by Maggi Myers
If you’d just broken up with Trent, you’d be having lukewarm beer with this hottie, Ms. Noncommittal Caroline.
Screw Trent. I cocked my head and flirted anyway. “It was nice to meet you, Peter. Can I please have a beer now?”
“Ouch.” Peter laughed and let go of my hand to grip his chest dramatically. “You slay me, beautiful nameless girl.” His smile spread warmth up my neck, staining my cheeks. “I’ll tell you what: I’ll refill your beer if you tell me your name.”
“Blackmail? Certainly a good-looking guy like you doesn’t need to resort to such things to get a date,” I teased, not feeling the slightest bit guilty.
“You think I’m good-looking?” Peter’s playfulness was adorable, and it was impossible to resist his charm.
“You know you’re good-looking,” I countered.
“I know you’re beautiful.”
I laughed. “Wow. You just have an answer for everything, don’t you?”
“Not everything. I still don’t know your name.” He handed back my full cup with reluctance.
“Caroline,” I finally answered.
“Caroline.” He smiled wistfully as he tried it out.
I wasn’t one of those girls who giggled and swooned at the sight of a cute boy. Yet here I was, struck dumb by the sound of my name moving across the very delectable mouth of an equally delectable frat boy. I needed to get out of there before I started batting my eyelashes or something else just as horrific.
“Thanks for the brew, Frat Peter.” I chuckled when he crinkled his nose at the name.
“Caroline,” he called as I turned to leave. Glancing over my shoulder, I found him still smiling at me. “I won’t need to blackmail you to get you to go to dinner with me.”
“Tell that to my date.” I giggled and blew him a kiss as I kept walking. I wasn’t ready to give Peter an easy in. Even back then, something in me knew how effortless it would be to get lost in him.
A few weeks later, the boyfriend was a thing of the past. While I stood in the campus breezeway, waiting at the coffee cart, I ran into Peter again. He was right; he didn’t need to blackmail me into that date. I fell hard and fast, never taking a backward glance. I was young, in love, and completely idealistic. I finally had a plan, and it was all about me, Peter, and the life we would build together.
building a mystery
The hospital cafeteria is relatively quiet this afternoon and I’m grateful to find my favorite booth vacant. It’s in the corner, sheltered from the fluorescent glare from above. I shift across the seat and place my back against the wall. I pull my knees to my chest and rest my cheek against my knee. Just a few minutes of peace, that’s all I want. But my mind won’t allow it; even in the silence, it churns and spits mercilessly.
“Ma’am?” I jump, startled by the man standing at the end of my table. I must look as strung out as I feel, because his face reflects pity.
Screw your pity, buddy.
“You left your coffee.” He raises the latte I just paid for and left at the counter. “Is it okay if I sit?” he asks, but he’s already moving to sit across from me. He folds his tall, lanky frame into the booth with care not to bang his knees under the table. I take in this strange man warily. His hair is dark brown with a slight curl to it; it’s cropped close to his head, but not short enough to hide the gentle bend of the strands. He runs his hand through it and exhales heavily. I reach for my latte and curse under my breath at the lingering weakness in my hand. I rest it against the table and reach with my steady hand. The stranger pretends he doesn’t notice; at least I don’t have to suffer more of his pity.
“I won’t ask you if you’re okay.” He chuckles nervously. When he sees that I’m not sharing his humor, he clears his throat. “Sorry, I just … I don’t know. Can I just sit here and not talk to you for a minute?”
“Why?” I don’t know why I care, or why I’m even bothering to engage this man. I should get up and make my way back to the MRI clinic. His inquisitive brown eyes lock with mine. Something in the way he stares, unapologetically assessing me, reminds me of Peter. Pain blooms anew.
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Does it matter?”
“No.” I sigh. “I guess not. I’m just not accustomed to chatting up strange men in the hospital cafeteria.”
“Is there someplace else you’re more comfortable chatting up strange men?” He laughs, and despite myself, I laugh too.
“Are you here a lot?” he asks cautiously.
“More than I want to be. My daughter is a patient right now.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and I cringe at the tears welling behind my eyelids.
