Megan's Way (8 page)

Lawrence pulled her into her dark room. His
mouth never left her body as they moved to the bed. Megan’s hands
trembled as she unbuttoned his trousers and he removed his shirt.
He moved quickly back to Megan, kissing her neck, his heart beat
hard against his chest, and he fumbled with her dress as he lifted
it over her head, exposing her supple breasts and silk panties. He
breathed heavily, taking in her beauty. His desire was almost too
much to bear. A moan escaped his lips as he lowered her to the bed
and his mouth found her heaving breast.

When the sensation became too much, she
rolled him over, straddled him, and took him inside her. She gasped
with pleasure as they joined together. His throbbing organ and
their insatiable hunger burned deep within her loins.

Megan awoke to an empty room, warm with her
memories of Lawrence, even after all those years. She got up, the
memories of the evening before slowly moving through her mind. She
closed her eyes against them, wondering when Holly had left, and as
much as she loved Holly, she was glad to be alone. Megan sighed,
slid off the bed and crept into her daughter’s room, noticing that
it was three A.M. as she walked by the antique clock that hung in
the hallway. Her calm focus had only lasted an hour, and then fear
and confusion had set in, making it impossible for her to sleep.
Emotions of guilt and frustration swirled in her head, clouded by
love in her heart. She needed to be near her daughter—needed to
feel her energy.

She hesitated in front of Olivia’s computer,
and then settled into the chair. She sat with a blanket pulled
close around her shoulders and her journal in her lap. As she
watched her daughter sleep, she began to write.

Her heart poured onto the paper, the
apologies for all she’d done wrong as a mother, for her need to
slip away.

She uncovered her darkest secret and the
reasons why it had been held for so long. She wrote until her
fingers hurt and her tears ran dry. Then she carefully tore the
sheets, dappled with tears, from the journal and folded them
carefully.

Megan had spent years dodging Olivia’s
questions about the identity of her father. When Olivia was little,
she had told her, “Some children have a mommy and a daddy. Some
children have two mommies or two daddies, and you have just one
mommy.” That had stopped the questions for a while. As she had
entered puberty, she had asked about her biological father more
often. Megan’s typical response, “He was a wonderful man, but we
weren’t in love with each other,” had bought Megan time, but had
never stopped the inevitable, “I want to meet him!” from Olivia.
Megan’s standard answer seemed to have worked thus far, “You will,
honey, when you’re older.”

Now, Megan realized, she would not be the one
to hold Olivia tight when she was exposed to the truth about her
father. She would not be there to field her questions, or make her
understand the validity of why her father’s identity had been kept
from her, from everyone. Still, Megan remained unable to hand
Olivia the information that she herself, fourteen years later,
could not figure out the right way to expose. She knew how many
lives it would affect, and she wasn’t willing to risk losing those
closest to her when she was so close to the end of her own
life.

Megan thought of Olivia growing into her
twenties, and of all of the mother-daughter conversations she would
miss.

She thought of writing more—all of the
maternal advice that Olivia may need throughout those chaotic,
finding-yourself years, but the thought overwhelmed her. How could
she possibly think of every situation? Without knowing what
Olivia’s personality would be like at the time, how could she give
her any insight into hypothetical situations? no, she decided,
those conversations would be between Olivia and Holly, or whomever
Olivia trusted at the time.
Trust
—the word stung. Megan knew
she was breaking the biggest trust of all—to Olivia, to her dearest
friends, and to her mother. She could not bring herself to call her
mother. The last time she had visited, her mother had barely been
able to move and had been on so many medications that her cognition
had wavered. No, she’d rather remember her mother as she used to
be, and she could not bring herself to confuse her mother any
further than she already was.

She held the letter against her heart and
rested for another moment as she remembered the doctor’s words,
This medication will only buy you time
. She once again felt
the piercing pain that shot through her heart when she had been
told that the cancer was not only back, but had spread. There was
no beating the beast that gnawed away inside of her, silently
stealing her life.

