It’s not like I can be in whatever the next production is going to be. But maybe I’ll do it again after the baby is born.
It feels like I’ve been in this play forever. Also, it’s responsible for everything. I wouldn’t have this new house. I wouldn’t have met Lance. I wouldn’t be pregnant with his baby and facing the most difficult decisions of my life.
So, Lacey, I’m not entirely sure whether I love or hate you. It’s too late to go back now, though, and I’ve gotten rather fond of this saying-yes philosophy. Maybe it just takes a little practice to figure out when to say yes and when no is a better answer. I still haven’t decided what I’m going to do about adoption or not adoption.
I keep telling Abigail we have lots of time. She insists that the sooner we choose adoptive parents and involve them in the pregnancy, the better bonded they will be with the baby. There’s probably truth to that, but I suspect she just wants me to commit to the adoption thing so I’m less likely to back out.
Once the play is over, I’ll have no more excuses to avoid making decisions and absolutely nothing better to do with my time. And I won’t be seeing Lance. We still haven’t talked, and I’ve given up on trying. The last few weeks of rehearsals have been purgatory. Not hell—because I will confess here but to nobody else that there is still so much pleasure when he holds my hand. When he looks into my eyes, I believe that he cares about me, that he’s the man I thought he was—can that really all be acting? If so, he belongs on a bigger stage.
I’m pretty sure everybody in town, and probably everybody in Russia and Korea—both North and South—knows by now that I’m pregnant, and this does nothing to decrease my stage nerves. If the theater crowd is judging me, they are doing a fine job of hiding it. Everybody, with the exception of Lance, treats me the same as always. The church is another story. I’ve had no texts. No phone calls. Nobody has even shown up on my doorstep to pray over me. Even Pastor Steve has only been in contact through Bernie. The silence feels ominous, like an impending storm.
My self-esteem is at an all-time low, and my nerves are a mixture of excitement, dread, and uncertainty. Fragments of lines run through my head and collide with worries about pregnancy and whether I should go ahead with an adoption. I try to focus on the play, but there’s plenty of extra anxiety there, too. What if I forget all of my lines? What if I pass out again in front of God and everybody, the disgraced woman lying there for everybody to gossip over?
Val’s arm slips around me, and I realize she’s trembling.
“Why on earth did you drag me into this?” she asks, under cover of the preshow music playing through the speakers.
“Crazy woman.” I hug her, and the two of us cling together for a long moment.
“Maybe it would help to look,” she says. “I keep imagining the seats filling up with hecklers and the mean girls from high school. Which is just stupid, right?”
“Come on.” I grab her hand and drag her to the edge of the curtain at stage left, drawing it back just enough that she can peer out without much risk of being seen.
“Well?”
“Just people. Not a mean girl to be seen. Oh wait. Uh-oh . . .”
“What?”
“Nothing.” But she’s got a look on her face that is not a “nothing” look, and she’s blocking the edge of the curtain with her body. “Let’s go get ready.”
“Move, Val. Let me see.”
“Liz . . .”
I shoulder her out of my way and take my own time peering out into the crowd.
Earlene stands in the middle of the center aisle, blocking traffic, having a conversation with a couple seated on the aisle. The man and women shift over to the far end of the row, neither of them looking happy. Earlene follows them, the rest of a posse of church people filling the seats behind her. Annie and Kimber. Amy. Pastor Steve and Felicity. The one person I wanted to see out there, Abigail, is missing.
I step back from the curtain with my hand over my racing heart, knees weak.
Val laughs, shaky and high. “They are here out of support. It’s good.”
“Or it’s your mean-girl situation with a religious twist.”
“Did you bring your snacks?” Val asks. “Are you hydrated? You look a little wobbly.”
“I feel wobbly.”
As if summoned by a cosmic pregnancy bat signal, Lance arrives at my side, one hand under my elbow, the other on my waist. “Are you all right? Have you eaten? Are you hydrated?”
Val has every right in the world. Lance does not.
