Life Intended (9781476754178)

by Kristin Harmel

  “I just hadn’t heard from you,” I tell her as I grab a few bags and an eight-pack of paper towels from the backseat. “I wasn’t doing anything else today, so I thought I’d just drop by and make sure you were all right.”

  She blinks at me a few times as she grabs the remaining bags and pushes the car door shut with her hip. “Sweetheart, I’m fine. I just hadn’t gotten around to calling you back yet. I’m sorry.”

  I follow her inside, where her place looks just like it always does. I realize I’m looking around for evidence of illness: medication bottles, hot water bags, dishes piled in the sink because she’s too worn out to clean up. But there’s none of that. After I help her put away her groceries, I excuse myself to the bathroom, where I check the medicine cabinet for evidence. But there’s only a bottle of Advil, a container of Pepto-Bismol, and a box of DayQuil tablets. In other words, she’s fine. I feel like a fool.

  I head back into the kitchen, where Joan is unloading the dishwasher. “Can I get you a drink? An iced tea, maybe?”

  “That sounds great.”

  I watch her as she takes two glasses down from the cabinet, fills them with ice, and pours cold tea from a jug in the refrigerator. “Want to have a seat in the living room?” she asks, handing me a glass. “I’ll be in as soon as I finish up in here.”

  “Need any help?” I offer.

  “Oh, sweetheart, I get by just fine on my own, thanks. You go relax.”

  As I head into the living room and sit down, I’m hit with an old memory. This is the couch where Patrick and I sat, side by side, thirteen years ago, the evening we told his parents we’d gotten engaged. His mother had grinned from ear to ear; his father had asked if they could help pay for the wedding. Patrick had kissed me on the cheek and held up my hand for them to see. I remember how my diamond ring sparkled and caught the light.

  I look down now at my hand, where Dan’s ring has taken the place of Patrick’s on my left ring finger. My hand looks older too; the veins are more prominent than they were when I was twenty-seven, and there are lines and folds that weren’t there before. Time marches ever forward whether we want it to or not.

  “Kate?” Joan’s voice cuts into my thoughts, and I look up to see her gazing down at me. “Are you okay, dear?”

  I nod, and she smiles, but there’s concern in her eyes.

  “You just looked lost in your own world.”

  “Just remembering the day Patrick and I came here together to tell you we were getting married,” I admit.

  Joan sighs as she sits down across from me. “Kate, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”

  My heart pounds and I lean forward. This is it. I know it. She’s going to tell me she’s fighting cancer. “It’s okay, Joan,” I say. “I was hoping to talk to you too.”

  She nods and takes a deep breath. “Kate,” she says slowly, “I wonder if I’m doing you a disservice by continuing to be so close to you.”

  I blink. “What?”

  She looks at her hands. “It’s why I haven’t returned your calls. Ever since you told me about those dreams, I’ve been worrying about the role I’m playing in your life. I think that in order for you to move on, you need to let Patrick go, and I’m concerned that by making you feel responsible for me, I’ve made it impossible for you to do that.”

  “Joan,” I manage, my voice shaky, “I don’t feel responsible for you. I love you. You’re my mother-in-law.”

  “But I’m not really, am I?” she asks, not unkindly. “Not anymore. I mean, of course I’ll always love you like a daughter. And I’ll always be so grateful for the happiness you gave Patrick. But I’m not sure it’s healthy for you to keep an old lady like me around.”

  I feel a bit like she’s breaking up with me. “You’re not an old lady, Joan. And I’m not here because I feel like I have to be. I’m here because I care about you. Deeply.”

  “I feel the same about you,” she says. “But I imagine Dan isn’t a big fan of our relationship.”

  “He doesn’t mind,” I say, although I know the words aren’t one hundred percent true.

  She shakes her head sadly. “I just don’t want to be a burden on you, Kate. Patrick wouldn’t have wanted to be a weight on your mind either. You know, that right?”

  “I do,” I say. “But you’re not a burden. And Patrick isn’t a weight.”

  Joan is quiet for a moment, then she nods. “What did you want to talk about, Kate? You said there was something you wanted to discuss?”

