First Sight (38 page)

She lay in her bed and cried all night. And at six o’clock she finally got up and dressed. She sent e-mails to the people she had been planning to meet with in Paris, telling them that an emergency had arisen and she had to postpone her trip. She canceled her flight and reservation at the hotel, and sat in her kitchen, staring into a cup of tea, but not drinking it. Nothing had passed her lips since the night before, nor did she want it to. She finally took a sip, and then left for work. She was at her desk before eight, and appeared to be hard at work when Jade walked in, with a look of surprise.

“What are you doing here?”

Timmie avoided her gaze, trying to look important and busy at her desk. Neither of them was convinced. “Jean-Charles had an emergency. I postponed the trip. I’ll probably go in a few days when things settle down.”

“What kind of an emergency? Personal or professional?” Jade looked suspicious when she asked.

“A family thing.” She didn’t want to go into detail with Jade. It sounded too predictable now, and too much like the scenarios Jade had described. Timmie didn’t want to give her that, or upset herself any more than she already was. She didn’t need Jade hammering her as well. And Timmie knew she would. It would have been impossible for her to resist. Jade’s feelings on the subject were still too raw. And in her mind, all married men were the same. Maybe they were. Timmie desperately wanted Jade to be wrong.

“Did something happen with his wife?” Jade persisted, and Timmie’s eyes were stern when she looked up. Her message was clear: back off.

“It’s too complicated to explain. Someone in the family is sick, so he’s tied up.”

“His wife, I’ll bet. I heard that one before. Stanley’s wife had Crohn’s disease. Every time he looked like he was about to leave, she wound up in the hospital, sick as a dog. It got so I could predict it every time. What’s this one got?” Shit. Cancer, Timmie thought to herself. That beat Crohn’s disease, hands down. She wasn’t encouraged by what Jade had just said.

“It doesn’t matter,” Timmie said smoothly. “I’ll probably go over in a few days, when things calm down.”

“I hope you’re right,” Jade said, and left the room, with a dark look in her eyes. She hated this for Timmie, but not half as much as Timmie hated it herself.

Timmie went to the bathroom, locked the door, and sat down and cried for a half-hour. After that, she threw up, which she knew was angst, not morning sickness. She always threw up when she was scared. And she was. Very, very, very scared. She wondered if maybe she’d have a miscarriage as a result. That would solve one problem at least, but as she thought it, she knew she didn’t want that to happen. She wanted his baby, whether he ever came to her or not. She loved him that much, fool that she was.

Jean-Charles called her late that afternoon, at her office. It was nearly two in the morning for him, and she had felt sick over it all day. She should have been on the plane by then, only a few hours away from his arms. He sounded exhausted when he talked to her, told her again and again that he loved her, and that they just had to be patient and everything would work out.

“When is she starting treatment?” Timmie asked, sounding bleak. Everything was about his wife now, and not about her.

“She has to have the surgery first. They’re doing it next week. They can’t start chemotherapy until after that, once everything heals. They may decide to do radiation first.” He was obviously completely enmeshed in the arrangements around her, and caught up in the hysteria that her ominous diagnosis had caused. Intellectually, Timmie understood it perfectly, and even felt sorry for her. Emotionally, she was a terrified child, and a total mess. A pregnant mess on top of it, with serious problems of her own, which he knew nothing about. She couldn’t blame him for that. She couldn’t have told him, if she wanted to. But the news that she was pregnant was the last thing he needed right now. Out of compassion for him, she had no intention of telling him until everything else settled down. The timing of his wife’s breast cancer couldn’t have been worse, for all of them. Timmie couldn’t help wondering what would have happened if his wife had gotten sick after Jean-Charles had left. Would he have gone back? Maybe so. If so, it was better that it was now. That would have been even worse. To have him come to her, set up an apartment and a life with her, and then go home again to care for his sick wife. There was no happy way of playing out the drama with which they were faced.

