This Much Is True (29 page)

“You’d figured it out…eventually,” Tremblay says grudgingly. She sounds like a mother for a few seconds. I’m remembering mine and stare at my mentor intently. I’ve never loved or hated Allaire Tremblay more in these few precious seconds.

“Cara is a perfect name for her,” I say after a few minutes.

Tremblay slowly nods and gets this introspective look, while she stares at me intently. Her golden eyes actually soften. Her sympathy reaches for me from across the room.

I’m ten feet away from Cara—this miracle. Yet it seems like a part of another lifetime already. I brush at my face to ward off tears.
Don’t cry. Just get it over with.

“Where would you go?” I ask because it’s suddenly important to be able to envision Cara’s life with Tremblay. I need the picture painted for me. I want the exact scenario of what Cara’s happily-ever-after life looks like.

“Back to San Francisco,” Tremblay says softly. “I have a house there—in Alamo Square. A nursery. A nanny.
A life
. I’ve decided to cut back my hours at the dance studio when I return because I want to spend as much time with her as I can. God knows I’ve spent enough time dancing, teaching, and performing. Now, I want the chance to do something else—something worthwhile and life-changing.”

Her lips part. Her eyes get watery.
Tremblay is going to cry. I’ve never seen this before.
I’m moved beyond words. She cares about Cara. Less so about me. But she already loves Cara and somehow knowing that makes it easier.

“Okay. Take her. Take good care of her. Make her happy. Make yourself…happy. All I ask is that you name her Cara and tell her about me and Linc some day when she’s old enough.” I nod slowly and impatiently wipe at the tears streaming down my face.

“You can stay at my place until the lease is up, longer, if you wish. We could work some things out. I had my lawyer work up an agreement. Standard adoption papers. You give up all rights as the known parent; we’ve kept the father’s name out of it. You’ll have forty-five days to change your mind. Standard stuff. He also added that you can see her any time you like. It’s an open adoption. Cara will know who you are to her, and I’ll personally tell her when she’s old enough. I don’t have any other living relatives. If something should happen to me before she’s eighteen, I’ve put you down as her legal guardian.” She hesitates, assessing my reaction. I can’t even breathe. “I took the liberty to get in touch with the ballet master at NYC Ballet.” She reaches in her bag and pulls out a sheaf of papers. “Three years. Three lead performances a year, more if you want them. Nice salary. They want you to headline the European tour. They’ve wanted to expand for a while over there. It’s a good gig. Just be careful in a foreign country. You’re young, beautiful, and soon will be a star, so just be careful, Talia.
Always.”

“That’s…fine.” I swallow hard. This is a chance in a lifetime. Am I the most awful person for wanting it? For wanting to take this chance?

“I’m doing all of this because adopting Cara makes my life complete, and I want to ensure you get what you want. You’re a star, Tally.
Know that.
I’m proud to have taken you this far. You’re ready for the big time. The question on the table is this: Are you willing to take it?”

She hands me a pen. My hands tremble as I take it from her.

I feel sick inside. I can’t even look over at the sleeping baby still bundled up in a cotton pink blanket that Tremblay invariably reaches for.
Guilt. Remorse. Grief.
I recognize them all as they battle over the rights to my conscience. In three minutes time, I’ve signed up for my future in three places, while Allaire Tremblay continues to stare at me intently. She affords me the single courtesy of not smiling in triumph for once when I hand her the signed documents.

“Cara Landon Presley Tremblay is going to have a great life. I promise you.” Tremblay says softly. “I don’t want you to take this wrong way but
thank you
, Tally.”

Tears fall unchecked. “I just want her to know that she’s loved…because I do…I love her. I want her to always know that.” I steel myself to look at Tremblay directly and grab her hand. “If anyone were to find out she is Lincoln Presley’s daughter it would destroy his reputation; maybe, even his career. They can’t find out. No one can.” I swipe at my face. “Please,” I finally say.

Silence.

“Done.” Her single spoken word undoes some of the tension in the room. I watch Tremblay quietly kiss the sleeping Cara’s forehead.

In the next moment, she gets this look of pure elation and doesn’t even try to hide it from me. It’s no surprise to either one of us that I just made her life. I physically shudder at her undeniable joy and my insatiable quest for fame.
At any price, apparently.

“You know you can hate me a little for getting everything I’ve ever wanted, but you tipped the scales in my favor when you said his name.”

I take a shallow breath and slowly nod. “I know.”

“So someday, Tally.” She looks at me hard. “You’re going to have to ask yourself why you did that. Because you held all the power.” She gets this little smile and slowly shakes her head in apparent wonder at my stupidity. I cringe inward in learning what I so thoughtlessly gambled away. “I didn’t know. I didn’t
care
. Just know we share the same goals—to protect Cara and ensure your amazing rise to fame.”

I just look at her. I can’t speak.