Anger steadies me. I draw a slow, deep breath, and glare at him. He’s got absolutely no business telling me how to manage a pregnancy he doesn’t choose to be part of. I’ve worked hard to get myself into a mind-set that lets me work with him onstage. His touch, his solicitous tone, threaten to undo all of that. But the last thing I want to do is create a scene.
“Unhand me, villain,” I intone in a Shakespearean stage voice. And then add in a normal voice, “I’m good. Just nerves.”
He grins at me. “Picture them in their underwear.”
A vision of Earlene in her undergarments flashes before my eyes, and I grimace. “No. Thank you.”
Bill marches over. “Places, people. What are you all doing over here?”
“Melting down,” Val says.
“None of that. Just picture them in their—”
“No!” Val and I object simultaneously. Then we both dissolve into half-hysterical laughter, and all three of us follow Bill to the greenroom where we are supposed to be waiting.
The laughter eases the tension, but still, when I walk out on the stage for the first time, blinking against the bright glare of the stage lights, my body feels unreal, and for just an instant, my first line escapes me.
But Lance is solid and real and present. Despite his massive failures in the Father of the Baby department, if I fall, I know he’ll catch me. If I stumble over my lines, he’ll make something up to cover me. As Darcy and Lacey, we are golden. It’s only as Liz and Lance that we’re so hopelessly messed up. Onstage, Lacey has got this. I channel all of my emotional upheaval into her, and I can feel the audience responding.
After I find the first line, the rest of the play goes smoothly, with only a few minor glitches, and I’m almost surprised when it’s over. Lance and I stand alone onstage, holding hands, gazing into each other’s eyes. I tell myself one more time that the love and loss I see in his are just good acting. We each take a slow step backward, as we’ve practiced so many times, our hands separating as the lights go out and two separate spotlights pick us up and the orchestra begins the final song. I’m afraid I won’t be able to sing, my voice choked with unshed tears, but when it’s time, I’m able to channel all of my sadness and my hope into the music.
And then, it’s all over. The houselights come up and people are clapping and we are all taking our bows, alone, as a group, and then Lance and I are taking our bow together, hands linked, and I can’t stop thinking that after the run of shows are over I’ll never hold hands with him again.
My tears start flowing, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not the only one crying tonight. Even Tara and Bernie look suspiciously shiny eyed when they hug me backstage, and Val is openly weeping.
“I’ve loved this so much,” she wails. “I can’t believe it’s almost over.”
“So be in the next production,” Geoff suggests. “I’m auditioning. Tara and Bernie are always in.”
“I’ll be sitting out the next couple.” I wipe tears away with the back of my hand. “I’ll miss you guys.”
“Hey, you don’t get away from us that easy,” Tara objects. “We’ll be, like, babysitting and stuff. Right, Bern?”
“Right on.”
Evan, the quiet boy who plays my son onstage, grins at me. “I’ll claim the after-school shift. I’m a great sitter. Took care of my sibs when Mom worked evenings.”
And now I’m crying again as everybody comes together in a circle for a group hug. Everybody except
Lance, who is nowhere to be seen.
We’re broken apart by a familiar, demanding voice. “Where is Elizabeth Lightsey? We want to talk to her.”
I have just time to stand up and scrub my sleeve over my eyes before Earlene appears, followed by the rest of her people.
“Don’t worry, we’ve got your back,” Val says, and then Earlene is shoving a wrapped parcel into my hands.
“I know it’s customary to bring flowers, but we wanted to give you this.”
Felicity hugs me, package and all. “That was brilliant, Mrs. L. You made us all cry.”
“I certainly did not,” Earlene objects.
“She did,” Annie whispers, winking.
“It’s so awesome that you all showed up,” I say, surprised by how touched and happy I am to see them here, even Earlene.
“Open your gift!” Felicity reminds me of a child, eyes wide with excitement.
I tear open the wrappings and stand blinking at the object in my hands. It’s a knitted baby blanket in a patchwork of rainbow colors, every square vibrant and a different texture.
