by Robin Wells
“I do. I just had a bubble bath an’ it feels so won’erful not to be sick anymore!” She grabs my hand. “Come see the pitchers I drawed for you an’ Auntie Quinn an’ Grams!”
I raise my eyebrows and look at Quinn. “Is it okay?”
Her mouth curves in a wry grin. “As if I could say no after the hazard duty you pulled last night.”
I let Lily pull me into the kitchen, Ruffles cavorting beside us. Lily leads me past the island to the refrigerator, where Quinn has posted the latest round of artwork. Lily points a chubby finger to a crayon picture of stick figures with big heads and hands. “That’s you an’ me an’ Auntie Quinn on the sofa when I was sick,” she says. “An’ that’s Auntie Quinn an’ you with the sick bucket takin’ care of me. An’ this one is when I got sick on your shirt.”
“Hey, Quinn wasn’t standing there smiling!”
“No, but she was in the house, an’ she woulda laughed if she hadda been. An’ this one is when you carried me in, an’ this is when you came back with groc’ries.”
I can’t help but be struck that all three of us are in every drawing.
“Nice, Lily.”
She points to the urp picture and the carrying-in picture. “These two are for you, an’ the others are for Grams an’ Auntie Quinn.”
“Thank you very much, Lily.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I was just about to put Lily to bed,” Quinn says.
“Can Daddy help tuck me in?” Lily whips around to face me. “Can you read me a story? Pleeease?”
Quinn smiles. “It’s okay with me, if he can spare the time.”
Lily fixes me with a pleading gaze. Like the Grinch—I remember reading that book aloud to my niece and nephew a few Christmases ago—I feel like my heart grows three sizes. “Sure.”
Lily jumps up and down. Ruffles jumps, too. “I’m gonna pick out some books!” She runs upstairs to her room.
“How many do we read?” I ask Quinn as I follow her up the stairs.
“The rule her mother set was three, but Lily always talks me into more.”
Her mother. It’s easy to forget that Lily recently lost her mom. They seem like such a tight little family unit that I think of Quinn as her mom. “What’s the limit?”
“Depends how long the books are. I’d say we read to her for about twenty minutes, tops, because it’s getting late and she’s recovering from being ill.”
I follow Quinn into a room with a queen-sized bed covered in a fluffy white coverlet. Prints of lilies and roses hang on the walls. A comforter printed with pink lilies is folded at the bottom of the bed.
It’s a grown-up bedroom, but Quinn has added a lot of childlike touches. Lily’s stuffed animals are in a large basket on the floor, and the bottom two rows of a bookshelf hold children’s books.
Lily climbs into the bed with a stack of books and her raggedy teddy bear. “You get on this side, Daddy, ’cause Auntie Quinn gets on the other.” Lily points to the left of the bed, then pats the right side for Quinn.
Ruffles hops up and makes herself at home on Lily’s lap. Lily grins hugely, making me marvel at her perfect little baby teeth.
She hands me Curious George Goes Camping. “I want you to read this one first, an’ then Auntie Quinn can read this.” She hands her The Runaway Bunny, then puts her head on my shoulder.
My heart feels like a soft, ripe peach. The sweetness of the moment triggers a memory, and my mind flies back to my boyhood.
Every summer, my family visited my mother’s parents on their sorghum farm in rural Georgia. My sister and I loved to go with Granddad into town whenever he ran an errand, because he’d always stop at a roadside stand and buy some locally grown peaches. We’d sit on the tailgate of his rusty Ford pickup and bite into them, the juice running down our chins, all over our hands, and onto our clothes. The taste was bright as sunshine.
Every time we’d leave the house, Gramma would warn, “Now, Harold, don’t let them get all messy.”
And Granddad would reply, “Some things are worth the cleanup, because they last longer than the moment.”
This is one of those longer-than-the-moment occasions. It’s a summer-peach moment, sweet and pure and juicy with life, and I know I’ll remember it long after tonight. I wonder if Lily will remember it, too. If I move to Seattle, cuddling up to read bedtime stories will be a rare occurrence.
My chest aches like an extracted wisdom tooth. I open the book and begin to read.
* * *
—
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, Quinn looks at her watch. I decide to step up and be the bad guy. “Lily, it’s way past bedtime.”
“Just one more?”
“You’ve just-one-mored your way through about four extra books. It’s nighty-night time.”
“Okay,” she says.
Quinn gets up to put the books away, and Lily scoots off the bed. I’m not sure what’s going on until Lily kneels beside the mattress. “Thank you for the day, dear God. Please bless Auntie Quinn an’ Daddy an’ Grams. Get Grams well real quick, an’ give Mommy a big hug an’ kiss in heaven. Oh—an’ bless Ruffles an’ my sister in Quinn’s belly. I hope she’s a sister, but I’ll be okay with a brudder. Amen.”
“Amen,” Quinn repeats.
“Amen,” I add.
Lily crawls back into bed, and Quinn folds down the sheet, tucks the covers around her and her stuffed teddy bear, and kisses her forehead. “Sweet dreams, Lily. I love you.”
“Love you too, Auntie Quinn!”
