The Choices We Make (17 page)

35

HANNAH

July

Kate got in the car and fastened the seat belt under her stomach, which at twenty-three weeks was cute and round and the belly I dreamed of having back when I used to think a pregnancy was in my future. Even though I had mostly accepted I would never carry a child, every now and then I'd have a flash of jealousy—and I had a feeling today was going to be filled with at least a few of those green-with-envy moments.

Clover whined and Kate whipped around to look in the backseat. “You're bringing the puppy?”

I sighed. It had not been the easiest morning so far. “I have to. Ben had to go to the office, some kind of emergency with one of their projects, and there wasn't time to figure anything else out. She can only be in her crate for like, an hour or two tops, or we have a seriously disgusting mess to clean up.”

“Oh, man, Claire is going to lose it,” Kate said, chuckling as she turned back in her seat. “I take it you haven't told her you're bringing the dog?” I put the car in Drive and pulled away from the curb.

“Easier to ask for forgiveness than permission,” I mumbled. “Besides, I'm sure it will be fine. I brought the travel crate, and she can't get into trouble when she's behind bars, right?”

“Famous last words, my friend. Famous last words.” Kate turned around again and stuck her fingers through the holes of Clover's crate. “Hey, baby girl, you going to be good for your momma?” Clover whined again, and Kate laughed. “I'm thinking that's a no.”

Fifteen minutes later we stood on Claire and Peter's front porch, and I rang the doorbell with my elbow as my hands were full with Clover in one and gift bags in the other, and Kate had a large two-tiered Tupperware container filled with lemon cupcakes. It was Claire's baby shower—she was due in about four weeks—and I was hosting. Which meant she organized everything and I showed up at her house with dessert.

The door opened to a flurry of brightly colored metallic balloons, which hovered toward us in a suffocating group. Kate looked at me and raised an eyebrow.
Balloons?
It did seem a bit un-Claire-like; her front hall was usually adorned with nothing more than a Mennonite bench, antique umbrella vase and dove-gray carpet runner. Perfect order, nothing out of place.

The she came out of the kitchen, and my jaw dropped. Admittedly it had been a few weeks since I'd seen her last. But she looked so swollen; everything was puffy, as if she'd swallowed the entire contents of a helium tank.

“Yes, I know I look hideous. Just get in here and stop staring at me like that.” We stepped inside, and she shut the door behind us. “Nothing fits. Even my fingers are fat. Peter said I should get my wedding band resized, but why bother? I'm only getting fatter from here on out.” She kissed me on the cheek, pressing her face to mine, and I smelled roses and onion. Then she kissed and hugged Kate, who awkwardly patted her on the back. They had never really warmed up to each other—Kate felt Claire was a crappy sister, and Claire thought Kate was a bit “stuck-up.”

“Claire, you look amazing,” Kate said. “Pregnancy really suits you.” I turned my head so Claire wouldn't see my smile, glad at least that Kate sounded genuine.

“Thank you, but I'm pretty much a hippo. I can't wait for this baby to come out. You look great, too. You're so tiny!” Then Claire looked at the crate I put down on the floor. “What's that?” Clover wagged her tail—which in turn made her whole body wiggle like jelly—desperate for some attention.

“Obviously that is Clover,” I said. “I didn't have a choice. Ben had a work emergency.” Clover let out a short bark, then started nibbling at the metal bars.

Claire frowned. “Fine. You can put her in the laundry room.”

“Oh, yeah. That kid is going to be lucky to have her as a mom,” Kate whispered, rolling her eyes, after Claire walked back down the hall.

“Hush,” I said, steering Kate toward the kitchen. “She'll be fine. She may not be all warm and fuzzy, but she's organized and prepared.”

“Perfect,” Kate said, setting down the Tupperware and sliding off the lid. “Her kid will have monogrammed onesies and diapers, and her board books will be color-coded and alphabetized on the bookshelf.”

I laughed as I set up the dessert tier, quickly placing the pale yellow cupcakes, iced with vanilla buttercream and topped with gold fondant polka dots, in rows.

“These are so pretty.” Kate ran her finger around the inside edge of the container's lid, getting an errant smear of icing and popping it into her mouth. “And tasty.” She leaned back against the counter, her empire-waisted maxidress resting over her belly bump. “Do you want cake or cupcakes for your shower?”

“I wasn't planning on having a shower.” I busied myself with the last row of cupcakes, turning a few of them so the polka dots lined up.

“Hannah Matthews, of course you're having a shower!”

“But don't you think it's sort of weird? I mean, yes, I'm having a baby, but I'm not giving birth, so it feels self-indulgent or something. You know?” What I didn't say was that the idea of a shower freaked me out—not only all the attention that would literally be showered on me, my belly flat and baby-free, but also because I felt strangely superstitious about it. Even though I became more confident with every passing week of Kate's pregnancy, a baby in my arms still felt quite hypothetical.

