Life Intended (9781476754178)

by Kristin Harmel

  I’m still mulling over Dan’s words—and the fact that he’s right—as I arrive at my office. Dina asks if I’m feeling better, and I mumble an excuse about nausea, because I am feeling ill. Liquor and confusion will do that to you. Her eyes light up.

  “Maybe you’re pregnant!” she says in a stage whisper.

  “Doubt it,” I say, avoiding her gaze and reaching for my flat belly. I hurry into my office to prepare for a long day in which I don’t have to think about my own life at all.

  I’m just packing up my bag a few minutes after five when my sister strides into my office, a binder in her arms and a determined expression on her face.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, because she’s only been to my office once in the five years I’ve worked here. “Are the kids okay?”

  “They’re with Robert,” she says. She holds out the binder. “You and I are going to Hammersmith’s to plan your wedding.”

  I feel my headache returning as I take the binder from her. It says Mrs. on the front in glittery script. “I told Dan I’d make dinner tonight.”

  “It’s just for an hour,” she says. “You can bring him takeout.”

  “Susan—”

  “Look.” Her tone is instantly businesslike. “You’re freaked out about this engagement. I know. It totally explains the dream. But I think that if we start planning the wedding, you’ll start feeling better. The more real it feels, the more you’ll be able to detach from the past. Okay?”

  I eye her. “You talked to your therapist about this, didn’t you?” Susan sees a therapist every Thursday afternoon, although I’ve never understood why. Her life is perfect. What could she have to talk about?

  She shrugs. “She agreed with me that getting you to focus on the present will help. So are you in? Or do I have to drink alone?”

  I sigh. I might as well seize the opportunity to try out the speech I’m planning to give Dan tonight about my infertility. And I need to tell Susan anyhow. “Are you buying?”

  Ten minutes later, we’re settling into our usual booth at Hammersmith’s, the British pub down the street from my office where we’ve been meeting for happy hour every few weeks for years. Our regular bartender, Oliver, comes over with a chardonnay for Susan and a Guinness for me, but I make a gagging gesture and order a Sprite instead.

  “I need to tell you something,” I say once she’s taken a long sip of her drink. “I haven’t told Dan yet.”

  “Told him what?” She laughs. “You sound so serious.”

  I give her a look. She’s always been terrible at reading me, but I’m blown away that she can’t see pain written across my face right now. “Susan, it is serious. I can’t have a baby. I found out from the doctor a few days ago. My ovaries have stopped producing eggs.”

  “Oh.” She stares at me for a minute. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that.”

  It’s not exactly the reaction I was expecting. I’d anticipated tears or immediate consolation. Instead, she just looks puzzled. “That’s it?” I ask.

  “It’s just that I didn’t know you wanted kids,” she says, avoiding my gaze. “I mean, if you were trying to get pregnant, I could see how this would be devastating. But you’re forty, so I just kind of figured . . .”

  “What, that I don’t have the right to want a child?” I snap, interrupting her. “Because I didn’t do it on the same schedule you did?”

  She shrugs, unperturbed. “No. I’m just saying that forty’s a little late in the game to be making up your mind about it, isn’t it? I just assumed that you and Dan had already made the decision. You’re saying you didn’t?”

  I glare at her. “No. And forty isn’t old.”

  “I’m not saying it’s old, obviously. I’m two years older than you are.”

  “Two years and ten months,” I mutter.

  She gives me a dark look. “Right. But I had Calvin and Sammie in my thirties, because it’s safer that way, Kate. Surely you’ve seen the statistics. It’s much healthier for both mother and baby if you have your children before forty.”

  “Well, gee,” I say faux sweetly, “I’m so sorry I didn’t start dating Dan in time to suit your baby-making schedule.”

  “I’m just saying that you basically spent your thirties with your head buried in the sand, obsessing over Patrick. Look at Gina; she moved on, didn’t she? If you’d wanted a child, you should have seized the opportunity while you still had the chance.”

