A Borrowed Life

by Kerry Anne King

  “Did you have to broadcast it to everybody?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. How was your day?”

  “Don’t you try to evade this! Everybody knows. Five separate patients asked about you and the baby today. Four of them want to know when the wedding is, and the other one offered to pray for your salvation. A lot of expecting women wait until the end of the first trimester to tell everybody. Married women who want babies. But not you. You have to announce it to the whole world—”

  “China doesn’t know yet,” I tell her. “Probably not North Korea, although they do have spies. I understand the microwave might be listening—”

  “Mother! This is not funny.”

  “The microwave thing? I know. It’s like 1984—”

  “You are being deliberately obtuse.”

  “And I have no shame. It would have come out sooner or later. Better now than when I start to show.”

  Her eyes fall on my well-worn script on the kitchen counter. “I can’t believe you are going through with that stupid play when you’re pregnant.”

  “Responsibility. Commitment. It’s not like I’ll be showing or anything.” I change the subject. “Are you all ready for tomorrow?”

  “I’m going to ask you one more time to listen to reason. The house is too far from town. If a medical emergency happens, it’s going to take too long for anyone to get to you.”

  “Already packed. Papers are signed.”

  “You could still change it. You just don’t want to. If you won’t see reason for yourself and the . . . baby . . . think about me. It’s a long drive. It will be ugly in winter.”

  “About that,” I say resolutely. “I want you to get your own apartment. Or move back to Spokane. I can tell you’re not happy with this job.”

  Moses chooses this moment to saunter into the kitchen, meowing, and winds around Abigail’s feet. She picks him up and scratches under his chin. He purrs loudly, then meows again.

  “Is he hungry?” Abigail asks in a voice I never thought to hear from her. “Poor old baby. Did Mama forget to feed you?” She glances up when I make a sound of surprise.

  “Didn’t think you approved of stray cats.”

  “He stopped being a stray when you fed him,” she says to me. And then, to the cat, “I’ll get you some dinner. I haven’t forgotten about you, not like some people.”

  “I did feed him,” I protest. “About an hour ago. He’s a mooch.”

  “He’s not going to like the move, either,” Abigail says.

  “Stop changing the conversation. I want you to move back to Spokane.”

  “Because I’ve recruited your cat to Team Abigail?” She says it lightly, but there’s hurt in her voice, and I go on, quickly, before it can take root.

  “I don’t want you to spend the rest of your life taking care of me, or worrying about a baby you didn’t ask for and don’t want. I’m a grown-up. I’ll manage.”

  “Mom—”

  I hold up my hand to stop her. “I promise to give you the chance to take care of me when I’m old and senile. We’re not there yet.”

  “I’m not entirely sure about that.” She grabs the ranch dressing out of the fridge and slams it down onto the counter a little harder than necessary. “I can’t leave you alone when you’re pregnant. Especially way out there. It’s only nine months, anyway, because you’re going to give the baby up, right?”

  “I haven’t decided that for sure.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! How are you going to take care of a baby?”

  “The same way I took care of you.”

  “But—”

  “Abigail. Please. Live your own life. Go out with friends. See a movie. Take a trip. Go back to school.”

  She fills a plate with salad and drowns it in dressing. “I don’t have any friends.”

  “Make some. Or move back to Spokane.”

  “I don’t have friends there, either.”

  “What happened to that nice boy you were dating?”

  “Not motivated. Not going anywhere. Not . . .” She spears a fork into her salad. “You really want to know? I wanted him to be a surgeon. I pushed him. He’s so smart! He could be whatever he wanted. But he said he just wanted to do family practice, that he liked making connections and helping people work through illnesses. But it wasn’t enough. I kept pushing him to be more and—oh dear God.” She covers her mouth with both hands, eyes wide. “Because I couldn’t be a surgeon myself! What is wrong with me?”

