The Life Intended (34 page)

“Cool,” Andrew says. He gives me an awkward hug good-bye and reminds me to call him tomorrow if I need anything.

Thank you,
I sign back.
See you next week
.

He grins. “Well, look at you, Miss Fluent-in-Sign-Language. I’ll see you next week too.”

I
take the next day off, as I have each year on the anniversary of losing Patrick. Even though I’m trying hard to put the past behind me, there’s just something about coasting through life normally on the day Patrick died that feels wrong to me.

I lie in bed that morning, wondering how twelve whole years could have possibly passed since the day it happened. In some ways, it feels like it was just a year or two ago. In another way, I feel sometimes like it’s been decades since Patrick died.

I’ve just sunken into the first stages of feeling sorry for myself when my phone dings with a text. I’m surprised to see it’s from Allie.

U ok?
she writes.

Yes, thanks,
I write back, not sure whether Allie’s asking me a general question or whether she remembers about Patrick. I told her the date of his death the night she ran away.

I just thought u might be sad about ur husband,
she texts back a minute later, and I feel overwhelmingly grateful.

I am,
I text back.
Very sad. But it really helps to know you’re worried about me.

Well, I really like u,
Allie texts back after a pause.
U R really nice to me.

I really like you too,
I text back.
You’re a wonderful person, Allie.

Allie doesn’t reply at first, and I wonder for a moment if somehow I’ve said the wrong thing. But then she writes,
Come by my house if u r sad later. I can cheer u up.

I smile.
Thanks, Allie,
I write back.

My mom’s hearing is today,
she writes after a minute, and my heart stops beating for a minute. Why didn’t Andrew tell me?
My social worker says she doesn’t know what’s gonna happen,
she adds a moment later.

I swallow hard. Maybe Andrew didn’t say anything because he didn’t want me to get my hopes up. But then again, maybe it’s because he doesn’t want my heart broken yet again on the worst day of the year.
Good luck,
I settle for texting back.

Thx,
Allie writes back.
Gotta go to class
.

After the conversation is over, I turn my phone off, lie back down, and stare at the ceiling, feeling very much alone. But today’s about Patrick, not Allie and her mother, and I won’t let myself get sidetracked by yet another thing I can’t control.

A little after eight, I roll over and look at the digital clock on my nightstand. I watch the minutes tick by, and I think about
how twelve years ago, at this very time, life for both Patrick and me was blissful, virtually worry-free. We had no idea that in just a matter of minutes, everything would change.

I’m still watching when the clock turns to 8:36, a minute before it happened. I know I’m torturing myself, but I’m somehow unable to stop.

The clock turns to 8:37, and my heart sinks, just like it does every year. This is the moment, twelve years ago, that Gennifer Barwin—her blood alcohol level more than twice the legal limit—changed the course of my life forever.
I was just trying to show my baby Times Square
,
that’s all,
she’d told the police later as an ambulance took her away. She’d merely broken her arm, and her daughter, safely strapped in her car seat, literally didn’t have a scratch on her.

I lie there until 8:52, the moment Patrick breathed his last breath in a cage of twisted metal, then I get out of bed, shuffle to the kitchen, and go through the motions of making myself a pot of coffee, although I don’t actually want to drink it. At 11:00, I finally pick up my cell phone again and return missed calls from Susan, my mom, and Gina. Susan and my mom want to make sure I’m okay and let me know they’re thinking of me. The conversation with Gina is, as it always is, cathartic. We cry together for a few minutes and then we remind each other of some of our favorite funny stories about Patrick and Bill.

“Remember the time we were all going to the movies, and Bill’s jacket got caught in the revolving door?” Gina asks with a ragged laugh. “Patrick was the only one who noticed, and he and Bill were yelling at the people behind us and trying to get them to stop the door, and you and I thought they’d gone nuts.”

“Or the time that little girl came up to the four of us at dinner and was convinced that for some reason that Patrick was actually—what’s the name of that guy who played Mark Darcy?”

Gina laughs. “Right! Colin Firth, right? Because she’d just seen some movie with him in it, and she thought Patrick looked just like him?”

