Die Before I Wake (12 page)

“I have. I’ve watched you with the girls, Jules. If ever any woman was meant to be a mother, it’s you.” The pain caught me by surprise. It always did, like a tiger crouching behind the door, waiting to pounce. “In case you forgot,” I said, “I tried it once.

It didn’t go so well.”

“What happened with Angel wasn’t your fault. It was a fluke. There’s no reason to believe it will ever happen again.”

I rolled away from him and balled up my pillow, holding it tight against my stomach. “Don’t start spouting statistics at me,” I said. “I don’t want to know the percentage of infants who die at birth.

Those numbers are meaningless. Angel wasn’t some statistic, she was my child. And we don’t know why it happened. That scares me.” I took a breath to calm myself. “It scares me a lot.”

He dragged me back into his arms. I kept the pillow between us, maintaining my distance, not ready to give in. “I’m an obstetrician,” he pointed out.

“Of course I’d turn your care over to a colleague, but I’d still want to be closely involved in the pregnancy.

And being aware of your previous problem, if I thought you or the baby were in any danger, I’d send you to a specialist I know in Boston. He deals with high-risk pregnancies, and he has a very good track record.”

It seemed to me that he was reducing this, a life-altering decision of the heart, to simple biology.
Just
the facts, ma’am.
Okay, so he was a doctor, and that’s what doctors deal with. Biological facts. I’d give him that much. But I wasn’t a doctor and, for me, there was more to this than percentages and risk factors. This wasn’t a medical decision, but an emotional one.

I sat up in bed and wrapped my arms around my knees. “I’m not sure I’m ready, Tom. I think I’m afraid to try again. What if I fail a second time?”

“Then we’ll know better than to go for a third try.

But what if you don’t fail? What if you’re capable of producing a beautiful, healthy child? If you don’t try, you’ll never know. And that would be a damn shame. A major loss to us both.”

I thought about it. Thought about my unfulfilled longing for a child. Weighed the possible benefits against the very real pain I’d felt when I lost Angel. “I want a baby,” I said. “Very much. I just thought—”

“What?”

I bit my lip and hunched my shoulders closer together. “I guess I thought we’d spend a little more time getting to know each other first.” His eyes crinkled at the corners, and I struggled to maintain my equilibrium against the wattage of his smile. “What’s to know?” he said. “I already know you’re the most beautiful, amazing, exciting woman on the planet. I know I want to see you grow and blos-som with my child inside you. And I know you love the girls, but, damn it, I want something more with you. I want the bond only two people can generate when they create a child together.” His sentiments were heartfelt, his logic well thought out, and I found myself weakening. “If I do this,” I said, “and I truly mean
if,
do you promise you’ll be there with me every step of the way?

Because this is not something I can do alone.” Tom sat up beside me and took my hand. “Every step of the way,” he promised. “What do you say, Jules? Do we lose the condoms and see what happens?”

Scraping the hair back from my face, I closed my eyes and took a breath. He was right. I knew he was right. It was like falling off a horse; you had to get back in the saddle as quickly as possible or the fear would paralyze you forever.
Here I go again,
I thought,
jumping off into the unknown without a
safety net.
I opened my eyes. “Yes,” I said.

If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never forget the way he smiled at me. As if I’d just offered him the moon.

“You’re sure?” he said. “You’re absolutely certain you’re committed to this? Because once it happens, there’s no going back.”

“No kidding. I might not have an M.D., but I’m aware of the basic biology involved. Of course I’m sure.” I’d made the commitment; now all I had to do was stick with it. See it through to whatever conclusion nature chose to bestow on us.

“Darling, Jules,” he said, “I love you so much.” And I loved him, more than I’d ever imagined loving any man. I just hoped to God I was doing the right thing because, as he’d pointed out, there was no turning back. Once sperm introduces itself to egg, it’s all over but the shouting. It’s either abort—

something I could never bring myself to do—or endure nine months of pregnancy and the pain and screaming that come at the end. There’s no middle ground. No get-out-of-jail free card. Once that baby’s in there, one way or another, it’s coming out.

“I love you, too,” I said.