  I stare at her as my chest grows tight with anger. “It doesn’t work like that, Susan. I couldn’t just snap my fingers and be okay. You have no idea what it feels like to lose a husband.”

  “No, I don’t. But I know that Dan’s a good guy. And you could really screw things up if you start obsessing about babies and fertility now when it’s not even something you really want.”

  “How do you know whether it’s something I want?” I demand, my voice rising an octave. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Oliver glance at us with concern.

  “Well, is it?” she asks. “Do you want to have a baby?”

  “Yes! Maybe. I don’t know.” I avoid looking at her, because I’m sure she’s wearing her infuriating I-knew-I-was-right expression. “It’s just that I’m not ready for that decision to be made for me.”

  “Kate,” Susan says, and her tone is gentler than it was a moment ago. “Can you really imagine Dan as a father?”

  “Of course!”

  “But he hates my kids,” she says softly.

  “What? He doesn’t hate them!”

  “Okay, maybe he doesn’t hate them. But he doesn’t like them either. Have you ever seen him interact with them when he doesn’t absolutely have to?”

  I open my mouth to defend him, but I realize I can’t think of a single time I’ve ever seen him exchange more than awkward, obligatory hellos with my niece and nephew. “He’s just not comfortable around them,” I finally say. “He’s not used to kids.”

  “Sweetie, he doesn’t like kids,” she says. “So if you’re worried about how he’s going to react to your news, don’t be.”

  “Really?” I ask. I can feel some of the tension drain from my shoulders. But at the same time, there’s a knot forming in the pit of my stomach.

  “I’m absolutely positive he’s going to be fine with it,” she says firmly. She waits until I look up to add the rest. “But the question is, are you?”

  She waits a beat before clapping her hands together once and smiling. “Now. Let’s get down to wedding talk, shall we?”

  I stare at her. “Are you kidding?”

  She looks blank. “Why would I be?”

  I clench my jaw. “Look, thanks for doing this, Susan. The wedding binder—it’s a good idea. But I really need to talk to Dan before we dive into all this planning, okay? Say hi to the kids for me.”

  I drop a ten-dollar bill on the table and walk away before she can respond.

  Outside, I head downtown. The longer I walk, though, the worse I feel. Sure, Susan doesn’t quite get me, but her heart’s in the right place most of the time. After a minute, I pull out my phone and call her, intending to apologize, but she doesn’t pick up. I start to put the phone away, but then I retrieve it from my bag and dial Gina instead.

  “So how did you do it?” I ask when she answers.

  “Hello to you too.” I can hear the smile in her voice. “Okay. I’ll bite. How did I do what?”

  “Put Bill behind you,” I say in a small voice. “Move on. Get married to someone else. Have a child with someone else.”

  “Oh,” she says sadly. She and her husband Wayne have a three-year-old daughter named Madison now. “You just have to think of it as a different life,” she says after a minute. “Maybe not the life you were intended to have, or even the life you thought you were intended to have. But it’s still your life, just like the old one was.”

 
I absorb this for a second. “Do you still miss Bill?”

  “Every day. But not as much as I used to.”

  I contemplate telling her about how vividly I saw Patrick, but I know it’ll sound crazy. It probably is crazy. “Was I wrong to say yes to Dan?” I ask her instead. “When there’s still a part of me that’s in love with Patrick?”

  “No,” she says firmly. “You’ll always love Patrick. And that’s okay. You just have to keep reminding yourself that he’s not here anymore.”

  “But what if he is?” I whisper.

  “What?”

  I hesitate. “I just don’t think I know how to let him go.”

  I use the remainder of the walk home to think. New York is swarming with people, but there’s something about walking down a crowded street that can feel almost peaceful and solitary. I don’t make eye contact or talk to anyone, and by the time I get to our apartment, I feel like I’ve spent the last twenty minutes in a silent bubble.

  Dan’s in the kitchen, drinking a glass of red wine, when I walk in the door. “You okay, babe?” he asks. “Susan called and said you seemed upset. She’s worried about you.”

