The Other Life (13 page)

Quinn stopped herself. No, she thought. That can’t be. Destiny is a fairy tale. The world is ruled by free will.

And anyway, even if she was tempted to believe in fate, she could just as easily believe that she was meant to meet Lewis on that day, and to let him kiss her on the night he showed up at her bookstore.

He had been lurking around the perimeter of the store as the reading wrapped up and the line of people waiting for Tom Perrotta’s signature finally wound down. Lewis asked Quinn if she wanted to go for a walk and she agreed. It was a beautiful night.

They walked toward Central Park and talked about their families, their childhoods, their taste in books. She told him about her aunt’s lake house in the Berkshires and how little television she was allowed to watch as a kid. He told her about sleep-away camp and the terrible birthday cakes he had to endure because his mother had more love than skill. The whole time, she knew he was going to kiss her at the end of the night and that she was going to let him. The thought made her heart pound wildly in her chest, and she couldn’t tell whether it was nervousness at the idea of betraying Eugene, or simply the excitement of desire. She wished he would reach for her hand.

They were still two blocks from the park when a delectable aroma stopped them. They were in front of a Chinese restaurant.

“You hungry?” he asked.

“Starved.”

They continued talking over appetizers of dumplings, spring rolls, and cold sesame noodles, politely splitting everything. There was half a spring roll left on the table when she went into her purse to retrieve an old Chinese fortune she had saved because it was so damned funny. When she looked up, she discovered that Lewis had placed the last appetizer on her plate without saying a word.

He asked to see the fortune and Quinn handed it to him while she stared at the food in front of her, nearly choking with gratitude. To anyone else it wouldn’t have meant much, but putting the last half of a spring roll on other people’s plates was the type of thing she had been doing all her life. No one had ever done it for her. Not once.

“Spread your wings and fry like a bird,” Lewis read. He laughed.

After dinner, he walked her back to her apartment building, and she knew he was going to kiss her right there on the street, where anyone could see. At that moment, she simply didn’t care. She needed the kiss.

He leaned in and pressed his lips softly on hers and then pulled away. A test kiss. She wanted more. He kissed her again, this time deeper, and their bodies moved together. The pulsating she felt was like a current that started between her legs and rushed through her whole being. He pulled her closer with one hand, while the other found her rib cage. She could feel that he wanted to inch it higher, and wished he would. Touch me, she thought. Please. God.

But he didn’t. The kiss ended, and they held on to each other, not speaking. She felt lost.

He stroked her hair and released her.

“The ball’s in your court now,” he said into her eyes, and she nodded. If she wanted to see him again, she’d have to make the call.

It took her a torturous week of going back and forth. She had to call him. She couldn’t call him. She was in love with Eugene. And he needed her so desperately. But she kept hearing her mother’s words telling her she was destined to be with a man who was an emotional siphon, and it infuriated her. Damn it, she deserved someone who wanted to make her happy!

So at last she made the call. And the romance moved quickly. Two weeks later she put a deposit on a tiny studio apartment in Gramercy Park and started moving in. At first, the idea of leaving Eugene was as oppressive as the August heat.
How could you do this to me?
he asked over and over again, and she wept at the weight of her guilt.
You know I can’t take the
TV job
if you’re not in my life, Quinn. I can’t do it without you. Don’t leave!

But she did. And as the burden lifted, there were more and more moments when Quinn felt light-headed with freedom.

Still, periods of doubt remained. Would Eugene be okay without her? And what about the lifestyle? She told herself she wasn’t starstruck, but on the rare occasions when Eugene accepted invitations, Quinn had found herself elbow to elbow with major celebrities, and it was a thrill. Wouldn’t she miss that?

Worst of all, Quinn never stopped wondering if her mother was right. Maybe she just didn’t have the temperament to be with a kind and giving man. Sure she was touched by tender moments like the spring roll incident, but there were just as many similar events when her heart wouldn’t yield to his generosity.

One night, she and Lewis had dinner at Pete’s Tavern, a place Quinn loved for its historic flavor. It was a Manhattan landmark, well known for having been the favorite haunt of America’s most famous short-story writer, O. Henry.

The couple settled into their cozy, black-painted booth, and when the waiter came to take their orders, Quinn asked for the stuffed filet of sole. It was her favorite fish and she knew they did a good job with it there. Lewis ordered the same thing.

A few minutes later, the waiter came back and told them there was only one piece of sole left, and suggested one of them have the salmon.

“I will,” Quinn said. “That’s fine.”

“No,” insisted Lewis. “I wasn’t in the mood for sole anyway.”

“I really prefer the salmon,” she lied.

“Two salmons?” the waiter asked. The place was noisy and his English was limited, so he was following as best he could.

Lewis and Quinn locked eyes. Neither could find the words to back down from their magnanimous position, so the waiter told them he’d be right back with their salmon.