He leaned forward and kissed me. Sweetly, with a tenderness that hadn’t been there before. Sitting, I tilted too far forward, swayed, and he caught and steadied me. We rolled back onto the bed and lay pressed together in the shadowy light from that single candle. His eyes gazing into mine, his warm hand on my breast, sent a shaft of longing through me. I reached up and touched his face. “Tom,” I whispered.

He caught my fingertips in his mouth and nibbled them. “What?” he said.

“Just Tom.”

Our bodies were so attuned, so in sync with each other, that I was already primed. When he entered me that first time with nothing between us—just heated flesh against heated flesh—I let out a long sigh of bliss. Here, with Tom, with our bodies joined intimately and plans made for the future, I’d reached the pinnacle of happiness. I knew, without a doubt, that life couldn’t get any better than this.

He smiled. And then he made me forget everything but him.

Jessica Kenner lived out in the middle of nowhere. She was Taylor’s best friend, and my stepdaughter had been invited to her house for a sleep-over. The customarily quiet Taylor was brimming with excitement as we drove the winding country roads. Maine, I’d quickly learned, became rural about a half mile outside any given town. From the edge of civilization, you could drive for miles in any direction before you hit a settlement larger than a four-way stop with a Grange hall, a church, and a convenience store that sold Budweiser and lottery tickets. All the essentials. This part of the state was mainly farmland, and as I headed west on the Old County Road, we passed farmhouse after farmhouse, most of them dilapidated, their ancient, unpainted barns collapsing from age and neglect.

There were still a few working farms. Dairy farms, mostly, their pastures dotted with black-and-white Holsteins, a big sign displayed in each front yard proudly announcing to the world that they sold their milk to Hood, or Oakhurst, or some other big-city dairy. A few had farm stands that sold potatoes and honey, zucchini and homemade apple pies.

There was a quiet dignity to the landscape, a sincerity and simplicity that I found appealing. These honest, hard-working people struggled for every bite of food they put in their mouths. Nothing had been handed to them, and I admired their rugged independence.

The Kenners lived in a blue-and-white trailer parked on a small lot between a cow pasture and a big cornfield. The trailer had seen better days; rust streaks marred the siding, and last year’s Christmas lights—

those ubiquitous “icicle” strands that looked as though they’d been crocheted—dangled from the eaves. But the yard was tidy, the grass neatly cut, a well-tended flower bed of purple and gold chrysan-themums circling a concrete birdbath that held clean water.

The trailer was as neat inside as out. Jessie and Taylor greeted each other with so much excitement that if I hadn’t already known they’d parted ways two hours ago at the end of the school day, I might have mistaken them for old war comrades reuniting after fifty years. Amid the excited babbling of two seven-year-old girls and the equally excited barking of a small white dog who was so happy to see me that he insisted on running between my legs and trying to trip me up, I introduced myself to the vivacious, apple-cheeked Mrs. Kenner. Once I’d determined that she probably wasn’t a serial killer and it was safe to leave Taylor in her care, I made a swift and grateful escape.

Finding my way back home wasn’t as easy as I’d expected. Taylor had navigated for me on the trip out here, but we’d taken so many turns that after a while all these back-country crossroads, with their faded red Stop signs and their fields awash in milkweed and goldenrod, looked the same. A couple miles back in the direction we’d come from, I took what I thought was the correct turn. But once I left the main road, nothing looked even remotely familiar. A little nervous, I checked my fuel gauge. I still had half a tank of gas. As long as I didn’t spend the next three hours driving around in circles, I shouldn’t have to worry about running out.

But I was hopelessly lost. I took another turn, trying to chart my course using the afternoon sun. I knew I’d driven west out of town. Now the sun sat low on the horizon behind me, a fat orange ball that nearly took my breath away. I must be headed east.

Back toward home. But the next road sign I saw—

the first one I’d seen in ages—told me I was headed north on Route 37. If I didn’t figure out where I was pretty soon, I’d end up in Canada.

Vowing to buy a road map at my earliest opportunity, I continued on in a vaguely northeasterly direction. At my next right, I turned, figuring this would put me back on track. I might end up over-shooting downtown Newmarket by a mile or two, but eventually there’d be something to point me in the right direction.

