The Other Life (17 page)

“I’m just trying to work up to a favor,” he said.

Isaac and Ethan made a dash for a room filled with percussion instruments from all over the world. They moved from one to the other, banging, clanging, and making as much noise as they could.

“What is it?” Quinn said to her brother, straining to be heard over the cacophony.

“When he gets back, can you talk to him and smooth things over?”

“I was afraid you were going to ask that,” she said just as Isaac found the bongo drums.

Hayden couldn’t hear her, and Quinn pulled her brother outside the room, where it was quieter.

“Please, Quinn,” Hayden said.

She remembered the conversation she and Lewis had had the night before, and imagined Hayden and Cordell having a pillow talk of their own. Her brother had probably asked Cordell to be the one to smooth things over, and he refused.

The door to the percussion room opened and Isaac and Ethan came through and ran to the next exhibit.

“You shouldn’t let him bully you,” Quinn said, as they followed the boys.

“He’s more sensitive than you realize. The way he gets when he’s around you and Lewis—that’s Cordell showing off. Around me, he’s more open, more sensitive.”

“Hard to picture.”

Hayden frowned. “I know you hate him.”

“I don’t hate him. I just . . . I love you. I love you and I care about you and I want to see you happy.”

“
He
makes me happy, Quinn. I love him.” Hayden looked like he was about to cry. “And I’m worried that he’ll use any excuse to walk away from this relationship.”

“If that’s the case—”

“Don’t,” he interrupted. “Please. Don’t tell me if that’s the case, then I shouldn’t be in this relationship to begin with. I’m not like you, Quinn.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I don’t live my life in fear that the person I love most is going to disappear.”

“Is that how you see me?” Quinn asked.

She heard a child’s voice crying, “Mom! Mom!” and realized it was Isaac. “I’m right here!” she shouted, and thought about his irrational fear of losing her. Maybe it had nothing to do with sensing that she could disappear into a portal. Maybe he had simply learned it from her.

 

 

THE NEXT DAY, Quinn’s obstetrician called to tell her the results of her amniocenteses had come in, and that they were “unremarkable.” For a split second, Quinn held her breath, thinking it might be good news. Was it possible the results would be in conflict with the sonogram report? Could there be some kind of miracle here? Maybe the images had lied and it was all a mistake. But no, her doctor friend went on to explain that the alphafetoprotein level was markedly elevated, which is exactly what they had expected, as it was par for the course when there was a neural tube defect.

Quinn took notes as the doctor spoke, though after that she barely listened. What difference did it make that no chromosomal abnormalities were found, and that disorders such as Down’s syndrome, spina bifida, and cystic fibrosis had been ruled out? Her baby was still disfigured, still in danger of dying or being terribly brain damaged.

Quinn had little time to process the information. The call had come just as she was about to get Isaac ready for his soccer practice, so she was left rushed. She promised Sally she would call if she had more questions and got off the phone. She quickly helped her son with his cleats and shin guards before getting him into the car. Since Quinn was the designated snack mom that day, she swung by Dunkin’ Donuts to pick up a box of Munchkins for the kids, and while she was there she ordered the ten-cup take-out container of hot coffee to help the moms stay warm while the kids ran around the field.

By the time she got home, she had just enough time to put a chicken in the oven, help Isaac with his homework, get him into the bath, fold a load of laundry, and empty the dishwasher before Lewis got home.

“How was your day?” he asked.

The oven timer beeped. Quinn put on a mitt and pulled out the roaster. “Got the amnio results,” she said.

“And?”

“I wrote it down.” She pointed with her chin.

Lewis picked up the page and read it while Quinn carefully put down the pan and moved the chicken to a cutting board. She fanned the steam away, and though it was still too hot to cut, she retrieved her poultry shears, aimed the bottom blade inside the chicken’s gaping cavity, and squeezed the handles, working her way through the center of the bird.

Lewis put down the paper. “Smells good,” he said.