“Don’t be.” I shrug and look into my coffee.
“Can’t help it,” he throws back. “Can I ask what’s wrong with her?”
“You can ask, but I don’t really have an answer.” I look up from my coffee and find him watching me intently, waiting for me to explain. “My daughter has a developmental disability and a seizure disorder. Neither of which is specified, so we are here for tests. More tests. Endless tests …”
“They don’t know what’s wrong?” he asks, sounding surprised.
“Nobody knows; she was born healthy but started to miss a few milestones in her first year. By her second birthday, she was at the developmental level of a nine-month-old and started having seizures. After that, she started to regress. She’s five now. Developmentally she’s a toddler. She doesn’t fit into any one diagnosis. She’s all over the place and no one knows how to help her.” I stammer over the last few words, embarrassed by my candor.
He shakes his head. “That must be incredibly hard.” He dips his pinky finger into his coffee, swirling it while he speaks.
“It is what it is.” I dip my head and watch him with curiosity as he lifts his finger to lick the froth from his fingertip.
Odd.
As if he can hear my thought, he glances up. Blotches of color stain his cheeks.
“Sorry, I’m really not a Neanderthal.” He chuckles. “I nearly burned every taste bud off my tongue earlier. Just testing the temperature. Y-you know,” he stammers.
I feel my eyebrow raise involuntarily. “So you’re willing to burn your finger and not your tongue? What did your finger do to you?” He smiles, transforming his face. I smile in return.
“I don’t have to taste anything with this.” He waves his pinky at me.
“I guess not.” A wave of self-consciousness envelops me as silence stretches between us. I clear my throat and sip from my own cup.
“What’s your daughter’s name?” he asks.
“Lily,” I whisper. The sadness I’d forgotten for just a moment cloaks me in darkness once again.
“Lily is a beautiful name,” he offers. The brown of his eyes reflects the warmth in his tone. Peter has warm, kind eyes, too.
“I should really get back to her. She’ll be awake soon,” I blurt as I scoot out of the booth.
“It was nice talking to you, Lily’s mom.” He offers his hand and I shake it without meeting his eyes. I don’t think I can look at them again without allowing nostalgia to pull me down further. I notice he doesn’t ask for my name. I don’t ask for his either. Besides, I’m used to being “Lily’s mom.” I haven’t been just Caroline for many years.
My phone chirps with perfect timing.
Max: Lily Love is starting to wake up. We’re good; don’t rush. Just wanted you to know.
“That’s my cue.” I hold up my phone. Unsure of what else to say, I smile tightly and walk away. He doesn’t stop me and I’m relieved.
we never change
I can hear singing coming through the door before I open it. Max is crooning an Irish lullaby. Lily’s eyes are open, but her body is uncharacteristically still. Her gaze is fixed on Max leaning against the rail of her bed as he sings. My heart can barely contain the tenderness I feel watching her drink in the song that bears her name. As a smile tugs softly at her lips, I find myself wishing she would smile at me
that way. I’ve sung that song to her from the beginning, but it’s never garnered this reaction.
“I wouldn’t have taken you for a Chieftains fan, Max,” I whisper as I enter the room.
Max nods in acknowledgment and continues his serenade. Lily glances my way, but is quickly drawn back in by the song. When the last words are sung, Lily holds her hands up and waves them back and forth.
“Use your words, Lily,” I encourage.
“Yay, Maxy,” she cheers and claps her hands, beaming up into Max’s adoring face.
The nurse comes in to check more vital signs, so I step into the hallway to cry without Lily’s audience. Laughter through tears is a familiar combination, reserved for moments just like this one. I’m so happy to see her connecting to people around her. I just wish she’d see me that way, as more than just a fixture in her environment.
Max opens the door, waving enthusiastically at Lily as he goes. His bright smile falters when he sees my tears. Closing the door with a gentle click, he pulls me into a tight hug. I don’t have time to steel myself against the onslaught of feelings I’m not ready for. I return his hug, fisting the back of his scrubs in my hands. I weep without restraint into his chest, too tired to care anymore.