I was so focused on continuing east that I almost missed the sign.
Swift River Road.
I checked the mirror, hit the brakes, and sat studying the sign, my heart beating a little too fast. This was it. The place Claudia had told me about. Somewhere down this road, spanning the river, lay the Swift River Bridge.

The place where Elizabeth Larkin had died.

It wasn’t even a conscious decision that made me take the turn. Once I’d seen the sign, there was no question about what I’d do. I simply followed the path that providence had laid out for me. I
had
to go there.
Had
to see where Tom’s first wife had spent her final moments. Had to breathe in the surround-ings and try to put myself in her place, try to imagine what would have led her to such a tragic end.

I’d left the farmland behind. Here, headed toward the Swift River, the woods grew thick, with heavy branches meeting overhead in a leafy red-and-gold canopy. I thought of the Robert Frost poem, something about the woods being lovely, dark and deep, and I shivered. Dark and deep for sure, but maybe not so lovely. I was a city girl, and these woods, with their dense autumn foliage and the road tunnel-ing through, felt too much like a tomb. I’d never experienced claustrophobia until now, but the eerie sensation that the trees were closing in on me was so strong I almost turned back.

I rounded a curve, and suddenly there it was, springing up before me so abruptly I gasped. An old, rusted green bridge with a sign that read Heavy Loads Limited.

I parked on the shoulder and got out of the car.

There were no sounds of traffic; the quiet here was filled with the sounds of nature. Rustling leaves mingled with birdsong and the gurgling flow of the river. A hawk circled slowly overhead, wings spread as he glided effortlessly on the air. I walked up onto the bridge, my footsteps sounding loud in the silence.

It was one of those old-fashioned bridges designed with wire grating instead of a solid roadbed, and the river, rushing beneath me, made me a little dizzy at first. On one side, the cement curbing had started to crumble, revealing the rusted rebar inside. Forcing myself not to look down, I walked the length of the old dinosaur, grateful when I was again on solid ground.

From the opposite shore, I turned and looked back. The bridge seemed so ordinary, so harmless.

Not a weapon of death, merely an old river crossing in need of replacement. I heard the sound of an auto-mobile approaching. It came around the bend, an old Chevy pickup, and crossed the bridge, tires singing on the grating. The driver waved to me. I waved back, and he continued on his way. I stood listening until the sound of his engine had faded. Then I walked back onto the bridge.

Partway across, I stopped, walked to the railing and, resting my hands on it, looked over the side.

The river moved rapidly, carving its way around boulders and gravel sandbars. Near either shore, it was shallow, but the center looked deep and thick and murky. I imagined climbing up onto the rail, going into freefall, knifing through that smooth, wet surface and sinking into the muddy depths below. I imagined the struggle, the white-hot agony of burning lungs as I fought for breath. For life. Imagined the final, inevitable release as nature, and the river, won.

I was so deep into my imaginary scenario that when a hand touched my arm, I screamed and spun about in terror. The man who stood behind me was as ancient as the bridge, and in about the same condition. His shock of unruly gray hair encircled his head like a lion’s mane, and a week’s worth of scraggly whiskers did their best to cover his chin.

His eyes were blue and watery, his clothes tattered.

And he smelled god-awful, as if he’d spent the last month sleeping at the town dump. “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said in a reedy, high-pitched voice.

“I just wanted to make sure you were all right.” I took a deep breath, hoping to slow my racing heart. “Yes,” I said. “Yes, I’m fine. I just—you startled me, and—who are you?”

He gave me a small, courtly bow that belied his tattered appearance. “Roger Levasseur,” he said. “I live just around the bend.”

My heartbeat had slowed almost to normal.

“Thank you, Roger. I was just looking at the river.” I hoped he’d take the hint and leave. The guy was creeping me out, and I couldn’t find a discreet way to move upwind of him.

He studied me through red-rimmed, rheumy eyes.

“Be careful. Bad things have happened on this bridge. I wouldn’t want anything happening to a pretty lady like you.”

Was he a protector or a threat? Because I didn’t know the answer to that question, I stayed silent. The wind grabbed at a strand of my hair and blew it across my face. I reached up and shoved it back behind my ear. “Well,” he said at last. “Have a nice day.”