The machine beeped, signaling the end of her message. Jane grimaced, certain that if Paul was okay, hearing her needy voice would have the reverse effect she wanted, and he would never call her. Oh well, at least she had tried.
An hour later, Jane stood in front of the NICU window, unable to believe what she was seeing. Next to the rockers, Paul stood—looking as well as he had the other day—talking to a woman who was holding Madison. Jane moved to the side and squinted, looking closer to make sure it really was Paul’s daughter. As the woman lifted the baby to her shoulder, Jane’s suspicions were confirmed. Her heart sank; there was no mistaking Madison’s tuft of brown hair or her dainty little nose. Jane started to turn away from the window just as Paul looked over.
He did a double take and Jane was sure he muttered an expletive as he spotted her. He said something to the woman, then started toward the door.
Jane turned and fled. Practically running from the room, she left the nursery and walked briskly down the hall. She pressed the elevator button, then thought the better of bawling on an elevator full of people. She headed for the stairs. Entering the deserted stairwell, she ran down two flights, then stopped, sitting on the landing just as the tears started to flow.
How stupid could she be—trusting a guy the very day he’d been a complete jerk to her? Why had she believed he was any different? His whole story—the cancer and everything was probably just some ploy for—for what? What had he gained from their meeting? Nothing. Unless he had some strange penchant for taking a variety of women out for fast food.
Jane pulled a tissue from her purse and dabbed at her eyes. She tried to get a grip. Look at me, she thought. Pretty soon she’d be just like Tara—and then there would be no tissue boxes left in the office.
Jane blew her nose and hugged her knees to her chest. So this was what it felt like getting your feet wet. She’d been right all along. It wasn’t worth it.
“Thanks for nothing, Jay,” she muttered, thinking again of his taunt that had led her to answer Paul’s ad in the first place.
Above her, Jane heard a door open and footsteps on the stairs. Taking a shaky breath, she stood and started down. When she reached the lobby, she headed for the exit, searching for her keys in her purse as she walked.
“You know, you really ought to clean out that purse,” Paul said as he stepped up beside her.
Jane glared at him and walked faster. “You ought to try honesty.”
“I did—I was. Listen, Jane,” He put his hand on her sleeve. “It’s not what you think.”
She shrugged his hand away. “You have no idea what I think.” Lengthening her stride, she walked through the door.
Paul kept right up beside her.
“I’m not having a bunch of different women to the hospital each day to hold my daughter.”
“Why not?” Jane snapped. “You met several different women for coffee, why not follow with a heart-breaking cancer story and an hour in the NICU? I’m sure it will get you all the sympathy or whatever it is you want.”
“What I want is to find someone to take care of my children when I’m not around. You know that.”
“Do I?” Jane asked sarcastically. She’d reached her car and turned the key in the lock. Tossing her purse inside, she turned and looked at Paul. “I thought I’d met a really nice guy who had about the worst set of circumstances I could imagine. I thought we were going to be friends. I thought he was going to call me.” Jane sat in the driver’s seat and jammed the key into the ignition, but when she went to close the door, Paul held it fast.
“The woman you saw holding Madison is Beth Meyers. Her husband, Nick, is with Mark right now.” Paul sighed. “Yesterday I had an appointment with an adoption agency. They had this profile book . . . I had to select three couples. The Meyers are the first of those couples. I get a chance to see each of them interact with Mark and Madison before I make a final decision.”
Jane’s hand dropped to her lap. “Adoption agency?” She looked up at Paul. “I thought . . .”
“I didn’t tell you this Tuesday.” Paul began. “I thought I’d probably overwhelmed you enough—but I’m taking the last combination of drugs that are known to shrink the kind of tumors I have.” He looked away as he continued. “I’ve tried three others. One of them worked for a while, then nothing.”
“I’m so sorry,” Jane whispered.
“Me too,” Paul said. “I’d like to have more hope, but as I told you the other day, it’s worse that way. Eventually, there will be a letdown with this drug too, and when that happens there’s nothing to do but try experimental treatments—basically be a human laboratory—or just wait to die.” He looked down at her again. “I have to be realistic, Jane. I have to make sure my kids are taken care of. I’ve emailed my brother in Iraq, and he hasn’t responded. We were sort of at odds the last time we met. It’s been a couple of years, but I’d hoped . . .” Paul shrugged. “He’s the only family I’ve got. So you see . . .”
“Were you ever going to call me?” Jane asked quietly.
“I was,” Paul insisted. “I just wasn’t sure what to say. I never expected to see you here though. I guess I should have known—since you were curious enough to come the last time.” He gave her a half-smile.
Jane swallowed the lump in her throat and reached for a bag in the backseat.
“It’s better this way,” Paul said. “The twins will be with a couple who really want kids. They’ll be loved and provided for. And I won’t have to burden you or anyone else.”
“I wouldn’t have felt burdened,” Jane said, looking up at him again.
“Maybe not at first,” Paul agreed. “But I could see already, just after the other night, that it would have been really hard for you to help as much as I’d hoped.”
“How so?” Jane asked, a note of irritation returning to her voice.
