Life Intended (9781476754178)

by Kristin Harmel

  My best friend, Gina, who’d lost her husband a year earlier in the September eleventh attacks, arrived some time later, and the two of them stayed with me, rubbing my back in silence, until long after the time Patrick should have come home from work. I watched the door for hours, hoping beyond hope that he’d walk through it, that it would all be a crazy mistake.

  But it wasn’t. And as the clock turned to midnight and September nineteenth became the first day of my life that Patrick wasn’t on this earth with me, I finally began to cry.

  Two

  Twelve Years Later

  “Raise your hands up high!” I sing brightly, strumming my guitar as I smile at Max, my favorite client.

  “Kick your feet up too,” I continue. “Now twirl ’round and ’round! Bend down and touch your—”

  “—shoe!” Max cries.

  “Good job, Max!” I’m making it up as I go, and Max, who has autism, is giggling madly, but he’s playing along. In the corner of my office, his mother, Joya, laughs as Max straightens up from his toe touch and begins to jump up and down.

  “More, Miss Kate!” Max begs. “More, more!”

  “Okay,” I tell him solemnly. “But this time, you have to sing along. Can you do that?”

  “Yeah!” he exclaims, throwing his hands in the air with joyful abandon.

  “Promise?” I ask.

  “Yeah!” His enthusiasm is contagious, and I find myself laughing again.

  “Okay, Max,” I say slowly. “Sing with me, okay?”

  I’ve been in private practice as a music therapist for five years now, specializing in kids with special needs, and Max was one of my very first clients. Joya first brought him to me on the recommendation of his speech therapist when he was five, because he wasn’t making progress with her and was refusing to speak. Slowly, in our weekly sessions, I managed to coax one-word answers, then sentences, then entire conversations out of him. Now, our sessions are a time to sing, to dance, to be silly together. On the surface, I’m helping him with his verbal and motor skills, but this is about more than that. It’s about helping him to socialize, to trust people, to open up.

  “Okay, Max, fill in the blank,” I begin. I strum the guitar and sing, “My name is Max, and I have—”

  “—brown hair!” Max cries, giggling. “My name is Max and I have brown hair!”

  I laugh. “Good one.” I play another chord and sing, “I’m so handsome that all the girls stare,” I sing, raising an eyebrow at him.

  Max collapses in giggles. I wait until he straightens back up again and says, “Miss Kate, that’s so silly!”

  “Silly?” I exclaim in mock horror. “Silly is as silly does, mister. Now are you going to sing with me or not?”

  “Sing it again, sing it again!” Max says.

  I wink at him. “I’m so handsome that all the girls stare,” I repeat, strumming my guitar.

  This time, Max sings it back to me, so I move on to the next line.

  “I’m just turned ten; I’m getting so—” I sing.

  “—old!” he cries, puffing his chest out and holding up ten fingers. “I’m getting old!”

  “You got it, old dude!” I strum again and conclude my on-the-spot verse. “But the best part of me,” I sing, “is my heart of gold.”

  I stop strumming and put my hand over my heart as Max sings back, “The best part of me is my heart of gold!” He giggles again and claps his hands over his mouth “But my heart’s not made of gold!” he exclaims through his fingers. “That’s silly again!”

  “You’re right!” I tell him. “But what that means is that I think you’re a very, very nice person, Max.”

  He breaks into a grin and throws his hands in the air. “You’re nice too, Miss Kate.”

  I put my guitar down so that I can hug him. Today, I needed him and his cheerful innocence more than he needed me. But I don’t want him to know that. These sessions aren’t supposed to be about me.

  “Thanks, Miss Kate!” Max cries as he squeezes me hard around the waist, pressing his head into my shoulder. “I love you!”

  “Max, you are very special,” I reply, surprised to feel tears prickling my eyes. “You be a good guy for your mom this week, okay?”

  “Okay, Miss Kate!” he says cheerfully. Then he bounds over to give Joya a hug.

