Lily Love (5 page)

“You ready?” Paige pulls me back to the present.

I’m ready.

“All set.” I smile. One foot in front of the next, one baby step at a time. “Let’s go to the Ale House,” I suggest. “I could really go for a Magners Draught.”

I try not to smirk as Paige’s eyebrows disappear under her bangs. I feel lighter. For the first time in a long time, I feel good.

“The Ale House it is,” says Paige. “I’ll drive; you ride. God knows how long it has been since you’ve had a few ciders in you.”

I look at my sister—I mean
really
look at her. The pain and worry on her face breaks my heart. My focus has been so tied up in my own failures that I’ve completely lost sight of how this is affecting her. Grabbing onto the one true anchor I have, I squeeze her against me.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“It’s dinner, Chicken Lips. No big whoop.” She chuckles, but I hear her words grow thick with emotion.

“You know what I mean, brat.” I close my eyes and squeeze tighter. “I couldn’t survive this without you.”

“You never have to worry about it. I’m here. Always.” She rubs my back in reassurance, just as she has since we were children.

On the day Peter left, it was Paige who cried. All of the emotions I should’ve been feeling reflected back at me through her. Her heartbreak and frustration should have been mine. I should have been able to feel it, feel something. Instead, I lived it in a vicarious parallel through Paige. Part of me wonders if that was what she wanted, to feel the pain for me so I didn’t have to.

“I’m proud of you, Caroline.” She pushes me back by the shoulders and levels her eyes on mine. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you say that you’ll survive this. You will. I promise.”

“I know.” I’ll just keep telling myself that until I start to believe it.

“Good, now let’s get out of here.” She yanks my ponytail and shoves me out the door.

Me: Did Lily do ok after I left?

Peter: We managed. It’s all good. Asleep now.

Me: K. Goodnight.

Peter: Night.

They’re surviving without me. The world didn’t come to an end. I don’t know if I should weep or jump up and click my heels. I wait for the guilt, the fear,
something
to start slapping me around, but it doesn’t. I hold my breath, anticipating the residual guilt for not feeling guilty. Still nothing.

Get a grip.

“So are you going to tell me about what happened today?” Paige asks as we settle at the bar.

“Nothing to tell yet.” I shrug. “You know how that goes. We have an appointment in two weeks to go over all of the test results.”

“I know that. I want to know about Max. Did you see Mr. Swain today?” Paige wiggles her eyebrows.

“For God’s sake, Paige. Get your mind out of the gutter.” I laugh nervously. “Max is a good friend, and no, he wasn’t happy to hear that Peter and I split.”

“I’ll bet.” She winks. “That man has been circling you for years, biding his time.”

“Bullshit!” My reply carries across the bar. The bartender and several patrons stop and stare. “The ink isn’t even dry on my divorce papers, Paige,” I warn. “Can you hold off on setting up the next victim?”

“Victim? Hardly,” she chides. “You’re a catch, babe.”

My hysterical laughter fuels the continuing glances from the rest of the patrons.

“Take a look around, Caroline,” Paige whispers. “There’s a legion of men who would be happy to buy you a drink.”

“Uh, no.” I shake my head. “If they’re looking, it’s to catch a glimpse of Calamity Caroline’s breakdown. I’m thirty-seven years old, newly single, and I have a daughter with very complex needs. Who is going to want me?” I grab a cocktail napkin and angrily swipe fresh tears from my eyes. “No one.
I
don’t even want my fucking life, most days. I don’t have a choice,” I whisper. “If I had a choice, I would not choose to be the mother of a special needs child. If I wouldn’t choose this, then how can I ask someone else to?”

When I hear the words spoken outside the sanctuary of my own mind, it sounds so pathetic. Still, I could never ask anyone to sign up for this ride. Even if I found myself on the precipice of attraction with someone else, I just couldn’t. The thought of that kind of rejection inspires my anxiety. I’d rather be alone than subject myself to that.

