The Choices We Make (25 page)

I'm glad my mom will be there with Claire and Peter, to see her grandchild born. I'm grateful it's not an experience she has to forgo. Fighting tears I make my way to the waiting room, then send a text to Ben to let him know where I am. I try, unsuccessfully, to ignore the truth about my own child—it's likely with all that's happened I won't be present at his birth. By the time Ben gets back with the pump I'm a mess in the corner of the waiting room, clutching a box of tissues a kind stranger—a to-be grandfather—hands me when my weeping becomes too obvious to politely ignore.

I try to tell Ben why I'm so sad, which he blames on Claire's labor—something I want so desperately to experience but never will—chastising himself for not insisting we stay home until after the baby is born. I'm too tired to explain so instead lay on Ben's lap, my feet curled up on another chair, and cry softly while he holds me. Soon the tears ebb and a while after that Peter comes in to tell us it's a girl. Amelia Ellen Todd. Born at 5:51 p.m., seven pounds, two ounces, with a headful of dark hair. Mom jumps repeatedly as she hugs me, saying over and over again how she tried to dissuade Claire and Peter from using Ellen—a name she'd always felt wasn't feminine enough—as baby Amelia's middle name, but I can tell she's thrilled.

I sit with my family, fawning over the baby like everyone else does, letting her tiny fingers wrap around mine as her navy blue eyes take this brand-new world in. And while I smile and laugh and coo at her, the jealousy inside me rages like a wildfire burning out of control.

52

Claire's nurse has found me a room so I can pump, and I'm ten minutes into my thirty-minute session when there's a knock at the door. She told me no one would need the room and put a sign on the door so I wouldn't be disturbed, so I'm irritated by the knock. I need to pump, but more than anything I need a few minutes alone.

I glance down to make sure the cover-up is doing its job before saying, “Yes? Hello?”

The door opens a crack, and my mom pokes her head in. She looks rumpled—which is quite unlike her—blouse untucked and one of her white tennis shoes untied, the lace dragging behind as she comes into the room. She also somehow looks younger and older all at once—her brow wrinkles deeper but the rest of her face smoothed out by joy.

“Hi, Mom. I'd get up, but I'm a bit busy here.” I smile, and she smiles back, the whooshing sound of the pump filling the moment of silence between us.

“You're already such a good mother, Hannah, for being so diligent with the pumping.”

A lump forms in my throat. “Thanks, Mom,” I whisper, and she gives me a kiss on my forehead. “How's Claire doing? How's baby Amelia?”

Mom pulls a chair up beside me and sighs deeply, happily. “Claire is great. And Amelia is a little slice of heaven. Babies just have the most beautiful scent to them, like roses and sweet milk.” She inhales as though that will bring the smell back, and then her smile falters as she glances at me. “But I want to know how you're doing, Hannah.”

“I'm good. Great,” I say but drop my eyes from my mom's, knowing I can't hide the truth from her.

“I know you put on a brave face for your sister and maybe even Ben, but you don't have to pretend for me.”

“I'm not pretending. Not exactly.” I glance at the wall clock. I'm strapped to this contraption, and therefore trapped in this conversation for fifteen minutes more. “I'm happy for Claire and Peter. And Amelia is...well, she's perfect.”

“She really is, isn't she?” Mom grins and nudges my shoulder gently. “But apparently they're going to call her Ami, with an
i
for heaven's sake, which I for one think is unfortunate. Amelia is such a pretty name. So feminine, but strong, too.”

“You know Claire, Mom. She knows what she wants, and she does what she wants.”

“I know.” Mom sighs again. “You were always the easier child.”

I laugh. “I definitely won't tell Claire you said that.”

“Well, it's true, and she knows it. Claire was the fireball. Explosive. Determined. Unpredictable. The one who could have just as easily ended up selling marijuana, albeit very successfully, out of a camper van with a boyfriend named Forest.”

I nudge her back with my shoulder. “And me? What did you expect me to do?”

She looks at me, her eyes scanning my face—as if she can read the subtleties in my expression, can see right through my smile to what lies underneath it. “I expected nothing.”

“I'm not sure how to take that,” I say, laughing again. “I think I'd prefer successful marijuana saleswoman.”

She shushes me. “It means I never had to worry about you. I knew you would always make good decisions.” She rests a hand—warm though a bit rough probably from all the hand washing required in the hospital—against my cheek. “You are so much like your father that way.”

Tears suddenly threaten, and I hold my breath, feeling the burn in my throat.

