The Life Intended (29 page)

“You’re so weird, Mom,” Hannah says before Patrick can reply. “You and Dad took the day off, remember? We’re going to Coney Island. Duh.”

“All of us?”

“Duh,” Hannah says again. “You promised after I saw
Uptown Girls
.”

“That Brittany Murphy movie?” I have a sudden memory of seeing the movie in 2003, just before the first anniversary of Patrick’s death. My sister thought it would cheer me up to go out to
a theater and see a silly romantic comedy. Instead, the love story made me cry, and we left before the movie ended.

“It’s, like, the best movie,” Hannah says. “I mean, it’s old-fashioned, obviously. But Jesse Spencer is so hot. For an old guy. And I love the part where they ride the teacups ride.”

“Fun,” I manage. But what I’m really thinking is that if someone had told me in 2003, as I sat inside a darkened theater with Susan trying not to cry, that I’d one day be riding the teacups with my dead husband and our imaginary daughter, I would have thought they were crazy. But here we are. On second thought, maybe that just makes
me
crazy.

As Hannah pours herself a bowl of Corn Pops, I move closer to Patrick and touch his elbow. “I love you,” I murmur.

“I love you too, Katielee.”

A
n hour later, we’re all on the N train heading for Coney Island. Hannah is sitting across from us, her nose buried in a young adult novel with a stiletto heel on the cover, and Patrick has his arm slung around my shoulders. We watch our daughter together in silence, and I don’t break it with conversation, because there aren’t enough words in the world to describe how this moment feels. Patrick’s warmth beside me. A daughter we love deeply, here with us. A whole life, stretching out before us. None of it real.

It occurs to me how mundane this moment would be if this was really the life I was living. Would I be taking the time to marvel at how beautiful Hannah’s hair looks when it catches the light, or how happy it makes me feel to see her eyes crinkle slightly at the corners each time she reads something amusing? Would I be pausing to appreciate the scent of Irish Spring lingering on Patrick’s neck, or the warmth that floods me when I
notice the few errant hairs he missed on his jaw when shaving this morning? Would I stop to think how safe I feel tucked under his arm, like nothing could possibly hurt me as long as he’s here?

No, because before I lost him, I thought we had a lifetime of endless moments like this stretching before us. I loved him deeply, but I never really knew that every second we had together was a gift until he was gone.

“What are you thinking about?” Patrick whispers as we roll through the Eighty-Sixth Street stop, the last one before we get to Coney Island.

“Just how lucky I am to be here,” I tell him.

He smiles and squeezes my hand, but he doesn’t reply until we’re pulling into the Coney Island station. “We both are.”

He stands up and nods at Hannah, who snaps her book closed and smiles at us. “We always said we have to make the life we want,” he adds. “And I think we’re doing a pretty good job, don’t you?” I start to reply, but we’re already getting off the train and heading for the station exit. I let myself be pulled along, swept by the tide, until I begin to wonder if perhaps that’s been my mistake. Maybe I’ve been riding the tide all along instead of using the current to propel me in the direction I choose.

A
fter eight hours at Coney Island, during which all three of us scream our heads off on the Sling Shot, giggle through the Cyclone, get dizzy on the teacups, and eat so many Nathan’s hot dogs our stomachs hurt, we head home, dazed smiles plastered across our faces.

“It’s no Disney World,” Hannah concludes. “But Coney Island rocks. Can we go back next weekend?”

Patrick just arches an eyebrow at her, and after a minute, she
giggles and says, “Okay. I’ll let the hot dogs settle first. Then we’ll talk.”

Patrick reaches for my hand as Hannah digs her book out of her bag and begins to read again. “This has been a pretty perfect day, hasn’t it?” he asks.

“The best,” I agree, putting my head on his shoulder.

At home, we tuck Hannah in together, and I can feel myself growing wearier by the second. I know the dream is already beginning to fade, and I can’t stop it. “Love you guys,” Hannah says with a yawn as Patrick ruffles her hair and I bend down to give her a kiss on her warm, smooth cheek.

“We love you too, honey,” Patrick tells her.

I don’t know what makes me say it, but I hear my words for Patrick come out of my mouth. “I knew before I met you—” I say to Hannah, my heart aching.

