The Choices We Make (16 page)

33

HANNAH

Standing outside Kate's front door I hesitated, my finger hovering an inch from the doorbell. It had seemed like a good idea two hours ago to storm over here, when Shoana confronted me about why the sorbet I'd made earlier was melting in the cupboard and the oven mitts were tucked in the fridge's crisper.

I had already burned onions I was supposed to be caramelizing for a Father's Day tart recipe, and then burst into tears when cutting up another onion—tears I tried to blame on the cut onion, but Shoana knew me better than that. I never cried cutting onion—I was infamous for it among my test kitchen colleagues.

Shoana tossed the sorbet, put the oven mitts in their drawer and pushed me gently onto one of the stainless-steel stools lined up at the kitchen island. In whispered tones, because I was afraid of how it might sound out loud, I admitted to having a hard time grieving the baby we lost. “Of course you are,” Shoana said. “You've been through this so many times you've learned how to compartmentalize your grief, to tuck it away.” With a jolt I realized how right she was, and that it wasn't the same for Kate. She had always felt things deeply, wearing her emotions like people wear name cards at social events.

“She won't call me back. And I'm trying not to push too hard, but...this is all such a mess,” I said. “What am I supposed to do?”

“You're going to take those cherry vanilla bourbon bars from yesterday that are maybe the best thing you've made since you've been here, and go to her house. Don't tell her you're coming. Just show up and ring the damn doorbell.”

“I'm not sure that's such a great idea.”

“Of course it is,” Shoana said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “The bourbon mostly burned off while it baked. I guarantee they are safe during pregnancy.”

“That's not what I meant and you know it.”

“Listen, I can't even imagine what this all feels like. For any of you. But leaving something to fester is never a good idea. You need to pull the splinter out, fast.”

But now that I was at her door, a sweating pan of “mostly” nonalcoholic dessert squares in one hand and the other ready to ring the bell, ambushing Kate seemed a terrible idea. However, remembering Shoana's splinter metaphor, I jabbed my finger into the doorbell, the chime ringing inside. I counted to fifty in my head, then pressed the bell again. When that didn't do it, I sent her a text message that I was outside and to open the door.

Nothing. With a sigh I put down the pan and rummaged through my purse to find my keys. Then I waited another couple of minutes—expecting her neighbors to call the police any moment to report a suspicious loiterer—sent her another text and let myself in.

“Kate?” I called through the doorway. After kicking off my shoes, I padded down the hall, my heart beating fast. Looking around the empty kitchen I took in the half glass of green juice and Kate's phone, my last text message still illuminated on the screen. I called out her name again, then heard retching coming from the powder room off the kitchen.

Putting the squares into the fridge—clearly ginger ale was a better call at the moment—I dumped the rest of the green juice down the sink, cringing at the smell of it, and sat at the kitchen table to wait for Kate to be done.

The toilet flushed a moment later, and Kate came into the kitchen, pale and her face covered with a sheen of sweat.

She plopped down in a chair across from me.

I nudged the glass of ginger ale toward her, and she gave a small smile when she took it. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah. My stomach's off today.”

“Not what I meant.” I leaned my elbows on the table. “Talk to me, Kate. Please.”

She looked at me, held my gaze for a moment, then dropped her eyes to the tabletop. “No. I guess I'm not okay.”

“What do you need? How can I help?”

“I wish I knew, Hannah. I really do.”

I thought about all the things I could say, maybe should say. Like how I wished I hadn't put her in this position. Or to reiterate that it wasn't her fault, and Ben and I didn't blame her for a second. Or how I understood how shitty it was to lose a baby and that, unfortunately, you never really get rid of the emptiness that leaves behind, and how sorry I was she had to know that. Or that it's okay to be pissed off about the whole thing. I didn't say any of those things, settling instead for what I thought might get her attention the most.

“Get over it.”

Her head snapped up. “I'm sorry?”

“Get over it,” I repeated.