I lean down and kiss her cheek. “Sleep tight,” I say.
“Okay. I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you, too,” I say, with no hesitation.
And I do, one hundred percent. It took me forever to say those words to a woman, but with Lily, they just fly out.
“She’s amazing,” I tell Quinn as we go downstairs and head into the kitchen.
“That she is.”
“She’s so resilient and upbeat and energetic,” I say.
“She’s all that and a bag of chips.” Quinn smiles. “Speaking of chips, would you like something to eat?”
“No, thanks.”
“Well, how about a beer? I have a couple in the fridge that will just be sitting there for seven more months or so.” She puts her hand on her belly, over the baby she’s carrying.
“Okay—sure.”
She hands me a beer and takes a sparkling water for herself.
“So the baby’s a couple of months along?”
She nods. “The doctor says nine weeks, although I was inseminated seven weeks ago.”
“Sarah said you had an ultrasound.”
Her eyes grow bright. “Yeah.”
I remember my sister getting copies of her ultrasounds. “Do you have a DVD of that?”
“I do. Would you like to see it?”
“I’d love to.”
“There’s not a lot to see, but you can hear the heartbeat.”
I follow her into the living room, adrenaline pumping.
“Have a seat.” She gestures to the sofa, then slides a DVD into the player connected to the TV. She joins me on the sofa, tucks her feet under her, and reaches for the remote.
The screen lights up, but it’s hard to make out what I’m seeing. Everything is gray and black, and the camera seems to be moving. “The doctor was rubbing the transducer across my belly to find the baby,” Quinn says.
The movement settles. I see a little mass of something gray at the bottom in what looks like a cave. I hear a whoosh whoosh whoosh. My heart feels like a fish jumping out of the water.
“That’s the baby’s heartbeat?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow. It’s so fast!”
She nods. “The doctor said it’s supposed to be.”
She g
ets up, goes to the screen, and points at a little mass. “The doctor said this is the head.”
It takes me a moment, but I think I see it. “Wow!”
“The baby is about the size of a grape. All of the organs are forming, and the heart already has all four chambers.” She smiles as she comes back the sofa. “I call the heartbeat ‘Chamber Music.’”
“That’s perfect.” I stare, transfixed.
“I have it on my phone. I listen to it every night before I go to sleep. And sometimes during the day when I’m alone and I want to get some perspective on what really matters, I play it.”
“That’s a great idea. Do you mind if I record it?”
“No. Go ahead.”
I pull out my phone.
“I’ll turn up the volume, but only a little,” she says. “I don’t want Lily to hear it yet. I think it might make it harder on her if something were to happen.” Her hand protectively covers her stomach. “The doctor warned me there’s a high chance of miscarriage in the first trimester.”
I nod. “Jessica had one.”
“Oh, no.” She sits very still. Her brow creases. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“It was the second IVF try. We’d only known she was pregnant for six days.”
Her eyes are full, as if she’s about to cry. “That must have been devastating.”
“That’s the word for it. I was so excited, I bought a fetal Doppler so we could listen to the heartbeat, but . . . well, we never got that far. I never even told Jessica I’d bought it. I buried it in the back of the closet.”
“I’m so sorry.” A tear tracks down her cheek. She quickly brushes it away.
I’m moved by her empathy. I think you can tell a lot about a person by what makes them cry.
Quinn turns up the volume. I aim my phone at the screen and press record. We sit in silence for a full two minutes, watching the blurry image on the screen and listening to our baby’s heart.
Our baby. My emotions and thoughts are skipping all over the place. I feel a tenderness and a connection to Quinn that I have no business feeling.
I think about the sweet child upstairs, and the way Quinn has unhesitatingly embraced her as her own. I think about how Quinn has rearranged her life to care for Margaret. I wonder if our paths ever crossed during all the years we were both in New Orleans. Surely I would have noticed such a beautiful, warm, generous-hearted woman. I wonder what would have happened if I’d met her before I met Jessica. I can’t help but wonder if . . .
No. I refuse to let my thoughts go there. I’m a married man.
The thought of Jessica leaves me feeling vaguely ashamed and guilty. This is all so unfair to her; I hate how this hurts her. And yet . . .
I click off my phone’s camera, check that the video and sound have recorded, and then stand and put my phone in my pocket. “Well, I guess I’d better go.”
“Thanks for coming by. And thanks for checking in on Margaret.” Quinn unfolds her legs and walks me to the door. She smiles as she opens it. There’s a moment when I could have hugged her good-bye, but the moment passes, and the whole concept of physical contact seems too fraught with peril anyway.
I inhale Quinn’s soft scent as I step past her on my way out the door. The night air is thick and warm and humid, and I feel oddly like I’m swimming through it.
This evening was one of the most moving, magical nights of my life. I tucked my sweet daughter into bed, heard her prayers, and told her that I loved her. I heard—and saw—the heartbeat of my baby. Tonight was miraculous and loving and right.
And yet, it’s not something I can tell my wife without wounding her.
So what am I supposed to do—basically ignore the two lives I helped create, the lives that are a part of me? Can I really just go off to Seattle, send a few cards and letters, occasionally video chat with them, and maybe see them a few times a year?