“He kept trying to tell her that he was just a normal guy. But that just made it worse, because the little girl kept saying, ‘That’s exactly what Colin Firth would say.’ ”

“God, Patrick held that over your head for months, didn’t he?” Gina asks, then deepens her voice for an imitation of Patrick trying to talk with a British accent: “ ‘I’m Colin Firth, so you have to do what I say. I’m very famous, you know.’ ”

I laugh at the memory, but after a moment, my laughter dies down, and so does hers.

“I really miss them,” Gina says softly.

“Yeah. Me too.”

We hang up after making plans to see each other for dinner one day next week, then I take a deep breath and dial Joan’s number.

“How you doing, sweetheart?” she asks when she answers.

“About the same as every September eighteenth,” I tell her.

“It never really gets easier, does it?” she asks. “Every year, we think we’re a little further along the path to being okay again, and every year, it turns out we’re wrong.”

“Exactly,” I say. I knew Joan would understand. “How are you?”

We talk for a few minutes about Patrick. Then, thinking about my dreams, I ask Joan, “Hey, did you ever go get that mammogram we talked about?”

“Oh yes, I’ve been meaning to tell you!” she exclaims. “I did go in. The mammogram person—what are they called, a radiologist?—said everything looked okay, but they were just worried about one little spot, so they did a small biopsy. Everyone was very upbeat, and I’m supposed to get the results back any day
now. I’m sure everything’s fine, but thanks for urging me to go in. I’ll feel a lot better when I know for sure that things are okay.”

“Good,” I say, but her mention of a biopsy bothers me. I can’t shake the image of her bald and weakened by chemotherapy. “Just let me know as soon as you get word from the doctor, okay?”

“Of course, sweetheart,” she promises.

After we hang up, I sit down in my kitchen and stare at my now-cold cup of coffee. The pain of missing Patrick is visceral today, and no amount of reminiscing about him or crying about his absence can make it feel any better. “Patrick, if you can hear me,” I say aloud, “I love you. I’ve never stopped loving you. I miss you every day.” I pause for a minute before adding softly, “I knew before I met you—”

But the only response is silence.

Then my phone rings, startling me, and I see Unknown Caller on the caller ID. Usually, I’d let it go to voice mail, but today I’m lonely and sad, and so I pick the phone up and say hello.

“Is this Kate Waithman?” The female voice on the other end sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it.

“Yes . . .”

“Excellent. It’s Karen Davidson.”

My heart is immediately in my throat. “Karen, of course.”

“Well, I’m calling today with some wonderful news, Kate. You’ve been approved to be a foster parent. Your certification is official.”

I can hardly believe it, so I ask her to repeat the words, and she does.

“We think you’ll be a wonderful foster mother, Kate,” she adds. “Congratulations. We’re very happy to have you on board.”

My heart is thudding double time. “I get to be a foster mom?” I whisper in disbelief.

“You sure do,” Karen says.

“Do you think there’s a chance I’ll get to foster the girl I’ve been working with?” I ask. “Allie Valcher?”

I can hear Karen’s smile through the phone as she says, “I don’t see why not, if she needs a home; you have the specialized skill set to be able to work with her.”

I blink back tears and look skyward. This must be Patrick’s doing somehow. I was right. The dreams were leading me here. On September eighteenth of all days. “Karen, I don’t even know how to thank you.”

“No need,” she says warmly. “We’re grateful to you for opening your heart and your home to a child. We’ll get everything officially rolling later this week, if you have time to come by my office.”

We agree to meet tomorrow at noon, and after she gives me her address, we say good-bye, and I hang up.

Elated, I walk into the guest room and close my eyes. This will be Allie’s room if everything goes right. I’ll go out today and buy a bed, a comforter a preteen would like, maybe even a nice electric piano and a Mac with recording software. My life is about to change, and the fact that it’s all happening today is, at the very least, poetic and beautiful.

“Thank you, Patrick,” I whisper, feeling my husband’s presence. If I close my eyes and imagine hard enough, I can almost feel his strong arms wrapped around me, his warm breath on my neck, his body pressed against mine. “I know you did this. Thank you for Allie.”