“Caroline,” Paige murmurs, placing her hand over mine. “You can’t think so little of yourself—or of men, for that matter. You are allowed to be frustrated and angry. But don’t you think for a second that your worth is tied up in Lily’s needs. Her disability doesn’t negate what a beautiful person you are, inside and out.”

“You’re obligated to say nice things to me; I’m your sister.” I sniffle. The bartender snickers, not even trying to hide his eavesdropping. Paige cocks an eyebrow and nods in his direction. I giggle despite myself, and hide my creeping blush in my pint glass.

“Whatever.” Paige shakes her head. “Quit fishing; you’re gorgeous, smart, funny as hell . . . you’re a total catch. Don’t get wrapped up in feeling sorry for yourself.”

That is my cue to drop it. I’m all for a change of subject, but my mind is still hung up on all of the uncertainty. My deepest fear is that the best is behind me.

“If you don’t mind me saying, you’re a total babe.” The bartender winks and gives me a wide, dimpled smile. He’s adorable.

Oh, for chrissakes.

“How old are you?” Paige asks him.

I kick her stool. “Paige,” I warn.

“What? It’s an innocent question.” Her shit-eating grin suggests something entirely different.

“I’m twenty-five.” He leans against the bar top, showcasing intricately corded forearms and biceps. I look up into a set of twinkling hazel eyes.

Busted, Caroline.

“You’re just a baby.” I blush.

“You’re thirty-seven.” He shrugs. “So what. MILFs are hot.”

I can feel the blood drain from my face. He was listening to everything. I want to die.

“My advice,” he continues. “Don’t overthink things. Start with having fun. It sounds like you could use some.”

“No shit,” Paige mutters. I kick her stool harder this time.

“How do you manage so much wisdom at twenty-five?” I ask.

“I’m a bartender. It’s a job requirement.”

“Well, thank you,” I concede. “I will take your sage words under advisement.”

“Witty.” His mouth tips in a sexy smirk. I gulp the rest of my cider and bring the pint glass down with a solid
thump.

“What?” Paige asks, as she signals for another draft for me.

“Gorgeous, smart, funny as hell, and witty,” he answers. “Witty is very sexy.”

I bury my face in my hands.
Let the floor open up and swallow me whole, please.

“I’ll stop.” He laughs. “You’ve got to learn to take a compliment, girl.”

“Wait!” I call as he starts to walk away. “What is a MILF?”

“Christ, Caroline!” Paige howls, tipping her head back in laughter. The bartender turns a deep shade of purple and laughs nervously.

“What did I say?” I throw my hands in the air.

“I’m not touching that one.” He chuckles. “Flag me down when you’re ready to order.” He shakes his head as he walks away, and I look to Paige for an explanation.

“Honey, you need to get out more,” Paige says with a snicker.

For the rest of the evening, Paige and I talk about anything but Peter and Lily. We have so much fun at the bar, we decide to forgo tonight’s showing of
Mallrats
. She catches me up on the progress of her graphic design business, telling me all about the book covers she’s designing. Rather reluctantly, she tells me what a MILF is, and we laugh until tears roll down our faces. I don’t know what I would do without her. Paige has always been able to grab life by the horns and just go for it. I was happy to be complacent. Or was I? Who knows. The more time passes, the more certain I am that I don’t know anything at all.

and so it goes

T
he light filtering in through the curtains shoots waves of panic through me, jackknifing me from the bed.

Lily.

The fog of sleep lifts slowly, reminding me that Lily is with Peter in the Epilepsy Monitoring Unit. I lie back against my pillow and try to level my breathing. I can’t remember the last time the sun woke me up. Lily doesn’t have the ability to regulate her own sleep cycle. When most people wake up in the middle of the night they roll over and go back to sleep; Lily wakes up and starts wandering the house. It’s not unusual for me to find her half-asleep, eating Cheerios out of the box at three in the morning.