“Roger was fearless,” she says, pride and love filling her tone. I don't remember that about my dad, though in fairness I only saw him from a child's eyes. He was the man who read us stories at night long after we should have been asleep, and helped us put our bicycle chains back on, and who had magic tweezers to get rid of even the tiniest of slivers. “Even though things didn't always turn out as he hoped, he took it in stride. Never complaining, just focusing on what had to come next and loving his family.” Mom's hand tapped against my cheek a couple of times, as gently as butterfly wings, and I leaned into it. “Remember what he said, after the doctors told us there was nothing else they could do?”

I shook my head.

“Did I never tell you this?”

“I don't think so.”

“Well, he said, ‘Time to squeeze those lemons dry.' And he booked that vacation to Hawaii the next day, even though he was quite unwell by that time and we didn't have the money.”

I remembered that vacation. It took Claire and me by surprise, as it came only a week after spring break, which we had spent at our grandparents'—where I tried to be on my best behavior because they had a pool and Grams made lemon-iced cake every day and I wanted to be invited back even though they were strict and didn't let us stay up late to watch television. I wouldn't know until later that was the week Mom and Dad got the devastating news the cancer was winning, and Dad didn't have much time left.

Our surprise Hawaiian vacation was full of sun and warmth and the sort of activities you never forget, like swimming with dolphins, zip-lining over treetops and taking a helicopter ride over a volcano. Dad and Mom held hands often enough that Claire and I snickered about how gross it was, but it made me happy to see—a sure sign they weren't headed for divorce like some of my school friends' parents had. And though Dad was pale despite the sunshine and sick enough to stay in bed one day, we believed him when he said he must have picked up a bug on the plane.

So even though my precious little world came tumbling down when they sat us in our sunroom and told us Dad was sick—the kind of sick no one can fix—the week after we got home, waterlogged and buzzing with stories of our exotic adventures, at least I had enough of a suntan left to remind me maybe life could be good again.

“I don't think I'm like that, Mom,” I say. “I wallow in the lemons until they rot. I've complained a lot, trust me, and I'm not sure the decisions I've made recently would count as good ones. There are days, Mom...” I take a deep breath. “There are days when I'm sure I'm making everything so much worse.”

“Honey, what's happening to Katie is not your fault.”

“But what's happening to David is. And what's happening between me and Ben is.”

Mom doesn't say anything for a moment, and I take her silence as agreement. “There is nothing more instinctual, more important than protecting your child, Hannah. So while you have had to make a very difficult choice, you made the right one. Don't lose sight of that. Ben may not be able to say it now, honey, but he will thank you. He loves you too much to let this come between you in any permanent way. And David will forgive you. You'll see.”

“I don't think he will forgive me, Mom. How can he?” My voice is gruff with tears, and the reality of what I've said hits me in the gut like a wrecking ball.

“He will.” She nods vehemently. “David is grieving right now. He's dealing with the loss of the life he knew, the wife he loved. Katie is fighting as hard as she can, and we can only hope she pulls through this to be the Katie we remember and love. But while David is praying for that, he's also preparing for the worst. Trust me—I know what that's like. There's very little room for anything else or anyone else's feelings.”

For the first time I see my mother as a woman who loved her husband deeply, and then had to let him go far too soon. Before now I've only considered the loss as one for our family—that Claire and I lost our dad too young, and we went from a happy family of four to a still functional but less happy family of three.

“Go to him, Hannah. Share his grief, his fear, his worry. Unburden him, and let him know you're there for him and for Katie, no matter what happens.”

I shake my head and tears fall onto the cover-up. “He doesn't want me there, Mom.”

“He needs you there,” Mom replies, grabbing a tissue and wiping my eyes for me like she did when I was a little girl. “He's not mad at you, sweetheart. He's mad at what's happening to Katie. To his family. And he has to stay in fight mode, so he can be strong for the ones who need him most. His anger is about survival more than anything else.” Her voice softens, and she turns my chin toward her. “This isn't about you, honey.”

I nod, letting her wipe away another stream of tears. “Okay,” I say. “I'll try to talk to him.”

“That's all you can do. The rest is up to David.”

53

As it turns out it wasn't up to me after all. Or David, for that matter.

After I talk to Mom, I speak with Ben—who is relieved when I say it's time to drop the injunction application and give David back the right to choose what happens next with Kate. But before we call Annabel we consult with Dr. Swartzman, who assures us the baby is strong and doing well; his lungs have matured thanks to the steroid injections, and she feels we may be reaching the point where he's going to do better out of Kate's body than in it.