Twenty-Nine

I
’m at the Macy’s in Herald Square early that afternoon, trying to choose between a teak trundle bed and an oak full-sized bed with storage drawers underneath, when my phone rings. Andrew’s name shows up on the caller ID.

“How are you doing?” he asks when I answer. “Since today’s the, um, anniversary and all?”

I smile, grateful for his concern. “I’m actually doing okay.”

“You sure?”

“Really.”

“Okay. Good.” He clears his throat. “Look, I’m sorry to ask you this today, of all days. But if you’re at all able, could you meet me at St. Anne’s now? There’s something I need to talk to you about, and I’d rather do it in person. If you’re sure absolutely you’re okay.”

My heart skips. Is it possible that Allie’s mother was denied custody today and that Allie will need a home?
My
home? Surely Andrew knows by now that I’ve been approved. “Sure,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “I’ll leave now. I’ll be there in about forty-five minutes.”

Karen Davidson had sounded so optimistic on the phone, and
as I think about it on the subway ride out to Queens, I become convinced that this is what Andrew wants to tell me. Maybe he’s called me in to inform me that Allie and I have been officially matched. Can it happen that quickly?

Maybe September eighteenth can stop being the anniversary of the day the world ended and begin being the anniversary of the day I officially became a foster mom to Allie. It would be a beautiful end to my story. And I have the feeling this is what Patrick would have wanted for me.

When I get to St. Anne’s, Andrew isn’t in his office, so I shoot him a text saying I’m here, then I head down the hall, looking into office windows to see if I spot him anywhere. I reach the conference room and when I peer in the door, I’m startled to see Allie, her back to me.

I rap lightly and walk in. Her face lights up as she turns. “Kate!” she exclaims. “Hey, thank you so much!” She crosses the room to hug me, and as I hug back, I’m suddenly positive that Andrew has already told her the news. Allie’s coming home with me. This is all coming true.

“Thank you?” I ask, feigning ignorance. I’m unable to stop myself from grinning at her, though. “Thank you for what?”

“Thank you for telling me not to give up on my mom,” she says warmly.

A bad feeling develops in the pit of my stomach as I blink at her in confusion. “What?”

“The judge said she can come get me today. Kate, I’m going home!”

That’s when I notice that the corner of the conference room is filled with battered suitcases, as well as a folded-up keyboard stand, and a keyboard standing on its end. I look from the pile to Allie, and for a moment, all I can do is stare.

“Kate?” Allie asks after a moment. “What’s wrong? Are you
sad about your husband still? Do you want to talk about it or something?”

I shake my head, still mute with shock, just as Andrew comes in behind me.

“Kate,” he says, and I can hear in his flat tone that he’s realized in an instant what’s happened. “Kate, can you come with me for a minute?” He doesn’t wait for an answer; he just puts a gentle hand on my back and leads me out of the room. I feel dazed as he moves a stack of paperwork from a chair in his office and sits me down.

“Kate,” he begins as I lean back in the seat. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“I thought you’d called me down here to tell me I could foster Allie,” I say numbly. “I got the call today from Karen Davidson. I’ve been approved as a foster parent.”

He blinks a few times as the information registers, and I can tell he feels a hundred times worse. “Oh, Kate. I had no idea. I called you because the judge awarded custody to Allie’s mom, which means she’s going home today. I know it’s not what we expected, but I thought you might want to be here, to say good-bye. I didn’t tell you on the phone because I thought it was the kind of news that should be delivered in person. I assumed I’d catch you before you ran into Allie, though. God, I’m sorry.”

“Today of all days,” I say dully.

“Oh, Kate,” Andrew says again. He squats down beside me and pulls me into an awkward hug. “Was I wrong to call?”

“No,” I say into his shoulder. He feels warm, solid. Suddenly, I don’t want to let go, but that’s irrational. Everything I hold on to disappears, so I pull away before he has a chance to. “I’m glad I’m here to say good-bye to her. It’s the right thing.”

“It’s not a forever good-bye. It’s just for now. As long as it’s
okay with her mom, I don’t see why you can’t continue working with her once she’s settled, if you want to.”