She knew that she could not put Olivia
through any more turmoil than she’d already endured. The weeks of
chemo and radiation, the surgery and recovery—they were all too
much for Olivia, and she had clung to Megan and still had not let
go. Thank goodness for Holly. Holly had been there to nurture and
love Olivia when she, Olivia’s own mother, had been unable to open
her eyes, when all she had been able to do was throw up and sleep.
Holly had made sure Olivia had been well cared for, had taken her
to school, had checked her homework, had cooked her dinner, and had
even kept their home clean. She had been there for Olivia when she
had needed to be held, or needed a diversion from her mother’s
illness. Holly had, in Megan’s eyes, already started to become
Olivia’s mother.

Megan watched Olivia sleep, the note still
held tightly in her grasp.
I don’t want you to remember me
dying
, she thought.
I want you to remember my love for
life
. She sighed, disgusted at her frail limbs.
Don’t
remember me like this, my mind and body withering away. Don’t
remember me sick. And please, Baby, forgive me. Forgive me for
taking myself away sooner than I had hoped. Forgive me for making
this decision for the both of us. Forgive me for not telling you
the truth about your father while I am still here to explain
.
Despite her best efforts to withhold her emotions, she sobbed,
overwhelmed with the magnitude of the truth—she was dying.

Megan sat on her bed with the small mahogany
chest in her lap, her letter to Olivia safely locked inside. Her
fingers lingered over the smooth surface, the dips and angles of
its elegant design comfortably familiar. She closed her eyes as a
single tear slid down her cheek, landing on her sleeve and
spreading like a snowflake, deep in the center and soft on the
fringes. She thought of the next time the box would be opened and
the contents set free, and she was overwhelmed by sadness.

She set the box next to her and stared at it,
stood, and took a few steps away. Her cotton dress swayed as she
turned back to look at the box. She furrowed her brow, wrapped her
arms tightly around her body, and continued staring, as if the box
would give her the answers she so desperately sought. After a
moment, she stood up straight, smoothed her dress with her hands,
and took another deep breath. She let the air out of her lungs
slowly. She pursed her lips and moved forward, taking the chest
into her small hands. She carried the box carefully, coddling it as
if it were a newborn, fragile and trusting. She placed it gently
back on the top shelf of her closet, tucked between her thick
sweaters and old pocketbooks. She sighed, steepled her hands
together at her chin, and silently said another prayer, this one
for Olivia—that the letter would offer answers and bring with it
relief, without inflicting torment and anguish to those she
loved.

Megan lit candles around her room, turned on
her meditation CD, and allowed her body to relax. She sat with her
palms facing up to release the bad energy and accept the good, her
legs crossed. She welcomed the emptying of her mind and
replenishing of her soul. She fought the thoughts of her earlier
spat with Olivia, bidding them to be gone as if they had never
existed, and willed away the pains in her stomach—pains that she
knew she was experiencing as they lingered in Olivia’s body and not
her own, angst from earlier in the day. She smiled as they gently
subsided. The music weaved its way through the air and she took it
in with each breath, consoled by its life-affirming comfort. At
last, her mind settled peacefully into acceptance.

Music vibrated off the walls of Megan’s
client’s office. Her body swayed to the rhythm, enjoying the
freedom and release it provided. She was mid-spin with a paintbrush
held high in the air when she saw Peter in the doorway.

She laughed, “Hey!” She smiled, turned the
volume down, and hugged Peter’s slim waist.

“How’s my girl?” Peter kissed her cheek.

“Awesome! How are you?” Megan realized,
suddenly, that today she
did
feel awesome. Her body didn’t
hurt quite so much. She hadn’t thrown up or had diarrhea yet, as
she had most days since discontinuing her medication, and Olivia
had actually said
good morning
with a slight smile instead
of a grunt.

“Great. I had to come by and see how the
Bourbon Street scene was turning out.” He was visibly pleased with
what he saw, smiling with little nods as he took in the mural. “You
are an amazing painter.”