  “I’m fine,” I say. I force a smile. “Really. Thanks, sweetheart.”

  He sets his glass down on the counter and crosses the room to pull me into a hug. “So? How’s my beautiful bride-to-be? I heard you and Susan got together today and talked wedding planning?”

  “A little,” I say, and he smiles at me.

  “Hey, I don’t want you to stress out about any of this,” he continues. “There’s no rush. I know some brides go kind of overboard with the details, but I don’t want to add anything to your plate. How can I help?”

  “You really are perfect, aren’t you?” I say with a sigh. “But really, don’t worry. I’m not that kind of bride.”

  “Well, I took care of dinner tonight, anyhow, so that’s one less thing on your plate,” he says, and I feel terrible. I was supposed to cook. The doorbell rings, as if on cue. “That must be the delivery guy.”

  Ten minutes later, Dan has set the dining room table, lit two taper candles, and plated our Chinese takeout to make the whole meal look like a fine dining experience.

  “Only you would serve take-out lo mein on fine china,” I say, shaking my head with a smile.

  “Healthy vegetarian lo mein,” he clarifies. He pours me a glass of Bordeaux and kisses me on the top of my head. “Nothing but the best for my girl.”

  “I have to tell you something,” I say after we’ve taken the first few bites of our food. “I went to the doctor a few days ago.” I watch his face closely. “My ovaries aren’t producing eggs anymore. I—we—won’t be able to have a baby.”

  “Kate—” He reaches for me, but I’m not done yet.

  “Do you still want to marry me? I mean, I know we haven’t talked about this before, but if this changes things . . .”

  He stares at me for a moment as my heart thuds. Then he leans across the table and kisses me. “Of course I want to marry you, Kate.” He pauses and adds, “It’s fine. It’ll just be us. We don’t need to have children to be happy.” He smiles broadly, comfortingly.

  But my stomach rolls uncomfortably, and I blink a few times. “We could adopt,” I venture.

  He shrugs. “Babe, maybe being parents just isn’t in the cards for us. Stop worrying about it. This isn’t your fault.” Then, before I have a chance to say anything else, he switches tracks entirely. “So did you and Susan make any decisions about wedding venues today?” he asks. “Your sister said she had a whole binder of ideas, and I thought some of the outside locations might be nice for the fall . . .”

  I shrug, and as he continues to talk, I tune him out and focus on the wall behind him, trying not to cry.

  That night, Dan sleeps peacefully beside me while I stare at the ceiling, thinking of the way Patrick and I used to lie in bed, talking about what we’d name our kids, all the fun things we’d do as a family, and the life we were so sure we’d create together.

  For the first time, I find myself wondering if I’ve traded all those things away without realizing it. Maybe it’s too late to find my way back to the kind of life I thought I would have. Finally, I drift off into an uneasy sleep.

  Six

  When I wake up the next morning, I know instantly that I’m back in my old apartment again, back in the strange, overly bright world I can’t explain. I gasp, close my eyes, and murmur a small prayer of thanks, even though this might just mean I’m losing my mind. When I crack my eyes open again, the sunlight is catching a few particles of dust in the air. I turn my head slightly to find Patrick lying next to me.

  For a moment, I don’t move. I just study him as his chest rises and falls. I don’t know I’m crying until my vision gets blurry. As I sit up to wipe away my tears, Patrick stirs and rolls toward me.

  “Good morning, Katielee,” he says, and it’s still his voice, his green eyes with the crinkles at the corners, his wide smile with the slightly crooked bottom row of teeth.

  I’m too overwhelmed by a rush of gratitude to say anything.

  I lie back down and nestle against Patrick as he puts his arm around me. I stroke his hair, noting a solid sprinkling of gray strands that weren’t there before. I marvel at the passage of time, the way the years can change a person.

  “I would have loved to see you grow old,” I murmur, running my hand down his still-solid chest. The color-saturated room flickers a bit, and my heart skips a beat. I remind myself to play along, to do my best to believe I belong here. After all, maybe I do. Why else would it all feel so familiar to me?

