Megan's Way (4 page)

Olivia lay nestled amongst the cushions of
the amber couch, her legs covered with a cranberry afghan. A cold
compress rested on her forehead and a heating pad on her stomach.
Holly sat by her side, stroking her face with one hand and holding
her hand in the other.

Holly’s words were gentle, “You’ll be okay,
Olivia. You just need to watch what you eat.” She silently thanked
god that Olivia was okay and that she had been available to help
her. She constantly worried that He might strike her down, or
worse, hurt Olivia as repayment for what she had done so long ago.
The worst of all her secret thoughts was the anger she harbored
toward Megan. She stowed those ugly feelings deep within her,
knowing that Megan was just a scapegoat for her own anger.

“I know,” Olivia said shyly. “Thanks for
coming over.” She looked up as she heard her mother’s car in the
driveway.

Megan drove quickly down the dirt road and
pulled into the last driveway on the cul-de-sac. The familiar
crunching sound of the seashells beneath her tires calmed her
racing pulse. Her cedar-sided cottage sat peacefully before her,
and she wondered what dilemma she would find inside. She sighed,
gathered her purse into her arms, and started toward the red front
door.

She heard Holly’s voice before entering the
small taupe family room. She took a second to get control of her
breathing, and then walked into the room and faced her daughter. A
shameful flush ran across Olivia’s cheeks. Seeing Holly, the woman
who would love and cherish her daughter after she was gone, sent a
mixture of comfort and grief swirling through Megan like a
hurricane. She grabbed hold of a nearby chaise lounge and lowered
herself into it.

“Hi, Mom,” Olivia said, apologetically. “Hi,
baby girl. Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Olivia looked down at her hands and
fiddled with the edges of the afghan. “I was a little upset, that’s
all. I’m sorry. I forgot you’d
know
.”

“The curse of the mother!” Holly laughed.
“It’s a wonderful thing, you know. Just think about it. When Olivia
first fools around, you’ll experience it right along with her.”

“Oh, great,” Megan laughed, “like that’s such
a wonderful feeling! She’s fourteen. Let’s not go there yet!”
“Geez, don’t worry, Mom, for god’s sake!” Olivia blushed, turned
away.

Megan and Holly exchanged a look that held
years of shared secrets. Holly saw something more in Megan’s eyes,
but could not figure out what it was. Her eyes held a silent
question. Megan looked away.

“What were you so upset about?” Megan scanned
the table where the empty ice cream container and spoon sat
guiltily. “A whole quart, Livi? You know you’re lactose intolerant.
You must have been in awful pain.”

“Sorry,” Olivia said, sheepishly. “Holly gave
me my medicine, and it’s settling down now.” Sadness swept across
Olivia’s face. “Why wouldn’t you let me go with you today? You
always do!” Her voice elevated, “You always say you
want
me
with you!”

Memories of Olivia at five years old
instantly resurfaced.
Why can’t you sleep in my room tonight? I
know the boogieman isn’t real, but I need you here
. At that
time, Megan had been teaching Olivia to deal with her fears. Now,
was she hiding from her own? Megan’s heart grew weak.

“Oh, honey. I just had a cranky client,
that’s all. I thought it would be harder if I had distractions.”
She hated the feeling of lying to her daughter.

“Oh. Then I’m
really
sorry,” Olivia
said with true remorse.

“Olivia, why don’t you come to my house when
your mom has to work?” Holly offered. “I mean, if you don’t want to
hang out with your friends.” Holly had cherished and babysat Olivia
since the day she was born, as if she were her own daughter. She
often kept Olivia overnight on the evenings when Megan had to
finish painting to meet a deadline or had to leave at the crack of
dawn to get into the city. She had cared for Olivia when Megan had
gone through chemotherapy and radiation months earlier, and had
lain next to her while she had wept for the health of her mother.
The bond they shared created a longing in Holly that bore into her
often. She yearned to go back in time and reverse her most-loathed
decision.

“That’s a great idea!” Megan said. “Livi, I’m
sorry I couldn’t take you, but you’re
fourteen
. You
shouldn’t need me by your side so much.”