  “Thanks, Kate,” she says with a smile, getting up from her chair as she returns her son’s squeeze. “Max, why don’t you go out and see Dina in the waiting room? I just need to talk to Miss Kate for a minute.”

  “Okay!” Max agrees. “Bye, Miss Kate!” he cries as he dashes out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  I turn to Joya. “Everything okay?”

  She smiles. “I was going to ask you the same thing. You don’t seem like yourself today.”

  I shake my head, chiding myself for letting my personal life bleed into my professional one. “No, I’m fine, Joya,” I say. “Thanks.”

  She takes a step closer, and I can see doubt in her eyes. “Things with Dan are still going well?” she asks.

  “Things are great,” I answer quickly. Joya and I have gotten to know each other well in the last five years. I know, for example, that she’s a single mom struggling to make ends meet and that she’d do anything to make her son’s life as normal and as easy as possible. She knows that I’m still struggling with the grief left over from Patrick’s death nearly a dozen years ago, but that I’m finally dating a guy I’m serious about, someone everyone in my life agrees is perfect for me.

  “Is it something else, then?” she asks gently.

  “Really, it’s nothing,” I respond too quickly, too brightly. I see something in her eyes flicker. “Don’t worry about me,” I add with as much confidence as I can muster. “I’ll be fine.”

  But after Joya takes Max’s hand and leaves, her face full of doubt, I sink into the chair behind my desk and put my head in my hands. It takes me another five minutes before I can force myself to open the file folder my doctor gave me today, the one filled with terms like chronic anovulation and primary infertility.

  Two hours later, I’ve finished up my notes on today’s clients and I’m headed south on Third Avenue toward Zidle’s, the intimate bistro on the corner of Lexington and Forty-Eighth that’s become a favorite of Dan’s and mine over the last year. We have a reservation at seven, and the closer I get, the more ferociously my heart thuds.

  I’ll have to tell Dan about the news from my doctor, the fact that my ovaries have basically shut down, but what if this changes his mind about being with me? He’s the first person I’ve been serious about since I lost Patrick. I’ve made the choice—finally—to blend my life with someone else’s. I can’t lose that. I can’t be alone again.

  You don’t know what Dan will say, I remind myself as I turn the corner onto Forty-Eighth. We’ve never really talked about children, save for a few surface-level conversations when we first started dating. I had just turned thirty-eight when we met, so I suppose my biological clock should have been ticking, but it was strangely silent. I thought—even though I knew intellectually that it would be harder to get pregnant the older I got—that I had all the time in the world to make my mind up about kids. I certainly didn’t expect to be told at barely forty that my chances had all vanished. I’m not even sure I want to be a mom, but I’ve realized I’m not ready for that door to close.

  What if Dan isn’t either?

  I check my watch as I arrive outside the entrance to Zidle’s. I’m already ten minutes late, but there’s a piece of me that wants to turn around and go home. I could text Dan with an apology, tell him I got caught up with a client, and suggest we order takeout. It would buy me an extra hour to keep things just as they are.

  “Kate?”

  My intentions evaporate as Dan emerges from the restaurant, his brow creased in concern.

  �
��Oh.” I force a smile. “Hey.”

  “What are you doing just standing out here?” He takes a step closer and puts a hand on my shoulder. Right away, I feel better. This is Dan. Perfect, blond-haired, hazel-eyed, friends-with-everyone Dan, who’s reasonable and rational and loves me. Everything’s going to be okay. He’s not going to give up on me just because my ovaries have.

  I take a deep breath. “Dan, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  Something flickers across his face, but then he smiles and shakes his head. “Think we could go in first?”

  “Well—” I begin.

  “You can tell me once we’ve gotten our table, okay?” He grabs my hand and turns around without waiting for an answer. I sigh and let him pull me through the door.