When she does sleep all the way through the night, her feet hit the ground running at five in the morning. She wakes up full of fire and stays that way until I can muscle in her first round of Focalin. It’s a vicious cycle. The Focalin enables her to calm down and be less combative, but trying to get medicine into a wild and irrational child is like trying to herd cats. Once the Focalin kicks in, then I fight to get her antiseizure meds in her. She can’t swallow pills, so I have to pierce the capsules and squeeze the medicine into a few tablespoons of applesauce. There can’t be too much applesauce or she won’t eat it all; there
can’t be too little or she can taste the medicine. It’s not uncommon for me to be covered in medicated applesauce before my first sip of coffee. Hell, it’s not uncommon for me to brew a pot of coffee and never get to it at all. Lily’s occupational therapist tells me it will get better, and that she can learn to tolerate swallowing a pill. I have my reservations; she barely tolerates the textures of most foods. Pills? Give me a break.

I listen to the silence and am at a complete loss. There’s no one here to hide behind. There are none of Peter’s shirtsleeves to press into sharp creases; there’s no wrestling match to get Lily to eat a few bites of breakfast before her daily occupational, speech, and behavioral therapy sessions. Lying in the cocoon of my bed, I feel utterly exposed. For years I would’ve killed to have a moment just like this. Just one second to breathe. And now that I have it, I’ve forgotten how.

Get up.

The voice in my head pierces the quiet. There are no answers hiding in the wrinkles of my sheets. My only companions are the excuses I’ve been marinating in for the last five years. Life didn’t come to an end when Lily started having problems. No, the world didn’t cease to be, but I did. Every time I said, “Lily needs to keep to her routine,” instead of, “Yes, Peter, let’s go out to dinner tonight,” I made a choice to give up another piece of myself. If I’d been better about that, if I’d just tried harder, maybe I could’ve been strong enough to save us both.

Maybe?

Hindsight is a coldhearted bitch. We can never go back and change those moments that take us off course; we just have to learn to live with our choices. Peter and I wanted children. If I could change one thing, it would be that. I would choose to walk away from that dream—but I’ll never admit that to anyone. I love Lily with a capacity I never knew possible, but if I had known what was ahead, I wouldn’t have had her. I don’t know how anyone comes to terms with that. I know I haven’t—I’ve only allowed for it to fuel my guilt and self-loathing. Admitting it to myself doesn’t change how much I love Lily; it only showcases how much I hate myself.

Having met my daily quota of self-hatred, I fix a cup of coffee and head toward the living room. One night away from the fray and I’m ready to take something back, something mine alone. My fingertips barely graze the surface of the ivory keys, sending goose bumps up my arm. I rest my cup next to the trinkets on the top of the piano and sit on the stool.

Fear of this moment has held me captive since the day we came home with Lily. Not because of motherhood, but because watching my right hand shake with hemiparesis is something I don’t allow myself to wallow in. Ever. I was never a gifted pianist to begin with; I only learned to play so I could accompany myself singing. It shouldn’t matter if I’m rusty, but that’s the thing about fear. So often, it’s irrational and misplaced.

C—F—Am—C

The first chords flow through my hands and onto the keys as I play the first line of the first song I ever taught myself.

C—G—Am—C

My pace is sluggish, but the notes are clear and sure. The chords spill from my memory as I close my eyes and let the words bubble up into my throat.

“But if my silence made you leave . . .”

The echo of my voice hangs in the air, followed by the sob that tears free from my heart. It was my silence—and Peter’s—that laid waste to our life, the first time I came home from Lily’s early-intervention evaluation and answered “Good” when Peter asked how it went. I told myself that I didn’t want to scare him like the doctor had scared me. I didn’t want to be the one to tell him that his daughter was developmentally disabled. Deep inside I think I just wanted to pretend that everything
was
good a little while longer. I waited and let Dr. Miles tell him, two weeks later when we met to go over Lily’s report.

Peter was furious; he didn’t understand why I would keep that from him, and I let him be angry, because it made him feel better to
have someone to blame. We were so stupid with grief; we walked right over a land mine and then acted surprised when it blew up in our faces.