Handle With Care (37 page)

I stared at him, his face blue in the aquarium light. His eyes were the same color as the water, a deep, pure cobalt.

“Did you know that they hardly ever find shark fossils, because they’re made of cartilage, and they decompose really fast? I’ve always kind of wondered if that’s true of people like us, too.”

Because I am a moron, and destined to live alone my whole life with a dozen cats, at that very moment I burst into tears.

“Hey,” Adam said, pulling me into his arms, which felt like home and totally strange all at once. “I’m sorry. That was a really stupid thing to say.” One of his hands was on my back, rubbing down each pearl of my spine. One was tangled in my hair. “Willow?” he said, tugging on my ponytail so that I’d look up at him. “Talk to me?”

“I’m not Willow,” I burst out. “That’s my sister’s name. I don’t even have OI. I lied, because I wanted to sit in on that class. I wanted to sit next to you.”

His fingers curled around the back of my neck. “I know.”

“You…what?”

“I Googled your family, during the break after the sex class. I read all about your mom and the lawsuit and your sister, who’s just as young as they said she was on the OI blogs.”

“I’m a horrible person,” I admitted. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry I’m not the person you wanted me to be.”

Adam stared at me soberly. “No, you’re not. You’re better. You’re healthy. Who wouldn’t want that for someone you really, really like?”

And then, suddenly, his mouth was touching mine, and his tongue was touching mine, and even though I’d never done this and had only read about it in Seventeen, it wasn’t wet or gross or confusing. Somehow, I knew which way to turn and when to open and close my lips and how to breathe. His hands splayed on my shoulder blades, on the spot you’d once broken, on the place where I’d have wings if I had been born an angel.

The room was closing in around us, just blue water and those bone
less sharks. And I realized that Sarah had gotten part of her sex talk wrong: it wasn’t fractures you had to worry about, it was dissolving—losing yourself willingly, blissfully, in someone else. Adam’s fingers were warm on my waist, skirting the bottom of my shirt, but I was afraid to touch him, afraid that I would hold him too tightly and hurt him.

“Don’t be scared,” he whispered, and he put my hand over his heart so that I could feel it beating.

I leaned forward and kissed him. And again. As if I were passing him all those silent words I could not say, the ones that explained my biggest secret: that I might not have OI but I knew how he felt. That I was breaking apart, too, all the time.

Charlotte

On the flight home from the convention, I formulated a plan. When I landed, I would call Sean and ask him if he could come over to talk. I would tell him that I wanted to fight for what we had between us, just as hard as I wanted to fight for your future. I would say that I needed to finish what I had started but that I didn’t think I could do it without his understanding, if not his support.

I’d tell him I loved him.

It was a strange trip. You were exhausted after three days of interaction with other OI kids, and you fell asleep immediately, still clutching the piece of paper that listed the email addresses of your new friends. Amelia had been brooding ever since we had gone to the zoo—although I assumed it was a residual effect of my frantic reprimand there after she disappeared for two full hours. Once we had landed and collected our luggage, I told you girls to use the restroom, since it was a long ride back from Logan Airport to Bankton. I instructed Amelia to help you if you needed it, and I stood guard over our luggage cart outside. I watched a few families pass by, little kids wearing Mickey Mouse ears, mothers and daughters with matching cornrows and deep tans, fathers dragging car seats. Everyone in an airport is either excited to be going somewhere or relieved to be back home.

I was neither.

I took out my cell phone and dialed Sean. He didn’t pick up, but then again, he rarely did when he was at work. “Hi,” I said. “It’s me. I just wanted to tell you we landed. And…I’ve been doing some thinking. Do you think you might be able to come over tonight? To talk?” I hesitated, as if I expected an answer then and there, but this was a one
way conversation—not unlike all the others we’d had recently. “Well, anyway. I hope the answer’s yes. Bye,” I said, and I hung up the phone as you girls came out of the restroom, waiting for me to take the lead.

Mailboxes made the best breeding grounds: I was certain, sometimes, that in that dark, cozy tunnel bills multiplied exponentially. As soon as we got home, I sent you and Amelia up to your rooms to unpack your suitcases while I sorted through the mail.