“I
know
, Mom. It’s just—” her unspoken
words hung in the air with the weight of lead.

Olivia didn’t have to say the words that
followed, Megan had heard them daily after her first round of
chemotherapy. Olivia’s frail voice had pleaded,
I’m scared! You
had cancer, and you could get it again! I’m not sure how long
you’ll be here, and I don’t want to miss even one second!
Megan
also knew that Olivia didn’t speak those words now because saying
them out loud, in Olivia’s mind, might make Megan’s illness real
once again.

Holly and Megan exchanged a knowing look.

“Livi, your mom is taking medications that
help her stay healthy. You need to live your life, too. She’s
fine.” Holly looked at Megan, and for the second time in a month
noticed how tired and pale she looked.

Megan’s guilt wrapped around her like a
woolen shawl, weighing her down and making her limbs heavy. She lay
back in the chaise lounge.

“Well, I’m home now, Liv,” Megan said softly.
“I’m just going to rest here for awhile with you.” She closed her
eyes, hoping to relax, and trying not to think about the gravity of
what was happening to her daughter’s life—wondering whether it was
all her fault.
Am I doing the wrong thing?

Holly started a fire to take the chill out of
the New England evening, and turned on Lifetime television. She
picked up Olivia’s medication bottle, and the empty ice cream
container, and set them on the bar that separated the kitchen from
the family room. Then she busied herself in the kitchen, brewing
tea, setting mugs on a tray, and giving Megan and Olivia a little
privacy. She listened to the silence between the two and wondered
why she felt like something was missing. There was a piece of Megan
that seemed to be hidden, tucked away. They had been friends for
many years, and never before had Megan held any secrets, besides
the name of Olivia’s father, whom she assumed was Lawrence Childs,
but lately, there was an air about Megan that was different, like
she was pulling away.

Holly carried the tray back into the cozy
room. “You know, ladies, I think we need a little girl time!”

Olivia put her finger across her lips and
pointed at

Megan, whose eyes were closed. “Holly,” she
whispered, “do you think Mom is really getting better?”

“I do, Livi. Remember before her surgery, she
was bloated and in pain all of the time.” Holly glanced at Megan to
make sure she was sleeping.

“Yes, but look at her. She’s always so
tired.” Olivia fiddled with the afghan again. Her words were soft,
scared, “I just thought she would bounce right back after her
chemo, you know?”

“I know, honey. These things take time.”

“But she never even lets me go with her to
the doctor anymore. It’s like things just changed or something, and
look at how many more pills she takes now than before.” Olivia’s
words rushed out, as if they’d been trapped within her.

“I’m sure she just doesn’t want you to worry,
that’s all.” She wrapped her arms around Olivia and eyed Megan. She
couldn’t help but wonder why her friend was so thin. guilt haunted
her as she realized that she, too, hadn’t been to the doctor with
Megan in the past few months. She squeezed her eyes closed, as if
by doing so she could lessen the chance of her worst fear coming
true.

Megan lay with her eyes closed, awake,
thinking about the life she’d created, and how she had been forced
to let it go. She tuned out Olivia and Holly’s banter and the din
of the television, and she thought about college graduation, which
had provided one sure thing for her—the realization that her future
was uncertain, at least by conventional terms. Holly, Peter, and
Jack, her closest friends, had lined up corporate jobs to look
forward to. They had known their earnings would climb like ivy and
had planned their lives accordingly: smart apartments, chic
clothing, and money that could be counted on each week. Megan’s
career aspirations had been sewn from a different cloth. She had
craved an organic lifestyle. She had looked forward to scraping
pennies and living minimally while she developed a freelance career
in art. She had been content watching her friends’ incomes grow
while her income remained as level as grass. Megan had taken pride
in her belief that her artistry would eventually pay off.

She had set out each weekend to art fairs and
flea markets throughout New England. During the week, she had
relentlessly approached galleries to sell her work. Her passion to
paint had been stronger than her desire to eat. Her trust in her
talent had been unyielding, and every declined offer had fed fuel
to her intention to continue.