“Is my singing that bad?” He chuckles. I half-laugh, half-sob at his attempt to cheer me. Max sighs in defeat.
“Caroline, it’s going to be okay,” he says as he holds me against his chest. I’d give anything for the bliss of that kind of ignorance right now.
“No, Max,” I hiccup. “Nothing will ever be okay. I’m praying for ‘manageable,’ but it will never be okay.”
“You don’t mean that.” He leans back just enough to see my face, concern etched into his handsome face. “What’s going on, Caroline?”
I suck in a shaky breath before I can answer him.
“Peter left me,” I whisper.
“What? No. Oh, no.” Max’s voice is rich with sorrow. “Why? How could he leave you and Lily?”
“It’s not his fault, Max,” I answer.
Max scoffs.
“It’s not. Some things love can’t withstand.” It’s the truth. Sometimes love just ends.
“That’s crap, Caro.” Max’s flippant answer surprises me. I let go of him and take a step back. In all the years I’ve known Max, he’s never spoken a harsh word to me. I don’t like it. It makes me feel judged.
“It’s not crap, Max,” I bite back. “It’s life. Shitty things happen to fairly good people all the time. Look at you and Nina.”
Max flinches at the sound of his ex-wife’s name. I feel guilty for bringing her into the mix; Max knows how cruel life can be. His ex-wife made that point when he came home and found her wrapped around their neighbor. I’ll never forget the look on Max’s face at Lily’s birthday last year, when I asked him where Nina was. My heart broke to see him in pain like that. I never would’ve guessed that I would be the one in a failed marriage a year later.
“You deserve better than that, Caroline.” He dips his head enough to pierce me with his sea-glass eyes.
“I deserve a lot of things, but life isn’t fair, is it?” I don’t mean to sound glib, but I know I must. Max’s jaw tics as he frowns at me. “I’m sorry I brought up Nina; that was below the belt.”
“Did he cheat on you?” Max’s voice betrays his own pain. It’s sobering to witness how easily it surfaces, even after a year.
“What? No.” I grab his forearm. “He didn’t cheat.” Max puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes, and I want to sink back into another hug.
“Caroline?” Peter walks up the hall with bags of takeout hanging from his hands. His look of irritation sends my eyes rolling into my head.
Here we go.
Peter never got over the fact that Max was there on that first day and he wasn’t—which is ridiculous, because Peter was never able to be there. He can’t stand Lily’s attachment to Max.
“Peter.” Max nods.
“Thanks for taking care of my girls, Max.” Peter forces a smile, but I can see the muscle in his jaw pulse from clenching his teeth.
I’m not your girl anymore.
“Max stayed with Lily so I could take a quick coffee break,” I explain.
“I could’ve brought you coffee,” Peter counters. It’s moments like this that are the hardest on me. Sure, he could’ve brought me coffee. He could’ve done a lot of little things to show me he cared, but he left. These little acts of chivalry feel more like a slap in the face.
“Don’t.” I hold my hand out in front of Peter. “You. Left. You don’t get to act wounded for not being there for me now. It’s too late for that.” My voice shakes and my eyes fill with tears.
“I’ll come by and check on you later.” Max shakes his head, and for a moment I think he’s going to say something more. Instead he gives me a tight smile and heads toward the nursing station. Once he’s out of earshot, Peter leans down, leveling his eyes with mine.
“That is grossly unfair, Caroline.” He speaks softly, but anger and hurt are evident in his eyes. “I wanted to be there for you. You never let me. You shut me out.”
Before he can continue, the door to Lily’s room opens and the nurse looks warily back and forth between Peter and me.
“Mr. and Mrs. Williams,” she says, “Lily’s room is ready, so we’ll be transferring her soon.”
“Hunter,” I reply.
“What?” Peter and the nurse ask in sync.
“Ms. Hunter,” I say with confidence. “I’m not married anymore.”
Peter shoots daggers at me and the nurse shifts nervously on her feet.
“Well, Ms. Hunter and Mr. Williams, it should only be a few more minutes.” She mutters as she pretends to make a note in her chart and scurries off.