“Well . . .” Paul faltered. “I could just tell. For instance, you live on Bainbridge. It would be a major inconvenience for you to come to Seattle every day to see my kids.”
“I work in Seattle,” Jane pointed out. “And I’m here quite often on weekends too—my entire family lives here. Remember? I’m the youngest of seven.”
“Being with Mark and Madison would take time away from your nieces and nephews.”
“My nieces and nephews get plenty of attention,” Jane said, her ire rising.
“Okay, well, what about your house and your business? Your whole face lit up the other evening when you were telling me about your home, your garden, your view. There’s no way I could ask you to give that up to help me. It wouldn’t be fair, and you wouldn’t do it.”
Jane pursed her lips, trying to keep her temper under control. “So basically, you’re telling me you decided adoption was the right solution based on your eventual death and our meeting the other night.”
“More or less.” Paul shifted uncomfortably. “I just assumed . . .”
“Exactly.” Jane swung her legs out of the car and stood, facing him. “Haven’t you ever learned what happens when you assume?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “It’s one of the many valuable things my seminary teacher taught me.”
“Seminary?” Paul asked, confused.
“Never mind.” Jane waved her hand in the air. “If my face was all lit up the other night it was because—” Her eyes clouded and she looked up at the concrete beams of the parking garage, trying to get control of her emotions. She continued in a quieter voice. “It was because in the space of about an hour, I fell totally, completely in love with your daughter.” She looked at him again, not caring that tears were sliding down her cheeks. “How dare you assume I’d care more about my house than a baby.” She thrust the bag she held into his hands. “These are for Mark and Madison. In case you haven’t noticed, they’re practically the only children in the nursery still wearing those stupid hospital shirts.”
Jane got back in her car and pulled the door shut. She started the engine and backed out, driving away from
any hope she’d had that her life was going to change.
Chapter Twelve
Paul carried the plate with his tuna fish sandwich over to the coffee table. He sat down in his favorite chair, took a drink of water, and reached for the remote. Instead, his hand bumped the bag Jane had left him. Scowling, he pushed it away, still not having looked inside. He’d give it to the nurses at the hospital tomorrow, and they could dress his children—since apparently he was incapable of the task. Jane’s last remark still stung. They’re practically the only children still wearing those stupid hospital shirts.
Paul had to admit she was right about the shirts. They were kind of a pain the way they crossed over in front. But he hadn’t noticed, he honestly had not noticed that his children were the only ones wearing them. It had never occurred to him that he ought to bring other clothes to the hospital. He wondered how many other things he’d missed.
Things Tami would have noticed and taken care of.
It was a good thing he was getting the twins a real set of parents soon—a father and a mother. Mark and Madison deserved a good, stable home, with parents who knew what they were doing.
It was the right thing to do.
Paul took a bite of his sandwich and leaned back in his chair. He reached for the remote again, but this time was stopped by the framed picture of him and Tami at the beach. For some reason the picture seemed different than it had before. He looked at it closer, then rubbed his eyes. Instead of her usual smile, it appeared Tami was frowning at him. Unnerved, Paul turned the picture away and grabbed the remote.
He pointed it toward the TV in the corner of the apartment but did not push power. Instead, he rose from his chair and was headed to the kitchen when his wedding picture caught his eye. The eleven-by-seventeen was in the same location it had always been, but the tone seemed different. He was still in his tux, sitting. Tami stood behind him, her hand on his shoulder. He looked excessively happy. She looked . . . mad.
Shaken, Paul stepped back from the wall. He was losing it. Maybe it was the drugs, or maybe he was nearer the end than he thought and was getting delusional. The doctors had warned him about strange side effects. He just hadn’t expected this. His sandwich and the news forgotten, he walked down the hall to the spare bedroom—where there were no pictures hung at all.
* * *
Paul woke with a start and pressed the Indiglo button on his watch—3:13 a.m. He’d only been asleep for an hour, and now the pain was worse. He felt—as he had so many times before—like he’d just been stabbed on the right side, just below his ribs. He rolled to the side of the bed, careful not to disturb the rolls of blueprints stacked beside him. His feet touched the ground, but he found he couldn’t stand straight. Bent over and clutching his abdomen, he made his way to the bathroom.
Switching on the light, he fumbled with the bottles on the counter, seeking relief for at least some of the pain. Popping the pills in his mouth, he took a drink of water and swallowed. He’d probably just doomed himself to more hallucinations, but at the moment he didn’t care. Pain had a funny way of doing that to you—driving you to the point where it didn’t matter what happened, so long as the pain went away. It was like that just now, and Paul braced his hands on the counter, head bent as he tried to focus on something—anything—to keep from falling to the floor and crying like a baby.
Make a to do list.
“Thanks, Tam,” he whispered, certain he’d just heard her voice again. Sometimes he swore she was still here with him. All through his sickness she’d coaxed him to keep going, to keep making plans for the future—the next day, week, month, even years ahead. And Tami had been right. If he had a list for tomorrow, then he would have to be around to do it.
He closed his eyes and thought. The first thing to do in the morning was call the adoption agency and tell them he’d chosen the Meyers.
No!