He told her before he hung up that he would call her whenever possible, but things were very tense and fairly chaotic at his end. He said his wife was being brave, but terrified. So was Timmie, about him. He had no idea how frightened she was. Total panic had followed his news of the night before, and her canceled trip.

She had kept to herself all day, and since everyone thought she was away, there were no calls. And she made none. She sat at her desk, valiantly trying to crawl through her work, and accomplishing virtually nothing. She couldn’t concentrate, she threw all her sketches away, and all she did when the door was closed was cry. Jade had warned David that something was seriously wrong, and they both left her alone all day. David, with his usual optimism, said he was confident they’d work it out. He had great faith in Jean-Charles. Jade just hmphed loudly and stomped back to her desk, although privately, she was desperately worried and chagrined for their friend and boss. Timmie looked absolutely awful for the rest of the week.

She left her office around six on Friday, and went straight to the beach, without going home to pack a bag. She brought no work home that weekend, no book to read. She spent the entire weekend sleeping, crying, and walking on the beach. And when she wasn’t worrying about him, she was thinking about their unborn child. She knew she had to get to a doctor one of these days. She had been planning to do it after Paris. She didn’t really care how pregnant she was. All that mattered was that she was carrying his child. It was the sweetest secret of her life, no matter what his situation was. Although his current one made the reality of a baby somewhat terrifying for her. She had made the decision to have it, even if she was alone.

And she had never felt as alone as she did now. She found herself thinking a lot that weekend about Mark. How sweet he had been when he was born and how much she had loved him. How devastated when he died. She had almost wanted to die herself. And now, miraculously, God had given her this second chance, to have a baby with a man she loved so much. She couldn’t think of anything more wonderful than having his child. She only wished she could have told him about it in Paris, if things had turned out differently than they had. And some of the time, she hoped he was right, that this was not an end to anything, but only a delay, a blip on the screen of time in their lives. Hopefully, in the next few months, his wife’s treatment would be over, and he could finally leave their house. There was nothing Timmie could do now except wait and see, and believe what he said.

Jean-Charles was exceptionally loving with her when he called that weekend. He called her several times a day to reassure her, and apologized a thousand times for asking her to cancel her trip.

“I’m hoping that this will all calm down and be resolved in the next few months,” he reassured her. “I’m hoping I may even be able to leave by the end of summer.” Timmie hoped so too, but it was going to be a long summer, waiting for him to leave, as her belly grew. He said he hoped she could come over in the next few weeks. Maybe between his wife’s surgery, while she recuperated, and before chemo began. He didn’t see how he could get away right now at any other time. Timmie didn’t comment. She had definitely taken a backseat now to his wife, her illness, his children, and their more pressing problems. She hadn’t seen him in a month now, and had no idea when she would again. And what worried her even more, when she thought about it, was that she was a woman he had been in love with for three months, and had spent passionate visits with three times. They had spent exactly fourteen days together in all, end to end. How could she expect him to pit two weeks with her, or even three months if you counted e-mails and phone calls, against a woman he had spent nearly thirty years with? In Timmie’s mind, you couldn’t, and probably not in his mind either. She was nothing more than a fantasy to him, she told herself, a dream he was hoping would materialize, in a life that was still out of reach. Only the baby she was carrying was real. The rest was still nothing more than a dream, or the hope of a life she might share with him. But for the moment, realistically, he was still sharing his life with his family on a daily basis, living with them, no matter how in love with Timmie he claimed he was.

On Sunday, she went to St. Cecilia’s to visit the children, on her way home, and ended up staying for dinner with them. Three new children had arrived, instead of the expected two. One of them was an adorable six-year-old boy, who had been rescued from foster care, after being seriously abused, not only by his family, but also by the foster family that had taken him in. It happened sometimes. He sat silent and wide-eyed all through dinner, and all of Timmie’s attempts to engage him in conversation were fruitless. He reminded her agonizingly of Blake. She’d had a card from his grandparents saying he was doing well. She still missed him at times. He would always have a place in her heart.