Self-hatred runs at all-time high through me now. I swallow hard and strive for some semblance of control even through the tears that course down my face.

“You love her. You just showed her how much regardless of what your mind is busy telling you now. Don’t forget that. I see it. Maybe, someday, even Marla and this Rob Thorn will figure out what you’ve just done for them, for Cara. Maybe, even Lincoln Presley.” She pauses for a full minute. “Someday,” she says with a touch of sadness.

I watch Allaire Tremblay leave with the bundled-up Cara and search for any oxygen she may have left in the room.
I can’t breathe.
Part of me doesn’t even want to.

I don’t have a soul left, do I?

I just traded my daughter for Lincoln Presley’s reputable baseball career and Allaire Tremblay delivered everything else to me in order to get Cara.
It’s twisted—this mother’s love.
I’m caught up in the throes of this all but debilitating sorrow. It feels like an undertow I can’t escape.
What have I done?
Because now? It’s the love of one little girl and her happiness—that’s all I truly care about. I just wish that I was the one who could give it to her. And for that, I’m sad on a whole new level deep inside.

* * * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Tally ~ Denial is good

A
lmost two weeks have gone by since I gave up Cara. My body aches in new and mysterious ways that I didn’t know were humanly possible. As a dancer, I’ve suffered short-term injuries, the peculiar aches and pain that come with jumps and lifts and twisting the wrong way at the exact wrong time, but this pain brings about a whole different set of sensations. My body reacts in mysterious ways to raging hormones and a physical recovery that ebbs and flows (literally). All these factions serve a singular purpose—to get back into balance and return to the old Tally pre-pregnancy. But some days I feel a little hopeless. I’m assailed by constant guilt and punish myself with daily five-mile runs and again follow the strict regimen of the Boxer’s Diet. Today’s commemoration of Valentine’s Day also marked a year since Holly died. It was a day I attempted not to recognize in any way, but my parents called and those horrible memories managed to engulf all of us, even now, a whole year later.
And, of course, I think about Elvis. Of course, I do.

Nothing lasts, Elvis, nothing.

Then there’s this new unrecognizable part of me that yearns to hold Cara and see her just one more time. Tremblay has already sent a few pictures, but it’s too painful to look at them. Instead, I stash them in my dresser drawer beneath my best lingerie, just in case I ever decide to attempt sex with a hot guy again and need reminding as to why that would be a very bad idea.

Not really. Kind of. I don’t know.

Sex is the farthest thing from my mind a little over two weeks postpartum, believe me. Right now, I eat every other day and drink water by the gallon, utterly beholden to getting my life and all of me back to normal. Although I’m somewhat back in dancer form in a matter of a few weeks because of this strict regimen I’ve put myself through, there’s this general malaise that threatens to consume what’s left of me from the inside out.

Tremblay left for San Francisco with Cara within a day of our secret deal being struck. Allaire’s lawyer, Everett Madsen, managed to hand-deliver an updated dual-signed adoption contract to me, and Tremblay delivered on everything else involving New York City Ballet. The dance company expected me at rehearsals in another three weeks. I just wanted it to be all over with because this insistent remorse and an utter sense of failure have begun to take over. I thought the sooner we got things settled with Tremblay returning to San Francisco with Cara; the sooner things would return to normal. I underestimated what guilt, fatigue, and remorse would do to me. All I can hold on to now is that it was the right thing to do. If I keep telling myself that, then eventually I’ll believe it, right?

Marla hands me a cup of tea and cozies in next to me.

“You okay?”

“Hmmm…” I glance at her sideways and give her the I’m-not-in-the-mood glare, while she conveys the I-told-you-so face along with this visible empathy. Neither sentiment provides comfort or absolution. I feel it all—remorse, guilt, physical nausea. What have I done? When will I ever stop thinking about Cara? Marla’s conflicted look matches mine.

“Are you really okay?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “My body hurts. My breasts are killing me. Shimmer said the sports bra would help, but it doesn’t seem to. Maybe, I should try the hot packs like she said...” My voice trails off. “Besides that?” I take a sip of the hot tea, so I can avoid looking at her and hope she doesn’t begin asking me any tough questions. I didn’t tell Marla everything. I don’t want to tell her everything now. I don’t actually tell myself everything.

“Other than that…you’re good.” She laughs a little and so do I because it’s ironic, twisted, and almost funny all at the same time.

“Right.” I catch my lip between my teeth and shake my head side-to-side. “I keep thinking of her. Cara. Holly. I wish I would stop doing that.”

“I know. Me, too. Both of them.” After a couple of minutes, she slides off the sofa and starts down the hall. “I’ll run you a hot bath. That’ll work. I read about it somewhere.”

