Time of My Life_ A Novel - Allison Winn Scotch [82]
When we left, the tech printed out some snapshots of our baby, of our potential, and for hours after, I sat in our half-boxed-up apartment and stared at the images. So full of surprise and hope and disbelief. I just stared and stared, certain that I would love this baby more than anything I’d loved before, but less certain about everything else that came with it: the move to Westchester that was now barreling ahead, the job that I’d soon resign from, the mother I could be when my own mother’s shadow threatened at too many turns. But love this baby, that, I could do.
Tonight, Josie moves closer to my desk to gaze at the ultrasound, and then Meg inches in, too. The three of us huddle around the image of Meg’s future: Josie, the battle-weary one who feels shortchanged by it all; me, the desperate one who doesn’t know what to cling on to and what to let go; and Meg, the hopeful one who still has so much left to uncover. But as the lights of the city glow in the window behind us, we all look much the same: mothers who sit in wonder and wait for the children who will inevitably change their lives.
Chapter Twenty-three
The snow has fallen heavy and wet overnight, and when I wake up in my childhood bed on Christmas morning, I am, for a second, discombobulated, lost between my present and past, between my youth and the adult I’ve grown into.
The sugary scent of griddled pancakes lures me from my room, and I pad my way into the kitchen, where my father, in a forest green robe that still has a tag hanging from the sleeve, hovers over the stove.
“Merry Christmas, J-bird,” he says, stepping away from the oven and kissing my cheek. “From Linda. She ran into town for coffee.” He twirls around, and a droplet of batter flies off the spatula and lands on the refrigerator. “You like?”
“Uh-huh,” I answer, then cock my head at the sound of running water above us.
“Andy,” my dad says. “He got in from Singapore late last night.” He flips two pancakes off the griddle and onto the plate, then slides them onto the table. “Sit,” he commands. “And eat. You don’t look so great.”
I dump a liberal amount of syrup on top (Sugar! Why It Will Suck Five Years from Your Life!) and wrestle off a piece of the pan-cake with my fingers. I stare out the window of our dining nook, and it’s as if the world has frozen over. Icicles hang like chandeliers; tree branches sink under their own weight. My mother’s garden, which had long been overrun with unwieldy weeds and deadened plants, is covered in a blanket of snow, masking the joy and betrayal that once symbolized everything about how I defined myself.
My dad pulls out the chair next to me and plunks down. His plate rattles as he does so. He, too, focuses outside, and I wonder if he’s thinking about her, about her garden, about all of it, just as I am.
“I saw her,” I say finally. “I met Mom. Awhile back.”
His chewing slows as he ingests more than just his breakfast, and in the silence, I can hear him swallow.
“I’m glad for you,” he says finally. “If that’s what you want.” He clears his throat.
“It’s complicated.” I shrug. “I have a sister.”
My dad doesn’t flinch as I expect him to. Instead, he just nods his head. Eventually, he says, “I know.”
“What do you mean, ‘you know’?” A lone robin lands in the yard as I turn to face my father.
“I’ve . . .” He pauses, and his eyes shift downward. “I’ve occasionally been in touch with your mother.”
“What?” My surprise flares like a firework. “Why would you do that? Why wouldn’t you tell me?”
“Oh, Jilly.” My dad sighs. “You’ve just been so . . .” He searches for the right words. “Stoic or bitter, I don’t know . . . at her and the whole situation that I didn’t want you to be angry with me for forgiving her. It just seemed . . . easier to let you come to terms with it if and when you wanted to.”
I rub my temples and notice that the robin has moved on, gone as quickly as it came. I