“What the hell, Caroline?” Peter seethes.
“What did you expect, Peter?” I ask. “This is what you said you wanted. I’m trying to move on; maybe you should too.”
“None of this is what I wanted,” he shouts. “I wanted it all to be different, goddammit.”
There it is again, the same sordid story. We worked tirelessly, went through counseling, checked every single box on the long list of things successful couples do to stay together. Still, as much as we tried, Lily’s challenges became bigger than our love for each other.
“I know.” I sniffle. “So did I.” Regardless, wanting something to be different cannot make it so. Round and round we circle the same common issue: I love you, but I need to love myself more.
“You’re so quick to say that I left you.” Peter cups my face in his hands, speaking softly. “I may have left our home, but you left me a long time ago.” His words slice into my heart.
“Somebody had to take care of her, Peter,” I weep. I hate that he’s right. I hate that I was forced to choose. I hate myself for having had nothing left to give my husband after taking care of our daughter. I want to scream every time I think about it.
“I know,” he whispers. “I get it, Caroline. Understanding doesn’t make me miss you less or want you less. It makes me feel like an asshole. I’m so tired of hating myself.”
A sob tears free from my soul at Peter’s quiet confession. I know exactly how he feels; I’m intimately familiar with self-loathing. I never wanted him to feel this way. I certainly never wanted to be the reason he did.
“Peter,” I whimper. I don’t know what to say to convey how deeply I hurt, or how badly I miss him. It’s not fair that we should love each other so much and still lose everything. Grief is a battle of endurance, and this kind of pain is as inescapable as Lily’s disability.
I place my hand on Peter’s and lean my forehead against his. Silently, we let our tears splash on the floor. I feel his breath against my cheeks, smell the crispness of his aftershave. Every piece of my heart aches for how empty I am without him. I take a tentative step to fill the space between us and place my hands on his shoulders. His breath shudders as he pulls me against his body. A sorrow-filled moan vibra
tes in my chest as he kisses my forehead.
“I love you so much, Caroline. I always will,” he whispers. “But I had to go. I couldn’t spend another day watching you drift further away, and end up hating our daughter for it.” With one last kiss to my temple, he lets me go. “I didn’t like the man I was becoming—and, if we’re being honest, neither did you.” Stepping past me, he walks into Lily’s room, leaving me behind to marinate in his words and fall apart alone.
The wall is cold against my back as I slide down to the floor. The imprint of Peter’s lips linger against my forehead, burning my skin in their wake. I don’t know what’s worse: this unrelenting pain or the numbness that I know will follow.
How can it be better to feel something when everything I feel hurts so much? I want to smack every person who has told me, “The pain reminds you that you’re alive.”
Idiots.
The pain only reminds me of everything I have lost.
what do i do now?
About an hour after Peter’s arrival, the orderly from Admissions finally comes to take us to Lily’s new room. Lily’s scheduled for a stay in the Epilepsy Monitoring Unit, where they will monitor by EEG and video for several days in hopes of mapping out the patterns of her seizures. The doctors assure us that the more information they have, the more likely they will be able to determine the cause. I’m not holding my breath.
“Hi, Lily.” An overly cheery nurse enters the room with a basket of electrode wires and a plastered fake smile. “I’m Chelsea, and I’m going to put all these rainbow colors in your hair.” She condescends to us with her overpracticed spiel. It seems it’s amateur hour up in the Epilepsy Monitoring Unit; this whelp is trying to make a game out of supergluing wires onto Lily’s scalp. It’s insulting. Most of the patients have been coming here their whole lives. They’d rather poke their own eyes out than be sequestered for a stint in the EMU. They’re veterans of a war against the misfiring synapses of their brains; they deserve more than Suzy Sunshine and her saccharine brigade.
On cue, Lily shoots Chelsea a wary look and begins her rhythmic anxiety chant: “Mama, Mama, Mama.” Lily doesn’t do social niceties. Either she likes you or she doesn’t, and it’s not looking good for Chelsea right now.