It had not been in the box but, instead, left neatly in a pile on the counter for me. There was fresh milk and juice and eggs in the fridge, and the ramp you used to wheel yourself up to the front door had been rebuilt. Sean had been here while we were gone, and that made me think that maybe he was trying to wave a white flag, too.

There was a bill from the credit card company, with its astronomical finance charge. Another one from the hospital—copayments for a visit six months ago. There was an invoice for our insurance premium. A mortgage payment. A phone bill. A cable bill. I began to sort the stack into bills and nonbills, and you could probably guess which stack was taller.

In the nonbill pile were a few catalogs, some junk mail, a belated birthday card for Amelia from an ancient aunt who lived in Seattle, and a letter from the Rockingham County Family Court. I wondered if this had something to do with the trial, although Marin had told me that would take place in superior court.

I opened the letter and started to read.

In the Matter of Sean P. O’Keefe and Charlotte A. O’Keefe; Case Number 2008-R-0056

Dear Ms. Charlotte A. O’Keefe,

Please be advised that we have received in this office a Petition for Divorce in the above named matter. If you wish, you or your attorney may come to Rockingham County Family Court within ten days and accept service.

Until further order of the court, each party is restrained from selling, transferring, encumbering, hypothecating, concealing, or in any manner whatsoever disposing of any property, real or personal, belonging to either or both parties except (1) by written agreement of both parties or (2) for reasonable and necessary living expenses or (3) in the ordinary and usual course of business.

If you do not accept service within the ten days, the Petitioner may elect to have you served by alternate means.

Very truly yours,

Micah Healey, Coordinator

I did not realize I’d cried out until Amelia skidded into the kitchen. “What’s the matter?”

I shook my head. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak.

Amelia snatched the letter out of my hand before I could recover. “Dad wants a divorce?”

“I’m sure this is some kind of mistake,” I said, getting to my feet and retrieving the letter. Of course I had known it was coming, hadn’t I? When your husband moves out of the house for months, you cannot fool yourself into thinking all is normal. But still…I folded the letter in half, then folded it again. A magic trick, I thought desperately. And when I unfold it, all the writing will have disappeared.

“Where’s the mistake?” Amelia snapped. “Wake up, Mom. That’s a pretty clear way of saying he doesn’t feel like having you in his life anymore.” She hugged her arms tight across her middle. “Come to think of it, there’s a lot of that going around lately.”

She whirled around to storm upstairs, but I grabbed her arm. “Don’t tell Willow,” I begged.

“She’s not nearly as dumb as you think. She can tell what’s going on, even when you try to hide it.”

“That’s exactly why I don’t want her to know. Please, Amelia.”

Amelia yanked free. “I don’t owe you anything,” she muttered, and she fled.

I sank into a kitchen chair. Huge patches of my body seemed to have gone numb. Was that what Sean had felt? That I’d lost all sense—both literally and figuratively?

Oh, God. He’d get my voice message on his cell phone, which—in light of this document—turned me into the world’s biggest fool.

I had no idea how divorces worked. Could he get one if I said I didn’t want to? Once the complaint was filed with the court, could you change your mind? Could I change Sean’s?

With shaking hands, I reached for the telephone and called Marin Gates’s private line. “Charlotte,” she said. “How was the convention?”

“Sean’s suing for divorce.”

The line went silent.

“I’m sorry,” Marin finally said, and I think she really was. But a moment later, she was all business. “You need a lawyer.”

“You are a lawyer.”

“Not the kind who can help you with this. Call Sutton Roarke—she’s listed in the yellow pages. She’s the best divorce attorney I know.”

I drew in my breath. “I feel…like such a loser. Like a statistic.”

“Well,” Marin said quietly. “No one likes to hear they’re not wanted.”

Her words made me think of Amelia’s, and felt like the snap of a whip. And they made me think of my testimony in court, which Marin and I had been practicing. But before I could respond, she spoke again. “I truly wish it hadn’t come to this, Charlotte.”

I had so many questions: How did I tell you without hurting you? How could I possibly keep forging ahead with this lawsuit, knowing another one was pending? When I heard my voice, though, I was asking something entirely different. “What happens next?” I said, but Marin had already hung up the phone.

