The Best We've Been

by Beth K. Vogt

  “I understand.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Relax. I might schedule a facial or massage. Read a book or two.” She moved closer to Geoff, resting her head on his well-defined shoulder. Despite work and the conference prep, he still managed to get to the gym, going early in the morning, sometimes just a few hours after Jillian crawled into bed. “Gianna said she’d take care of Winston, so that’s handled.”

  “I know you’re going to be relaxing and reading, but you’re welcome to sit in on my presentation if you want.”

  “Would you mind?” She tilted her head to look up at him, her cheek brushing against his scruffy jawline. “It wouldn’t distract you if I was there?”

  “You’re always a distraction, but no, I’m certain I’ll be focused on the talk Saturday morning.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I’m completely serious, Mrs. Hennessey.” He pressed his lips against her forehead. “I’ve already requested a name tag that identifies you as my wife so you won’t distract any of the other guys at the conference.”

  “Right. I’m ‘Geoff Hennessey’s wife.’ Perfect.” A laugh filled her throat, spilling over. “We’re getting off topic. What else do we need to do for the presentation?”

  Geoff leaned forward, disrupting their casual embrace, and shut first one laptop, then the other. Then he stood, pulling her with him and wrapping his arms around her. “I’m ready to be done for tonight. Ready for some distraction. What about you, Wife?”

  His kiss was slow. Deliberate. His hands slid up her back, pulling her close, his touch gentle yet persuasive. In all the months since her cancer diagnosis, her surgery, her chemo and radiation, Geoff had never wavered in his desire for her.

  Jillian leaned into her husband’s embrace, savoring the warmth of his arms around her. The taste of his kiss. So much for work. But this . . . this was a good thing, too. She’d told Geoff she wanted more this year. More hope for herself. Hope for them. She’d even gone so far as to pick hope as her theme for the year, and Geoff had picked the word fun.

  Well then.

  She had to believe, had to keep hoping, their relationship was still good, despite the one topic they avoided. To not get tripped up by the future—by wanting him to change. Or by trying to figure out how to be content if he didn’t.

  Sometimes it was best to focus on now.

  Jillian allowed herself to be drawn further into the persuasion of Geoff’s kiss. To give all her attention to these moments. To give all of herself to her husband.

  Two hours later, Geoff lay asleep in the bed next to her, his breathing even. And she was, once again, wide-awake. Jillian shoved the covers aside, stood, and pulled her robe from the foot of the bed. Slipped it on, belting it loosely around her waist. She shut the bedroom door with one last glance at Geoff, who’d rolled to his side, pulling the covers up around his shoulders. The steps leading downstairs creaked, but she’d wandered the house in the middle of the night enough times to know the noise never bothered Geoff or Winston. Even the dog slept through the nights when she didn’t.

  It took her a few moments to choose a mug, heat the water in the microwave, and add a tea bag, before she settled into a corner of the couch, where her still-new-to-her Bible and journal rested on the side table. If she was going to be awake, then she’d use the time for something other than watching a rerun on the cooking channel or a favorite movie or flipping through a magazine.

  Jillian kept her Bible study simple by following a monthly Scripture-reading plan she’d found online. She wrote the daily verses in her journal, underlining anything that stood out to her. If she missed a day or two, she played catch-up.

  This was her life now. She was no longer a career woman. She took things slow. Nothing too complicated. The days of the woman who multitasked and worked full-time were gone, thanks to lingering chemo brain. And she asked God every day to help her to accept who she was.

  The crinkle of the pages in her Bible reminded her of how new her faith was. She’d owned the Bible for a few weeks, purchasing it at Payton’s suggestion. Some days, her faith still seemed unfamiliar, but that didn’t mean it was wrong. It was like breaking in a new pair of shoes until they didn’t pinch.

  Maybe some people wouldn’t appreciate the analogy, would find it disrespectful of something as serious as faith, but God knew what she meant.

  Jillian found today’s passage—James 1:9-12.

  Believers in humble circumstances ought to take pride in their high position. But the rich should take pride in their humiliation—since they will pass away like a wild flower. For the sun rises with scorching heat and withers the plant; its blossom falls and its beauty is destroyed. In the same way, the rich will fade away even while they go about their business.

  Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial because, having stood the test, that person will receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised to those who love him.

  She opened her journal and wrote out the verses. Then beneath that, she wrote a prayer:

  I’m a believer, a new believer, but it counts, right, God?

  I know something about trials. And I’m not quitting. I didn’t quit when I was diagnosed with cancer—although I did quit on Geoff when I broke our engagement. But he talked sense into me. And that all worked out.

  Now I’m persevering through wanting to adopt when Geoff doesn’t want children. We’re at a stalemate. But I’m not quitting on him. On our marriage.

  I love him. He loves me.

  Yes, I hope he changes his mind. You know that, God. Geoff knows it, too.

  I don’t know anything about receiving a crown . . . except it sounds like I only get it if I pass this test.

  Okay. Fine.

  But if You could make “passing the test” easier by having Geoff decide he wants to adopt, that would be great.