She looked at him. “Is that all you have to say?”

“There’s no news, Quinn. It’s exactly what we expected.”

She continued cutting the bird. “Still—”

“Still what?”

“I don’t know, Lewis. After our conversation the other night I thought you were going to start being more open with me.”

“What do you want me to say? That I’m miserable about it? Okay, I’m miserable about it. How does that help you?”

She put down the shears. “It helps me because I need to know what you’re feeling.”

He folded his arms. “I don’t know how much more open I can be.”

“Don’t be like that,” she said.

“Like what?”

“Like you think it’s stupid to say how you feel.”

He unfolded his arms and exhaled. “I’ll answer any question you want to ask.”

Isaac called from upstairs and Quinn sighed, resigned to the fact that the conversation would go nowhere.

“Is he in the bath?” Lewis asked.

Quinn nodded and wiped her hands on a dish towel.

“I’ll go,” Lewis said. He squeezed her shoulder.

“Make sure he got all the shampoo out.”

Later, when the dishes were clean and nothing was left of the chicken but a sickly pile of bones Quinn had thrown into the trash, she watched out the front window as Lewis brought the garbage to the curb. She saw him glance toward Georgette’s house, and then jog over there when their neighbor stepped out her front door. Clearly, he had a lot to tell her, as he started to talk immediately and kept going for quite some time. Georgette interjected occasionally, but mostly just nodded. That went on for nearly fifteen minutes. Finally she gave Lewis a warm hug, and he jogged back home.

 

 

THE NEXT DAY, Quinn couldn’t fight a floating anxiety that seemed to settle on every thought that crossed her mind. Just when she thought she had convinced Lewis it was okay to open up to her, it turned out he was drifting further away. This only exacerbated her panic about the possibility of losing her baby, not to mention her own fear about raising a disabled child. Plus, she was still worried that her brother’s love life might push him into a depression.

Still, Quinn refused to cross through the portal to avoid her troubles. The close call with Eugene had taught her that she needed to stay in this life and face her problems. Going into the other life wasn’t just an escape. It was cheating.

Quinn decided to quiet her anxiety by taking action. She knew that anything she could do to feel in control would help. So she drove to her parents’ house to check on the new back door lock and make sure everything was okay. Perhaps it would be enough to calm her.

When she got there, the place was just as she had left it. The new lock on the back door was secure and the alarm system was working. The paintings, of course, were still missing, and Quinn couldn’t help feeling as if a bit of her heart were gone with them.

She looped around the first floor of the house again and again, and kept coming back to the same spot in the family room, in front of a large antique curio cabinet. It was an area that gave her a terrible feeling. Something about it frightened her.

Was it simply the fact that her mother had always warned her not to go near this particular piece of furniture? Maybe that was it. As a child, she had been trained to give it a wide berth. In fact, it was the only thing in the whole house her mother had been so stern about. Now that she thought about it, it seemed odd that her mother had moved this off-limits piece from the living room to this high-traffic area.

She wondered if the furniture might have been an excuse to keep her away from this spot. But if so, what was the real reason? What was her mother protecting her from? Quinn tried to focus on a vague memory that went back to before the curio cabinet had been placed in this room. She couldn’t have been more than four years old. Hadn’t she sensed something and tried to talk to her mother about it? That must have been why this heavy piece of furniture had been transferred from the living room, where it suited the decor, to this corner of the family room.

Quinn placed her hands on the curio cabinet and closed her eyes. Within moments, she felt it. There was a portal beneath it. But it wasn’t the kind of passageway she was used to. This one felt cold. Quinn didn’t sense another life pulsing by on the other side. She felt death.

Terrified, she backed away. What the hell was that? And why did she feel like it was related to the baby outfit her mother had left her?

