Miracle In March

by Juliet Madison

  Chapter 9

  Emma had done her best to hide the following day. She stayed in the office as much as possible, and thankfully there were no extra towel requests from any of the Gallagher family. While checking a cabin up the end of the park near James’ cabin, she spied them getting into a car; Jackson with his pink owl and her cap, and James with a backpack. She’d thought for a moment they might be leaving early on account of her, and felt a twinge of sadness and guilt. But later she’d seen Jackson playing in the garden near the playground, crouching down next to the bushes as if he was talking to the bright, dangly fuchsias that decorated the area. She could glimpse the playground from her window and occasionally cast a glance that way. Her insides twisted with contradictory urges — to seek him out, and to turn away from him. It had been a battle she’d dealt with in the past, but was now reenlisted in.

  After finishing work, taking the washing off the line and putting everything away, she made her way over to her parents’ house for dinner. Her mother looked thrilled to see her, no doubt needing the extra company and set of hands. ‘Come in, darling, I’m just serving up now.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’ At her mother’s insistence Emma sat at the table, pushing her brown hair off her shoulders. She hadn’t had to do that in a long time, but now that she was growing her hair long again, she noticed the unfamiliarity of the simple gesture. She leaned towards her dad and gave him a kiss on the cheek. ‘How are you today?’ she asked.

  ‘Same old, same old,’ he said gruffly, shrugging. ‘At least I have a live-in nurse to care for me.’ A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

  Barbara Brighton sighed. ‘I’m more than that, dear.’

  ‘I know, but you’re not just my wife anymore. It’s just the way it is.’

  Emma was still getting used to her father’s direct and honest remarks. He’d been nothing but courteous and respectful all his life, but now was less empathetic. It wasn’t his fault, and they both knew to try not to let anything he said get to them.

  ‘Smells good.’ Emma studied the bowl of chicken and mushroom risotto that her mother placed in front of her, speckled with herbs and pine nuts.

  ‘Eat up while it’s warm,’ Barbara said. She reached over to help her husband but he held out his good hand.

  ‘I’ve got it.’ He picked up the spoon. Emma had given her mum a cookbook called One Pot Wonders, so she could make as many meals as possible that Don would be able to eat on his own with one hand. He had minor use of his left side, but it was too weak to be consistent.

  ‘Make sure you use your left a little too, give it a workout like the physio said. Otherwise it will weaken even further.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he mumbled, spooning risotto into his mouth.

  Barbara turned her attention back to Emma and plastered a smile that Emma knew was partly forced. ‘So, all going okay with you?’

  ‘Everything’s under control.’ She nodded. Except when it came to her personal life. ‘Bob’s ahead of schedule too, with all the great weather we’ve had, so we can start thinking about a more concrete plan for selling the place soon. Maybe we should bring in some stylists to fancy up the cabins, plant some new shrubs along the pathway…’ Ideas ran through her mind.

  ‘Yes, I guess so.’ Barbara sighed again. ‘It seems like such an effort to think of all that right now, though.’

  ‘I know. It’s okay, I’ll come up with lists of what we need to accomplish and take it from there.’ It’d be like working on her teaching schedule — a list of specific tasks to achieve a desired outcome. And the sooner the place was ready to sell, the sooner she could move on with her own life.

  Clang! Don’s spoon fell to the floor. He went to lean over to get it but could only tilt as far as the wheelchair would let him.

  ‘I’ve got it, Dad.’ Emma picked it up and wiped it with the napkin hanging from his collar.

  He ripped the napkin off. ‘I don’t need this wretched thing, I’m not a baby.’

  ‘I know, Dad, it’s just…’

  ‘No,’ he said, putting the napkin on the table.

  ‘Okay,’ she said softly. She exchanged glances with her mother, knowing they were both thinking the same thing: he’d need to change his shirt by the end of the meal. His lopsided chewing made for lots of dribble and spills, but he was too stubborn to accept it yet. Understandably. He’d been an active man until the stroke, and it was bound to make him frustrated and upset.