  Jillian rested her pen on the page. Sometimes when she wrote her prayers, it was like she was a teenager again, writing in a diary. But her pastor had talked about journaling prayers, so she thought she would try it.

  Words across the page . . . at times, awkward stuttering of her heart . . . and then there were times it was an exhale that allowed her heart to find rest.

  She’d persevere through this, too.

  Jillian took a sip of her tea, the liquid tepid. The air in the room cool against her skin.

  Time to go back to bed, snuggle against the warmth of Geoff’s body. Smile when he whispered, “Love you . . .”

  If only sleep weren’t still evading her, like some wraith taunting her with a silent “Catch me if you can.” Two thirty in the morning, and once again, she was the only one awake in the house.

  Maybe now was a good time to organize the chaos on the dining room table. Sort through the piles of paper, one piece at a time, and throw out the unneeded scraps. No need to rush. And it was better if she didn’t.

  3

  THIS SHOULD NOT BE that hard.

  I’d made my decision. The best decision for me. Now all I needed to do was schedule my appointment. The right appointment this time.

  But it was difficult to get out of bed, to shower, to get dressed, and to get to work on time—much less make a simple phone call.

  The brief images I’d seen on the ultrasound replayed in my mind over and over. A tiny leg. A glimpse of a foot.

  The echoes of Dr. Gray’s voice accompanied the memories, no matter how I tried to override them with work details.

  “There’s the leg . . . and the baby’s foot. . . . We can get a good image of the baby’s face at this far along if you’re interested—”

  When I tried to fall asleep at night, it was as if the baby’s heartbeat filled my bedroom like some sort of unwelcome background music.

  What I was about to do—my choice—would silence that song forever.

  I’d always believed in the freedom, the power, of choice. The rightness of choice. But I’d never connected choice to a life before. To a baby.

&n
bsp; I slipped my hand beneath the opening of my white lab coat and rested my palm against my abdomen. Still separate but connected.

  My choice would sever our bond forever.

  Choice implied I had options. That I could choose something else.

  What else could I do?

  Go through with this pregnancy and give the baby up for adoption?

  No. I’d live the rest of my life as the designated birth mom to my child with limited to no rights. I’d be straddling some invisible but explicit line between mother and stranger, having no real influence in my child’s life.

  I’d never lived like that, controlled by the actions of others . . . well, not in a long time.

  I closed my eyes. Waited. Nothing. No movement beneath my hand. I didn’t even know what sensation to expect.

  It was ridiculous to sit here and wait for something to happen. I needed to decide about my future.

  I had made my decision, but Dr. Gray seemed to forget about women standing together, supporting one another. Instead, her choice collided with mine.

  Still avoiding the needed phone call, I removed the ultrasound photos from the top drawer of my desk. Blurry images of my son or daughter the receptionist had handed me four days ago as I checked out from my appointment with Dr. Gray, accompanied with a cheery “Congratulations, Ms. Thatcher. Don’t forget your baby’s photos.”

  “Johanna?”

  Axton Miller’s voice sounded behind me, causing me to slip the photos beneath a file on my desk as I turned to face him. “Yes?”

  “I wanted to check on you. You didn’t answer my texts, so we went ahead and held the meeting without you—”

  “The meeting?”

  “Our meeting with Dr. Lerner.”

  My stomach clenched. “I’m so sorry. I completely lost track of time.”

  “It’s fine. We dealt with a few things and decided to reschedule. Things come up . . .” He paused as if waiting for my explanation.

  I had none.

  That wasn’t true. But I wasn’t going to confess to him why I’d missed the meeting. And all the evidence was hidden under the papers on my desk.

  “I know this may be none of my business . . .”

  Whenever anyone said that, what they said next was guaranteed to be an unwanted intrusion.

  “I’m certain breaking off your engagement had to be hard.”

  Why on earth was Axton bringing that up?

  “If you need to take some vacation time—”

  “My missing our meeting has nothing to do with my ex-fiancé.” And that was a lie. “I’m fine. I’m not upset about Beckett. I just forgot a meeting—”

  “I can’t help but notice you’ve lost weight, Johanna.”

  “It’s what women do, Axton. We’re either losing weight or gaining weight.”

  “Fine. I’ve learned not to argue with you. Just know that if you change your mind—” he raised his hands as if to fend off my response—“I said if, not when—then my offer still stands for you to take some time off.”

  “We have a lot to do.” I should probably stand if I wanted to continue this conversation, but I couldn’t seem to find the strength. I was tired all the time, but I’d deal with the reason for that soon enough.

  “. . . well aware of everything we have to do.” I’d missed the first part of what Axton had said. “But I’m just as aware when my staff is pushing themselves.”

  “You’re not pleased with my work.”

  He stepped back. “Not going there, Johanna. If you want to talk about something, let’s talk. But I will not let you pick a fight with me.”

  My boss was mixing up the boundaries, blurring the lines between professional and personal. He knew I was fine with him being my boss—sort of—but I didn’t want him to be my friend. I didn’t have friends inside—or outside—the hospital. I could barely claim relationships with my sisters.