She smiles, yawns, and takes off her headpiece. For a moment, I’m sure she’s not going to reply. Then, she signs,
That I was meant to be yours,
and I find myself blinking back sudden tears. So she’s part of our secret language too. But how can I love this girl so powerfully when she doesn’t really exist?

Patrick flips Hannah’s light off and closes her door behind us as we walk out into the hallway. “Let’s go sit in the living room for a little while,” he says.

We settle on our sofa, and he pulls me toward him. I rest my head on his shoulder.

“What would you want for Hannah if you weren’t here?” I ask after a while. The room fades a little, but I mentally hang on. After all, I’m not asking anything outlandish.

“You trying to get rid of me?” Patrick teases, but when I don’t laugh, he adds seriously, “I’d want to know she was taken care of and loved. I’d want to know that
you
were taken care of and loved too. I would want you to be happy, no matter what. I’d
want the two of you to stick together and love each other for the rest of your lives, because you’re the two best people I know.”

I begin to cry, and once I do, I can’t stop. “
You’re
the best person I know,” I manage through sniffles.

“Are we going to have to fight about this?” he asks with a smile.

I laugh, despite myself, and he kisses me on the cheek.

“Kate, you’re really good with Hannah,” he continues, his tone serious again. “She’s lucky to have a mom like you. You know that, don’t you?”

I hesitate. I love her, and even though I don’t remember most of it, it seems I’ve done my best to give her a good life and to help her grow into a good person. It makes me believe that I have those skills somewhere at the core of me, just waiting to be used. “Yes,” I say softly.

“Promise?”

“I promise,” I say.

“Good.” He’s quiet for a moment, and I feel myself growing wearier, the room growing hazier, as he strokes my hair. “I knew before I met you—” he finally whispers, his voice already far away.

“—that I was meant to be yours,” I murmur. It’s the last thing I remember before drifting off to sleep.

Twenty-Five

W
hen I wake up, I finally know with a calm certainty that I have to break up with Dan, and I have to do it today. I can’t put it off any longer, not if I want to have a chance at a good life, a real life. I’ve spent months now—maybe years—overriding my gut, letting other people’s opinions become my own. But it’s time to take control of my own destiny.

I can’t have Patrick—not in the real world—but that doesn’t mean I can’t go after the future I want. Maybe it’s time to stop getting in my own way.

I want to be a mother. I used to know that for sure so many years ago, back when Patrick was alive. But after he died, it’s like I forgot who I was and where my life was headed. If I couldn’t have children with him, what was the point?

But the dreams have shown me that parenthood is still something I might be good at. They’ve made me reevaluate my life, forced me to see everything in a new light. I’m good with Max and Leo and all the other kids who come through my door because I’m not afraid to speak their language or care about the things they care about. I’m not afraid to open my heart to them. And I can only imagine that if I had my own child, that open
ness and readiness to love would increase tenfold, maybe even a hundredfold.

Andrew has taught me that too. By exposing me to kids who don’t just need a music therapist but who also desperately need an adult on their side, he’s helped me to realize that I’m someone of value, and that I have the maternal instincts I always worried I would lack. I know how to love. I’ve just been doing it the wrong way for the last twelve years, because I made a decision—albeit an unconscious one—to shut my heart off when Patrick died. Now it’s time to let the light in.

“W
e need to talk,” I say bluntly when Dan gets home from work that evening.

“You look awfully serious,” he says with a faint smile as he hangs up his keys. “How was your day?”

“I didn’t go in to work,” I tell him. “There were some things I needed to think about.”

From the way he averts his eyes, I have the feeling he already knows what I’m going to say. “Like what?” he asks, his tone flat.

For a moment, I have trouble speaking, because of course it’s not anything Dan’s done wrong. It’s that all along, I’ve been in love with the idea of moving on. I just haven’t been completely in love with the man I’ve moved on to. None of this is fair to him, but I can’t stay in a relationship simply because it’s easier not to rock the boat.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “But I can’t do this.”

He looks taken aback but somehow not totally shocked. “Do what?” he asks.

“Marry you,” I say. “I’m so, so sorry. It sounds like a cliché, but it’s really not you. It’s me. It’s about the life I know I want, Dan.”