  Patrick laughs, and I can feel the sound reverberating through his body. “Don’t I look old now?” he asks.

  I can’t even joke back, because my breath is caught in my throat. He pulls me closer and kisses me gently, threading his fingers through my hair. His stubble is scratchy and his lips are warm, but it’s not until I feel his tongue against mine that I begin to sob again.

  “Kate?” he asks with concern, letting go. “What’s wrong?”

  I shake my head, not wanting to pull us out of the moment. So instead, I say, “So, our . . . daughter?” I don’t know how to ask about her without destroying the fabric of this world, so I let the words hang there.

  Patrick touches my cheek and gives me a strange look. “Hannah? What about her?”

  Something bursts open inside of me. “Hannah,” I murmur. “What a beautiful name.”

  Patrick looks at me with concern. “You’re being weird again.”

  The room fades a little, and I rush to add, “I was just thinking how lucky we are, that’s all.”

  He smiles. “Oh, I’m pretty positive I’m the luckiest man in the world. Now come on, weirdo, let’s get moving.”

  He gets out of bed, but for a second, I can’t move. His statement—the idea that he’s lucky—stabs me right through the heart. In fact, he never got to experience any of this: fatherhood, the approach of middle age, the comfort of waking up beside someone you love after years and years together. It all makes me feel profoundly sad.

  Patrick is filling the coffeepot at the sink when I finally get out of bed and head into this kitchen. I come up behind him and press my cheek against his bare back. I breathe in deeply, wishing I could just hit the pause button and stay here forever.

  “I’m sorry I’m acting so off,” I say as he turns off the faucet. “I don’t know how to explain what’s going on with me. I just feel like . . . It feels like you’ve been gone a long time.”

  He sets the coffeepot on the counter and turns, pulling me into his arms. “I’m always here, honey,” he says. “I’ve always been right here. But you’ve got to stop acting like you don’t belong here or something. You’re scaring me a bit.”

  “I’m sorry. I do belong here.” As I say the words, I find myself fervently clinging to them, ho
ping there’s a way they’re true. The room gets a little brighter, comes into focus a little more. I’m struck again by how overly saturated things are here, how everything seems to glow.

  “Of course you do.” He looks puzzled again. “Let’s get some breakfast in you, okay? Maybe you’re just hungry. What do you say to crispy bacon and scrambled eggs?”

  The knife twists a little deeper in my heart; it’s the same breakfast he cooked for me the morning he died. “Sounds great,” I manage to say, forcing a smile.

  “Good.” He turns to grab bacon and a carton of eggs from the fridge and a couple of frying pans from the cabinet while I watch him with tears in my eyes. As he cracks eggs into a bowl and begins to whisk, small pieces of this life begin to drift in from nowhere, and I realize there are things I know with absolute certainty. For example, I know that Patrick left his old financial management job nine years ago, because he wasn’t feeling fulfilled, and I know that I supported him in going back to school the way he once supported me. I know that he works in the strategic policy initiatives department of the mayor’s office now and that in his spare time, he spearheaded the creation of a new community garden a few blocks from our apartment, calling it Little Butterfly Garden, because Hannah, who was eight at the time, loved butterflies. I know he took a huge pay cut when he left his old job, but I also know he’s a thousand times happier than he used to be and that he feels he’s in a position to make a difference in our city. I feel a sudden surge of pride for my husband.

  I close my eyes and try to figure out what I know about Hannah too, but for some reason, my knowledge of her is spottier. I know bits and pieces—that she broke her right leg when she was a toddler when she slipped on the playground; that she spent all of kindergarten firmly believing that she was a fairy who just hadn’t sprouted her wings yet; that she didn’t lose her first tooth until second grade, which was a source of great distress because all her friends had lost teeth earlier—but I can’t bring to mind more than snippets. While Patrick is an open book, Hannah feels like a novel with all the important chapters missing.