  Their prediction had proved correct by the time they’d finished eating, though he simply wiped at the glob of rice and oil on his shirt. He’d have to change into pyjamas soon anyway. Emma wondered how much longer her mother would cope, and whether they would need to finance some extra help in-house. A nursing home was out of the question at this stage, he wouldn’t allow it, and he wasn’t so disabled that it was a significant need. Maybe he would get better, maybe his mobility down the left side would improve with the physio. If he stuck to doing the exercises.

  ‘So I guess there’s no chance you might want to take over the holiday park long-term?’ Barbara suggested with a small chuckle.

  She hated to break her heart, but no. At least not now. Maybe after she’d had her European adventure she might feel differently, she might be ready to settle down and keep the family business running, but now wasn’t the time. And a place like this — it was best run by more than one person; it was a perfect ‘couples’ business’, but she was about as far away from being part of a couple as she was from Paris.

  Emma tilted her head. ‘Not at this stage, Mum. Sorry, I know it would be easier, but think of the sale price you could get. If it goes for a nice sum you might be able to pay for some help around here. And once it’s sorted I’ll keep coming back regularly, of course.’

  ‘Why don’t you try to keep it going a bit longer, Barb?’ Don said. ‘You love the place. I’ll be okay, and like Em said, maybe we should hire someone to do a few things.’

  ‘Oh I couldn’t, Don. Not now. We need to focus on getting you used to…to…’

  To living out the rest of his life in a wheelchair. To never going hiking in the Rocky Mountains. To never swimming in the ocean again.

  Emma’s heart sank.

  ‘Well, we need to deal with where things are at right now. And we might need to move. This place isn’t best suited to our needs anymore.’

  ‘To my needs,’ he corrected.

  She was right. The two-storey house wasn’t the most suitable for a wheelchair, her dad having to live downstairs, much smaller than the upstairs, which had been designed to maximise the view.

  ‘Still, there’s no rush to sell, right? Why not see it through for a bit longer?’

  ‘Don, my decision is made. Besides, I’ll have more time to spend with Emma, and being retired will be good for us.’ She took a sip from her glass.

  ‘Emma needs to live her own life, Barb. And it’s not like she’ll be able to give us any grandchildren to keep you occupied.’

  Barbara’s spoon clanged against the bowl as she placed it down. Emma felt a dull thud in her chest and her jaw clenched.

  ‘Don, that was uncalled for,’ Barbara said.

  ‘Well it’s true. And you need to get over the fact that you’ll never be a grandmother, and Emma will never be a mother. It’s a simple fact.’

  Emma covered her mouth, willing the hurt and sadness to stay within and not unravel her composure. Barbara’s eyes became red and glossy.

  She’d tried. She really had. But she couldn’t take anymore, not tonight. Emma’s chair skidded as she stood, and Barbara followed suit.

  ‘Em, it’s okay, he didn’t mean it,’ her mother said.

  Emma shook her head and clamped her lips tight, turning to the kitchen counter to grab her bag.

  ‘Wait, sweetheart, don’t go. We haven’t had dessert yet.’

  ‘I can’t… I…’ Every word hurt to release, and if she tried to talk any further her words would morph into tears, and she didn’t want her dad to see
her cry.

  ‘C’mon, love. Don’t miss dessert, it’s the best part of a meal,’ he said.

  Emma had always considered good conversation the best part of a meal, but tonight, it was sadly lacking.

  ‘Thanks for dinner,’ she said curtly. ‘Goodnight, Mum. Dad.’ She pecked her mother briefly on the cheek and retreated towards the door.

  ‘Emma!’ Barbara called out, but Emma was already halfway down the ramp.

  She couldn’t get inside fast enough. A sour, salty taste worked its way up her throat. Her lips still clamped tight and her heart pinching with each beat, she flung her bag onto the couch and went into the bathroom, turning on the shower. As it heated up she stripped off her clothes and let them fall into a limp pile on the floor. Standing in front of the mirror she avoided her own stare. Instead, her eyes turned downward to her stomach. She ran her shaking hand tentatively across the dull, purple-grey scar, her heart aching like it once had, at the deep, dark emptiness within.