  “Nothing is wrong with you. You are beautiful, brilliant, perfect.” I take both of her hands and plant a kiss in each palm. She stiffens but doesn’t pull away. “I think . . . when you’re held back from being yourself, from living your gifts, how can you possibly be your best self? If your own life feels out of control, then it’s easier to control somebody else’s. Only, you can’t, you know. Not his. Not mine.”

  “I don’t even know what I want.” The misery in her eyes breaks my heart all over again. “I did want to be a doctor, a surgeon, but not enough to go for it. Even then, I had to have known that letters must have come in, right? But I didn’t look into it. Didn’t ask about my mail, didn’t call the universities to check. Didn’t apply elsewhere. And now . . . I don’t even know what I want.”

  “You were still a child. And you’d been taught, always, to be less than who you are. We did that to you, your father and I. But you’re still young. You’re figuring it out now while you have a whole life ahead of you. It’s not too late! You can be anything you want to be.”

  “You think?” She looks terribly young, lost, and frightened.

  “I know, my girl.”

  “If only I knew what that was. I’m honestly not sure anymore.”

  “Figure it out. Don’t wait until you’re knocked up and fifty.”

  “Forty-nine,” she says. The moment hangs in the balance, and then the two of us are laughing, and I revel in this beautiful moment of connection, wanting it to last forever.

  I hug her, my arms tight against the warmth of her back. “You are amazing and I love you.”

  “Where did that come from?” But wonder of wonders, she hugs me back.

  “That I love you? I’ve loved you every minute of every day and night since you were born. Even the times I wanted to strangle you.”

  “Like I want to strangle you right now?”

  “Precisely. Love with a side of strangling. I’m starving. Can we put everything on hold and eat?”

  “Deal,” she says.

  We eat in companionable silence, neither of us wanting to risk any conversation that might lead to another fight.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I wake confused and disoriented. For the first time in weeks, I put out my hand to feel for Thomas’s bulk beside me, but instead find only blankets and carpet. There is no mattress, no bed, no Thomas. Even Moses has apparently abandoned me for some softer, warmer refuge.

  And then I remember all of the crazy, chaotic details of my life.

  I’m pregnant. Lance is avoiding me. Today I’m moving into my new house.

  On my way to the kitchen, I check on Abigail, the way I used to do when she was little. She’s sound asleep, sprawled in a position that would send me for a trip to the chiropractor if I maintained it for an hour. Moses, the traitor, is curled up across her thighs with his nose buried under the tip of his tail. I tiptoe over and adjust the covers, pulling the blanket up over Abigail’s bare shoulder. She looks so young in her sleep, her hair loose around her face rather than pulled back in the severe daytime braids or bun. I bend down and whisper kiss her forehead. She stirs slightly but doesn’t wake.

  Moving boxes are stacked neatly along one wall of her room, ready to go. Whether she approves of me or the house or not, she is determined to move with me.

  It’s amazing to me how many boxes of my own there still are to move. The house has seemed so empty since my yard sale, I had thought packing up would be easy. It took longer than I thought,
but it’s mostly done. I’ll make breakfast and stow the few remaining kitchen items in the open box waiting for them. Get dressed and add the clothes I slept in to my suitcase.

  I’m not sure how I’m going to get Moses into the carrier I bought. He took one look when I brought it into the house and hid under Abigail’s bed for the rest of the day. I’m hoping she’ll help me, but there’s no guarantee about that. As if I’ve summoned him with my thoughts, Moses pads into the kitchen and rubs against my legs.

  “Breakfast, then?”

  He meows, and I scoop canned food into a bowl, then set about making breakfast for Abigail and myself.

  Eggs. Toast. Bacon. I’m not crazy about bacon, but Abigail loves it, and I wanted to do a nice thing for her this morning. The sizzle in the pan, the rich, warm aroma, wakens a childhood memory. My mother, on a good day, making me a bacon, cheese, and pickle sandwich. The idea sets my mouth to watering, and I toast my bread, slather it with mayo, and am just neatly slicing a fat, juicy pickle into thin, glistening slices when I sense eyes on my back and turn to see Abigail watching me.