  My concerns feel foolish now, but I say the words anyhow. “I was wondering when you last had a mammogram.”

  Joan looks startled. “A mammogram? Well, I guess it’s been a while, but I feel just fine. What makes you ask?”

  I can’t tell her it’s the dreams. Not after what she just said. So what I blurt out instead is, “Someone I really care about was just diagnosed with breast cancer. It just . . . It made me worry about you.”

  Her forehead creases. “I’m so sorry to hear about your friend.”

  I shake my head. “Just promise me you’ll get checked out, okay?”

  “Kate, I honestly feel just fine.”

  “Please. I need you to tell me you’ll do this. For me.”

  She stares at me. “Okay. I will.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes. I promise.”

  “Soon?”

  “Okay.” She looks worried.

  “And you’re sure you’re feeling all right?” I persist.

  “Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”

  I nod quickly. “I’m fine,” I tell her. “Just fine.”

  She studies my face. “You look like you’re not getting enough sleep, sweetheart. Try to get some rest, okay? Take it easy. And don’t worry about me. You’re getting married soon, and this should be a very special and happy time in your life.”

  “It is,” I say. Just not as happy as the time I spend dreaming about your son.

  The first part of the work week passes quickly and uneventfully with appointments with Max, Leo, and several other clients. On Tuesday, I pray I’ll wake up in the dream, for it’s Hannah’s birthday, but instead, I find myself in real life, so I think of her all day and hope that somewhere, in my strange alternate reality, she’s happy. On Wednesday, sign language class goes well; I’m picking up words quickly, and I’m embarrassed to admit I’m enjoying my role as teacher’s pet, even if it does earn me death stares from Amy. After class, I arrange to meet Andrew the following night at St. Anne’s for a repeat of last week: appointments with Riajah and Molly at the office, then an in-home visit with Allie.

  “How’s your week going?” Andrew asks when I duck my head into his office on Thursday, just past four. He’s in jeans and a vintage Beatles tee today, and his hair is rumpled, like he just got out of bed.

  “I saw you less than twenty-four hours ago,” I remind him with a smile.

  “At which point I didn’t have a chance to ask you properly how you’re doing,” he answers, returning my grin, “because to do so would have been to incur Amy’s wrath.”

  “Ah, so you’ve noticed too.”

  “Noticed? She shoots daggers at you with her eyes every time you talk to me. Then she stares at me like I’m a Christmas present she’d like to unwrap.”

  I laugh. “Very humble of you.”

  His eyebrows shoot up. “I didn’t say I deserve it. I’m just reporting the facts.”

  “Hey, in her defense, it’s hard to be a single girl in New York,” I say, although I don’t know why I’m standing up for Amy. “Who can blame her for setting her sights on a cute, smart single guy?”

  Andrew turns a little red, and I can feel my cheeks heating up too, because I realize the words sound flirtatious, although I didn’t mean them to. Then we both start speaking at once. “I’m not exactly—” Andrew begins.r />
  “I didn’t mean—” I sat at the same time.

  We both laugh uneasily, and he says, “You first.”

  “I was just going to say I didn’t mean to sound like I’m hitting on you.”

  “Oh, no, of course not.” His blush is gone, replaced by an amused expression. “Heaven forbid. I probably have cooties.”

  I roll my eyes. “I suspected as much. So what were you going to say?”

  “Oh. Nothing.” He checks his watch. “Let’s go see if the girls are here, shall we?”

  Twenty

  The visits with Molly and Riajah seem to fly by quickly. Molly chooses a banjo from among eight instruments I scatter on the floor before she comes in, and when she’s picked out a few notes on it, I show her a few simple chords, and we sing together, an exercise that’s designed to help improve the natural cadence of her speech, her ability to watch and repeat, and her comfort communicating with others. Riajah is a bit more difficult; I try the same exercise with her, but she refuses to choose an instrument, so eventually, I wind up playing my guitar alone while she stares at me from the corner. But by the end of the session, she’s tapping her feet and mouthing the words to the chorus, and although she refuses to acknowledge me on the way out, I count it as progress.

