Time of My Life_ A Novel - Allison Winn Scotch [98]
“I know so.” She doesn’t let go of my hand.
“How can you?” I ask, though I suspect that I shouldn’t. After all, I know how her pregnancies end. All four of them the last time around.
Meg sighs and shakes her head. “I have to. I have to.” Her voice catches. “When I miscarried . . . I just . . . I don’t know what I would do if I can’t be a mother. Truly. I don’t know what I would do.” Tears streak down both cheeks.
Her words bounce inside of me and something resonates, sticking hard, something that I missed the last time around when I wasn’t present enough to notice the finer details. Meg’s fog after her miscarriage, her fevered obsession with her fertility, her pure belief in the power of motherhood, the way she cocooned further into herself and away from the rest of us. Looking at her now, I know that she didn’t fall asleep late at night on a Los Angeles highway. That Meg was far too conscientious for such an error, and that the accident had never fully made sense to anyone who knew her well. But now it did. Because I hear it in the desperation of her voice. That truly, she didn’t know what she would do if she couldn’t become a mother, and so, when frustration turned to despair and despair melted into burrowing depression, Meg, devoid of hope, opted out of life rather than trying to find a new outlook on it. And now, this time, she had her chance to change all of that. And yet, my coming back created different wreckage, new wreckage that might lead to the same result after all.
Meg and I are quiet except for the beeping of the monitors, ensuring us that yes, there is life inside of her, fighting to keep going, fighting to be heard. I clutch her hand and think of Katie, and hope that this time around, I leave more than destruction in my wake, that I leave a bit of altered destiny in it, too.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The hours ebb into days and the days ebb into weeks, and soon, I’m starting to forget all of the nuances about Katie that I once couldn’t live without: the ring of chubby skin around her neck, the way her arms locked around me for a hug, her warm feet that I would lean over to kiss when she’d just awakened. And as I lose a grip on these details, I begin to wonder if I haven’t made up this journey entirely. Like Katie and my life with Henry and the discontentedness that came along with it weren’t all just some strange flash-forward, a glimpse of what might be if I don’t leap down the aisle with Jack and avow myself to him.
Late one January night, after Jack has fallen into a heavy slumber, I am racked with fitful sleep, and so I rise, pull on my sweatshirt and boots, and make my way downstairs into the frigid night air. The streets are nearly empty, an aberration for New York, but the subarctic temperatures have pushed everyone inside, and so other than the occasional dog owner, anxiously waiting for his beast to relieve himself, I am alone, the shadows of the streetlamps my only company.
My hands lose sensation—I’ve forgotten my gloves—and I duck into a twenty-four-hour drugstore. Fluorescent lights glare overhead, and Muzak attempts to mute their harshness, and I wind my way toward the back, shaking my fingers to encourage blood flow. I don’t realize where I am until I’m there—in the baby section—and with still-numbed hands, I reach for the lotion, Katie’s lotion, and pop open the lid. I inhale and the scent of lavender overtakes me, and my head spins so quickly that I reach for the shelf to ensure that I don’t topple over.
In a rush, like a montage, I remember slathering on the lotion every night after Katie’s bath, toweling down her hair and giggling together when she’d shake it like a wet dog. I remember tugging on her jammies, then reading her books, then pulling her in so close that the lavender, this lavender, would linger on my neck the evening through, gone only when I rose the next morning.
No, she isn’t imagined, I think when I finally regain my breath and the sting of my tears has slowly abated. She is as real as I am. She is as real as I need her to be.
Only now, trapped