A few hours later we're back home, and I sit at my kitchen island, trying to get up the nerve to call David and ask if I can come by and see him, and Kate, while Ben bustles around me doing dishes, walking Clover a couple of times and taking a work call. I want to ask him to leave me alone for a while, but I don't. And he stays close by, the way I know he will.

As I sit, my phone in hand and gaze unfocused, I run over in my head what I want to say to David when I finally call. Starting with how sorry I am. I'm so lost in my own thoughts I jump when the vibration tickles my palm, and my heart rate speeds up when I see the caller.

David Cabot.

I drop the phone on to the island. “Ben,” I say. My voice is shrill, and Ben's beside me quickly.

“What? What's wrong?” He looks at me, then at the phone vibrating across the counter. “Are you going to answer it?”

I shake my head, my breath coming so fast I'm feeling dizzy. Ben looks at me again, a question on his lips; then he picks up my phone.

“David? Hey, it's Ben. What—” He listens for a moment and I feel as though my heart is going to burst out of my chest. Then he drops to the chair beside me without saying a word, my phone tightly clutched against his ear, his head bowed.

And I know.

I didn't know when David called the night Kate collapsed, never could have imagined what news waited for me on the other end of that handset.

But there was only one reason David would call me now.

Something has happened to the baby.

* * *

I'm in shock. There's numbness throughout my body I'm grateful for, because it keeps me from feeling any pain. At least for now.

It's not the baby. It's Kate.

She had a massive stroke about an hour ago. While I sat at the kitchen counter worrying about what to say to David, Kate's brain was drowning in blood. It doesn't look good, David tells Ben. Kate's showing signs of significant brain damage, but they won't know more until after the tests are complete. But the baby is okay, for now. Somehow, he is still fine.

David is alone at the hospital, Tucker having left to go home not long before the stroke to relieve Cora and to spend some time with the girls. David is frantic, desperate for answers he's not getting, fearful about what those answers will be when he gets them...and in the midst of it all he called me.

He called me.

And all I can do is sit at the kitchen island feeling comfortably numb while Ben tries to hold the last pieces of our best friends' former life together. He soothes David, calmly telling him to breathe, to sit down if he feels as if he might pass out, and that we're on our way. He promises he won't hang up the phone, but he'll hand it to me so he can drive. The whole time I sit catatonic on my stool, and when Ben shoves the phone in my hand I hold it limply against my leg like I have no idea what to do with it.

“Hannah. Talk to him.” Ben's tone is harsh, and I draw my eyes to his face but everything is in slow motion. “Now, Hannah. Put the phone to your ear and talk to David. He needs you.”

I nod and do as I'm told, hearing nothing for a moment. Ben grabs me by the arm, and we're out the door, my mouth open and ready to speak when I finally come up with the words.

“Hannah?” David is crying, and I press the phone so tightly to my head as I get in the car that it starts to hurt my temple. I feel confused, like the time Claire threw a baseball harder than either of us thought she could right into my forehead—even though she was aiming for the bat in my hands—giving me a concussion. My mom and Grams had taken turns waking me every hour throughout the night.

My breathing isn't right as I settle into the car, and I wonder if I might be having a heart attack. Ben looks at me impatiently, and I realize he's waiting for me to buckle up. When I don't, he reaches across my body and fastens my seat belt, at the same time whispering, “Kate would do this for you. Talk to him.”

At the mention of Kate's name something inside me snaps, and though the flood of pain is so intense I have to bend at the waist and lie on my lap so I don't scream, it clears my head. With Ben's hand on my back while we drive, I stay doubled over and talk to David.

“David. I'm here.”

“Hannah...it's bad.”

“I know. We're almost there, okay? Ten minutes. So just listen to my voice. Keep talking to me.”

“Okay.” He doesn't say anything else, but I know he's still on the line. I can hear his breathing, shallow and punctuated by the white noise of the hospital.

“Did Kate ever tell you about the summer we went to that camp in Canada?” I ask.

Still nothing from David except for his breathing, though it doesn't sound like he's crying anymore. I sit up and rest my head against the window, watching the dark night fly by. “There were all these blueberries. We ate so many by the end of that month, Kate joked we were going home a pale shade of lavender.” I smile, remembering how Kate had developed a severe aversion to blueberries by the end of our vacation, to the point where she would gag if she tried to eat one.

“She still hates blueberries,” David says softly, and I nod though he can't see me. I have tried over the years to sway her with my homemade blueberry muffins and cobblers and pies with sweet whipped cream, but she'd always turn her nose up, telling me blueberries were evil and should be left to the bears and birds.

“Well, along with all the blueberries, and mosquitoes, and mice running around the cabins, there was this cliff...”