Felicity actually bounces in delight. “We made it in the knitting circle! Don’t you just love it?”
“I do love it. This is . . .” I clasp the soft blanket against my chest and stare at them all through a brand-new haze of tears. “It’s beautiful.”
“We all made different squares,” Kimber explains. “And then Felicity sewed them all together.”
Annie rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning. “Will the wonders never cease, right? Miracles are alive and real.”
“It was so much fun, we’re going to make all of them this way.” Felicity beams at me. “Even Steve made a square. But we didn’t actually include it.”
“It was pretty crooked,” the pastor says, laughing. “But it was fun to be part of the circle.”
For just a minute, I feel left out. Maybe this new, reformed knitting circle would be something I’d want to be part of. Earlene brings me back to my senses.
“Next time we will be much more structured. We’ll abide by a color scheme and—”
“You don’t have to control everything,” Annie butts in.
“Oh, come on, you two, not tonight,” Steve objects, but I know the bickering will only escalate from here.
“Hey,” Tara says, coming up beside me. “That blanket is so adorable! Excuse me for butting in,” she says, “but I need to borrow Liz for a minute.” She tows me off to the side. “Just wanted to let you know the cast is meeting at Rancho. You’re coming, right?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. No drinking games for me, though.”
“Of course not. You and the baby can drink something disgustingly healthy. And be our designated drivers if we need them.”
Earlene and Annie are still bickering, and I say my goodbyes with more relief than regret. Felicity hugs me as I’m leaving and whispers, “Can I call you sometimes? For advice?”
“Not sure I have any advice to give.”
“Well, just moral support, then.”
I laugh at the rueful expression on her face. “You are already miles ahead of anything I ever managed to accomplish. But yes. Of course. Call me anytime.”
The party at Rancho Chico feels like a letdown. Maybe it’s because I’m emotionally drained, or because I am the only person who doesn’t drink, aside from my stage son. Maybe it’s because Lance is conspicuously missing. Whatever the reason, I excuse myself early.
Abigail is asleep on the couch, our first joint purchase for the house. Moses is asleep on her feet. He still hasn’t forgiven me for the carrier, and the minute he sees me, he gets up and stalks away, looking indignant. A book is open on Abigail’s chest, The Handmaid’s Tale. Nothing like a little light reading on a Saturday night. She looks so peaceful, I don’t have the heart to wake her; I just close the book and set it to one side. Then I cover her with a blanket and drag myself up the stairs to my room.
I am so bone tired, I can barely keep my eyes open long enough to remove my stage makeup before I fall blissfully into my lovely new bed and drift into a deep, dreamless sleep.
When I wake, Abigail has already left for church. But she’s left a plate of peanut butter and crackers by my bed, along with a glass of water. A doc at her job told her protein before I even get out of bed will help with the nausea, and it does seem to be working.
Downstairs, the coffeepot is loaded and ready to go.
I slip into a sweater and carry my coffee out onto the porch. It’s still cool, but the sun is warm. I sit in the porch swing, soaking in the fragrance of grass and wildflowers, listening to the birds. I love that I have no neighbors close by, that I can sit out here in my pajamas without bothering to comb my hair.
Despite the caffeine and a good night’s sleep, the peaceful rocking makes me drowsy. I set down the mug and let my eyes drift closed, soaking up the spring sunshine and the birdsongs, letting my overtaxed brain just drift in and out of a light doze.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” Lance’s voice says, and my eyes pop open.
He’s leaning on the porch railing. I assume he’s looking at me, but the sun is directly behind him, casting his face into shadow.
I gasp and straighten up, wiping the back of my hand across my mouth in case I’ve been drooling.
“I didn’t mean to startle you.” The glow behind him highlights the lines etched in his face, the dark circles under his eyes. “You looked so peaceful.”
My hand goes automatically to my uncombed hair, and I wrap the sweater more closely around me, remembering the pajamas and feeling resentful that he’s caught me at such a disadvantage. We need to talk when I’m fully dressed—maybe in the elegant cocktail gown I don’t own, with diamonds at my throat and a bodyguard standing by.