  I stopped my hand as it moved toward my stomach again . . . as if I was protecting something . . . someone . . .

  Not that Axton would interpret the gesture as anything significant.

  Who was I trying to protect?

  How many people would my decision hurt . . . whatever decision I made?

  And why were my emotions all snarled up in protecting someone I’d never met or seen, except in an ultrasound?

  I shut my office door after Axton left. Kept my back to my desk, trying to ignore the photos that seemed to have some magical pull that held me between “maybes,” despite being hidden from view.

  I pressed my lips together. Straightened my shoulders. Took my cell phone from the pocket of my lab coat. Found the number I’d noted a few days ago for a physician who performed abortions. Stabbed the numbers into the call screen.

  The receptionist answered on the second ring, her voice a pleasant blend of professional and friendly.

  Words clogged in my throat.

  “How may I help you?”

  Still no words.

  “Hello?”

  I disconnected the call, pressing my forehead against the office door. Closed my eyes, fighting to stay standing, but giving up.

  For an absurd moment, I resisted the urge to call my mother. What would I say? I hadn’t called my mother for help in years.

  My fingers gripped the sides of my phone, and then I faced away from the door, pressing my back against the hard wood as I allowed myself to slide to the floor. I drew my legs up against my body, leaning forward so my forehead rested on my knees.

  I’d taken care of myself for years—through all sorts of crises, big and small. I’d handle things now, too.

  “Maybe I could keep the baby.” My words were a whisper, muffled against my knees. “My baby.”

  For the first time, I allowed myself to say out loud the thought I’d been evading.

  Being a single mother had never been part of my dream.

  Of course, I’d never dreamed of being passed over for a promotion.

  Or Beckett cheating on me.

  Or having to break off our engagement.

  Or discovering I was pregnant.

  But this was not the time to scroll through a life of disappointments.

  I lifted my head. Straightened my shoulders, pressing them into the door behind me.

  I could be a mom.

  Because if I didn’t have an abortion, no one else was going to raise my child.

  Like everything else I did, I’d do it myself . . . and I’d have to live with this decision for the rest of my life.

  “One advantage to getting married? People gave us some of the new board games we had listed on our wedding registry.” Payton grinned as she moved her red game piece across the board and then flipped over another card in her pile. “Ta-da!”

  “You’re only saying that because you’ve won the last two games.” Jillian checked the small stack of cards sitting in front of her again.

  “Sorry, everyone.” Zach shrugged. “I should have never taught her how to play Labyrinth.”

  “I’ll take any advantage I can get when it comes to competing against you all.”

  “You haven’t won yet, little sister.” I selected a tile at the top of the game board, using it to slide another line of tiles across the board. Mimicking Payton’s movements, I moved my blue game piece across the board to the desired location, then flipped over a playing card. “There you go.”

  “Nice. Nice.” Payton nodded. “But that doesn’t mean you’re going to win this time.”

  Jillian spoke up again. “What’s the plan, Geoff?”

  “To not lose again.”

  “Great plan.”

  “I thought so. Now to execute it. But everyone else’s strategy keeps messing with mine.”

  If Jillian’s husband wanted to complain about other people’s actions complicating his life, he could go right ahead. This was just a stupid board game. Nothing more. When it was all said and done, the pieces would end up in a nice box covered with the lid labeled Labyrinth, and everyone would walk
away with their little victories—and no real difference in their lives.

  A slight, almost-indiscernible flutter in my stomach interrupted my musings. Was that the baby? I was tired of all the waiting, the anticipating, the trying to guess what I was feeling. Trying to decide what I was doing.

  Mom spoke up. “Your dad and I are thinking of making some changes to the house.”

  “Do you want me to buy some new chair cushions for the breakfast nook table?” I tried to keep track of the moves everyone else was making. “Maybe some curtains?”

  “We were thinking about a more major project than that.”

  “New carpet?”

  “We want to add a deck onto the back of the house.”

  “A new deck?”

  “I’ve been talking to Zach about this.” Dad nodded toward him across the table. “He’s got a friend who builds decks, so we’ll be setting up a time to talk.”

  “But why a deck after all this time?”

  “I like to grill out and a deck would be a nice addition to the house. Improve its resale value. I’m not thinking of anything elaborate.”

  Jillian’s focus had shifted to our parents. “Are you and Mom thinking of selling the house?”

  “Not now, no. But maybe someday we’ll decide to downsize.”

  I couldn’t imagine my parents selling this house. “If you want to add value, then add a room to the house—”

  “We’re not interested in that big of a project.”

  “Not after watching me and Geoff and the kitchen renovation, right?” A smile colored Jillian’s words.

  “Well, there is that.” Dad winked. “We may enclose the porch. We’ll look at different options.”

  And now my parents were making decisions without me. That shouldn’t be a problem. They were adults, just like I was. Just because Mom always had me pick out things like curtains and cushions didn’t mean she needed my help or approval to add a deck. This was normal family life. Adults being adults.