Kate shook her head and sucked in her breath, then chuckled but in a this-is-so-not-funny way. “Wow. Okay, thanks for that, Hannah. You're right. I'll just ‘get over it.' Brilliant advice.” She tapped a finger to her chin and rolled her eyes up, as if searching for clarity in the air above her head. “Of course. Get over it. No idea why I didn't think of that. Thank you.”

“Listen, I'm not saying that to be cruel or bitchy or insensitive—”

“You could have fooled me,” Kate muttered, her fingers so tight on the glass of ginger ale her nail beds went pale. Her eyes were bright with anger, which is exactly what I was hoping for—I had to know if she had fight left in her.

“Seriously, I don't mean to be glib. But trust me—holding yourself responsible for this isn't going to help anyone, least of all you. You need to listen closely to what I'm about to say. Will you do that for me? Please?”

Her eyes were still angry, but she nodded.

“I have no idea why this happened, and I don't care. This isn't about a vanishing twin, or even the baby we have left—who is still very much healthy and growing and doing exactly what it is supposed to be doing, for what that's worth.” Kate's jaw shifted back and forth, but she kept her focus on the glass in her hands. “I care about you. And I love you...so, so much for taking this on, for being selfless, for putting yourself through this for us, for me.” She started crying, and I kept going. “I hate that this has happened. For so many reasons but mostly because I didn't want you to get hurt. You deserved an easy ride, Kate, and I'm sorry you didn't get it.”

“I'm sorry I lost the baby.” Kate's voice betrayed her guilt, and I wished again I could take it away from her.

“You did not lose anything,” I said. “You have a baby in that gorgeous belly of yours. My baby, Katie. So, no, you didn't lose anything. You've fixed
everything
.”

She smiled at me through her tears. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

We sat together for a few moments, then Kate sighed deeply. “This still sucks.”

“Yes, it does.” I got up and went to the fridge, turning back to look at her when I opened the door. “How's the stomach?”

“Fine,” Kate said, using her sleeve to wipe her eyes, leaving a black streak of mascara on the soft fabric. “I think about ninety-eight percent of my puking is a direct result of that juice.”

“No more green juice.” I pulled out the baking pan and grabbed two forks from the cutlery drawer beside the fridge. “Promise me.”

“Promise. What's that?”

“This,” I said, putting the pan on the table between us and handing Kate a fork, “is heaven in a pan.”

Kate peeled back the tinfoil, then stuck her fork in and took a big bite of the dessert—vanilla cream layered on top of bourbon-soaked cherries and a shortbread cookie crust, all topped with melted dark chocolate—letting out a happy groan as she chewed.

“This is so much better than green juice,” she said, taking another big forkful.

“Right?” I took my own fork to the hard chocolate top, cracking the glossy surface to reveal the pale yellow cream below.

I finished chewing. “Kate, it's going to be fine. You'll see.”

“I know,” she replied, sitting back and licking the cream from the fork. “But thanks for the reminder.”

“What are friends for?”

“For telling me to get over myself and then bringing this to make up for it,” she said, pointing to the dessert. We laughed and clinked our forks before burying them back into the dessert once again.

34

KATE

June

“I can't even believe it. A boy.
A boy.
”

“You say that like you've performed some kind of gender miracle,” David said, chuckling. “There
was
a fifty percent chance, you know.”

I pointed to my belly, eyebrows raised. “I don't make boys. I don't grow penises in here.”

He laughed, saying obviously I did, and I linked my arm back through his, snuggling into his warmth. It was a beautiful day, full of sunshine and hope.

It had been nearly six weeks since Hannah and I had eaten the entire pan of dessert squares in my kitchen, and a lot had changed in that time. For one thing, the sickness was a distant memory, and the vanishing twin guilt barely a dull hum most days. Also, Hannah and Ben had become puppy parents to Clover—a mischievous little snow-white dog with a fancy breed name I could never remember—which was proving hilarious to watch. Hannah texted me every morning to tell me how many times she'd had to let the puppy out of its crate during the night, or how many household items it had destroyed in the previous twenty-four hours. I assured her on each occasion that babies were far easier to manage than puppies, which came out with sharp teeth and the ability to run.

