’ve gotten used to the discomfort. I should’ve told Jimmy, but I never want him to worry. How was I supposed to know this was worth worrying over?
Standing, he reaches behind my head and starts propping some pillows up against the headboard. “Let’s sit you up,” he says. I have no strength to lift my own body, so I let him place his hands beneath my armpits and gently scoot me up the bed. He takes my hand in his and squeezes, but I can’t squeeze back. My fingers are so swollen I can’t even bend at the knuckle.
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