  * * *

  After drowning her tears with the hot stream of water for what felt like hours, Emma stepped out and dried off, and she knew what had to be done.

  She had to tell him.

  She changed into trackpants and a long-sleeved t-shirt, and tied her wet hair haphazardly into a bun. It was late, but there was no way she could sleep tonight, feeling like this. Her dad had hit a nerve, a raw nerve, and although he meant no harm, it had hurt her. He was right, though: it was a simple fact, and she did have to get used to it. But maybe she wouldn’t be able to if she didn’t tell the one person she’d ever really loved what had happened.

  Should she just turn up at his cabin? She didn’t want to disturb Jackson, who was probably sleeping. James might even be sleeping too, God knew he probably needed as much as he could get.

  She could call the landline of cabin number one, but again, it might wake Jackson.

  She could wait till tomorrow, but she’d have a restless night and be tired for work, and most importantly, she might lose her resolve and change her mind.

  She withdrew her phone from her bag and pressed ‘contacts’. She still had his number in there, had never been brave enough to delete it. Would he still have the same number from over five years ago?

  Her gaze hovered over his name: James Gallagher.

  She focused on each letter intently until they no longer resembled a name or a word, until they held no meaning, just like she’d done back then to try and forget him. But as soon as her focus returned it was there again.

  James Gallagher.

  The man she’d once thought she’d be with for life. Even though their relationship had been short, it had been intense and wonderful. The man who had been filled with hopes and dreams for his life, and who now barely resembled the guy she fell in love with. Did she do that to him?

  She shuddered. She thought she’d be helping him by leaving, but did it really turn out that way? He’d said Jackson was four and a half, which meant whoever the child’s mother was, he’d hooked up with her not long after Emma had left him. Was his son the result of a rebound fling? And where was the mother now?

  Emma realised that even though James was the one who needed answers the most, she needed them too. She took a deep breath and pressed ‘text message’, then typed:

  James, is this still your number? It’s Emma.

  Her heart pounded as she waited, and waited, and waited. Had he looked at it and was wondering whether to ignore her? Or did the number now belong to someone else?

  She put the phone in her pocket and poured a glass of water, though she probably needed wine. As she brought the glass to her lips her phone beeped and vibrated and she jumped, spilling some water on the table.

  Yes it’s me. Why?

  She typed back:

  I’m ready to tell you. Can we meet?

  Waiting again, she thought he’d decided not to reply, but he did:

  I’ll wait outside the cabin.

  * * *

  Emma slipped on her runners and locked up, sliding the phone and keys into her pocket. The park was quiet, serene, but it was about to get an injection of tension and who knew what else. She had no idea how he’d react. She didn’t care that her hair was still wet or that she had no make-up on, she was simply going to tell him the truth, then leave. Again.

  She made her way around the meandering concrete pathway at the back that weaved between cabins and gardens, the sounds of late night television and chatter filtering through the walls of the cabins. The constant whoosh of the ocean muffled the beating of her heart, and served to remind her that no matter what happened, life moved on. Things didn’t stop for anyone. The ocean would be as ever-present as it had always been, and it gave her a sense of comfort that some things, at least, never changed.

  Rounding the corner, she walked up to the back of cabin number one, where only a dim light shone through the closed curtains of the main bedroom. James’ bedroom, no doubt, unless Jackson had bagsed it and left his father to sleep in the single bed of the kids’ room. James would do something like that, she was sure of it. He would make a sacrifice, no matter how small, for someone else. And that was one of the reasons she’d done what she’d done. She hadn’t wanted him to sacrifice anything for her back then, but he would have. If she’d let him.