“Did you need something?”
“I came to talk.”
Gathering up all of my newfound determination and decisiveness, wearing it like armor, I say, “Do tell.”
“Please don’t be like that.”
“Like what, exactly, Lance? You’re finally ready to have a conversation, so you just show up and assume I’m good with that.”
“I was completely blindsided. I think it’s reasonable that I took a little time—”
“You were blindsided. Funny thing—I don’t have the luxury of just ignoring the fact that I’m pregnant. It’s kind of up front and in my face.”
“Maybe you should have thought of that sooner.”
“Me? What about you? Maybe only one person can carry a baby, but this wasn’t an immaculate conception.”
“You told me you couldn’t get pregnant, when clearly you . . .” He stops, shifts his weight.
“Go on,” I urge him, thoroughly angry now. “When clearly I what?”
“Where do I even start? The odds of a woman your age getting pregnant are astronomical. Were you on fertility treatments? There you were, pretending to be so innocent and inexperienced, and all the time—”
“Oh my God! You think I did this on purpose? What insane woman wants to be pregnant at this age?”
“You wouldn’t be the first woman to loop a man in.”
It’s all so ridiculous that my outrage finds an outlet in a burst of laughter. Lance folds his arms across his chest, a muscle in his cheek twitching rhythmically.
I cross my own arms and glare at him. “First, I don’t need a man, not that bad, anyway. Second, if I did need a man, getting pregnant is certainly not the way I would hook one.”
Lance turns away, looking out across the field behind him. “I’m sorry if I misjudged you.”
“Now there’s a heartfelt apology. Is that why you came over here? To accuse me of tricking you into—what, exactly?”
“Marriage.” He turns back toward me, taking off his ball cap and twisting it in his hands. “I came over to ask you to marry me.”
Now I’m speechless. I rock back and forth on my swing trying to think of something, anything, to say.
“It’s the right thing to do,”
he says after a long silence.
“Right for whom?”
He flinches, and I soften my voice. “Listen. Lance. Whatever you thought, you were wrong. I tried for years to have another baby after Abigail and couldn’t. I’m well into menopause. When I said I couldn’t get pregnant, I believed it, only apparently I was wrong.”
“You didn’t seem like the sort of woman who would do that sort of thing,” he admits.
“And you didn’t seem like the sort of man who would jump to an assumption like that.” I don’t add the “apparently I was wrong” clause, but it hangs between us as clearly as if I had. Is it ingrained in all men to believe that women are temptresses? It’s Eve with the apple all over again, luring Adam to his fate.
Lance’s lips twist into a rueful half smile. “So no to marriage, then?”
“A definite no. You can cross that one off your to-do list.”
“I’ll help,” he says. “Financially. Or anything. Cooking. Cleaning. Plowing snow out of your yard in the winter. Rides to the doctor. If you need all of that. If you’re not . . . God, I’m bad at this. Are you going to . . . end it?”
“Get an abortion, you mean? No. I . . . can’t.”
“Thank you,” he breathes. “I know I don’t deserve an opinion, but a baby . . . a new person that’s part of both of us. I’d like it to have a chance to live.” He paces the length of the deck, his boots clomping. “Your health, though. That’s the most important. Are you . . . can you . . .”
“The doctor says that while the risks are higher for a woman of my age, most of them are for the baby. I’ll likely survive. Abigail wants me to find an adoptive home. She’s approached an agency. I’d need you to take a DNA test and sign papers.”
He blinks, twice. Rubs his face with his hands. “I might not be the father?”
“Oh, you’re definitely the father. Legally, though, you have to prove it’s yours before you can sign away your rights.”
“If you keep it, we could raise it together,” he says very softly.
“Apparently we can’t even have a conversation without fighting. Not sure raising a child together is such a good idea. Also, if it makes you feel better, there’s still a high possibility of miscarriage.”
A Borrowed Life Page 23