“Yeah, well, I had good direction.” Megan
watched Peter’s eyes dance over her artwork. She’d known Peter
since their second week at college. His boyish good looks had been
the first thing that had caught her attention. It had only taken
one conversation for her to learn that he was gay, which had suited
her just fine.

It had been Peter who had wheedled his way
into her and Holly’s tight friendship. He had bumped into Holly in
the hallway outside her english class. They had both dropped their
books and laughed. Peter, always the gentleman, had walked Holly to
her class, and it seemed he had tagged along with her and Megan
everywhere after that fateful day. They didn’t mind. They loved his
insight on clothing and art, his quick wit, and the convenience of
his willingness to act as if he was their boyfriend when
undesirable men approached them.

He had complemented their friendship with his
ability to add calm to Megan’s far-beyond-the-norm views, and quell
Holly’s obsessive need for perfection, which eventually subsided.
Holly’s calm demeanor fit well with Peter’s rightfully-owned chip
on his shoulder. When Peter spouted off about women’s inability to
get men and their constant wrongdoings, Holly would soothe his hurt
soul, knowing that Peter’s own mother had left him and his father
when Peter was only five years old. Her loving touch had a way of
soothing even the angriest of souls.

Megan and Holly’s schedules had often
conflicted, leaving little time for each other. Even as roommates
they had felt as though they bumped in the night rather than spent
any quality time together, which was why they had begun their
weekly roommate dates.

They had met faithfully every Tuesday and
Thursday at the local coffee shop that doubled as a literary nook,
the Women’s nest. Originally opened as a gathering place for women
in the 1970s, the Women’s nest was quickly infiltrated by the
opposite sex, who, rightly so, knew it was an ideal place to meet
women.

Peter had slipped his way into those private
meetings and seamlessly become an intimate part of their weekly
get-togethers, and therefore, their lives. The Women’s nest offered
coffee and baked goods. The walls were lined with shelf after shelf
of donated books that the patrons could read while relaxing in the
oversized armchairs and fluffy sofas. Music played in the
background, as warm and soothing as the soft hues of the walls.

It had been during those weekly gatherings
that their friendship had blossomed and wrapped its roots around
them until they could practically read each other’s thoughts. They
helped each other pick up the pieces of many fallen relationships
and failed exams. The three of them were each other’s lifelines.
Why, Megan wondered, wasn’t she confiding in them now, at her most
fearful moment?

Megan was lost in thought when she felt
Peter’s hand on her arm. “Meg? Hello?”

She shook her head, “Sorry.” She smiled. A
funny feeling came over her—not one of sickness, but a feeling of
being lost, confused, as if she were standing amidst smoke and
clouds, and not sure where she was. She grabbed Peter’s arm, unsure
if she was going to lose her footing.

“Meg? What is it?” he asked. Fear stretched
across his face as Megan lowered herself to the floor. He wrapped
his arm protectively around her. “Meg, what is it? Are you
okay?”

Megan’s eyes stared straight ahead. She
struggled for the right words. “It’s…It’s not me. It’s Olivia.” Her
limbs tingled, her chest ached.

“Livi? What? What is it?” Peter’s words rush
out.

“I don’t know. There’s no pain. It’s like
she’s…lost or something.” She shook her head as the feeling faded.
“It’s probably nothing. She’s at school. We had a fight the other
night. I’m probably just worrying too much.”

“You guys have such a strange connection,
Meg. Are you sure she’s okay? Do you want me to run over to the
school and make sure?” Peter took Megan’s hand.

“No. She’s fine.” Megan smiled as the feeling
dissipated, lingering just enough to make the hair on the back of
her neck stand up. Megan laughed, “How on earth did she and I
become so connected?”

“She was
inside
of you! of course you
are connected!” Peter said.

“Yeah, but you were inside your mother, and…”
her words hung in the air like dirty laundry.

Peter’s face strained.

“I’m so sorry,” Megan said quickly. “That
wasn’t meant to hurt you, just to make a point. I mean, really,
mothers and their children usually don’t
feel
things for
each other!”