  Emma edged around to the side of the cabin, dark except for the hint of moonlight skidding off the ocean’s surface and onto the shore, the white cabin walls reflecting its glossy tone. He was there at the cabin’s side, sitting on the bench seat flanked by two potted plants, the kitchen window above it. His elbows rested firmly on his knees as he leant forwards, twisting his hands together.

  ‘Hi.’ Emma approached. James stood, slid his hands into his pockets. Their eyes met. ‘Thanks for, for um…’

  ‘Just tell me.’ He crossed his arms.

  Right. No messing around then.

  Emma took a step closer. James didn’t budge. ‘Back when we were together, when everything was going so well and it looked like things might become more…permanent, something happened.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I didn’t want to worry you, didn’t want to burden you, but I knew I would never be able to give you what you wanted, so I left. To make it easier.’

  ‘Easier? For you or me?’ he said.

  ‘For both of us.’

  His eyes scored her like lasers, honing in on the truth that lay beneath, waiting to extract it.

  She ran a hand over her wet hair, the coolness echoing that which emanated from him. ‘I’d been having some…problems, with my health. Women’s stuff. It was embarrassing, it’s not exactly something a woman wants to talk about with her boyfriend.’ She lowered her head. ‘But when I went to my specialist, expecting a simple change in medication or maybe a small procedure to reduce the symptoms, she found something.’

  James narrowed his eyes and tilted his head, and it appeared like he was holding his breath, waiting for the truth to come out.

  Emma gulped. Her legs weakening like a deflating balloon, she moved to the bench and sat, gripping the armrest. James stood in front of her, arms still crossed, eyes still anticipating her revelation.

  ‘It wasn’t common for someone my age, but the evidence was plain to see.’ Emma took a deep breath, though it felt like no oxygen had entered her lungs. ‘I had aggressive cancer in my uterus.’ The words felt foreign to her now, whereas once they had been so familiar. Like James; familiar and part of her one minute, foreign and far removed the next.

  ‘Cancer? What? Are you…’ James stepped closer and his hand stretched towards her for a split second, before he stepped back again and stiffened.

  ‘I’m okay now, in remission,’ she reassured. ‘But back then, I didn’t know what might happen and didn’t want —’

  ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me?’ James’ voice was high-pitched.

  ‘James, I was going to, but that night I went over to your place, your friend’s kids were there and you were having so much fun. And right after we’d h
ad that talk too, and I just couldn’t. I couldn’t do it, I’m sorry.’ She hung her head and rubbed at her neck.

  ‘But I don’t understand, I mean, why, what —’

  ‘I’m broken, James.’ She instinctively clutched her stomach. ‘It’s gone, all of it. I had a hysterectomy, followed by chemotherapy. That day, I’d found out that not only would I never carry a child, I could potentially…’ she couldn’t say the word. ‘That survival wasn’t guaranteed, as the cancer had spread. Our relationship was just warming up and I didn’t want to put that on you. I didn’t want your life and dreams to be affected by my problem, didn’t want you to…to see me go through that.’ Her chin quivered and she clamped her lips tight. ‘I knew if I left then, you’d still have a chance. With someone else. You always wanted to be a father, and I wasn’t about to rob you of that opportunity.’

  ‘Christ, Emma.’ James ran his hand through his hair, shaking his head. ‘And you’re sure things are okay now?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I would have helped you, can’t you see that?’ He glanced up at the cabin then lowered his voice, no doubt not wanting to wake Jackson. ‘I would have been there for you!’ He flung his hands in the air.

  ‘I know you would have, and that’s why I had to go. I could barely handle the effect on my parents, I didn’t want you to suffer too.’

  ‘But I did, Emma. I suffered!’ He jabbed at his chest with his finger. ‘Because you left!’

  The pain of her impossible choice resurfaced, and her chest ached. ‘But it would have been easier than the alternative and you know it,’ she replied. ‘Look, I know I hurt you, and I’m so, so sorry, but my head was in a spin. I was feeling all range of emotions, and I did what I thought was best at the time. I didn’t want you feeling obligated to hang around.’