Quinn cursed her own nature as she chewed on the high-flavored fish she didn’t much care for. Why couldn’t she have simply accepted Lewis’s offer? Would it have been so terrible to welcome his generosity? Wasn’t that why she had left Eugene for him—so that she could be with a man who could
give
?

“How’s your salmon?” Lewis said.

“It’s okay.”

“Why didn’t you take the last sole?” he asked.

“Why didn’t you?”

“I wanted you to be happy.”

She paused, taking that in as she glanced around the ancient walls. The building was so rich with history it seemed to have its own spirit. She ran her fingers over the rough brick beside them, as if the past were a physical thing she could touch.

“You know what’s ironic?” she said. “O. Henry wrote ‘The Gift of the Magi,’ in this very tavern, and we’re just like the couple in that story. She sold her hair to buy him a chain for his watch. He sold his watch to buy her combs. They both wind up with nothing.”

Lewis shook his head. “That’s not the way it ends,” he said.

“It’s not?”

“They don’t wind up with nothing. O. Henry makes a point of how rich they are because what they have is more valuable than possessions.”

Quinn nodded, trying to remember the actual story. Damn if he wasn’t right. Okay, she thought, no matter how hard it is I’m going to try. I’m going to try to appreciate the generosity that comes with his love.

“Of course,” he added, “that’s only because they weren’t stuck with dry salmon and wrinkly potatoes.”

She laughed and he signaled the waiter.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m going to see if they still have that sole.”

Despite her vow, Lewis’s magnanimous nature continued to be a problem for Quinn except in one crucial area of their lives—the bedroom.

Early on, Quinn discovered that Lewis had the ability to turn on her animal brain in a way that made it impossible for her to reject his benevolence. The first time they made love was in his Forest Hills apartment. He had made her dinner, and it was clear they both knew it was the night they would consummate the relationship. She tingled with excitement throughout the meal, eager for it to be over so that they could get to the bedroom where she would show her appreciation. But once they started, his attentions short-circuited her determination to prove her love. He was slow and deliberate, and each touch made her greedier for more. By the time he went down on her, there wasn’t a thought in her head besides the basest desire to feel him inside, filling her up.

“Please,” she cried. “Now.”

“Wait,” he said, and continued until she bucked, reaching for nonexistent bedposts.

He traveled back to her face and kissed her on the mouth, pinning her arms while he entered her. She wrapped her legs around his waist to pull him deeper inside, and when she came, shuddering, it was a release that expelled every last defense, leaving her susceptible to even the tiniest microbes of his affection. Quinn relaxed against him, spent. He ran the back of his finger down her cheek and she kissed his hand.

 

QUINN DECONSTRUCTED, NO. 4

QUINN DIDN’T LEARN ANYTHING NEW FROM HER VISIT WITH the obstetrician. Her blood pressure was normal. She had gained three pounds. The fetal heartbeat was strong. Except for the fact that brain tissue might be protruding through a fissure in her baby’s skull, it was an unremarkable visit.

She sat in front of her computer, determined to stop avoiding the truth and face her daughter’s condition. She typed the word
encephalocele
into a search engine. The information that came up was exactly what the doctors had told her. Encephalocele, or
cranium bifidum,
was a neural tube defect characterized by a protrusion of the brain and/or the membranes that cover it through an opening in the skull. There was a long list of symptoms that could accompany it, including hydrocephalus (cerebrospinal fluid in the brain), developmental delays, blindness, paralysis, mental and growth retardation, seizures, and more. Everything she read seemed so grim. Then she came upon a page from the National Institute of Neurological Disorders and Stroke, which had one sentence that caught her attention: “Some affected children may have normal intelligence.”

Some. What did that mean? Quinn scoured the information, trying to find a percentage to fix to the word. She wanted something to hold on to, some tiny bit of hope.

She came upon another article filled with statistics. It said that an encephalocele reduced the chance of a live birth to only 21 percent. Could that be true? Did she really have an 80 percent chance of losing the baby? Why hadn’t the doctors told her this? Quinn read on. Of the 21 percent who made it to term, 50 percent did not survive. What did that mean? Did not survive a year? A day? An hour? Was Naomi as good as dead? Quinn grabbed a tissue and blew her nose.

Then she remembered something else the doctor had said—most encephaloceles occur in the back of the skull, a much more perilous region. Quinn held to the hope that this meant those percentages didn’t necessarily apply to her baby, whose fissure was in a less dangerous area.

Quinn read and read, finding more questions than answers. One particular sentence stopped her: “A good prognosis is indicated for a patient who has an anterior encephalocele containing no brain tissue and who has no associated anomalies.”

Anterior. That meant the front, where her baby’s was. No associated anomalies. That was exactly what they had told her after the targeted sonogram. The big question was the brain tissue. If the sac protruding through the fissure in Naomi’s skull consisted of membrane and not actual brain tissue, she could be okay. And it was the one thing they hadn’t been able to tell her. Her MRI, which they said she couldn’t have for another six weeks, would surely reveal what they needed to know. She would have to find a way to hold on until then, to live with the uncertainty.