“Okay.” I contemplate the silence versus actually saying something worthwhile, but all I can come up with is, “Hey, thanks for being here on Valentine’s Day.” I look over at her. She hesitates, obviously weighing her words as closely as I do mine. I know Marla is on her own little guilt trip about Cara. She played her part in this whole thing, too. She supported my decision to give her up but never actually volunteered what she would have done. Yet her nonverbal communication these past few weeks conveys these contradictory messages about me and what I did about Cara. Marla is pissed on a whole separate level at me, but she never says anything to me about it. This much I do know; Marla would have kept Cara. I didn’t. In the aftermath of all that went down, we’re both a little disappointed in me for that.

She avoids looking at me while she twists her hair around her finger. “Valentine’s Day is not my favorite holiday anymore. Charlie understands. I’ll see him in a few days.” She shrugs. “I wanted to help you move into Rob’s place.” She just looks at me for a long time and then finally says, “Tally, I know you’re going to be okay. You are. You will be okay because you are Tally Landon, but you have to start believing that too.” She gets this determined look. “Thank God, Tremblay went back to San Fran so you don’t have to see the two of them every day.”

“Thank God.” I force myself to smile.

My decision to give up Cara elevates my career almost immediately because Tremblay made it all happen. Tremblay delivered the updated countersigned contracts with NYC Ballet, the adoption paper documents, and everything else by eight o’clock that night. Marla hasn’t quite figured out the price I paid yet. She looks troubled half the time as she starts to see things unfold with the NYC Ballet for me, but she doesn’t say anything about it.

Rob called me the day after I came home from the hospital. He apologized for what he’d said to Tremblay and in general for how horribly he reacted to the whole situation and said he supported me in whatever I decided to do and that his offer still stood. Moving in. “All of it,” he’d said in his roundabout way in proposing marriage.

I told him I’d take him up on the offer as a roommate and that Marla would help me move in before she left for L.A. if that was okay.

“Great.” Then he’d asked, “Tally, what did you
do
?”

I didn’t answer for a few minutes and then finally said, “I did what I had to do. For everyone. Tremblay has her.”

His disappointment came at me through the phone after that. “You should have listened to me,” he said.

“I didn’t.”

At least, I was honest for once. Did it count?

Soon after, we’d said good-bye. I felt sick inside enough already. I didn’t need Rob reminding of what I had done. I figured he’d call again after a few days, but he hasn’t called again. He’d just sent a text with his exact address, so I could start forwarding my mail to his place.
Cold. Distant. Punishing
. My roommate-to-be is unhappy with me. I put it on the to-do list.
Make nice with Rob. Soon.
I’m going to need a friend in New York.
Soon.

I still think about Cara. All the time. I’m desperate to remember her sweet little upturned face, but twelve hours with her wasn’t nearly enough time. I can’t decide which I’m more afraid of: forgetting her or never actually moving on and getting over her. It doesn’t feel like I win either way, unless self-hatred counts for something. I’ve begun to wonder just what kind of a trade I’ve really made and if anything I have left in my life can be considered a win in any way.

A deal was struck. I have to live with it. I have to learn to live with it.

“A bath it is then.” Marla gazes at me with her infamous
I-have-a-million-and-one-questions-for-you
look but bites at her lower lip most likely to keep herself from asking me about anything at all. “Tally, I don’t know…what to say,” she whispers after a few minutes.

“There’s nothing to say.”

Nothing lasts. Nothing.

I swallow hard, push myself up from the confines of
red velvet
—the one piece of furniture we both agreed we needed to move from the old place to Rob’s in the next couple of days. I turned down Tremblay’s offer for her apartment. I just couldn’t do it. And, I’ll hardly be home, and I need to make things right with Rob.

We don’t talk about it, none of it. All the lies, the secrets, even the wishes; we just don’t talk about any of it anymore.

I move down the long hallway while my body silently protests the deliberate movements of walking the entire way. I’m stiff from running because I forgot to properly stretch afterward. I was too desperate to outrun all the guilt and sadness that still races through my head about Cara and Holly and Valentine’s Day and Marla and Lincoln Presley and even Rob Thorn.

Cara. Linc. I count the days I’ve been away from her and him, like a kid with an Advent calendar counting down the days until Christmas, even though my days away from both will be infinite. There will be no Christmas to look forward to. There will never be a happy ending or a reunion.
There will be nothing.

Tremblay offered to set up some kind of schedule for me to see Cara, but I decided it would just be too hard. It’s been a few weeks, but it feels like I’m serving a life sentence of forever already. Yes. A deal was made because of all the lies I told and the secrets I now hold. I can’t take any of it back. Wishes? I can’t even wish for it to be different. What good would that do me now?

“I got everything.” My voice echoes back to me as I traverse the empty hallway.
But, what is everything anymore?