Her favorite weekend event had been vending
at the flea market in Wellfleet, Massachusetts. Artisans packed
into the parking lot of the drive-in movie theater, creating row
after row of vendors. A constant flow of tourists filtered through,
purchasing paintings of eastham Bay and the lighthouses to remind
them of their family vacations, their brief escape from reality.
The air carried shrieks of delight from the playground at the
center of the parking lot, and the smell of popcorn, burgers, and
roasted peanuts from the concession stand floated on the gentle
breezes. Each morning, locals stopped by Megan’s booth armed with
muffins and juice, and tales of what the winter had brought: heavy
snows, new grandchildren, and tidbits of tasty gossip.

One particularly warm afternoon, after the
locals had come to chat, and before the morning rush of tourists
arrived, a tall man had entered the grounds. He had walked with
purpose, weaving in and out of vendors, but keeping his eyes
trained on her booth. His khaki pants and white polo shirt had been
neatly pressed, and he had worn a navy blue blazer, which Megan had
found odd for a hot summer’s day.

Megan had rarely given notice to men, seeing
them as beings that occasionally helped her find art supplies, fix
her car, or serve some other utilitarian purpose—none of which were
lustful. On that particular morning, however, with the sun striking
hot on her bare shoulders, and the smell of salt in the air, she
had watched the stranger approach, and had felt an unfamiliar
frisson.

His pace had slowed as he had neared her
booth, and she had quickly turned and busied herself propping up
her paintings. Aware of his presence, a heat behind her, she began
to hum. Hum!

His voice, soft as a whisper, gave her pause.
She envisioned physically touching his words, sure that if they
were tangible they would feel as soft as silk and be colored in
smooth reds and faded purples. She glanced up as nervous as a
teenage girl. Her eyes found his. They were the color of the ocean
in the evening; such a deep blue, she felt as though she might fall
into them.

He smiled.

Riveted to the ground where she knelt, she
awkwardly tried to use the table to pull herself to her feet. Never
before had she been breathless over a man. This was new to
her—frightening. She nervously cleared her throat, and produced a
faint, “Hello.” inside she screamed at herself,
What is wrong
with you?

He asked about her paintings and her
inspirations. She gave brief answers, but her mind was not her own.
It was as if something were flittering about in her head, taking
her concentration and leaving a light, airy feeling behind. She
averted her gaze, to keep from falling back into the abyss of his
sensual eyes.

He reached out to shake her hand, “Lawrence
Childs.” When she took his large hand in hers, a heat rushed to her
center. She withdrew her right hand, unsure if she wanted his hand
back in her own or if she wanted to flee. Megan had seen women
react that way to men, though she had never understood it, or
experienced such a reaction firsthand. She’d seen Holly overcome
with infatuation many times over the course of their lives. When
Holly had cried over her latest breakup, Megan couldn’t understand
her pain.
He’s just a guy, for God’s sake. Get over it. Don’t be
such a loser, there’s a million more like him around the
corner.

Lawrence asked if she had ever painted wall
murals, and Megan was so lost in his world of touch and sound that
his words barely registered. While Megan had painted murals of all
sizes, she had never actually been commissioned to do so. Most of
her wall work had been done as donations for charity or helping
other artists meet their deadlines. Her large canvases were what
paid her rent.

Lawrence Childs, with his deep blue eyes and
seductive voice, offered Megan fifteen thousand dollars to paint a
mural in his home. He squinted and shaded his eyes from the burning
sun. A glorious smile spread across his tanned skin, as an
overwhelmed Megan nodded her head in acceptance and wondered what
on earth she was doing.

Olivia was pouring over her math homework at
the kitchen table when Megan walked in.

“Hey.” Megan’s greeting was met with silence,
and she was becoming a little annoyed at her daughter’s teenage
attitude—she had been putting up with Olivia’s silent treatment for
three weeks now and was at the breaking point of being a patient,
understanding mother. She was fed up with it. “Olivia, you could at
least say hello!”

Olivia slammed her pencil on the table and
looked at Megan with angry eyes. Megan lifted her eyebrows in
response.

“Mom, why are you getting sick again?” Olivia
accused.