Kate stared at me, her face a mix of concern and frustration. “This is
your
baby. I'm merely the oven here. And first-time moms get a shower. Period.”

“Fine. This is my baby, and I will have a shower. Happy?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “If it helps, we can do the shower after the baby's born. But it's happening. And you are not making your own cupcakes, no matter how good they are.”

Just then a loud crash came from the hallway, and Claire let off a string of swear words unbecoming a mother-to-be surrounded by shiny balloons, crystal punch glasses and high-tea sandwiches.

I ran out into the hall to see what had happened, but I didn't get far. Clover came bounding into the kitchen, her now pale pink fur sopping. Kate put a hand to her mouth to cover her hysterical laughter and I chased Clover around the island, nearly slipping in the wet path she left as she ran. Claire stood in the hallway, watching it all, one hand on her belly and the other on her forehead. She did not look good, or happy. Finally I got a hold of Clover's collar and held on while she still tried to scamper away.

“How did she get out?” I asked, taking the paper towel Kate handed me and using it to mop up the punch from Clover's fur.

Just then Mom popped her head into the kitchen. “Has anyone seen Clover? I was going to let her out for a pee and poof, she just disappeared... Oh. Oh no.”

“Yeah, let's just say we're going to need something other than punch to serve everyone,” I said, picking Clover up. Keeping my arms outstretched so her wet pink fur didn't get near my dress, I plopped her into the laundry room sink. With a quick rinse and a towel dry with Mom's help, Clover was good as new in no time and snuggled back in her crate, oblivious to the path of destruction she'd left.

The doorbell rang, and I glanced at my watch. “Shit,” I said, tugging on my dress to get everything back in place. “You stay.” I pointed a finger at Clover, who was already snoring in her crate.

“This will be fine, just fine,” my mom was saying in a soothing tone to an irritated Claire, while I went to open the front door to let the first guest in.

Soon the living room was filled with well-dressed women and a mountain of gifts, and Claire had a huge smile on her face as though being pregnant was the very best thing that had ever happened to her.

Everyone oohed and aahed over the gifts—beautiful hand-knit blankets, designer baby outfits and every kind of diaper cream you could ever need. By the time Claire opened yet another pair of sheepskin-lined baby booties—
why on earth would a baby here in this climate need slippers like that?
—I felt my stamina begin to chip away. I had been trying so hard to ignore the fact I wasn't the one carrying my baby, nodding when my mom said I wouldn't care about not being pregnant once the baby was born, or when Claire insensitively mentioned how lucky I was to skip the stretch marks and leg cramps. But at times the sadness and loss and envy was so intense, I felt like a puddle with nothing holding me together.

* * *

The last guest finally gone, I was in the kitchen helping Mom and Kate clean up when Claire poked her head in. “Hannah? Can you help me with the gifts?”

“Sure.” I wiped my hands on the tea towel and walked out after her. I tried to ignore the ache still sitting in the center of my chest and managed to slap a smile on my face by the time we got to the living room. “Wow, there is a lot of stuff here. Lucky baby.”

Claire stood facing the pile of gifts, arms crossed over her chest. I waited for her to tell me where she wanted everything to go, but she seemed lost in thought. “Claire? Want me to take these up to the nursery?”

“This should have been you, you know.” Her voice was quiet, and surprisingly sad, and my throat closed up. “You were supposed to go first, Hannah. I'm sorry things didn't turn out that way.”

“It's okay.” I tried to laugh and failed. “It's not your fault I have a death trap for a uterus.”

Claire turned to me then and, sensing how close I was to completely losing it, didn't acknowledge my comment, instead saying, “I have something for you.” She walked over to the built-in cabinets beside the room's fireplace and opened one of the doors. After pulling out a flat rectangular package covered in poppy-red wrapping paper with a large silver bow, she sat on the couch and patted the seat beside her. I sat down and she handed me the package. “Open it.”

“What is this?” But of course I knew what it was, and the tears came without warning.

She ignored the tears, for which I was grateful, and gestured to the gift. “It's a present for the baby. Open it.”

With trembling hands I carefully untied the bow, then picked at one of the edges of the package, the gift paper thick and resilient under my fingers.

“For God's sake, Hannah,” Claire said, laughing. “Rip the damn paper!”

I laughed, too, and grabbed an edge and pulled hard, the paper ripping straight across the package. Inside was a box, plain white with no markings. I glanced at Claire and saw she was grinning.

Opening the box I pulled the layers of crinkly silver tissue to the side and when I saw what was nestled inside, my breath caught. “Oh, Claire...”

She beamed at me. “He's going to love it as much as we did.”

“But...but you should keep this!”

She shook her head. “No. This is for you.”

I lifted out the book from the nest of tissue—an early edition of
The Velveteen Rabbit
, about a little boy who loved his stuffed bunny so much the bunny came to life—and opened the front cover, which was faded with age and use.