Minutes later, I stand at the open doorway of the master bath and watch Marla as she estimates the water level with one hand and dumps in bath salts with the other. I’m assailed by the mixed fragrance of vanilla and lavender. She turns the faucet off, slips past me, and closes the door behind her without saying anything, which communicates volumes.

I need a break from all this unexpected pain and anguish. Marla needs a break from me already. She leaves for L.A. in two days. I already know she won’t be coming back.

The water drips with methodical, judging sound. I take some kind of weird solace from that while I attempt to shut off my mind from all these relentless thoughts about Cara and even Linc and what I could have or should have done differently. A half hour goes by. The water turns ice cold. I still can’t come up with anything different in terms of an outcome with either one of them. How could I sacrifice everyone else’s time and happiness for a bit of my own? I couldn’t take care of Cara; and if I’d kept her, Linc’s baseball career and iconic reputation would have been in jeopardy. Mine, too.

So, why does doing the right thing hurt so much? I did the right thing—the only thing I could have done. I have to believe that or lose part of myself in all of this, as if I haven’t already.

* * *

The tissue paper crackles beneath me with each movement as I slide across the edge of the examining table. I warily eye the stirrups and push back at the memory of delivering a baby twelve weeks ago. At eighteen years of age, I shouldn’t know that experience, but I do. I’m not pregnant. That’s not why I’m here at Dr. Shimmer’s office. No. I’m all about preventing
that
from ever happening again, which is why I am here. My gynecologist wanted to meet with me in person anyway, a postpartum visit, and talk about contraception since she wouldn’t even consider the idea of allowing me to get my tubes tied right after I had Cara. So today I’m here for an IUD—the compromise we’ve agreed to—but she’s still not enthralled with this idea because she says I’m too young for one.

I’ve donned the cotton hospital gown that only a mother could love and don’t count myself as one of those. Feelings of denial as part of the six stages of grief have finally taken hold. I
like
denial. This stage almost makes it seem like getting pregnant and giving birth happened to someone else.
I lie to others; why not lie to myself?
The modus operandi of the old Tally has finally shown up. I move through the world at almost full speed again.
Denial is good.
I practically swim in it.

Dr. Jane Shimmer sails into the exam room with a ready-made smile. She’s a paradox with this long blond hair that she pulls back in a ponytail from her beautiful face; yet she wears clear lip gloss and hardly any makeup. She has the bluest eyes but overtly hides them behind a pair of black-rimmed glasses. My guess is that her constant quest is to be taken seriously—in lieu of being designated as Barbie. It appears she has to constantly fight these stereotypical, competing forces of beauty in combination with brains. Apparently, this is her way of completely dismantling that particular persona for anybody who spends time around her.
Take me seriously
is written all over Dr. Jane Shimmer’s lovely face. I admire her for it. I get it.

“Still want the IUD, I take it?” She half-glances at her chart but manages to keep a vigilant eye on me. It makes me smile. I’ve met my match in Dr. Shimmer.

“Not unless you’ve changed your mind about tying my tubes.”

“Tally, you’re not yet nineteen. Your whole life is ahead of you. I’m not going to perform something as permanent as a tubal ligation. I seriously doubt you’ll find any gynecologist around here that would. You’re young. You may change your mind about children, and I want to give you the opportunity to do that. An IUD is relatively safe. It’s good for five years. I wouldn’t normally offer it up as an option to someone your age but yours is a special case. I know you don’t want to talk about another pregnancy right now.”

“Absolutely not.” I wave my arm around the small room for emphasis.

“Someday
, you might want another child.” She grabs my outstretched arm and takes my pulse. “You did a great thing. You brought a beautiful baby into this world, and you gave her up to caring adoptive parents who love her. That is not a small thing. It is generous and worthy and wonderful. Like you.”

My eyes start to sting. Her
Mary Poppins
speech is bringing me down. I’d rather take the constant torment that dominates all of my senses inside but instead Shimmer lavishes praise on me. It makes me feel slightly sick. Denial fuels me. Her praise and the look of sincere wonder leave me more than a little undone as guilt and remorse pay a silent visit to my psyche. I force myself to smile and swing my legs back and forth hoping to appear nonchalant. “Um…hmmm.”

I’m still doing my damndest to bury the memories of last night’s panic attack and the unfortunate circumstances with…what was his name? I draw a complete blank for a few seconds.

Jack.

Jack, who yelled: “What the fuck is your problem, Tally? Are you
crazy
? Are you really going to leave me like this with a fucking hard-on because you freaked out? What the fuck is your problem, baby?” Did I walk out of his apartment slamming the door as hard as I could because he called me
baby? Or,
was it because of the panic attack or because I couldn’t breathe? All three equally, I decide. I won’t be seeing Jack again, which is too bad because he was great, up to a certain point. Jack was the exact opposite of Linc in every way, a bonus, indeed. Jack was intimately in touch with the old Tally, until I lost it for both of us, for reasons, I refuse to explore.