  Her nose wrinkles.

  “For breakfast? You have got to be kidding.”

  She heads for the coffeepot.

  “Have you ever even eaten a pickle?”

  “No. Should I?”

  I make another sandwich, cut it in triangles and remove the crust, then carry it to my daughter, who is leaning on the edge of the counter cradling a coffee mug in both hands.

  “Here.” I hold out the plate. She pokes at the sandwich with one clearly disapproving finger. “Seriously?”

  “You are probably the only person in North America who has never tasted a pickle.”

  I take a huge bite of my own sandwich, saliva surging into my mouth over the salty, crunchy, chewy goodness. It’s seriously the best thing I have ever eaten, and my stomach immediately settles and asks for more.

  Abigail makes the yucky face she used to make when she was six, and takes a small bite, exploring it with her mouth before she really starts to chew. “What was it with Dad and pickles?” she finally asks, as close as she’s ever going to come to saying that she likes what she’s tasting.

  “He didn’t like them.”

  “Well, right.” She’s staring at me as if she’s never seen me before. “I gathered that. But, when I was a kid, I thought they were bad. Like, cigarettes or LSD bad.”

  I see an opening, a thin sliver of blue sky through heavy cloud. “When your father believed a thing, it became gospel for him. God. Pickles. A woman’s place in the world. Medical school.”

  “Don’t,” she says.

  “You’re still young. It’s perfectly feasible. I applied to online university before . . . well, before.” Another dream to put on hold. I don’t have the bandwidth to take a class right now.

  “Let’s not talk about it.” Her voice has an edge, and I back off, protecting our fragile truce.

  Together we wash the last few dishes and pack them into the waiting box. Abigail leaves for work. She would have taken the day off if she could, she’s told me, but I suspect she doesn’t want to be here, to see the last of the memories moved out of her childhood home.

  The truth is, I don’t want to be here, either. It’s harder than I thought it would be to leave this house behind. I keep stumbling over good memories, quiet moments of closeness with Abigail before we grew so far apart. Plus, I’m realizing I should have waited to talk to Earlene until after the move. Church will be buzzing with my new status as a fallen woman. Everybody is going to want to show up to get a glimpse of me. It will be the church version of the paparazzi, out in full force, with nowhere for me to hide. Yesterday, getting this over with seemed like a great idea. This morning, not so much.

  Val breezes in, takes one look at my face, and gives me a hug.

  “I’m here, ready to do whatever. Just tell me what you need.”

  I hug her back, hard, wondering how I managed to live so long without a best friend, realizing how much I’m going to miss having her next door. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a spare scarlet letter lying around that I could wear for the day?”

  Val laughs. “Somebody leaked the news?”

  “I leaked the news. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Earlene threatened to send people over this morning to help.”

  “That is the last thing you need today. Tell you what. How about you take the cat and scram right now over to the new house. I’ll stay here to supervise loading the truck, and I solemnly swear I will not give away your forwarding address to any members of the congregation.”

  My heart leaps with more hope than I’ve felt in days. “You would do that for me?”

  “That and more.”

  Moses is hiding under Abigail’s bed. He refuses to come out. I have no tuna to tempt him with, and in the end, I get down on my belly and drag him out by the scruff of the neck, his claws snagging carpet all the way. By the time we stuff him into the carrier, Val and I are both bleeding.

  “He’s never going to forgive me for this.”

  “Are you kidding? He’ll forget all about it the first time he sees a hayfield and realizes how many big, fat mice are hiding there. I’d patch you up, but you’re already on borrowed time.” Val bundles me and the cat into my car just as Earlene steps out of her house and heads across the street. I wave as I drive by, pretending I don’t see her semaphore arm gestures commanding me to stop.

  Moses howls. Tears rise and flow unchecked as I leave the house behind. I’ve spent more than half of my life in that house. What has possessed me to think I can move somewhere else, especially now that I’m pregnant?