Sister Anne explained that this child was suffering from post-traumatic stress and didn’t speak, much like Blake. They had him in therapy. And when Timmie gently touched his head as she said goodbye, he raised an arm to protect himself, and flinched as he cowered away from her. It brought tears to her eyes, and a sense of reality about what these kids had been living with before they came to St. Cecilia’s.

Jean-Charles called her again late that night, but said nothing about her coming over. He told her how much he loved her, but sounded exhausted. It was Monday morning for him, and people were waiting for him in the office. He said his wife’s surgery was scheduled for Tuesday. It was all he could talk about these days, and most of the time, Timmie just listened. It was really all she could do for him, and she kept assuring him that she loved him and was there for him. He said she was the only thing keeping him going. She was dying to see him, particularly now, but didn’t want to pressure him, so said nothing about it to him. She wanted to be understanding about what he was going through, and hoped it would be good for them in the long run if she at least tried to be supportive, but she was engulfed by waves of panic now much of the time. This was by no means an easy time for either of them. She loved him, but had absolutely no security with him. All she had really was the knowledge that they were madly in love with each other, and had been for three months. The only certainty in her life now was that she was going to have a baby the following winter, as long as nothing untoward happened in the meantime, which was always a possibility at her age. For a multitude of reasons, it seemed wisest to wait before she said anything, since she had decided to have it anyway. For her, the decision had been made.

Knowing that his baby was growing inside her, she loved him more than ever, and missed him terribly. She cried a lot these days. Both David and Jade had observed her somber mood at the office. Neither of them was asking her anything, and both were steering clear. They figured that if she wanted to say anything about it, she would. She was saying nothing to them about going to Paris, had made no arrangements since the trip she’d canceled. And nothing happened or changed in her life till late May.

Just before the Memorial Day weekend, she broached the subject of going to Paris with Jean-Charles again. His wife had had the lumpectomy, and was starting chemotherapy in two weeks. This was the break he had alluded to previously when he thought Timmie could come over. And she asked him about it just before she left for Malibu for the long weekend. She had finally seen her obstetrician about the baby that week. It was growing nicely, she had seen it on the sonogram, with its little heart beating, and she had cried when they showed it to her. She had carried the still photograph of it with her everywhere since. According to their computerized calculations and whatever information she could give them, she was nine weeks pregnant, and the baby was due at the beginning of January. The whole thing still had an aura of unreality for her, particularly since no one knew, not even him. It was her deepest and most tender secret, and one she cherished just as she did her love for him, and his for her, although they hadn’t seen each other now since she’d seen him in New York in April, the fateful visit where she had conceived their baby. She was still waiting for an opportune time to tell him, and wanted to, but not over the phone, and preferably not in the midst of his crisis at home. She was waiting for things to calm down so she could tell him, and was hoping he’d let her come to Paris soon.

On the Friday afternoon of the Memorial Day weekend, she asked him how his schedule looked. There was a sigh, and then an immediate silence at the other end. He always sounded stressed and on edge these days, not specifically with her. But he felt pulled in a thousand directions, and he said both his daughters were terrified for their mother. It was a very hard time in his family. And not an easy one for Timmie either.

“I don’t know, Timmie. I want to see you so badly. Every day I want to ask you to come over. I just can’t get away right now. But even if you were in Paris, if there were a crisis here, or my children needed me in their anguish over their mother, I couldn’t be with you the way I’d want to. I don’t want to do that to you, out of respect for you.” She was sure he meant it kindly, but it felt like being put off to her. She almost told him that she didn’t care how little she saw him, she was willing to come over anyway, but he wasn’t encouraging about it, and asked her to wait a few more weeks, to see how the chemo went. Yet another delay, even if a valid excuse. How could she argue with cancer, or the terror of his children, or even his state of anxiety over it? She couldn’t. But what about her? a small voice in her head asked. The truth was that there was no room in his life for her at the moment, except on the phone. And she needed more of him than that. Much, much more.