Scared as she was, Quinn needed to find out more, to get closer to the portal. The furniture was too big for her to try to push out of the way without hurting herself, so she lay down on the floor and stuck her fingertips between the short legs of the heavy piece. As she got closer, a chill prickled at the skin on her back, sending an electrical current of fear down her spine. She pulled away and stood up.

Frightened and confused, Quinn began to pace. Why did she feel like her mother had died in this spot? It made no sense, because she knew Nan had overdosed in the upstairs bathroom.

Courage!
she told herself, and in a frenzy began unloading all the curios from the cabinet. She needed to finish before losing her nerve. She removed all the hand-painted plates, bits of pottery, blown glass, African art, and porcelain sculptures her mother had collected over the years. She carefully took out the glass shelves from the top of the case and the wooden drawers from the bottom. Considerably lighter, the cabinet was now easy to push out of the way. Quinn planted her feet on the floor, leaned her back against it, and gave a shove. The thing easily slid aside.

Quinn lowered herself to the ground and sat cross-legged, facing a crack between the slats in the hardwood floor. The dim memory of discovering this spot as a child was becoming clearer. But it felt different, and a cold nausea rose within her. The feeling got worse and worse until Quinn could barely move. She felt sick and so very weak. She knew she could fight it, but sleep caressed the edges of her consciousness and seduced her. Her head got too heavy to hold up, so she let it rest against the cool floor and began to drift off.

As she lost the battle for consciousness, Quinn’s fingers and toes went numb, and she felt as if she were dying. Or maybe it was her baby.

Her baby? God, no! She forced herself awake and summoned enough power to crawl from the spot. The farther away she got, the stronger she became. When she felt well enough to rise, she stumbled from the house and drove away.

THE ROUTE HOME WAS FAMILIAR ENOUGH FOR QUINN TO PUT her brain on autopilot. She was jarred from her driving trance when her cell phone rang.

“You know those tan pants I wore to Allen’s fortieth?”

It was Lewis. She had him on speakerphone.

“What?” she asked.

“I was just wondering if they were still at the cleaner’s or if they were in my closet.”

“Tan pants?”

“Are you okay?” he asked. “You sound terrible.”

She tried to speak, to tell him about the terror she had just experienced, but all that came out was a soft wail that escalated so quickly to full-fledged sobbing that she had to pull over.

“Honey, what is it?”

She couldn’t speak.

“Quinn? Do you need me to come home?”

“No. I’m okay, I . . . I was at my parents’ house. I just got a terrible feeling there. About my mom, about ...” She swallowed, reminding herself why she never told Lewis about the portals. And maybe he didn’t need to be protected from this truth, but she had kept the secret for so long that breaking it now required more energy than she could possibly summon.

“I felt like I was going to die,” she said.

“Oh, baby. You’re under so much stress.”

“I think there might be some strange thing about my mother I never knew before. And I think it has to do with me.”

“You know, I only have one meeting this afternoon. I can cancel it and come right home.”

“You don’t need to,” she said.

“Are you sure?”

Was she? Maybe she should accept his help now. But what could he possibly do for her? No, all she needed was some time to decompress.

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “And you’re right—I’m just under a lot of stress. I’ll go home and put my feet up.”

That was exactly what she did, except that she had only just sat down when the doorbell rang. It was Georgette, bearing another loaf of her banana bread. Quinn made them each a cup of herbal tea, and they sat at the kitchen table.

“You don’t look so good,” Georgette said.

“I’m tired.”

“Is that all?”

“Stressed,” Quinn said, stirring her tea. “
Very
stressed.”

“Maybe you should stay away from your parents’ house for a while.”

Quinn looked up, surprised. “How did you know I went there?”

“Hmm?”

Quinn stood. “Did Lewis call you?”

“Don’t be mad.”

“Why
shouldn’t
I be mad? He won’t tell me one damned thing and goes running to you to spill his guts.”

“It’s not like that, Quinn.”

“What is it like, then?”

“He’s concerned about you.”

“Then he should talk to
me
!”

“When he gets home tonight—”