  “Surprise!” A chorus of voices greets us the moment we step inside. I gasp and take a step back as my eyes adjust to the dim lighting of the restaurant. It takes me a moment to register that the entryway is filled with some of the people I love most: my sister, Susan, and her husband, Robert; their kids, Sammie and Calvin; my best friend, Gina, and her husband, Wayne; a dozen other friends and acquaintances from over the years. Dan’s brother, Will, is there too, as is his best friend, Stephen, and a handful of the couples we sometimes go out with.

  “What’s happening?” I ask, directing my confusion toward my sister, the one who always seems to be able to untangle me, even if she’s usually judging me at the same time. But she merely smiles and points over my shoulder.

  In slow motion, I turn back toward the doorway, where I’m startled to see Dan down on one knee. I blink at him, my heart thudding. “You’re proposing?”

  He laughs. “Looks like it.” From his pocket, he pulls a robin’s-­egg-blue ring box, cracks it open, and holds it up. “Kate, will you marry me?”

  Our friends break into applause, and it feels like time freezes as I stare at the perfect Tiffany solitaire inside. For a split second, all I can think is that it’s different—too different—from the antique engagement ring Patrick proposed with. Then, my mind shifts into high-gear guilt. I shouldn’t be thinking about Patrick. What’s wrong with me? I should be thinking about whether I can say yes to Dan without telling him the news from my doctor. Then again, I can’t say no in front of all these people either.

  Of course I don’t want to say no, I remind myself. Dan’s perfect. Always holds doors. Never forgets to say please and thank you. He’s the kind of man every mother wants for her daughter. In fact, my own mother never misses the chance to remind me how lucky I am to have found him. I hadn’t been thinking marriage, but it’s the next logical step, isn’t it? It’s what people do when they love each other.

  “Kate?” Dan’s voice jars me back to reality.

  I feel my mouth shift into a smile as my pulse races. “Yes,” I hear myself say. And then, because I know it’s the right thing—obviously it is—I say it again. “Yes, of course, yes.” This is what’s meant to be, and when I tell myself that, my heart fills. “Yes, I’ll marry you, Dan,” I say, smiling at him.

  He whoops and jumps up, pulling me into his arms and dancing us around as our friends whistle and cheer. “Kate Waithman,” he says, “I’m going to make you the happiest woman in the world.”

  I laugh with him as he slips the ring onto my finger, where it catches the light, diffusing it into a million tiny stars.

  “I love you, Kate,” he murmurs, pulling me close. But I can barely hear him over the rushing sound in my ears.

  For the next hour, I smile and laugh on cue, but it feels like I’m in a daze as our friends mill around, telling stories about both of us, calling us “the golden couple,” slapping Dan on the back, and kissing me on the cheek. At least a half-dozen people tell me they’re glad to see me moving on; a dozen more tell me what a catch Dan is. I notice the waitress behind the bar staring lustily at him a few times, and I’m grateful that he seems oblivious.

  Susan is busy corralling her two rambunctious kids, so it’s Gina who sticks close to me as Dan mingles with his friends. I know she understands the weird roller coaster of emotions going on inside me right now. She remarried six years after her husband Bill died, and I remember her telling me how it felt like there was a storm going on inside of her after she said yes. Guilt for moving on. Joy at finding love again. A cautious optimism about a new life beginning. A regret at putting the old life definitively to rest.

  “You okay?” she asks as she brings me a glass of champagne.

  “Yeah.” I smile. “Thanks.”

  She gives me a quick hug. “I can’t believe he rented this whole restaurant just so he could propose in front of all your friends.” She grins and shakes her head. “What a guy, right?”

  “Gina?” I ask, grabbing her arm as she starts to walk away. “Do you think Dan would still want to marry me if I couldn’t have a baby?”

  “What?” She stops and stares at me. “Kate, what happened?”

  My eyes fill. “I had a doctor’s appointment today.” I shakily recap what the doctor told me. “It’s okay; I’m going to deal with it,” I add quickly when I see how concerned she looks. “I’m just worried about Dan.”