I climb into my car and try to picture what my father would do. He would never have given his children anything less than one hundred percent. On the other hand, he would never have hurt my mother.
I sit in silence, trying to imagine how my father would have handled this situation. I can’t. My father never would have gotten himself into such a dilemma.
What’s the right thing to do here? I blow out a sigh and hit the ignition.
A thought fires along with the engine: I need to have a serious talk with Jessica.
CHAPTER FORTY
Jessica
I’VE BEEN GRILLED more than the salmon Dad smoked outside, so I’m relieved when this excruciating family dinner nears its end. My mother is pale and her eyes are red. My father is quiet and stalwart, but Erin’s kids and my brother have peppered me with questions throughout the meal.
“So, Aunt Jess, I still don’t get it,” my fourteen-year-old niece says as she spoons the last of the chocolate chip ice cream into her mouth. “Why, exactly, did you go on that donor site?”
I must have already explained this a dozen times. Isn’t it punishment enough that my husband’s donor spawn are ruining my life? Do I really need to admit, over and over and over again, to a colossal act of foolishness driven by jealousy and insecurity? “I was curious. It was a bad mistake.” I rise from my chair and start clearing the plates. My phone blares out the sixties tune “My Guy.” “It’s Zack,” I say.
“I hope he isn’t calling to tell you he’s discovered another kid,” my brother says.
My niece and nephew laugh, and my sister’s husband snorts.
“Doug!” My mother shoots him a scolding look as if he’s twelve.
“Doug!” his wife simultaneously exclaims, elbowing him.
“Sorry. Just trying for a little comic relief,” he mumbles.
My sister frowns at her chortling husband.
“Excuse me,” I say, grabbing my phone and heading out of the room.
“How are things going?” Zack asks when I answer it.
“Well, I’m at my parents’ house.” I head up the stairs toward my old bedroom. “I just faced the family for the first time since telling them about your kids.”
“Oh, yeah? How did they take it?”
“They’re upset.” I step into my bedroom and close the door. “Mom looks like someone’s died. It’s a complete shock.”
He’s silent for a moment. “They didn’t know I was a donor?”
“No.” I wonder if he’s going to ask why I didn’t tell them before we married. I feel defensive about that.
“So the news hit them out of the clear blue,” Zack says.
“Yeah.” I hear traffic noises in the background of his phone. “It sounds like you’re driving. Where are you headed?”
“Home.”
I glance at my watch. It’s nearly eight here, which means it’s nearly ten in Louisiana. “From where?”
He pauses, and I get a sinking feeling before he even says it. “I went by Quinn’s.”
The mattress dips as I sit on it. So does my stomach. “Why?”
“Lily was sick last night, and I wanted to see how she was.”
“Did you see her last night, too?”
“Yeah.”
“Jesus, Zack. Are you seeing them every freakin’ day?”
He blows out a breath. “I’m trying to sort things out. I talked with Quinn yesterday, and then she got a call that Lily was sick just as we were finishing dinner, and . . .”
“You had dinner with her?”
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
He sighs. My I-can-read-Zack-like-a-book radar tells me he’s about to name a place I won’t like. “Jacques-Imo’s.”
“Jesus!”
“I wish you’d stop saying that.”
“I wish you’d stop giving me reason to.” The thought of my husband at a trendy restaurant with an attractive woman—the woman
who’s carrying his baby!—makes my throat constrict with jealousy. I try to hide the ugly emotion. “Is Lily okay?”
“Yeah. It was just a stomach bug.” I hear his turn signal click on. “So how is everything out there?”
“Well, the weather is fantastic,” I say. I decide to lay it on thick so he’ll be less likely to suggest I give up my promotion. “I love being back in Seattle and near my family. I haven’t found the perfect house yet, but Brett has a condo we can lease and move into right away.”
He’s quiet for so long I wonder if the call has dropped. “Jessica, we need to talk.”
That has to rank as one of the most terrifying phrases in the English language. “So talk,” I say, sounding far braver than I feel.
“I mean in person. When are you coming home?”
He wants to discuss staying in New Orleans again. My blood turns to ice water. I think of what Brett said—that I need to consider it.
But how can I? How can I live with a man who’s spending all his emotional energy and every available moment with another woman and the family he has with her? “Maybe you should come here.”
“I can’t get away. I have client meetings all this week, and maybe the week after.”
“Yeah, well, I’m busy, too.”
“This is important, Jess.” He sounds as if he’s running out of patience. “You’re still officially working at the New Orleans hotel, so I know you’ll be back. Will you please just tell me when?”
I sigh. “I have a meeting there a week from Monday, then there’s a going-away party for me the following Tuesday afternoon.”
“So you’ll be home weekend after next?”
“Yeah. I’ll probably fly in that Sunday,” I hedge.
“Come earlier. I’d like for you to spend some time with Quinn and Lily, and maybe we could see a counselor. We need to figure out what to do.”
I have no intention of spending any time with your other little family. I can barely stop myself from saying it aloud. “The only thing we need to figure out is whether I should arrange to have my car driven to Seattle, or if I should just sell it there and buy a new one here.”