To Hannah and Claire, the greatest loves of my life. Dad xo

“I thought this was gone,” I said, in awe of the gift in my hands. “How did you...? Where did you...?”

“After Grams died I went through some of the boxes in the attic, and I found it. I've been hanging on to it, waiting to give it to you when you had your first baby. And here we are.”

I stared at the book, my hands caressing its surface, remembering how many times I begged my dad to read it to me, just one more time. “And here we are,” I whispered. “Thank you, Claire. This means...this means so much to me.”

“You're welcome. I know the way this is happening isn't your ideal scenario, and I'm sorry for all my bellyaching—literally—about my pregnancy. I'm sure you'd change places with me in a second...” She paused, busying herself with folding the tissue paper back up inside the box. “But once Kate has this baby and he's yours, you'll get to be just like every other mother—exhausted, sore nipples, covered in baby spit-up and never without an extra diaper and change of clothes in your purse...and happy for all of it.”

“You're right.” I closed the book and rested it gently in my lap. “I can't wait.”

“Me, neither,” Claire said, hugging me. “Especially because I'm going to need someone to complain to about the baby poop and nipple pain and sleeplessness. You know how cranky I get when I don't get my beauty sleep.”

I laughed and hugged her back, holding her as tightly as her very round belly would allow.

36

KATE

I heard about what you're doing for your friend Hannah, and I wanted you to know I'm proud of you even if I don't fully agree with your decision. But I do hope you're feeling well—please let me know if there's anything you need.

With love, Edward McTavish

“What. The. Hell.” I reread the last two lines three times, wondering who had told him. He didn't even know my wedding anniversary, so how could he know this most intimate detail? It didn't make sense—the only way he could have found out was if either me, or...

David. Shit.

I got so angry, so quickly, I couldn't catch my breath. With shaking fingers I ripped up the letter, the pieces fluttering to the table, then picked up my phone amid the mess of paper. Scrolling through my contacts I found the one for the ambulance dispatch. After two rings a woman picked up.

“Hi, this is David Cabot's wife, Kate? I need to speak with him...Yes...It's an emergency. Tell him to call my cell phone. Thank you.” Still trembling, I put my phone down and leaned back, arms crossed on my chest. About four minutes later my phone rang, and I let it go three rings before answering.

“Kate, what's the matter? Are you okay?”

“No, I am not okay.” I tapped my fingers on the tabletop, still fuming. With my other arm I swept the little bits of paper off the table and onto the floor, not caring that I'd just have to pick them all up again later. “I'm pissed off.”

“What's wrong?” I could tell he was relieved. Also irritated and maybe a bit curious—having no idea what I was about to lay into him for—but no longer worried. “I only have a minute. Braden's waiting for me in the rig.”

“What's wrong is that somehow Edward McTavish knows about the baby.” David said nothing, but he did let out a long breath. “I don't suppose you have any clue as to how, do you?”

“Katie, I'm sorry. He tracked me down at work, wanting to make sure you got the letter about the wedding and to see if you were okay after your mom and everything. It slipped out. I'm sorry.”

“It slipped out?” It felt good to yell at someone, so I kept going. “The man knows as little about my life as possible—
on purpose
, David. And of all the things you could have told him, this is what you choose? This?”

David paused, sighing again. “You aren't going to want to hear this, but he seemed genuinely concerned about you. About how the girls were doing without your mom around. Maybe you aren't ready, and maybe you'll never be ready to give him another chance, but it might be time to at least consider it. I really got the impression he wants to—”

“Stop. Stop talking.” He stayed quiet, having been married to me long enough to know it was in everyone's best interest to do so. “Edward McTavish wants one thing—to alleviate his guilt. And I have no interest in helping him repent, David. Not by taking his money, or by filling him in on the details of my life so he can try to worm his way into it.” I was shaking hard now, the adrenaline coursing through me and making me feel light-headed. Also, the headache was back with a vengeance, the tingling in my fingertips spreading up my forearms.

“I'm sorry. What else can I say? What's done is done, Kate.”

“Yeah, thanks for that.” Unexpectedly I started crying, which pissed me off even more. But the tears were at least quiet enough I could hide them from David.

“Listen, I really have to go. Can we talk about this when I get home?”

“Fine. Go.” I was tired, the fight gone.

As much as I hated to admit it, I knew David had a point. Things were at a crossroads with my father, had been for a while—especially now that Mom was gone—and I had to decide if it was time to end this decades-long moratorium. But even if I wanted to thaw things out between us, I had loathed the idea of him for so long I had no idea where to even start.

Head pounding, I got up from the table and went upstairs, where I regretfully downed a couple of pills, knowing it was necessary, and crawled under the covers. I left the letter where it was, pieces scattered all over the floor under the kitchen table. David could clean it up later.