  Once I’m clear of town, I open the windows to let the fresh air flow in. Under the influence of blue sky, fields, and trees, my spirits begin to rise. When I open my new front door and walk into my house, I feel even better.

  Moses has subsided into a sullen silence. After some consideration, I decide to leave him in the carrier. If he gets out now, he won’t know this is home. Doors will be open to facilitate the move, and he might run away and never come back. I carry him upstairs and leave him in the loft.

  And then I walk through the rooms, turning lights on as I go, picturing where the furniture will go when I get some. What colors I might paint the walls. In every room, I see a little girl playing on the floor. Her eyes are blue, and shaped like Lance’s. Dark hair hangs in her eyes. There’s a smear of dirt on her cheek, and her grin is crooked, missing front teeth. I see blocks in the living room. Toy cars on the stairs. In the second bedroom, I see an unmade bed, a jumble of jeans and T-shirts on the floor. Crayon scribbles on the walls. Laughter follows me, room to room.

  My right hand goes to my belly. Somewhere in there is a spark of life. A tiny magic light of potential. A baby.

  What if I keep it?

  Abigail will throw a fit if I don’t proceed with adoption, and she’s probably right. I can’t imagine raising a baby by myself. I also can’t imagine giving one away.

  Shaking off my dark thoughts, I go out to the car and fetch the one box I brought with me. It contains the coffeepot and coffee, essential breakfast preparation items for tomorrow morning, and my luxury expenditure of one-thousand-count Egyptian cotton sheets and a new comforter for the bed that should be delivered shortly.

  Somebody has left a vase of wild roses on the kitchen counter, the subtle fragrance filling my nostrils. A housewarming gift from Bernie, I think at first. Or maybe from Lance’s sister, who has called to let me know I should come over for dinner anytime, no reservations required.

  But the handwritten note says:

  Evidence and my behavior aside, I love that you and the house will have each other. Lance.

  I stand there with that note in my hand, torn by conflicting desires to press it against my heart and tear it into shreds. Anger wins. How dare he leave me in the lurch and then offer up wildflowers?

  Before I can flare up into a full-on blaze, a delivery van drives into the yard. “Up here,
” I tell the delivery guys, leading them upstairs to the master bedroom.

  “Beautiful house,” one of them says. “The craftsmanship is amazing.”

  “Don’t make ’em like this anymore,” the other guy agrees.

  They are right. I can’t help but see the loving attention Lance put into building this house. He’s everywhere I look, a problem I hope will pass in time.

  It only takes them a few minutes to assemble the bed frame and bring up the mattress. As soon as they’re gone, I smooth the luxurious, crisp sheets into place, shake out the fluffy duvet. Then I toe off my shoes and lie down in the very middle of the mattress, spreading arms and legs wide, taking up all of the space rather than one small allotted spot on the right-hand side.

  I roll from one side to the other, testing the view of the room from different angles. There is no Thomas’s side, no Elizabeth’s side. Just this wide expanse of welcoming comfort. If the moving crew wasn’t likely to show up any minute, I’d just close my eyes and have a nap. Moses meows pathetically from the carrier, and I get up and sit in front of it where he can see me.

  “It’s for your own good, buddy. I’ll let you out as soon as we’re done moving. I promise.”

  I hear a truck engine and get to my feet to see a convoy headed up my driveway. A U-Haul truck followed by a procession of cars and pickups. “Here we go,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “Too late to back out of this now. I’m in.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  June 22, 2019

  Dear Lacey,

  Tonight is opening night for Just Say Yes, and just for today, my nerves have overtaken all of my other worries. I never had stage fright when I was young, but then I wasn’t widowed and pregnant and worried about making a spectacle of myself.

  I’m sad, too. It’s impossible to believe that in a few days there will be no more rehearsals. I’ve built a life around the play and the people in it, as if they’re family. We say we will see each other again, but will we? It’s so easy to say such things, and even mean them, and then it all falls away.