  On the way to Allie’s foster home, I tell Andrew about the sessions and what I’m thinking of for next week, but then an uneasy silence settles over us for the remainder of the walk, a strange contrast to the ease we usually enjoy. I’m relieved when we finally reach Allie’s house, but the feeling is cut short when Rodney ushers us into Allie’s room, and I see that she’s torn down all her poems.

  She’s hunched over her computer, typing furiously, when we enter, and she either doesn’t hear us or is deliberately ignoring us. “Allie?” I ask loudly, but she doesn’t turn.

  “She’s been like this all day,” Rodney says softly.

  “Any idea what’s wrong?” Andrew asks.

  Rodney shakes his head. “She won’t talk to us. We’ve tried, but she just shuts herself in here.”

  “Let me try,” I suggest. I take a deep breath and smile at the men. “I’ll see you in a little while.”

  Rodney hesitates, clearly reluctant to leave, but he finally does, followed by an equally uncertain-looking Andrew. I watch Allie from the doorway for a moment. Her keystrokes are an angry staccato.

  I walk over to her computer, and as my shadow falls over her, she jumps. “Allie?” I say loudly, trying to keep my voice gentle. “Everything okay?”

  Her face turns red, and she slams her laptop closed then glances up at me with a deer-in-the-headlights look on her face. She doesn’t say anything; she just looks at me stonily, so after a moment, I ask, “What were you writing?”

  Her stare darkens into a glare as she signs the letters NYB to me. It takes me a moment to grasp that what she’s saying is None of your business.

  Instead of reacting the way she likely expects me to, I shrug and turn away. I bite my lip for a moment, my brain spinning over all the possibilities of what could be the matter. She’s removed her poems from the wall, so maybe a boy she’s had a crush on has rejected her. But then I realize none of the poems I’d glanced at last week had seemed romantic in nature. Maybe a teacher criticized her writing, but would that have put her in this sort of dark mood?

  I spread out the same instruments on her rug that I used with Molly and Riajah earlier, then I pull out my guitar and wait for her to look up at me. When she finally does, still glowering, I nod to the items on the floor. “Want to choose one?” I ask.

  She shakes her head firmly and rolls her eyes.

  “You don’t have to play,” I tell her. “But I’m going to. I thought you might want to join me.”

  She snort-laughs and rolls her eyes at me again. I act like I don’t care, and I begin strumming my guitar slowly, searching for a song that might elicit something from her.

  I begin with Daughtry’s “Over You,” in case Allie’s problem has to do with a boy, but she just ignores me. Then I transition into “Puff the Magic Dragon,” and her expression grows bored. It’s only when I begin playing the Beatles’ “Hey Jude”—one of Leo’s favorites—that I finally see a spark of interest on her face. When I finish the song, I let silence hang between us until she finally says something.

  Who’s Jude? she signs, her eyes still suspicious.

  It’s exactly the question I was hoping for. “Jude is John Lennon’s son Julian,” I tell her. “John Lennon is one of the Beatles.”

  “Duh,” she says aloud. “Only idiots don’t know the Beatles.” Then she pauses and adds, “If his name is Julian, why do they call him Jude, anyways?”

  I smile. “Paul McCartney—he’s another Beatle, but I guess you know that—wrote the song for Julian when Julian’s parents, John and Cynthia, were getting a divorce. Julian was sad, and Paul knew that sometimes, music helps people. He was originally singing, ‘Hey Jules,’ his nickname for Julian, but he changed it to ‘Hey Jude,’ because he liked the sound of it better.”

  She looks at me for a moment. “So why was Julian sad, anyways?”

  I shrug. “I think divorce can be tough on a person,” I tell her. “I think maybe Julian felt a little bit like his parents didn’t care about him, or that he was being abandoned by his mom and dad.” Something in her face changes. I’ve hit a nerve. “I think Paul McCartney was trying to tell Julian that it wasn’t his fault, that he didn’t have to carry the world on his shoulders, and that it was all going to get better.”

