A Hope for Emily

But you can know something in your head, and still believe it in your heart so deeply and secretly that you don’t even acknowledge it to yourself.

And in the days after I found out I was pregnant, as we travel back to Boston, I realize that’s exactly what I’ve been doing all along.

Alone in our apartment, I wander through the empty rooms, feeling as if I have been away far longer than three weeks. The air smells slightly stale, and there is nothing in the fridge but some limp lettuce and moldy cheese. I wonder what James has been eating, what has been going through his mind and heart during this last month, and I realize I have no idea. I have become so distant from my husband over the last three months that I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to close that gap, even with the best will in the world. But I know I am going to try.

I close the door of the fridge and make my way to the bedroom; the duvet is rumpled, and the sheets look as if they haven’t been washed in a while. I strip the bed and bundle everything into the washer, but I know I am just stalling for time. I know, already, what I am going to do.

And ten minutes later, with an online grocery order made and the washer running, I do it. I dig behind the hangers I still haven’t thrown out and unwrap the patterned scarf to reveal the little enamel box I’ve never opened.

Sixteen years ago I put the two printouts of my baby’s ultrasound into this box, closed the lid, and never opened it again. I held it many times, and I thought about opening it more than once, but I could never bring myself to do it.

Now I do. The lid sticks and I have to ease it off gently, my heart beating so hard you’d think I was defusing a bomb. I set the lid aside and take out the two photos—slips of silky paper, the image faded with time, the edges curling, but I can still see her.

She is curled up like a promise, her thumb in her mouth. I remember the technician telling me that, before she looked at her heart, before the bad news came. Look, she’s sucking her thumb. I’d laughed, marveling even though I couldn’t really see it.

Now I can. Now I can see her perfectly—the tiny toes, the little hand, the thumb in her mouth. In this image you can’t tell that her heart is shrunken, malformed. It’s just a black blob in her chest, the way it’s supposed to be. She doesn’t look anything but perfect. I remember the flutter of her kicks and I close my eyes.

I’ve been sad for sixteen years, and yet I’ve never let myself grieve. How can that be possible?

“Eva?”

My eyes open in shock as I see James standing in the doorway of our bedroom, looking rumpled and tired. The photo of the scan is still in my hand.

“What are you doing?” he asks, nodding at the photo. “What is that?”

I hesitate, because I never wanted to tell him like this, when I’m feeling so raw and I’m not prepared, and he’s just come from Emily.

“It’s a picture.” I put it back in the box, but when I try to put the lid on it sticks again. I leave it. “How is Emily?”

“The same.” He pauses. “Worse, really.”

My heart lurches, a seismic shift inside me. “Worse?”

“Dr. Rossi was right. Her brain function is decreasing. She’s… she’s less there, if that makes any sense. Even Rachel sees it. Feels it. Something more is missing.”

“So what does that mean for… for her future?”

“Dr. Brown is going to run some tests over the next few days. After that, we’ll… we’ll have to make a decision.”

“You mean…?” I can’t say it. He nods.

“Yes.”

“Oh, James.” I rise from the bed, leaving the photos behind, and go to him. He wraps his arms around me and I press my head against his shoulder.

“Eva…”

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “For everything.”

“So am I.” His arms tighten around me. ”So am I.”

And I wonder, I hope, is that it? Are we good now? We can move on? It would be so easy…

Except it wouldn’t be. Because I’ve lived with enough lies, enough silences. I didn’t choose the easy path before, when I decided to help Rachel, and I won’t choose it now.

Gently I disentangle myself from James’ embrace and take a step back. He looks down at me, a wrinkle creasing his forehead, fear in his eyes.

“Eva…?”