“Come on, Tami. You can’t—can’t expect me to do this—alone.” Paul looked around the small bathroom, half expecting to see her frowning at him. “Left me with—quite a—mess.” He gasped as a wave of nausea rolled over him.
Paul leaned over the sink and stared at the drain. From the corner of his eye, he noticed for the first time the dust covering Tami’s makeup tray. He hadn’t even had time to think what to do with her belongings. He realized he would have to soon. In less than a month, his lease was up, and he hadn’t bothered to renew because he needed to find someplace cheaper and closer to the hospital. Paul closed his eyes and groaned, this time not from pain, but from the thought of all that lay ahead. He had a major to do list, and somehow he knew he’d be around long enough to see it all done.
Just the thought of packing was enough to make him exhausted. And he had no idea what to do with all of Tami’s things. How was he supposed to decide what to keep and what to give away? He didn’t want to get rid of anything. Though he’d seen her casket lowered into the ground, somehow he knew that getting rid of her belongings was what would really make his loss permanent. As long as he came home and saw her mug in the kitchen, her bathrobe on the back of the door, her makeup on the counter . . . she was still here—still real to him.
Paul picked up one of Tami’s lipsticks, pulled off the top, and slowly turned it. A wistful smile crossed his face as he looked at the mirror, remembering the first time Tami had surprised him with a message there.
It was Christmas 2001—their first Christmas. They’d been married only three weeks. He’d awoken in the middle of the night with what he thought was the pain of a burst appendix. After making his way to the bathroom, he’d turned on the light to find the mirror ablaze with red lip prints, and across the middle Tami had written, Thanks for the best Christmas ever. I love you so much.
And she did. She’d stuck by him when, less than twenty-four hours later, they’d learned he had terminal cancer. It was a bad start to a long year.
Haunted by memories, Paul left the bathroom and went to lie down on his own bed. It didn’t matter where he was. Tamara’s presence was everywhere in the apartment, and he both loved and hated it.
The sheets on their bed hadn’t been changed in the nearly two months since her death. He couldn’t bear the thought of washing anything she had touched. In his darkest hour, he could lay his head on her pillow and know Tamara was somehow with him. He remembered her hair spread across the pillowcase. He could imagine that the faint scent of her perfume still lingered on the sheets.
Choosing Tami’s side of the bed instead of his own, Paul lay down. The pain in his stomach was a little better now, and he closed his eyes as he let his mind drift—hopeful the memories would ease the pain in his heart.
* * *
5:23 . . . 5:24 . . . 5:25. Paul watched the numbers on the digital clock change. He’d dozed for a while but now lay wide awake again.
Get up, lazy bones.
Paul smiled into the dark. Of course, that’s what Tami would say to him if she were here. She’d tell him to quit wasting time wishing he could sleep when he could be doing something productive. As if sleep wasn’t productive.
But then, Tami had never let him wallow in self-pity or anything else.
Kind of like Jane.
Paul pushed the thought aside and rolled away from the clock. Tami had been tough with him because she had to be, because that’s what had kept his spirits up, had kept him alive. He thought back to that first terrifying day in the hospital, while they’d waited for his biopsy results.
Tami, a serious look on her face, had sat on the chair beside his bed. “Paul?”
He gave her a wan smile.
“You’re in big trouble, you know. That property you gave me for Christmas was all well and fine, but I was expecting a house on it by Valentine’s. That gives you . . .” She opened her purse and consulted the calendar on the back of her checkbook. “Forty-eight days.” She sighed. “I imagine this little stay in the hospital will set us back a bit.”
“Needed a break from my demanding wife.” His voice was r
aspy as he reached for the pitcher on the nightstand. Tami walked around the bed and poured him some water, then held it to his lips as he drank.
“Well,” she said, once he had finished. “I was warned to let you get your rest, so I think I’ll go talk with the doctor.” She bent over and kissed Paul’s lips. “I think I’ll offer him your new golf clubs—maybe that’ll bring his price down.”
“Love you too,” Paul whispered.
“Don’t you forget it,” Tami called over her shoulder, then blew him another kiss and left.
Paul looked at the ceiling now, coming out of the memory. He touched a finger to his lips, then raised his hand to the ceiling and blew.
“Help me, Tam,” he pled as tears welled in his eyes. “Help me get through this. I miss you so much.”
Chapter Thirteen
When Paul woke at 8:40 the next morning, the pain in his liver had subsided to a dull ache, though his heart felt much the same. The intense sorrows of the night had given way to the ever-present loneliness of daytime, and he felt grateful to be somewhat in control of both mind and body again.
These days, that was as good as it got.
Knowing this, Paul decided to get something done while he had both physical and mental stamina. After his shower, he went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of orange juice. As he stood at the sink drinking, he looked around the messy room. The espresso maker was never put away anymore—nor was the basket containing individual flavor packets. Empty bread bags, paper plates, and butter knives littered the counter beside the toaster. Dishes were stacked in the sink. Two bags of trash leaned against the wall beside the full trash can. Bills and junk mail were piled next to the phone. Clutter had taken over in Tami’s absence. She’d been the organized one, whereas he was . . . the slob.
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