  She thinks about this for a minute. “Did it? Get better?”

  “For Julian?” I nod. “Yes. He’s all grown up now, and he’s a musician too, just like his dad.”

  “Because his dad loved him, after all,” Allie says.

  “His mom and dad both did.”

  Allie turns quickly away and wipes furtively at her face. I wait for her to turn back around before setting my guitar down and signing, What’s wrong?

  “Nothing,” she snaps. “And you don’t have to sign. I can talk, you know. I’m not stupid.”

  I wait a moment before asking gently, “Did something happen with your mom?”

  She snorts, but the pain that flickers across her face tells me everything I need to know. “No, nothing happened” is what she finally says. I assume she’s stonewalling me again until she adds a moment later, “That’s the problem. Doesn’t she care about me? At all? She comes twice a week because she has to, and I have overnight visits with her in her new apartment sometimes, but the rest of the time, she doesn’t even care if I’m alive.”

  “What makes you think that, Allie?” I ask, and her eyes narrow.

  “Because why wouldn’t she get her crap together quicker so she could take me home? Why would she be moving so slow and just leaving me here in some stranger’s house in the meantime?”

  “There could be lots of reasons that have nothing to do with you. Can you think of any?” It’s my job to get her to cycle through the options herself and to explore what she’s feeling about her mother, but it’s hard to resist the urge to comfort her and tell her I know her mother must love her.

  “Yeah,” Allie says after a pause. “But I think it’s because she hates me.” She looks down, and I hear her sniffle a few times.

  I wait for her to go on, but when she doesn’t, I say, “It may not feel to you like your mother loves you, but she has a lot of problems in her life right now, Allie. Sometimes those kinds of problems make it hard for a parent to act loving.”

  She snorts. “You don’t know anything about it.”

  “You’re right. I don’t. That’s why I’m asking you to guess some reasons.”

  She’s silent for a minute. “Fine. Maybe she’s got some stuff to deal with, you know? Maybe she’s just not ready to be a mom again yet. Okay?”

  I smile at her. “That sou
nds much more likely, Allie. Don’t you think?”

  Allie makes a face and looks away. After a moment, she looks back at me. “I checked with my social worker, you know. My mom could get me back by September if she just grows up and stops doing all the wrong things. But I bet she doesn’t even care.”

  “What were you doing on your computer there?” I ask, nodding to her laptop. “E-mailing her?”

  “I don’t even know her new e-mail address,” she grumbles. “But I was going to give her a letter next time she comes for a supervised visit.”

  “What would the letter say?”

  “It would say stop being a shitty mom.”

  “Well, that sounds fair,” I say. Allie looks at me closely, and I know she’s trying to determine whether I’m being sarcastic. I’m not. “But what if what you said a moment ago is true? What if she’s just trying to deal with her stuff?”

  Allie’s face contorts into a look of disgust. “You know what? You’re just like everyone else. You say the right thing, but it doesn’t mean anything.”

  I consider this and realize she’s completely right. I’m just giving her platitudes. So I think for a minute and say, “Okay. What she’s doing, it sucks. It sucks big time.”

  A tiny smile tugs at the corner of Allie’s lips. “For real?”

  I nod. “But what if you give her the benefit of the doubt? What if she really is trying to make a better life for you? Do you think that’s possible?”

  Allie doesn’t answer. But after a moment, she gets up and crosses over to her keyboard. She doesn’t do anything at first, but then she reaches for the keys and slowly, tentatively, pecks out the first few notes of “Hey Jude.” Then she looks up, raises an eyebrow at me, and says, “Well?”

  I smile, pick up my guitar again, and begin to play. And for the next twenty minutes, with me on guitar and Allie on keys, we play Paul McCartney’s beautiful melody from nearly five decades ago again and again and again. I can hear Allie humming after a while, so I take her cue and begin to sing along with the music. After a few times through the song, I begin improvising the lyrics so that they connect more directly to Allie’s situation. Soon, to the tune of “Hey Jude,” we’re both singing, “Hey, Mom. Where you been? I’ve been waiting . . . for you to come get me.”