  “Oh, Kate.” She folds me into a silent hug. “But does he want kids?” she asks after a moment.

  I shrug and pull away. “I don’t know. We’ve never really talked about it.”

  “You’ve never talked about it?” Her tone isn’t accusatory, but I still feel like I’ve done something wrong.

  “It just never seemed like the right time.” It sounds stupid when I say it aloud. “Besides, I was supposed to have kids with Patrick,” I add in a whisper.

  Gina’s eyes fill with understanding. She chews her bottom lip, and I know her well enough to know that she’s literally biting back something she wants to say. What finally comes out is, “Do you want kids?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m not ready to be told I can’t have them.” I wipe my eyes before they can overflow.

  “No one’s telling you that,” she says firmly. “Maybe you could do IVF. Or you could hire a surrogate if you still have healthy eggs left. You could even adopt. There are plenty of options. Don’t you dare let yourself believe that your chances are all gone.”

  “Thanks.” I smile weakly.

  “As for Dan, you have to tell him,” she adds. “But it’s not going to change his mind about you. He loves you. Don’t worry about it tonight, okay? Just enjoy this. But talk to him, Kate. You’re supposed to be able to talk to the man you’re going to marry.”

  “I know. I will. I shouldn’t have said anything. Don’t worry, okay?” I walk away, a smile pasted on my face, before she can get another word out.

  It’s seeing Patrick’s mother come through the door twenty minutes later that finally undoes me.

  “Kate!” she exclaims, rushing over. She pulls me into a tight hug. She smells, as she always does, of cinnamon and flour. “Gina invited me; I hope it’s okay that I’m here.”

  “Of course it is!” The two of us have remained tight since Patrick’s death, and we grew even closer after her husband, Joe, died nine years ago. Patrick was their only child, and with Joe gone too, I feel responsible for her. But it’s a responsibility I relish, because I love her like a second mother. “I’m so glad you’re here, Joan.”

  “I just wish I’d been on time!” She rolls her eyes. “Wouldn’t you know I missed my train? It threw my whole schedule off.”

  Joan lives in Glen Cove, a small town out on Long Island, in the same house Patrick grew up in. Sometimes I worry about the fact that she’s living all by herself, surrounded by the past. I’d had to move out of my downtown apartment three weeks after burying Patrick because I couldn’t stand the emptiness in the space we’d shared. Every time I walked through the door, I had half expected to see him standing there. Besides, the neighbors had started to complain about the fact that sometimes in
the middle of the afternoon, I’d stand in the living room and start to scream. I couldn’t stop. The landlord had been only too happy to let me out of my lease.

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.” I’m startled to realize that tears are rolling down my cheeks. “Listen, Joan, I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” She looks at me blankly.

  “I . . . I don’t want you to think I’m forgetting Patrick,” I sniffle as I wipe my eyes. I avoid her gaze for a moment, then I look up.

  “Sweetheart,” she says gently, “you’re allowed to move on. You’re supposed to move on.” She puts her arm around me. “Let’s go get a breath of fresh air, shall we?” She leads me out of the restaurant, and once we’re around the corner, she takes a tissue out of her purse and hands it to me. “Kate, sweetie, it’s been almost twelve years. Patrick would want you to be happy. I know he’s up there in heaven, smiling down at you.”

  We both glance skyward at the same time, and I wonder if she’s thinking, as I am, that the city is covered tonight in a canopy of clouds, obscuring all the stars. It makes heaven feel very far away.

  “Do you still wear the coin?” she asks softly when I don’t say anything.

  I nod and pull the silver dollar out from beneath my shirt. It was the last thing Patrick gave me, and a few months after he died, I found a jeweler who agreed to drill a hole through it and string it on a long chain.

  She smiles slightly. “Patrick believed in all kinds of good things in the universe, Kate,” she says, reaching out and touching the coin. “He believed in love and luck and happiness, and he would have wanted you to find all that. That’s what these coins are about. You have to remember that. He would want the brightest possible future for you, dear.”