“I think we should get your mom to come up for a weekend and we can go to that hotel up the coast—” David had stopped walking, and I turned back toward him. “What's up?”

“I am so proud of you.”

I let him pull me back, drawing me tightly against his chest. My belly, which was bigger at this stage than I remembered from either of my other pregnancies, kept us ever so slightly apart. “Where did that come from?”

He shrugged and pushed a piece of hair back from my face, his finger resting on my cheek. “You're doing something not many people would. It's pretty amazing.”

“Hardly,” I said. “Though I'd like to tape this conversation and record it back the next time I do something to piss you off.” I smirked, but he shook his head, not willing to let me make light of it.

“You're wrong. Who else would have done this for Hannah?”

Now it was my turn to shrug.

He put a finger under my chin and tilted my face up, and I squinted when the sun blinded me for a moment. “You are amazing,” David whispered. “Don't forget it.”

I pulled back and grinned at him. “Does that mean you'll make lunches tonight? So I can put these
amazing
feet of mine up for bit?”

“Done.” David glanced at his watch. “We'd better get back. School's out soon.”

I snuggled in deeper and groaned. “Do we have to? Can't they just take care of themselves?”

“I give you fifteen minutes before you're hungry and angry.” He laughed and I scowled. But he was right—I was at the stage in my pregnancy where I had two helpings for every one of David's, sometimes three.

“Ah, yes, but I am always prepared.” I reached into my purse and pulled out a chocolate chip granola bar. “See?”

He grabbed for it, and I tucked it behind my back. “Hey, this is my emergency granola bar! Are you really going to steal it from your pregnant wife?”

“Half?” David asked, then kissed me and pinned me to him while he reached behind me and yanked the bar out of my fingers.

* * *

Later that night, after the take-out pizza had been consumed and the girls were watching a movie, I lay on the couch with a cold pack on my forehead.

“Are you sure you don't want to go upstairs?”

I squinted at him, the light bright after having my eyes closed for the past twenty minutes. David sat on the ottoman, his elbows on his knees as he leaned toward me, a concerned look on his face.

“It's just a headache.”

“Headache or migraine?”

“Okay, migraine,” I admitted. “But it's not too bad. No tingling.”

“Want something for it?”

“No. No drugs. The cold pack helps.”

“Want me to rub your feet, Mom?” Ava turned to look at me from the other couch, her dark hair pulled into a messy ponytail. I tried to count back how many days it had been since the girls' last shower. Tomorrow. I'd make sure they showered tomorrow.

“Sure, baby, that would be awesome.” I wiggled my toes and stretched as Ava came to perch on the arm of the couch. She tucked her legs up, sliding her toes into the space between the couch frame and the seat cushions, and squeezed her little fingers into the sole of one foot. “Ah, that feels amazing. Please, don't ever stop. You are my favorite oldest daughter.”

Josie, who never missed a thing, turned from the screen and let out an annoyed, “Hey!”

“She said oldest daughter, stupid,” Ava muttered.

“Not nice, Ava,” David said. “Apologize to your sister.”

“I'm sorry that you don't know how to listen properly.” Ava smirked as she said it, back to rubbing my foot.

My warning glance was enough. Ava rolled her eyes and gave a short, but at least somewhat genuine, apology.

“Go to bed. I've got this,” David said a few minutes later, his hand on my belly, rubbing in small circles. “I'll get their lunches ready for camp tomorrow and finish up here.”

Smiling gratefully at him, I said I would. In truth the migraine was worse than I wanted to admit, and it worried me that they were happening more often. I'd had two the week before, both of which had come on swiftly and knocked me off my feet for most of the day. But I hadn't told David how bad they had been—there was nothing he could do about it, except worry and feel badly for me.

Trudging upstairs, the beat of my heart pounding painfully in my temples and my stomach churning with the seasick type of nausea that often accompanied my migraines, I repeated the mantra I'd started after I lost the twin.
This is temporary. This is for Hannah. This is all that matters.