I slide the engagement ring off my finger and hold it out to him, but he doesn’t take it. I’m surprised to see so much pain on his face. “This is about kids? You’re throwing me away over something you didn’t even know you wanted a few months ago?”

“No,” I reply, still holding the ring awkwardly. “It’s not just that. It’s everything. It’s about the fact that you can’t make a square peg fit into a round hole, and that’s what we’ve been trying to do, Dan. I just didn’t see it until I opened my eyes. I’m so sorry.”

His gaze hardens. “You know this isn’t fair, right? In all the time we’ve been together, you’ve never once mentioned wanting a child. And now, out of nowhere, it’s the thing that has to define our relationship?”

“Dan—” I begin, but he goes on as if I haven’t spoken.

“You can’t just change your mind like that!” he says. “It’s like the last two years have been a lie!”

“I was never lying,” I say. “Not on purpose. I just wasn’t being honest with myself.”

“Or with me,” he adds coldly.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I never meant to hurt you.”

He stares at me for a moment then laughs in disbelief. “Jesus, this is about Pat, isn’t it? Everything’s about Pat! And now you’re finally punishing me for not being him.”

“No,” I say firmly, resisting the urge to correct the nickname. “This is about you and me.”

“That’s a load of crap.” Dan crosses his arms and glares at me. “You’re obsessed with your dead husband. You know that’s crazy, right? You know what you’re doing is insane?”

“This isn’t about him; it’s about knowing now that things aren’t right between me and you. I want it all, Dan, the heartaches and the pain, the ups and the downs, that feeling of being
equal partners facing the world together. And I don’t think I can have that with you.”

“Bullshit,” he mutters.

“Dan—” I begin.

“Bullshit,” he repeats more loudly, looking up and meeting my eye. “This has
nothing
to do with me. This has to do with you finding out you’re infertile and getting scared. That’s all this is. You’ll come to your senses.”

He says it so smugly and with such certainty that my skin crawls.

“You really think of me as a child, don’t you?” I ask. “Like someone who isn’t as bright or sensible as you are.”

He shrugs, but I can see the corner of his mouth twitching into a small smirk. “I don’t want to fight, Kate.”

“But you never do!” I shoot back, my voice rising. “We never fight! Don’t you see that that’s a problem? I’m just as guilty, Dan. We never really talked about anything important. We never dug any deeper than the surface. And that’s not a real relationship! That’s not healthy! You’re supposed to fight for the things that mean something to you! And neither of us cared enough to do that, because it was easier not to!”

He stares at me, and I feel terrible, because he looks like I’ve slapped him across the face.

“I’m sorry,” I say after a minute. “I shouldn’t have yelled.”

Silence falls between us for a minute. There’s a piece of me that wants to take it all back, to tell him I’m wrong, to say we can fix things. But none of that’s true.

“You know, Kate, you’re going to have to let him go sometime,” Dan says, after a moment, his eyes on mine. “If you don’t, you’ll never find happiness with anyone. And you know something? I feel sorry for you. What you’re doing, it’s pathetic.”

The words hit me hard. I open my mouth to apologize again for hurting him, but he’s already walking away. The door slams behind him, leaving only silence in his wake. I slowly slide the engagement ring onto the dining room table and let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding.

D
an returns sometime after midnight, sleeps on the couch, and is gone—along with the ring—by the time I wake up the next morning. He’s left a note saying he’ll send movers for his things later today. I feel sad at the closing of another chapter in my life. But I’m also filled with a sense of resolve that grows as the day goes on.

I manage to push Dan to the back of my mind all morning while I work with Leo, a longtime patient named Sierra, and a new girl named Katia who has just moved here with her parents from Eastern Europe. They’re concerned she’s not picking up English quickly enough, and they’ve asked if I can work with her to help expand her vocabulary through music. It’s an interesting challenge and one that provides the perfect distraction from my personal life.

Thanks to a last-minute cancellation, I have a two-hour break between the end of Katia’s session and my first afternoon appointment, so I decide to take a walk to clear my head. Somehow, my feet carry me down Park Avenue, through bustling Union Square, and all the way to our old apartment on Chambers Street, the one I visited to no avail when I first started having the dreams.