I made an appointment with Sutton Roarke, and then went through the motions of cooking and feeding you girls dinner. “Can I call Daddy?” you asked as soon as we sat down. “I want to tell him about this weekend.”

My head was throbbing, my throat felt like it had been beaten from the inside with fists. Amelia looked at me and then down at her peas. “I’m not hungry,” she said. Moments later, she asked to be excused, and I didn’t even try to keep her at the table. What was the point, when I didn’t feel like being there, either?

I set the dirty dishes into the dishwasher. I wiped down the table. I put up a load of laundry, all with the motions of an automaton. I kept thinking that, if I did these ordinary things, maybe my life would bounce back into normal.

As I sat on the lip of the tub, helping you with your bath, you talked enough for both of us. “Niamh and me, we’ve both got Gmail accounts,”
you chattered. “And every morning at six forty-five, when we wake up before school, we’re going to get online and talk to each other.” You twisted around to look at me. “Can we invite her over sometime?”

“Hmm?”

“Mom, you’re not even listening. I asked about Niamh—”

“What about her?”

You rolled your eyes. “Just forget it.”

We dressed you in your pajamas, and I tucked you in, kissed you good night. An hour later, when I went to check on Amelia, she was already under the covers, but then I heard her whispering and pulled back the sheets to find her on the telephone. “What!” she said, as if I’d accused her of something, and she curled the receiver into her chest like a second heart. I backed out of the room, too emotionally wrecked to wonder what she was hiding, distantly aware that she’d most likely learned that skill from me.

When I went downstairs, a shadow moved in the living room, nearly scaring me to death. Sean stepped forward. “Charlotte—”

“Don’t. Just…don’t, okay?” I said, my hand still covering my hammering heart. “The girls are already in bed, if you’ve come to see them.”

“Do they know?”

“Do you even care?”

“Of course I do. Why do you think I’m doing this?”

A small, desperate sound rose in my throat. “I honestly don’t know, Sean,” I said. “I realize things haven’t been great between us—”

“That’s the understatement of the century—”

“But this is like having a hangnail and getting your arm amputated as treatment, isn’t it?”

He followed me into the kitchen, where I poured powder into the dishwasher and stabbed at the buttons. “It’s more than a hangnail. We’ve been bleeding out. You can tell yourself what you want to about our marriage, but that doesn’t mean it’s the truth.”

“So the only answer is a divorce?” I said, shocked.

“I really didn’t see any other way.”

“Did you even try? I know it’s been hard. I know you’re not used to me sticking up for something I want instead of what you want. But, my God, Sean. You accuse me of being litigious, and then you go file for di
vorce? You don’t even talk about it with me? You don’t try marriage counseling or going to Father Grady?”

“What good would that have done, Charlotte? You haven’t listened to anyone but yourself for a long time. This isn’t overnight, like you think. This has been a year. A year of me waiting for you to wake up and see what you’ve done to this family. A year of wishing you’d put as much effort into our marriage as you do into taking care of Willow.”

I stared at him. “You did this because I’ve been too busy to have sex?”

“No, see, that’s exactly what I mean. You take everything I say, and you twist it. I’m not the bad guy here, Charlotte. I’m just the one who never wanted anything to change.”

“Right. So instead we’re just supposed to sit in a rut, trying to keep afloat for how many more years? At what point do we face foreclosure on the house or declare bankruptcy—”

“Stop making this about money—”

“It is about money,” I cried. “I just spent a weekend with hundreds of people who have rich, happy, productive lives, and who also have OI. Is it a crime to want the same opportunities for Willow?”

“How many of their parents sued for wrongful birth?” Sean accused.

I saw, for a blink of an eye, the faces of the women in the restroom who’d judged me just as harshly. But I wasn’t about to tell Sean about them. “Catholics don’t get divorced,” I said.

“They don’t think about aborting babies, either,” Sean said. “You’re conveniently Catholic, when it suits you. That’s not fair.”

“And you’ve always seen the world in black and white, when what I’m trying to prove—what I’m certain of—is that it’s really just a thousand shades of gray.”