Which makes me wonder what I’ve missed out. What I’ve denied myself, as well as my daughter. What joy might I have known, what memories could I now treasure, if I’d decided differently, that I was strong enough? It hurts too much to think about, and yet it’s the only thing I can think about. The thing I’ve been thinking about for sixteen years, all the while trying so desperately not to.
“Eva.” Rachel puts a hand on my shoulder. When I look at her, she smiles sadly. “You seem as if you’ve been letting yourself be eaten up with guilt and remorse over your decision, and that’s no way to live a life.”
“I can’t help it,” I mumble. Tears threaten yet again.
“I know. And considering how reluctant I’ve been myself to do it, I can’t believe I’m saying it to you, but I am. You’ve got to let go. Move on. For your sake, and James’ sake, and… and this baby’s sake.” She nods towards my middle. “What happened, happened, for good or ill. I’m no
t saying you should or shouldn’t regret it—I don’t think it’s fair or right for anyone to tell how you how to feel about something so important. But I do know at some point you have to put it aside. Forgive yourself, and move on.” Her gaze moves inexorably to Emily, and rests there.
I am silent, accepting what she said, and yet wishing she had said more. Wishing she had said I understand, Eva, completely. You did what you thought was best at the time—for you and your baby. It’s okay.
But of course she couldn’t say that. She wasn’t even the right person to say that. And I realize I can’t keep looking for someone to say that to me, or for me to say it to myself. Sometimes it’s not okay, and you have to make peace with that and move on.
Like Rachel said, I have to let go. I have to accept that I will always wonder, I will always have some regret, but I don’t have to let it control or define me. It doesn’t have to make a shipwreck of my future with my husband and my child.
And yet… that’s only the beginning of my complicated life. Because I haven’t told Rachel that I don’t even know if James wants this baby, or if our marriage is stable enough to have it. I haven’t told her how terrified I am of being pregnant at all. What if the heart defect wasn’t a fluke, as the doctors assured me it was? What if it’s genetic, and it happens again?
But I can’t say any of that now, not when I’m feeling so raw, and not with Emily right here in the room with us. I’ve made this about me too much already.
But then Rachel lets out a soft sound of surprise, and I stiffen. I look at Emily first, but there’s no change. Rachel’s gaze is fixed on the door. And so I turn, and my mouth falls open and my heart lurches, for standing there, looking haggard and tired, is James.
25
Rachel
For a second I think I’m dreaming. Hallucinating, maybe, because God knows I’m exhausted enough, emotional enough, to conjure up the image of my ex-husband, or my mother, or even my elementary school teacher, Mrs. Ryan, who was so nice to me. Who even knows what’s going on in my subconscious, and who I will make appear in the doorway?
But, no, James really is here, and he’s smiling, although he looks too sad to call it that. He looks at Emily, and then Eva, and then he looks at me.
“Hello, Rachel,” he says.
Eva’s face looks stricken, and she throws me a panicked look, as if she’s afraid I will blurt all her secrets—secrets I suspect James doesn’t know—to him right here and now. As if I would. As if I would want to.
“James,” I say faintly. I can’t say anything more. I don’t know what to say, or even how to feel. Everything is a jumble in my head, in my heart—Emily lying in bed, Eva’s pregnancy, all that she said, what I saw before. Did Emily really open her eyes and look at me? Did she squeeze my fingers as if she was trying to say something? Did I imagine all of it, because I’ve wanted it so much?
Eva glances between James and me. “I should go,” she murmurs. “You’ll want to talk…”
Will we? Or has James come to see Eva? I realize I have no idea why he’s here, and so I ask him.
“Why am I here?” he repeats, looking startled, and also a little abashed. “To see Emily.” He makes it sound obvious, but I’m not sure it is.
We both glance to the bed. No one says anything for a moment. Then Eva edges to the door. “I’ll be back at the guesthouse,” she says, either to me or James, I’m not sure which. She closes the door softly behind her, and then it’s just me, my daughter, and my ex-husband. The air feels thick with expectation, with memories.
“I talked to you only last night,” I remark after a long stretch of silence. “You didn’t mention anything about coming here.”
“I decided after we spoke.”
“Why?”
He hunches one shoulder, hands deep in the pockets of his wrinkled khakis. “It felt like the right thing to do. Maybe I should have been here all along.” His confession, the wavering note of uncertainty in his voice, surprise me. James has never seemed anything but a thousand percent certain that this experimental treatment is a complete mistake.
“Really?” I try not to sound sceptical, knowing it won’t help. “You’ve seemed so sure, James, that she shouldn’t be here. That the treatment won’t work.” It hurts to say that, even though I’ve known it, been living it, for months now.
“I’m not so sure,” James says quietly. “About anything.” He sinks in the chair on the other side of Emily’s bed and glances down at our daughter’s face. “How is she?”
“I don’t know anymore. A couple of hours ago, she opened her eyes. It seemed as if she was really looking at me, trying to communicate.”
“Really?” James’ expression brightens so much, hope so clear in his eyes, that I feel ashamed. Did I really think he didn’t care? That he didn’t want Emily to get better, if she could?